"We shan't run to such an extravagance yet awhile," laughed Mary.

"A bicycle for me and the station hack for Mary," Stefan summed up. "I suppose there is such a thing at Crab's Bay?"

"She won't have to walk," Farraday answered.

Started on practical issues, Mary's mind had flown to the need of a telephone to link them to her doctor. "May we install a 'phone?" she asked. "I never lived with one till two months ago, but already it is a confirmed vice with me."

"Mayn't I have it put in for you—there should be one here," said he.

"Oh, no, please!"

"At least let me arrange for it," he urged.

"Now, son, thee must not keep Mrs. Byrd out too late. Get her home before sundown," Mrs. Farraday's voice admonished. Obediently, every one moved toward the hall. At a word from McEwan, the mute Jamie ran to open the tonneau door. Farraday stopped to lock the kitchen entrance and found McEwan on the little porch as he emerged, while the others were busy settling themselves in the car. As Farraday turned the heavy front door lock, his friend's hand fell on his shoulder.

"Ought ye to do it, James?" McEwan asked quietly.

Farraday raised his eyes, and looked steadily at the other, with his slow smile.

"Yes, Mac, it's a good thing to do. In any case, I shouldn't have been likely to marry, you know." The two friends took their places in the car.



IV

After much consideration from Mary, the Byrds decided to give up their recently acquired flat, but to keep the old studio. She felt they should not attempt to carry three rents through the summer, but, on the other hand, Stefan was still working at his Demeter, using an Italian model for the boy's figure, and could not finish it conveniently elsewhere. Then, too, he expressed a wish for a pied-a-terre in the city, and as Mary had very tender associations with the little studio she was glad to think of keeping it.

Stefan was working fitfully at this time. He would have spurts of energy followed by fits of depression and disgust with his work, during which he would leave the house and take long rides uptown on the tops of omnibuses. Mary could not see that these excursions in search of air calmed his nervousness, and she concluded that the spring fever was in his blood and that he needed a change of scene at least as much as she did.

About this time he sold his five remaining drawings of New York to the Pan-American Magazine, a progressive monthly. They gained considerable attention from the art world, and were seized upon by certain groups of radicals as a sermon on the capitalistic system. On the strength of them, Stefan was hailed as that rarest of all beings, a politically minded artist, and became popular in quarters from which his intolerance had hitherto barred him.

It entertained him hugely to be proclaimed as a champion of democracy, for he had made the drawings in impish hatred not of a class but of American civilization as a whole.

Their bank account, in spite of much heightened living expenses, remained substantial by reason of this new sale, but Stefan was as indifferent as ever to its control, and Mary's sense of caution was little diminished. Her growing comprehension of him warned her that their position was still insecure; he remained, for all his success, an unknown quantity as a producer. She wanted him to assume some interest in their affairs, and suggested separate bank accounts, but he begged off.

"Let me have a signature at the bank, so that I can cash checks for personal expenses, but don't ask me to keep accounts, or know how much we have," he said. "If you find I am spending too much at any time, just tell me, and I will stop."

Further than this she could not get him to discuss the matter, and saw that she must think out alone some method of bookkeeping which would be fair to them both, and would establish a record for future use. Ultimately she transferred her own money, less her private expenditures during the winter, to a separate account, to be used for all her personal expenses. The old account she put in both their names, and made out a monthly schedule for the household, beyond which she determined never to draw. Anything she could save from this amount she destined for a savings bank, but over and above it she felt that her husband's earnings were his, and that she could not in honor interfere with them. Mary was almost painfully conscientious, and this plan cost her many heart-searchings before it was complete.

After her baby was born she intended to continue her writing; she did not wish ever to draw on Stefan for her private purse. So far at least, she would live up to feminist principles.

There was much to be done before they could leave the city, and Mary had practically no assistance from Stefan in her arrangements. She would ask his advice about the packing or disposal of a piece of furniture, and he would make some suggestion, often impracticable; but on any further questioning he would run his hands through his hair, or thrust them into his pockets, looking either vague or nervous. "Why fuss about such things, dear?" or "Do just as you like," or "I'm sure I haven't a notion," were his most frequent answers. He developed a habit of leaving his work and following Mary restlessly from room to room as she packed or sorted, which she found rather wearing.

On one such occasion—it was the day before they were to leave—she was carrying a large pile of baby's clothes from her bedroom to a trunk in the sitting-room, while Stefan stood humped before the fireplace, smoking. As she passed him he frowned nervously.

"How heavily you tread, Mary," he jerked out. She stood stock-still and flushed painfully.

"I think, Stefan," she said, with the tears of feeling which came over- readily in these days welling to her eyes, "instead of saying that you might come and help me to carry these things."

He looked completely contrite. "I'm sorry, dearest, it was a silly thing to say. Forgive me," and he kissed her apologetically, taking the bundle from her. He offered to help several times that afternoon, but as he never knew where anything was to go, and fidgeted from foot to foot while he hung about her, she was obliged at last to plead release from his efforts.

"Stefan dear," she said, giving him rather a harassed smile, "you evidently find this kind of thing a bore. Why don't you run out and leave me to get on quietly with it?"

"I know I've been rotten to you, and I thought you wanted me to help," he explained, in a self-exculpatory tone.

She stroked his cheek maternally. "Run along, dearest. I can get on perfectly well alone."

"You're a brick, Mary. I think I'll go. This kind of thing—" he flung his arm toward the disordered room—"is too utterly unharmonious." And kissing her mechanically he hastened out.

That night for the first time in their marriage he did not return for dinner, but telephoned that he was spending the evening with friends. Mary, tired out with her packing, ate her meal alone and went to bed immediately afterwards. His absence produced in her a dull heartache, but she was too weary to ponder over his whereabouts.

Early next morning Mary telephoned Miss Mason. Stefan, who had come home late, was still asleep when the Sparrow arrived, and by the time he had had his breakfast the whole flat was in its final stage of disruption. A few pieces of furniture were to be sent to the cottage, a few more stored, and the studio was to be returned to its original omnibus status. Mrs. Corriani, priestess of family emergencies, had been summoned from the depths; the Sparrow had donned an apron, Mary a smock; Lily, the colored maid, was packing china into a barrel, surrounded by writhing seas of excelsior. For Stefan, the flat might as well have been given over to the Furies. He fetched his hat.

"Mary," he said, "I'm not painting again until we have moved. Djinns, Afrits and Goddesses should be allowed to perform their spiritings unseen of mortals. I shall go and sit in the Metropolitan and contemplate Rodin's Penseur—he is so spacious."

"Very well, dearest," said Mary brightly. She had slept away her low spirits. "Don't forget Mr. Farraday is sending his car in for us at three o'clock."

He looked nonplused. "You don't mean to say we are moving to-day?"

"Yes, you goose," she laughed, "don't you remember?"

"I'm frightfully sorry, Mary, but I made an engagement for this evening, to go to the theatre. I knew you would not want to come," he added.

Mary looked blank. "But, Stefan," she exclaimed, "everything is arranged! We are dining with the Farradays. I told you several times we were moving on the fourth. You make it so difficult, dear, by not taking any interest." Her voice trembled. She had worked and planned for their flitting for a week past, was all eagerness to be gone, and now he, who had been equally keen, seemed utterly indifferent.

He fidgeted uncomfortably, looking contrite yet rebellious. Mary was at a loss. The Sparrow, however, promptly raised her crest and exhibited a claw.

"Land sakes, Mr. Byrd," she piped, "you are a mighty fine artist, but that don't prevent your being a husband first these days! Men are all alike—" she turned to Mary—"always ready to skedaddle off when there's work to be done. Now, young man—" she pointed a mandatory finger—"you run and telephone your friends to call the party off." Her voice shrilled, her beady eyes snapped; she looked exactly like one of her namesakes, ruffled and quarreling at the edge of its nest.

Stefan burst out laughing. "All right, Miss Sparrow, smooth your feathers. Mary, I'm a mud-headed idiot—I forgot the whole thing. Pay no attention to my vagaries, dearest, I'll be at the door at three." He kissed her warmly, and went out humming, banging the door behind him.

"My father was the same, and my brothers," the Sparrow philosophized. "Spring-cleaning and moving took every ounce of sense out of them." Mary sighed. Her zest for the preparations had departed.

Presently, seeing her languor, Miss Mason insisted Mary should lie down and leave the remaining work to her. The only resting place left was the old studio, where their divan had been replaced. Thither Mary mounted, and lying amidst its dusty disarray, traced in memory the months she had spent there. It had been their first home. Here they had had their first quarrel and their first success, and here had come to her her annunciation. Though they were keeping the room, it would never hold the same meaning for her again, and though she already loved their new home, it hurt her at the last to bid their first good-bye. Perhaps it was a trick of fatigue, but as she lay there the conviction came to her that with to-day's change some part of the early glamour of marriage was to go, that not even the coming of her child could bring to life the memories this room contained. She longed for her husband, for his voice calling her the old, dear, foolish names. She felt alone, and fearful of the future.

"My grief," exclaimed Miss Mason from the door an hour later. "I told you to go to sleep 'n here you are wide awake and crying!"

Mary smiled shamefacedly.

"I'm just tired, Sparrow, that's all, and have been indulging in the 'vapors.'" She squeezed her friend's hand. "Let's have some lunch."

"It's all ready, and Lily with her hat 'n coat on. Come right downstairs —it's most two o'clock."

Mary jumped up, amazed at the time she had wasted. Her spell of depression was over, and she was her usual cheerful self when, at three o'clock, she heard Stefan's feet bounding up the stairs for the last time.

"Tra-la, Mary, the car is here!" he called. "Thank God we are getting out of this city! Good-by, Miss Sparrow, don't peck me, and come and see us at Crab's Bay. March, Lily. A riverderci, Signora Corriani. Come, dearest." He bustled them all out, seized two suitcases in one hand and Mary's elbow in the other, chattered his few words of Italian to the janitress, chaffed Miss Mason, and had them all laughing by the time they reached the street. He seemed in the highest spirits, his moods of the last weeks forgotten.

As the car started he kissed his fingers repeatedly to Miss Mason and waved his hat to the inevitable assemblage of small boys.

"The country, darling!" he cried, pressing Mary's hand under the rug. "Farewell to ugliness and squalor! How happy we are going to be!"

Mary's hand pressed his in reply.



V

It was late April. The wooded slopes behind "The Byrdsnest," as Mary had christened the cottage, were peppered with a pale film of green. The lawn before the house shone with new grass. Upon it, in the early morning, Mary watched beautiful birds of types unknown to her, searching for nest- making material. She admired the large, handsome robins, so serious and stately after the merry pertness of the English sort, but her favorites were the bluebirds, and another kind that looked like greenish canaries, of which she did not know the name. None of them, she thought, had such melodious song as at home in England, but their brilliant plumage was a constant delight to her.

Daffodils were springing up in the garden, crocuses were out, and the blue scylla. On the downward slope toward the bay the brown furry heads of ferns had begun to push stoutly from the earth. The spring was awake.

Stefan seemed thoroughly contented again. He had his north light in the barn, but seldom worked there, being absorbed in outdoor sketching. He was making many small studies of the trees still bare against the gleam of water, with a dust of green upon them. He could get a number of valuable notes here, he told Mary.

During their first two weeks in the country his restlessness had often recurred. He had gone back and forth to the city for work on his Demeter, and had even slept there on several occasions. But one morning he wakened Mary by coming in from an early ramble full of joy in the spring, and announcing that the big picture was now as good as he could make it, and that he was done with the town. He threw back the blinds and called to her to look at the day.

"It's vibrant, Mary; life is waking all about us." He turned to the bed.

"You look like a beautiful white rose, cool with the dew."

She blushed—he had forgotten lately his old habit of pretty speech- making. He came and sat on the bed's edge, holding her hand.

"I've had my restless devil with me of late, sweetheart," he said. "But now I feel renewed, and happy. I shan't want to leave you any more." He kissed her with a gravity at which she might have wondered had she been more thoroughly awake. His tone was that of a man who makes a promise to himself.

Since that morning he had been consistently cheerful and carefree, more attentive to Mary than for some time past, and pleased with all his surroundings. She was overjoyed at the change, and for her own part never tired of working in the house and garden, striving to make more perfect the atmosphere of simple homeliness which Farraday had first imparted to them. Lily was fascinated by her kitchen and little white bedroom.

"This surely is a cute little house, yes, ma'am," she would exclaim emphatically, with a grin.

Lily was a small, chocolate-colored negress, with a neat figure, and the ever ready smile which is God's own gift to the race. Mary, who hardly remembered having seen a negro till she came to America, had none of the color-prejudice which grows up in biracial communities. She found Lily civil, cheerful, and intelligent, and felt a sincere liking for her which the other reciprocated with a growing devotion.

Often in these days a passerby—had there been any—could have heard a threefold chorus rising about the cottage, a spring-song as unconscious as the birds'. From the kitchen Lily's voice rose in the endless refrain of a hymn; Mary's clear tones traveled down from the little room beside her own, where she was preparing a place for the expected one; and Stefan's whistle, or his snatches of French song, resounded from woods or barn. Youth and hope were in the house, youth was in the air and earth.

Farraday's gardens were the pride of the neighborhood, these and the library expressing him as the house did his mother. Several times he sent down an armful of flowers to the Byrdsnest, and, one Sunday morning, Mary had just finished arranging such a bunch in her vases when she heard the chug of an automobile in the lane. She looked out to see Constance, a veiled figure beside her, stopping a runabout at the gate. Delighted, she hastened to the door. Constance hailed her.

"Mary, behold the charioteer! Theodore has given me this machine for suffrage propaganda during the summer, and I achieved my driver's license yesterday. I'm so vain I'm going to make Felicity design me a gown with a peacock's tail that I can spread. I've brought her with me to show off too, and because she needed air. How are you, bless you? May we come in?"

Not waiting for an answer, she jumped down and hugged Mary, Miss Berber following in more leisurely fashion. Mary could not help wishing Constance had come alone, as she now felt a little self-conscious before strangers. However, she shook hands with Miss Berber, and led them both into the sitting-room.

"Simply delicious!" exclaimed Constance, glancing eagerly about her, "and how divinely healthy you look—like a transcendental dairy-maid! This place was made for you, and how you've improved it. Look, Felicity, at her chintz, and her flowers, and her cunning pair of china shepherdesses!" She ran from one thing to another, ecstatically appreciative.

Mary had had no chance to speak yet, and, as Felicity was absorbed in the languid removal of a satin coat and incredible yards of apple green veiling, Constance held the floor.

"Look at her pair of love-birds sidling along the curtain pole, as tame as humans! Where did you find that wooden cage? And that white cotton dress? You smell of lavender and an ironing-board! Oh, dear," she began again, "driving is very wearing, and I should like a cocktail, but I must have milk. Milk, my dear Mary, is the only conceivable beverage in this house. Have you a cow? You ought to have a cow—a brindled cow—also a lamb; 'Mary had,' et cetera. My dear, stop me. Enthusiasm converts me into an 'agreeable rattle,' as they used to call our great-grandmothers."

"Subdue yourself with this," laughed Mary, holding out the desired glass of milk. "Miss Berber, can I get anything for you?"

Felicity by this time was unwrapped, and had disposed herself upon a window-seat, her back to the light.

"Wine or water, Mrs. Byrd; I do not drink milk," she breathed, lighting a cigarette.

"We have some Chianti; nothing else, I'm afraid," said Mary, and a glass of this the designer deigned to accept, together with a little yellow cake set with currants, and served upon a pewter plate.

"I see, Mrs. Byrd," Felicity murmured, as Constance in momentary silence sipped her milk, "that you comprehend the first law of decoration for woman—that her accessories must be a frame for her type. I—how should I appear in a room like this?" She gave a faint shrug. "At best, a false tone in a chromatic harmony. You are entirely in key."

Her eyelids drooped; she exhaled a long breath of smoke. "Very well thought out—unusually clever—for a layman," she uttered, and was still, with the suggestion of a sibyl whose oracle has ceased to speak.

Mary tried not to find her manner irritating, but could not wholly dispel the impression that Miss Berber habitually patronized her.

She laughed pleasantly.

"I'm afraid I can't claim to have been guided by any subtle theories—I have merely collected together the kind of things I am fond of."

"Mary decorates with her heart, Felicity, you with your head," said Constance, setting down her empty tumbler.

"I'm afraid I should find the heart too erratic a guide to art. Knowledge, Mrs. Byrd, knowledge must supplement feeling," said Felicity, with a gesture of finality.

"Really!" answered Mary, falling back upon her most correct English manner. There was nothing else to say. "She is either cheeky, or a bromide," she thought.

"Felicity," exclaimed Constance, "don't adopt your professional manner; you can't take us in. You know you are an outrageous humbug."

"Dear Connie," replied the other with the ghost of a smile, "you are always so amusing, and so much more wide awake in the morning than I am."

Conversation languished for a minute, Constance having embarked on a cake. For some reason which she could not analyze, Mary felt in no great hurry to call Stefan from the barn, should he be there.

Felicity rose. "May we not see your garden, Mrs. Byrd?"

"Certainly," said Mary, and led the way to the door. Felicity slipped out first, and wandered with her delicate step a little down the path.

"Isn't it darling!" exclaimed Constance from the porch, surveying the flower-strewn grass, the feathery trees, and the pale gleam of the water. Mary began to show her some recent plantings, in particular a rose-bed which was her last addition to the garden.

"I see you have a barn," said Felicity, flitting back to them with a hint of animation. "Is it picturesque inside? Would it lend itself to treatment?" She wandered toward it, and there was nothing for the others to do but follow.

"Oh, yes," explained Mary, "my husband has converted it into a studio. He may be working there now—I had been meaning to call him."

She felt a trifle uncomfortable, almost as if she had put herself in the wrong.

"Coo-oo, Stefan," she called as they neared the barn, Felicity still flitting ahead. The door swung open, and there stood Stefan, pallette in hand, screwing up his eyes in the sun.

As they lit on his approaching visitor an expression first of astonishment, and then of something very like displeasure, crossed his face. At sight of it, Mary's spirits subconsciously responded by a distinct upward lift. Stefan waved his brush without shaking hands, and then, seeing Constance, broke into a smile.

"How delightful, Mrs. Elliot! How did you come? By auto? And you drove Miss Berber? We are honored. You are our first visitors except the Farradays. Come and see my studio."

They trooped into the quaint little barn, which appeared to wear its big north light rather primly, as a girl her first low-necked gown. It was unfurnished, save for a table and easel, several canvases, and an old arm-chair. Felicity glanced at the sketches.

"In pastoral mood again," she commented, with what might have been the faintest note of sarcasm. Stefan's eyebrows twitched nervously.

"There's nothing to see in here-these are the merest sketches," he said abruptly. "Come along, Mrs. Elliot, I've been working since before breakfast; let's say good-morning to the flowers." And with his arm linked through hers he piloted Constance back toward the lawn.

"Mr. Byrd ought never to wear tweed, do you think? It makes him look heavy," remarked Felicity.

Again Mary had to suppress a feeling of irritation. "I rather like it," she said. "It's so comfy and English."

"Yes?" breathed Felicity vaguely, walking on.

Suddenly she appeared to have a return of animation.

She floated forward quickly for a few steps, turned with a swaying movement, and waited for Mary with hands and feet poised.

"The grass under one's feet, Mrs. Byrd, it makes them glad. One could almost dance!"

Again she fluttered ahead, this time overtaking Constance and Stefan, who had halted in the middle of the lawn. She swayed before them on tiptoe.

"Connie," she was saying as Mary came up, "why does one not more often dance in the open?"

Though her lids still drooped she was half smiling as she swayed.

"It may be the spring; or perhaps I have caught the pastoral mood of Mr. Byrd's work; but I should like to dance a little. Music," her palms were lifted in repudiation, "is unnecessary. One has the birds."

"Good for you, Felicity! That will be fun," Constance exclaimed delightedly. "You don't dance half often enough, bad girl. Come along, people, let's sit on the porch steps."

They arranged themselves to watch, Constance and Mary on the upper step, Stefan on the lower, his shoulders against his wife's knees, while Felicity dexterously slipped off her sandals and stockings.

Her dress, modeled probably on that of the central figure in Botticelli's Spring, was of white chiffon, embroidered with occasional formal sprigs of green leaves and hyacinth-blue flowers, and kilted up at bust and thigh. Her loosely draped sleeves hung barely to the elbow. A line of green crossed from the shoulders under each breast, and her hair, tightly bound, was decorated with another narrow band of green. She looked younger than in the city—almost virginal. Stooping low, she gathered a handful of blue scylla from the grass, Mary barely checking an exclamation at this ravishing of her beloved bulbs. Then Felicity lay down upon the grass; her eyes closed; she seemed asleep. They waited silently for some minutes. Stefan began to fidget.

Suddenly a robin called. Felicity's eyes opened. They looked calm and dewy, like a child's. She raised her head—the robin called again. Felicity looked about her, at the flowers in her hand, the trees, the sky. Her face broke into smiles, she rose tall, taller, feet on tiptoe, hands reaching skyward. It was the waking of spring. Then she began to dance.

Gone was the old languor, the dreamy, hushed steps of her former method. Now she appeared to dart about the lawn like a swallow, following the calls of the birds. She would stand poised to listen, her ear would catch a twitter, and she was gone; flitting, skimming, seeming not to touch the earth. She danced to the flowers in her hand, to the trees, the sky, her face aglint with changing smiles, her skirts rippling like water.

At last the blue flowers seemed to claim her solely. She held them sunward, held them close, always swaying to the silent melody of the spring. She kissed them, pressed them to her heart; she sank downward, like a bird with folding wings, above a clump of scylla; her arms encircled them, her head bent to her knees—she was still.

Constance broke the spell with prolonged applause; Mary was breathless with admiration; Stefan rose, and after prowling restlessly for a moment, hurried to the dancer and stooped to lift her.

As if only then conscious of her audience, Felicity looked up, and both the other women noticed the expression that flashed across her face before she took the proffered hand. It seemed compounded of triumph, challenge, and something else. Mary again felt uncomfortable, and Constance's quick brain signaled a warning.

"Surely not getting into mischief, are you, Felicity?" she mentally questioned, and instantly began to east about for two and two to put together.

"Wonderful!" Stefan was saying. "You surely must have wings—great, butterfly ones—only we are too dull to see them. You were exactly like one of my pictures come to life." He was visibly excited.

"Husband disposed of, available lovers unattractive, asks me to drive her out here; that's one half," Constance's mind raced. "Wife on the shelf, variable temperament, studio in town; and that's the other. I've found two and two; I hope to goodness they won't make four," she sighed to herself anxiously.

Mary meanwhile was thanking Miss Berber. She noticed that the dancer was perfectly cool—not a hair ruffled by her efforts. She looked as smooth as a bird that draws in its feathers after flight. Stefan was probably observing this, too, she thought; at any rate he was hovering about, staring at Felicity, and running his hands through his hair. Mary could not be sure of his expression; he seemed uneasy, as if discomfort mingled with his pleasure.

They had had a rare and lovely entertainment, and yet no one appeared wholly pleased except the dancer herself. It was very odd.

Constance looked at her watch. "Now, Felicity, this has all been ideal, but we must be getting on. I 'phoned James, you know, and we are lunching there. I was sure Mrs. Byrd wouldn't want to be bothered with us."

Mary demurred, with a word as to Lily's capacities, but Constance was firm.

"No, my dear, it's all arranged. Besides, you need peace and quiet. Felicity, where are your things? Thank you, Mr. Byrd, in the sitting- room. Mary, you dear, I adore you and your house—I shall come again soon. Where are my gloves?" She was all energy, helping Felicity with her veil, settling her own hat, kissing Mary, and cranking the runabout—an operation she would not allow Stefan to attempt for her—with her usual effervescent efficiency. "I'd no idea it was so late!" she exclaimed.

As Felicity was handed by Stefan into the car, she murmured something in French, Constance noticed, to which he shook his head with a nervous frown. As the machine started, he was left staring moodily after it down the lane.

"Thee is earlier than I expected," little Mrs. Farraday said to Constance, when they arrived at the house. "I am afraid we shall have to keep thee waiting for thy lunch for half an hour or more."

"How glad I shall be—" Stefan turned to Mary, half irritably—"when this baby is born, and you can be active again."

He ate his lunch in silence, and left the table abruptly at the end. Nor did she see him again until dinner time, when he came in tired out, his boots whitened with road dust.

"Where have you been, dearest?" she asked. "I've been quite anxious about you."

"Just walking," he answered shortly, and went up to his room. The tears came to her eyes, but she blinked them away resolutely. She must not mind, must not show him that she even dreamed of any connection between his moodiness and the events of the morning.

"My love must be stronger than that, now of all times," thought Mary. "Afterwards—afterwards it will be all right." She smiled confidently to herself.



VI

It was the end of June. Mary's rosebushes were in full bloom and the little garden was languid with the scent of them. The nesting birds had all hatched their broods—every morning now Mary watched from her bedroom window the careful parents carrying worms and insects into the trees. She always looked for them the moment she got up. She would have loved to hang far out of the window as she used to do in her old home in England, and call good-morning to her little friends—but she was hemmed in by the bronze wire of the windowscreens. These affected her almost like prison bars; but Long Island's summer scourge had come, and after a few experiences of nights sung sleepless by the persistent horn of the enemy and made agonizing by his sting, she welcomed the screens as deliverers. The mosquitoes apart, Mary had adored the long, warm days—not too hot as yet on the Byrdsnest's shady eminence—and the perpetually smiling skies, so different from the sulky heavens of England. But she began to feel very heavy, and found it increasingly difficult to keep cool, so that she counted the days till her deliverance. She felt no fear of what was coming. Dr. Hillyard had assured her that she was normal in every respect—"as completely normal a woman as I have ever seen," she put it —and should have no complications. Moreover, Mary had obtained from her doctor a detailed description of what lay before her, and had read one or two hand-books on the subject, so that she was spared the fearful imaginings and reliance on old wives' tales which are the results of the ancient policy of surrounding normal functions with mystery.

Now the nurse was here, a tall, grave-eyed Canadian girl, quiet of speech, silent in every movement. Mary had wondered if she ought to go into Dr. Hillyard's hospital, and was infinitely relieved to have her assurance that it was unnecessary. She wanted her baby to be born here in the country, in the sweet place she had prepared for it, surrounded by those she loved. Everything here was perfect for the advent—she could ask for nothing more. True, she was seeking comparatively little of Stefan, but she knew he was busily painting, and he was uniformly kind and affectionate when they were together. He had not been to town for over two months.

Mrs. Farraday was a frequent caller, and Mary had grown sincerely to love the sweet-faced old lady, who would drive up in a low pony chaise, bringing offerings of fruit and vegetables, or quaint preserves from recipes unknown to Mary, which had been put up under her own direction.

Then, too, McEwan would appear at week-ends or in the evening, tramping down the lane to hail the house in absurd varieties of the latest New York slang, which, never failed to amuse Mary. The shy Jamie was often with her; they were now the most intimate of friends. He would show her primitive tools and mechanical contrivances of his own making, and she would tell him stories of Scotland, of Prince Charlie and Flora, of Bruce and Wallace, of Bannockburn, or of James, the poet king. Of these she had a store, having been brought up, as many English girls happily are, on the history and legends of the island, rather than on less robust feminine fare.

Farraday, too, sometimes dropped in in the evening, to sit on the porch with Stefan and Mary and talk quietly of books and the like. Occasionally he came with McEwan or Jamie; he never came alone—though this she had not noticed—at hours when Stefan was unlikely to be with her.

At the suggestion of Mrs. Farraday, whose word was the social law of the district, the most charming women in the neighborhood had called on Mary, so that her circle of acquaintances was now quite wide. She had had in addition several visits from Constance, and the Sparrow had spent a week- end with them, chirping admiration of the place and encomiums of her friend's housekeeping. But Mary liked best to be with Stefan, or to dream alone through the hushed, sunlit hours amid her small tasks of house and garden. Now that the nurse was here, occupying the little bedroom opening from Mary's room, the final preparations had been made; there was nothing left to do but wait.

Miss McCullock had been with them three days, and Stefan had become used to her quiet presence, when late one evening certain small symptoms told her that Mary's time had come. Stefan, entering the hall, found her at the telephone. "Dr. Hillyard will be here in about an hour and a quarter," she said quietly, hanging up the receiver. "Do you know if she has driven out before? If not, it might be well for you, Mr. Byrd, to walk to the foot of the lane soon, and be ready to signal the turning to her." Miss McCullock always distrusted the nerves of husbands on these occasions, and planned adroitly to get them out of the way.

Stefan stared at her as flabbergasted as if this emergency had not been hourly expected. "Do you mean," he gasped, "that Mary is ill?"

"She is not ill, Mr. Byrd, but the baby will probably be born before morning."

"My God!" said Stefan, suddenly blanching. He had not faced this moment, had not thought about it, had indeed hardly thought about Mary's motherhood at all except to deplore its toll upon her bodily beauty. He had tried for her sake, harder than she knew, to appear sympathetic, but in his heart the whole thing presented itself as nature's grotesque price for the early rapture of their love. That the price might be tragic as well as grotesque had only now come home to him. He dropped on a chair, his memory flying back to the one other such event in which he had had part. He saw himself thrust from his mother's door—he heard her shrieks —felt himself fly again into the rain. His forehead was wet; cold tingles ran to his fingertips.

The nurse's voice sounded, calm and pleasant, above him. A whiff of brandy met his nostrils. "You'd better drink this, Mr. Byrd, and then in a minute you might go and see Mrs. Byrd. You will feel better after that, I think."

He drank, then looked up, haggard.

"They'll give her plenty of chloroform, won't they?" he whispered, catching the nurse's hand. She smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Mr. Byrd, your wife is in splendid condition, and ether will certainly be given when it becomes advisable."

The brandy was working now and his nerves had steadied, but he found the nurse's manner maddeningly calm. "I'll go to Mary," he muttered, and, brushing past her, sprang up the stairs.

What he expected to see he did not know, but his heart pounded as he opened the bedroom door. The room was bright with lamplight, and in spotless order. At her small writing-table sat Mary, in a loose white dressing gown, her hair in smooth braids around her head, writing. What was she doing? Was she leaving some last message for him, in case—? He felt himself grow cold again. "Mary!" he exclaimed hoarsely.

She looked round, and called joyfully to him.

"Oh, darling, there you are. I'm getting everything ready. It's coming, Stefan dearest. I'm so happy!" Her face was excited, radiant.

He ran to her with a groan of relief, and, kneeling, caught her face to his. "Oh, Beautiful, you're all right then? She told me—I was afraid—" he stumbled, inarticulate.

She stroked his cheek comfortingly. "Dearest, isn't it wonderful—just think—by to-morrow our baby will be here." She kissed him, between happy tears and laughter.

"You are not in pain, darling? You're all right? What were you writing when I came in?" he stammered, anxiously.

"I'm putting all the accounts straight, and paying all the bills to date, so that Lily won't have any trouble while I'm laid up," she beamed.

Stefan stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then burst into half- hysterical laughter.

"Oh, you marvel," he gasped, "goddess of efficiency, unshakable Olympian! Bills! And I thought you were writing me a farewell message."

"Silly boy," she replied. "The bills have got to be paid; a nice muddle you would be in if you had them to do yourself. But, dearest—" her face grew suddenly grave and she took his hand—"listen. I have written you something—it's there—" her fingers touched an elastic bound pile of papers. "I'm perfectly well, but if anything should happen, I want my sister to have the baby. Because I think, dear—" she stroked his hand with a look of compassionate understanding—"that without me you would not want it very much. Miss Mason would take it to England for you, and you could make my sister an allowance. I've left you her address, and all that I can think of to suggest."

He gazed at her dumbly. Her face glowed with life and beauty, her voice was sweet and steady. There she sat, utterly mistress of herself, in the shadow of life and death. Was it that her imagination was transcendent, or that she had none? He did not know, he did not understand her, but in that moment he could have said his prayers at her feet.

The nurse entered. "Now, Mr. Byrd, I think if you could go to the end of the lane and be looking out for the doctor? Mrs. Byrd ought to have her bath."

Stefan departed. In a dream he walked to the lane's end and waited there. He was thinking of Mary, perhaps for the first time, not as a beautiful object of love and inspiration, nor as his companion, but as a woman. What was this calm strength, this certitude of hers? Why did her every word and act seem to move straight forward, while his wheeled and circled? What was it that Mary had that he had not? Of what was her inmost fiber made? It came to him that for all their loving passages his wife was a stranger to him, and a stranger whom he had never sought to know. He felt ashamed.

It was about eleven o'clock when the distance was pricked by two points of light, which, gradually expanding, proved to be the head-lamps of the doctor's car. She stopped at his hail and he climbed beside her.

"I'm glad you came, though I think I know the turning," said Dr. Hillyard cheerfully.

"How long will it be, doctor?" he asked nervously.

"Feeling jumpy?" she replied. "Better let me give you a bromide, and try for a little sleep. Don't you worry—unless we have complications it will be over before morning."

"Before morning!" he groaned. "Doctor, you won't let her suffer —you will give her something?"

He was again reassured. "Certainly. But she has a magnificent physique, with muscles which have never been allowed to soften through tight clothing or lack of exercise. I expect an easy case. Here we are, I think." The swift little car stopped accurately at the gate, and the doctor, shutting off her power, was out in a moment, bag in hand. The nurse met them in the hall.

"Getting on nicely—an easy first stage," she reported. The two women disappeared upstairs, and Stefan was left alone to live through as best he could the most difficult hours that fall to the lot of civilized man. Presently Miss McCullock came down to him with a powder, and advice from the doctor anent bed, but he would take neither the one nor the other. "What a sot I should be," he thought, picturing himself lying drugged to slumber while Mary suffered.

By and by he ventured upstairs. Clouds of steam rose from the bathroom, brilliant light was everywhere, two white-swathed figures, scarcely recognizable, seemed to move with incredible speed amid a perfectly ordered chaos. All Mary's pretty paraphernalia were gone; white oil cloth covered every table, and was in its turn covered by innumerable objects sealed in stiff paper. Amid these alien surroundings Mary sat in her nightgown on the edge of the bed, her knees drawn up.

"Hello, dearest," she called rather excitedly, "we're getting awfully busy." Then her face contracted. "Here comes another," she said cheerily, and gasped a little. On that Stefan fled, with a muttered "Call me if she wants me," to the nurse.

He wandered to the kitchen. There was a roaring fire, but the room was empty—even Lily had found work upstairs. For an hour more Stefan prowled—then he rang up the Farraday's house. After an interval James' voice answered him.

"It's Byrd, Farraday," said Stefan. "No—" quickly—"everything's perfectly all right, perfectly, but it's going on. Could you come over?"

In fifteen minutes Farraday had dressed and was at the door, his great car gliding up silently beside the doctor's. As he walked in Stefan saw that his face was quite white.

"It was awfully good of you to come," he said.

"I'm so glad you asked me. My car is a sixty horsepower, if anything were needed." Farraday sat down, and lighted a pipe. Stefan delivered knowledge of the waiting machine upstairs, and then recommenced his prowl. Back and forth through the two living rooms he walked, lighting, smoking, or throwing away endless cigarettes. Farraday sat drawing at his pipe. Neither spoke. One o'clock struck, and two.

Presently they heard a loud growling sound, quite un-human, but with no quality of agony. It was merely as if some animal were making a supreme physical effort. In about two minutes this was repeated. Farraday's pipe dropped on the hearth, Stefan tore upstairs. "What is it?" he asked at the open door. Something large and white moved powerfully on the bed. At the foot bent the little doctor, her hands hidden, and at the head stood the nurse holding a small can. A heavy, sweet odor filled the room.

"It's all right," the doctor said rapidly. "Expulsive stage. She isn't suffering."

"Hello, Stefan dear," said a small, rather high voice, which made him jump violently. Then he saw a face on the pillow, its eyes closed, and its nose and mouth covered with a wire cone. In a moment there came a gasp, the sheathed form drew tense, the nurse spilled a few drops from her can upon the cone, the growling recommenced and heightened to a crescendo. Stefan had an impression of tremendous physical life, but the human tone of the "Hello, Stefan," was quite gone again.

He was backing shakily out when the doctor called to him.

"It will be born quite soon, now, Mr. Byrd," her cheery voice promised.

Trembling with relief, he stumbled downstairs. Farraday was standing rigid before the fireplace, his face quite expressionless.

"She's having ether—I don't think she's suffering. The doctor says quite soon, now," Stefan jerked out.

"I'm thankful," said Farraday, quietly.

He stooped and picked up his fallen pipe, but it took him a long time to refill it—particles of tobacco kept showering to the rug from his fingers. Stefan, with a new cigarette, resumed his prowl.

Midsummer dawn was breaking. The lamplight began to pale before the glimmer of the windows. A sleepy bird chirped, the room became mysterious.

There had been rapid steps overhead for some moments, and now the two men became aware that the tiger-like sounds had quite ceased. The steps overhead quieted. Farraday put out the lamp, and the blue light flooded the room.

A bird called loudly, and another answered it, high, repeatedly. The notes were right over their heads; they rose higher, insistent. They were not the notes of a bird. The nurse appeared at the door and looked at Stefan.

"Your son is born," she said.

Instantly to both men it was as if eerie bonds, drawn over-taut, had snapped, releasing them again to the physical world about them. The high mystery was over; life was human and kindly once again. Farraday dropped into his chair and held a hand across his eyes. Stefan threw both arms round Miss McCullock's shoulders and hugged her like a child.

"Oh, hurrah!" he cried, almost sobbing with relief. "Bless you, nurse. Is she all right?"

"She's perfect—I've never seen finer condition. You can come up in a few minutes, the doctor says, and see her before she goes to sleep."

"There's nothing needed, nurse?" asked Farraday, rising.

"Nothing at all, thank you."

"Then I'll be getting home, Byrd," he said, offering his hand to Stefan. "My warmest congratulations. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

Stefan shook the proffered hand with a deeper liking than he had yet felt for this silent man.

"I'm everlastingly grateful to you, Farraday, for helping me out, and Mary will be, too. I don't know how I could have stood it alone."

Stefan mounted the stairs tremblingly, to pause in amazement at the door of Mary's room. A second transformation had, as if by magic, taken place. The lights were out. The dawn smiled at the windows, through which a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains. Gone were all evidences of the night's tense drama; tables and chairs were empty; the room looked calm and spacious.

On the bed Mary lay quiet, her form hardly outlined under the smooth coverlet. Half fearfully he let his eyes travel to the pillow, dreading he knew not what change. Instantly, relief overwhelmed him. Her face was radiant, her cheeks pink—she seemed to glow with a sublimated happiness. Only in her eyes lay any traces of the night—they were still heavy from the anaesthetic, but they shone lovingly on him, as though deep lights were behind them.

"Darling," she whispered, "we've got a little boy. Did you worry? It wasn't anything—only the most thrilling adventure that's ever happened to me."

He looked at her almost with awe—then, stooping, pressed his face to the pillow beside hers.

"Were they merciful to you, Beautiful?" he whispered back. Weakly, her hand found his head.

"Yes, darling, they were wonderful. I was never quite unconscious, yet it wasn't a bit bad—only as if I were in the hands of some prodigious force. They showed me the baby, too—just for a minute. I want to see him again now—with you."

Stefan looked up. Dr. Hillyard was in the doorway of the little room. She nodded, and in a moment reappeared, carrying a small white bundle.

"Here he is," she said; "he weighs eight and a half pounds. You can both look at him for a moment, and then Mrs. Byrd must go to sleep." She put the bundle gently down beside Mary, whose head turned toward it.

Almost hidden in folds of flannel Stefan saw a tiny red face, its eyes closed, two microscopic fists doubled under its chin. It conveyed nothing to him except a sense of amazement.

"He's asleep," whispered Mary, "but I saw his eyes—they are blue. Isn't he pretty?" Her own eyes, soft with adoration, turned from her son to Stefan. Then they drooped, drowsily.

"She's falling off," said the doctor under her breath, recovering the baby. "They'll both sleep for several hours now. Lily is getting us some breakfast—wouldn't you like some, too, Mr. Byrd?"

Stefan felt grateful for her normal, cheery manner, and for Mary's sudden drowsiness; they seemed to cover what he felt to be a failure in himself. He had been unable to find one word to say about the baby.

At breakfast, served by the sleepy but beaming Lily, Stefan was dazed by the bearing of doctor and nurse. These two women, after a night spent in work of an intensity and scope beyond his powers to gage, appeared as fresh and normal as if they had just risen from sleep, while he, unshaved and rumpled, could barely control his racked nerves and heavy head, across which doctor and nurse discussed their case with animation.

"We are all going to bed, Mr. Byrd," said the doctor at last, noting his exhausted aspect. "I shall get two or, three hours' nap on the sofa before going back to town, and I hope you will take a thorough rest."

Stefan rose rather dizzily from his unfinished meal.

"Please take my room," he said, "I couldn't stay in the house—I'm going out." He found the atmosphere of alert efficiency created by these women utterly insupportable. The house stifled him with its teeming feminine life. In it he felt superfluous, futile. Hurrying out, he stumbled down the slope and, stripping, dived into the water. Its cold touch robbed him of thought; he became at once merely one of Nature's straying children returned again to her arms.

Swimming back, he drew on his clothes, and mounting to the garden, threw himself face down upon the grass, and fell asleep under the morning sun.

He dreamed that a drum was calling him. Its beat, muffled and irregular, yet urged him forward. A flag waved dazzlingly before his eyes; its folds stifled him. He tried to move, yet could not—the drum called ever more urgently. He started awake, to find himself on his back, the sun beating into his face, and the doctor's machine chugging down the lane.



VII

The little June baby at the Byrdsnest was very popular with the neighborhood. During the summer it seemed to Stefan that the house was never free of visitors who came to admire the child, guess his weight, and exclaim at his mother's health.

As a convalescent, Mary was, according to Constance Elliot, a complete fraud. Except for her hair, which had temporarily lost some of its elasticity, she had never looked so radiant. She was out of bed on the ninth day, and walking in the garden on the twelfth. The behavior of the baby—who was a stranger to artificial food—was exemplary; he never fretted, and cried only when he was hungry. But as his appetite troubled him every three hours during the day, and every four at night, he appeared to Stefan to cry incessantly, and his strenuous wail would drive his father from house to barn, and from barn to woods. Lured from one of these retreats by an interval of silence, Stefan was as likely as not to find an auto at the gate and hear exclamatory voices proceeding from the nursery, when he would fade into the woods again like a wild thing fearful of the trap.

His old dislike of his kind reasserted itself. It is one thing to be surrounded by pretty women proclaiming you the greatest artist of your day, and quite another to listen while they exclaim on the perfections of your offspring and the health of your wife. For the first type of conversation Stefan had still an appetite; with the second he was quickly surfeited.

Nor were women his only tormentors. The baby spent much of its time in the garden, and every Sunday Stefan would find McEwan planted on the lawn, prodding the infant with a huge forefinger, and exploding into fatuous mirth whenever he deluded himself into believing he had made it smile. Of late Stefan had begun to tolerate this man, but after three such exhibitions decided to blacklist him permanently as an insufferable idiot. Even Farraday lost ground in his esteem, for, though guilty of no banalities, he had a way of silently hovering over the baby-carriage which Stefan found mysteriously irritating. Jamie alone of their masculine friends seemed to adopt a comprehensible attitude, for he backed away in hasty alarm whenever the infant, in arms or carriage, bore down upon him. On several occasions when the Farraday household invaded the Byrdsnest Stefan and Jamie together sneaked away in search of an environment more seemly for their sex.

"You are the only creature I know just now, Jamie," Stefan said, "with any sense of proportion;" and these two outcasts from notice would tramp moodily through the woods, the boy faithfully imitating Stefan's slouch and his despondent way of carrying his hands thrust in his pockets.

There were no more tales of Scotland for Jamie in these days, and as for Stefan he hardly saw his wife. True, she always brightened when he came in and mutely evinced her desire that he should remain, but she was never his. While he talked her eye would wander to the cradle, or if they were in another room her ear would be constantly strained to catch a cry. In the midst of a pleasant interlude she would jump to her feet with a murmured "Dinner time," or "He must have some water now," and be gone.

Stefan did not sleep with her—as he could not endure being disturbed at night—and she took a long nap every afternoon, so that at best the hours available for him were few. Any visitor, he thought morosely, won more attention from her than he did, and this was in a sense true, for the visitors openly admired the baby—the heart of Mary's life—and he did not.

He did not know how intensely she longed for this, how she ached to see Stefan jab his finger at the baby as McEwan did, or watch it with the tender smile of Farraday. She tried a thousand simple wiles to bring to life the father in him. About to nurse the baby, she would call Stefan to see his eager search for the comfort of her breast, looking up in proud joy as the tiny mouth was satisfied.

At the very first, when the baby was newborn, Stefan had watched this rite with some interest, but now he only fidgeted, exclaiming, "You are looking wonderfully fit, Mary," or "Greedy little beggar, isn't he?" He never spoke of his old idea of painting her as a Madonna. If she drew his attention to the baby's tiny hands or feet, he would glance carelessly at them, with a "They're all right," or "I'll like them better when they're bigger."

Once, as they were going to bed, she showed Stefan the baby lying on his chest, one fist balled on either side of the pillow, the downy back of his head shining in the candle-light. She stooped and kissed it.

"His head is too deliciously soft and warm, Stefan; do kiss it good- night."

His face contracted into an expression of distaste. "No," he said, "I can't kiss babies," and left the room.

She felt terribly, unnecessarily hurt. It was so difficult for her to make advances, so fatally easy for him to rebuff them.

After that, she did not draw the baby to his attention again.

Perhaps, had the child been a girl, Stefan would have felt more sentiment about it. A girl baby, lying like a pink bud among the roses of the garden, might have appealed to that elfin imagination which largely took the place in him of romance—but a boy! A boy was merely in his eyes another male, and Stefan considered the world far too full of men already.

He sealed his attitude when the question of the child's name came up. Mary had fallen into a habit of calling it "Little Stefan," or "Steve" for short, and one morning, as the older Stefan crossed the lawn to his studio her voice floated down from the nursery in an improvised song to her "Stefan Baby." He bounded upstairs to her.

"Mary," he called, "you are surely not going to call that infant by my name?"

Mary, her lap enveloped in aprons and towels, looked up from the bath in which her son was practising tentative kicks.

"Why, yes, dear, I thought we'd christen him after you, as he's the eldest. Don't you think that would be nice?" She looked puzzled.

"No, I do not!" Stefan snorted emphatically. "For heaven's sake give the child a name of his own, and let me keep mine. My God, one Stefan Byrd is enough in the world, I should think!"

"Well, dear, what shall we call him, then?" she asked, lowering her head over the baby to hide her hurt.

"Give him your own name if you want to. After all, he's your child. Elliston Byrd wouldn't sound at all bad."

"Very well," said Mary slowly. "I think the Dad would have been pleased by that." In spite of herself, her voice trembled.

"Good Lord, Mary, I haven't hurt you, have I?" He looked exasperated.

She shook her head, still bending over the baby.

"It's all right, dear," she whispered.

"You're so soft nowadays, one hardly dare speak," he muttered. "Sorry, dear," and with a penitent kiss for the back of her neck he hastened downstairs again.

The christening was held two weeks later, in the small Episcopalian church of Crab's Bay. Stefan could see no reason for it, as neither he nor Mary was orthodox, but when he suggested omitting the ceremony she looked at him wide-eyed.

"Not christen him, Stefan? Oh, I don't think that would be fair," she said. Her manner was simple, but there was finality in her tone—it made him feel that wherever her child was concerned she would be adamant.

The baby's godmother was, of course, Constance, and his godfathers, equally obviously, Farraday and McEwan. Mary made the ceremony the occasion of a small at-home, inviting the numerous friends from whom she had received congratulations or gifts for the baby.

Miss Mason had insisted on herself baking the christening cake; Farraday as usual supplied a sheaf of flowers. In the drawing room the little Elliston's presents were displayed, a beautiful old cup from Farraday, a christening robe, and a spoon, "pusher," and fork from Constance, a silver bowl "For Elliston's porridge from his friend Wallace McEwan," and a Bible in stout leather binding from Mrs. Farraday, inscribed in her delicate, slanting hand. There was even a napkin ring from the baby's aunt in England, who was much relieved that her too-independent sister had married a successful artist and done her duty by the family so promptly.

Mary was naively delighted with these offerings.

"He has got everything I should have liked him to have!" she exclaimed as she arranged them.

Stefan, led to the font, showed all the nervousness he had omitted at the altar, but looked very handsome in a suit of linen crash, while Mary, in white muslin, was at her glowing best.

Constance was inevitably late, for, like most American women, she did not carry her undeniable efficiency to the point of punctuality. At the last moment, however, she dashed up to the church with the elan of a triumphant general, bearing her husband captive in the tonneau, and no less a person than Gunther, the distinguished sculptor, on the seat beside her.

"I know you did not ask him, but he's so handsome I thought he ought to be here," she whispered inconsequentially to Mary after the ceremony.

Of their many acquaintances few were unrepresented except Miss Berber, to whom Mary had felt disinclined to send an invitation. She had sounded Stefan on the subject, but had been answered by a "Certainly not!" so emphatic as to surprise her.

At the house Gunther, with his great height and magnificent viking head, was unquestionably the hit of the afternoon. Holding the baby, which lay confidently in his powerful hands, he examined its head, arms and legs with professional interest, while every woman in the room watched him admiringly.

"This baby, Mrs. Byrd, is the finest for his age I have ever seen, and I have modeled many of them," he pronounced, handing it back to Mary, who blushed to her forehead with pleasure. "Not that I am surprised," he went on, staring frankly at her, "when I look at his mother. I am doing some groups for the Pan-American exhibition next year in San Francisco. If you could give me any time, I should very much like to use your head and the baby's. I shall try and arrange it with you," and he nodded as if that settled the matter.

"Oh," gasped Constance, "you have all the luck. Mary! Mr. Gunther has known me for years, but have I had a chance to sit for him? I feel myself turning green, and as my gown is yellow it will be most unbecoming!" And seizing Farraday as if for consolation, she bore him to the dining room to find a drink.

Stefan, who was interested in Gunther, tried to get him to the barn to see his pictures; but the sculptor would not move his eyes from Mary, and Stefan, considerably bored, was obliged to content himself with showing the studio to some of his prettiest neighbors.

Nor did his spirits improve when the party came to an end.

"Bon Dieu!" he cried, flinging himself fretfully into a chair. "Is our house never to be free of chattering women? The only person here to-day who speaks my language was Gunther, and you never gave me a chance at him."

Mary gasped, too astonished at this accusation to refute it.

"Ever since we came down here," he went on irritably, "the place has seethed with people, and overflowed with domesticity. I never hear one word spoken except on the subject of furniture, gardening and babies! I can't work in such an environment; it stifles all imagination. As for you, Mary—"

He looked up at her. She was standing, stricken motionless, in the center of the room. Her hair, straighter than of old, seemed to droop over her ears; her form under its loose muslin dress showed soft and blurred, its clean-cut lines gone, while her face, almost as white as the gown, was woe-begone, the eyes dark with tears. She stood there like a hurt child, all her courageous gallantry eclipsed by this unkind ending to her happy day. Stefan rose to his feet and faced her, searching for some phrase that could express his sense of deprivation. He had the instinct to stab her into a full realization of what she was losing in his eyes.

"Mary," he cried almost wildly, "your wings are gone!" and rushed out of the room.



PART IV

WINGS

I

One evening early in October Mary telephoned Farraday to ask if she could consult him with reference to the Byrdsnest. He walked over after dinner, to find her alone in the sitting room, companioned by a wood fire and the two sleeping lovebirds.

James had been very busy at the office for some time, and it was two or three weeks since he had seen Mary. Now, as he sat opposite her, it seemed to him that the leaping firelight showed unaccustomed shadows in her cheeks and under her eyes, and that her color was less bright than formerly. Was it merely the result of her care of her baby, he wondered, or was there something more?

"I fear we've already outstayed our time here, Mr. Farraday," Mary was saying, "and yet I am going to ask you for an extension."

Farraday lit a cigarette.

"My dear Mrs. Byrd, stay as long as you like."

"But you don't know the measure of my demands," she went on, with a hesitating smile. "They are so extensive that I'm ashamed. I love this little place, Mr. Farraday; it's the first real home I've ever had of my own. And Baby does so splendidly here—I can't bear the thought of taking him to the city. How long might I really hope to stay without inconveniencing you? I mean, of course, at a proper rent."

"As far as I am concerned," he smiled back at her, "I shall be overjoyed to have you stay as long as the place attracts you. If you like, I will give you a lease—a year, two, or three, as you will, so that you could feel settled, or an option to renew after the first year."

"But, Mr. Farraday, your mother told me that you used to use the place, and in the face of that I don't know how I have the selfishness to ask you for any time at all, to say nothing of a lease!"

"Mrs. Byrd." Farraday threw his cigarette into the fire, and, leaning forward, stared at the flames, his hands clasped between his knees. "Let me tell you a sentimental little story, which no one else knows except our friend Mac." He smiled whimsically.

"When I was a young man I was very much in love, and looked forward to having a home of my own, and children. But I was unfortunate—I did not succeed in winning the woman I loved, and as I am slow to change, I made up my mind that my dream home would never come true. But I was very fond of my 'cottage in the air,' and some years later, when this little house became empty, I arranged it to look as nearly as I could as that other might have done. I used to sit here sometimes and pretend that my shadows were real. You will laugh at me, but I even have in my desk plans for an addition, an ell, containing a play room and nurseries."

Mary gave a little pitiful exclamation, and touched his clasped hands. Meeting her eyes, he saw them dewy with sympathy.

"You are very gracious to a sentimental old bachelor," he said, with his winning smile. "But these ghosts were bad for me. I was in danger of becoming absurdly self-centered, almost morbidly introspective. Mac, whose heart is the biggest I know, and who laughs away more troubles than I ever dreamed of, rallied me about it, and showed me that I ought to turn my disappointment to some use. This was about ten years ago, when his own life fell to pieces. I had been associated with magazines for some time, and knew how little that was really good found its way into the plainer people's homes. At Mac's suggestion I bought an insolvent monthly, and began to remodel it. 'You've got the home-and-children bug; well, do something for other people's'—was the way Mac put it to me. Later we started the two other magazines, always keeping before us our aim of giving the average home the best there is. To-day, though I have no children of my own, I like to think I'm a sort of uncle to thousands."

He leant back, still staring into the fire. There was silence for a minute; a log fell with a crash and a flight of sparks—Farraday replaced it.

"Well, Mrs. Byrd," he went on, "all this time the little ghost-house stood empty. No one used it but myself. It was made for a woman and for children, yet in my selfishness I locked its door against those who should rightfully have enjoyed it. Mac urged me to use it as a holiday house for poor mothers from the city, but, somehow, I could not bring myself to evict its dream-mistress."

"Oh, I feel more than ever a trespasser!" exclaimed Mary.

He shook his head. "No, you have redeemed the place from futility—you are its justification." He paused again, and continued in a lower tone, "Mrs. Byrd, you won't mind my saying this—you are so like that lady of long ago that the house seems yours by natural right. I think I was only waiting for someone who would love and understand it—some golden-haired young mother, like yourself, to give the key to. I can't tell you how happy it makes me that the little house should at last fulfil itself. Please keep it for as long as you need it—it will always need you."

Mary was much moved: "I can't thank you, Mr. Farraday, but I feel deeply honored. Perhaps my best thanks lie just in loving the house, and I do that, with all my heart. You don't mind my foolish little name for it?"

"The Byrdsnest? I think it perfect."

"And you don't mind either the alterations I have made?"

"My dear friend, while you keep this house I want it to be yours. Should you wish to take a long lease, and enlarge it, I shall be happy. In fact, I will sell it to you, if in the future you would care to buy. My only stipulation would be an option to repurchase should you decide to give it up." He took her hand. "The Byrdsnest belongs to Elliston's mother; let us both understand that."

Her lips trembled. "You are good to me."

"No, it is you who are good to the dreams of a sentimentalist. And now—" he sat back smilingly—"that is settled. Tell me the news. How is my godson, how is Mr. Byrd, how fares the sable Lily?"

"Baby weighs fourteen and a half pounds," she said proudly; "he is simply perfect. Lily is an angel." She paused, and seemed to continue almost with an effort. "Stefan is very busy. He does not care to paint autumn landscapes, so he has begun work again in the city. He's doing a fantastic study of Miss Berber, and is very much pleased with it."

"That's good," said Farraday, evenly.

"But I've got more news for you," she went on, brightening. "I've had a good deal more time lately, Stefan being so much in town, and Baby's habits so regular. Here's the result."

She fetched from the desk a pile of manuscript, neatly penned, and laid it on her guest's knee.

"This is the second thing I wanted to consult you about. It's a book- length story for children, called 'The House in the Wood.' I've written the first third, and outlined the rest. Here's the list of chapters. It is supposed to be for children between eight and fourteen, and was first suggested to me by this house. There is a family of four children, and a regulation father and mother, nurse, governess, and grandmother. They live in the country, and the children find a little deserted cottage which they adopt to play in. The book is full of their adventures in it. My idea is—" she sat beside him, her eyes brightening with interest—"to suggest all kinds of games to the children who read the story, which seem thrilling, but are really educational. It's quite a moral little book, I'm afraid," she laughed, "but I think story books should describe adventures which may be within the scope of the ordinary child's life, don't you? I'm afraid it isn't a work of art, but I hope—if I can work out the scheme—it may give some practical ideas to mothers who don't know how to amuse their children.... There, Mr. Editor, what is your verdict?"

Farraday was turning the pages in his rapid, absorbed way. He nodded and smiled as he looked.

"I think it's a good idea, Mrs. Byrd; just the sort of thing we are always on the lookout for. The subject might be trite enough, but I suspect you of having lent it charm and freshness. Of course the family is English, which is a disadvantage, but I see you've mixed in a small American visitor, and that he's beginning to teach the others a thing or two! Where did you learn such serpent wisdom, young lady?"

She laughed, amazed as she had been a year ago at his lightning-like apprehension.

"It isn't humbug. I do think an American child could teach ours at home a lot about inventiveness, independence, and democracy—just as I think ours might teach him something about manners," she added, smiling.

"Admitted," said he, laying down the manuscript, "and thank you for letting me see this. I claim the first refusal. Finish it, have it typed, and send it in, and if I can run it as a serial in The Child at Home, I shall be tremendously pleased to do so. If it goes, it ought to come out in book form, illustrated."

"You really think the idea has something in it?"

"I certainly do, and you know how much I believe in your work."

"Oh, I'm so glad," she exclaimed, looking far more cheerful than he had seen her that evening.

He rose to go, and held her hand a moment in his friendly grasp.

"Good night, dear Mrs. Byrd; give my love to Elliston, and remember that in him and your work you have two priceless treasures which, even alone, will give you happiness."

"Oh, I know," she said, her eyes shining; "good night, and thank you for the house."

"Good night, and in the house's name, thank you," he answered from the door.

As she closed it, the brightness slowly faded from Mary's face. She looked at the clock—it was past ten.

"Not to-night, either," she said to herself. Her hand wandered to the telephone in the hall, but she drew it back. "No, better not," she thought, and, putting out the lights, walked resolutely upstairs. As, candle in hand, she passed the door of Stefan's room, she looked in. His bed was smooth; a few trifles lay in orderly array upon his dressing table; boots, from which the country dust had been wiped days ago, stood with toes turned meekly to the wall. They looked lonely, she thought.

With a sigh, she entered her own room, and passed through it to the nursery. There lay her baby, soundly sleeping, his cheek on the pillow, his little fists folded under his chin. How beautiful he looked, she thought; how sweet his little room, how fresh and peaceful all the house! It was the home of love—love lay all about her, in the kind protection of the trees, in the nests of the squirrels, in the voices and faces of her friends, and in her heart. Love was all about her, and the sweetness of young life—and she was utterly lonely. One short year ago she thought she would never know loneliness again—only a year ago.

The candle wavered in her hand; a drop of wax fell on the baby's spotless coverlet. Stooping, she blew upon it till it was cold, and carefully broke it off. She sat down in a low rocking chair, and lifting the baby, gave him his good-night nursing. He barely opened his sleep-laden eyes. She kissed him, made him tidy for the night, and laid him down, waiting while he cuddled luxuriously back to sleep.

"Little Stefan, little Stefan," she whispered.

Then, leaving the nursery door ajar, she undressed noiselessly, and lay down on the cool, empty bed.



II

The following afternoon about teatime Stefan bicycled up from the station. Mary, who was in the sitting room, heard him calling from the gate, but did not go to meet him. He hurried into the room and kissed her half-turned cheek effusively.

"Well, dear, aren't you glad to see me?" he asked rather nervously.

"Do you know that you've been away six days, Stefan, and have only troubled to telephone me twice?" she answered, in a voice carefully controlled.

"You don't mean it!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so long."

"Hadn't you?"

He fidgeted. "Well, dear, you know I'm frightfully keen on this new picture, and the journeys back and forth waste so much time. But as for the telephoning, I'm awfully sorry. I've been so absorbed I simply didn't remember. Why didn't you ring me up?"

"I didn't wish to interrupt a sitting. I rang twice in the evenings, but you were out."

"Yes; I've been trying to amuse myself a little." He was rocking from one foot to the other like a detected schoolboy.

"Hang it all, Mary," he burst out, "don't be so judicial. One must have some pleasure—I can't sit about this cottage all the time."

"I don't think I've asked you to do that."

"You haven't, but you seem to be implying the request now."

She was chilled to silence, having no heart to reason him out of so unreasonable a defense.

"Well, anyway," he said, flinging himself on the sofa, "here I am, so let's make the best of it. Tea ready?"

"It's just coming."

"That's good. When are you coming up to see the picture? It's going to be the best I've done. I shall get Constantine to exhibit it and that stick of a Demeter together, and then the real people and the fools will both have something to admire."

"You say this will be your best?" asked Mary, whom the phrase had stabbed.

"Well," he said reflectively, lighting a cigarette, "perhaps not better than the Danae in one sense—it hasn't as much feeling, but has more originality. Miss Berber is such an unusual type—she's quite an inspiration."

"And I'm not, any more," Mary could not help adding in a muffled voice.

"Don't be so literal, my dear; of course you are, but not for this sort of picture." The assurance sounded perfunctory.

"Thank goodness, here comes the tea," he exclaimed as Lily entered with the tray. "Hullo, Lily; how goes it?"

"Fine, Mr. Byrd, but we've shorely missed you," she answered, with something less than her usual wholehearted smile.

"Well, you must rejoice, now that the prodigal has returned," he grinned. "Mary, you haven't answered my question yet—when are you coming in to see the picture? Why not to-morrow? I'm dying to show it to you."

She flushed. "I can't come, Stefan; it's impossible to leave Baby so long."

"Well, bring him with you."

"That wouldn't be possible, either; it would disturb his sleep, and upset him."

"There you are!" he exclaimed, ruffling his hair. "I can't work down here, and you can't come to town—how can I help seeming to neglect you? Look here"—he had drunk his tea at a gulp, and now held out his cup for more—"if you're lonely, why not move back to the city—then you could keep your eye on me!" and he grinned again.

For some time Mary had feared this suggestion—she had not yet discussed with Stefan her desire to stay in the country. She pressed her hands together nervously.

"Stefan, do you really want me to move back?"

"I want you to do whatever will make you happier," he temporized.

"If you really needed me there I would come. But you are always so absorbed when you're working, and I am so busy with Baby, that I don't believe we should have much more time together than now."

"Neither do I," he agreed, in a tone suspiciously like relief, which she was quick to catch.

"On the other hand," she went on, "this place is far better for Baby, and I am devoted to it. We couldn't afford anything half as comfortable in the city, and you like it, too, in the summer."

"Of course I do," he answered cheerfully. "I should hate to give it up, and I'm sure it's much more economical, and all that. Still, if you stay here through the winter you mustn't be angry if I am in town part of the time—my work has got to come first, you know."

"Yes, of course, dear," said Mary, wistfully, "and I think it would be a mistake for me to come unless you really wanted me."

"Of course I want you, Beautiful."

He spoke easily, but she was not deceived. She knew he was glad of the arrangement, not for her sake, but for his own. She had watched him fretting for weeks past, like a caged bird, and she had the wisdom to see that her only hope of making him desire the nest again lay in giving him freedom from it. Her pride fortified this perception. As she had said long ago, Mary was no bargainer.

In spite of her comprehension, however, she warmed toward him. It was so good to see him lounging on the sofa again, his green-gold eyes bright, his brown face with its elfish smile radiant now that his point was won. She knew he had been unkind to her both in word and act, but it was impossible not to forgive him, now that she enjoyed again the comfort of his presence.

Smiling, she poured out his third cup of tea, and was just passing it when there was a knock, and McEwan entered the hall.

"Hello, Byrd," he called, his broad shoulders blocking the sitting room door as he came in; "down among the Rubes again? Madam Mary, I accept in advance your offer of tea. Well, how goes the counterfeit presentment of our friend Twinkle-Toes?"

Stefan's eyebrows went up. "Do you mean Miss Berber?"

"Yes," said McEwan, with an aggravating smile, as he devoured a slice of cake. "We're all expecting another ten-strike. Are you depicting her as a toe-shaker or a sartorial artist?"

"Really, Wallace," protested Mary, who had grown quite intimate with McEwan, "you are utterly incorrigible in your Yankee vein—you respect no one."

"I respect the President of these United States," said he solemnly, raising an imaginary hat.

"That's more than I do," snorted Stefan; "a pompous Puritan!"

"For goodness' sake, don't start him on politics, Wallace," said Mary; "he has a contempt for every public man in America except Roosevelt and Bill Heywood."

"So I have," replied Stefan; "they are the only two with a spark of the picturesque, or one iota of originality."

"You ought to paint their pictures arm in arm, with Taft floating on a cloud crowning them with a sombrero and a sandbag, Bryan pouring grape- juice libations, and Wilson watchfully waiting in the background. Label it 'Morituri salutamus'—I bet it would sell," said McEwan hopefully.

Mary laughed heartily, but Stefan did not conceal his boredom. "Why don't you go into vaudeville, McEwan?" he frowned.

"Solely out of consideration for the existing stars," McEwan sighed, putting down his cup and rising. "Well, chin music hath charms, but I must toddle to the house, or I shall get in bad with Jamie. My love to Elliston, Mary. Byrd, I warn you that my well-known critical faculty needs stimulation; I mean to drop in at the studio ere long to slam the latest masterpiece. So long," and he grinned himself out before Stefan's rising irritation had a chance to explode.

"Why do you let that great tomfool call you by your first name, Mary?" he demanded, almost before the front door was shut.

"Wallace is one of the kindest men alive, and I'm quite devoted to him. I admit, though, that he seems to enjoy teasing you."

"Teasing me!" Stefan scoffed; "it's like an elephant teasing a fly. He obliterates me."

"Well, don't be an old crosspatch," she smiled, determined now they were alone again to make the most of him.

"You are a good sort, Mary," he said, smiling in reply; "it's restful to be with you. Sing to me, won't you?" He stretched luxuriously on the sofa.

She obeyed, glad enough of the now rare opportunity of pleasing him. Farraday had brought her some Norse ballads not long before; their sad elfin cadences had charmed her. She sang these now, touching the piano lightly for fear of waking the sleeping baby overhead. Turning to Stefan at the end, she found him sound asleep, one arm drooping over the sofa, the nervous lines of his face smoothed like a tired child's. For some reason she felt strangely pitiful toward him. "He must be very tired, poor boy," she thought.

Crossing to the kitchen, she warned Lily not to enter the sitting room, and herself slipped upstairs to the baby. Stefan slept till dinner time, and for the rest of the evening was unusually kind and quiet.

As they went up to bed Mary turned wistfully to him.

"Wouldn't you like to look at Elliston? You haven't seen him for a long time."

"Bless me, I suppose I haven't—let's take a peep at him."

Together they bent over the cradle. "Why, he's looking quite human. I think he must have grown!" his father whispered, apparently surprised. "Does he make much noise at night nowadays, Mary?"

"No, hardly any. He just whimpers at about two o'clock, and I get up and nurse him. Then he sleeps till after six."

"If you don't mind, then," said Stefan, "I think I will sleep with you to-night. I feel as if it would rest me."

"Of course, dearest." She felt herself blushing. Was she really going to be loved again? She smiled happily at him.

When they were in bed Stefan curled up childishly, and putting one arm about her, fell asleep almost instantly, his head upon her shoulder. Mary lay, too happy for sleep, listening to his quiet breathing, until her shoulder ached and throbbed under his head. She would not move for fear of waking him, and remained wide-eyed and motionless until her baby's voice called to her.

Then, with infinite care, she slipped away, her arm and shoulder numb, but her heart lighter than it had been for many weeks.

She had forgotten to put out her dressing gown, and would not open the closet door, because it creaked. Little Elliston was leisurely over his repast, and she was stiff with cold when at last she stole back into bed. Stefan lay upon his side. She crept close, and in her turn put an arm about him. He was here again, her man, and her child was close at hand, warm and comforted from her breast. Love was all about her, and to-night she was not mocked. Warm again from his touch, she, too, fell at last, with all the dreaming house, asleep.



III

Stefan stayed at home for several days, sleeping long hours, and seemingly unusually subdued. He would lie reading on the sofa while Mary wrote, and often she turned from her manuscript to find him dozing. They took a few walks together, during which he rarely spoke, but seemed glad of her silent company. Once he called with her on Mrs. Farraday, and actually held an enormous skein of wool for the old lady while she, busily winding, told them anecdotes of her son James, and of her long dead husband. He made no effort to talk, seeming content to sit receptive under the soothing flow of her reminiscences.

"Thee is a good boy," said the little lady, patting his hand kindly as the last shred of wool was wound.

"I'm afraid not, ma'am," said he, dropping quaintly into the address of his childhood. "I'm just a rudderless boat staggering under topheavy sails."

"Thee has a sure harbor, son," she answered, turning her gentle eyes on Mary.

He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he rose and kissed the little lady's hand.

"You are one of those who never lose their harbor, Mrs. Farraday. We're all glad to lower sail in yours."

On the way home Mary linked her arm in his.

"You were so sweet to her, dear," she said.

"You're wondering why I can't always be like that, eh, Mary!"

She laughed and nodded, pressing his arm.

"Well, I can't, worse luck," he answered, frowning.

That evening, while they sat in the dining room over their dessert, the telephone bell rang. Stefan jumped hastily to answer it, as if he felt sure it was for him, and he proved right.

"Yes, this is I," he replied, after his first "hello," in what seemed to Mary an artificial voice.

There was a pause; then she heard him say, "You can?" delightedly, followed by "To-morrow morning at ten? Hurrah! No more wasted time; we shall really get on now." Another pause, then, "Oh, what does it matter about the store?" impatiently—and at last "Well, to-morrow, anyway. Yes. Good-bye." The receiver clicked into place, and Stefan came skipping back into the room radiant, his languor of the last few days completely gone.

Mary's heart sank like a stone. It was too obvious that he had stayed at home, not to be with her, but merely because his sitter was unobtainable.

"Cheers, Mary; back to work to-morrow," he exclaimed, attacking his dessert with vigor. "I've been slacking shamefully, but Felicity is so wrapped up in that store of hers I can't get her half the time. Now she's contrite, and is going to sit to-morrow."

Mary, remembering his remark about McEwan, longed to say, "Why do you call that little vulgarian by her first name?" but retaliatory methods were impossible to her. She contented herself with asking if he would be home the next evening.

"Why, yes, I expect so," he answered, looking vague, "but don't absolutely count on me, Mary. I've been very good this week."

She saw that he was gone again. His return had been more in the body than the spirit, after all. If that had been wooed a little back to her it had winged away again at the first sound of the telephone. She told herself that it was only his work calling him, that he would have been equally eager over any other sitter. But she was not sure.

"Brace up, Mary," he called across at her, "you're not being deserted. Good heavens, I must work!" His impatient frown was gathering. She collected herself, smiled cheerfully, and rose, telling Lily they would have coffee in the sitting room.

He spent the evening before the fire, smoking, and making thumbnail sketches on a piece of notepaper. She sang for some time, but without eliciting any comment from him. When they went up to bed he stopped at his own door.

"I think I'll sleep alone to-night, dear. I want to be fresh to-morrow. Good night," and he kissed her cheek.

When she came down in the morning he had already gone. Lying on the sitting room table, where it had been placed by the careful Lily, lay the scrap of notepaper he had been scribbling on the night before. It was covered with tiny heads, and figures of mermaids, dancing nymphs, and dryads. All in face or figure suggested Felicity Berber.

She laid it back on the table, dropping a heavy book over it. A little later, while she was giving Elliston his bath, it suddenly occurred to Mary that her husband had never once during his stay alluded to her manuscript, and never looked at the baby except when she had asked him to. She excused him to herself with the plea of his temperament, and his absorption in his art, but nevertheless her heart was sore.

For the next few weeks Stefan came and went fitfully, announcing at one point that Miss Berber had ceased to pose for his fantastic study of her, called "The Nixie," but had consented to sit for a portrait.

"She's slippery—comes and goes, keeps me waiting interminably," he complained. "I can never be sure of her, but she's a wonderful model."

"What do you do while you're waiting for her?" asked Mary, who could not imagine Stefan enduring with equanimity such a tax upon his patience.

"Oh, there's tremendous work to be done on the Nixie still," he answered. "It's only her part in it that is finished."

One evening he came home with a grievance.

"That fool McEwan came to the studio to-day," he complained. "It was all I could do not to shut the door in his face. Of all the chuckleheads! What do you think he called the Nixie? 'A tricky piece of work!' Tricky!" Stefan kicked the fire disgustedly. "And it's the best thing I've done!"

"As for the portrait, he said it was 'fine and dandy,' the idiot. And the maddening thing was," he went on, turning to Mary, and uncovering the real source of his offense, "that Felicity positively encouraged him! Why, the man must have sat there talking with her for an hour. I could not paint a stroke, and he didn't go till I had said so three times!" completed Stefan, looking positively ferocious. "What in the fiend's name, Mary, did she do it for?" He collapsed on the sofa beside her, like a child bereft of a toy. Mary could not help laughing at his tragic air.

"I suppose she did it to annoy, because she knew it teased," she suggested.

"How I loathe fooling and play-acting!" he exclaimed disgustedly. "Thank God, Mary, you are sincere. One knows where one is with you!"

He seemed thoroughly upset. Miss Berber's pin-prick must have been severe, Mary thought, if it resulted in a compliment for her.

The next evening, Mary being alone, Wallace dropped in. For some time they talked of Jamie and Elliston, and of Mary's book.

He was Scotch to-night, as he usually was now when they were alone together. Cheerful as ever, his cheer was yet slow and solid—the comedian was not in evidence.

"Hae ye been up yet to see the new pictures?" he asked presently. She shook her head.

"Ye should go, bairn, they're a fine key. Clever as the devil, but naething true about them. After the Danae-piff!" and he snapped his fingers. "Ye hae no call to worry, you're the hub, Mary—let the wheel spin a wee while!"

She blushed. "Wallace, I believe you're a wizard—or a detective."

"The Scottish Sherlock, eh?" he grinned. "Weel, it's as I tell ye—tak my word for't. Hae ye seen Mrs. Elliot lately?"

"No, Constance went up to their place in Vermont in June, you know. She came down purposely for Elliston's christening, the dear. She writes me she'll be back in a few days now, but says she's sick of New York, and would stay where she is if it weren't for suffrage."

"But she would na'," said McEwan emphatically.

"No, I don't think so, either. But she sees more of Theodore while she stays away, because he feels it his duty to run up every few days and protect her against savage New England, whereas when she's in town she could drive her car into the subway excavations and he'd never know it. I'm quoting verbatim," Mary laughed.

McEwan nodded appreciatively. "She's a grand card."

"She pretends to be flippant about husbands," Mary went on, "but as a matter of fact she cares much more for hers than for her sons, or anything in the world, except perhaps the Cause."

"That's as it should be," the other nodded.

"I don't know." There was a puzzled note in Mary's voice. "I can't understand the son's taking such a distinctly second place."

McEwan's face expanded into one of his huge smiles. "It's true, ye could not. That's the way God made ye, and I'll tell ye about that, too, some day," he said, rising to go.

"Good-bye, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, as she saw him out.

Before going to bed that night Mary examined her conscience. Why had she not been to town to see Stefan's work? She knew that the baby—whose feeding times now came less frequently—was no longer an adequate excuse. She had blamed Stefan in her heart for his indifference to her work—was she not becoming guilty of the same neglect? Was she not in danger of a worse fault, the mean and vulgar fault of jealousy? She felt herself flushing at the thought.

Two days later Mary put on her last year's suit, now a little shabby, kissed the baby, importuned the beaming Lily to be careful of him, and drove to the train in one of the village livery stable's inconceivably decrepit coupes.

It was about twelve o 'clock when she arrived at the studio, and, ringing the bell, mounted the well-known stairs with a heart which, in spite of herself, beat anxiously. Stefan opened the door irritably, but his frown changed to a look of astonishment, followed by an exuberant smile, as he saw who it was.

"Here comes Demeter," he cried, calling into the room behind him. "Why, Mary, I'm honored. Has Elliston actually released his prisoner at last?" He drew her into the studio, and kissed her almost with ostentation.

"Let's suspend the sitting, Felicity," he cried, "and show our work."

Mary looked about her. Her old home was almost unchanged. There was the painted bureau, the divan, the big easel, the model throne where she had posed as Danae. It was unchanged, yet how different. From the throne stepped down a small svelt figure-it rippled toward her, its gown shimmering like a fire seen through water. It was Felicity, and her dress was made from the great piece of oriental silk Stefan had bought when they were first married, and which they had used as a cover for their couch.

Mary recognized it instantly—there could be no mistake. She stared stupidly, unable to find speech, while Miss Berber's tones were wafted to her like an echo from cooing doves.