She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance's note-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North's check-book, which had been useless for so many years.

As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded the two together, with the letter to Laurence Austin inside. North would not be disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fond letter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could not change this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love.

[Sidenote: Subtle Revenge]

Miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. She thrilled with the pleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid, now, for writing as she had.

"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her."

She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Let the Fates do their worst now, for when he should read it——

[Sidenote: The Irony of Fate]

Some way, Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him. She perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter Constance had written to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him, with that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. Miriam well knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance's last word had been to the man she loved.

The hours passed on, slowly. The mist that hung over the sea was faintly touched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back to Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still.

She entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. She started back to the door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his sleep.

"Constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? Have you come back, Beloved? It has seemed so long."

[Sidenote: Surging Hatred]

Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that welled up within her. She went out hastily, and noiselessly closed the door.



XVII

"Never Again"

Barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast was gone and she could move about with comparative freedom. Every day, Aunt Miriam massaged her with fragrant oils, and she faithfully took the slight exercises she was bidden to take, even though she knew it was of no use. She was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, for they had steadily reminded her not to hope too much.

[Sidenote: Bitterly Disappointed]

Still, she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had not allowed herself to hope—that she had done it only because Eloise wanted her to. Perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not—she was not so sure, now, that he had refrained from telling her through motives of kindness. But Doctor Conrad would know, instantly, and he and Eloise would be very sorry. Barbara wiped away her tears and compressed her lips tightly together. "I won't cry," she said to herself. "I won't, I won't, I won't."

Her father had gone to the city with the red-haired young man and the nurse. He had been gone more than a week, and Barbara had received no news of him save a brief note from Doctor Conrad. He said that her father had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and that an operation had been decided upon. He would tell her all about it, he added, when he saw her.

Day by day, Barbara lived over the last evening she and her father had spent together—all the fear and foreboding. She did not for a moment regret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it. She would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but he should not be hurt in that manner—she had taken the one sure way to spare him that.

[Sidenote: A Long Farewell]

When he came back, and realised to the full how steadily she had deceived him, he could love her no more. When he said good-bye to her the morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. It was a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him to her; an eternal separation, in spirit, from the child he had loved.

The tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. Aunt Miriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alone together for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surely the last time as regarded the old, sweet relation so soon to be severed—unless he came back blind, as he had gone.

The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. "Flower of the Dusk," he had said, with surpassing tenderness, "when I come back, the dusk will change to dawn. If the darkness lifts I shall see you first, and so, for a little while, good-bye."

He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go. When she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal.

[Sidenote: Dr. Conrad Comes Again]

It was almost two weeks before Doctor Conrad came down. He had been obliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise. When Aunt Miriam came and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. He had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed— Even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him.

But, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. He was so magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality. Barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand.

"Well, little girl," said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed beside her, "how goes it?"

"Tell me about father," begged Barbara, ignoring the question.

[Sidenote: The Main Trouble]

"Father is doing very well," Allan assured her. "He has recovered nicely from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if not for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. His heart is very weak—that seems to be the main trouble now."

Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed.

"Aren't you glad?" asked Doctor Allan, in surprise.

"Yes," answered Barbara, with difficulty. "Indeed, yes. I was just thinking."

"A penny for your thoughts," he smiled.

"Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?"

"Why, yes—of course."

"They mustn't!" cried Barbara, sitting up in bed. "Or, if they have to, I must go there. Doctor Conrad, I must see my father before he regains his sight."

"Why?" asked Allan. "Don't cry, little girl—tell me."

His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands. The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring.

"Because I've lied to him," sobbed Barbara.

"I've made him think we were rich instead of poor. He doesn't know that I've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to sell everything that anybody would buy—the pearls and laces and everything. He hates a lie and he'll despise me. It will break his heart. I'd rather tell him myself than to have him find it out."

"Little girl," said Allan, in his deep, tender voice; "dear little girl. Nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your father. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the more for doing it."

Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "Do you think," she asked, chokingly, "that he ever can forgive me?"

[Sidenote: A Promise]

Allan laughed. "In a minute," he assured her. "Of course he'll forgive you. But I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as that is concerned, I can take the bandages off myself, after he comes home."

"Can you really? And will you?"

"Surely. Now don't fret about it any more. Let's see how you're getting on."

In an instant the man was pushed into the background and the great surgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and power of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his inestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turned the joint in its socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set in a frown and his eyes were keen, but the rest of his face was impassive.

"Sit up," he said. "Now, turn this way. That's right—now stand up."

Barbara obeyed him, trembling. In a minute more he would know.

"Stand on this side only. Now, can you walk?"

"No," answered Barbara, in a sad little whisper, "I can't." She reached for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, but Doctor Allan snatched them away from her.

"No," he said, with his face illumined. "Never again."

[Sidenote: New Hopes]

Barbara gasped. "What do you mean?" she asked, terror and joy strangely mingling in her voice.

"Never again," Doctor Allan repeated. "You're never to have your crutches again."

Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her little white night-gown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet, with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her waist. Her blue eyes were very wide and dark.

"Am I going to walk?" she asked, in a queer little whisper.

"Certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep."

"I can't believe it," she answered, with quivering lips. Then she threw her arms around Doctor Allan's neck and kissed him with the sweet impulsiveness of a child.

"Thank you," he said, softly. "Now we'll walk."

[Sidenote: Walking Again]

He put his arm around her and Barbara took a few stumbling steps. Aunt Miriam opened the door and came in.

"Look," cried Barbara. "I'm walking."

"So I see," replied Miriam. "I heard the noise and came up to see what was the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something." She retreated as swiftly as she had come. Allan stared after her and seemed to be on the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately held his peace.

"You'll have to learn," he said, to Barbara, with a new gentleness in his tone. "Your balance is entirely different and these muscles and joints will have to learn to work. Keep up the exercise and the massage. You can have a cane, if you like, but no crutches. Is there someone who would help you for an hour or so every day?"

"Roger would," she said, "or Aunt Miriam."

"Better get Roger—he'll be stronger. And also more willing," he thought, but he did not say so. "Don't tire yourself, but walk a little every day, as you feel like it."

When he went, he took the crutches with him. "You might be tempted," he explained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really need. Be a good girl and I'll come up again soon."

* * * * *

[Sidenote: A Great Success]

Eloise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and, when he came in sight, she went up the road to meet him.

"Oh, Allan," she cried, breathlessly, as she saw the crutches. "Is she——?"

"She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever done in that line, even if I do say it as shouldn't."

"Of course," smiled Eloise, looking up at him fondly. "I know that."

They walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open interest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on the hotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken back to school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about and be spoken of only in reverent whispers.

The tide was going out. Allan hurled one of the crutches far out to sea. "They've worked faithfully and long," he said, "and they deserve a little jaunt to Europe. Here goes."

He was about to throw the other, but Eloise took it from him. "Let me," she suggested. "I'd love to throw a crutch over to Europe."

She tried it, with the customary feminine awkwardness. It did not go beyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in the soft sand.

Allan laughed uproariously and Eloise coloured with shame. "Never mind," she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stick up in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soon as yours does, so there."

They sat down on the beach, sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune, and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that struck it. "Think what it means," said Eloise, "and think what it might mean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who had it might have died, after long suffering."

"Or," continued Allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it and thrown it away, as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells."

[Sidenote: Thanks]

Eloise turned to him, with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. "I haven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my little girl." She lifted her sweet face to his.

"If you're going to thank me like that," said Allan, huskily, "I'll cut up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces."

"You needn't," laughed Eloise, "but it was dear of you. You've never done anything half so lovely in all your life."

"It was you who did it, dear. I was but the humble instrument in your hands."

"Was Barbara glad?"

"I think so. She kissed me, too, but not like that."

"Did she, really? The sweet, shy little thing. Bless her heart."

"I infer, Miss Wynne," remarked Allan, in a judicial tone, "that you're not jealous."

"Jealous? I should say not. Anybody who can get you away from me," she added, as an afterthought, "can have you with my blessing and a few hints as to your management."

[Sidenote: Really Glad]

"Safe offer," he commented. "Are you really glad I've done what I have for Barbara?"

"Oh, my dear! So glad!"

"Then," suggested Allan, hopefully, "don't you think I should be thanked again?"

* * * * *

"I forgot to ask you about that dear old man," said Eloise, after a little. "Is he going to be all right, too?"

"Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little—he will not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses, but there will be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Any sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal."

"Of course he won't have that."

[Sidenote: Will It Last?]

"We'll hope not, but life itself is more or less exciting and you can never tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased to be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't get used to that."

"You will, though," said Eloise, a little sadly. "You'll get so used to it that you won't even look up when I come into the room—you'll keep right on reading your paper."

"Impossible."

"That's what they all say, but it's so."

"Have all your previous husbands changed so quickly that you're afraid to try me?"

"I've seen it so much," sighed Eloise.

A great light broke in upon Allan. "Is that why?" he demanded, putting his arm around her. "No, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. Is that why I'm sentenced to all this infernal waiting?"

Eloise bit her lips and did not answer.

"Is it?" he asked, authoritatively.

"A little," she whispered. "This is so sweet, and sometimes I'm afraid——"

"Darling! Darling!" he said, drawing her closer. "You make me ashamed of my fellowmen when you say that. But do you want the year to stand still always at June?"

"No," she answered. "I'm willing to grow with Love, from all the promise of Spring into the harvest and even into Winter, as long as the sweetness is there. Don't you understand, Allan? Who would wish for June when Indian Summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine haze? And who would give up a keen, crisp Winter day, when the air sets the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses? It's not that—I only want the sweetness to stay."

"Please God, it shall," returned Allan, solemnly. He was profoundly moved.

[Sidenote: Bank of Life]

"It shouldn't be so hard to keep it," went on Eloise, thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about it a good deal, lately. Life will give us back whatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy into the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits."

"Very true," he responded. "I never thought of it in just that way before."

"If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and perfect faith—I think they'll all come back, some day."

A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea.

[Sidenote: When?]

"Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?"

"I—don't—know."

"Dear, can't you trust me?"

"Yes, always," she answered, quickly. "You know that."

"Then when?"

"When all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "When the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches—when Winter chills our hearts—then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the Spring."

"Truly, Sweetheart?"

"Truly."

"You'll never be sorry, dear." He took her into his arms and sealed her promise upon her lips.



XVIII

The Passing of Fido

[Sidenote: Alone in the Office]

Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. The old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him when he felt playful, had both gone out. The door was locked and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch or even a pleading whine. When people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately.

The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near. He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him. He chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane, out of his reach.

It seemed that something serious must have happened, for Fido had never been left alone so long before. If he had known that the old man was conversing pleasantly with some fellow-citizens at the grocery store, and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white, trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed.

Several times, lately, Fido had noticed, the young man had gone out shortly after the old one went to the post-office. It would be, usually, half a day later when his master returned with a letter or two, or often with none. The young man took pains to get back before the old one did, which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely.

[Sidenote: Pangs of Hunger]

The pangs of a devastating hunger assailed Fido, which was not strange, for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade Fido eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. There was, nearly always, a nice, juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. Fido and the old man seldom went home to supper before half past five, and Fido would have been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone.

He sniffed around the larger of the two desks. A tempting odour came from a drawer far above. He stood on his hind legs and reached up as far as he could, but the drawer was closed. So was every other drawer in the office, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. Probably there was nothing in it for a hungry dog—there never had been.

[Sidenote: The Little Red Box]

Still, it might be well to investigate. Fido laboriously climbed up on the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. There was nothing in it but papers and a small, square, red box with a rubber band around it.

Fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. He pushed it with paws and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively meanwhile. It took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and to make a hole in one corner of the box, out of which rolled a great number of small, cylindrical objects. They were not like anything Fido had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can find. So he gulped them all down but one. This one refused to be swallowed and Fido quickly repented of his rashness, for it was distinctly not good. He ate the rubber band and all but a little piece of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. Even then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not.

The bluebottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window-pane, but Fido no longer aspired to him. A vast weariness took the place of his former restlessness. He sat and blinked at his ill-assorted feet for some time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner. Before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the floor. In less than five minutes, he was off to the canine dreamland, one paw still caressingly laid over the fragments of the little red box.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Judge Returns]

When the Judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under the door. There had been four, but Fido had eaten the first one. Two of them were marked with the hour of the call. It indicated, plainly, to a logical mind, that Roger had left the office soon after he did, and had not returned. It was very strange.

Fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. The Judge turned Fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide yawn. He brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it on the floor close by. Then he took a chicken bone and held it to the sleeper's nose, but Fido turned away as though from an annoying fly.

As the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a chicken bone, the Judge was alarmed. He picked up the fragments of the little red box and wondered if anyone could have poisoned his pet. He brought fresh water, but Fido, hitherto possessed of an unquenchable thirst, failed to respond.

When Roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations coldly received. Whether or not Barbara North ever walked was evidently a matter of no particular concern to the Judge. It was also of no immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty, even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account of long standing. The vital question was simply this: what was the matter with Fido?

Roger did not know. Though Fido's disdain of food and drink might be abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite natural.

[Sidenote: An Inquiry]

Then the fragments of the little red box were presented to Roger, and inquiry made as to the contents. Also, had Roger tried to poison the Judge's pet?

Roger had not. The box had contained a prescription for lumbago which Doctor Conrad had given his mother. It was in the drawer in his desk. He might possibly have left the drawer open—probably had, as the box was gone.

The Judge was deeply desirous of knowing why Mrs. Austin's lumbago cure should be kept in the office, within reach of unwary pets. After considerable hesitation, Roger explained.

The owner of Fido was highly incensed. First, he condemned the entire procedure as "criminal carelessness," setting forth his argument in unparliamentary language. Then, remembering that Roger had not really loved Fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive, and accused the hapless young man of murderous intent.

[Sidenote: The Judge Commands]

Roger would kindly borrow the miniature express waggon which was the prized possession of the postmaster's small son, place the cushion in it, with its precious burden, and convey Fido, with all possible tenderness, to his other and larger cushion in the Judge's own bedroom. He would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if Fido ever wanted anything again in this world, it would probably be chicken.

The Judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not permit of his giving much time to his business. And, the Judge added, as an afterthought, if Fido should die, it would not be necessary for Roger to return to the office. He wanted someone who could be trusted not to poison his dog while he was out.

Roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of Riverdale, dragging the small cart which contained the slumbering Fido and his cushion. He did not even hear the pointed comments made by the young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and forgot to thank the postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned it, empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint, doggy smell.

[Sidenote: On the Beach]

For obvious reasons, he could not go to the office and he did not like to take his disturbing mood to Barbara. Besides, his mother, who now had long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant questions. He went down to the beach, yearning for solitude, and settled himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy events of the day.

He did not realise that the sand dune belonged to Eloise, and that she was wont to sit there with Doctor Conrad, out of the wind, and safely screened from the argus-eyed rocking-chairs on the veranda. He was so preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they approached. Turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him.

"Upon my word," cried Eloise. "Sir Knight of the Dolorous Countenance, what has gone wrong?"

"Nothing," answered Roger, miserably.

"Anybody dead?" queried Allan, lazily stretching himself upon the sand.

"Not yet, but somebody is dying."

"Who?" demanded Eloise. "Barbara, or your mother? Who is it?"

"Fido," said Roger hopelessly, staring out to sea.

Allan laughed, but Eloise returned, kindly: "I didn't know you had a dog. I'm sorry."

"He isn't mine," explained Roger; "I only wish he were. If he had been," he added, viciously, "he'd have died a violent death long ago."

[Sidenote: Miss Wynne's Plans]

Little by little, the whole story came out. Allan kept his face straight with difficulty, but Eloise was genuinely distressed. "Don't worry," she said, sympathetically. "If Fido dies and the Judge won't take you back, I can probably find an opening for you in town. Your office work will pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be ready for your examinations in the Spring."

"Oh, Miss Wynne," cried Roger. "How good you are! I don't wonder Barbara calls you her Fairy Godmother."

"Barbara is coming to town to spend the Winter with me," Eloise went on, happily. "She's never had a good time and I'm going to give her one. As soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well, I'm going to take her, bag and baggage. It's all I'm waiting here for."

In a twinkling, Roger's despair was changed to something entirely different. "Oh," he cried, "I do hope Fido will die. Do you think there is any chance?" he asked, eagerly, of Allan.

"I should think, from what you tell me," remarked Allan, judicially, "that Fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. A dose of that size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the price of meat and next month's rent."

"Mother won't like it," said Roger, soberly. "She may not be willing for me to go."

"She should be," returned Allan, "as you've saved her life at the expense of Fido's. When I go up to see Barbara this afternoon, I'll stop in and tell her."

[Sidenote: Unexpected Call]

Miss Mattie was awake, but yawning, when he knocked at her door. "There wasn't no call for you to come," she said, inhospitably; "the medicine ain't used up yet."

"Let me see the box, please."

She shuffled off to the kitchen cupboard and brought it to him. There were half a dozen flour-filled capsules in it. Allan observed that the druggist, in writing the directions on the cover, had failed to add the last two words.

"Idiot," he said, under his breath. "I wrote, 'Take two every four hours until relieved.'"

"I was relieved," explained Miss Mattie, "and I've had fine sleep ever since. It's wore off considerable in the last three days, though."

Allan then told her, in vivid and powerful language, how the druggist's error might have had very serious results, had it not been for Roger's presence of mind in substituting the flour-filled capsules for the "searching medicine." He was surprised to find that Miss Mattie was ungrateful, and that she violently resented the imposition.

[Sidenote: Notion of Economy]

"Roger's just like his pa," she said, with the dull red rising in her cheeks. "He never had no notion of economy. When I'm takin' a dollar and twenty cents' worth of medicine, to keep it from bein' wasted, Roger goes and puts flour into the covers of it, and feeds the expensive medicine to Judge Bascom's Fido. He thinks more of that dog than he does of his sick mother."

"My dear Mrs. Austin," said Allan, solemnly, "have you not heard the news?"

"What news?" she demanded, bristling.

"Little Fido is dying. He took all the medicine and has been asleep ever since. By morning, he will be dead."

Miss Mattie's jaw dropped. "Would you mind tellin' me," she asked, suspiciously, "why you took it on yourself to give me medicine that would pizen a dog? I might have took it all at once, to save it. Once I was minded to."

"Roger saved your life," said Allan, endeavouring to make his tone serious. "And because of it, he is about to lose his position. The Judge is so disturbed over Fido's approaching dissolution that he has told Roger never to come back any more. Unless we can find him a place in town, he has sacrificed his whole future to save his mother's life."

"Where is Roger?"

"I left him down on the beach, with Miss Wynne. I suppose he is still there."

"When you see him," commanded Miss Mattie, with some asperity, "will you kindly send him home? It's no time for him to be gallivantin' around with girls, when his mother's been so near death."

"I will," Allan assured her, reaching for his hat. "I hope you appreciate what he has done for you."

[Sidenote: The Doctor Laughs]

When he went down the road, his shoulders were shaking suspiciously. Miss Mattie was watching him through the lace curtains that glorified the parlour windows. "Seems as if he had St. Vitus's dance," she mused. "Wonder why he doesn't mix up some dog-pizen, and cure himself?"

When he was sure that he was out of sight, Allan sat down on a convenient boulder at the side of the road, and gave himself up to unrestrained mirth. The medicine which was about to prove fatal to Fido would have caused only prolonged sleep if taken in small doses, at proper intervals, by an adult. "It's a wonder she didn't take 'em all at once," he thought. "And if she had—" He speculated, idly, upon the probable effect.

His conscience pricked him slightly on account of the exaggeration in which he had mischievously indulged, but he told himself that Roger would be far better off in the city and his mother's consent would make his going much less difficult. He also realised that if Roger were there to amuse Barbara, Eloise might have more spare time than she would otherwise.

He stopped long enough to give the druggist a bad quarter of an hour, and then went back to the beach. Eloise and Roger were where he had left them, and the boy's gloom was entirely gone.

"Your mother wants you," he said, as he sat down on the other side of Eloise.

"All right—I'll go right up. How did she take it?"

"Very well. Just remember that you've saved her life, and you'll have no trouble."

[Sidenote: Light-Hearted]

When Roger went up the street, he was whistling, from sheer light-heartedness. Eloise had made so many plans for his future that he saw fame and fortune already within his reach.

When he knocked, never having been allowed the freedom of a latch key, he noted that all the blinds in the house were closed and wondered whether his mother had gone to sleep again. After a suitable interval, she opened the door, clad in her best black silk, and portentously solemn.

"Why, Mother, what's the matter?"

"Come in," she whispered. "Doctor Conrad has just been tellin' me how near I come to death. Oh, my son," she cried, throwing her arms around his neck, "you have saved my life."

[Sidenote: Two Greetings]

It seemed to Roger like a paragraph torn from The Metropolitan Weekly, but he patted her back soothingly as she clung to him. Maternal outbursts of this sort were extremely rare. He remembered only one other greeting like this—the day he had been swimming in the river with three other small boys and had been brought home in a blanket, half drowned.

"I suppose I shouldn't regret takin' dog-pizen, if it cured my back and give me the sleep I needed, but it was a dreadful narrow escape. And your takin' the medicine away from me and feedin' it to Fido was certainly clever, Roger. Every day you remind me more and more of your pa."

"Thank you," answered Roger. He was struggling with various emotions and found speech almost impossible.

"It's no more'n right," she resumed, "that, after having pizened Fido and lost you your place, that Doctor Conrad should stir himself around and get you a better place in the city, but I do hate to have you go, Roger. It'll be dreadful lonesome for me."

"Cheer up, Mother; I haven't gone yet. The dog may get well."

Miss Mattie shook her head sadly. "No, he won't," she sighed. "I took enough of that medicine to know how powerful it is, and Fido ain't got no chance. To-morrow I'll look over your things."

An atmosphere of solemnity pervaded the house, and the evening was spent very quietly. Miss Mattie read her Bible, as on Sunday evenings when she did not go to church, and sternly refused to open The Housewife's Companion, which lay temptingly near her.

[Sidenote: Nightmare]

She went to bed early, and Roger soon followed her, having strangely lost his desire to read, and not daring to go to see Barbara more than once a day. His night was made hideous by visions of himself drawing the cart containing the slumbering Fido into the church where Eloise and Doctor Conrad were being married, while Judge Bascom at the house, was conducting Miss Mattie's funeral.

In the morning, after breakfast, Roger seriously debated whether or not he should go down to the office. At last he tossed up a coin and muttered a faint imprecation as he picked it up.

With his hat firmly on and his hands in his pockets, Roger fared forth, whistling determinedly. He did not want to go to the office, and he dreaded, exceedingly, his next meeting with the irascible Judge.

As it happened, it was not necessary for him to go, for, at the corner of the street which led to the Judge's house, he met the postmaster's small son, laboriously dragging the fateful cart of yesterday. In it were all of Roger's books and other belongings, including an umbrella which he had loaned to the Judge on a rainy night and expected never to see again.

[Sidenote: A Brief Message]

The message was brief and very much to the point. Fido had died painlessly at four o'clock that morning.



XIX

The Dreams Come True

[Sidenote: Gaining Strength]

The hours Roger had taken from his work in the office had brought nothing but good to Barbara. She gained strength rapidly after she began to walk, and was soon able to dispense with the cane, though she could not walk easily, nor far. She tired quickly and was forced to rest often, but she went about the house slowly and even up and down the stairs.

Aunt Miriam made no comment of any sort. She did not say she was glad Barbara was well after twenty-two years of helplessness, even though she had taken entire care of her, and must have felt greatly relieved when the burden was lifted. She went about her work as quietly as ever, and fulfilled all her household duties with mechanical precision.

Spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for Eloise had ordered enough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family for two or three years. She had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all of her old-lady friends and taken the entire stock of candied orange peel for the afternoon teas which she expected to give during the Winter.

Barbara was hard at work upon the dainty lingerie Eloise had planned, and found, by a curious anomaly, that when she did not work so hard, she was able to accomplish more. The needle flew more swiftly when her fingers did not ache and the stitches blur indistinguishably with the fibre of the fabric. When Roger was not there to help her, she divided her day, by the clock, into hours of work and quarter-hours of exercise and rest.

She had been out of the gate twice, with Roger, and had walked up and down the road in front of the house, but, as yet, she had not gone beyond the little garden alone.

[Sidenote: One Dark Cloud]

Upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread which even Doctor Conrad's positive assurance had mitigated only for a little time. Barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromising righteousness. When the bandages were taken off and he saw the faded walls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs, and the pitiful remnant of damask at his place at the table; when he realised that his daughter had deceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitably despise her, even though he tried to hide it.

Dimly, Barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attached to the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities of daily life. She was forced to surrender his love for her as the compensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep, for him, the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, but triumphantly went past it to clasp the dead Beloved closer still.

[Sidenote: A Vague Dream]

Of late, she had been thinking much of her mother. Until Roger had found his father's letter, and she had received her own, upon her twenty-second birthday, she had felt no sense of loss. Constance had been a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father's grieving and her instinctive sympathy.

With the letters, however, had come a change. Barbara felt a certain shadowy relationship and an indefinite bereavement. She wondered how her mother had looked, what she had worn, and even how she had dressed her hair. Since her father had gone to the hospital, she had wondered more than ever, but got no satisfaction when she had once asked Aunt Miriam.

She finished the garment upon which she was working, threaded the narrow white ribbon into it, folded it in tissue paper and put it into the chest. It was the last of the second set and Eloise had ordered six. "Four more to do," thought Barbara. "I wonder whether she wants them all alike."

The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen, and it was Saturday. It was hardly worth while to begin a new piece of work before Monday morning, especially since she wanted to ask Eloise about a new pattern. Doctor Conrad was coming down for the weekend, and probably both of them would be there late in the afternoon, or on Sunday.

"How glad he'll be," said Barbara, to herself. "He'll be surprised when he sees how well I can walk. And father—oh, if father could only come too." She was eager, in spite of her dread.

[Sidenote: In the Attic]

Simply for the sake of exercise, Barbara climbed the attic stairs and came down again. After she had rested, she tried it once more, but was so faint when she reached the top that she went into the attic and sat down in an old broken rocker. It was the only place in the house where she had not been since she could walk, and she rather enjoyed the novelty of it.

A decrepit sofa, with the springs hanging from under it, was against the wall at one side, far back under the eaves. It was of solid mahogany and had not been bought by the searchers for antiques because its rehabilitation would be so expensive. That and the rocker in which Barbara sat were the only pieces of furniture remaining.

There were several trunks, old-fashioned but little worn. One was Aunt Miriam's, one was her father's, and the others must have belonged to her dead mother. For the first time in her life, Barbara was curious about the trunks.

[Sidenote: The Old Trunk]

When she was quite rested, she went over to a small one which stood near the window, and opened it. A faint, musty odour greeted her, but there was no disconcerting flight of moths. Every woollen garment in the house had long ago been used by Aunt Miriam for rugs and braided mats. She had taken Constance's underwear for her own use when misfortune overtook them, and there was little else left.

Barbara lifted from the trunk a gown of heavy white brocade, figured with violets in lavender and palest green. It was yellow and faded and the silver thread that ran through the pattern was tarnished so that it was almost black. The skirt had a long train and around the low-cut bodice was a deep fall of heavy Duchess lace, yellowed to the exquisite tint of old ivory. The short sleeves were trimmed with lace of the same pattern, but only half as wide.

"Oh," said Barbara, aloud, "how lovely!"

There was a petticoat of rustling silk, and a pair of dainty white slippers, yellowed, too, by the slow passage of the years. Their silver buckles were tarnished, but their high heels were as coquettish as ever.

"What a little foot," thought Barbara. "I believe it was smaller than mine."

She took off her low shoe, and, like Cinderella, tried on the slipper. She was much surprised to find that it fitted, though the high heels felt queer. Her own shoe was more comfortable, and so she changed again, though she had quite made up her mind to wear the slippers sometime.

[Sidenote: Treasured Finery]

In the trunk, too, she found a white bonnet that she tried on, but without satisfaction, as there was no mirror in the attic. This one trunk evidently contained the finery for which Miriam had not been able to find use.

One by one, Barbara took out the garments, which were all of silk or linen—there was nothing there for the moths. The long bridal veil of rose point, that Barbara had sternly refused to sell, was yellow, too, but none the less lovely. There was a gold scent-bottle set with discoloured pearls, an amethyst brooch which no one would buy because it had three small gold tassels hanging from it, and a lace fan with tortoise-shell sticks, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A thrifty woman at the hotel had once offered two dollars for the fan, but Barbara had kept it, as she was sure it was worth more.

Down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did not remember having seen before. She slid back the cover and found a lace handkerchief, a broken cuff-button, a gold locket enamelled with black, a long fan-chain of gold, set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirror evidently meant to be carried in a purse or hand-bag, a high shell comb inlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large, heavy gold hairpins which Ambrose North, in an extravagant mood, had ordered made for the shining golden braids of his girl-wife.

[Sidenote: A Photograph]

On the bottom of the box, face down, was a photograph. Barbara took it out, wonderingly, and started in amazement as her own face looked back at her. On the back was written, in the same clear hand as the letter: "For my son, or daughter. Constance North." Below was the date—just a month before Barbara was born.

The heavy hair, in the picture, was braided and wound around the shapely head. The high comb, the same that Barbara had just taken out of the box, added a finishing touch. Around the slender neck and fair, smooth shoulders fell the Duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. The amethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, was pinned into the lace on the left side, half-way to the shoulder.

But it was the face that interested Barbara most, as it was the counterpart of her own. There was the same broad, low forehead, the large, deep eyes with long lashes, the straight little nose, and the tender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm, round, dimpled chin. Even the expression was almost the same, but in Constance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile of her mouth could not wholly deny.

The woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful. Barbara felt, in a way, as though she were the mother and Constance the child, for she was older, now, than her mother had been when she died. The years of helplessness and struggle had aged Barbara, too.

[Sidenote: A Sweet Face]

The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but Barbara still studied the sweet face of the picture. Constance was made for love, and love had come when it was too late. What tenderness she was capable of; what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if her heart bade her go! And what courage must have nerved her dimpled hands when she opened the grey, mysterious door of the Unknown! There was no hint of weakness in the face, but Constance had died rather than to take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge. Barbara's young soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, the hunger, and the unspoken appeal.

"He shall never know, Mother, dear," she said aloud. "I promise you that he shall never know."

[Sidenote: Like her Mother]

The shadows grew longer, and, at length, Barbara put the picture down. If she had on the gown, and twisted her braids around her head, she would look like her mother even more than now. She had a fancy to try it—to go downstairs and see what Aunt Miriam would say when she came in. Her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long white stockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with the tarnished silver buckles.

The gown was too long and a little too loose, but Barbara rejoiced in the faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that cracked in several places when she put it on, the fabric was so frail. The ivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could only guess at the effect from the brief glimpses the tiny mirror gave her. She put on the amethyst brooch, hung the fan upon its chain and put it around her neck. Then she wound her braids around her head and fastened them securely with the gold hairpins. With the aid of the small-gold mirror, she put the comb in place, and loosened the soft hair on either side, so that it covered the tops of her ears.

She walked back and forth a few times, the full length of the attic, looking back to admire the sweep of her train. Then she sat down upon the decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago. The room was very still, and, without knowing it, Barbara had wearied herself with her unaccustomed exertion. Her white woollen gown and soft low shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window. She must not forget to take them when she went down to look in the mirror.

Presently, she stretched herself out upon the sofa, wondering, drowsily, whether her mother would have lain down to rest in that splendid brocade. She did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little before going downstairs to surprise Aunt Miriam. Nevertheless, in a few minutes she was fast asleep and dreaming.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: The Home-Coming]

Eloise went down to the three o'clock train to meet Allan, and was much surprised when Ambrose North came, too. His eyes were bandaged, but otherwise he seemed as well as ever. They offered to go home with him, but he refused, saying that he could go alone as well as he ever had.

They strolled after him, however, keeping at a respectful distance, until they saw him enter the grey, weather-worn gate; then they turned back.

"Is he all right, Allan?" asked Eloise, anxiously.

"I hope so—indeed, I'm very sure he is. The operation turned out to be an extremely simple one, though it wasn't even dreamed of twenty years ago. Barbara's case was simple too,—it's all in the knowing how. She has made one of the quickest recoveries on record, owing to the fact that her body is almost that of a child. When you come down to the root of the matter, surgery is merely the job of a skilled mechanic."

"But you'd be angry if anyone else said that."

"Of course."

"When do the bandages come off?"

[Sidenote: A Case of Conscience]

"I'm going up to-morrow. They'd have been off over a week ago, but Barbara insisted that she must see him first and ask him to forgive her for deceiving him. She thinks she's a criminal."

"Dear little saint," said Eloise, softly. "I wish none of us ever did anything more wicked than that."

"So do I, but there is an active remnant of a New-England conscience somewhere in Barbara. I'm not sure that the old man hasn't it, too."

"Do you suppose, for a moment, that he won't forgive her?"

"If he doesn't," returned Allan, concisely, "I'll break his ungrateful old neck. I hope she won't stir him up very much, though—he's got a bad heart."

[Sidenote: Miriam's Welcome]

Still, the old man showed no sign of weakness as he went briskly up the walk and knocked at his own door. When Miriam opened it, astonishment made her welcome almost inarticulate, for she had not expected him home so soon. He gave her the small black satchel that he carried, his coat and hat.

"How is Barbara?" he asked, eagerly. "How is my little girl?"

"Well enough," answered Miriam.

"Is she asleep?"

Miriam went to the stairs and called out: "Barbara! Oh, Barbara!" There was no answer.

She started upstairs, but he called her back. "Don't wake her," he said. "Perhaps I can take her supper up to her."

"Suit yourself," responded Miriam, shortly.

She did not see fit to tell him that Barbara was up and could walk. Doctor Conrad could have told him, if he had wanted to—at any rate, it was not Miriam's affair. She bitterly resented the fact that he had not even shaken hands with her when he came home, after his long absence. She hung up his coat and hat, lighted the fire, as the room was cool, went out into the kitchen, and closed the door.

The familiar atmosphere and the comfortable chair in which he sat brought him that peculiar peace of home which is one of the greatest gifts travel can bestow. Even the ticking of the clock came to his senses gratefully. Home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nights and days of acute loneliness, and only one more day to wait—perhaps.

"To see again," he thought. "I am glad I came home first. To-morrow, if God is good to me, I shall see my baby—and the letter. I have dreamed so often that she could walk and I could see!"

He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out upon his knee. He moved his hands lovingly across the pages—the one written upon, the other blank. "She died loving me," he said to himself. "To-morrow I shall see it, in her own hand."

[Sidenote: Why Not To-Day]

Sunset flamed behind the hills and brought into the little room faint threads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with the dusk. The clock ticked steadily, and with every cheery tick brought nearer that dear To-Morrow of which he had dreamed so long. He speculated upon the difference made by the slow passage of a few hours. To-morrow, at this time, his bandages would be off—then why not to-day?

The letter fell to the floor and he picked it up, one sheet at a time, fretfully. The bandage around his temples and the gauze and cotton held firmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable. It was the last few miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between the lover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn. He had been very patient, but at last had come to the end.

[Sidenote: He Opens his Eyes]

If only the bandages were off! "If they were," he thought, "I need not open my eyes—I could keep them closed until to-morrow." He raised his hands and worked carefully at the surgical knots until the outer strip was loosened. He wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layers of cotton and gauze.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes closed, determined to keep faith with the physicians, and, above all, with Doctor Conrad, who had been so very kind. There was no pain at all—only weakness. If the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might open his eyes for a moment or two. Why should to-morrow be so different from to-day?

The letter was in his hands—that dear letter which said, "I have loved him, I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day." The temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his blood. Perhaps, after all, he could not see—the doctors had not given him a positive promise.

The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged into perfect belief—and trust. Unable to endure the strain of waiting longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again.

"I can see," he whispered, shrilly. "Oh, I can see!"

The blood beat hard in his pulses. He waited, wisely, until he was calm, then opened his eyes once more. The room was not dark, but was filled with the soft, golden glow of sunset—a light that illumined and, strangely, brought no pain. Objects long unfamiliar save by touch loomed large and dark before him. Remembered colours came back, mellowed by the half-light. Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything. He closed his eyes, and said, aloud: "I can see! Oh, I can see!"

[Sidenote: Reading the Letter]

Little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear. The velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. When he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page. Trembling, he rose and took it over to the window, where the light was stronger. As he stood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into the room.

The bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body as he stood at the window, and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single instant, all the information she needed. Her heart beat high with wild hope—the hour of her vengeance had come at last.

She feared he would not be able to read it. Then she remembered the yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had been large print. If he could see at all, he could see that.

Little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing, the man at the window spelled out the words, in an eager whisper:

"You who have loved me since the beginning of time—will understand and forgive me—for what I do to-day. I do it because I am not strong enough—to go on—and do my duty—by those who need me."

Miriam nodded with satisfaction. At last he knew why Constance had taken her own life.

"If there should be—meeting—past the grave—some day you and I—shall come together again—with no barrier between us." He put his hand to his forehead as though he did not quite understand, but hurried on to the next sentence, for his eyes were failing under the strain.

"I take with me—the knowledge of your love—which has strengthened—and sustained me—since the day—we first met—and must make—even a grave—warm and sweet."

[Sidenote: Radiance of Soul]

The light in the room seemed to Miriam to be not wholly of the golden sunset. Some radiance of soul must have made that clear soft light which veiled but did not hide. It was sunset, and yet the light was that of a Summer afternoon.

"And remember this—dead though I am—I love you still—you—and my little lame baby—who needs me so—and whom—I must leave—because I am not strong—enough to stay. Through life—and in death—and eternally yours—Constance."

There was a tense, unbearable silence. Miriam moistened her parched lips and chafed her cold hands. "At last," she thought. "At last."

[Sidenote: The Assurance]

"She died loving me," said Ambrose North, in a shrill whisper. His eyes were closed again, for the strain had hurt—terribly. Dimly, he remembered the other letter. This was not the same, but the other had been to Barbara, and not to him. He did not stop to wonder how it came to be in his pocket. It sufficed that some Angel of God, working through devious ways and long years, had given him at last, face to face, the assurance he had hungered for since the day Constance died.

In a blinding instant, Miriam remembered that no names had been mentioned in the letter. He had made a mistake—but she could set him right. Constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this.

Ambrose North turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window. The woman cowering in the corner advanced steadily to meet him. He saw her, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights.

"Miriam!" he cried, transfigured by joy. "She died loving me! I have it here. It was only because she was not strong—she was ill, and she never let us know." He held forth the letter with a shaking hand.

"She—" began Miriam.

"She died loving me!" he cried. "Oh, Miriam, can you not see? I have it here." His voice rang through the house like some far silver bugle chanting triumph over a field of the slain. "She died loving me!"

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Triumphant Cry]

Barbara had already wakened and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. The attic was almost dark. She went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowed finery until her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had to be loosened. When she reached her own door she started toward her mirror, anxious to see how she looked, but that triumphant cry from the room below made her heart stand still.

White as death and strangely fearful, she went down and into the living-room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovingly upon her father's illumined face.

Barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched in welcome. Miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking as though she had seen a ghost.

There was an instant's tense silence. All the forces of life and love seemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a single heart-beat. Then the old man spoke.

"Constance," he said, unsteadily, "have you come back, Beloved? It has been so long!"

Radiant with beauty no woman had ever worn before, Barbara went to him, still smiling, and the old man's arms closed hungrily about her. "I dreamed you were dead," he sobbed, "but I knew you died loving me. Where is our baby, Constance? Where is my Flower of the Dusk?"

[Sidenote: Burden of Joy]

Even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden of joy. He staggered and would have fallen, had not Miriam caught him in her strong arms. Together, they helped him to the couch, where he lay down, breathing with great difficulty.

"Constance, darling," he gasped, feebly, "where is our baby? I want Barbara."

For the sake of the dead and the living, Barbara supremely put self aside. "I do not know," she whispered, "just where Barbara is. Am I not enough?"

"Enough for earth," he breathed in answer, "and—for—heaven—too. Kiss me—Constance—just once—dear—before——"

[Sidenote: The Passing]

Barbara bent down. He lifted his shaking hands caressingly to the splendid crown of golden hair, the smooth, fair cheeks, the perfect neck and shoulders, and died, enraptured, with her kiss upon his lips.



XX

Pardon

[Sidenote: The Burial Service]

Crushed and almost broken-hearted, Barbara sat in the dining-room. The air was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberoses. From the room beyond came the solemn words of the burial service: "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."

The words beat unbearably upon her ears. The walls of the room moved as though they were of fabric, stirred by winds of hell. The floor undulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her. Her hands were so cold that she scarcely felt the friendly, human touch on either side of her chair.

Roger held one of her cold little hands in both his own, yearning to share her grief, to divide it in some way; even to bear it for her. On the other side was Doctor Conrad, profoundly moved. His science had not yet obliterated his human instincts and he was neither ashamed of the mist in his eyes nor of the painful throbbing of his heart. His fingers were upon Barbara's pulse, where the lifetide moved so slowly that he could barely feel it.

On the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat Miriam. She wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable. Perhaps the lines were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough, red hands moved more nervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned more fiercely, but no one noticed—or cared.

[Sidenote: The Minister]

The deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness. The man who stood near Ambrose North as he lay in his last sleep had been summoned from town by Eloise. He did not make the occasion an excuse for presenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nor did he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad. He admitted, at the beginning, that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who loved Ambrose North and did not say that God was chastening them for their own good.

He spoke of Life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterious silences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset. This flaming arc must end, as it begins, in pain, but, past the silence, and, perhaps, in even greater mystery, the circle must somewhere become complete and round back to a new birth.

Could not the God who ordained the beginning be safely trusted with the end? Forgetting the grey mists of dawn in which the rainbow began, should we deny the inevitable night when the arc bends down at the other end of the world? Having seen so much of the perfect curve, could we not believe in the circle? And should we not remember that the rainbow itself was a signal and a promise that there should be no more sea? Even so, was not this mortal life of ours, tempered as it is by sorrow and tears, a further promise that, when the circle was completed, there should be no more death?

[Sidenote: God's Love]

The deep voice went on, even more tenderly, to speak of God; not of His power, but of His purpose, not of His justice, but His forgiveness, not of His vengeance, but of His love. A love so vast and far-reaching that there is no place where it is not; it enfolds not only our little world, poised in infinite space like a mote in a sunbeam, but all the shining, rolling worlds beyond. Every star that rises within our sight and all the million stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to be incomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. It is impossible to conceive of a place where it is not—even in the midst of pain, poverty, suffering, and death, God's love is there also. The minister pleaded with those who listened to him to lean wholly upon this all-sustaining, all-forgiving love; to believe that it sheltered both the living and the dead, and to trust, simply, as a little child.

[Sidenote: At the Close of the Service]

In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The worn strings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys. In her full, low contralto she sang, to an exquisite melody:

"When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree; Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

"I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget."

The deep, manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbours and friends went out with hushed and reverent step, into the golden Autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearance wholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away.

Eloise closed the door and Roger and Allan brought Barbara in. She bent down to her father, who lay so quietly, with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips, and her tears rained upon his face. "Good-bye, dear Daddy," she sobbed. "It is Barbara who kisses you now."

* * * * *

When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both, Roger stayed behind, with Barbara. Doctor Conrad had said, positively, that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed.

The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold little hand in his. "There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara, dear?"

[Sidenote: The Pity of It]

"No," she sobbed. "That is the pity of it. There is never anything to be said or done."

"I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you," he said, simply. "Some way, we seem to belong together, you and I."

They sat in silence until the others came back. Eloise came straight to Barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure.

"Will you come with me, dear?" she asked. "We can get a carriage easily and I'd love to have you with me. Will you come?"

For a moment, Barbara hesitated. "No," she said, "I must stay here. I've got to live right on here, and I might as well begin to-night."

Allan took from his pocket several small, round white tablets, and gave them to Barbara. "Two just before going to bed," he said. "And if you're the same brave girl that you've been ever since I've known you, you'll have your bearings again in a short time."

[Sidenote: By the Open Fire]

Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretence of eating. The odour of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought, inevitably, the thought of death. Afterward, Barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger's warm, understanding clasp. In the kitchen, Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes. She had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table damask, and the Satsuma cup.

"Shall I read to you, Barbara?" asked Roger.

"No," she answered, wearily. "I couldn't listen to-night."

The hours dragged on. Miriam sat in the dining-room alone, by the light of one candle, remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself.

She wondered what Constance would do to her now, when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes. She determined to cheat Constance by sitting up all night, and then realised that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning.

Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere, on earth, or in heaven, or in hell. Mysterious balances must be made before things were right, and her endeavours to get what she had conceived to be her own just due had all failed.

She wondered why. Constance had wronged her and she was entitled to pay Constance back in her own coin. But the opportunity had been taken out of her hands, every time. Even at the last, her subtle revenge had been transmuted into further glory for Constance. Why?

The answer flashed upon her like words of fire—"Vengeance is mine; I will repay."

Then, suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul. Her lined face blanched in the candle-light and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair.

[Sidenote: The Still Small Voice]

"Confess," she repeated to herself scornfully as though in answer to some imperative summons. "To whom?"

There was no answer, but, in her heart, Miriam knew. Only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. And if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through Barbara.

Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear. Roger heard—and wondered—but said nothing.

After he went home, Barbara still sat by the fire, in that surcease which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside, to wait a little, before taking a fresh hold. She could wonder now about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked up from the floor, and which her father had found, and very possibly read. She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother.

[Sidenote: Miriam's Confession]

But, while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need. She stood near Barbara for several minutes without speaking; then she began, huskily, "Barbara——"

The girl turned, wearily. "Yes?"

"I've got something to say and I don't know but what to-night is as good a time as any. Neither of us are likely to sleep much."

Barbara did not answer.

"I hated your mother," said Miriam, passionately. "I always hated her."

"I guessed that," answered Barbara, with a sigh.

"Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll-face and pretty ways. She took him away from me. He never looked at me after he saw her. I had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be maid of honour at the wedding. It was hard, but I did it.

"She loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. She liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but, after he went blind, she could hardly tolerate him. Lots of times, she would have been downright cruel to him if I hadn't made her do differently.

"The first time they came here for the Summer, she met Laurence Austin, Roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. They used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere. After you were born, the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. I know, for I followed.

"When your father asked where she was, I lied to him, not only then, but many times. I wasn't screening her—I was shielding him. It went on for over a year, then she took the laudanum. She left four notes—one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to Laurence Austin. I never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years. After he died, she still haunted me, but it was less often, and different.

"When you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had in his pocket, I took time to read it. She said, there, that she didn't trust me, and that I had always loved your father. It was true enough, but I didn't know she knew it.

"After you took the letter out, I put in the one to Laurence Austin. I'd opened it and read it some little time back. I thought it was time he knew her as she was, and I never thought about no name being mentioned in it.

"When he tore off the bandages, he read that letter, and never knew that it wasn't meant for him. Then, when you came in in that old dress of your mother's, he thought it was her come back to him, and never knew any different."

There was a long pause. "Well?" said Barbara, wearily. It did not seem as if anything mattered.

"I just want you to know that I've hated your mother all my life, ever since she came home from school. I've hated you because you look like her. I've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time, and hated myself for loving him. I've hated everybody, but I've done my duty, as far as I know. I've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of you and your father, and done the best I could.

"When I put that letter into his pocket, I intended for him to know that Constance was in love with another man. I'd have read it to him long ago if I'd had any idea he'd believe me. When he thought it was for him, I was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in and stopped me. You looked so much like your mother I thought Constance had taken to walking down here daytimes instead of back and forth in my room at night.

"I suppose," Miriam went on, in a strange tone, "that I've killed him—that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart. I suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now—you won't want to go on living with me after I've killed your father."

[Sidenote: A Wonderful Joy]

"Aunt Miriam," said Barbara, calmly, "I've known for a long time almost everything you've told me, but I didn't know how father got the letter. I thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his own room, or even in the attic. You didn't kill him any more than I did, by coming into the room in mother's gown. What he really died of was a great, wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it. And, even though I've wanted my father to see me, all my life long, I'd rather have had it as it was, and he would, too. I'm sure of that.

"He told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the world were mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then mother herself, and, last of all, me. And for a long time his dearest dream has been that I could walk and he could see. So when, in the space of five or ten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart failed."

"But," Miriam persisted, "I meant to do him harm." Her burning eyes were keenly fixed upon Barbara's face.

"Sometimes," answered the girl, gently, "I think that right must come from trying to do wrong, to make up for the countless times wrong comes from trying to do right. Father could not have had greater joy, even in heaven, than you and I gave him at the last, neither of us meaning to do it."

[Sidenote: Human Sympathy and Love]

The stern barrier that had reared itself between Miriam and her kind suddenly crumbled and fell. Warm tides of human sympathy and love came into her numb heart and ice-bound soul. The lines in her face relaxed, her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mist of tears. Her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamed of saying for more than a quarter of a century:

"Will you—can you—forgive me?"

All that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her came generously from Barbara. She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around Miriam's neck. "Oh, Aunty! Aunty!" she cried, "indeed I do, not only for myself, but for father and mother, too. We don't forgive enough, we don't love enough, we're not kind enough, and that's all that's wrong with the world. There isn't time enough for bitterness—the end comes too soon."

[Sidenote: At Peace]

Miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. She was no longer alien and apart, but one with the world. She had a sense of universal kinship—almost of brotherhood. That night she slept, for the first time in more than twenty years, without the fear of Constance.

And Constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whose faithful old husband had that day lain down, in joy and triumph, to rest beside her in the churchyard, came no more.



XXI

The Perils of the City

"Roger," remarked Miss Mattie, laying aside her paper, "I don't know as I'm in favour of havin' you go to the city. Can't you get the Judge another dog?"

"Why not, Mother?" asked Roger, ignoring her question.

"Because it seems to me, from all I've been readin' and hearin' lately, that the city ain't a proper place for a young person. Take that minister, now, that those folks brought down for Ambrose North's funeral. I never heard anything like it in all my life. You was there and you heard what he said, so there ain't no need of dwellin' on it, but it wasn't what I'm accustomed to in the way of funerals." Miss Mattie's militant hairpins bristled as she spoke.

"I thought it was all right, Mother. What was wrong with it?"

[Sidenote: Everything Wrong]

"Wrong!" repeated Miss Mattie, in astonishment. "Everything was wrong with it! Ambrose North wasn't a church-member and he never went more'n once or twice that I know of, even after the Lord chastened him with blindness for not goin'. There was no power to the sermon and no cryin' except Barbara and that Miss Wynne that sang that outlandish piece instead of a hymn.

"Why, Roger, I was to a funeral once over to the Ridge where the corpse was an unbaptized infant, and you ought to have heard that preacher describin' the abode of the lost! The child's mother fainted dead away and had to be carried out of the church, it was that powerful and movin'. That was somethin' like!"

It was in Roger's mind to say he was glad that the minister had not made Barbara faint, but he wisely kept silent.

[Sidenote: Life in the City]

"That's only one thing," Miss Mattie went on. "What with religion bein' in that condition in the city, and the life folks live there, I don't think it's any fit place for a person that ain't strong in the faith, and you know you ain't, Roger. You take after your pa.

"I was readin' in The Metropolitan Weekly only last week a story about a lovely young orphan that was caught one night by a rejected suitor and tied to the railroad track. Just as the train was goin' to run over her, the man she wanted to marry come along on the dead run with a knife and cut her bonds. She got off the track just as the night express come around the curve, goin' ninety-five miles an hour.

[Sidenote: Miss Mattie's Fears]

"This man says to her, 'Genevieve, will you come to me now, and let me put you out of this dread villain's power forever?' Then he opened his arms and the beautiful Genevieve fled to them as to some ark of safety and laid her pale and weary face upon his lovin' and forgivin' heart. That's the exact endin' of it, and I must say it's written beautiful, but when I wake up in the night and think about it, I get scared to have you go.

"You ain't so bad lookin', Roger, and you're gettin' to the age where you might be expected to take notice, and what if some designing female should tie you to the railroad track? I declare, it makes me nervous to think of it."

Roger did not like to shake his mother's faith in The Metropolitan Weekly, but he longed to set her fears at rest. "Those things aren't true, Mother," he said, kindly. "They not only haven't happened, but they couldn't happen—it's impossible."

"Roger, what do you mean by sayin' such things. Of course it's true, or it wouldn't be in the paper. Ain't it right there in print, as plain as the nose on your face? You can see for yourself. I hope studyin' law ain't goin' to make an infidel of you."

"I don't think it will," temporised Roger. "I'll keep a close watch for designing females, and will avoid railroad tracks at night."

Miss Mattie shook her head doubtfully. "That ain't a goin' to do no good, Roger, if they once get set after you. I've noticed that the villain always triumphs."

"But only for a little while, Mother. Surely you must have seen that?"

[Sidenote: The Villain Foiled]

She settled her steel-bowed spectacles firmly on the wart and gazed at him. "I believe you're right," she said, after a few moments of reflection. "I can't recall no story now where the villain was not foiled at last. Let me see—there was Lovely Lulu, or the Doctor's Darling, and Margaret Merriman, or the Maiden's Mad Marriage, and True Gold, or Pretty Crystal's Love, and The American Countess, or Hearts Aflame, and this one I was just speakin' of, Genevieve Carleton, or the Brakeman's Bride. In every one of 'em, the villain got his just deserts, though sometimes they was disjointed owin' to the story bein' broke off at the most interestin' point and continued the followin' week."

"Well, if the villain is always foiled, you're surely not afraid, are you?"

"I don't know's I'm afraid in the long run, but I don't like to have you go through such things and be exposed to the temptations of a great city."

"Why don't you come with me, Mother, and keep house for me? We can find a little flat somewhere, and——"

"What on earth is that?"

[Sidenote: Apartments and Flats]

"I've never been in one myself, but Miss Wynne said that, if you wanted to come, she would find us a flat, or an apartment."

"What's the difference between a flat and an apartment?"

"That's what I asked her. She said it was just the rent. You pay more for an apartment than you do for a flat."

"I wouldn't want anything I had to pay more for," observed Miss Mattie, stroking her chin thoughtfully. "You ain't told me what a flat is."

"A few rooms all on one floor, like a cottage. It's like several cottages, all under one roof."

"What do they want to cover the cottages with a roof for? Don't they want light and air?"

"You don't understand, Mother. Suppose that our house here was an apartment house. The stairs would be shut off from these rooms and the hall would be accessible from the street. Instead of having three rooms upstairs, there might be six—one of them a kitchen and the others living-rooms and bedrooms. Don't you see?"

"You mean a kitchen on the same floor with the bedrooms?"

"Yes, all the rooms on one floor."

"Just as if an earthquake was to jolt off the top of the house and shake all the bedrooms down here?"

"Something like that."

"Well, then," said Miss Mattie, firmly, "all I've got to say is that it ain't decent. Think of people sleepin' just off kitchens and washin' their faces and hands in the sink."

"I think some of them must be very nice, Mother. Miss Wynne expects to live in an apartment after she is married and she has a little one of her own now. If you'll come with me we'll find some place that you'll like. I don't want to leave you alone here."

[Sidenote: Under One Roof]

"No," she answered, after due deliberation, "I reckon I'll stay here. You can't transplant an old tree and you can't take a woman who has lived all her life in a house and put her in a place where there are several cottages all under one roof with bedrooms off of kitchens and folks washin' in the sinks. Miss Wynne can do it if she likes, but I was brought up different."

"I'm afraid you'll be lonesome."

"I don't know why I should be any more lonesome than I always have been. All I see of you is at meals and while you're readin' nights. You're just like your pa. If I propped up a book by the lamp, it would be just as sociable as it is to have you settin' here. Readin' is a good thing in its place and I enjoy it myself, but sometimes it's pleasant to hear the human voice sayin' somethin' besides 'What?' and 'Yes' and 'All right' and 'Is supper ready?'

[Sidenote: The Blue Hair Ribbon]

"I've been lookin' over your things to-day and gettin' 'em ready. The moths has ate your Winter flannels and you'll have to get more. I've mended your coat linin's and sewed on buttons, and darned and patched, and I've took Barbara North's blue hair ribbon back to her—the one you found some place and had in your pocket. You mustn't be careless about those things, Roger—she might think you meant to steal it."

"What did Barbara say?" he stammered. The high colour had mounted to his temples.

"She didn't know what to say at first, but she recognised it as her hair ribbon. I told her you hadn't meant to steal it—that you'd just found it somewheres and had forgot to give it to her, and it was all right. She laughed some, but it was a funny laugh. You must be careful, Roger—you won't always have your mother to get you out of scrapes."

Roger wondered if the knot of blue ribbon that had so strangely gone back to Barbara had, by any chance, carried to her its intangible freight of dreams and kisses, with a boyish tear or two, of which he had the grace not to be ashamed.

"Your pa was in the habit of annexin' female belongin's, though the Lord knows where he ever got 'em. I suppose he picked 'em up on the street—he was so dreadful absent-minded. He was systematic about 'em in a way, though. After he died, I found 'em all put away most careful in a box—a handkerchief and one kid glove, and a piece of ribbon about like the one I took back to Barbara. He was flighty sometimes: constant devotion to readin' had unsettled his mind.

"That brings me to what I wanted to say when I first started out. I don't want you should load up your trunk with your pa's books to the exclusion of your clothes, and I don't want you to spend your evenin's readin'."

"I'm not apt to read very much, Mother, if I work in an office in the daytime and go to law school at night."

[Sidenote: Ten Books Only]

"That's so, too, but there's Sundays. You can take any ten of your pa's books that you like, but no more. I'll keep the rest here against the time the train is blocked and the mails don't come through. I may get a taste for your pa's books myself."

Roger did not think it likely, but he was too wise to say so.

"And I didn't tell you this before, but I've made it my business to go and see the Judge and tell him how you saved my life at the expense of Fido's. I don't know when I've seen a man so mad. I was goin' to suggest that we get him another dog from some place, and land sakes! he clean drove it out of my mind.

"I don't know how you've stood it, bein' there in the office with him, and I told him so. He's got a red-headed boy from the Ridge in there now, and I think maybe the Judge will get what's comin' to him before he gets through. I've learned not to trifle with anybody what has red hair, but seemin'ly the Judge ain't. It takes some folks a long time to learn.

"Barbara's goin' to the city, too, to spend the Winter with that Miss Wynne in the cottage that's under the same roof with other cottages and the bedrooms off the kitchen. I don't know how Barbara'll take to washin' in the sink, when she's always had that rose-sprigged bowl and pitcher of her ma's, but it's her business, not mine, and if she wants to go, she can.

[Sidenote: "Me and Miriam"]

"Me and Miriam'll set together evenings and keep each other from bein' lonesome. She ain't much more company than a cow, as far as talkin' goes, but there's a feelin,' some way, about another person bein' in the house, when the wind gets to howlin' down the chimney. We may arrange to have supper together, once in a while, and in case of severe weather, put the two fires goin' in one house, which ever's the warmest.

"I don't know what we shall do, for we ain't talked it over much yet, but with church twice on Sunday and prayer-meetin' Wednesday evenings, and the sewin' circle on Friday, and two New York papers every week, and Miriam, and all your pa's books to prop up against the lamp, I don't reckon I'll get so dreadful lonesome. I've thought some of gettin' myself a cat. There's somethin' mighty comfortable and heartenin' about a cup of hot tea and the sound of purrin' close by. And on the Spring excursion to the city, I reckon I'll come up and see you, if I don't have no more pain in my back."

[Sidenote: Dr. Conrad's Automobile]

"I'd love to have you come, Mother, and I'd do all I could to give you a good time. I know the others would, too. Doctor Conrad has an automobile and——"

Miss Mattie became deeply concerned. "Is he treatin' himself for it?" she demanded.

"I don't think so," answered Roger, choking back a laugh.

"It beats all," mused Miss Mattie. "They say the shoemaker's children never have shoes, and it seems that doctors have diseases just like other folks. I disremember of havin' heard of this, but I know from my own experience that a disease with only one word to it can be dreadful painful. Is it catchin'?"

"Not with full speed on," replied Roger. "An automobile is very hard to catch."

"Well, see that you don't take it," cautioned Miss Mattie. The first part of his answer was obscure, but she was not one to pause over an uninteresting detail.

"You've warned me about almost everything now, Mother," he said, smiling. "Is there anything else?"

"Nothing but matrimony, and that's included under the head of designing females. I shouldn't want you to get married."

"Why not?"

[Sidenote: Welded Souls]

"I don't know as I could tell you just why, only it seems to me that a person is just as well off without it. I've been thinking of it a good deal since I've had these New York papers and read so much about two souls bein' welded into one. My soul wasn't never welded with your pa's, nor his with mine, as I know of.

"Marriage wasn't so dreadful different from livin' at home. It reminded me of the Summer ma took a boarder, your pa required so much waitin' on. And when you came, I had a baby to take care of besides. If I was welded I never noticed it—I was too busy."

Roger's heart softened into unspeakable pity. In missing the "welding," Miss Mattie had missed the best that life has to give. Somewhere, doubtless, the man existed who could have stirred the woman's soul beneath the surface shallows and set the sordid tasks of daily living in tune with the music that sways the world.

[Sidenote: "Un-marriage"]

"There's a good deal in the papers about un-marriage, too," resumed Miss Mattie, "and I can't understand it. When you've stood before the altar and said 'till death do us part,' I don't see how another man, who ain't even a minister, can undo it and let you have another chance at it. Maybe you do, bein' as you're up in law, but I don't.

"It looks to me as if the laws were wrong or else the marriage ceremony ought to be written different. If a man said, 'I take thee to be my wedded wife, to love and to cherish until I see somebody else I like better,' I could understand the un-marriage, but I can't now. When you get to be a power in the law, Roger, I think you should try to get that fixed. I never was welded, but after I'd given my word, I stuck to it, even though your pa was dreadful aggravatin' sometimes. He didn't mean to be, but he was. I guess it's the nature of men folks."

Deeply moved, Roger went over and kissed her smooth cheek. "Have I been aggravating, Mother?"

Miss Mattie's eyes grew misty. She took off her spectacles and wiped them briskly on one corner of the table-cover. "No more'n was natural, I guess," she answered. "You've been a good boy, Roger, and I want you should be a good man. When you get away from home, where your mother can't look after you, just remember that she expects you to be good, like your pa. He might have been aggravatin', but he wasn't wicked."

[Sidenote: Remember]

All the best part of the boy's nature rose in answer, and the mist came into his eyes, too. "I'll remember, Mother, and you shall never be disappointed in me—I promise you that."



XXII

Autumn Leaves

[Sidenote: Autumn Glory]

Summer had gone long ago, but the sweetness of her passing yet lay upon the land and sea. The hills were glorious with a pageantry of scarlet and gold where, in the midnight silences, the soul of the woods had flamed in answer to the far, mysterious bugles of the frost. Bloom was on the grapes in the vineyard, and fairy lace, of cobweb fineness, had been hung by the secret spinners from stem to stem of the purple clusters and across bits of stubble in the field.