"No, we'll watch together, and we won't sit on the car—we'll sit on the cold, damp ground. If we take cold and die it will only serve us right."

"We can't take cold in June," objected Romeo, "with two blankets."

"Unless it rains."

"It won't rain tonight," he said, gloomily; "look at the stars!"

The sky was clear, and pale stars shone faintly in the afterglow. There was not even a light breeze—the world was as still and calm as though pain and death were unknown.

When they reached the scene of the accident, Romeo set the two red lanterns at the point where the back of the car touched the road. They spread one blanket on the grass at the other side of the road and sat down to begin their long vigil. Romeo planned to go home to breakfast at sunrise and bring Juliet some of the mush and milk left from supper. Then, while she continued to watch the machine, he would go into town and make arrangements for its removal.

"Is there room in our barn for both cars?" she asked.

"No. Ours will have to come out."

Juliet shuddered. "I never want to see it again."

"Neither do I."

"Can we sell it?"

"We ought not to sell it unless we gave him the money. We shouldn't have it ourselves."

"Then," suggested Juliet, "why don't we give it away and give him just as much as it cost, including our suits and the dogs' collars and everything?"

"We have no right to give away a man-killer. 'The Yellow Peril' is cursed."

"Let's sacrifice it," she cried. "Let's make a funeral pyre in the yard and burn it, and our suits and the dogs' collars and everything. Let's burn everything we've got that we care for!"

"All right," agreed Romeo, uplifted by the zeal of the true martyr. "And," he added, regretfully, "I'll shoot all the dogs and bury 'em in one long trench. I don't want to see anything again that was in it."

"I don't either," returned Juliet. She wondered whether she should permit the wholesale execution of the herd, since it was a thing she had secretly desired for a long time. "You mustn't shoot Minerva and the puppies," she continued, as her strict sense of justice asserted itself, "because she wasn't in it. She was at home taking care of her children and they'd die if she should be shot now."

So it was settled that Minerva, who had taken no part in the fatal celebration, should be spared, with her innocent babes.

"And in a few years more," said Romeo, hopefully, "we'll have lots more dogs, though probably not as many as we've got now."

Juliet sighed heavily but was in honour bound to make no objections, for long ago, when they arbitrated the dog question, it was written in the covenant that no dogs should be imported or none killed, except by mutual consent. And Minerva had five puppies, and if each of the five should follow the maternal example, and if each of those should do likewise—Juliet fairly lost her head in a maze of mental arithmetic.

"We ought to go into deep mourning," Romeo was saying.

"I've been thinking of that. We should repent in sackcloth and ashes, only I don't know what sackcloth is."

"I guess it's that rough brown stuff they make potato bags of."

"Burlap?"

"Yes. But we haven't many ashes at this time of year and we'll have still less if we live on mush and milk."

"Maybe we could get ashes somewhere," she said, thoughtfully.

"We'd have to, because it would take us over a year to get enough to repent in."

"There'll be ashes left from the automobile and the suits, and if you can get enough potato bags, I'll fix 'em so we can wear 'em at the sacrifice and afterwards we can buy deep mourning."

"All right, but you mustn't make pretty suits."

"I couldn't, out of potato bags. They'll have to be plain—very plain."

"The first thing is to get this car into our barn, and write and tell Colonel Kent where it is. Then we'll get our black clothes, and then we'll shoot the dogs and bury 'em, and then we'll have the sacrifice, and then—"

"And then," repeated Juliet.

"Then we'll have to go and tell 'em all what we've done, and offer to pay all the bills, and give 'em the price of the car besides for damages."

"Oh, Romie," cried Juliet, with a shudder, "we don't have to go and tell 'em, do we? We don't have to take strangers into our consciences, do we?"

"Certainly," replied Romeo, sternly. "Just because we don't want to do it is why we've got to. We've got to do hard things when we make a sacrifice. Lots of people think they're charitable if they give away their old clothes and things they don't want. It isn't charity to give away things you want to get rid of and it isn't a sacrifice to do things you don't mind doing. The harder it is and the more we don't want to do it, the better sacrifice."

His logic was convincing, but Juliet drooped visibly. The bent little figure on the blanket was pathetic, but the twins were not given to self-pity. As time went on, the conversation lagged. They had both had a hard day, from more than one standpoint, and it was not surprising that by midnight, the self-appointed sentries were sound asleep upon one blanket, with Romeo's coat for a pillow and the other blanket tucked around them.

The red lanterns burned faithfully until almost dawn, then smoked and went out, leaving an unpleasant odour that lasted until sunrise. The rumble of a distant cart woke them, and they sat up, shamefacedly rubbing their eyes.

"Oh," cried Juliet, conscience-stricken, "we went to sleep! We went to sleep on duty! How could we?"

"Dunno," returned Romeo, with a frank yawn. "Guess we were tired. Anyhow, the machine is all right."

When the milkman came in sight, they hailed him and purchased a quart of milk. He was scarcely surprised to see them, for the Crosbys were widely known to be eccentric, and presently he drove on. His query about the wrecked car had passed unnoticed.

"If you'll stay here, Jule," said Romeo, wiping his mouth, "I'll go and get a team and some rope and we'll get the car in."

"Can't I go too?"

"No, you stay here. It's bad enough to sleep at your post without deserting it."

"You slept, too," retorted Juliet, quickly on the defensive, "and I'm a girl."

"Huh!" he sneered. The claim of feminine privilege invariably disgusted him beyond words.

"Suppose people come by—" Juliet faltered; "and—ask—questions."

"Answer 'em," advised Romeo, briefly. "Tell 'em we've killed a man and are going to suffer for it. We deserve to have everybody know it."

But, fortunately for Juliet's quicker sensibilities, no one passed by in the hour Romeo was gone. He came from the nearest farm with an adequate number of assistants and such primitive machinery as was at hand. The car was not badly damaged and was finally towed into the Crosbys' barn. Then they went into the house and composed a letter to Colonel Kent, but put off copying and sending it until they should be able to get black bordered stationery.

Two weeks later, clad in deepest mourning, the twins trudged into town. At Colonel Kent's there was no one in authority to receive them and their errand was of too much importance to be communicated to either physician or nurse. Their own unopened letter lay on the library table, with many others.

Subdued and chastened in demeanour, they went to Madame Bernard's and waited in funereal silence until Madame came down.

"How do you—" she began, then stopped. "Why, what is the matter?"

"We ran over him," explained Romeo, suggestively inclining his head in the general direction of Kent's. "Don't you remember?"

"And if he dies, we've killed him," put in Juliet, sadly.

"We'll be murderers if he dies," Romeo continued, "and we ought to be hung."

In spite of her own depression and deep anxiety, Madame saw how keenly the tragedy had affected the twins. "Why, my dears!" she cried. "Do you think for a minute that anybody in the world blames you?"

"We ought to be blamed," Romeo returned, "because we did it."

"But not on purpose—you couldn't help it."

"We could have helped it," said Juliet, "by not celebrating. We had no business to buy an automobile, or, even if we had, we shouldn't have gone out in it until we learned to run it."

"That's like staying away from the water until you have learned to swim," answered Madame, comfortingly, "and Allison isn't going to die."

"Really? Do you mean it? Are you sure? How do you know?" The words came all at once, in a jumble of eager questions.

"Because he isn't. The worst that could possibly happen to him would be the loss of his left hand, and his father is looking all over the country for some surgeon who can save it."

"I'd rather die than to have my hand cut off," said Juliet, in a small, thin voice.

"So would I," added Romeo.

"We're all hoping for the best," Madame went on, "and you must hope, too. Nobody has thought of blaming you, so you mustn't feel so badly about it. Even Allison himself wouldn't want you to feel badly."

"But we do," Romeo answered, "in spite of all the sacrifices and everything."

"Sacrifices," repeated Madame, wonderingly, "why, what do you mean?"

"We did sentry duty all night by his car," Romeo explained, "and we're taking care of it in our barn."

"And we've lived on mush and milk ever since," Juliet added.

"I shot all the dogs but the one with the puppies," said Romeo.

"She wasn't in it, you know," Juliet continued. "I helped dig the trench and we buried the whole nineteen end to end by the fence, with their new collars on."

"Then we burned the automobile," resumed Romeo. "We soaked it in kerosene, and put our suits into the back seat—our caps and goggles and everything. We took out all the pieces of iron and steel and gave 'em to the junk man, and then we repented in sackcloth and ashes."

"How so?" queried Madame, with a faint glimmer of amusement in her sad eyes.

"Juliet made suits out of potato sacks—very plain suits—and we put 'em on to repent in."

"We went and stood in the ashes," put in Juliet, "while they were so hot that they hurt our feet, and Romie raised his right hand and said 'I repent' and then I did the same."

"And after the ashes got cold, we sat down in 'em and rubbed 'em into the sackcloth and our hair and all over our faces and hands."

"All the time saying 'I repent! I repent!'" continued Juliet, soberly.

"And then we went into mourning," concluded Romeo.

Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity for the stricken twins, but she wisely said nothing.

"Can you think of anything more we could do, or any more sacrifices we could make?" inquired Juliet, ready to atone in full measure.

"Indeed I can't," Madame replied, truthfully. "I think you've done everything that could be expected of you."

"We wrote to the Colonel," said Romeo, "but he hasn't got it yet. We saw it on the library table. We want to pay all the bills."

"And give Allison as much money as we spent on the automobile and for the suits and everything, and pay for fixing up his car," interrupted Juliet.

"We want to do everything," Romeo said, with marked emphasis.

"Everything," echoed Juliet.

"That's very nice of you," answered Madame, kindly, "and we all appreciate it."

The stem young faces of the twins relaxed ever so little. It was a great relief to discover that they were not objects of scorn and loathing, for they had brooded over the accident until they had become morbid.

"Did you say that you had been living upon mush and milk ever since?" asked Madame.

"Ever since," they answered, together.

"I'm sure that's long enough," she said. "I wouldn't do it any longer. Won't you stay to dinner with us?"

With one accord the twins rose, impelled by a single impulse toward departure.

"We couldn't," said Romeo.

"We mustn't," explained Juliet. Then, with belated courtesy, she added: "Thank you, just the same."

They made their adieux awkwardly and went home, greatly eased in mind. As they trudged along the dusty road, they occasionally sighed in relief, but said little until they reached their ancestral abode, dogless now save for the pups gambolling about the doorstep and Minerva watching them with maternal pride.

"She said we'd lived on mush and milk long enough," said Romeo, pensively.

"We might fry the mush," Juliet suggested.

"And have butter and maple syrup on it?"

"Maybe."

"And drink the milk, and have bread, too?"

"I guess so."

"And jam?"

"Not while we're in mourning," said Juliet, firmly. "We can have syrup on our bread."

"That's just as good."

"If you think so, you ought not to have it."

"We've got to feed ourselves, or we'll die," he objected vigorously, "and if we're dead, we won't be any good to him or to anybody else, and we can't ever repent any more."

"I'm not so sure about that." said Juliet, with sinister emphasis.

"Nothing will happen to us that we don't deserve," Romeo assured her, "so come on and let's have jam. If it makes us sick, it's wrong, and if it doesn't, it's all right."

The following day, they voluntarily returned to their mush and milk, for they had eaten too much jam, and, having been very ill in the night, considered it sufficient evidence that their penance was not yet over.



XVIII

"LESS THAN THE DUST"

The heat of August shimmered over the land, and still, to every inquiry at the door or telephone, the quiet young woman in blue and white said: "No change." Allison was listless and apathetic, yet comparatively free from pain.

Life, for him, had ebbed back to the point where the tide must either cease or turn. He knew neither hunger nor thirst nor weariness; only the great pause of soul and body, the sense of the ultimate goal.

One by one, he meditated upon the things he used to care for. Isabel came first, but her youth and beauty had ceased to trouble or to beckon. His father had gone on ahead. The delusion still persisted, but he spoke of it no more. Even the violin did not matter now. He remembered the endless hours he had spent at work, almost every day of his life for years, and to what end? In an instant, it had been rendered empty, purposeless, and vain—like life itself.

Occasionally a new man came to look at his hand; not from the city now, but from towns farther inland. The examinations were painful, of course, but he made no objections. After the man had gone, he could count the slow, distinct pulsations that marked the ebbing of the pain, but never troubled himself to ask either the doctor or the nurse what the new man had said about it. He no longer cared.

Aunt Francesca had not come—nor Rose. Perhaps they were dead, also. He asked the nurse one sultry afternoon if they were dead.

"No," she assured him; "nobody is dead."

He wondered, fretfully, why she should take the trouble to lie to him so persistently upon this one point. Then a cunning scheme came into his mind. It presented itself mechanically to him as a trap for the nurse. If they were dead, she could not produce them instantly alive, as a conjurer takes animals from an apparently empty box. If he demanded that she should bring them to him, or even one, it would prove his point and let her see that he knew how she was trying to deceive him.

"Have they gone away?" he inquired.

"No, they're still there."

"Then," said Allison, with the air of one scoring a fine point, "will you ask-well—ask Miss Bernard to come over and see me?"

Remembering the other woman who had come in response to his request, and the disastrous effect the visit had had upon her patient she hesitated. "I'm afraid you're not strong enough," she said kindly. "Can't you wait a little longer?"

"There," he cried. "I knew they were dead!"

As she happened to be both wise and kind, the young woman hesitated no longer. "If I brought you a note from her you would believe me, wouldn't you?"

"No," he replied, stubbornly.

"Isn't there any way you would know, without seeing her?"

He considered for a few moments. "I'd know if I heard her play," he said at length. "There's no one who could play just the way she does."

"Suppose I ask her to come over sometimes and play the piano downstairs for a few minutes at a time, very softly. Would you like that?"

"Yes—that is, I don't mind." He was sure, now, that his trap was in working order, for no one could deceive him at the piano—he would recognise Rose at the first chord.

"Excuse me just a minute, please." She returned presently with the news that Rose would come as soon as she could. "Can't you go to sleep now?" she suggested.

Allison smiled ironically. How transparent she was!

She wanted him to go to sleep and when he awoke, she would tell him that Rose had been there, and had played, and had just gone.

"No," he answered, "I don't want to go to sleep. I want to hear Rose play."

So he waited, persistently wide awake. Sharpened by illness and pain, his hearing was phenomenally acute; so much so that even a whisper in the next room was distinctly audible. He heard the distant rumble of wheels, approaching steadily, and wondered why the house did not tremble when the carriage stopped. He heard the lower door open softly, then close, a quick, light step in the living room, the old-fashioned piano stool whirling on its rusty axis, then a few slow, deep chords prefacing a familiar bit of Chopin.

He turned to the nurse, who sat in her low rocking-chair at the window. "I beg your pardon. I thought you were not telling me the truth."

The young woman only smiled in answer. "Listen!"

From downstairs the music came softly. Rose was playing with the exquisite taste and feeling that characterised everything she did. She purposely avoided the extremes of despair and joy, keeping to the safe middle-ground. Living waters murmured through the melody, the sea surged and crooned, flying clouds went through blue, sunny spaces, and birds sang, ever with an unfailing uplift, as of many wings.

Allison's calmness insensibly changed, not in degree, but in quality, as the piano magically brought before him green distances lying fair beneath the warm sun, clover-scented meadows and blossoming boughs. "Life," he said to himself; "life more abundant."

She drifted from one thing to another, playing snatches of old songs, woven together by modulations of her own making. At last she paused to think of something else, but her fingers remembered, and began, almost of their own accord:



Allison stirred restlessly, as he recalled how he had heard it before. He saw the drifted petals of fallen roses, the moon-shadow on the dial, hours wrong, the spangled cobwebs in the grass and the other spangles, changed to faint iridescence in the enchanted light as Isabel came toward him and into his open arms. Could marble respond to a lover's passion, could dead lips answer with love for love, then Isabel might have yielded to him at least a tolerant tenderness. He saw her now, alien and apart, like some pale star that shone upon a barren waste, but never for him.

Another phrase, full of love and longing, floated up the stairway and entered his room, a guest unbidden.



He turned to the nurse. "Ask Miss Bernard to come up for a few minutes, will you?"

"Do you think it's wise?" she temporised.

"Please ask her to come up," he said, imperatively. "Must I call her myself?"

So Rose came up, after receiving the customary caution not to stay too long and avoid everything that might be unpleasant or exciting.

She stood for a moment in the doorway, hesitating. Her face was almost as white as her linen gown, but her eyes were shining with strange fires.

"White Rose," he said, wearily, "I have been through hell."

"I know," she answered, softly, drawing up a chair beside him. "Aunt Francesca and I have wished that we might divide it with you and help you bear it."

He stretched a trembling hand toward her and she took it in both her own. They were soft and cool, and soothing.

"Thank you for wanting to share it," he said. "Thank you for coming, for playing—for everything."

"Either of us would have come whenever you wanted us, night or day."

"Suppose it was night, and I'd wanted you to come and play to me. Would you have come?"

"Why, yes. Of course I would!"

"I didn't know," he stammered, "that there was so much kindness in the world. I have been very lonely since—"

Her eyes filled and she held his hand more closely. "You won't be lonely any more. I'll come whenever you want me, night or day, to play, to read—or anything. Only speak, and I'll come."

"How good you are!" he murmured, gratefully. "No, please don't let go of my hand." In some inexplicable fashion strength seemed to flow to him from her.

"I think you'll be glad to know," she said, "how sympathetic everybody has been. Strangers stop us on the street to ask for you, and people telephone every day. Down in the library, there's a pile of letters that would take days to read, and many of them have foreign stamps. It makes one feel warm around the heart, for it brings the ideal of human brotherhood so near."

He sighed and his face looked haggard. The brotherhood of man was among the things that did not concern him now. The weariness of the ages was in every line of his body.

"I have been thinking," he went on, after a little, "what a difference one little hour can make, a minute, even. Once I had everything—youth, health, strength, a happy home, love, a dear father, and every promise of success in my chosen career. Now I'm old and broken; health, strength, and love have been taken away in an instant, my father is gone, and my career is only an empty memory. I have no violin, and, if I had, what use would it be to me without—why Rose, I haven't even fingers to make the notes nor hands to hold it."

Rose could bear no more. She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched, all her love and longing swelling into infinite appeal. "Oh Boy!" she cried, "take mine! Take my hands, for always!"

For a tense instant they faced each other. Her breast rose and fell with every quick breath; her eyes met his, then faltered, and the crimson of shame mantled her white face.

"Oh," she breathed, painfully, and turned away from him. When she was half way to the door, he called to her. "Rose! Dear Rose!"

She hesitated, her hand upon the knob. "Close the door and come back," he pleaded. "Please—oh, please!"

Trembling from head to foot, she obeyed him, but her face was pitiful. She could not force herself to look at him. "Forgive," she murmured, "and forget."

The hand he took in his was cold, but her nearness gave him comfort, as never before. His heart was unspeakably tender toward her.

"Rose," he went on, softly, "I've been too near the other world not to have the truth now. Tell me what you mean! Make me understand!"

She did not answer, nor even lift her eyes. She breathed hard, as though she were in pain.

"Rose," he said again, tightening his clasp upon the hand she tried to draw away, "did you mean that you would be my—"

"In name," she interrupted, throwing up her head proudly. "Just to help you—that was all."

He drew her hand to his hot lips and kissed it twice. "Oh, how divinely kind you are," he whispered, "even to think of stooping to such as I!"

"Have pity," she said brokenly, "and let me go."

"Pity?" he repeated. "In all the world there is none like yours. To think of your being willing to sacrifice yourself, through pity of me!"

The blood came back into her heart by leaps and bounds. She had not utterly betrayed herself, then, since he translated it thus.

"Listen," he was saying. "I cared—terribly, but it's gone, and my heart is empty. It's like an open grave, waiting for something that does not come. Did you ever care?"

"Yes," she answered, with eyes downcast.

"Did you care for someone who did not care for you?"

"Yes," she replied, again.

"And he never knew?"

"No." The word was almost a whisper.

"He must have been a brute, not to have cared. Was it long ago?"

"Not very."

"Have I ever met him?"

The suggestion of an ironical smile hovered for a moment around her pale lips, then vanished. "No."

"I have no right to—to ask his name."

"No. What difference does a name make?"

"None. Could you never bring yourself to care for anyone else?"

"No," she breathed. "Oh, no!"

"And yet, with your heart as empty as mine you still have pity enough to—"

"To serve you," she answered. Her eyes met his clearly now. "To help you—as your best friend might."

"Rose, dear Rose! You give me new courage, but how can I let you sacrifice yourself for me?" "Believe me," she said diffidently, "there is no question of sacrifice. Have you never thought of what you might do, that would be even better than the career you had planned?"

"Why, no. What could I do, without—"

"Write," she said, with her eyes shining. "Let others play what you write. Immortality comes by way of the printed page."

"I couldn't," he returned, doubtfully.

"I never composed anything except two or three little things that I never dared to play, even for encores."

"Never say you can't. Say 'I must,' and 'I will.'"

"You're saying them for me. You almost make me believe in myself."

"That's the very best of beginnings, isn't it?"

She was quite calm now, outwardly, and she drew her hand away. Allison remembered the long, happy hours they had spent together before Isabel came into his life. Now that she was gone, the old comradeship had returned, the sweeter because of long absence. Rose had never fretted nor annoyed him; she seemed always to understand.

"You don't know how glad I'd be," he sighed, "to feel that I wasn't quite out of it—that there was something in life for me still. I didn't want to be a bit of driftwood on the current of things."

"You're not going to be—I won't let you. Haven't you learned that sometimes we have to wait; that we can't always be going on? Just moor your soul at the landing place, and when the hour comes, you'll swing out into the current again. Much of the driftwood is only craft that broke away from the landing."

He smiled, for her fancy pleased him. An abiding sense of companionship crept into his loneliness; his isolation seemed to be shared. "And you'll stay at the landing with me," he whispered, "until the time comes to set sail again?"

"Yes."

"And—after the worst that can come—is over, we'll make it right with the world and go abroad together?"

"Yes." Her voice was very low now.

"And we'll be the best of friends, for always?"

"Yes—the best of friends in all the world."

"And you'll promise me that, if you're ever sorry, you'll come straight and tell me—that you'll ask me to set you free?"

"I promise."

"Then everything is all right between you and me?"

"Yes, but I'm ashamed—bitterly ashamed."

"You mustn't be, for I'm very glad. We'll try to forget the wreckage together. I couldn't have asked, unless I had known about—the other man, and you wouldn't have told me, I know. It wouldn't have been like you to tell me."

There was a knock, the door opened, and the nurse came in, watch in hand. "I'm sorry, Miss Bernard, but you can come to-morrow if he's well enough."

"I'll be well enough," said Allison, smiling.

"Of course," Rose assured him, shaking hands in friendly fashion. "Don't forget that it's a secret."

"I won't. Good-bye, Rose."

When she had gone, the nurse studied him furtively, from across the room. He had changed in some subtle way—he seemed stronger than before. Unless it was excitement, to be followed by a reaction, Miss Bernard had done him good. The night would prove it definitely, one way or the other.

Allison slept soundly until daybreak, for the first time—not stupor, but natural sleep. The nurse began to wonder if it was possible that a hand so badly crushed and broken could be healed. Hitherto her service had been mechanically kind; she had taken no interest because she saw no hope. How wonderful it would be if that long procession of learned counsellors should be mistaken after all!

Rose walked home, disdaining the waiting carriage. She had forgotten her hat and the sunset lent radiance to a face that needed no more. By rare tact and kindness, Allison had removed the sting from her shame and the burden she had borne so long was lifted from her heavy heart.

She was happier now than she had ever been before in her life, but she must hide her joy from the others as she had previously hidden her pain —or tried to. She knew that Isabel would not see, but Aunt Francesca's eyes were keen and she could not tell even her just now.

How strange it would be to wake in the night, without that dull, dead pain! How strange it was to feel herself needed, and oh, the joy of serving him!

She thrilled with the ecstasy of sacrifice; with that maternal compassion which is a vital element in woman's love for man. Sublimated beyond passion and self-seeking, and asking only the right to give, she poured out the treasure of her soul at his feet, though her pride demanded that he must never know.

When she went into the house, light seemed to enter the shaded room with her. No one was there, but the open piano waited, ready to receive a confidence. With a laugh that was half a sob of joy, she sat down, her fingers readily finding the one thing that suited her mood.

The wild, half-savage music rang through the house in full, deep chords, but only Rose knew the words, which, in her mind, fitted themselves to the melody as though she dared to sing them:

"Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel, Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword, Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord, Even less then these.

"Less than the weed that grows beside thy door, Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee, Less than the need thou hast in life of me; Even less am I."

Upstairs, Isabel yawned lazily, and wondered why Rose should play so loud, but Aunt Francesca smiled to herself, for she knew that Allison was better and that Rose was glad.



XIX

OVER THE BAR

As a flower may bloom in a night, joy returned to Madame Bernard's house after long absence. There was no outward sign, for Rose was still quiet and self-controlled, but her face was a shade less pale and there was a tremulous music in her voice.

Isabel had ceased to limp, but still dwelt upon the shock and its lingering effects. She amused herself in her own way, reading paper- covered novels, feasting upon chocolates, teasing Mr. Boffin, and playing solitaire. Madame remarked to Rose that Isabel seemed to have a cosmic sense of time.

The guest never came down-stairs till luncheon was announced, and did not trouble herself to make an elaborate, or even appropriate toilet. Madame began to wonder how long Isabel intended to remain and to see the wisdom of the modern fashion of appointing the hour of departure in the invitation.

Yet, as she said to herself rather grimly, she would have invited Isabel to remain through the Summer, and perhaps, in the early Autumn she might return to town of her own accord. Moreover, there appeared to be no graceful way of requesting an invited guest to leave.

Though Madame was annoyed by the mere fact of Isabel's presence, she had ceased to distress Rose, who dwelt now in a world apart from the others. She spent her afternoons at the other house, playing softly downstairs, reading to Allison, or talking to him of the brilliant future that she insisted was to be his.

Neither of them spoke of the hour in which Rose had unwittingly revealed herself, nor did they seem to avoid the subject. Allison had taken her for granted, on a high plane of pure friendliness, and not for an instant did he translate her overpowering impulse as anything but womanly pity.

She practised for an hour or two every morning that she might play better in the afternoon, she ransacked the library for interesting and cheerful things to read to him, and she even found a game or two that he seemed to enjoy. From Madame Francesca's spotless kitchen came many a dainty dish to tempt his capricious appetite, and all the flowers from both gardens, daily, made a bower of his room.

Constantly, too, Rose brought the message of hopefulness and good cheer. From her abounding life and superb vitality he drew unconscious strength; the hidden forces that defy analysis once more exerted themselves in his behalf. So far as man is of the earth, earthy, by the earth and its fruits may he be healed, but the heavenly part of him may be ministered unto only by the angels of God.

His old fear of the darkness had gone and the night light had been taken out into the hall. In the faint glow, he could see the objects in his room distinctly, during the brief intervals of wakefulness. A flower dropped from its vase, a book lying half open, a crumpled handkerchief upon his chiffonier, the pervading scent of attar of roses and dried petals—all these brought him a strange sense of nearness to Rose, as a perfume may be distilled from a memory.

Day by day, Isabel became more remote. He thought of her without emotion when he thought of her at all, for only women may know the agony of love enduring after the foundation upon which it was built has been swept away.

The strange men from distant places came less frequently. Days would pass, and bring no word. The country doctor who had first been called stopped occasionally when time permitted, and his faithful old horse needed a little rest, but he only shook his head. He admitted to the nurse that he was greatly surprised because the inevitable operation had not yet become imperative.

Colonel Kent seemed to have been lost for almost a week. During that time no word had been received from him and Madame's daily bulletin: "No change for the worse," had been returned, marked "not found." She was vaguely troubled and uneasy, fearing that something might have happened to him, but forebore to speak of her fears.

One morning, while Allison was still asleep, the nurse wakened him gently. "A new man, Mr. Allison; can you see him now?"

"I don't care," he replied. "Bring him in."

The newcomer was a young man—one would have guessed that the ink was scarcely dry on his diploma. He had a determined mouth, a square chin, kind eyes, and the buoyant youthful courage that, by itself, carries one far upon any chosen path.

He smiled at Allison and Allison smiled back at him, in friendly fashion. "Now," said the young man, "let's see."

His big fingers were astonishingly gentle, they worked with marvellous dexterity, and, for the first time, the dreaded examination was almost painless. He asked innumerable questions both of Allison and the nurse, and wanted to know who had been there previously.

The nurse had kept no record, but she knew some of the men, and mentioned their names—names to conjure with in the professional world. Even the two great Germans had said it was of no use.

The young man wrinkled his brows in deep thought. "What have you been using?" he inquired, of the nurse.

"Everything. Come here."

She led him into the next room, where a formidable array of bottles and boxes almost covered a large table. He looked them all over, carefully, scrutinising the names on the druggist's labels, sniffing here and there, occasionally holding some one bottle to the light, and finally, out of sheer youthful curiosity, counting them.

Then he laughed—a cheery, hearty laugh that woke long-sleeping echoes in the old house and made Allison smile, in the next room. "It seems," he commented, "that a doctor has to leave a prescription as other men leave cards—just as a polite reminder of the call."

"What shall I do with them?"

"Dump 'em all out—I don't care. Or, wait a minute; there's no rush."

He went back to Allison. "I see you've got quite a drug store here. Are you particularly attached to any special concoction?"

"Indeed I'm not. Most of 'em have hurt—sinfully."

"I don't know that anything has to be painful or disagreeable in order to be healing," remarked the young man, thoughtfully. "Would you like to throw 'em all out of the window?"

"I certainly would."

"All right—that'll be good business." He swung Allison's bed around so that his right arm rested easily on the window sill, requested the nurse to wheel the drug store within easy reach, and rapidly uncorked bottle after bottle with his own hands.

"Now then, get busy."

He sat by, smiling, while Allison poured the varying contents of the drug store on the ground below and listened for the sound of breaking glass when the bottle swiftly followed the last gurgling drop. When all had been disposed of, the nurse took out the table, and the young man smiled expansively at Allison.

"Feel better?"

"I—think so."

"Good. Now, look here. How much does your hand mean to you?"

"How much does it mean?" repeated Allison, pitifully. "It means life, career—everything."

"Enough to make a fight for it then, I take it."

Dull colour surged by waves into Allison's white face. "What do you mean?" he asked, in a broken voice. "Tell me what you mean!"

But the young man was removing his coat. "Hot day," he was saying, "and the young lady won't mind my negligee as long as the braces don't show. Strange—how women hate nice new braces. Say," he said to the nurse as she returned, "get somebody to go up to the station and bring down my trunk, will you?"

"Trunk?" echoed Allison.

"Sure," smiled the young man. "My instructions were to stay if I saw any hope, so I brought along my trunk. I'm always looking for a chance to hope, and I've discovered that it's one of the very best ways to find it."

The nurse had hastened away upon her errand. The new element in the atmosphere of the sick room had subtly affected her, also.

"Don't fence," Allison was saying, huskily. "I've asked so much that I've quit asking."

The young man nodded complete understanding. "I know. The moss-backs sit around and look wise, and expect to work miracles on a patient who doesn't know what they're doing and finally gets the impression that he isn't considered fit to know. Far be it from me to disparage the pioneers of our noble profession, but I'm modest enough to admit that I need help, and the best help, every time, comes from the patient himself."

He drew up his chair beside the bed and sat down. Allison's eager eyes did not swerve from his face.

"Mind you," he went on, "I don't promise anything—I can't, conscientiously. In getting a carriage out of the mud, more depends upon the horse than on the driver. Nature will have to do the work—I can't. All I can do is to guide her gently. If she's pushed, she gets balky. Maybe there's something ahead of her that I don't see, and there's no use spurring her ahead when she's got to stop and get her breath before she can go up hill.

"That hand can't heal itself without good blood to draw upon, and good material to make bone and nerve of, so we'll begin to stoke up, gradually, and meanwhile, I'll camp right here and see what's doing. And if you can bring yourself to sort of—well, sing at your work, you know, it's going to make the job a lot easier."

Allison drew a long breath of relief. "You give me hope," he said.

"Sure," returned the young man, with an infectious laugh. "A young surgeon never has much else when he starts, nor for some time to come. Want to sit up?"

"Why," Allison breathed, in astonishment, "I can't."

"Who said so?"

"Everybody. They all said I must lie perfectly still."

"Of course," mused the young man, aloud, "blood may move around all right of itself, and then again, it may not. Wouldn't do any harm to stir it up a bit and remind the red corpuscles not to loaf on the job."

The nurse came back, to say that the trunk would be up immediately.

"Good. Can I have a bunk in the next room?" Without waiting for her answer, he requested raw eggs and milk, beaten up with a little cream and sherry.

While Allison was drinking it, he moved a big easy chair up near the window, opened every shutter wide, and let the hot sun stream into the room. He expeditiously made a sling for the injured hand, slipped it painlessly into place, put a strong arm under Allison's shoulders, and lifted him to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed. "Now then, forward, march! Just lean on me."

Muscles long unused trembled under the strain but finally he made the harbour of the easy chair, gasping for breath. "Good," said the young man. "At this rate, we'll soon have clothes on us and be outdoors."

"Really?" asked Allison, scarcely daring to believe his ears.

"Sure," replied the marvellous young man, confidently. "What's the use of keeping a whole body in the house on account of one hand? I'm going to tell you just one thing more, then we'll quit talking shop and proceed to politics or anything else you like.

"I knew a man once who was a trapeze performer in a circus and he was training his son in the same lofty profession. The boy insisted that he couldn't do it, and finally the man said to him: 'Look here, kid, if you'll put your heart over the bar, your body will follow all right,' and sure enough it did. Now you get your heart over the bar, and trust your hand to follow. Get the idea?"

The sound of the piano below chimed in with the answer. A rippling, laughing melody danced up the stairs and into the room. The young man listened a moment, then asked, "Who?"

"A friend of mine—my very dearest friend."

"More good business. I think I'll go down and talk to her. What's her name?"

"Rose."

"What's the rest of it? I can't start in that way, you know. Bad form."

"Bernard—Rose Bernard."

As quickly and silently as he did everything else, the young man went down-stairs, and the piano stopped, but only for a moment, as he requested her, with an airy wave of the hand, not to mind him. When she finished the old song she was playing, he called her by name, introduced himself, and invited her out into the garden, because, as he said, "walls not only have ears, but telephones."

"Say," he began, by way of graceful preliminary, "you look to me as though you had sense."

"Thank you," she replied, demurely.

"Sense," he resumed, "is lamentably scarce, especially the variety misnamed common—or even horse. I'm no mental healer, nor anything of that sort, you know, but it's reasonable to suppose that if the mind can control the body, after a fashion, when the body is well, it's entitled to some show when the body isn't well, don't you think so?"

Rose assented, though she did not quite grasp what he said. His all pervading breeziness affected her much as it had Allison.

"Now," he continued, "I'm not unprofessional enough to knock anybody, but I gather that there's been a procession of undertakers down here making that poor chap upstairs think there's no chance. I'm not saying that there is, but there's no reason why we shouldn't trot along until we have to stop. It isn't necessary to amputate just yet, and until it is necessary, there's nothing to hinder us from working like the devil to save him from it, is there?"

"Surely not."

"All right. Are you in on it?"

"I'm 'in,'" replied Rose, slowly, "on anything and everything that human power can do, day or night, until we come to the last ditch."

"Good for you. I'll appoint you first lieutenant. I guess that nurse is all right, though she doesn't seem to be unduly optimistic."

"She's had nothing to make her so. Everything has been discouraging so far."

"Plenty of discouragement in the world," he observed, "handed out free of charge, without paying people to bring it into the house when you're peevish."

"Very true," she answered, then her eyes filled. "Oh," she breathed, with white lips, "if you can—if you only can—"

"We'll have a try for it," he said, then continued, kindly: "no salt water upstairs, you know."

"I know," she sighed, wiping her eyes.

"Then 'on with the dance—let joy be unconfined.'"

Rose obediently went back to the piano. The arrival of the trunk and the composition of a hopeful telegram to Colonel Kent occupied the resourceful visitor for ten or fifteen minutes. Then he went back to his patient, who had already begun to miss him.

"You forgot to tell me your name," Allison suggested.

"Sure enough. Call me Jack, or Doctor Jack, when I'm not here and have to be called."

"But, as you said yourself a few minutes ago, I can't begin that way. What's the rest of it?"

"If you'll listen," responded the young man, solemnly, "I will unfold before your eyes the one blot upon the 'scutcheon of my promising career. My full name is Jonathan Ebenezer Middlekauffer."

"What—how—I mean—excuse me," stammered Allison.

The young man laughed joyously. "You can search me," he answered, with a shrug. "The gods must have been in a sardonic mood about the time I arrived to gladden this sorrowful sphere. I've never used more of it than I could help, and everybody called me 'Jem' until I went to college, the initials making a shorter and more agreeable name. But before I'd been there a week, I was 'Jemima' or 'Aunt Jemima' to the whole class. So I changed it myself, though it took a thrashing to make two or three of 'em remember that my name was Jack."

"How did you happen to come here?" queried Allison, without much interest.

"The man who was down here on the fifth sent me. He told me about you and suggested that my existence might be less wearing if I had something to do. He just passed along his instructions and faded gracefully out of sight, saying: 'You'd better go, Middlekauffer, as your business seems to be the impossible,' so I packed up and took the first train."

"What did he mean by saying that your business was impossible?"

"Not impossible, but THE impossible. Good Heavens, man, don't things get mixed like that! All he meant was that such small reputation as I have been able to acquire was earned by doing jobs that the other fellows shirked. I'm ambidextrous," he added, modestly, "and I guess that helps some. Let's play piquet."

When Rose came up, an hour or so later, they were absorbed in their game, and did not see her until she spoke. She was overjoyed to see Allison sitting up, but, observing that she was not especially needed, invented a plausible errand and said good-bye, promising to come the next day.

"Nice girl," remarked Doctor Jack, shuffling the cards for Allison. "Mighty nice girl."

"My future wife," answered Allison, proudly, forgetting his promise.

"More good business. You'd be a brute if you didn't save that hand for her. She's entitled to the best that you can give her."

"And she shall have it," returned Allison.

Doctor Jack's quick ears noted a new determination in the voice, that only a few hours before had been weak and wavering, and he nodded his satisfaction across the card table.

That night, while Allison slept soundly, and the nurse also, having been told that she was off duty until called, the young man recklessly burned gas in the next room, with pencil and paper before him. First, he carefully considered the man with whom he had to deal, then mapped out a line of treatment, complete to the last detail.

"There," he said to himself, "by that we stand or fall."

The clocks struck three, but the young man still sat there, oblivious to his surroundings, or to the fact that even strong and healthy people occasionally need a little sleep. At last a smile lighted up his face. "What fun it would be," he thought, "for him to give a special concert, and invite every blessed moss-back who said 'impossible!' It wouldn't please me or anything, would it, to stand at the door and see 'em come in? Oh, no!"

There was a stir in the next room, and Allison called him, softly.

"Yes?" It was only a word, but the tone, as always, was vibrant with good cheer.

"I just wanted to tell you," Allison said, "that my heart is over the bar."

In the dark, the two men's hands met. "More good business," commented Doctor Jack. "Just remember what somebody said of Columbus: 'One day, with life and hope and heart, is time enough to find a world.' Go to sleep now. I'll see you in the morning."

"All right," Allison returned, but he did not sleep, even after certain low sounds usually associated with comfortable slumber came from the doctor's room. He lay there, waiting happily, while from far, mysterious sources, life streamed into him, as the sap rises into the trees at the call of Spring. Across the despairing darkness, a signal had been flashed to him, and he was answering it, in every fibre of body and soul.



XX

RISEN FROM THE DEAD

COLONEL KENT, in a distant structure which, by courtesy, was called "the hotel," had pushed away his breakfast untasted, save for a small portion of the nondescript fluid the frowsy waitress called "coffee." He had been delayed, missed his train at the junction point, and, fretting with impatience, had been obliged to pass the night there.

He had wired to Madame Francesca the night before, but, as yet, had received no answer. He had personally consulted every surgeon of prominence in the surrounding country, and all who would not say flatly, without further information than he could give them, that there was no chance, had been asked to go and see for themselves.

One by one, their reports came back to him, unanimously hopeless. Heartsick and discouraged, he rallied from each disappointment, only to face defeat again. He had spent weeks in fruitless journeying, following up every clue that presented itself, waited days at hospitals for chiefs of staff, and made the dreary round of newspaper offices, where knowledge of every conceivable subject is supposedly upon file for the asking.

One enterprising editor, too modern to be swayed by ordinary human instincts, had turned the Colonel over to the star reporter—a young man with eyes like Allison's. By well-timed questions and sympathetic offers of assistance, he dragged the whole story of his wanderings from the unsuspecting old soldier.

It made a double page in the Sunday edition, including the illustrations—a "human interest" story of unquestionable value, introduced by a screaming headline in red: "Old Soldier on the March to Save Son. Violinist about to Lose Hand."

When the Colonel saw it, his eyes filled so that he could not see the words that danced through the mist, and the paper trembled from his hands to the floor. He was too nearly heartbroken to be angry, and too deeply hurt to take heed of the last stab.

No word reached him until late at night, when he arrived at the metropolitan hotel that he had made his headquarters. When he registered, two telegrams were handed to him, and he tore them open eagerly. The first was from Madame Francesca:

"Slight change for the better. New man gives hope. Better return at once."

The second one was wholly characteristic:

"Willing to take chance. Am camping on job. Come home." It was signed: "J. E. Middlekauffer."

When he got to his room, the Colonel sat down to think. He knew no one of that name—had never even heard it before. Perhaps Francesca—it would have been like her, to work with him and say nothing until she had something hopeful to say.

His heart warmed toward her, then he forgot her entirely in a sudden realisation of the vast meaning of the two bits of yellow paper. Why, it was hope; it was a fighting chance presenting itself where hitherto had been only despair! He could scarcely believe it. He took the two telegrams closer to the light, and read the blessed words over and over again, then, trembling with weakness and something more, tottered back to his chair.

Until then, he had not known how weary he was, nor how the long weeks of anxiety and fruitless effort had racked him to the soul. As one may bear a burden bravely, yet faint the moment it is lifted, his strength failed him in the very hour that he had no need of it. He sat there for a long time before he was able to shut off the light and creep into bed, with his tear-wet cheek pillowed upon one telegram, and a wrinkled hand closely clasping the other, as though holding fast to the message meant the keeping of the hope it brought.

Utterly exhausted, he slept until noon. When he woke, it was with the feeling that something vitally important had happened. He could not remember what it was until he heard the rustling of paper and saw the two telegrams. He read them once more, in the clear light of day, fearing to find the message but a fantasy of the night. To his unbounded relief, it was still there—no dream of water to the man dying of thirst, but a living reality that sunlight did not change.

"Thank God," he cried aloud, sobbing for very joy, "Thank God!"

Meanwhile, the Resourceful One had shown the nurse how to cut a sleeve out of one of Allison's old coats, and open the under-arm seam. Having done this, she was requested to treat a negligee shirt in the same way. Then the village barber was sent for, and instructed to do his utmost.

"Funny," remarked Doctor Jack, pensively, "that nobody has thought of doing that before. If I hadn't come just as I did, you'd soon have looked like a chimpanzee, and, eventually, you'd have been beyond the reach of anything but a lawn-mower. They didn't even think to braid your hair and tie it with a blue ribbon."

The nurse laughed; so did Allison, but the pensive expression of the young man's face did not change.

"I've had occasion lately," he continued, "to observe the powerful tonic effect of clothes. A woman patient told me once that the moral support, afforded by a well-fitting corset was inconceivable to the mind of a mere man. She said that a corset is to a woman what a hat is to a man— it prepares for any emergency, enables one to meet life on equal terms, and even to face a rebellious cook or janitor with 'that repose which marks the caste of Vere de Vere.'"

"I've often wondered," returned Allison, "why I felt so much—well, so much more adequate with my hat on."

"Clear case of inherited instincts. The wild dog used to make himself a smooth bed in the rushes of long grass by turning around several times upon the selected spot. Consequently, the modern dog has to do the same stunt before he can go to sleep. The hat is a modification of the helmet, which always had to be worn outside the house, in the days when hold-ups and murders were even more frequent than now, and the desire for a walking-stick comes from the old fashion of carrying a spear or a sword. If a man took off his helmet, it was equivalent to saying: 'In the presence of my friend, I am safe.' When he takes off his hat to a lady now, he merely means: 'You're not a voter.' You'll notice that in any gathering of men, helmets are still worn."

So he chattered, with apparent unconcern, but, none the less, he was keenly watching his patient. With tact that would have done credit to a diplomat, he kept the conversation in agreeable channels. By noon, Allison had his clothes on, the coat being pinned under the left arm with two safety pins that did not show, and was out upon an upper veranda.

Doctor Jack encouraged him to walk whenever he felt that he could, even though it was only to the other end of the veranda and back to his chair. Somewhat to his astonishment, Allison began to feel better.

"I believe you're a miracle-worker," he said. "Two days ago, I was in bed, with neither strength, ambition, nor hope. Now I've got all three."

"No miracle," replied the other modestly. "Merely sense."

That afternoon the Crosby twins telephoned to know whether they might call, and the nurse brought the query upstairs. "If they're amusing," said the doctor, "let 'em come."

Allison replied that the twins had been highly amusing—until they ran "The Yellow Peril" over his left hand. "Poor little devils," he mused; "they've got something on their minds."

"Mighty lucky for you that it wasn't a macadamised boulevard instead of a sandy country road," observed the doctor. "The softness underneath has given us a doubt to work on."

"How so?"

"It's easier, to crush anything on a hard surface than it is on a pillow, isn't it?"

"Of course—I hadn't thought of that. If there had been more sand—"

"I look to you to furnish that," returned the other with a quick twist of meaning. "You've got plenty of sand, if you have half a chance to show it."

"How long—when do you think you'll know?" Allison asked, half afraid of the answer.

"If I knew, I'd be glad to tell you, but I don't. I've found out that it's easier to say 'I don't know' straight out in plain English than it is to side-track. It used to be bad form, professionally, to admit ignorance, but it isn't now. People soon find it out and you might as well tell 'em at the start. You just go on and keep the fuel bins well supplied and the red corpuscles busy and pretty soon we'll see what's doing."

The twins were late in coming, because they had had a long discussion as to the propriety of wearing their sable garments. Romeo, disliking the trouble of changing, argued that Allison ought to see that their grief was sincere. Juliet insisted that the sight would prove depressing.

At the end of a lively hour, they compromised upon white, which was worn by people in mourning and was not depressing. Juliet donned a muslin gown and Romeo put on his tennis flannels, which happened to be clean. As they took pains to walk upon the grass and avoid the dusty places, they were comparatively fresh when they arrived, though very warm from the long walk.

Both had inexpressibly dreaded seeing Allison, yet the reality lacked the anticipated terror, as often happens. They liked Doctor Jack immensely from the start and were greatly relieved to see Allison up and outdoors, instead of lying in a darkened room.

Almost before they knew it, they were describing their sacrificial rites and their repentance, with a wealth of detail that left nothing to be desired. Doctor Jack was suddenly afflicted with a very bad cough, but he kept his back to them and used his handkerchief a great deal. Even Allison was amused by their austere young faces and the earnest devotion with which they had performed their penance.

"We've had your car fixed," said Romeo. "It's all right now."

"We've paid the bill," added Juliet.

"We want to pay everything," Romeo continued.

"Everything," she echoed.

"I don't know that I want the car," Allison answered, kindly. "If I had been a good driver, I could have backed into the turn before you got there and let you whiz by. I'm sorry yours is burned. Won't you take mine?"

"No," answered Romeo, with finality.

"We don't deserve even to ride in one," Juliet remarked. "We ought to have to walk all the rest of our lives."

"You people make me tired," interrupted Doctor Jack. "Just because you've been mixed up in an accident, you're about to get yourselves locoed, as they say out West, on the subject of automobiles. By careful cultivation, you could learn to shy at a baby carriage and throw a fit at the sight of a wheelbarrow. The time to nip that is right at the start."

"How would you do it?" queried Allison. His heart was heavy with dread of all automobiles, past, present, and to come."

"Same way they break a colt. Get him used to the harness, then to shafts, and so on. Now, I can run any car that ever was built—make it stand on its hind wheels if I want to and roll through a crowd without making anybody even wink faster. I think I'll go out and get that one and take the whole bunch of you out for a cure."

Juliet was listening attentively, with her blue eyes wide open and her scarlet lips parted. Doctor Jack was subtly conscious of a new sensation.

"I see," she said. "Romie made me hold snakes by their tails until I wasn't afraid of 'em, and made me kill mice and even rats. Only sissy girls are afraid of snakes and rats. And just because we were both afraid to go by the graveyard at night, we made ourselves do it. We can walk through it now, even if there isn't any moon, and never dodge a single tombstone."

"Was it hard to learn to do it?" asked the doctor. If he was amused, he did not show it now.

"No," Juliet answered, "because just before we did it, we read about it's being called 'God's Acre.' So I told Romie that God must be there as much or more than He was anywhere else, so how could we be afraid?"

"After you once get it into your head that God is everywhere," added Romeo, "you can't be afraid because there's nothing to be afraid of."

The simple, child-like faith appealed to both men strongly. Allison was much surprised, for he had not imagined that there was a serious side to the twins.

"Will you forgive us?" asked Juliet, humbly.

"Please," added Romeo.

"With all my heart," Allison responded, readily. "I've never thought there was anything to forgive."

"Then our sacrifice is over," cried Juliet, joyously.

"Yes," her brother agreed, with a wistful expression on his face, "and to-night we can have something to eat."

The twins never lingered long after the object of a visit was accomplished, so they rose almost immediately to take their departure. "Cards, Romie," Juliet suggested, in an audible whisper.

Romeo took a black bordered envelope from an inner pocket and gravely extended a card to each. Then they bowed themselves out, resisting with difficulty the temptation to slide down the banister instead of going downstairs two steps at a time.

Doctor Jack's mobile face had assumed an entirely new expression. He put away the card inscribed The Crosby Twins as though it were an article of great value, then leaned out over the veranda railing to catch a glimpse of the two flying figures in white.

"Upon my word!" he exclaimed.

Allison laughed aloud. "You're not disappointed in the twins, are you?"

"If I were going to be run over," remarked the Doctor, ignoring the question, "I believe I'd choose them to do it. Think of the little pagans burning their car and repenting in sackcloth and ashes, not to mention shooting the dogs and living upon penitential fare."

"Poor kids," Allison said, with a sigh.

"Tell me about 'em," pleaded Doctor Jack "Tell me everything you know about 'em, especially Juliet."

"I don't know much," replied the other, "for I came back here only a few months ago, and when I went abroad, they were merely enfants terribles imperfectly controlled by a pair of doting parents."

However, he gladly told what he knew of the varied exploits of the twins, and his eager listener absorbed every word. At length when Allison could think of no more, and the afternoon shadows grew long, they went in.

Consigning his patient to the care of the nurse, the Doctor went down into the garden, to walk back and forth upon the long paths, gaze, open- mouthed, down the road, and moon, like the veriest schoolboy, over Juliet's blue eyes.

Her pagan simplicity, her frank boyishness, and her absolute unconsciousness of self, appealed to him irresistibly. "The dear kid," he said to himself, fondly; "the blessed little kid! Wonder how old she is!"

Then he remembered that Allison had told him the twins were almost twenty-one, but Juliet seemed absurdly young for her years. "The world will take her," he sighed to himself, "and change her in a little while so even her own brother won't know her. She'll lace, and wear high heels and follow the latest fashion whether it suits her or not, and touch up her pretty cheeks with rouge, twist her hair into impossible coiffures, and learn all the wicked ways of the world."

The wavy masses of tawny hair, the innocent blue eyes, as wide and appealing as a child's, the clear, rosy skin, and the parted scarlet lips—all these would soon be spoiled by the thousand deceits of fashion.

"And I can't help it," he thought, sadly. Then his face brightened. "By George," he said aloud, "I'm only twenty-eight—wonder if the kid could learn to stand me around the house." He laughed, from sheer joy. "I'll have a try for her," he continued to himself. "Me for Juliet, and, if the gods are kind, Juliet for me!"

His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of the station hack. He instantly surmised that the man who hurried toward the house was Colonel Kent, and, on the veranda, intercepted him.

"Colonel Kent?"

"Yes. Doctor—?

"Middlekauffer, for purposes of introduction. For purposes of conversation, 'Doctor Jack,' or just plain 'Jack.' Never cared much for handles to names. You got my wire?"

"Yes. Who sent you here?"

"Forbes. Down here on the fifth. Met him out in the next State, at an operation. He told me to come, as my business was the impossible. Told me you'd stand for it, don't you know, and all that sort of thing?"

"I'm very glad. How is he?"

"Doing very nicely, all things considered."

"Is there a chance?" the Colonel cried, eagerly; "a real chance?"

"My dear man, until amputation is the only thing to be done, there's always a chance. Personally, I'm very hopeful, though I've been called a dreamer more than once. But we've got him chirked up a lot, and he's getting his nerve back, and this morning I thought I detected a slight improvement, though I was afraid to tell him so. We've all got to work for him and work like the devil at that."

"If work will do it—"

"Nothing worth while is ever done without work. Go up and see him."

At the sound of a familiar step upon the stair, Allison turned deathly white. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe, until the half-closed door opened, and his father stood before him, smiling in welcome. Allison sprang forward, unbelieving, until his hand touched his father's, not cold, as though he had risen from the grave, but warmly human and alive.

"Lad, dear lad! I've come back at last!" Allison's answering cry of joy fairly rang through the house. "Dad! Oh, Dad! I thought you were dead!"



XXI

SAVED—AND LOST

Alternately possessed by hope and doubt, the young surgeon worked during the weeks that followed as he had never worked before. He kept his doubt to himself, however, and passed on his hope to the others when he could do so conscientiously. Allison had ceased to ask questions, but eagerly watched the doctor's face. He knew, without being told, just when the outlook was dubious and when it was encouraging.

The doctor did not permit either Rose or Colonel Kent to hope too much. Both were with Allison constantly, and Madame drove over three or four times a week. Gradually a normal atmosphere was established, and, without apparent effort, they kept Allison occupied and amused.

It seemed only natural and right that Rose should be there, and both Allison and his father had come to depend upon her, in a way, as though she were the head of the household. The servants came to her for orders, people who came to inquire for Allison asked for her, and she saved the Colonel from many a lonely evening after Allison had said good-night and the Doctor had gone out for a long walk as he said, "to clear the cobwebs from his brain."

Because of Isabel, whom he felt that he could not meet, the Colonel did not go over to Bernard's. Allison had not alluded to her in any way, but Madame had told the Colonel at the first opportunity. He had said, quietly: "A small gain for so great a loss," and made no further comment, yet it was evident that he was relieved.

Rose and Allison were back upon their old friendly footing, to all intents and purposes. Never by word or look did Rose betray herself; never by the faintest hint did Allison suggest that their relation to each other had in any way been changed. He was frankly glad to have her with him, urged her to come earlier and to stay later, and gratefully accepted every kindness she offered.

Perhaps he had forgotten—Rose rather thought he had, but her self- revelation stood before her always like a vivid, scarlet hour in a procession of grey days. Yet the sting and shame of it were curiously absent, for nothing could exceed the gentle courtesy and deference that Allison instinctively accorded her. He saw her always as a thing apart; a goddess who, through divine pity, had stooped for an instant to be a woman—and had swiftly returned to her pedestal.

Sustained by the joy of service, Rose asked no more. Only to plan little surprises for him, to anticipate every unspoken wish, to keep him cheery and hopeful, to read or play to him without being asked—these things were as the life-blood to her heart.

She had blossomed, too, into a new beauty. The forty years had put lines of silver into her hair, but had been powerless to do more. Her lovely face, where the colour came and went, the fleeting dimple at the corner of her mouth and the crimson curve of her lips were eloquent with the finer, more subtle charm of maturity. Her shining eyes literally transfigured her. In their dark depths was a mysterious exaltation, as from some secret, holy rapture too great for words.

Allison saw and felt it, yet did not know what it was. Once at sunset, when they were talking idly of other things, he tried to express it.

"I don't know what it is, Rose, but there's something about you lately that makes me feel—well, as though I were in a church at an Easter service. The sun through the stained glass window, the blended fragrance of incense and lilies, and the harp and organ playing the Intermezzo from Cavalleria—all that sort of thing, don't you know?"

"Why shouldn't your best friend be glad," she had answered gently, "when you have come to your own Easter—your rising from the dead?"

The dull colour surged into his face, then retreated in waves. "If you can be as glad as that," he returned, clearing his throat, "I'd be a brute ever to let myself be discouraged again."

That night, during a wakeful hour, his thoughts went back to Isabel. For the first time, he saw the affair in its true light—a brief, mad infatuation. He had responded to Isabel's youth and beauty and an old moonlit garden full of roses much as his violin answered to his touch upon the strings. "Had answered," he corrected himself, trying not to flinch at the thought.

Even if his hand should heal, it was scarcely possible that he would ever play again, and he knew, as well as anyone, what brilliant promise the future had held for him. He remembered how wisely he had been trained from the very beginning; how Aunt Francesca had insisted upon mathematics, Latin, and chemistry, as well as literature, history, and modern languages.

He had protested to her only once. She had replied kindly, but firmly, that while broad culture and liberal education might not, in itself, create an artist, yet it could not possibly injure one. Since then, he had seen precocious children, developed in one line at the expense of all others, fail ignominiously in maturity because there was no foundation. The Child Wonder who had thrilled all Europe at nine, by his unnatural mastery of the violin, was playing in an orchestra in a Paris cafe, where one of the numerous boy sopranos was the head waiter.

How disappointed Aunt Francesca must be, even though she had too much self-control to show it! And his father! Allison swallowed a lump in his throat. After a lifetime of self-sacrificing devotion, the Colonel had seen all his efforts fail, but he had taken the blow standing, like the soldier that he was. In vain, many a time, Allison had wished that some of his father's fine courage might have been transmitted to him.

And Rose—dear Rose! How persistently she held the new way open before him; how steadily she insisted that the creative impulse was higher than interpretative skill! How often she had reminded him of Carlyle's stirring call: "Produce, produce! Though it be but the merest fraction of a fragment, produce it, in God's name!" He had noticed that the materials for composition were always close at hand, though she never urged him to work.

He had come gradually to depend upon Rose—a great deal more than he realised. Quite often he perceived the truth of the saying that "a blue- ribbon friendship is better than an honourable mention love." It was evident that Isabel had never loved him, though she had been pleased and flattered by his love for her.

Even at the time that Aunt Francesca and Rose had congratulated him, and he had kissed them both in friendly fashion, he had taken passing note of the difference between Isabel and Rose. Of course it was only that Isabel was made of ice and Rose of flesh and blood, but still, it was pleasant to remember that—

His thoughts began to stray into other fields. Rose was his promised wife, as far as name went, yet she treated him with the frank good comradeship that a liberal social code makes possible between men and women. As far as Rose was concerned, there was no sentiment in the world.

When she read to him, it was invariably a story of adventure or of humorous complications, or a well-chosen exposition of some recent advance in science or art. Their conversation was equally impersonal, even at the rare times they chanced to be alone. Rose made Colonel Kent, Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, and even the nurse equally welcome to Allison's society.

He went freely from room to room on the upper floor, but had not yet been downstairs, as a possible slip on the steps might do irreparable injury. Doctor Jack wanted to get him downstairs and outdoors, believing that actual contact with the earth is almost as good for people as it is for plants, but saw no way to manage it without a stretcher, which he knew Allison would violently resent.

The twins came occasionally, by special invitation, though nobody noticed that it was always Doctor Jack who suggested it. Once they brought a pan of Juliet's famous fudges, which were politely appreciated by the others and extravagantly praised by the Doctor. The following day he was rewarded by a private pan of especially rich fudges—but Romeo brought it, on his way to the post-office.

There was a daily card-party upon the upper veranda, and sometimes meals were served there. The piano had been moved upstairs into a back room. The whole-hearted devotion of the household was beautiful to behold, yet underneath it all, like an unseen current, was the tense strain of waiting.

It was difficult not to annoy Doctor Jack with questions. Rose and the Colonel continually reminded themselves and each other that he would be only too glad to bring encouragement at the moment he found it, and that by quiet and patience they could help him most.

Juliet had pleaded earnestly with Doctor Jack to save Allison's hand. "If you don't," she said, with uplifted eyes, "I'll be miserable all the rest of my life."

"Bless your little heart," the Doctor had answered, kindly; "I'd do 'most anything to keep you from being miserable, even the impossible, which happens to be my specialty."

She did not quite understand, but sent a burnt offering to the Doctor, in the shape of a chocolate cake. He had returned the compliment by sending her the biggest box of candy she had ever seen, and, as it arrived about noon, she and Romeo had feasted upon it until they could eat no more, and had been uncomfortably ill for two days. Romeo had attributed their misfortune to the candy itself, but Juliet believed that their constitutions had been weakened by their penitential fare, and, as soon as she was able, proved her point by finishing the last sweet morsel without painful results.

The Summer waned and tints of palest gold appeared here and there upon the maples. The warm wind had the indefinable freshness of the Autumn sea, blown far inland at dawn. Allison became impatient and restless, the Colonel went off alone for long, moody walks; even Doctor Jack began to show the effects of the long strain.

Only Rose was serene. Fortunately, no one guessed the tumult that lay beneath her outward calm. Her manner toward Allison was, if anything, more impersonal than ever, though she failed in no thoughtful kindness, no possible consideration. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but began to wish, vaguely, for something more.

He forebore to remind her of their strange relation, and could not allude to the night he had kissed her, while his fiancee stood near by. Yet, late one afternoon, when she had excused herself a little earlier than usual, he called her back.

"Rose?"

"Yes?" She returned quickly and stood before him, just out of his reach. "What is it? What can I do for you?"

The tone was kind but impersonal, as always. "Nothing," he sighed, turning his face away.

That night she pondered long. What could Allison want that she had not given? The blood surged into her heart for an instant, then retreated. "Nonsense," she said to herself in tremulous anger. "It's impossible!"

Afterward it seemed continually to happen that she was alone with Allison when the time came to say good-night and drive home, or walk, escorted by Colonel Kent or the Doctor. By common consent, they seemed to make excuses to leave the room as the hour of departure approached, and she always found it easier when someone was there.

Again, when she had made her adieux and had reached the door leading into the hall, Allison called her back.

"Yes?" "Couldn't you—just once, you know—for good-night?" he asked, with difficulty.

His face made his meaning clear. Rose bent, kissed him tenderly upon the forehead, and quickly left the room. Her heart was beating so hard that she did not know she stumbled upon the threshold, nor did she hear his low: "Thank you—dear."

That night she could not sleep. "I can't," she said to herself, miserably; "I can't possibly go on, if—Oh, why should he make it so hard for me!"

If the future was to be possible on the lines already laid down, he, too, must keep the impersonal attitude. Yet, none the less, she was conscious of an uplifting joy that would not be put aside, but insistently demanded its right of expression.

She did not dare trust herself to see Allison again, and yet she must. She could not fail him now, when he needed her so much, nor could she ask the others to see that they were not left alone. One day might be gained for respite by the plea of a headache, which is woman's friend as often as it is her enemy.

And, after that one day, what then? What other excuse could she make that would not seem heartless and cold?

It was an old saying of Aunt Francesca's that "when you can't see straight ahead, it's because you're about to turn a corner." She tormented herself throughout the night with futile speculations that led to nothing except the headache which she had planned to offer as an excuse.

A brief note gave her the day to herself, and also brought flowers from Allison, with a friendly note in his own hand. Doctor Jack was the messenger and took occasion to offer his services in the conquest of the headache, but Rose declined with thanks, sending down word that she preferred to sleep it off.

Though breakfast might be a movable feast at Madame's, it was always consistently late. It was nearly nine o'clock in the morning when the telephone wakened Madame from a dreamless sleep. She listened until it became annoying, but no one answered it. Finally she got up, rather impatiently, and went to it herself, anticipating Rose by only a minute.

Tremulous with suspense, Rose waited, scarcely daring to breathe until Madame turned with a cry of joy, the receiver falling from her nerveless hand. "Rose! Rose! he's saved! Our boy is saved! He's saved, do you understand?"

"Truly? Is it sure?"

"Blessedly sure! Oh, Rose, he's saved!"

The little old lady was sobbing in an ecstasy of relief.

Rose led her to a couch and waited quietly until she was almost calm, then went back to her own room. Once more her world was changed, as long ago she had seen how it must be with her should the one thing happen. She, with the others, had hoped and prayed for it; her dearest dream had come true at last, and left her desolate.

She was unselfishly glad for Allison, for the Colonel, Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, the sorrowing twins, and, in a way, for herself. It had been given her to serve him, and she had not hoped for more. It made things easier now, though she had not thought the corner would be turned in just this way.

Having made up her mind and completed her plans, she went to Madame as soon as she was dressed. She had hidden her paleness with so little rouge that even Madame's keen eyes could not suspect it.

"Aunt Francesca," she began, without preliminary, "I've got to go away."

"Why, dear, and where? For how long?"

"Because I'm so tired. Things have been hard for me—over there, lately —and I don't care where I go."

"I see," returned Madame, tenderly. "You want to go away for a rest. You've needed it for a long time."

"Yes," Rose nodded, swinging easily into the lie that did not deceive either. "Oh, Aunt Francesca, can I go to-day?"

"Surely—at any hour you choose."

"And you'll—make it right?"

"Indeed I will. I'll just say that you've been obliged to go away on business—to look after some investments for both of us, and I hope you'll stay away long enough to get the rest and change you've needed for almost a year."

"Oh, Aunt Francesca, how good you are! But where? Where shall I go?"

Madame had been thinking of that. She knew the one place where Rose could go, and attain her balance in solitude, untroubled by needless questions or explanations. With the feeling of the mother who gives her dead baby's dainty garments to a living child sorely in need, she spoke.

"To my house up in the woods—the little house where love lived, so long ago."

Rose's pale lips quivered for an instant. "What have I to do with love?"

"Go to the house where he lived once, and perhaps you may find out."

"I will—I'll be glad to go. If I could make the next train, could you arrange to have a trunk follow me?"

"Of course. Go on, dear. I know how it happens sometimes, that one can't stay in one place any longer. I suffered from wanderlust until I was almost seventy, and it's a long time since you've been away."

"And you'll promise not to tell anybody?"

"I promise."

While Rose was packing a suit-case, Madame brought her a rusty, old- fashioned key, and a card on which she had written directions for the journey. "I've ordered the carriage," she said, "and I'll drive down with you to see you safely off."