WHOM THE GODS 
 DESTROYED 
 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPHINE DODGE DASKAM 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 MDCCCCII
 
 Copyright, 1902, by Charks Scnbners Sons 
 
 Published, October, 1902 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
 NEW YORK
 
 K. W. 
 
 WITH THE FRIENDSHIP OF 
 
 MANY YEARS 
 
 J. D. D.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 /. Whom the Gods Destroyed 1 
 
 //. A Wind Flower 29 
 
 ///. When Pippa Passed 67 
 
 IV. The Backsliding of Harriet Blake 101 
 
 V. A Bayard of Broadway 127 
 
 VI. A Little Brother of the Books 157 
 
 VII. The Maid of the Mill 189 
 
 VIII. The Twilight Guests
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 rp, //>C 
 
 J. HE most high gods have decided that too 
 
 much power over the hearts of men shall not be 
 given to other men, for then the givers are for 
 gotten in the gift and the smoke dies away from 
 the altars. So they kill the men who play with 
 souls. According to an ancient saying, before they 
 destroy the victim they make him mad. There are, 
 however, modifications of the process. Occasionally 
 they make him drunk. 
 
 As I came down the board-walk that leads to 
 
 the ocean, I saw by his staggering and swaying 
 
 L gait that the man was not only very drunk indeed, 
 
 X. but that he gloried in the fact. This was shown 
 
 *} 
 , by his brandishing arms and tossing head and 
 
 the defiant air with which he regarded the cot 
 tages, before one of which he paused, leaned for 
 ward, placing one hand dramatically at his ear, 
 and presently executed a wild dance of what was 
 apparently derision. A timid woman would have
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 retreated, but I am not timid, except when I am 
 alone in the dark. Also I have what my brother- 
 in-law calls Bohemian tastes. As nearly as I have 
 been able to understand that phrase, it signifies 
 a great interest in people, especially when they 
 are at all odd. And this solitary, scornful dance 
 of a ragged man before the Averys' cottage was 
 odd in the extreme. 
 
 So I walked quietly along. When I reached the 
 man I heard him muttering rapidly to himself, 
 while he rested from the exertion of his late per 
 formance. What did dancing drunken men talk 
 about? I walked slower. My brother-in-law says 
 that a woman with any respect for the proprieties, 
 
 ! , to say nothing of the conventions, would never 
 have done this. I have observed, however, that his 
 
 . feelings for the proprieties and the conventions, 
 both of them, have on occasion suffered relapse, 
 more especially at those times, prior to his mar 
 riage to my sister, when I, although supposed to 
 be walking and riding and rowing and naphtha- 
 launching with them, was frequently and inex 
 cusably absent. So I gather that the proprieties 
 
 4
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 and the conventions, like many other things, are 
 relative. 
 
 As I passed the man he turned and looked 
 crossly at me and spoke apparently to some one far 
 away behind me, for he spoke with much force. 
 
 "Did you ever hear such damn foolishness?" he 
 demanded. Now there was nothing to hear but 
 Miss Kitty Avery playing Chopin's Fourth Bal 
 lade in F minor. She played it badly, of course, 
 but nobody who knew Kitty Avery would have 
 imagined that she would play otherwise than 
 badly, and I have heard so much bad playing that 
 I didn't notice it very much anyway. I thought 
 it hardly probable that the man should know how 
 unfortunate Kitty's method and selection were, so 
 I passed directly by. Soon I heard his steps, and 
 I knew he was coming after me. While he was 
 yet some distance behind me he spoke again. 
 
 "I suppose that fool of a woman thinks she can 
 play," he growled as he lurched against a lamp 
 post. Then I did the unpardonable deed. I turned 
 and answered him. 
 
 "How do you know it's a woman?" I asked. 
 5
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 "Huh! Take me for a fool, don't you?" he said 
 scornfully, scuffling along unsteadily. "I'm drunk 
 as an owl, but I'm no fool! No. I know it's a 
 woman from the pawin' 'round she does. Bah! 
 Thinks she's playin'. Damn nonsense!" He sat 
 down carefully on the sand by the side of the walk 
 and wagged his head knowingly. I looked cau 
 tiously about. No one was in sight. I bent down 
 and untied my shoe. 
 
 "Perhaps you could play it better?" I sug 
 gested sweetly. His jaw dropped with consterna 
 tion. 
 
 "Play it better! Oh, Lord! She says can I play 
 it better! Can-I-play-it-better? Well, I'll tell you 
 one thing. If I couldn't play it better, d'ye know 
 what I'd do? Do you?" 
 
 "No," said I, and tied my shoe. He didn't talk 
 thickly as they do in books. On the contrary, he 
 brought out each word with a particularly clear 
 and final utterance. 
 
 "Well, I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go off and 
 drown my sorrers in drink ! Yes, I would. Although 
 I'm so drunk that I wouldn't know when I was 
 
 6
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 getting drunk on principle and when I was just 
 plain drunk. Le' me tell you somethin' : Tm drunk 
 now!" He announced the fact with a gravity so 
 colossal as to render laughter impossible. I untied 
 the other shoe. 
 
 "Can you really play Chopin?" I said. He 
 shook his fist at the Avery cottage. 
 
 "What I can't play of Chopin you never heard 
 played! So that's the end o' that," he said. The 
 folly of the situation suddenly became clear to me. 
 I hastily tied my shoe and turned to go. He half 
 rose from the sand, but sank helplessly back. 
 
 "Look here," he said confidentially, "I'm tired, 
 and I need m' rest. I got to have rest. We all need 
 rest. If you want to hear me play, you come to 
 the old hulk of a barn that's got the piano in it. 
 They call it the auditorium au-di-to-ri-um." He 
 pronounced the syllables as if to a child of three. 
 "I'll be there. You come before supper. I'll be rest 
 ed then. I'd like to shoot that woman thinks she 
 can play damn nonsense " I went on to the 
 beach.
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 II 
 
 MY brother-in-law came down on the afternoon 
 boat, and of course he occupied our attention. His 
 theories, though often absurd, are certainly well 
 sustained. For instance, his ideas as to the con 
 nection between genius and insanity. He says 
 but I don't know why I speak of it. I defeated 
 him utterly. At length I left the room. I hate a 
 man who won't give up when he's beaten. I found 
 the Nice Boy on the piazza, and we sat and talked. 
 Really a charming fellow. And not so very young, 
 either. He told fascinating tales of a shipwreck 
 he'd experienced, where they sat on the bow as the 
 boat went down and traded sandwiches. 
 
 "I gave Hunter two hams for a chicken, and 
 it was a mean swindle!" he said reminiscently. 
 "Speaking of sandwiches, I gave a chap ten cents 
 to buy one this afternoon. Awfully seedy look 
 ing. Shabby clothes, stubbly beard, dirty hands, 
 not half sober, and what do you think he said?" 
 I remembered and blushed. 
 
 "I don't know," I murmured. 
 8
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 "He invited me to a recital a piano recital! 
 He said he was going to play at five-thirty in the 
 auditorium, and I might come if I liked, though 
 it was a private affair ! How is that for nerve ? He 
 didn't look up to a hand organ." 
 
 My curiosity grew. And then, I had a great 
 consciousness of not liking to disappoint even a 
 drunken man. He evidently thought I was com 
 ing. I sketched lightly to the Nice Boy the affair 
 of the morning. He was not shocked. He was 
 amused. But my brother-in-law says that nothing 
 I could say could shock the Nice Boy. In fact, he 
 says, that if I mean nothing serious, I have no 
 business to let the Nice Boy think but that is a 
 digression. It is one of my brother-in-law's pre 
 rogatives to be as impertinent as he cares to be. 
 
 "Shall we go over?" said I. "He is very prob 
 ably an accompanist, stranded here, with his en 
 gagement ended. Perhaps he even plays well. 
 These things happen in books." The Nice Boy 
 shook his head. 
 
 "We'll go, by all means," he said, "but don't 
 hope. He's not touched a piano this long time." 
 
 9
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 So we gathered some shawls and cushions and 
 went over. The building was all dusty and smelled 
 of pine. As we stumbled in, the sound of a piano 
 met us. I own I was a bit excited. For one doubt 
 ful second I listened, ready to adore. Then I 
 laughed nervously. We were not people in a book. 
 It was Mendelssohn's "Spring Song," played 
 rather slowly and with a mournful correctness. I 
 could feel the player's fingers thudding down on 
 the keys one played it so when it was neces 
 sary to use the notes. The Nice Boy smiled con 
 solingly. 
 
 "Too bad," he whispered. "Shall we go out 
 now ?" 
 
 "I should like to view the fragments of the 
 idol!" I whispered back. "Let's end the illusion 
 by seeing him!" 
 
 So we tip-toed up to the benches, and looked 
 at the platform where the Steinway stood. 
 Twirling on the stool sat a girl of seventeen 
 or so, peering out into the gloom at us. It was 
 very startling. Now I felt that the strain was yet 
 to come. As I sank into one of the chairs a man 
 
 10
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 rose slowly from a seat under the platform. It 
 was the stranger. He nodded jauntily at us. 
 
 "Good thing you come," he announced cheer 
 fully. "I don't know how long I could stand that 
 girl. I guess she's related to the other," and he 
 shambled up the steps. His unsteady walk, his shak 
 ing hand, as he clumsily pushed the chairs out of 
 the way, told their disagreeable story. He walked 
 straight up to the girl, and looking beyond her, 
 said easily, "Excuse me, miss, but I'm goin' to play 
 a little for some friends o' mine, an' I'll have to ask 
 you to quit for a while." The girl looked unde 
 cidedly from him to us, but we had nothing to 
 say. 
 
 "Come, come," he added impatiently, "you can 
 bang all you want in a few minutes, with nobody 
 to disturb you. Jus' now I'm goin' to do my own 
 turn." 
 
 His assurance was so perfect, his intention to 
 command obedience so evident, that the child got 
 up and went slowly down the stairs, more curious 
 than angry. The man swept the music from the 
 rack, and lifted the top of the piano to its full 
 
 11
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 height. Then with an impatient twitch he spun the 
 music-stool a few inches lower, and pulled it out. 
 The Nice Boy leaned over to me. 
 
 "The preparations are imposing, anyhow," he 
 whispered. But I did not laugh. I felt nervous. 
 To be disappointed again would be too cruel! I 
 watched the soiled, untidy figure collapse onto 
 the stool. Then I shut my eyes, to hear without 
 prejudice of sight the opening triple-octave scale 
 of the professional pianist. For with such assur 
 ance as he showed he should at least be able to 
 play the scales. 
 
 The hall seemed so large and dim, I was so 
 alone I was glad of the Nice Boy. Suppose it 
 should all be a horrible plot, and the tramp should 
 rush down with a revolver? Suppose and then I 
 stopped thinking. For from far-away somewhere 
 came the softest, sweetest song. A woman was sing 
 ing. Nearer and nearer she came, over the hills, 
 in the lovely early morning; louder and louder she 
 sang and it was the "Spring Song"! Now she 
 was with us young, clear-eyed, happy, bursting 
 into delicious flights of laughter between the bars.
 
 WHOM THE GOD'S DESTROYED 
 
 Her eyes, I know, were grey. She did not run or 
 leap she came steadily on, with a swift, strong, 
 swaying, lilting motion. She was all odorous of the 
 morning, all vocal with the spring. Her voice 
 laughed even while she sang, and the perfect, 
 smooth succession of the separate sounds was un 
 like any effect I have ever heard. Now she passed 
 she was gone by. Softer, fainter, ah, she was 
 gone! No, she turned her head, tossed us flowers, 
 and sang again, turned, and singing, left us. 
 One moment of soft echo and then it was still. 
 
 I breathed for the first time since I heard her, 
 I thought. I opened my eyes. It was all black be 
 fore them, they had been closed so long. I did not 
 dare look at the Nice Boy. There was absolutely 
 nothing for him to say, but I was afraid he would 
 try to say it. He was staring at the platform. His 
 mouth was open, his eyes very large. Without 
 turning his face towards me, he said solemnly, 
 "And I gave him ten cents for a sandwich! Ten 
 cents for a sandwich !" 
 
 Suddenly I heard sobs heavy, awkward sobs. 
 I looked behind me. The girl had dropped for-
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 ward on to the chair in front and was hysterically 
 chattering into her handkerchief. 
 
 "/ played that ! 7 played that !" she wailed. "Oh, 
 he heard me! he did, he did!" I felt horribly 
 ashamed for her. How she must feel! A child can 
 
 * 
 
 suffer so. 
 
 But the man at the piano gave a little chuckle 
 of satisfaction, and ran his hands up and down 
 the keys in a delirium of scales and arpeggios. 
 Then he hit heavily a deep, low note. It was like 
 a great, bass trumpet. A crashing chord: and 
 then the love-song of Germany and musicians 
 caught me up to heaven, or wherever people go 
 who love that tune perhaps it is to Germany 
 and I heard a great, magnificent man singing in a 
 great, magnificent baritone, the song that won 
 Clara Schumann's heart. 
 
 Schubert sang sweetly, wonderfully. I cry like 
 a baby when one sings the Serenade even fairly 
 well. And dear Franz Abt has made most loving 
 melodies. But they were musicians singing, this 
 was a man. "Du me'me Liebe, du!" that was no 
 piano; it was a voice. And yet no human voice 
 14
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 could be at once so limpid and so rich, so thrilling 
 and so clear. And now it crashed out in chords 
 heavy, broken harmony. All the rapture of posses 
 sion, the very absolute of human joy were there 
 but these are words, and that was love and music. 
 
 I don't in the least know how long it lasted. 
 There was no time for me. The god at the piano 
 repeated it again and again, I think, as it is never 
 repeated in the singing, and always should be. I 
 know that the tears rolled over my cheeks and 
 dropped into my lap. I have a vague remembrance 
 of the Nice Boy's enthusiastically and brokenly 
 begging me to marry him to-night and go to Ven 
 ice with him to-morrow, and my ecstatically con 
 senting to that or anything else. I am sure he held 
 my hand during that period, for the rings cut in 
 so the next day. And I think indeed I am quite 
 certain but why consider one's self responsible for 
 such things? At any rate, it has never happened 
 since. 
 
 And when it was over we went up hand in hand, 
 and the Nice Boy said, "What what is your 
 your name?" And I stared at him, expecting to 
 
 15
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 see his dirty clothes drop off, and his trailing 
 clouds of glory wrap him 'round before he van 
 ished from our eyes. His heavy eyebrows bent to 
 gether. His knees shook the piano-stool. He was 
 labouring under an intense excitement. But I think 
 he was pleased at our faces. 
 
 "What what the devil does it matter to you 
 what I'm named?'* he said roughly. 
 
 "Oh, it doesn't matter at all, not at all," I said 
 
 meekly; "only we wanted, we wanted " And 
 
 then, like that chit of seventeen, I cried, too. I am 
 such a fool about music. 
 
 "Now you know what I mean when I say I can 
 play," he growled savagely. He seemed really ter 
 ribly excited, even angry. "I'll play one thing 
 more. Then you go home. When I think o' what 
 I might have done, great God, I can't die till I've 
 shown 'em! Can I? Can I die? You hear me! You 
 see" his face was livid. His eyes gleamed like 
 coals. I ought to have been afraid, but I wasn't. 
 
 "You shall show them!" I gasped. "You shall! 
 Will you play for the hotel? We can fill this place 
 
 for you. We can " 
 
 16
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 "Oh, you shut up!" he snarled. "You! I've 
 played to thousands, I have. You don't know any 
 thing about it. It's this devil's drink that's killin' 
 me. It ruined me in Vienna. It spoiled the whole 
 thing in Paris. It's goin' to kill me." His voice 
 rose to a shriek. He dropped from the stool, and 
 from his pocket fell a bottle. The Nice Boy gave 
 a queer little sob. 
 
 "Oh, it's dreadful, dreadful!" he whispered to 
 himself. He jumped up on the platform and seized 
 the man's shoulder. 
 
 "Come, come," he said. "We'll help you. Come, 
 be a man! You stay here with us, and we'll take 
 care of you. Such a gift as yours shall not go for 
 nothing. Come over to the hotel, and I'll get you 
 a bed." 
 
 The man staggered up. He was much older 
 than I had thought. There were deep, disagree 
 able lines in his face. There was a coarseness, too 
 but, oh, that "Spring Song"! Now, how can 
 that be? My brother-in-law says but this is not 
 his story. The man got onto the seat somehow. 
 
 "You're a decent fellow," he said. "When I've 
 17
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 done playing, you go out. Right straight out. 
 D'ye hear? I'll come see you to-morrow morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Then he shut his eyes and felt for the keys, 
 and played the Chopin Berceuse. And it is an 
 actual fact that I wanted to die then. Not sud 
 denly but jtjgt to be rocked into rest, rocked into 
 rest, and not wake up any more. It was the purest, 
 sweetest, most inexpressibly touching thing I ever 
 heard. I felt so young so trustful, somehow. I 
 knew that no harm would come. And then it sang 
 itself to sleep, and we went away and left him, 
 with his head resting on his hands that still pressed 
 the keys. And we never spoke. I think the girl 
 came out with us, but I'm not sure. 
 
 At the door the Nice Boy gulped, and said in a 
 queer, shaky voice, "I'm not nearly good enough to 
 have sat by you I know that you seem so far 
 away but I want to tell you." And I said that he 
 was much better than I that none of us were good 
 that I thought it would be all right in the end 
 that after all it was being managed better 
 than we could arrange it that perhaps heaven 
 
 18
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 was more like what we used to think than what 
 we think now. There is no knowing what we might 
 have said if my brother-in-law had not come down 
 to see where I was. And then I went to sleep like 
 a baby. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I SHOULD like to end the story here. I should 
 like to leave him boWed over the keys and remem 
 ber only the most exquisite experience of my life 
 in connection with him. But there is the rest of 
 the tale, and it really needs telling. 
 
 I didn't see the end. The Nice Boy and my 
 brother-in-law saw that, and I only know as much 
 as they will tell me. The Nice Boy went over and 
 got him the next morning. He said his name was 
 Decker. He said that he had spent the night in 
 the solemnest watching and praying, and he had 
 held the bottle in his hands and never touched a 
 drop of it. They gave him a bath and clothes, and 
 fed him steadily for two days. He grew fat before 
 our eyes. He looked nicer, more respectable, but 
 
 19
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 more commonplace. He refused to touch the 
 piano, because it gave him such a craving for 
 drink. 
 
 He -hated to talk about himself. But he let slip 
 occasional remarks about London and Paris and 
 Vienna and Leipsic that took away one's breath. 
 He must have known strange people. Once he told 
 me a little story about Clara Schumann that im 
 plied more than acquaintance, and he quoted Liszt 
 constantly. He was an American beyond a doubt, 
 we thought. He spoke vaguely of a secret that 
 even Liszt had missed. I guessed it was connected 
 with that wonderful singing quality that made 
 the instrument a human voice under his fingers. 
 When I asked him about it he laughed. 
 
 "You wait," he said confidently: "You just 
 wait. I'll show you people something to make you 
 open your eyes. I know. You're a good audience, 
 you and your friend. You make a good air to 
 play in. You just wait." 
 
 And I have waited. But never again shall I hear 
 that lovely girl sing across the hills. Never again 
 will my heart grow big, and ache and melt, and 
 20
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 slip away to that song, "Du, Meine Leibe, Du." 
 Oh, it was not of this earth, that music. Perhaps 
 when I die I shall hear the Berceuse echo I think 
 it may be so. 
 
 Well, we got them all together. There must have 
 been a thousand. They came from across the bay 
 and all along the inlet. The piano was tuned, and 
 the people were seated, and I was just where we 
 were that night, and Mr. Decker was walking be 
 hind the little curtain in a new dress-suit. He had 
 shaken hands with me just before. His hands were 
 cold as ice and they trembled in mine. I congratu 
 lated him on the presence of Herr H from 
 
 Leipsic, who had been miraculously discovered just 
 
 across the bay ; and Mr. J of New York, who 
 
 could place him musically in the most desirable 
 fashion; and asked him not to forget me, his 
 first audience, and his most sincere friend and 
 admirer. 
 
 In his eyes I could swear I saw fright. Not ner 
 vousness, not stage fear, but sheer, appalling ter 
 ror. It could not be, I thought, and my brother- 
 in-law told me to go down. Then he stepped to
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 the front and told them all how pleased, how 
 proud and delighted he was to be the means of 
 introducing to them one whom he confidently 
 trusted would leave this stage to-night one of the 
 recognised pianists of the world. He described 
 briefly the man's extraordinary effect upon two of 
 his friends, who were not, he was good enough to 
 say, likely to be mistaken in their musical esti 
 mates. He hoped that they all appreciated their 
 good fortune in being the first people in this part 
 of the world to hear Mr. Decker, and he took great 
 pleasure in introducing him. 
 
 At this point Mr. Decker should have come for 
 ward. As he did not, my brother-in-law stepped 
 back to get him. He found the Nice Boy alone in 
 the room behind the stage, looking distinctly ner 
 vous. He explained that Mr. Decker had gone out 
 for a moment to get the air he was naturaDy a 
 bit excited, and the room was close. My brother- 
 in-law said nothing, and they waited a few min 
 utes in strained silence. Finally they walked about 
 the room looking at each other. 
 
 "Do you think it was quite wise to let him go?" 
 22
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 said my brother-in-law, with compressed lips. The 
 Nice Boy is horribly afraid of my brother-in-law. 
 
 "I'll I'll go out and and get him," he 
 gasped, and dashed out into the dark, cursing 
 himself for a fool. This was unfortunate, for in 
 five seconds more Mr. Decker had reeled into the 
 room. He explained in a very thick voice that he 
 had never been able to play without the drink; 
 that a little brandy set his fingers free, but that 
 he had taken too much and must rest. 
 
 When the Nice Boy got back he had brought 
 two great pails of cold water and a fresh dress- 
 shirt it was too late. The man lay in a heap on 
 the floor, and my brother-in-law stood, white and 
 raging, talking to the heap. The man was drunk- 
 enly, horribly asleep. The Boy said that the worst 
 five minutes he ever spent were those in which he 
 poured water over the heap on the floor and shook 
 it, my brother-in-law watching with an absolutely 
 indescribable expression ! 
 
 Then he got out on the platform and said some 
 thing. Mr. Decker had met with an accident 
 would some one get a doctor? was there perhaps 
 
 23
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 a doctor in the audience? they could realise his 
 position and more of that sort. 
 
 I knew well enough. When the doctor went in 
 he found the Boy shaking the drunken brute on 
 the floor, and they told the doctor all about it, 
 and then went out by the other door. And they 
 got a carriage and took Decker to the hotel. 
 
 I don't know it seemed not wholly his fault. 
 And his face showed that he had suffered. But 
 the men would hear nothing of that. My brother- 
 in-law says that for a woman who is really as 
 hard as nails I have more apparent and aesthetic 
 sympathy than any one he ever knew. And that 
 may be so. 
 
 The people took it very nicely. They cleared 
 the floor, and the younger ones danced and the 
 older ones talked, and the manager sent over ices 
 and coffee, and it turned out the affair of the 
 season. And they were all very grateful to my 
 brother-in-law and his friend, and quite forgot 
 about the strange artist. 
 
 Whether he ever fully realised what the even 
 ing had been we never knew, because when they
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 went in the next morning to see how he was, they 
 found him dead. The doctor said that the ex 
 citement, the terror, the sudden cutting off of 
 liquor, with the sudden wild drinking, were too 
 much for an overstrained heart, and that he had 
 probably died soon after he was carried to his 
 room. 
 
 It seemed to me a little sad that while they were 
 
 dancing, the man whom they had come to see . 
 
 But my brother-in-law says that I turn to the 
 morbid view of things, and that that was the very 
 blessing of the whole affair that the crowd 
 should have been so pleased, and that the horrible 
 situation should have ended so smoothly. Be 
 cause such a man is better dead, he says. And of 
 course he is right. Life would be horrible to him, 
 one can see. 
 
 But I have noticed that the Nice Boy and the 
 girl who heard him play do not feel so sure that 
 his death was best. For myself, I shall always feel 
 that the world has lost its musical master. I have 
 heard the music-makers of two generations, and 
 not one of them has excelled his exquisite light- 
 
 25
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 ness and force of touch, and that wonderful sing 
 ing stress oh! I could cry to think of it! And 
 when we go abroad next I shall find out the name 
 of the man who played in Leipsic and Paris and 
 Vienna for he must have played there once; he 
 said he had played to thousands and see if any 
 one there has heard of his secret, his wonderful 
 singing through the keys. 
 
 For, though my brother-in-law says that the 
 musical temperament in combination with a Bo 
 hemian tendency gives an emotional basis which 
 is absolutely unsafe and therefore untrustworthy 
 in its reports of actual facts, I know that the most 
 glorious music of my life gained nothing from my 
 imagination. For there were three of us who saw 
 the spring come over the hills that night. Three 
 of us heard the triumph-song of love incarnate, 
 and thrilled to it. Three of us knew for once a 
 peace that passed our understanding, and had 
 the comfort of little children in their mother's 
 arms. 
 
 And though it is not true, as my brother-in-law 
 insinuates, that a man need only be able to play 
 26
 
 WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED 
 
 my soul away in order to be ranked by me among 
 the angels, I shall continue to insist that some 
 where, somehow, the beautiful sounds he made are 
 accounted to him for just a little righteousness! 
 
 .
 
 A WIND FLOWER
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 I 
 
 W ILLARD'S landlady smile'd sympathetically 
 across the narrow breakfast-table. "I guess you've 
 got to stay in this mornin', Mr. Willard," she said. 
 "It's a good deal too raw and cold for you to be 
 out around, paintin', to-day." 
 
 Willard nodded. "Quite right, Mrs. Storrs," he 
 returned, and he smiled at his landlady's daughter, 
 who sat opposite. But she did not smile at him. 
 She continued her silent meal, looking for the most 
 part at her plate, and replying to direct questions 
 only by monosyllables. 
 
 She must be nineteen or twenty, he decided, but 
 her slender, curveless figure might have been that 
 of a girl several years younger. Her face was 
 absolutely without character to the casual glance 
 pale, slightly freckled, lighted by grey-green, 
 half-closed eyes, and framed in light brown hair. 
 Her lips were thin, and her rare smile did not dis- 
 
 31
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 close her teeth. Even her direct look, when he com 
 pelled it, was quite uninterested. 
 
 Her mother chattered with volubility of a woman 
 left much alone, and glad of an appreciative lis 
 tener, but the girl had not, of her own accord, 
 spoken a word during his week's stay. He won 
 dered as he thought of it why he had not noticed 
 it before, and decided that her silence was not ob 
 trusive, but only the outcome of her colourless 
 personality like the silence of the prim New Eng 
 land house itself. 
 
 He groaned inwardly. "What in time can I do? 
 Nothing to read within five miles: my last cigar 
 gone yesterday : this beastly weather driving me to 
 melancholia ! If she weren't such a stick heavens ! 
 I never knew a girl could be so thin !" 
 
 The girl in question rose and began clearing 
 the table. Her mother bustled out of the room, and 
 left Willard in the old-fashioned arm-chair by the 
 window, almost interested, as he wondered what the 
 girl would do or say now. After five minutes of 
 silence he realised the strange impression, or rather 
 the lack of impression, she made on him. He was
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 hardly conscious of a woman's presence. The in 
 tangible atmosphere of femininity that wraps 
 around a tete-a-tete with even the most unattrac 
 tive woman was wholly lacking. She seemed simply 
 a more or less intelligent human being. 
 
 Given greatly to analysis, he grew interested. 
 Why was this? She was not wanting intellectually, 
 he was sure. Such remarks as she had made in 
 answer to his own were not noticeable for stu 
 pidity or even stolidity of thought. He broke the 
 silence. 
 
 "What do you do with yourself, these days?" 
 he suggested. "I don't see you about at all. Are 
 you reading, or walking about these fascinating 
 Maine beaches?" 
 
 She did not even look up at him as she replied. 
 "I don't know as I do very much of anything. 
 I'm not very fond of reading at least, not these 
 books." 
 
 Remembering the "Pilgrim's Progress," "Book 
 of Martyrs," "Mrs. Heman's Poems," and the 
 "Adventures of Rev. James Hogan, Missionary 
 to the Heathen of Africa," that adorned the 
 
 33
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 marble-topped table in the parlour, he shuddered 
 sympathetically. 
 
 "But I walk a good deal," she volunteered. "I've 
 been all over that ledge you're painting." 
 
 "Isn't it beautiful?" he said. "It reminds me of 
 a poem I read somewhere about the beauty of 
 Appledore that's on this coast somewhere, too, 
 isn't it? You'd appreciate the poem, I'm sure do 
 you care for poetry?" 
 
 She piled the dishes on a tray, and carried it 
 through the door before he had time to take it 
 from her. 
 
 "No," she replied over her shoulder, "no, I don't 
 care for it. It seems so so smooth and shiny, 
 somehow." 
 
 "Smooth? shiny?" he smiled as she came back, 
 "I don't see." 
 
 Her high, rather indifferent voice fell in a slight 
 embarrassment, as she explained: "Oh, I mean the 
 rhymes and the verses they're so even and like a 
 clock ticking." 
 
 He took from his pocket a little red book. "Let 
 me read you this," he said eagerly, "and see if 
 34
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 you think it smooth and shiny. You must have 
 heard and seen what this man tries to tell." 
 
 She stood awkwardly by the table, her scant, 
 shapeless dress accentuating the straight lines of 
 her slim figure, her hands clasped loosely before 
 her, her face turned toward the window, which 
 rattled now and then at the gusts of the rising 
 wind. Willard held the little book easily between 
 thumb and finger, and read in clear, pleasant tones, 
 looking at her occasionally with interest: 
 
 "Fresh from his fastnesses, wholesome and spacious, 
 The north tvind, the mad huntsman, halloos on his white 
 
 hounds 
 
 Over the gray, roaring reaches and ridges, 
 The forest of Ocean, the chase of the world. 
 Hark to the peal of the pack in full cry, 
 As he thongs them before him, swarming voluminous, 
 Weltering, wide-wallowing, till in a ruining 
 Chaos of energy, hurled on their quarry, 
 They crash into foam!" 
 
 "There! is that smooth and shiny?" he de 
 manded. She had moved nearer, to catch more cer 
 tainly his least intonation. 
 
 35
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 Her hands twisted nervously, and to his sur 
 prise she smiled with unmistakable pleasure. 
 
 "Oh, no !" she half whispered, eyeing the book in 
 his hand wistfully. "Oh, no! That makes me feel 
 different. I I love the wind." 
 
 "What's that?" Mrs. Storrs entered quickly. 
 "Now, Sarah, you just stop that nonsense! Mr. 
 Willard, has she been tellin' you any foolish 
 ness ?" 
 
 "Miss Storrs had only told me that she liked 
 the wind," he replied, hoping that the woman 
 would go, and let him develop at leisure what 
 promised to be a most interesting situation. She 
 had really very pretty, even teeth, and when she 
 smiled her lips curved pleasantly. 
 
 But Mrs. Storrs was not to be evaded. She had 
 evidently a grievance to set forth, and looking 
 reproachfully at her daughter, continued : 
 
 "Ever since Sarah was five or six years old she's 
 had that crazy likin' for the wind. 'Tain't natural, 
 I say, and when the gales that we hev up here strike 
 us, the least anybody can do 's to stay in the house 
 and thank Providence they've got a. house to stay 
 36
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 in! Why, Mr. Willard, you'd never think it to 
 look at her, for she's a real quiet girl too quiet, 
 seems to me, sometimes, when I'm just put to it 
 for somebody to be social with but in thet big 
 gale of eighty-eight she was out all night in it, 
 and me and her father that was before Mr. 
 Storrs died nearly crazy with fearin' she was lost 
 for good. And when she was six years old, she 
 got up from her crib and went out on the beach 
 in her little nightgown, and nothin' else, and it's 
 a miracle she didn't die of pneumonia, if not of 
 bein' blown to death." 
 
 Mrs. Storrs stopped for breath, and Willard 
 glanced at the girl, wondering if she would ap 
 pear disconcerted or angry at such unlooked-for 
 revelation of her eccentricity; but her face had 
 settled into its usual impassive lines, and she dusted 
 the chairs serenely, turning now and then to look 
 fixedly through the window at the swaying elm 
 whose boughs leaned to the ground under the still 
 rising wind. 
 
 Her mother was evidently relieving the strain 
 of an enforced silence, and sitting stiffly in her 
 
 37
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 chair, as one not accustomed to the luxury of idle 
 conversation, she continued: 
 
 "And even now, when she's old enough to know 
 hetter, you'd think, she acts possessed. Any wind 
 storm '11 set her off, but when the spring gales 
 come, she'll just roam 'round the house, back and 
 forth, staring out of doors, and me as nervous 
 as a cat all the while. Just because I won't let 
 her go out she acts like a child. Why, last year 
 I had to go out and drag her in by main force; 
 I was nearly blown off the cliff gettin' her 
 home. And she was singin', calm, as if she 
 was in her bed like any decent person! It's the 
 most unnatural thing I ever heard of! Now, 
 Sarah Storrs," as the girl was slipping from the 
 room, "you remember you promised me not to go 
 out this year after supper, if the wind was 
 high. You mind, now! It's comin' up an awful 
 blow." 
 
 The girl turned abruptly. "I never promised 
 
 you that, mother," she said quickly. "I said I 
 
 wouldn't if I could help it, and if I can't help it, 
 
 I can't, and that's all there is to it." The door 
 
 38
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 closed behind her, and shortly afterwards Willard 
 left Mrs. Storrs in possession of the room. 
 
 The day affected him strangely. The steady 
 low moan of the wind was by this time very notice 
 able. It was not cold, only clear and rather keen, 
 and the scurrying grey clouds , looked chillier than 
 one found the air on going out. The boom of the 
 surf carried a sinister threat with it, and the birds 
 drove helplessly with the wind-current, as if escap 
 ing some dreaded thing behind them. 
 
 Indoors, the state of affairs was not much better : 
 Mrs. Storrs looked injured; her sister, a lady of 
 uncertain years and temper, talked of sudden 
 deaths, and the probability of premature burial, 
 pointed by the relation of actual occurrences of 
 that nature; Sarah was not to be seen. At last he 
 could bear idleness no longer, and opening the 
 dusty melodeon, tried to drown the dreary minor 
 music of the wind by some cheerful selection from 
 the hymn-book Mrs. Storrs brought him, having 
 a vague idea that secular music was out of keep 
 ing with the character of that instrument. After 
 a few moments' aimless fingering the keys he found
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 himself pedalling a laborious accompaniment to 
 the "Dead March" from Saul, and closed the 
 wheezy little organ in despair. 
 
 The long day dragged somehow by, and at 
 supper Sarah appeared, if anything, whiter and 
 more uninteresting than ever, only to retire im 
 mediately when the meal was over. 
 
 "I might's well tell you, Mr. Willard, that you 
 c'n give up all hope of paintin* any more this 
 week," announced Mrs. Storrs, as the door closed 
 behind her daughter. "This wind's good for a 
 week, I guess. I'm sorry to have you go, but I 
 shouldn't feel honest not to tell you." Mentally 
 vowing to leave the next morning, Willard thanked 
 her, and explained that the study was far enough 
 advanced to be completed at his studio in the city, 
 and that he had intended leaving very shortly. 
 
 II 
 
 A FEW moments later, as he stood at the window 
 in the parlour, looking at the waving elm-boughs 
 and lazily wondering how the moon could be so 
 bright when there were so many clouds, the soft 
 40
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 swish of a woman's skirt sounded close to his ear. 
 As he turned, the frightened "Oh!" and the little 
 gasp of surprised femininity revealed Sarah, stand 
 ing near the table in the centre of the room. Even 
 at that distance and in the dark he was aware of 
 a difference in her, a subtle element of personality 
 not present before. 
 
 "Did I frighten you?" he asked, coming nearer. 
 
 "No, not very much. Only I thought nobody 
 would be here. I I wanted some place to breathe 
 in; it seems so tight and close in the house." As 
 she spoke, a violent blast of wind drove the shut 
 ters against the side of the house and rubbed to 
 gether the branches of the elm until they creaked 
 dismally. She pressed her face against the glass 
 and stared out into the dark. 
 
 "Don't you love it?" she questioned, almost 
 eagerly. 
 
 Willard shook his head dubiously. "Don't know. 
 Looks pretty cool. If it gets much higher, I 
 shouldn't care to walk far." 
 
 She took her old place by the table again, but 
 soon left it, and wandered restlessly about the 
 
 41
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 room. As she passed him he was conscious of a 
 distinct physical impression a kind of electric 
 presence. She seemed to gather and hold about her 
 all the faint light of the cold room, and the sweep 
 of her skirt against his foot seemed to draw him 
 toward her. Suddenly she stopped her irregular 
 march. 
 
 "Hear it sing!" she whispered. 
 
 The now distinct voice of the wind grew to a 
 long, minor wail, that rose and fell with rhythmic 
 regularity. As she paused with uplifted finger near 
 him, Willard felt with amazement a compelling 
 force, a personality more intense, for the time, than 
 his own. Then, as the blast, with a shriek that 
 echoed for a moment with startling distinctness 
 from every side, dashed the elm branches against 
 thi> house itself, she turned abruptly and left the 
 room. "Stay here!" she said shortly, and, resisting 
 the impulse to follow her, he obeyed. In a few mo 
 ments she returned with a heavy shawl wrapped 
 over her head and shoulders. 
 
 "Hold the window open for me," she said, " I'm 
 going out." He attempted remonstrance, but she
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 waved him impatiently away. "I can't get out of 
 the door mother's locked it and taken the key, 
 but you can hold up the window while I get out. 
 Oh, come yourself, if you like! But nothing can 
 happen to me." 
 
 Mechanically he held open the window as she 
 slipped out, and, dragging his overcoat after him, 
 scrambled through himself. She was waiting for 
 him at the corner of the house, and as he stumbled 
 in the unfamiliar shadows, held out her hand. 
 
 "Here, take hold of my hand," she commanded. 
 Her cool, slim ^rasp was strangely pleasant, as 
 she hurried along with a smooth, gliding motion, 
 wholly unlike her indifferent gait of the day be 
 fore. 
 
 Once out of the shelter of the house, the storm 
 struck them with full force, and Willard realised 
 that he was well-nigh strangled in the clutches of 
 a genuine Maine gale. 
 
 "What folly!" he gasped, crowding his hat 
 over his eyes and struggling to gain his wonted 
 consciousness of superiority. "Come back instantly, 
 
 Miss Storrs ! Your mother " 
 
 43
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 "Come! come!" she interrupted, pulling him 
 along. 
 
 He stared at her in amazement. Her eyes were 
 wide open and almost black with excitement. Her 
 face gleamed like ivory in the cold light. Her lips 
 were parted and curved in a happy smile. Her 
 slender body swayed easily with the wind that 
 nearly bent Willard double. She seemed unreal 
 a phantom of the storm, a veritable wind-spirit. 
 Her loosened hair flew across his face, and its touch 
 completed the strange thrill that her hand-clasp 
 brought. He followed unresistingly. 
 
 "Aren't you afraid of the woods ?" he 
 gasped, the gusts tearing the words from his lips, 
 as he saw that she was making for the thick growth 
 of trees that bordered the cliff. Her high, light 
 laughter almost frightened him, so weird and un- 
 human it came to him on the wind. 
 
 "Why should I be afraid? The woods are so 
 beautiful in a storm ! They bow and nod and throw 
 their branches about oh, they're best of all, 
 then!" 
 
 A sweeping blast nearly threw him down, and 
 44
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 he instinctively dropped her hand, since there was 
 no possible feeling of protection for her, her foot 
 ing was so sure, her balance so perfect. As he 
 righted himself and staggered to the shelter of 
 the tree under which she was standing, he stopped, 
 lost in wonder and admiration. She had impa 
 tiently thrown off the shawl and stood in a gleam 
 of moonlight under the tree. Her long, straight 
 hair flew out in two fluttering wisps at either side ; 
 her straight, fine brows, her dark, long lashes, her 
 slender, curved mouth were painted against her 
 pale face in clear relief. Her eyes were widely 
 open, the pupils dark and gleaming. It seemed to 
 his excited glance that rays of light streamed from 
 them to him. "Heavens! she's a beauty! If only 
 I could catch that pose!" he said under his 
 breath. 
 
 "Come!" she called to him again, "we're wast 
 ing time! I want to get to the cliff!" He pressed 
 on to her, but she slipped around the tree and 
 eluded him, keeping a little in advance as he 
 panted on, fighting with all the force of a fairly 
 powerful man against the gale that seemed to 
 
 45
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 offer her no resistance. It occurred to him, as he 
 watched with a greedy artist's eye the almost un 
 natural ease and lightness of her walk, that she 
 caught intuitively the turns of the wind, guiding 
 along currents and channels unknown to him, for 
 she seemed with it always, never against it. Once 
 she threw out both her arms in an abandon of 
 delight, and actually leaned on the gust that 
 tossed him against a tree, b&ffled and wearied with 
 his efforts to keep pace with her, and confusedly 
 wondering if he would wake soon from this im 
 probable dream. 
 
 Speech was impossible. The whistling of the 
 wind alone was deafening, and his voice was blown 
 in twenty directions when he attempted to call her. 
 Small twigs lashed his face, slippery boughs glided 
 from his grasp, and the trees fled by in a thick- 
 grown crowd to his dazed eyes. To his right, a 
 birch suddenly fell with a snapping crash. He 
 leaped to one side, only to feel about his face a 
 blinding storm of pattering acorns from the great 
 oak that with a rending sigh and swish tottered 
 through the air at his left. 
 46
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 "Good God!" he cried in terror, as he saw her 
 standing apparently in its track. A veer in the 
 gale altered the direction of the great trunk, that 
 sank to the ground across her path. As it fell, 
 with an indescribable, swaying bound she leaped 
 from the ground, and before it quite touched the 
 earth she rested lightly upon it. She seemed abso 
 lutely unreal a dryad of the windy wood. All 
 fear for her left himi. As she stood poised on the 
 still trembling trunk, a quick gust blew out her 
 skirt to a bubble on one side, and drove it close to 
 her slender body on the other, while her loose hair 
 streamed like a banner along the wind. She curved 
 her figure towards him and made a cup of one 
 hand, laying it beside her opened lips. What she 
 said he did not hear. He was rapt in delighted 
 wonder at the consummate grace of her attitude, 
 the perfect poise of her body. She was a figure 
 in a Greek frieze a bas-relief a breathing 
 statue. 
 
 Unable to make him hear, she turned slightly 
 and pointed ahead. He realised the effect of the 
 Wingless Victory in its unbroken beauty. She was 
 
 47
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 not a woman, but an incarnate art, a miracle of 
 changing line and curve, a ceaseless inspira 
 tion. 
 
 Suddenly he heard the pound and boom of the 
 surf. In an ecstasy of impatience she hurried back, 
 seized his hand, and fairly dragged him on. The 
 crash of the waves and the wind together took 
 from him all power of connected thought. He 
 clung to her hand like a child, and when she threw 
 herself down on her face to breathe, he grasped 
 her dress and panted in her ear: "We can't get 
 much farther unless you can walk 
 the Atlantic!" She smiled happily back at 
 him, and the thickness of her hair, blown by the 
 wind from the ocean about his face, brought him 
 a strange, unspeakable content. 
 
 "Shall we ever go back?" he whispered, half to 
 himself. "Or will you float down the cliff and wake 
 me by your going?" 
 
 Her wide, dark eyes answered him silently. "It 
 
 is like a dream, though," her high, sweet voice 
 
 added. And then he realised that she had hardly 
 
 spoken since they left the house. The house? As 
 
 48
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 in a dream he tried vaguely to connect this Undine 
 of the wood with the girl whose body she had 
 stolen for this night's pranks. As in a dream he 
 rose and followed her back, through the howling, 
 sweeping wind. Her cold, slim hand held his; her 
 light, shrill voice sang little snatches of songs 
 hymns, he remembered afterward. As the moon 
 light fell on her, he wondered dreamily why he 
 had thought her too thin. And all the while he 
 fought, half -unconsciously, the resistless gale, that 
 spared him only when he yielded utterly. 
 
 The house gleamed white and square before 
 them. Silently he raised the window for her. He 
 had no thought of lifting her in. That she should 
 slip lightly through was of course. The house was 
 still lighted, and he heard the creaking of her 
 mother's rocking-chair in the bedroom over his 
 head. He looked at his watch. "Does her mother 
 rock all night?" he thought dully, for it was 
 nearly twelve. She read his question from the per 
 plexed glance he threw at her. 
 
 "She's sitting up to watch the door so that I 
 sha'n't get out," she whispered quietly, without 
 
 49
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 a smile. "Good-bye." And he stood alone in the 
 room. 
 
 Until late the next morning he wandered in 
 strange, wearied, yet fascinating dreams with her. 
 Vague sounds, as of high-pitched reproaches and 
 quiet sobbing, mingled with his morning dreams, 
 and when, with aching head and thoroughly be 
 wildered brain, he went to his late breakfast, Mrs. 
 Storrs served him; only as he left for the 
 train, possessed by a longing for the great, busy 
 city of his daily work, did he see her daughter, 
 walking listlessly about the house. Her freckled 
 face was paler than ever, her half -closed eyes red 
 dened, and her slight, awkward bow in recognition 
 of his puzzled salute might have been directed to 
 some one behind him. Only his aching head and 
 wearied feet assured him that the strangest night 
 of his life had been no dream. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THAT his studio should seem bare and uninter 
 esting as he threw open the door, and tried to 
 kindle a fire in the dusty stove, did not surprise 
 50
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 him. That the sketches and studies in colour should 
 look tame and flat to the eye that had been fed 
 for two weeks with Maine surf, angry clouds, and 
 swaying branches, was perhaps only natural. But 
 as the days went on and he failed to get in train 
 for work a puzzled wonder slowly grew in him. 
 Why was it that the picture dragged so? He re 
 membered perfectly the look of the beach, the feel 
 of the cold, hungry water, the heavy, grey clouds, 
 the primitive, forbidding austerity that a while 
 ago he had been so confidently eager to put on the 
 canvas. Why was it that he sat for hours together 
 helplessly staring at it? His friends supposed him 
 wrapped in his subject, working under a high 
 pressure, and considerately left him alone; they 
 would have marvelled greatly had they seen him 
 glowering moodily at the merest study of the sub 
 ject he had described so vividly to them, smoking 
 countless packages of cigarettes, hardly lifting his 
 hand from his chair-arm. 
 
 Once he threw down a handful of brushes and 
 started out for a tramp. It occurred to him that 
 the city sights and smells, the endless hum and 
 
 51
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 roar, the rapid pace of the crowded streets would 
 tone him up and set his thoughts in a new line; 
 he was tired of the whistling gales and tossing 
 trunks and booming surf that haunted his nights 
 and confused his days. A block away from the 
 studio a flower-woman met him with a tray of 
 daffodils and late crocuses. A sudden puff of wind 
 blew out her scant, thin skirt; a tree in the centre 
 of the park they were crossing bent to it, the 
 branches creaked faintly. The fresh, earthy odour 
 of the flowers moved him strangely. He bought a 
 bunch, turned, and went back to the studio, 
 to sit for an hour gazing sightlessly ahead of 
 him. 
 
 Suddenly he started up and approached the 
 sketch. 
 
 "It wants wind," he muttered, half uncon 
 sciously, and fell to work. An hour passed, two, 
 three he still painted rapidly. Just as the light 
 was fading a thunderous knock at the door ushered 
 in the two men he knew best. He nodded vaguely, 
 and they crossed the room in silence and looked 
 at the picture. For a few moments no one spoke.
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 Presently Willard took a brush from his mouth 
 and faced them. 
 
 "Well?" he said. 
 
 The older man shook his head. "Queer sky!" 
 he answered briefly. 
 
 The younger looked questioningly at Willard. 
 "You'll have to get a gait on }^ou if you hope to 
 beat Morris with that," he said. "What's up, 
 Willard? Don't you want that prize?" 
 
 "Of course I do." His voice sounded dull, even 
 to himself. "You aren't any too sympathetic, you 
 fellows " he tried to feel injured. 
 
 The older man came nearer. "What's that white 
 thing there ? Good Lord, Will, you're not going to 
 try a figure " 
 
 Willard brushed rapidly over the shadowy out 
 line. "No that was just a sketch. The whole 
 thing's just a sort of " 
 
 "The whole thing's just a bluff!" interrupted 
 the younger man, decidedly. "It's not what you 
 told us about at all and it's not good, anyway. 
 It looks as if a tornado had struck it! You said it 
 was to be late afternoon it's nearer midnight, as 
 
 53
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 far as I can see! What's that tree lying around 
 for?" 
 
 His tone was abusive, but a genuine concern and 
 surprise was underneath it. He looked furtively at 
 his older friend behind Willard's back. The other 
 shook his head expressively. 
 
 Willard bit his lip. "I only wanted to try it 
 won't necessarily stay that way," he explained. 
 He wished he cared more for what they said. He 
 wished they did not bore him so unspeakably. 
 More than all, he wished they would go. 
 
 The younger one whistled softly. "Pretty late 
 in the day to be making up your mind, I should 
 say," he remarked. "When's it going to dry 
 in? Morris has been working like a horse on his 
 for six weeks. He's coming on, too splendid 
 colour !" 
 
 Willard lit a cigarette. "Damn Morris !" he said 
 casually. The older man drew on his glove and 
 turned to go. 
 
 "Oh, certainly !" he replied cheerfully. "By all 
 means! No, we can't stay we only dropped in. 
 We just thought we'd see how you were getting 
 54
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 along. If I were you, Will, I'd make up my mind 
 about that intoxicated tree and set it up straight 
 good-bye !" 
 
 They went out cheerfully enough, but he knew 
 they were disappointed and hurt they had ex 
 pected so much from that picture. And he wished 
 he cared more. He looked at it critically. Of course 
 it was bad, but how could they tell what he had 
 been doing? It was the plan of months changed 
 utterly in three hours. The result was ridiculous, 
 but he needed it no longer he knew what he 
 wanted now, what he had been fighting against all 
 these days. He would paint it if he could and 
 till he could. The insistent artist-passion to ex 
 press even bunglingly something of the unendur 
 able beauty of that strange night was on him, 
 and before the echo of his guests' departure had 
 died away he was working as he had never worked 
 before, the old picture lying unnoticed in the cor 
 ner where he had thrown it. 
 
 He needed no models, he did not use his studies. 
 Was it not printed on his brain, was it not etched 
 into his heart, that weird vision of the storm, with 
 
 55
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 the floating fairy creature that hardly touched the 
 earth? Was there a lovely curve in all her melting 
 postures, which slipped like water circles into new 
 shapes, that he did not know? That haunting, 
 elf-like look, that ineffably exquisite abandon, had 
 he not studied it greedily then in the wood, and 
 later, in his restless dreams? The trees were sen 
 tient, the bushes put out clasping fingers to detain 
 him, the wind shrieked out its angry soul at him ; 
 and she, the white wonder with her floating wisps 
 of stinging hair, had joined with them to mock at 
 him, the startled witness of that mad revel of all 
 the elements. He knew all this he was drunk with 
 it: could he paint it? Or would people see only a 
 strange-eyed girl dancing in a wood? 
 
 He did not know how many days he had been 
 at work on it; he ate what the cleaning-woman 
 brought him; his face was bristled with a stubby 
 growth ; the cigarette boxes strewed the floor. Men 
 appeared at the door, and he urged them peevishly 
 to go away ; people brought messages, and he said 
 he was not in town, and returned the notes unread. 
 In the morning he smiled and breathed hard and 
 56
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 patted the easel; at night he bit his nails and 
 cursed himself for a colour-blind fool. 
 
 There was a white birch, strained and bent in 
 the wind, that troubled him still, and as he was 
 giving it the last touches, in the cold, strong after 
 noon light, the door burst open. 
 
 "Look here, the thing closes at six! Are you 
 crazy?" they called to him, exasperatedly. "Aren't 
 you going to send it?" 
 
 "That's all right, that's all right," he muttered 
 vaguely, "shut up, can't you?" 
 
 They stood over behind him, and there was a 
 stillness in the room. He laid down his palette 
 carefully and turned to them, a worried look on 
 his drawn, bristled face. 
 
 "That's meant to be the ocean beyond the cliff 
 there," he said, an almost childlike fear in his eyes, 
 "did did you know it?" 
 
 The older man drew in a long breath. 
 
 "Lord, yes! I hear it!" he returned, "do you 
 think we're deaf?" 
 
 The younger one squinted at various distances, 
 muttering to himself. 
 
 57
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 "Dryad? Undine? No, she frightens you, but 
 she's sweet! George! He's painted the wind! He's 
 actually drawn a wind! My, but it's stunning! 
 
 My!" 
 
 Willard sank into a chair. He was flushed and 
 his legs shook. He patted the terrier unsteadily 
 and talked to her. "Well, then! Well, then! So 
 she was, iss, so she was!" 
 
 The older man snapped his watch. "Five- 
 thirty," he said. "Put something 'round it, and 
 whistle a cab we'll have to hurry!" 
 
 Willard fingered some dead crocuses on the 
 stand beside him. "Look out, you fool, it's wet !" 
 he growled. The older man patted his shoulder. 
 
 "All right, boy, all right!" he said soothingly. 
 "It's all done, now never mind!" 
 
 They shouldered it out of the door while he 
 pulled the terrier's ears. 
 
 "Where you going?" they called. 
 
 " Turkish bath. Restaurant. Vaudeville," he an 
 swered, and they nodded. 
 
 "All alone?" 
 
 "Yes, thanks. Drop in to-morrow!" 
 58
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 " And drive like thunder!" he heard them 
 
 through the open window. 
 
 A week later he was walking up Broadway be 
 tween them, sniffing the fresh, sweet air comfort 
 ably, the terrier at his heels. At intervals they 
 read him bits from the enthusiastic comments of 
 the critics. 
 
 "Mr. Willard, whose 'Windflower' distanced all 
 competitors and won the Minot prize by a unani 
 mous verdict of the judges, has displayed, aside 
 from his thorough master of technic, a breadth 
 of atmosphere, an imaginative range rarely if ever 
 equalled by an American. Nothing but the work 
 itself, so manifestly idealistic in subject and treat 
 ment, could convince us that it is not a study from 
 life, so keen, so haunting is the impression pro 
 duced by the remarkable figure of the Spirit of 
 the Gale, who seems to sink before our eyes on the 
 falling trunk, literally riding the storm. In direct 
 contrast to this abandon of the figure is the ad 
 mirable reticence of the background which is keyed 
 so low " 
 
 Willard stopped abruptly before the window of 
 59
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 a large art establishment where a photograph of 
 the picture was already displayed. "I want one 
 of those," he said, "and I'm going out into the 
 country for a bit before I sail, I think." 
 
 "Oh, back there?" they asked, comprehensively. 
 
 "Yes, back there!" 
 
 IV 
 
 As the train rushed along he explained to him 
 self why he was going why he had not merely 
 sent the photograph. He wanted to see her, to 
 brush away the cloud of illusion that the weeks 
 had spun around her. He wanted to realise defi 
 nitely the difference between the pale, silent, un 
 formed New England girl and the fascinating 
 personality of his picture. Ever since he left her 
 they had grown confused, these two that his com 
 mon sense told him were so different, and he was 
 beginning to dread the unavowed hope that for 
 him, at least, they might be some day one. The 
 same passionate power that had thrown mystery 
 and beauty into colour on the canvas wove sweet, 
 60
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 wild dreams around what he contemptuously told 
 himself was little better than a lay figure, but he 
 yielded to it now as he had then. 
 
 When he told himself that he was going pur 
 posely to hear her talk, to see her flat, unlovely 
 figure, to appreciate her utter lack of charm, of 
 all vitality, he realised that it was a cruel errand. 
 But when he felt the sharp thrill that he suffered 
 even in anticipation as his quick imagination pict 
 ured the dream-cloud dropping off from her, actu 
 ally before his eyes, he believed the journey more 
 than ever a necessary one. 
 
 F As he walked up the little country street his 
 heart beat fast; the greening lawns, the fresh, 
 faint odours, the ageless, unnamable appeal of the 
 spring stirred his blood and thrilled him inexpres 
 sibly. He was yet in the first flush of his success; 
 his whole nature was relaxed and sensitive to every 
 joy; he let himself drift on the sweet confused 
 expectancy, the delicious folly, the hope that he 
 was to find his dream, his inspiration, his spirit of 
 the wind and wood. 
 
 A child passed him with a great bunch of daf- 
 61
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 fodils and stopped to watch him long after he had 
 passed, wondering at the silver in her hand. 
 
 At the familiar gate a tall, thin woman's figure 
 stopped his heart a second, and as a fitful gust 
 blew out her apron and tossed her shawl over her 
 head, he felt his breath come more quickly. 
 
 "Good heavens !" he muttered, "what folly ! Am 
 
 I never to see a woman's skirt blown without " 
 
 She put the shawl back as he neared her it 
 was Mrs. Storrs's sister. She met his outstretched 
 hand with a blank stare. Suddenly her face 
 twitched convulsively. 
 
 "O Mr. Willard! O Mr. Willard!" she cried, 
 and burst into tears. 
 
 The wind blew sharper, the elm tree near the 
 window creaked, a dull pain grew in him. 
 
 "What is it?" What's the matter?" he said 
 brusquely. 
 
 "I suppose you ain't heard you wouldn't be 
 apt to!" she sobbed, and pushing back the locks 
 the wind drove into her reddened eyes, she broke 
 into incoherent sentences: he heard her as one in 
 a dream. 
 
 62
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 "And she would go 'twas the twenty-fifth 
 there was dozens o' trees blown down 'twas just 
 before dark her mother, she ran out after her 
 as soon's she knew she called, but she didn't hear 
 she saw her on the edge o' the rocks, an' she 
 almost got up to her an' screamed, an' it scared 
 her, we think she turned 'round quick, an' she 
 went right off the cliff an' her mother saw her go 
 'twas awful!" 
 
 Willard's eyes went beyond her to the woods; 
 the woman's voice, with its high, flat intonation, 
 brought the past so vividly before him that he 
 was unconscious of the actual scene he lived 
 through the quick, terrible drama with the inten 
 sity of a witness of it. 
 
 "No, they haven't found her yet the surf's too 
 high. We always had a feeling she wouldn't live 
 she wasn't like other girls " 
 
 Half unconsciously he unwrapped the photo 
 graph. 
 
 "I I brought this," he said dully. The woman 
 blanched and clutched the gate-post. 
 
 "Oh, take it away ! Take it away !" she gasped,
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 a real terror in her eyes. "O Mr. Willard, how 
 could you it's awful! I I wouldn't have her 
 mother see it for all the world!" Her sobs grew 
 uncontrollable. 
 
 He bent it slowly across and thrust it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 "No, no," he said soothingly, "of course not, 
 of course not. I only wanted to tell you all 
 that it took the prize I told you about and and 
 was a good thing for me. I hoped I hoped " 
 
 He saw that she was trembling in the sudden 
 cold wind, and held out his hand. 
 
 "This has been a great shock to me," he said 
 quietly, his eyes still on the woods. "Please tell Mrs. 
 Storrs how I sympathise how startled I was. I 
 am going abroad in a few days. I will send you my 
 address, and if there is ever anything I can do, you 
 will gratify me more than you can know by letting 
 me help you in any way. Give her these," and he 
 thrust out the great bunch of daffodils to her. 
 She took them, still crying softly, and turned 
 towards the house. 
 
 Later he found himself in the woods near the 
 64
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 great oak that lay just as it had fallen that night. 
 Beneath all the confused tumult of his thoughts 
 one clear truth rang like a bell, one bitter-sweet 
 certainty that caught him smiling strangely as he 
 realised it! "She's won! She's won!" 
 
 There, while the branches swayed above him, 
 and the surf, sinister and monotonous, pounded 
 below, the vision that had made them both famous 
 melted into the elusive reality, and he lived again 
 with absolute abandonment that sweet mad night, 
 he felt again her hair blown about his face as he 
 lay on the windy cliff with the lady of his dreams. 
 
 For him her fate was not dreadful she could 
 not have died like other women. There was an in 
 toxication in her sudden taking away: she was 
 rapt out of life as she would have wished, he knew. 
 
 Slowly there grew upon him a frightened won 
 der if she had lived for this. Her actual life had 
 been so empty, so unreal, so concentrated in those 
 piercing stolen moments; she had ended it, once 
 the heart of it had been caught and fixed to give 
 to others faint thrills of all she had felt so utterly. 
 
 "She died for it!" he felt, with a kind of awe 
 65
 
 A WIND FLOWER 
 
 that was far from all personal vanity the blame 
 less egoism of the artist. 
 
 He left the little town hardly consciously. On 
 his outward voyage, when the gale beat the 
 vessel and the wind howled to the thundering 
 waves, he came to know that though a love more 
 real, a passion less elusive, might one day hold 
 him, there would rest always in his heart and brain 
 one ceaseless inspiration, one strange, sweet mem 
 ory that nothing could efface. 
 
 66
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 MR. DEL AFIELD, stepping comfortably forth 
 from his club, had dined especially well, and was 
 in a correspondingly good humour. As the brisk 
 March wind swept across the corner just in front 
 of him, he meanwhile settling his glossy hat more 
 firmly on a fine, close-clipped grey head, a sud 
 den kindly impulse, not entirely usual with him, 
 sent him bending to his knee to pick up the fugi 
 tive slip of white, scribbled foolscap that fluttered 
 by him, hotly pursued by a slender young man. 
 
 " Thanks. Oh, thanks !" murmured the pursuer, 
 as Delafield, with a courteous inclination of the 
 head, tendered the captured slip. 
 
 "Not at all." A consciousness of the boy's quick 
 panting, his anxious tug at the paper, actually 
 an almost audible beating of the heart, drew the 
 older man to look carefully at him. A white, oval 
 face, drooping mouth, black, deep-set eyes that 
 fairly burned into his, compelled attention. 
 
 69
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "Important paper, I suppose?" he inquired 
 lightly. "Wouldn't want to lose it." 
 
 "No oh, no!" 
 
 "Get a wigging at the office?" 
 
 "It it's not they are my own it is a poem!" 
 stammered the young man. 
 
 Delafield chuckled involuntarily, and then, as a 
 quick red poured over the other's cheeks, he made 
 a hasty gesture of apology. 
 
 "No offence none at all, I assure you, Mr. 
 Mr. Poet! I was only taken by surprise. One 
 doesn't often assist a poet in catching his works!" 
 He laughed again, a contented after-dinner 
 laugh. 
 
 Then, as the young man fell behind him quietly, 
 the incident being over, an idle desire for company 
 prompted him to delay his own pace. 
 
 "Do you write much? Get it printed? Good 
 publisher?" he inquired genially. Few persons 
 could resist Lester Delafield's smile : his very butler 
 warmed to it, and the woman who retained her 
 reserve under it he had never met. 
 
 Again the young man blushed. "Published? No, 
 70
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 sir; I never dared to see I don't know if it's 
 worth being printed," he said. 
 
 "But you think it's pretty good, eh? I'll bet 
 you do. I used to. Let me see it. I'll tell you if 
 it's worth anything." 
 
 They had turned into a quieter cross-street; the 
 wind had passed them by. Standing under a street 
 light, benevolently amused at his impulse, Dela- 
 field tucked his stick under his arm, uncreased the 
 paper, and noted the title of the poem aloud: To 
 the Moon in a Stormy Night. His eyebrows lifted ; 
 he glanced quizzically at the young man, but met 
 such an earnest, searching look, so restrained, yet 
 so quivering, so terrified, yet so brave, that his 
 heart softened and he read on in silence. 
 
 A minute passed, two, three, and four. The man 
 read silently, the boy waited breathless in suspense. 
 The noisy, crowding city seemed to sweep by them, 
 leaving them stranded on this little point of time. 
 
 Mr. Delafield raised his eyes and regarded the 
 boy thoughtfully. 
 
 "You say you wrote this?" he demanded. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 71
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "When did you write it?" 
 
 "Last night." 
 
 "Have you any more like it?" 
 
 "I don't know if it's like it. I've got quite a 
 
 good deal more. What do you " He could get 
 
 no further. Drops of perspiration started from 
 his forehead. His mouth was drawn flat with 
 anxiety. 
 
 "This poetry," said Delafield, with a carefully 
 impersonal calm, "is very good. It is remarkably 
 good. It is stunning, in fact. 'And moored at last 
 in some pale bay of dawn" why did you stop 
 there? Isn't that rather abrupt?" 
 
 "That was when it ended. Do you really 
 think " 
 
 "I don't think anything about it. I know. You 
 have a future before you, my young friend. I 
 should like to see Good Lord, what is it?" 
 
 For the boy had twined his arms around the 
 lamp-post and was slowly sinking to the pave 
 ment. His face was ghastly white. Delafield 
 grasped his arm, and as their eyes met, the older 
 man drew a quick breath and scowled. 
 
 72
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "It's not because you're not when did you 
 have your lunch?" he demanded shortly. 
 
 The boy smiled weakly. 
 
 "And your breakfast?" 
 
 "Oh, I had that quite a little really I did!" 
 fie half whispered. 
 
 Delafield got him on his feet and around the 
 corner to a restaurant. As they entered, the smell 
 of the food weakened him again, and he staggered 
 against his friend, begging his pardon helplessly. 
 
 "Soup and hurry it up, it's immaterial what 
 kind," the host commanded. 
 
 As the boy gulped it down he made out a fur 
 ther order, and while the hot meat, vegetables, and 
 bread vanished and the strong, brown coffee low 
 ered in the cup, he lighted a long cigar and talked 
 with a quiet insistence. Later, when his guest 
 blinked drowsily behind a cloud of cigarette 
 smoke, he asked questions, marvelling at the sim 
 ple replies. 
 
 The boy's name was Henry West ; it was twenty- 
 two years since he had made his appearance in a 
 family already large enough to regard his advent 
 
 73 

 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 with a stoical endurance. His people all worked in 
 the mills in Lowell; he, too, till the noise and jar 
 gave him racking headaches. He made his first 
 verses in the mill. He had come to New York to 
 learn to be a clerk in a corner drug-store kept by 
 a distant cousin, but he couldn't seem to learn the 
 business. The names of the things were hard to 
 remember. His cousin said he was absent-minded. 
 And he had to read everything that was in sight : 
 if a thing was printed he seemed to have to read 
 it. He read books from the library and the night- 
 school when his cousin thought he was polishing 
 the soda-fountain. Of all the things he hated 
 and they were many the soda-fountain was the 
 worst. He wanted to study a great deal, but only 
 the studies he liked. Not algebra and geometry, 
 nor chemistry that made his head ache, but his 
 tory and poetry and French. He thought he 
 would like to know Italian, too. The family sup 
 posed he was still in the drug-store, but he had 
 quarrelled with his cousin and left it a month ago. 
 He stayed mostly in the library and helped the 
 janitor with sweeping and airing the rooms. The 
 
 74
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 janitor paid him a little to ease his own hours of 
 night-watching, and often asked him to supper. 
 He read nearly all day and wrote at night. It was 
 better than the mills or the drug-store. He sup 
 posed he was lazy his family always said he 
 was. 
 
 "Come to this address to-morrow afternoon and 
 bring the rest of your poetry with you," said 
 Delafield, "I have an engagement at nine. May I 
 keep this one till you come?" he shook the fools 
 cap significantly. The boy hesitated, almost im 
 perceptibly, then nodded. As Delafield left the 
 little table he did not rise with him, but sat with 
 his eyes fixed on the smoke-rings. 
 
 "They do not teach courtesy in the night- 
 schools, evidently," mused the older man, peering 
 for a cab; "but one can't have everything. My 
 manners have been on occasion commended but I 
 can't write poetry like that." 
 
 He tasted in advance the pleasure of reading 
 the poem to Anne: how her brown eyes would 
 dilate and glow, how eagerly her long, slender fin 
 gers would clasp and unclasp. People called her 
 75
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 cold, they told him; for his part he never could 
 see why. True, she was not kittenish, like the other 
 nieces ; she didn't try to flirt with her old uncle, as 
 Ellen's girls did; but what an enthusiasm for fine 
 things, what a quick, keen mind the child had! 
 Child Anne was twenty-five by now. Was it true 
 that she might never marry? Ellen said but then 
 Ellen was always a little jealous of poor Anne's 
 money. The girl couldn't help her legacies. Still, 
 at twenty-five perhaps it was true that she ex 
 pected too much, thought too seriously, reasoned 
 morbidly that they were after her money. 
 
 Seated opposite her in his favourite oak chair, 
 looking with a sudden impersonal appraisal at the 
 slender figure in clinging black lace, the cool pal 
 lor of the face under the smooth dark hair, the 
 rope of pearls that hung from her firm, girlish 
 shoulders, it dawned on him that there was some 
 thing wanting in this not quite sufficiently charm 
 ing piece of womanhood. She was too black-and- 
 white, too unswerving, too unflushed by life. 
 Humanity, with its countless moulding and colour 
 ing touches, seemed to slip away from either side 
 
 76
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 of her, like the waves from some proud young 
 prow, and fall behind. 
 
 "Yet she's not unsympathetic I swear she's 
 not!" he thought, as her eyes glowed to the poem 
 and her lips parted delightedly. 
 
 " 'And moored at last in some pale bay' Uncle 
 Les, isn't that beautiful! Not that it's really so 
 fine as the first part, but it's easier to remember. 
 And he was hungry? Oh, oh! And you discovered 
 him, didn't you?" 
 
 He nodded complacently. 
 
 "I'll bring you around the rest of the things 
 to-morrow. I knew you'd enjoy this, Anne. You 
 love really love this sort of thing, don't you?" 
 
 She nodded eagerly. 
 
 "But nothing else? Nobody you don't think 
 that perhaps you're letting after all, my dear, 
 life is something more than the beautiful things 
 you surround yourself with pictures and music 
 and poetry, and all that. It really is. There is so 
 much " 
 
 "There is one's religion," she said quietly and 
 not uncordially. But she had retreated intangibly 
 77
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 from him. She sat there, remote as her cold pearls, 
 as far from the rough, sweet uses of the world as 
 the priceless china in her cabinets. 
 
 "Oh, yes, of course, there is religion," he an 
 swered listlessly. 
 
 Two days later they sat, all three, in her library, 
 while West read them his poems. The two looked 
 at each other in amazement. Where had this un 
 trained factory boy got it all? What wonderful 
 voices had sung to him above the whirring of the 
 wheels; what delicate visions had risen through 
 the smoky pall of his sordid days? He wrote only 
 of Nature: the brown brook water in spring; 
 the pale, hurrying leaves of November; a bird 
 glimpsed through pink apple-blossoms; the full 
 river encircling a bending elm. In the vivid swift 
 ness of effect, the simple subtlety of treatment, 
 there was a recalling of the Japanese witchery of 
 suggestion; the faint tinge of sadness in every 
 poem left in the mind precisely the sweet regret 
 that the beauty of the world must always leave. 
 At the "Clearing Shower," perhaps the most com 
 pelling of all his work, quick drops started to the 
 
 78
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 girl's eyes, so intense was the vision of the moist, 
 green-breathing earth, the torn fleece of the 
 clouds, the broken chirping of frightened birds, 
 the softened, yellow light that reassures and sad 
 dens at once. His art was not Wordsworth's nor 
 Shelley's ; it was as if Keats had turned from hu 
 man passion and consecrated the beauty of his 
 verse to the beauty of Nature but simply, sadly, 
 and through a veil of Heine's tears. 
 
 Delafield nodded mutely to his niece, then 
 walked over to the boy. 
 
 "There will be plenty of people to tell you 
 later," he said, holding out his hand, "but let me 
 be the first. You are a genius, Mr. West, and your 
 country will be proud of your work some day. 
 There is no American to-day writing such poetry." 
 
 West took his hand awkwardly, not rising from 
 his chair. He fingered his manuscript nervously. 
 
 "I I wouldn't want to be laughed at," he de 
 murred. "Other folks mightn't be so kind as you. 
 If anybody laughed I it would just about kill 
 me !" he concluded, passionately. They smiled sym 
 pathetically at each other. 
 
 79
 
 WHEN PITPA PASSED 
 
 "But no one would laugh, I assure you, Mr. 
 West," Anne murmured, stooping to pick up a 
 scattered sheet. 
 
 He hardly noticed her. His eyes were fixed con 
 stantly on Delafield : the girl had made no impres 
 sion upon him whatever. Nor did the elegance of 
 the furnishings, the evidences of great wealth 
 everywhere arouse in him the least apparent curi 
 osity. Having no knowledge of the many grades 
 of material prosperity between his own meagre 
 surroundings and Anne Delafield's luxury, he ac 
 cepted the one as he had endured the other, his 
 mind quite removed from either, his eyes looking 
 beyond. 
 
 Anne had supposed that her uncle would carry 
 the poems to one of the leading magazines, but he 
 pooh-poohed the idea. 
 
 "I think not. We're not going to have the boy 
 mixed up with the hacks that turn out two or 
 three inches of rhymes to fill up a page in a maga 
 zine," he declared. "We'll have D drop in 
 
 some night and West shall read 'em to him. Then 
 
 we'll bring out a book. Here and in England 
 
 80
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 they'll like him there, or I'm much mis 
 taken." 
 
 In a month it seemed that they had always 
 known him. Intimacy was so impossible with his in- 
 turned, elusive nature, that to have him sitting 
 through hours of silence by the birch fire, ab 
 stracted, dreamy, inattentive, except to some 
 chance word that stirred his fancy, was to know 
 him well, to all intents. His nerves, dulled to all 
 great torments like poverty, hunger, obscurity, 
 quivered like violin strings under little unaccus 
 tomed jarrings. If interrupted in the reading of 
 his verses he would lose his control beyond belief; 
 a chance cough, the falling of an ember, put him 
 out of tune for hours. He possessed little sense of 
 humour, and the lightest satire turned him sulky. 
 A child might have teased him to madness; it was 
 evident to them that his utterly lonely life had 
 preserved him from constant torture at the hands 
 of associates. 
 
 Until the book was complete he refused to have 
 the great publisher brought to hear it read. Some 
 times for days they would not see him, then on 
 
 81
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 some rainy evening he would appear, lortely and 
 hungry, eager for the praise and warmth of 
 Anne's library, an exquisite poem in his pocket. 
 Served to repletion by the secretly scornful butler, 
 he would smoke a while, then draw out the sheet 
 of foolscap, and read in his nervous yet musical 
 voice the latest page of the book that was to bring 
 him fame. 
 
 On one such night it was when he brought 
 them "Dawn on the River," the only poem of 
 which Anne had a copy, and the one which a well- 
 known firm afterward printed under his photo 
 graph and sold by thousands at Easter-tide he 
 broke through the mist it was too impalpable to 
 be called a wall of reserve that held his person 
 ality apart from them, and talked wonderfully for 
 an hour. They seemed to see the clear soul of some 
 gentle, strayed fawn; his thoughts were like sum 
 mer clouds mirrored in a placid brook. All the 
 crowding, sweating humanity of his stunted boy 
 hood had flowed through his youth like an ugly 
 drain laid through a fresh mountain stream. He 
 seemed to have lived all his years with young 
 
 82
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 David on the hillside, and wealth and poverty, 
 crowds and loneliness, love and death were as far 
 from his life as if the vast procession of them all 
 that swept by him daily through the great city 
 had never been. 
 
 As he talked, Delafield found his eyes drawn 
 from the boy's face to Anne's. Never before had 
 he seen just that faint, steady rose in her cheeks, 
 that sweet glow in her eyes. As she leaned forward, 
 her very pearls seemed to catch a red tinge from 
 the fire: it occurred to him for the first time that 
 she looked like Ellen's girls there was a sugges 
 tion of Kitty in the curve of her cheek. 
 
 Was it possible that Anne no, it could not be. 
 To think of the men that had tried to come into 
 her life and failed such men ! And this boy, this 
 elf, to whom no woman was so real or so dear as 
 a tree in the glen! 
 
 For two weeks after that night he did not come. 
 Anne never mentioned his name, and Delafield, 
 doubtful of what that might portend, tried to be 
 lieve that she had forgotten him. Toward the end 
 of the second week she spoke of the completion of
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 his book, and suggested that her uncle should in 
 vite Mr. D : "Urge Henry to consent to it," 
 
 she added, "he will do anything for you, Uncle 
 Les." 
 
 "More than for you?" he asked. 
 
 "For me?" She flushed a little. "I doubt if he 
 distinguishes me from my portrait over the man 
 tel!" 
 
 "And you wish that he would," Delafield wanted 
 to reply, trying to remember if she had ever called 
 him "Henry" before. 
 
 On a warm April evening, when the windows 
 were open to catch the setting sun and the odour 
 of the blossoming window-boxes, he came at last. 
 As he stepped into the room, head erect, eyes wide 
 and bright, they became aware immediately of a 
 change in him. His glance was more conscious, 
 more alert, his hand-grasp more assured. 
 
 "You are in time to dine with us," Anne said, 
 with her grave smile, "we are all alone. Will you 
 stay?" 
 
 "Thanks, I can't stay, I'm going somewhere 
 else," he answered quickly. 
 
 84
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "And the new poem?" Delafield inquired, "did 
 you get it done? That was to be the last, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Oh! I haven't been writing lately," he ex 
 plained, blushing a little. "I've been too busy 
 that is, I've been too I've been thinking of some 
 thing else." He stood before them in the full light 
 of the late day; every expression in his sensitive, 
 mobile face showed clear. 
 
 "A perfectly wonderful thing has happened," 
 he burst out, "you couldn't understand. Nobody 
 can understand but me, and and " 
 
 "Who is she?" said Delafield bluntly. 
 
 "How did you know?" cried the boy, "have you 
 seen did she tell " 
 
 "Of course not. When did it happen?" 
 
 Delafield kept his face persistently from Anne's. 
 For the world he could not have looked at her. 
 
 "It was last week." West was smiling eagerly 
 at him, ignoring the woman's presence. 
 
 "I went into the grocer's to do an errand for 
 Mr. Swazey, and she was behind the little grat 
 ing you pay her. She is the cashier. I didn't take 
 
 85
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 my change, and she had to call me back, and we 
 dropped it all over the floor. She helped me pick 
 it up. Oh, if you could see her, Mr. Delafield !" 
 
 "Is she handsome?" 
 
 "She is a perfectly beautiful woman," said the 
 boy. 
 
 "Dear, dear!" murmured the older man. 
 
 "We are engaged, but her mother objects to 
 me. In fact in fact, her mother doesn't know that 
 she is engaged. She has been engaged before. But 
 she never really loved the man. Her mother doesn't 
 care for poetry " 
 
 At that word, Delafield, with a distinct effort, 
 connected this babbling druggist's clerk with his 
 poet of "The Clearing Shower." There could be 
 no doubt that they were the same person. As in 
 a dream he listened to the boy. 
 
 "And that's what I dropped in to see about. I 
 told her mother all you said about me being sure 
 to be well-off some day, and about the book being 
 published soon, and her brother, that's Pippa's 
 uncle " 
 
 "What name did you say?" 
 86
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "Pippa. That's her name. Philippa it is really; 
 she was named after the daughter of a lady her 
 mother nursed when she was sick, and so she named 
 her after this lady's daughter. But she couldn't 
 say it plain, you see, so she always called herself 
 Pippa for short, and so they all call her that still. 
 I suppose you never heard it before I never did." 
 
 "It is a strange name for a cashier," said Mr. 
 Delafield. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. Well, her Uncle Joseph is a ste 
 nographer in a newspaper office, and he knows a 
 good deal about this sort of thing, and he says 
 
 not to publish with the D s. He says they're 
 
 a poky firm and don't advertise enough. If I gave 
 
 the book to the L s they'd push it along, he 
 
 says. He says they'd make anything sell. The 
 
 D s wouldn't put up posters on bill-boards, 
 
 now, would they?" 
 
 "I suppose not," said Delafield. He felt unac 
 countably tired. He had not realised till now how 
 much his mind had been filled with Henry West 
 nnd his poetry, how much he had anticipated in 
 troducing his rare young protege. 
 
 87
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "And of course I want to do the best for my 
 self " 
 
 " Of course, beyond a doubt." 
 
 How could a person change so in two weeks? 
 What had turned that sensitive dreamer into this 
 bustling young lover? 
 
 "You see, sir, I've got a good many things to 
 consider," he smiled happily. 
 
 "Certainly, West, I appreciate that. At the 
 same time I doubt if you will do better with any 
 body than you can with Mr. D . It may be the 
 
 L s wouldn't want your book. It is not what 
 
 is known as a popular book, you know. Poetry 
 appeals to a limited public, and " 
 
 "L.i, well, it's all right. Only I thought you 
 might want to know what Uncle Joseph said, 
 that's all. I must go now," and he turned. 
 
 "Miss Delafield is still here," said her uncle, 
 coldly. 
 
 "Oh, good-night," West murmured, and left the 
 room. 
 
 "Is it really he?" Delafield hazarded, hardly 
 glancing at her. She met his look calmly. 
 
 88
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "At any rate the book is ready, which is the 
 principal thing, I suppose," she said. 
 
 He found himself illogically wishing she had 
 resented it more. "It was a mistake," he thought, 
 "she has no feeling for him." 
 
 Through the weeks that followed they avoided 
 mentioning his name, and each, trusting 1 that the 
 other would forget, thought of him in puzzled 
 silence. 
 
 When he came to them next, toward the end of 
 May, it seemed for a moment, as he flung himself 
 into a chair and stared moodily at the empty fire 
 place, that his old self had returned. Thin and 
 shabby, with dark rings under his eyes, he Ir ved 
 like the boy Delafield had warmed and fed that 
 cold March night. But his words undeceived them. 
 
 "I shall shoot myself if this doesn't stop," he 
 said bitterly. Anne started. 
 
 "Here, here, West, none of that," the older man 
 corrected, sharply. "That's no thing to say 
 what is the matter?" 
 
 "It's Pippa," he returned, simply. "She won't 
 marry me. I'll kill myself if she don't. I can't eat, 
 
 89
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 I can't sleep, I can't think. It cuts into me night 
 and day. You don't know how it kills me you 
 don't know!" 
 
 He writhed like a child in physical pain. His 
 face was distorted: he made no more effort to con 
 ceal his misery than his delight of weeks ago. 
 Delafield showed a little of his disgust. 
 
 "Come, come, West," he said, "control yourself. 
 This is no killing matter. Better men than you 
 have been thrown over before this. If she won't 
 have you, take it like a man, and get to work. 
 It's time your book was under way." 
 
 West stared dully at him. 
 
 "Book? book?" he repeated. "Oh, damn the 
 book! I'd throw it away this minute to feel her 
 arms around me! When I think of how we used 
 to sit in Uncle Joseph's hammock Oh, I can't 
 endure it, I can't!" 
 
 He leaned his head on his arms and rocked to 
 and fro in abject misery. 
 
 "She laughs at me just laughs at me!" he 
 moaned. "I'm ashamed to go near them." 
 
 "Keep away, then," said Delafield shortly. 
 90
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "I can't !" he fairly sobbed. 
 
 Anne spoke softly from a dim corner: 
 
 "Does she know about the book?" 
 
 "She doesn't care anything about it. She says 
 I better be getting a job somewhere. I I would, 
 if she'd marry me. I'd go to the drug-store!" 
 
 "Oh, no!" she breathed. 
 
 "If only she'd be engaged again," he muttered, 
 half to himself, "I'd finish the book, and then, 
 
 perhaps " He began to rock again. "But she 
 
 won't, she won't!" he wailed. 
 
 "If you will tell me where she lives," said Anne 
 quietly, and as if the conversation were to the last 
 degree conventional, "I will go to see her and 
 talk the matter over. Perhaps she doesn't under 
 stand " 
 
 "My dear Anne ! Are you mad ?" 
 
 As Delafield spoke, West interrupted: 
 
 "I'd rather Mr. Delafield would go," he said 
 quickly, "if if he would. Maybe she'd listen to 
 you." 
 
 "I will do nothing of the sort," Delafield re 
 turned angrily. "As if anything I could say 
 
 91
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 could compare with Miss Delafield's words! You 
 are an ungrateful little beast, West. A woman, 
 like Pippa herself, is the best person to under 
 stand the matter." 
 
 "All right," the boy assented wearily, "only 
 she isn't like Pippa, not a bit. Pippa's different." 
 
 Anne coloured deeply, and Delafield cursed the 
 day he met the boy. His niece he did not pretend to 
 understand. 
 
 The next afternoon, as he chafed in the stuffy 
 dining-room-parlour of the flat that was Pippa's 
 home, listening to the quarrelling of a half dozen 
 children on the dreary little roof-garden below 
 him as to who should swing in Uncle Joseph's ham 
 mock, he understood her less and less. What did 
 she expect to gain from this visit? Was she satis 
 fying her idea of duty or her curiosity ? How much 
 did she care, anyhow? 
 
 A steady murmur of voices came from a room 
 behind the one he occupied. The afternoon wore 
 on. He began to grow sleepy. 
 
 At last the door was flung open. Anne, looking 
 pale and tired, entered the room, followed by a
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 large, handsome girl with a heavy rope of auburn 
 hair twisted low over her forehead. She had a 
 frank, vulgar smile, and shallow, red-brown eyes. 
 In her plump, large-limbed beauty she was like a 
 well-kept cat. The day was damp and hot, and 
 her mussed white shirt-waist clung to her broad 
 curve of shoulder and breast. In her eyes, as she 
 smiled at him, was the quiet ease of a conscious 
 beauty. Beside her Anne seemed unimportant. 
 
 "I'm sorry about the book, Mr. Delafield," she 
 said, with a slow smile. "But I guess you don't 
 know Henry very well if you think any reasonable 
 girl would think of marrying him for a minute. 
 The gentleman I've been keeping company with 
 some time had a little misunderstanding with me, 
 and 'twas more or less to spite him, I guess, that 
 I got engaged to Henry. It never seemed to me 
 it mattered much either way." 
 
 "You have broken his heart," said Delafield 
 stiffly. 
 
 She looked vaguely at her short, fat fingers: 
 her hands were like a baby's in shape. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she said. "He's an awful
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 unreasonable fellow, Henry is. He gets into such 
 tantrums I don't dare tell him about Mr. Winch 
 that's the gentleman I was speaking of. We're 
 going to be married in the fall. He's in a livery- 
 stable : I guess you probably noticed it as you came 
 along Sixth Avenue Judd and Winch. He's only 
 junior partner, but he knows as much about run 
 ning a real swell funeral as any of the uptown 
 men Mr. Judd says so. Henry's afraid of a horse, 
 you know. It don't seem quite natural for a man 
 not to know about horses, does it, now?" 
 
 V;. 
 
 "If you had only waited till his book came out," 
 said Delafield tentatively. As he looked at her he 
 was conscious of *a ridiculous satisfaction that such 
 a fine woman should know her own mind so per 
 fectly. She was a very complete creature, in her 
 way. He realised that in this strangely assorted 
 quartette he and she were involuntarily on one 
 side of an intangible line, his niece and their unin 
 telligible protege on the other. 
 
 "Wait? But I did wait. I waited over a week," 
 she explained, "and then I couldn't stand it any 
 longer. He'd drive me to drink. For one thing, 
 
 94
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 she was so angry. Of course it excites the others 
 they haven't much to think about, you know 
 and I'm really growing nervous. Old William 
 Peterson, that gentle old man, preached a re 
 vivalist sermon day before yesterday, and got 
 them all stirred up, so that Mrs. Sheldon groaned 
 and cried all night, and kept Sarah Waters awake. 
 And when Sarah stays awake all night, there's 
 no living with her none!" 
 
 Mr. Freeland looked frankly puzzled. He was 
 not a particularly able man, and very far from 
 originality of any sort. His doctrinal position, 
 though always considered very solid, was some 
 what stereotyped, and he had never happened to 
 run against this peculiar form of apostasy. But he 
 was a kindly man, and very honestly convinced of 
 the responsibility of his position; moreover, he re 
 membered Harriet pleasantly ; he had thought her 
 a very nice old lady. So he took his little Bible out 
 of his pocket, and hoped that a desire to succeed 
 where Mr. Dent and Dr. Henshawe had failed 
 would not be accounted to him for unrighteous 
 ness. 
 
 109
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 Mrs. Markham led the way across the hall and 
 up the stairs. Before a door she paused to say, 
 "As long as Harriet is upset in this way she has 
 the room alone, because Mary Smith scolds her all 
 night for being so sinful, and it makes them both 
 cross. Mary is in the hall-room, and talks in her 
 sleep so that nobody can rest very well. It doesn't 
 disturb Harriet at all, she's such a sound sleeper, 
 and I wish she could go back ! You don't know 
 how this disturbs us! Remember that we have 
 prayer-meeting at half-past four," and she left 
 him alone before the door. 
 
 Mr. Freeland knocked loudly and entered. Be 
 fore him in the clean, bare room, with its rag- 
 carpets, mats, and pine furnishings, sat a little 
 old woman, her hands folded in her lap, her head 
 erect, her eyes fixed uncompromisingly on the 
 door. He started as he saw her face; it was so 
 changed from the time, two weeks or more ago, 
 when he had delivered that admirable prayer for 
 charity and loving kindness on the occasion when 
 the Widow Sheldon had thrown the butter-plate 
 at old Mis' Landers. Thin and sunken, with dark 
 110
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 serried hollows under her still bright eyes she 
 had aged ten years in those weeks. 
 
 "My sister, my poor, suffering, misled sister," 
 began the pastor; but Harriet's eyes flashed 
 ominously. 
 
 "If you come to talk to me about that Holy 
 Ghost, I ain't got nothin' to say," she declared, 
 "an' if you think I'm goin' to say another word 
 myself, you're mistaken. I'm a pore sinful woman, 
 but I ain't goin' to be pestered t' death ! I'm doin' 
 the best I can 'bout it, an' I've prayed 'bout it, 
 an' Mr. Dent an' a Papist, they both talked 'bout 
 it till I nearly died. I don't see any more sense 
 in it than I did before not a morsel. So if that's 
 what brought you, you might just as well start 
 back this minute!" 
 
 Her reverend guest stared at her dumfounded. 
 Was this the little woman who had pressed his 
 hand at the prayer-meeting and thanked him so 
 piously, so meekly, for such "beautiful pray- 
 in'?" 
 
 "You are greatly changed since I saw you last, 
 Miss Blake," he said gravely. "Your spirit was 
 III
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 gentler, your mind was more religiously inclined. 
 I found you " 
 
 "You didn't find me pestered t' death," said 
 Harriet briefly, somewhat mollified by his "Miss 
 Blake." 
 
 "I was led to believe that you were suffer 
 ing, that you were in trouble," hazarded the 
 pastor. 
 
 Never in his somewhat self-sufficient life had he 
 felt such difficulty in giving spiritual advice. Even 
 to his thick-skinned personality it was deeply evi 
 dent that this sharp-tongued little woman was in 
 great trouble. Ordinarily, a certain facility for 
 quotation and application made him a confident 
 speaker, but to-day he felt impeded, held back 
 by the self-control and patience of his listener. 
 For he saw that she was patient; that she 
 could say much more if she chose; that she 
 was, beneath all her sharpness, alarmed and wor 
 ried. 
 
 His somewhat perplexed air, his evident mem 
 ory of her earlier estate, his startled recognition 
 of her changed appearance had the effect that 
 113
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 nothing else could have had. Her hands twisted 
 nervously in her lap, her mouth twitched, she 
 dropped her eyes, and opened her lips once or 
 twice without speaking. Suddenly, with a little 
 gasp, she began : 
 
 "If you think I don't care, you're mistaken. 
 I'm just about sick. I been a Christian and a 
 good believer all my life, and now I ain't. Maybe 
 I don't care about that? They just pester me 
 t' death, and Mis' Markham, she can't stop 'em. 
 They'll send me back to Sarah's, that's my niece, 
 and they can't keep me there. They ain't good to 
 me there, and I get fever 'n ague every day o' 
 my life there. But I can't help it I can't help 
 it! I got ter go!" 
 
 Some good angel held Mr. Freeland silent, and 
 after a moment she went on. 
 
 "I'm sixty-two years old, and I never was any 
 thing but a churchgoer an' a believer. Two weeks 
 ago to-day I set in this chair an' looked out the 
 winder, an' I see the birds pickin' in the front 
 yard." 
 
 He followed her eyes and watered for a mo- 
 113
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 ment the poor house pigeons preening and posing 
 in the noon sun. They whitened the summer grass, 
 and their clucking and cooing formed the under 
 tone of the old woman's confession. 
 
 "I see 'em there, and I got thinkin' about the 
 dove in my Bible an' the Holy Ghost. And it just 
 come into my mind like a shot what's the good 
 of it? What'd it ever done for me? What's the 
 sense of a bird, anyhow? An' I worked over it, 
 and I worried over it, an' I got to talkin' with Mis' 
 Sheldon about it while we was workin' together, and 
 she just made me hate it more. She said I'd go to 
 hell me, a believer for sixty-two years! An' I've 
 cried till I can't cry any more, an' I've prayed 
 till I'm tired of prayin', and nothin' happens to 
 me exceptin' I hate it more. An' if they send me 
 back to Sarah's I'll die, that's the truth. But I'll 
 have t' go I'll have t' go!" 
 
 She rocked back and forth, dry-eyed, but in an 
 agony of grief. The pastor remembered the time 
 when he had wrestled with certain damnation in 
 the form of terrible religious doubt, and experi 
 enced again that peculiar helplessness, that isola-
 
 WHEN P I P P A PASSED 
 
 Henry's changed so. When we first knew him he 
 was really as entertaining a gentleman as I ever 
 saw and I've had a great deal of attention. Why, 
 we'd sit around and laugh till we nearly died, he'd 
 say such ridiculous things. He was so different. 
 Ma used to say if he was much funnier she'd think 
 he'd ought to have a keeper! The way he'd go 
 on !" 
 
 Anne had turned her back and was looking 
 steadily at the room they had left. Pippa and 
 Delafield might have been alone. 
 
 "But when we got engaged, he seemed to 
 change, somehow. I don't know if you've noticed 
 
 it - 
 
 Delafield nodded. 
 
 "Well, that's what I mean. I didn't care any 
 more about him, then. I guess I sort of woke up," 
 she laughed into his eyes. "He tires me to death 
 with how he'll shoot himself," she added; "they 
 always say that, you know, but they never 
 do." 
 
 Anne moved toward the door and Delafield fol 
 lowed her. 
 
 95
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "I must say that I appreciate your position, 
 Miss Miss " he stopped, inquiringly. 
 
 "Cooley Miss Philippa Cooley," she supplied. 
 "Of course you do. Ma said she hoped I'd have 
 too much sense to stand up with a little radish 
 of a man like that, even if he could support 
 me!" 
 
 "But I think it was rather hard on all of us 
 that you should have engaged yourself to him at 
 all. You must have known how it would end." He 
 tried to speak reprovingly. 
 
 She threw him a rich glance. 
 
 "Oh, you can't help it sometimes," she mur 
 mured. "He teased so hard you don't want to 
 be disagreeable. As I was telling Miss Dela- 
 field " 
 
 "We must go," said Anne, briefly. 
 
 As they drove home, an inexplicable desire to 
 provoke her, to rouse some warm feeling in her, 
 mastered him. 
 
 "Your Aunt Ellen would enjoy this deep interest 
 in the love affairs of an ex-druggist's clerk and a 
 grocer's cashier," he said lightly. 
 
 96
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 "Would she?" Anne returned quietly, and was 
 ashamed of his freakish impulse. 
 
 When they told him that evening that they had 
 been able to accomplish nothing he only stared at 
 them gloomily. 
 
 "I knew it I knew it," he muttered. "I did a 
 poem last night it's the last I shall ever do. You 
 can put it in the book. It's the best I've done yet." 
 
 Delafield hardly noticed his words as he seized 
 the poem. What if from this sordid little tragedy 
 had sprung the very flower of the poet's genius? 
 He read eagerly. In a moment his face fell. He 
 stared doubtfully at the boy. 
 
 "Well," said West irritably, "can't you read 
 it? Give it here I'll read it to you." 
 
 "You needn't, I can read it well enough." 
 
 "What do you think of it?" 
 
 "I think it's rot," Delafield returned curtly. He 
 was bitterly disappointed. 
 
 "Rot?" the boy's eyes narrowed. "What d'you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "I mean that this doggerel is utterly unworthy 
 of you, West, and that you certainly cannot in- 
 
 97
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 elude it in your book. It is the cheapest sentimen- 
 talism good heavens, can't you see it? Have you 
 no critical faculty whatever?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Lester, don't!" Anne implored. 
 "Let me see it," and she put out her hand. The 
 young man struck it away and seized the paper. 
 
 "I won't trouble you with my 'rot' any more, 
 Mr. Delafield," he said, with a boyish grandilo 
 quence, "we'll see what other people have to say 
 about it." 
 
 "Here, West, don't go away angry!" the 
 older man urged, "I shouldn't have been so 
 harsh. You've done such fine work that I couldn't 
 bear " 
 
 "Oh, hush your noise!" West interrupted, bru 
 tally, "neither can I bear ! You've driven me to 
 death between you all you'll never see me 
 again!" and he flung out of the room. 
 
 Delafield set his teeth. "This is too much," he 
 said slowly. "The vulgar little cad! No, I won't 
 go after him, Anne; let him fume it out himself. 
 
 I'll try to ask D over next week, just the 
 
 same."
 
 WHEN PIPPA PASSED 
 
 But when Mr. D came over, full of pleas 
 ant anticipation, it was only to hear of the shock 
 ing death of the boy, whose photograph, taken 
 from a cheap gilt locket of Pippa's, he afterward 
 used over the popular gift-card, "Dawn on the 
 River." 
 
 "Couldn't even shoot himself like a gentleman," 
 said Delafield roughly. "Jumping seven stories 
 pah!" 
 
 "But the poems the poems?" urged the pub 
 lisher, "surely they " 
 
 Anne took from the table an oblong tin biscuit- 
 box and softly lifted the cover. 
 
 "Here are the poems," she said, pointing to a 
 mass of fine, grey paper-ashes. 
 
 "He sent them to you?" 
 
 Mr. D 's eyes lighted comprehensively; he 
 
 glanced at the girl's white face and inscrutable 
 dark-ringed eyes with a restrained sympathy. 
 
 "He sent them to my uncle," she replied quietly.
 
 THE BACKSLIDING OF 
 HARRIET BLAKE
 
 J. HE Rev. Mr. Freeland looked down the long, 
 narrow poorhouse table, and then glanced inquir 
 ingly at the matron. 
 
 "What has become of Harriet Blake, Mrs. 
 Markham?" he asked. "I thought she sat at this 
 table I hope she's not ill?" 
 
 "Harriet's backslid," announced the Widow 
 Sheldon laconically. She was a Baptist, of the 
 variety sometimes known as hard-shelled, and made 
 nothing of interrupting the discourse of any rep 
 resentative of a denomination unpleasing to her. 
 
 "Backslid?" repeated the reverend guest, drop 
 ping his napkin. 
 
 "She don't believe in " 
 
 "Harriet," interrupted the matron, somewhat 
 
 crossly, and with an unconcealed frown for the 
 
 Widow Sheldon, "Harriet is taking her dinner 
 
 alone. She she is not quite well, I think. I will 
 
 103
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 speak to you about her later," she added as the 
 pastor's eyes grew round at her. The widow 
 Sheldon sniffed loudly. 
 
 "A person who has ter have her vittles carried 
 up ter the bed-chamber on account o' losing any 
 little faith she might 'a had," she began, but old 
 Uncle Peterson broke in with his gentle drawl: 
 
 "Oh, come on, Mis' Sheldon, don't go and spile 
 a good biled dinner with words o' bitterness," he 
 urged. "Harriet's a good woman, as is known to 
 all, and if she's travellin' through dark ways just 
 now " 
 
 The pastor looked puzzled, but he saw that the 
 subject was better left alone: previous visits to 
 the poorhouse had led him to dread the Widow 
 Sheldon's tongue. He nodded approvingly at 
 Uncle Peterson. 
 
 "Quite right, quite right," he said quickly. 
 "That's the spirit for us all to have. Shall I ask 
 the blessing, Mrs. Markham?" And the meal 
 went on. 
 
 But there was something in the air that hot 
 Sunday noon ; something that lent variety to the 
 104
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 usual monotony of the querulous meal-times. There 
 was less comment on the food than was usual, and 
 the Widow Sheldon's resentful silence was more 
 impressive than her ordinary vindictive volubility. 
 It appeared that something had actually hap 
 pened. 
 
 Once in her private sitting-room the matron 
 began, low-voiced, with an occasional glance at the 
 closed door, as if to make certain that no curious 
 inmate lurked behind it: 
 
 "If Harriet Blake doesn't grow more sensible 
 very soon I shall certainly go crazy ; I invited you, 
 Mr. Freeland, to dinner to-day because Harriet 
 used to like your prayers in the afternoon, and 
 it may help her to talk to you^but I don't know. 
 She's a very obstinate old lady. The whole house 
 talks about nothing else, and she's just morbid 
 enough to like it. They gossip about her and fight 
 about her till the air is blue with it. It was bad 
 enough at election time, but religion is worse than 
 politics." 
 
 The pastor made as if he would interrupt, but 
 she overbore him. 
 
 105
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 "If you can't stop her she must go home to 
 her niece, though she can't really afford to keep 
 her and oughtn't to be asked " 
 
 "Do I understand that Harriet is in doubt 
 has lost her Christian faith?" 
 
 "Oh, well no; but in a way I suppose she 
 has. She says that she she can't see in fact, 
 she doesn't believe any more in the Holy 
 Ghost!" 
 
 "Doesn't believe in h in it?" Mr. Freeland 
 was absolutely unprepared for precisely this form 
 of agnosticism, and showed it. 
 
 "She says she doesn't see any sense in it," re 
 sponded Mrs. Markham, briefly. 
 
 "Oh ah, yes !" The pastor looked vaguely over 
 her head. There was a pause, and then he gathered 
 himself together. 
 
 "But this this is all wrong !" he said forcibly. 
 
 "So we tell her," replied the matron. 
 
 "It is sinful it is extremely dangerous!" he 
 repeated, still more forcibly. 
 
 "That's what the Widow Sheldon says," replied 
 the matron. "She lectures her about it every meal, 
 106
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 and Harriet can't stand it. She says she can't help 
 what she believes, and I can't blame her for 
 that." 
 
 "How long " 
 
 " She's been so for two weeks now, and she gets 
 worse and worse. I had the Methodist minister 
 Harriet used to attend that church up to talk 
 to her about it, to see if she'd feel better, and he 
 talked for four hours. Harriet sat as still as a 
 stone, he said, and never moved or paid the least 
 attention to him. Finally he asked her why she 
 didn't answer, and she said he hadn't asked her 
 opinion that she could see. So he asked her what it 
 was, and she said that the Lord Almighty created 
 the earth and that his Son, the Redeemer, saved 
 it, and she didn't see anything more for the Holy 
 Ghost to do. And everything that he told her she 
 said one or the other could do perfectly well alone ! 
 And the angrier Mr. Dent got, the calmer Harriet 
 was, I suppose, for he left in a rage, almost 
 I suppose it was trying, even for a minister and 
 when I went up to Harriet she seemed very calm. 
 She told me triumphantly that the last thing she 
 107
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 did was to show him that big Bible of hers with 
 the picture in the front, where she's crossed out 
 the figure of the dove with ink, and to tell him 
 that she was no Papist, to worship graven images 
 of birds!" 
 
 Mr. Freeland shook his head gravely. "Dear, 
 dear, dear!" he said. 
 
 "And then I got Dr. Henshawe from St. Mary's, 
 in the city, you know, who's out here this summer, 
 to come in. He's a very fine man, and very inter 
 esting. He stayed a while with Harriet, and told 
 her not to mind, but to go on, and pray, and do 
 the best she could, and she couldn't be blamed. 
 He told me afterwards that he was far from con 
 sidering her religious condition a safe one, but 
 that she would soon be ill, and was growing mor 
 bid, and he tried to soothe her. She fell into a 
 dreadful passion, and called him a lukewarm 
 Jesuit, and told him that she was going to hell 
 just because she couldn't believe in the Holy 
 Ghost! He was very polite and quiet, and picked 
 a rose when he went he complimented the house 
 but Harriet wouldn't eat any dinner nor tea, 
 108
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 tion, that terror of hope gone from him that had 
 dignified even his commonplace life. His vocabu 
 lary forsook him, his periods and phrases receded 
 from his mind like the tide from the beach, and 
 left it bare of suggestion. He looked at her for a 
 moment, and as she bent her tired old head over 
 her arm and sobbed the dry, creaking sob of 
 the ageing spirit that looks forward to no long 
 and gayer future, he felt that the time was short 
 and kindness not too lenient for the sinner. 
 
 "I will send my wife over," he said, suddenly. 
 "Would would you want to see her?" 
 
 Harriet had stiffened again and got herself in 
 hand. "I don't want that any one should put 'em- 
 selves out for me," she said dryly. "I guess I'll 
 get along. I'd just as lief see Mis' Freeland if it 
 ain't any trouble to any one. But I don't know 
 as anybody c'n do anything. I ain't very pleasant 
 comp'ny. An' I dunno as the room 's cleared up 
 enough. I ain't swept it sence day before yester- 
 day." 
 
 Her guest had risen and moved toward the door. 
 He felt curiously cold and dull. Was this the 
 115
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 help he had come to give? His tongue was 
 tied ; his lips refused to utter even one text. 
 
 "Good-afternoon, Miss Blake," he said. 
 
 "Good-afternoon," said Harriet, and he went 
 out. 
 
 She shut the door behind him, and stood for a 
 moment looking at the pigeons. Emotion had 
 shaken her too often of late, and she was too tired 
 to bear more confusion of feeling. She only knew 
 that she was very tired, and that she should like 
 to get away from the scene of so many struggles. 
 Suddenly she took her gingham sunbonnet from 
 the wall, and left the room. She went softly down 
 the hall, and slipping through the screen door near 
 the lower end crept down the back stairs and 
 through the deserted kitchen. 
 
 A Sunday stillness reigned there, and no one 
 was near to see her. She got a piece of bread from 
 the large pantry, and noticed with disgust that 
 the shelves were dusty and the bread-tin full of 
 pieces and crusts. To keep this neat was her work, 
 but she had been excused for the last three days, 
 since she was far too weak to manage it. Out 
 116
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 through the last blind-door, and she was in the field 
 behind the barn. She walked feverishly to the little 
 wood close by and sank down exhausted under a 
 large chestnut-tree. 
 
 "I'm tired I'm dead tired out!" she whispered 
 to herself. "I'll just stay here a minute 'fore I 
 go on." 
 
 Had Mr. Freeland seen her then he would have 
 been more startled than before, for two red 
 spots burned in her sunken cheeks and her eyes 
 glittered unnaturally. She had not eaten since 
 breakfast, for the boiled dinner had sickened her, 
 and though she was weak for want of food she 
 had not strength to munch the great piece of rye 
 bread. Her head swam a little and strange tunes 
 seemed to sound all about her. Her mother's voice, 
 almost in her ear, sang her to sleep with the Old 
 Hundred Doxology, and for a moment she listened 
 entranced, but as the phantom voice reached the 
 last line she opened her eyes. 
 
 "No, no!" she screamed. "No, no! I won't sing 
 to a bird! I won't! I'll go to Sarah's first!" 
 
 A stillness that frightened her followed. Some- 
 117
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 thing pattered beside her, and she looked appre 
 hensively at the sky through a rift in the branches. 
 
 "Don't say it's rain!" she whispered, nervously. 
 "I'm fearful scairt o' thunder-storms!" 
 
 The sky was rapidly clouding over, and a growl 
 of thunder answered her. She started up, but fell 
 helplessly back. 
 
 "O Lord, I can't move! I can't move a step! 
 I'm too heavy!" she cried in terror. The storm 
 came on fast; the branches shook under a sud 
 den wind, and the birds grew still. She was too 
 weak to realise fully her situation, but what con 
 sciousness she owned was swallowed up in terror. A 
 sudden flash, and she shrank together with a moan. 
 
 "I'm out o' my head I'm not really here I'm 
 in the house I wouldn't be here f'r anything!" 
 she whispered. A heavy clap, and she screamed 
 with fear. The time when she left the house was 
 far away and misty in her mind. She could not 
 remember coming. The drops struck her in quick 
 succession and the muttering grew more frequent, 
 the flashes brighter. Sick with fright, she cowered 
 under the tree. Her childhood unfolded before her, 
 118
 
 - 
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 her girlhood; her poor pinched life assumed a 
 glory and fulness it had never had. So warm, so 
 sheltered, so contented it seemed to her. 
 
 A great harsh clap shook the little wood and a 
 vivid glare wrapped her about. With a wail she 
 fell back against the tree-trunk. Her mind was 
 clear again, she recalled everything. She had been 
 led out here to die. She was summoned forth to 
 meet the judgment of God. Heretic, infidel, blas 
 phemer that she was, she was to go before Him 
 that day ! 
 
 Her clothes were soaked with rain, she shivered 
 with cold, she was too weak to take a step, but 
 she staggered to her knees and folded her hands. 
 The tree swayed above her, the wood was dark 
 as night, the rain to her weak nerves was deafen 
 ing; the powers of darkness raged about her. She 
 tried to pray for forgiveness, for peace at the last, 
 but in her mind, all too clear, was the remembrance 
 of her life for two weeks past. She set her teeth to 
 keep them from chattering so, and shivering at 
 each clap and gasping at each flash, she prayed: 
 
 "O Lord, if you are sendin' this storm to pun- 
 119
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 ish me, I can't help it. I've believed in you all my 
 life, and I'm sixty-two and I'm going to die in 
 a thunder-storm. If it'll save me to believe in the 
 Holy Ghost, then I'll have to be damned eternally 
 as the Widder Sheldon says you'll do, for I can't, 
 I can't, I can't! I' been a believer all my life, and 
 I' only been this way two weeks, and if that counts 
 against all the rest, I'll just haf to go to hell, 
 that's all. Feelin' as I do, you can't expect me to 
 change for a thunder-storm, Lord, scairt as I be. 
 It don't make no difference that I'm scairt, I feel 
 just the same. I' been a sinful woman, an' I pray 
 to be forgiven, but I can't change, Lord, I can't, 
 an' you wouldn't respect me if I was ter. Amen." 
 
 A glare that seemed to brighten the wood for 
 minutes and a terrific burst of thunder answered 
 her. With a little gasp she fell backward and lay 
 unconscious. The storm raged about her, but she 
 knew nothing of it. A little withered old woman, 
 she lay in a heap in the lap of all the elements, 
 and they beat upon her like a leaf. 
 
 If it were hours or minutes she did not know, 
 but she opened her eyes with pain upon a quiet 
 120
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 world. The storm had passed, the leaves were 
 dripping, the sun was just beginning to brighten 
 the blue, the birds were twittering again. She got 
 up heavily, but with a certain fitful strength. She 
 turned around and dragged herself further into 
 the wood. Then, in dread of the thicker foliage, 
 she struck off uncertainly to the right. To her 
 the vengeance of God was only delayed ; there was 
 only a momentary escape, but it was precious. 
 She was confused, terrified, beaten. She had no 
 notion in what direction the house lay. She felt 
 her legs tottering and reached painfully down to 
 pick up a large, gnarled, broken bough. The 
 effort all but stretched her beside it. But she leaned 
 on it, and turned her shaking head from one side 
 to another. All was thick, wet, glistening, confus 
 ing. Only the twitter of the birds and the drip, 
 drip of the wet leaves broke the deadly stillness. 
 A nameless horror caught her. She felt alone in 
 the world. 
 
 "O Lord, O dear Lord, show me the way home !" 
 she prayed. "Let me die at home, Lord; don't let 
 me die out here a poor old woman like me ! Sixty- 
 121
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 two, Lord, an* a believer all my life! Send me 
 home !" 
 
 There was a little rustling noise in the tree near 
 the tiny clearing just before her; a low, soft 
 heavenly sound. 
 
 "I know I'm goin' to die, Lord, only let me die 
 at home! Don't do it here! I'm scairt, an' I'm 
 weak, an' I'm too old to die in the woods! Jus' 
 send me home, Lord ; show me where the house is !" 
 
 The great sun suddenly sent a long, bright ray 
 down across the open space, and as she looked at it, 
 there hovered, full in the brightness, a gleaming 
 silver dove. With wings outspread, motionless, too 
 bright to look at with steady eyes, it hovered there. 
 It never fluttered its wings; it made no sound; in 
 a ray from heaven it held its quiet position 
 serenely and glistened from every tiniest feather. 
 
 The old woman's knees tottered beneath her. 
 She held with both hands to the gnarled staff, and 
 shuddered as she gazed. 
 
 "The Holy Ghost! The Holy Ghost!" she 
 panted. The bird's eyes met hers, and she could 
 not take her own away. To her blurred, smarting 
 122
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 vision it seemed that an aureole of glory outlined 
 its head. She had no thoughts; only a confused 
 sensation of immediate and inescapable doom. 
 Death, death here, with this grave and moveless 
 vision was her part. She closed her eyes and 
 waited. A second, and she opened them, to see the 
 vision changed; the bird had turned around, and 
 was slowly guiding down the little clearing before 
 her. Just above her head it flew, with steady pace, 
 and with it went all the brightness of the sun. 
 
 Her lips moved. She took a step forward, and 
 the bird advanced. "Glory be to God!" she whis 
 pered, "It'll show me the way !" 
 
 She never took her aching eyes for one second 
 from the wonderful white thing. She scorned to 
 watch the ground. With a magnificent faith she 
 walked, her head lifted, her heart too full 
 to know if she stumbled. In the clear places, al 
 ways where there were no branches, the white guide 
 flew and Harriet walked after with her staff. A 
 few moments took them out of the wood, but she 
 never looked for the house. In the full glare of 
 day, against the blue, the bird looked only snowier^ 
 123
 
 THE BACKSLIDING 
 
 and to her dazzled, burning eyes the aureole grew 
 only brighter and bigger. She could not see its 
 wings move; it hovered steadily and floated se 
 renely upon the clear air, and the old woman saw 
 it, and it only. 
 
 She did not see the anxious crowd on the porch, 
 she did not hear their exclamations, she did not 
 know that her lips were moving, that her voice, 
 low, husky, but distinguishable, repeated over and 
 over, almost mechanically: "Forgive me, Lord! 
 forgive me, Lord! O Lord, forgive me!" 
 
 She only followed, followed with all her heart 
 and soul and strength, up the little hill, up the 
 path, up to the porch, a strange, shaking pilgrim, 
 leaning heavily on her staff, guided by the white 
 pigeon. 
 
 On the steps they received her, and as she sank 
 on the lowest, they caught her, falling. Her almost 
 sightless eyes were yet uplifted, and while to their 
 view the dove dropped down among its mates, 
 a patch among the white, to her it was mingled 
 with the summer blue, and vanished in the sky 
 whence it came.
 
 OF HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 Her body was utterly exhausted, but her spirit 
 could not yet lose its consciousness. On the wave of 
 her exaltation she rose higher and higher. She 
 looked at them with a look they had never seen 
 
 in any human being. 
 
 (, 
 "I'm saved! I'm saved!" she cried. 
 
 They watched her, silent, terrified, awed beyond 
 words at this redemption they could only feel but 
 could not understand. But as they stared, her eyes 
 glazed, her head fell back against the matron's 
 arm. 
 
 "Pray ! pray !" she whispered. The pastor looked 
 at her and steadied himself. Wonder and a sense 
 of strength flowed in on him suddenly. But there 
 was scant time for prayer. Though the light in her 
 face had not yet died away, her breath was scarcely 
 moving. He came near her and repeated gently 
 the hymn she had in the time of her trouble dis 
 owned, but which she had always loved: 
 
 "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 
 Praise Him all creatures here below, 
 
 Praise Him above ye heavenly host " 
 
 125 

 
 HARRIET BLAKE 
 
 Her eyes opened and looked wide into the blue; 
 what she saw there they did not know, but she 
 smiled faintly. 
 
 <c Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! " 
 
 "Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" the matron guessed that 
 she murmured; and with the cooing and clucking 
 of pigeons sounding through the summer air, she 
 died. 
 
 A white, arrow-swift creature whirred through 
 the stillness, up, up, and out in a great proud 
 curve ; their eyes were too idim to know if it turned 
 again to the earth. 
 
 126
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 A HE younger man he was only a boy 
 grinned impishly at the elder, bringing out the 
 two dimples in his flushed, girlish cheeks. 
 
 "That's all right enough, Dill," he drawled; he 
 always drawled when he had been drinking. When 
 he was sober the familiar Huntington staccato 
 was very marked in him. 
 
 "That's all right, Dilly, my boy, and a grand 
 truth, as old Jim used to tell us at chapel, but 
 maybe little Robert doesn't see your game? Oh, 
 yes, he sees it, fast enough. Sis hands it out to 
 you, and you recite it to Robbie, and Robbie re 
 forms, and you get Sis! How's that for a young 
 fellow who flunks his math? Not bad, eh?" 
 
 Dillon flushed and set his teeth, mastering an 
 almost irresistible longing to slap those red cheeks 
 in vicious alternation. To think that this chatter 
 ing young idiot stood between him and his heart's 
 desire ! 
 
 Bob drawled on: "Anyhow, Dill, I think it's 
 129
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 right queer, you know. Why don't she marry you? 
 She can't love you very much, if it depends on 
 me. You're a man o' the world, you know, man o' 
 world " he grew absent-minded and stared at the 
 wall. Dillon snapped his fingers nervously, and the 
 speaker began again with a start: 
 
 "That's what I say a man o' world. Tell her 
 it's all bosh worryin' over me, tell her that, Dill, 
 tell her I say so. No use her tryin' to be my mother. 
 Now is there, Dill, as a man, is there? If she got 
 married and had some children of her own " 
 
 "Bob," the older man burst out, "for heaven's 
 sake, shut up, will you, and listen to me! I'm 
 going to tell you the truth. You've got the whole 
 thing in your hands God knows why, but you 
 have and I'm going to lay it before you once 
 for all. Then do as you please : make us all happy, 
 or go to the devil your own way and I'll go 
 mine," he added, lower and quicker. 
 
 Bob sat up, blinked rapidly, and smoothed his 
 hair down tight over his ears sure sign that he 
 was nearly himself. 
 
 "Go ahead," he said shortly, "I'll come in." 
 130
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 Dillon bit his lip a moment; he would rather 
 have taken a whipping than say what he had to 
 say. The clock ticked loud in the pause, and Bob, 
 every moment clearer-eyed, heavy sleep a thing of 
 the past, stared at him disconcertingly. 
 
 "What I'm going to say to you," Dillon began, 
 "isn't very often said by one man to another, I 
 imagine. Few men are placed in just my position. 
 I've known you all so well, I've seen so much of 
 you all my life " he paused. 
 
 "I needn't say how much I thought of your 
 mother. When your father was when he broke 
 down so often at the last, of course I saw a great 
 deal of her, and she trusted me a lot she had to, 
 once she began. When she died, and you weren't 
 there, because you " 
 
 "Don't! please don't, Dill!" the boy's lips con 
 tracted; his slim body twisted with a helpless re 
 morse. 
 
 "Well, then, when she died she asked nre to look 
 
 out for you, because she knew how I loved her and 
 
 and Helena. She knew you had it in you, and 
 
 she didn't blame you they never do, I suppose, 
 
 131
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 mothers but she asked me if I'd try to look out 
 for you. She knew I wasn't perfect myself. That's 
 that's why she thought I wouldn't do for 
 Helena. Helena was always so wonderful, so high 
 above " 
 
 Again he stopped, and the boy's voice broke in : 
 
 "Helena's made of snow and ice-water," he said 
 moodily, "she's too good for this earth. She doesn't 
 know " 
 
 "She knows what her brother should be, and she 
 knows what her husband must be," Dillon inter 
 rupted sternly. "No sister could have been more 
 of an angel to you, Bob. 
 
 "Now I'll go on. It's going to be necessary just 
 here for me to tell you that I love your sister. 
 You don't know anything about that, of course. 
 You don't for a second of your life realise what 
 it is to love a woman as I've loved her for for 
 five years, we'll say. I put it five because, though 
 I loved her long before, things happened in be 
 tween, and I don't count it till five years ago. 
 Heaven knows I'm not worth her shoe-laces. Once 
 or twice before the five years I've realised that 
 132
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 a little too much, and then the things happened. 
 But since then I've honestly tried to keep to the 
 mark your mother set me. She said to me once, 
 'If you would only keep as good as you are at 
 your best, Lawrence, you'd be good enough for 
 Helena,' and perhaps because that wasn't so very 
 good, after all I've really been keeping there, 
 after a fashion." 
 
 Bob stared at him in unaffected amazement. 
 This clubman, this elegant, this social arbiter 
 was standing before him with tears in his level 
 grey eyes. It dawned upon his reckless young soul 
 that the soul of another man was slowly and pain 
 fully stripping itself before him. 
 
 "We'll let that part of it go," Dillon went on 
 hurriedly, "you couldn't see. I I think I could 
 make her happy, Bob. I know her better than she 
 thinks. She almost said she'd have me, and then 
 you went on that spree. You nearly broke her 
 heart I needn't go over it. Only she made a vow, 
 then it was when she went into that convent- 
 place in Holy Week, and she's never been the 
 same since and it was about you." 
 133
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 "About me? What d'you mean?" 
 
 "She told me she never could marry till she was 
 certain whether you were just obstinate and wild, 
 or or like your father ; and that in that case " 
 
 "What, in that case?" Bob muttered through 
 his teeth. 
 
 "She was going to devote her life to taking care 
 of you." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "There's no use in going over all the argu 
 ments now, Bob you know what the doctor said. 
 Three months without a drop, and then he'd war 
 rant you. Every day that goes by makes it harder 
 for you. And here's your Uncle Owen promising 
 that the first month you go without a spree he'll 
 send you for a three months' cruise on the yacht 
 with Stebbins you know what a chance that 
 is." 
 
 Bob looked fairly up for the first time. 
 
 "Stebbins! Would Stebbins go? I don't believe 
 you !" he cried eagerly. 
 
 "He told me he would," said Dillon. 
 
 "Why on earth should he?"
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 "He's a friend of mine," the other answered 
 simply. 
 
 Bob twisted his lips together a moment, while 
 the muscles around his mouth worked. Suddenly 
 he gave way and broke into sobbing speech. 
 
 "You're a good fellow, Dill I'm not worth it 
 truly, I'm not! I've been a beast and the college 
 and all that you all despise me but so do I !" 
 
 He gripped the chair, turning his handsome, 
 tear-stained face up to his friend's. How the 
 straight, thin nose, the black-lashed blue eyes, the 
 white forehead reflected Helena! Dillon could have 
 kissed him for the likeness. 
 
 "Will you, Bob? Will you? We'll all stand by 
 you!" 
 
 "I will, Dillon, I will, so help me Bob!" he 
 smiled through wet lashes. "You hang on, and I 
 will! But look out for that rector he's running 
 a close second, and Aunt Sarah's backing him for 
 all she's worth!" He was smiling wisely now; the 
 strain was lifted, and he was almost himself again. 
 Dillon scowled. 
 
 "He takes her slumming, you know, and, say, 
 135
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 you ought to hear him give it to Aunt Sarah 
 about knowing the condition the poor devils are 
 in before you deal out the tracts, you know. He 
 wants the good ladies and gentlemen to come and 
 see that way, you know." 
 
 "He's right enough there," Dillon said con 
 strainedly, "and I suppose he's better for her than 
 I'd be no, by George, he's not! Bob, I tell you, 
 I know her better than he does I tell you I've 
 waited five years Oh, Lord, I can't talk any more 
 about it!" 
 
 They went out arm in arm, the boy warm and 
 friendly, proud of his confidence and full of high 
 resolve, Dillon impassive outwardly, but conscious 
 of great stakes. To say, in four short weeks, to 
 those wide, blue eyes, a little scornful, perhaps, 
 but with so sweet, so pure a scorn ! "The strain is 
 over: he is safe; can you not trust me now? 9 ' His 
 heart leaped and grew large at the thought. 
 
 It was so like Helena, this service, half-sacred 
 in her mother's trust, half -shy in maidenly delay 
 ing. "She is afraid of me!" he thought exultingly 
 indeed, she admitted as much. 
 136
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 "You and your set one knows you, and yet 
 one doesn't," she said to him. "You seem so still, 
 so satisfied, so sure about life there seems to be 
 so much you don't tell! Do you see what I mean? 
 It frightens me. There is so much we don't think 
 the same about, Lawrence so much of you I don't 
 know ! I wanted, when I married, to come into a 
 a peace. I wanted it to be don't laugh like my 
 Confirmation: do you think it would, if I married 
 you? Do you, Lawrence?" 
 
 He turned his head away. A vision of her, those 
 ten short years ago, in white procession down the 
 aisle of Easter lilies, rapt and aloof, flashed be 
 fore him. For one sweet second he saw her in fancy, 
 again in white, but trembling now, and near 
 him 
 
 "Oh, dearest child," he begged, "I don't know 
 about the peace how can I? The things are so 
 different! But we could be happy I know we 
 could ! Is peace all you want, sweetheart, all ?" 
 
 Caught by his eyes, her own wavered and 
 dropped; a flood of red rose to her hair. 
 
 "Don't, Lawrence, you frighten me! When you 
 137
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 look like that Oh, wait a month, only this month, 
 Lawrence, till Bob has gone and we're sure!" 
 
 "You want that more than anything else, don't 
 you? You'd give up anything " 
 
 Her eyes grew soft, then stern, and looked 
 clearly into his. 
 
 "Anything in the world," she said instantly, 
 "so that mamma could see he was safe. I am all 
 Bob has. Oh, if he can only " 
 
 "He shall," Dillon assured her stoutly, "he 
 shall, this time !" 
 
 And indeed it seemed that he would. He 
 seemed awakened to the strongest effort they had 
 known him to make. His uncle's offer, grimly set 
 for one month from its date, or never, took on for 
 him a superstitious colour of finality. He was con 
 vinced that it was his last chance. 
 
 "If I'm downed this time, Dill, it's all up," he 
 would say, wearily, as they paced the endless city 
 blocks together, arm in arm, under the night. "If 
 I can keep up till the yacht how long is it, a 
 week? then, something tells me I'm all right. I 
 swear it's so. I never felt that before. But if I 
 138
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 don't" he paused ominously. "There's always 
 one way out," he added. 
 
 "You will break Helena's heart, then.'* 
 
 "Heart? I don't think she has one. If she had, 
 you'd have had her long ago. Oh, no, I sha'n't. 
 She'll go into that beastly retreat for a while, and 
 then she'll marry that crazy rector-man and go 
 about saving souls. You'll see." 
 
 The week was nearly up. The yacht was ready 
 in the harbour. The boy, though, showed the 
 strain, and Dillon, fearful of too much dogging 
 him, and warned by his furtive eyes and nar 
 rowed lips, called in Stebbins to the rescue. 
 
 "I can't have him hate me, Steb," he explained. 
 "We're both of us worn pretty thin. If you could 
 give up to-day and to-night " 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 "It's every minute, practically, you know, 
 Steb," he added doubtfully, "it's a good deal." 
 
 "Oh, get on!" the other broke in, with a good- 
 natured shoulder clap. 
 
 As he swung the glass door of the club behind 
 him, Dillon ran down a messenger-boy, bulging 
 139
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 with yellow envelopes. The boy glanced at him 
 questioningly. 
 
 "Mist' Wardwell, Adams, Stebbins, 'r Waite?" 
 he inquired, holding out four telegrams as he 
 slipped in. 
 
 Dillon shook his head, and walked down the 
 steps. 
 
 One more night and she would be all to win, no 
 promise between, no scruple that a lover might not 
 smother. Shame on him if he could not woo more 
 persuasively than a mystical evangelist! In the 
 evening he would see her; the precious little note 
 lay warm over his heart. 
 
 He dined alone, he could not have said where, 
 and an idle impulse for the lights and bustle of 
 the great thoroughfare sent him strolling down 
 Broadway. It was too early for the crowd, and he 
 found himself guessing vaguely as to the char 
 acteristics of the couples that met and passed him. 
 That tall, slender lad, for instance, with such a 
 hint of Bob poor, troublesome Bob ! in his 
 loose, telltale swagger, what had led him to the 
 dark-eyed creature that tapped her high heels be- 
 140
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 side him? As she came under the light, one saw 
 better; her flashing smile, her careless carriage of 
 the head, her broad sweep of shoulder, had a cer 
 tain charm great heavens, it was Bob steadying 
 himself on her arm! A moment, and the familiar 
 drawl reached his ear: 
 
 "An' so you always want to choose mos' prom'- 
 nent place, every time, an' you're safe's a church. 
 No chance to meet y'r dear frien's M 
 
 Dillon strode to his side, raising his hat to the 
 surprised woman. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Bob, but had you for 
 gotten your engagement this evening?" he said 
 smoothly. Bob stopped, glared a moment uncer 
 tainly, but the scrupulous courtesy of Dillon's 
 bearing had its intended effect. 
 
 "What what engagement?" he inquired sus 
 piciously. "Friend o' mine," he added to his com 
 panion. 
 
 "Haven't you met Stebbins? He- he was ex 
 pecting you." Lawrence felt his heart sink. Where 
 was Stebbins? Oh, fool, to have lost hold at the 
 eleventh hour! 
 
 141
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 "Stebbins? Stebbins?" Bob murmured to him 
 self. "Ah, yes; the beastly boat got afire, and he 
 had to go down ; I'm going too, after a while too 
 early yet take a little walk, first, with Miss 
 
 Miss " He paused, and stared thoughtfully at 
 
 the woman. "I don't seem to just recall your 
 name," he said pleasantly. "Would you mind tell 
 ing me, so that I can introduce you? Bad form, 
 his poking in, though, terribly bad form." 
 
 Dillon noted with anger that Bob was at his 
 most argumentative, obstinate stage ; at this point, 
 if he felt the necessity, he could speak most cor 
 rectly and clearly, by giving some thought to the 
 matter, and it was almost impossible to alter his 
 determinations. 
 
 "My name is Williams," said the woman. Dillon 
 bowed. 
 
 "What have you had, Bob?" he inquired, mov 
 ing along with them. 
 
 "Oh, only a cocktail here and there Miss 
 Miss Willis likes 'em as well as anything. About 
 time we had another?" he suggested, eyeing Law 
 rence combatively.
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 The older man stopped dead. A weary despair 
 of the whole business seized him. It was all up, 
 then. Even if he went about with the boy, which 
 Bob would hardly allow, his condition next morn 
 ing would be all too apparent. And then Uncle 
 Owen would wash his hands of it all. Aunt Sarah 
 would never consent to any institutional cure. 
 Helena would never marry while Bob needed 
 her thank God, she had never suspected the 
 woman ! 
 
 As if in answer to his thoughts, Bob complained 
 loudly : 
 
 "I say it's a blamed shame, the first time I go 
 out with a girl to enjoy the evening, to have you 
 pokin' in, Dill ! Always stuck with the fellows be 
 fore; and now I get a girl, like anybody else, and 
 here you come! Why don't you get out? Two's 
 company." 
 
 Dillon caught his arm. 
 
 "Bob," he said beseechingly, "you don't know 
 
 what you're doing. Surely you know what this 
 
 means! Don't you remember that the Eider-duck 
 
 sails to-morrow at nine? Don't you realise that by 
 
 143
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 this night's folly you're losing your last chance? 
 Your last chance, Bob ! Think how you called it 
 that yourself! If this lady realised all this meant 
 to you, she'd excuse you, I'm sure. Don't be a fool, 
 Bob! Let me put you in a cab and go right to 
 Stebbins old Steb'll put you up, and nobody will 
 ever know! You can sleep it off it's only eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 To his unexpected delight Bob yawned sleepily. 
 His eyes were dull, his mouth drooped. 
 
 "Sleep it off," he murmured. "I wish I was in 
 bed this minute. Lord, I'm tired. And I know why, 
 too. I told her bromo-seltzer would settle me. Al 
 ways puts me to sleep no good at all. Fool to 
 drink it. Told her so. . . ." 
 
 Dillon's spirits rose. 
 
 "That's so," he assented, "it always acts that 
 way with you, doesn't it? Especially with cock 
 tails. Now, you be a wise man, Bob," he urged, 
 "and get into this cab " 
 
 "And where do I come in?" said the woman 
 sharply. "I call this a little queer, if you don't 
 mind my saying so." 
 
 144-
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 Bob roused himself for a moment. 
 
 "Just so," he declared heavily, "just so. 
 Where does Miss Willard come in ? You must think 
 I'm a terrible cad, Dill, to ask a lady out for 
 the evening, and leave her like that! Not a bit 
 of it! You go on! Sorry, but can't leave the 
 lady." 
 
 Lawrence moved toward his pocket involun 
 tarily. The woman struck his arm lightly. 
 
 "That'll do," she said sullenly. "I don't want 
 your money. You think I'm a kind of a bundle, do 
 you? Pick me up and drop me. Well, that's where 
 you make a mistake. Why don't you let your 
 friend alone?" 
 
 "Helen she'll know. You say nobody will," 
 Bob broke in suddenly. "She won't lie, if you will. 
 She'll tell Uncle Owen. What's the use?" 
 
 "I won't tell her," Lawrence returned quickly, 
 "and nobody else knows." 
 
 "Well, then," Bob faced him cunningly, walk 
 ing backwards through the comparatively empty 
 cross-street they had turned down, "I think maybe 
 I'll do it. I want to go with Stebbins, all right. 
 145
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 But" his obstinacy rose again, suddenly "I 
 swear I won't go back on a lady ! Nobody offer a 
 lady money in my presence ! 'Twon't do, Dill ! Get 
 out!" 
 
 "Bob," Lawrence urged, despairingly, "if I 
 take Miss Williams wherever she wants to go, and 
 she will accept my escort" he half turned to her, 
 but his doubt was not evident, if he had it "will 
 you go to Stebbins?" 
 
 Bob stopped short, nearly falling backwards. 
 
 "Great head!" he cried. "Never thought old 
 Dilly had it in him! I'll I'll consider the prop 
 the prop the plan." He yawned widely. "I cer 
 tainly am sleepy," he observed, sinking on a con 
 venient step. 
 
 Dillon shook him and dragged him up. 
 
 "Come," he said, shortly, "will you?" 
 
 Bob pointed a theatrical finger at them. 
 
 "Do you, Dilly, being of sound mind, body, or 
 estate, give me your solemn word of honour as a 
 gentleman to escort Miss Willins wherever she 
 wants to go? Do you?" 
 
 "And drop me when your back's turned," inter- 
 146
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 posed the woman, laconically, but not angrily. 
 Her interest was awakened, perhaps her sense of 
 humour, too, and she awaited developments philo 
 sophically. 
 
 "Never a bit," Bob returned. "You don't know 
 old Dill. If he says it, he'll do it, if there were 
 what-do-you-call-'ems in the way." 
 
 "I give you my word of honour," said Law 
 rence, steadily. 
 
 "And you'll never tell Helen? Because if you 
 do, she tells Uncle Owen, and it's all up with 
 Robbie." 
 
 "I will never tell her." 
 
 "On your word of honour?" 
 
 "On my word of honour." 
 
 "Then call your cab and tuck me in my little 
 bed. My eyes will crack if I prop 'em up any 
 longer." 
 
 "Miss Miss I can't recall your name, but you 
 don't object? . . ." 
 
 "Oh, no, I don't object in the least," said Miss 
 Williams satirically, with a wondering glance at 
 the tall, immaculate gentleman at her side, his face 
 147
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 stern in the electric-light, his evening clothes in 
 marked contrast to Bob's negligee. "In fact, I 
 rather " 
 
 Dillon whistled a cab and gave the driver whis 
 pered directions. A bill fluttered as he passed it 
 up. The man nodded, respectful. 
 
 "And now I am at your service," said Dillon, 
 standing tall and straight before her. "Where did 
 you wish to go?" 
 
 Not for one moment did it occur to him to evade 
 his duty, and not for one moment did she intend 
 that he should. Where they went, through all that 
 nightmare evening, he could never afterward tell. 
 From dance-hall to concert-hall they wandered, 
 sat awhile, and departed. Nor were they silent on 
 the way. What they spoke of he could not have 
 told for his life, but they talked, fairly steadily 
 at first, less and less as the night wore on, and the 
 woman grew dreamily content with the lights, the 
 warmth, and the liquor. Dillon was imperturbably 
 polite, gravely attentive to her wishes, curiously 
 conscious of one life with her and another distinct 
 existence at Helena's home. Now he was waiting, 
 148
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 waiting, waiting in front of the close-shaded win 
 dows to see if she had left the house or if she still 
 sat in surprised idleness expecting him. Now he 
 was at Stebbins's house watching Bob as he lay 
 asleep there. 
 
 He remembered afterward thinking that the 
 woman must have been a Southerner, for, as she 
 drank, her tongue turned to those softer tones, 
 slurred vowels and quaint idioms. 
 
 "It seems like you're having a good time, after 
 all," she said once. He bowed gravely. 
 
 By eleven they were well down-town, he was not 
 quite certain where. They stayed but little time in 
 any one place. It seemed as if they had been on 
 this endless journey for years. Now and then he 
 saw a man he knew. In one place he wakened, 
 with a shock of remembrance, to the fact that he 
 had been there before: there, and at the place op 
 posite, too. How little it had changed! It was be 
 fore the five years. 
 
 They were at a corner table, he with his back 
 to the room, the woman facing it. On a platform 
 opposite a young fellow sat before a piano, strik- 
 149
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 ing desultory chords. Presently he began to sing, 
 in a sweet, piercing tenor: 
 
 " Oh, promise me that some day you and I " 
 
 There was a moved silence through the room; 
 his voice had a quality that reached for the 
 heart: 
 
 " Those Jlrst sweet violets of early spring " 
 
 Dillon glanced at the woman; her large, dark 
 eyes were brimmed with tears. A great pity surged 
 over him: he would have given anything he owned 
 to be able to offer her her life to live again. Ten 
 derly, as over a dusty, broken bird, he laid his 
 hand over her clasped ones on the table. They sat 
 in awed silence; the song swelled on. He did not 
 hear the door open behind him, nor turn as a new 
 party of four entered quietly. Directly behind his 
 chair a man's voice spoke softly. 
 
 "This is a fair sample. Not very bad, you think ? 
 But every man in this room is a confirmed opium- 
 eater, and the women " 
 
 The two at the table hardly heard. 
 150
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 "Oh, the women!" said a woman's voice in a 
 rough whisper. "I cannot bear to think " 
 
 "Oh, it isn't the women, Aunty! You sha'n't 
 say that they are heart-breaking. It's the men, 
 the men I bl " 
 
 Swiftly, hopelessly, as the steel turns to the 
 magnet, Dillon turned and faced Helena Hunt- 
 ington. 
 
 As her eyes met his all the rose colour in her 
 soft cheeks seemed to sweep into his and burn 
 dully there, leaving her whiter than bone. For one 
 fiery second her eyes rested on the table, the half- 
 emptied glasses, the clasped hands of the pair, the 
 tear-stained cheeks of the handsome girl. For one 
 breath two groups of stone confronted each other. 
 Then, with no sign of recognition, she swept from 
 her seat, her hand on the rector's arm, her aunt 
 and an older man behind them. Her aunt looked 
 at Dillon as if he were the chair he sat in. 
 
 The door swung behind them. 
 
 " No life so perfect as a life with thee, 
 
 Oh, promise me ; oh, promise me ! " 
 
 151
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 the tenor shrilled. Lawrence burst into jangling 
 laughter. 
 
 "The evening is over," he said, still red and 
 shaking. "Allow me to escort you home." 
 
 He never remembered the time between this 
 speech and the moment when she asked him to step 
 in for a while, and he laughed in her face. Then 
 there was another time, and he was at his rooms 
 at the club. But that was early morning. He was 
 lame and his shoes hurt his feet he must have 
 walked a great deal. 
 
 At eight o'clock Stebbins dashed into the 
 room. 
 
 "Well, of all the fellows! What's the matter 
 with you?" 
 
 He was fresh and rosy; a faint, wholesome 
 aroma of cigars and eau-de-cologne swept in with 
 him. 
 
 "Why the deuce aren't you down to see us off? 
 They're all there. Got my telegram yesterday? 
 Fire didn't amount to much, but the fools hadn't 
 half the stuff I ordered. I was down there all the 
 afternoon seeing to it. I sent Bob right around 
 152
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 to you. You must have walked him well. Stevens 
 said he came in at eight and tumbled straight to 
 bed. He's fresh as paint this morning. Asked him 
 where he'd been, and I swear he didn't know. Says 
 you told him to go to bed, and he went. Drove 
 home, he says. Actually doesn't remember a living 
 thing but that, since dinner. When you said he'd 
 be that way sometimes I didn't really believe you, 
 but I do now. Where were you?" 
 
 Dillon faced him. 
 
 "For God's sake, Lawrence, what is it? Are you 
 sick? She said you wouldn't be there " 
 
 "She? Who?" 
 
 "The old one the aunt. Bob was wondering 
 about it, and she says directly, 'No, he won't be 
 here this morning,' so I slipped off. Bob said if 
 you were tired, never mind. 
 
 "I say, Lawrence, that's an awfully attractive 
 boy. You can't help liking him. He called me 
 aside, and, 'Look here,' says he, 'Uncle Owen says 
 there's to be no wine packed for you. Now I can't 
 have that, Stebbins, it won't do. It's awfully bully 
 of you to come, and you must have everything 
 153
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 you want.' I told him that would be all right and 
 what a fine vacation it was going to be for 
 me " 
 
 Lawrence turned the water into the tub and 
 began to pull at his shoes. Never had he felt so 
 grateful for Stebbins's constant chatter. 
 
 "I don't believe I'll come down," he heard him 
 self say. "I have a beastly headache. I didn't get 
 much sleep " 
 
 "Well, for heaven's sake get some, if it makes 
 you look like that ! Where'd you go, anyway, after 
 you put Bob to bed?" 
 
 Lawrence pulled off his coat. 
 
 "Parson's down there, you know. He and uncle 
 seem to be hand in glove. He's pretty well fixed 
 with most of the family, I shouldn't wonder." 
 
 "How much time have you got?" said Law 
 rence's voice. 
 
 "George, not much! Cab's waiting outside. I 
 won't mention how you look, then just tell 'em 
 good-bye." 
 
 "That's all. Just tell 'em good-bye." 
 
 Lawrence was in the bath-room as Stebbins 
 154
 
 A BAYARD OF BROADWAY 
 
 hurried out. He sat down on the porcelain rim of 
 the tub, his face drawn and grey above his white 
 shirt. 
 
 "It seems to be pretty well settled up," he said 
 quietly. "I hope his mother's pleased!" 
 
 155
 
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE 
 BOOKS
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE 
 BOOKS 
 
 JL HE new librarian entered upon her duties 
 bright and early Monday morning. She closed 
 with a quick snap the little wicket-gate that sepa 
 rated the books from the outer vestibule, briskly 
 arranged her paste-tube, her dated stamp, and her 
 box of slips, and summoned her young assistant 
 sharply. The assistant was reading Molly Bawn 
 and eating caramels, and she shut book and bag 
 quickly, wiping her mouth as she hurried to her 
 superior. 
 
 "Now, Miss Mather, I expect to get fifty books 
 properly labelled and shelved before noon," said 
 the new librarian, "and there must be no time 
 wasted. If anyone wants me, I shall be in Section 
 K," and she turned to go. 
 
 Section K was only a few feet from the reg 
 istering-table, but it pleased the new librarian to 
 assume the existence of long corridors of volumes, 
 159
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 with dumb-waiters and gongs and bustling, basket- 
 laden attendants. So much majesty did she throw 
 into her sentence, indeed, that the young assistant, 
 who had always, under the old regime, privately 
 referred to Section K as "those old religious 
 books," and advised the few persons interested in 
 them to "go right in behind and see if the book 
 you refer to is there," was staggered for a mo 
 ment, and involuntarily glanced behind her, to see 
 if there had been a recent addition to the building. 
 
 The new librarian strode down between the 
 cases, glancing quickly from side to side to de 
 tect mislaid or hastily shoved-in volumes. Sud 
 denly she stopped. 
 
 "What are you doing in here, little boy?" she 
 said abruptly. 
 
 In the angle of the case marked "Books of 
 Travel, Adventure, etc.," seated upon a pile of 
 encyclopedias, with his head leaning against 
 Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, was a 
 small boy. He was dark of eyes and hair, palely 
 sallow, ten or eleven years old, to appearance. By 
 his side leaned a crutch, and a clumsy wooden 
 160
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 boot, built up several inches from the sole, ex 
 plained the need of this. A heavy, much-worn 
 book was spread across his little knees. 
 
 He looked up vaguely, hardly seeming to see 
 the librarian. 
 
 "What are you doing here? How did you get 
 in?" she repeated. 
 
 "I'm reading," he replied, not offering to rise, 
 "I just came in." 
 
 "But this isn't the place to read. You must go 
 in the reading-room," she admonished him. 
 
 "I always read here. I'd rather," he said, pleas 
 antly enough, dropping his eyes to his book, as 
 if the matter were closed. 
 
 Now the new librarian thoroughly disapproved 
 of the ancient custom that penned the books away 
 from all handling, and fully intended to throw 
 them open to the public in a few months' time, 
 when she should have them properly systematised ; 
 but she resented this anticipation of what she in 
 tended for a much-appreciated future privilege. 
 
 "But why should you read in here, when none 
 of the other children can?" she demanded. 
 161
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 The boy raised his eyes again. 
 
 "Mr. Littlejohn lets me I always do," he re 
 peated. 
 
 The new librarian pressed her lips together 
 with an air of highly creditable restraint. 
 
 "Mr. Littlejohn allowed a great many irregu 
 larities which have been stopped," she announced, 
 "and as there is no reason why you should do 
 what the other children cannot, you will have to 
 go. So hurry up, for I'm very busy this morning." 
 
 She did not speak unkindly, but there was an 
 unmistakable decision in her tone, and the boy got 
 up awkwardly, tucked his crutch under his arm, 
 and laying the big book down with care, went out 
 in silence, his heavy boot echoing unevenly on the 
 hardwood floor. The librarian went on to Sec 
 tion K. 
 
 Presently the young assistant, who had been ac 
 customed to keep her crocheted lace-work on the 
 Philosophical shelf , directly behind the Critique of 
 Pure Reason, recollected that it would in all hu 
 man probability be discovered, on the removal of 
 that epoch-making treatise, and came hastily down 
 162
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 to get it. Having concealed it safely in her pocket, 
 she paused. 
 
 "That was Jimmy Reese you sent out did you 
 know it?" she asked. 
 
 "No, what of it?" 
 
 "Why, nothing, only he's always read in here 
 ever since I came. Mr. Littlejohn was very fond 
 of him. He helped pick out some of the books. 
 He " 
 
 "Picked out the books that child? Great 
 heavens !" 
 
 "Well, he's read a good deal, Jimmy has," the 
 assistant contended. "It's all he does. He can't play 
 like the other children, he's so lame. He seems real 
 old, anyhow. And he's always been here. He helps 
 giving out the books, and helps the children pick 
 out. He was very convenient when Mr. Littlejohn 
 didn't like to be waked up." 
 
 "Great heavens!" the librarian cried again. 
 
 "I think you'll find he'll be missed, you being 
 so new," the assistant persevered. 
 
 "I think I can manage to carry on the library, 
 Miss Mather," replied her superior coldly, "with- 
 163
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 out any assistance from the children of the town. 
 Will you begin on that Fiction, please?" 
 
 She walked on again, but paused to put away 
 the brown book, which lay where the intruder had 
 left it, a mute witness to the untidiness of the laity. 
 Opening it briskly, she glanced at the title : 
 
 The 
 AGE OF FABLE 
 
 or 
 BEAUTIES OF MYTHOLOGY 
 
 by 
 
 THOMAS BULFINCH 
 
 Below was a verse of poetry in very fine print; 
 she read it mechanically. 
 
 0, ye delicious fables ! where the wave 
 
 And woods were peopled, and the air, with things 
 
 So lovely ! why, ah ! why has science grave 
 Scattered afar your sweet imaginings ? 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 It flashed into her mind that an absolutely 
 shameless subscriber had retained Miss Proctor's 
 collected poems for three weeks now, and she made 
 a hasty note of the fact on a small pad that hung 
 from her belt. Then she set the Age of Fable 
 164
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 in its place and went on about her work, the inci 
 dent dismissed. 
 
 The next afternoon as she was sorting out from 
 the department labelled, "Poetry, Miscellaneous 
 Matter, etc.," such books as Mr. Littlejohn had 
 found himself unable or unwilling to classify fur 
 ther, shaking down much dust on the further side 
 of the shelves in the process, she was startled by a 
 faint sneeze. Her assistant was compiling a list of 
 fines at the desk, and this sneeze came from her 
 very elbow, it seemed, so she hastily dismounted 
 from her little ladder and peered around the rack. 
 There sat the little boy of yesterday, the same 
 brown book spread across his knees. She looked 
 severe. 
 
 "Is this Jimmy Reese?" she inquired stiffly. 
 
 "Yes'm," he answered, with a polite smile. He 
 had an air of absolute unconsciousness of any 
 offence. 
 
 "Well, don't you remember what I told you 
 yesterday, Jimmy? This is not the reading-room. 
 Why don't you go there?" 
 
 "I like it better here." 
 
 165
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 The librarian sighed despairingly. 
 
 "Perhaps you don't know who I am," she ex 
 plained, not crossly, but with that air of detach 
 ment and finality that many people assume in 
 talking with children. "I am Miss Watkins, the 
 new librarian, and when I give an order here it 
 must be obeyed. When I tell any one to do any 
 thing, I expect them to do it, because because 
 they must," she concluded lamely, a little discon 
 certed by the placid stare of the brown eyes. "You 
 see, if all the little boys came in here, there would 
 be no room for us to work." 
 
 "But they don't nobody comes but me," he re 
 minded her. 
 
 "Suppose," she demanded, "that someone should 
 call for that book you are reading. I shouldn't 
 know where to look for it." 
 
 "Nobody ever wants it but me," he assured her 
 again. 
 
 "I have no time to argue," she said irritably, 
 "you must do as I tell you. Put the book up and 
 run away." 
 
 Without another word he laid the book on the 
 166
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 broad base-shelf, picked up his crutch, and went 
 out. As she watched his retreating figure, a little 
 uneasy feeling troubled her usual calm. He seemed 
 so small, so harmless a person. 
 
 A little later it occurred to her to see how he had 
 entered the library, and stepping through the two 
 smaller rooms at the back, choked and dusty with 
 neglected piles of old magazines, she noticed a 
 door ajar. Picking her way through the chaos, 
 she pulled the knob, and saw that it gave on a 
 tiny back porch. On the steps sat the janitor, as 
 incompetent, from the librarian's point of view, 
 as his late employer. 
 
 "I thought you were sweeping off the walks, 
 Thomas," she suggested, coughing as the wreaths 
 from his pipe reached her. 
 
 "Well, yes, Miss Watkins, so I was. I just 
 stopped a minute to rest, you see," he explained, 
 eyeing her distrustfully. Since her advent life had 
 changed greatly for the janitor. 
 
 "I see Thomas, does that little lame boy come 
 in this way?" 
 
 167
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 "Jimmy? Yes, ma'am. 'Most always he does. In 
 fact, that's why I keep the door unlocked." 
 
 "Well, after this I prefer that you should keep 
 it locked. There is no reason why he should have 
 a private entrance to the library that I can see; 
 and anyway it's not safe. Some one might " 
 
 "Oh, Lord, Miss Watkins, don't you worry. 
 Nobody ever came in here yet, and I've been here 
 eight years. Jimmy's all right. He's careful and 
 still's a mouse, and he won't do a mite of harm. 
 He comes in regular after school's out, and it's 
 just like a home to him, you may say. He's all 
 right." 
 
 Miss Watkins frowned. 
 
 "I have no doubt that he is a very estimable 
 little boy y " she said; "but you will please see that 
 no one enters the library by this door. I see no 
 reason for favouritism. You understand me, I 
 hope." 
 
 And she returned to her work. The assistant, 
 
 weary of her unprecedented labour, had laid aside 
 
 the list of fines, and was openly crocheting. No 
 
 sound of broom or lawn-mower proclaimed Thomas 
 
 168
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 worthy of his hire, and Miss Watkins, vexed be 
 yond the necessity of the case, labelled Fiction 
 angrily, wondering why such a town as this needed 
 a library, anyway. 
 
 Two little old ladies, plump and deprecatory, 
 entered in a swish of fresh, cambric morning- 
 dresses. One of them fumbled in her black-silk 
 bag for a book, and leaning on the little gate, 
 coughed lightly to attract the assistant's atten 
 tion. 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Miss Mather, a lovely day. Sister 
 and I enjoyed this very much. I don't know about 
 what we'll take, exactly ; it's so hard to tell. I al 
 ways look and look, and the more I look the more 
 anxious I get. It always seems as if everything 
 was going to be too long, or else we've read it. 
 You see we read a good deal. I wonder do you 
 know where the little boy is?" 
 
 Miss Mather smiled triumphantly. "You'll have 
 to ask Miss Watkins," she said. 
 
 "The new librarian, my dear? Oh, I hardly like 
 to disturb her. They say she's very strict. My 
 cousin told me she charged her nine cents for a 
 169
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 book that was out too long. You ask her, my 
 dear!" 
 
 "Miss Watkins," said the assistant meekly, 
 "there is a lady here would like to see Jimmy. Do 
 you know where he is?" 
 
 "I do not," the librarian returned briefly. "Any 
 thing I can do " 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all !" cried the flushed old lady, 
 "not for the world! Don't disturb yourself, please 
 Miss Miss I'll just wait till he gets in. He 
 picked this out for me. You see, he knows pretty 
 well what we want. I always like something with 
 a little travel in it, and sister won't hear of a 
 book unless it ends well. And it spoils it so to look 
 ahead. So the little fellow looks at the end, and 
 sees if it's all right for sister, and then he assures 
 me as to the travel I like European travel best 
 and then we know it's all right. I'll just wait 
 for him." 
 
 "I have no reason to suppose that he will be 
 here," Miss Watkins said crossly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, he'll be here," the old lady returned 
 comfortably. "He'll be here soon. We can wait." 
 
 * 170
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 The librarian pressed her lips together and re 
 tired into her work. The minutes passed. Presently 
 the outer door opened softly, and the irregular tap 
 of a crutch was heard. Jimmy's head peered 
 around the partition into the ante-room. The old 
 ladies uttered a chirp of delight, and slipped out 
 into the hall for a brief, whispered consultation, 
 returning with a modest request for Griffith 
 Gaunt, by Charles Reade." The elder of the two 
 shut it carefully into her bag, remaking sociably, 
 "I wanted to read the Cloister and the Hearth, by 
 the same author, I'd heard there was so much 
 travel in it, but he said sister never could bear 
 the ending." 
 
 Going into the reading-room later, on some 
 errand, the librarian was surprised to find the 
 magazines neatly laid out in piles, the chairs 
 straightened, the shades pulled level, and a fresh 
 bunch of lilacs in the jar under the window. She 
 guessed who had done it, but Jimmy was not to 
 be seen. Once, during the next afternoon, she 
 thought she saw a small, grey jacket disappear 
 ing into the waste-room, but much to her own 
 171
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 surprise, forbore to make certain of It. During the 
 next few days, when her time was entirely taken 
 up with the catalogue in the front of the library, 
 and the assistant transacted all business among the 
 shelves, she was perfectly convinced that some 
 where between sections A and K a little boy with 
 a brown book was concealed, but found herself 
 too busy to rout him out. 
 
 Even when a red-faced, liveried coachman pre 
 sented her with a note, directed in a sprawling, 
 childish hand to "Mr. Jimmy Reese, Esq.," she 
 only coughed and said severely, "There is no such 
 official in the library." 
 
 "It's just the little boy, ma'am, that's meant," 
 the man explained deferentially. "Master Clarence 
 is back for the summer Mrs. Clarence Vander- 
 hoof, ma'am and he always sends a note to the 
 little fellow. There was some book he mentioned 
 to him last year as likely that he would enjoy, and 
 Master Clarence wants it, if it's in. I was to give 
 him the note." 
 
 "I will send a list of our juveniles to Mrs. 
 Vanderhoof," said the librarian, in her most busi- 
 172
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 ness-like manner, "and I will give you, for Master 
 Clarence, the new Henty book. He will probably 
 like that." 
 
 "I beg pardon, ma'am," persisted the coachman, 
 "but Master Clarence says that there was a book 
 that the little boy particularly recommended to 
 him, and I was to be very special about it. He 
 goes a good deal by the little fellow's judgment. 
 I'll call in again when he's here, after my other 
 errands." 
 
 Miss Watkins sighed, and gave way. "Will you 
 see, Miss Mather, if Jimmy Reese is in the li 
 brary?" she inquired, and Miss Mather, smiling, 
 obeyed her. 
 
 He was never formally enfranchised, but he 
 took up his place in the department of Travel 
 and Adventure, and held it unchallenged. All the 
 long, spring afternoons he sat there, throned on 
 the books, leaning against them, banked safely in 
 from the tumult of the world outside, a quiet little 
 shadow among the shadowy throngs that filled the 
 covers. 
 
 Whatever he might read, for he turned to other 
 173
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 books as one travels, for the joy of coming home 
 again, the old brown book lay open on his knees, 
 and he patted the pages with one hand, absently, 
 as his eyes travelled over the print. Sooner or 
 later he came back to the yellowed leaves per 
 haps to the story of Dryope. 
 
 "Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her 
 face. Her tears still flowed and fell on her leaves, 
 and while she could, she spoke. 'I am not guilty. 
 I deserve not this fate. I have injured no one. 
 If I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with 
 drought and my trunk be cut down and burned. 
 Take this infant and give it to a nurse. Let it 
 often be brought and nursed under my branches, 
 and play in my shade; and when he is old enough 
 to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and 
 to say with sadness, "My mother lies hid under this 
 bark." But bid him be careful of river-banks, and 
 beware how he plucks flowers, remembering that 
 every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise. 
 Farewell, dear husband and sister and father. If 
 you retain any love for me, let not the axe wound 
 me nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since 
 174
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 / cannot stoop to you, climb up hither and kiss 
 me; and while my lips continue to feel, lift up my 
 child, that I may kiss him. I can speak no more, 
 for already the bark advances up my neck, and 
 will soon shoot over me. You need not close my 
 eyes; the bark w'dl soon close them without your 
 aid. 1 Then the lips ceased to move, and life was 
 extinct; but the branches retained, for some time 
 longer, the vital heat." 
 
 In fancy he walked by that fatal stream. He 
 saw the plant dripping blood the flower that was 
 the poor nymph Lotis. The terrible, beautiful re 
 venge, the swift doom of those wonderful Greeks, 
 that delights even while it horrifies, he felt to the 
 fullest measure. He had no more need to read them 
 than a priest his breviary, for he knew them all, 
 but he followed the type in very delight of recog 
 nition. 
 
 Through the window came the strong scent of 
 the purple lilacs, that grew all over the little New 
 England town. Faint cries of children playing 
 drifted in with the breeze. The organ in the church 
 nearby crooned and droned a continual fugue. 
 175
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 Someone was always practising there. The deep, 
 bass notes jarred the air, even the little building 
 trembled to them at times. And since it had been 
 at this season of the year, when he had first found 
 the book, the lovely broken myths, elusive some 
 times, and as dim to his understanding as the mar 
 ble fragments that still bewilder the enchanted 
 artist, he always connected with that throb 
 bing, mournful melody, that haunting lilac 
 odour. Sometimes the organ swelled triumphantly 
 and cried out in a mighty chorus of tone : at those 
 times Ulysses shot down the false suitors, or Per 
 seus, hovering over the shrieking sea-beast, rescued 
 the white Andromeda. Sometimes a minor plaintive 
 strain troubled him vaguely, and then he listened 
 to poor Venus, bending in tears above the slain 
 Adonis. 
 
 " 'Yet theirs shall be but a partial triumph; 
 memorials of my grief shall endure, and the spec 
 tacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my lamen- 
 tation, shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall 
 be turned into a flower; that consolation none shall 
 envy me.' Thus speaking, she sprinkled nectar on 
 176
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in 
 a pool, on which rain-drops fall, and in an hour's 
 time there sprang up a flower of bloody hue, like 
 that of the pomegranate. But it is short-lived." 
 
 The peculiar odour of much leather on pine 
 shelves was confused, too, with the darling book. 
 He had never read it elsewhere ; he had not money 
 enough for a library-ticket. Old Mr. Littlejohn, 
 quickly recognising the invaluable services that 
 this little acolyte might be counted upon to ren 
 der, had readily granted him the freedom of the 
 shelves, and smoked his pipe in peace for hours 
 together, thereafter, in the back room, sure of his 
 monitor in front. 
 
 Miss Watkins needed no such assistance, but she 
 found herself, to her amazement, not wholly un 
 grateful for the many steps saved her by Jimmy's 
 tactful service to the children. At first she would 
 have none of it, and groups of shy boys and girls 
 waited awkwardly and in vain before the little 
 gate, hoping for a glimpse of their kindly coun 
 sellor. She thrust lists of juveniles into their 
 unwilling hands, led them cautiously into an in- 
 177
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 spection of Nature Lessons for Little Learners, 
 displayed tempting rows of bound St. Nicholas 
 but to no purpose. 
 
 "Where's Jimmy?" they demanded stubbornly. 
 
 "What on earth do they want of him?" she 
 asked of her assistant one day. "That stupid 
 Meadows child is she going to ask his opinion 
 of the Dotty Dimple Books?" 
 
 "Not at all," Miss Mather replied tranquilly. 
 "But he always gets her a Mary J. Holmes novel, 
 and I stamp it and let it go. You always argue 
 with her about it, and ask her if she wouldn't pre 
 fer something else which she never would." 
 
 Little by little he grew to wait on the children 
 as a matter of course. He was even allowed to 
 keep the novels desired by the Meadows child 
 in the juvenile shelf, where he insisted they be 
 longed. 
 
 "Only the girls in Number Seven want 'em," 
 he explained, when his superior complained of 
 his audacity in removing them from adult fic 
 tion. 
 
 And so the little girl who had reached that 
 178
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 period of little girlhood when every well-regulated 
 young person is compelled by some inward power 
 to ask the librarian, tremblingly, if she has a book 
 in the libr'y called St. Elmo, was spared all em 
 barrassment, for Jimmy handed it out to her al 
 most before she asked. 
 
 Not that he lacked the discrimination to exer 
 cise a proper authority on occasion. Miss Watkins 
 remembered long a surprising scene which she wit 
 nessed from the top of a ladder in the Biography 
 and Letters Section. A shambling, unwholesome 
 boy had asked Miss Mather in a husky voice for 
 the works of Edgar A. Poe, and as she blew off 
 the dust from the top and extended two fat vol 
 umes toward him, a rapid tapping heralded the 
 youngest official. 
 
 "Don't you give 'em to him, don't you!" he 
 cried, warningly. As she paused instinctively he 
 shook his finger with a quaint, old-fashioned gest 
 ure at the boy. 
 
 "You ought to be ashamed, Sam Wheeler," he 
 said reprovingly. "You shan't take those books a 
 step. Not a step. If you think you're going to 
 179
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 scare Susy to death you're mistaken. If you want 
 to read 'em, come here and do it. But you aren't 
 a-going to read 'em to her nights, again. So you 
 go right off, now!" 
 
 Without a word Sam turned and left the li 
 brary, and Miss Watkins from her ladder remon 
 strated feebly. 
 
 "Why, Jimmy, if that boy has a ticket you 
 haven't any right " 
 
 "Do you know what he does with those books, 
 Miss Watkins?" replied the dauntless squire of 
 dames. "He reads 'em after supper to his little sis 
 ter Susy. That one where the house all falls down 
 and the one where the lady's teeth come out and 
 she carries 'em in her hand! And she don't dare 
 take her feet off the rungs, she sits so still. And 
 she don't go to sleep hardly ever. Do you s'pose 
 I'd let him take 'em?" 
 
 The librarian threshed the matter over, and 
 finally thought to stagger him by the suggestion 
 that it would be difficult for him to ascertain the 
 precise intention of everyone drawing out books. 
 "How do you know," she asked, "that other peo- 
 180
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 pie may not be frightening each other with various 
 stories ?" 
 
 "There aren't many fellows as mean as Sam 
 Wheeler," he replied promptly, "and then I was 
 sure that he was going to. I happened to 
 know." 
 
 She turned again to her work and he went back 
 to his corner, the brown book under his arm. 
 
 The syringa was out now, and the mournful, 
 sweet odour blew in from the bushes around the 
 church. In the still June air he could hear the bees 
 buzzing there. He turned the beloved pages idly. 
 Should it be poor Psyche, so sweet and foolish, or 
 Danae, the lovely mother, hushing her baby in the 
 sea-tossed chest? He found the place of Proverbial 
 Expressions at the back of the book, and read 
 them with a never-failing interest. Around them he 
 wove long stories to please himself. 
 
 "Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, 
 but such as those of sisters ought to be." 
 
 This one always pleased him he could not 
 have said why. 
 
 "Here lies Photon, the driver of his father's 
 181
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 chariot, which if he failed to manage, yet he fell 
 in a great undertaking." 
 
 The simple grandeur of this one was like the 
 trumpet tone of the organ. He thrilled to it de 
 lightedly. 
 
 The third he murmured to himself, entranced 
 by the very sound of the words : 
 
 "He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for 
 another; looks up to the skies, and dying remem 
 bers sweet Argos." 
 
 Ah, why would Thomas never consent to the 
 witchery of these words: 
 
 " and dying remembers sweet Argos." 
 
 He sighed delightedly and dreamed into the 
 dusk. Almost he thought he had known that man, 
 almost he remembered sweet Argos. 
 
 In the middle of June the Vanderhoof's coach 
 man brought bad news : Master Clarence was quite 
 ill. No one knew what it was exactly, but if there 
 was any exceptionally fine book that Jimmy could 
 suggest, he'd be glad to be read to from it. 
 
 For the first time the little librarian parted from 
 his darling. 
 
 182
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 "If you'll be especially careful of it, William, 
 and I've put in slips of paper at the best ones. 
 And as soon as he gets better, I'd be glad if he'd 
 send it back if he's through with it." 
 
 The days seemed long without it. The heat was 
 intense, and when Miss Mather stayed at home a 
 day or two, and all the summer people came in 
 for books, he had a great deal to do. Miss Wat- 
 kins was very glad of his help, now. 
 
 One hot Saturday afternoon he did not return 
 to the library, but began a resolute journey to the 
 Vanderhoof's big house on the hill. It was almost 
 two miles, and he went slowly; now and then he 
 stopped to rest on the stone horse-blocks. It took 
 him an hour to get there, and at the door he had 
 to stop to wipe his forehead and get his breath. 
 
 "I came to ask how Clarence was," he said to 
 the maid. 
 
 "He's better, thank you, but it's dreadful sick 
 he's been. 'Twas scarlet fever, dear," she answered, 
 with a pitying glance at the crutch. "Not that 
 you need be worried, for the half of the house is 
 shut off, and we've not been near it," she added. 
 183
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 "I'm glad he's better, and and is he through 
 with the book ?" he asked eagerly. 
 
 "The book? What book is it, my dear? Sure the 
 nurse does be reading a hundred books to him." 
 
 "A brown book: Stories of Gods and Heroes. 
 I I'd like it, if he's through with it. I stay at 
 the libr'y, and I sent it to him " he sank on the 
 step, exhausted. 
 
 The kind-hearted girl dragged him into the 
 hall. "Come out with me, dear, and get a glass 
 of cold milk/' she said. "You've walked too far." 
 
 Seated on a chair in the kitchen, his eyes closed, 
 he heard, as in a dream, his friend's voice raised 
 in dispute with some distant person. 
 
 "And I say he shall have it, then. Walking all 
 this way! And him lame, too! Tell Emma to put 
 it on the tray, and leave it in the hall. The child's 
 well enough now, anyway. I'll go get it myself 
 I'm not afraid. The whole of us had the fever, 
 and no such smelling sheets pinned up, and no 
 fuss at all, at all. I'm as good as a paid nurse, any 
 day, if you come to that. A book'll hurt no 
 one." 
 
 184
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 Later he found himself perched beside the coach 
 man, who was going to meet a train, the beloved 
 book tight in his arms. He fingered it lovingly; 
 he smelled the leaves like a little dog. For the first 
 time in his life he took it to his home, and clasped 
 it in his arms as he lay in bed. 
 
 For days he did not appear, and it was Thomas, 
 the janitor, who went finally to look him up, 
 troubled by the children's reports of his illness. 
 He returned grave-faced. 
 
 "It's the fever, Miss Watkins, and they say 
 there's little chance for him, the poor little feller! 
 He was worn out with the heat. They don't know 
 how he got it. He's out of his mind. To think of 
 Jimmy like that!" 
 
 The librarian's heart sank, and her assistant put 
 her head on her arms and cried. Thomas sat sadly 
 on his little porch, his unlighted pipe in his mouth. 
 The library seemed strangely empty. 
 
 The little Meadows girl brought them the news 
 the next morning. 
 
 "Jimmy's dead," she said abruptly. "He got it 
 from a book up at the Vanderhoofs. His aunt 
 185
 
 A LITTLE BROTHER 
 
 feels awful bad. It was a libr'y book. They say he 
 held it all the time." 
 
 The librarian put away the book in her hand, 
 envying the younger woman her facile tears. She 
 was not imaginative, but she realised dimly for a 
 moment that this little boy had known more of 
 books, had got more from them, than she, with all 
 her catalogues. 
 
 They sat together, she, Miss Mather, and 
 Thomas, a strange trio, at the simple funeral ser 
 vice in the church nearby. So far as daily living 
 went, they were as near to him as the aunt who 
 cared for him. 
 
 Coming back to the library, they lingered 
 awhile in the reading-room, trying to realise that 
 it was all over, and that that little, quick tapping 
 would never be heard again among the books. At 
 last Thomas spoke: 
 
 "It don't seem right," he said thickly, "it don't 
 seem right nor fair. Here he was, doting on that 
 book so, tugging it round, just living on it, you 
 might say, and it turned on him and killed him. 
 Gave it up, and a sacrifice it was, too I know 
 186
 
 OF THE BOOKS 
 
 and as a reward, it killed him. Went back to get 
 it, brought it home, took it to bed and it killed 
 him. It's like those things he'd tell me out of it 
 they all died; seemingly without any reason, the 
 gods would go back on 'em, and they'd die. He's 
 often read it out to me." 
 
 "It will be lovely to have that Children's-room 
 memorial," said Miss Mather, softly, "with all the 
 books and pictures and the little chairs. It was 
 beautiful in Mrs. Vanderhoof, I think. It wasn't 
 her fault. I wish I wish we'd had a little chair 
 in there for Jimmy." 
 
 The librarian got up abruptly and moved 
 around among the magazines, a mist before her 
 eyes. Only now did she realise how she had grown 
 to love him. 
 
 187
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 I 
 
 1 HE only objection I have to ghost stories," 
 said young Sanford, "is from a literary point of 
 view. They're so badly done, you know." 
 
 "In what way?" said the clerk of the hotel, set 
 tling back in his office chair, and smiling at young 
 Sanford and the circle of men who had come down 
 for their keys from the billiard-room. 
 
 "Well, in this way. Fm not considering the lit 
 tle harmless stories where the heroes are only 
 frightened, or even those where their heads are 
 grey in the morning. Fm thinking of those where 
 they never live to tell the awful tale, you know; 
 the ones in which they tell their friends to come 
 if they call, and then they never call; the ones in 
 which, although they scream and scream, nobody 
 hears them. 
 
 "And yet the old trembling man who points them 
 to the haunted room knows perfectly well that five 
 men have entered that room on five nineteenths of 
 191
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 October, and never come out ab've. Yet he 
 only warns them, or at most only beseeches 
 them not to go in. He has no police force not 
 that police could seriously harm the ghosts, but 
 somehow they never appear to the police; he does 
 not arrange with the victim's friend to burst in 
 the door at twelve-thirty, anyhow, whether they 
 are summoned or not; he doesn't but then, what 
 do any of them do that they might be expected to ? 
 And all this forced condition of things so that the 
 ghost may have all the evening to work quietly in. 
 Do you mean to tell me that if I were frightened to 
 the extent of grey hair in the morning, I couldn't 
 scream loud enough to be heard any distance?" 
 
 This speech drew nods of approval from several 
 of the men. "I've thought of that, too," said the 
 clerk. In a dark corner behind the stove sat a man, 
 hunched over his knees, silent, and apparently un 
 known to any of the others. At this point he looked 
 up, cleared his throat, and said in a strange, husky 
 voice : 
 
 "Do you really suppose that that is anything 
 else than nonsense?" Young Sanford flushed. 
 192
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 "Sir" he began. The other continued in his 
 rough, thick voice: 
 
 "Do you suppose they don't try to scream? Do 
 you suppose they don't think they're screaming?" 
 
 A little silence of discomfort fell on the circle. 
 There was something disagreeably suggestive in 
 the question. Suddenly the man spoke again. 
 
 "I had a friend," he said, "in fact, I had two 
 friends. One was young about your age," nod 
 ding to San ford. "The other was older. He was not 
 so clever nor so attractive nor so brilliant nor so 
 jolly as the younger, but he had a characteristic 
 perhaps his only one for he was a very ordinary 
 man. He had an iron will. His determination was 
 as unbreakable as anything human could be. And 
 he was devoted to his friend, who, somehow, loved 
 him. I don't know why, because he had so many 
 other admirers but he stuck to his friend Joan. 
 They called the two Darby and Joan. Their real 
 names were not unlike those, and it was rather 
 funny. Darby used to talk as you were talking, 
 sir," he nodded again to Sanford, "and he was 
 sure, cock sure, that what he said was right. He 
 193
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 would tell what things were possible and what 
 were not, and prove what he said very nicely. Joan 
 wasn't clever, but he knew that it does no good 
 to call a thing impossible. He knew, in fact, that 
 nothing is more possible than the most impossible 
 things." 
 
 The man coughed and cleared his throat and 
 waited a moment as if to see whether he were in 
 truding. No one spoke, so he went on. 
 
 "One day Darby rushed into Joan's study and 
 told him of a haunted mill he'd discovered. It was 
 one of the old mills where the farmers used to 
 bring their sacks, before the big concerns in the 
 West swallowed all the little trades. It was dusty 
 and cobwebbed and broken down and unused and 
 haunted. And there was a farmhouse directly 
 across the road and a house on either side of it 
 not a hundred feet away. 
 
 " 'Was it always haunted?' asked Joan. 'No,' 
 said Darby, 'only once a year.' On Christmas eve 
 every year for nineteen years there had appeared, 
 late at night, a little light in one of the windows ; 
 and that side of the house had an odd look, some- 
 194
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 how it seemed to look fresher and newer, and at 
 one o'clock or so a horrible piercing shriek would 
 ring out from the mill, and then a kind of crash 
 ing fall, and then all was still, and the light would 
 disappear. 
 
 "'Had nobody investigated?' Oh, yes. The 
 first year it was noticed was when houses were 
 built up around it. It used to stand away from 
 everything else, and the miller and his family lived 
 there. Then, long after they were dead, people 
 moved out there and heard the noises and saw the 
 light. They thought of tramps and escaped crim 
 inals and everything one suggests till it had oc 
 curred too repeatedly for that, and then a young 
 farmer went over one Christmas eve, not telling 
 any one, and they found him roaming about the 
 mill, a hopeless wreck the next day; he had gone 
 quite mad. 
 
 "And the next year a man came up from 
 the city, and his friends were in the next room to 
 help him if he called, and he didn't call, and they 
 were afraid to startle him by knocking, so they 
 got a ladder and peeped into the window at ten 
 195
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 minutes to one, and he lay peacefully on the bed 
 with his eyes closed and his hands stretched loosely 
 out, and they thought it was a great joke that he 
 should sleep through it, so they went home, and 
 in the morning they found him in horrible con 
 vulsions, and he never recovered. 
 
 "And there were two young divinity students 
 that went once together, and they had a crowd 
 along with instructions to break in the door at one 
 exactly. And at the stroke of one the crowd beat in 
 the great door and burst into an empty room ! 
 They had gone up a flight too far, somehow, and 
 as they stood staring at each other, from the room 
 beneath them came a dreadful shriek and a crash, 
 and when they rushed down they found the boys 
 in a dead faint. They brought them to and got 
 them home, and they muttered nonsense about a 
 dog and a sash and would say no more. And they ^ 
 escaped with severe nervous prostration. But later 
 they lost what little nerve they had and couldn't 
 sleep at night, and joined the Catholic Church, be 
 cause they said that there were things they found 
 it difficult to reconcile. . . . 
 196
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 " 'And what was the story of it all?' asked Joan. 
 Oh, the story was disagreeable enough. The mill 
 er's daughter wanted to marry a poor young man, 
 but her father would not let her. And she refused 
 to accept his rich nephew. So he locked her in her 
 room till she should consent. And she stayed there a 
 week. And one night the nephew came home late 
 and saw a tiny light in her window, and presently 
 he saw some one place a ladder and go softly up, 
 and the miller's daughter leaned out and helped 
 him in. So he told her father, who came into her 
 room the next night with a bloodhound, and bound 
 her to the bed and hushed her cries with her sash, 
 and lit the little light. And when her lover had 
 climbed the ladder the dog was there. And that 
 was Christmas eve. 
 
 " 'Do the people suffer this without complaint 
 these deaths and convulsions and apostasies?' 
 asked Joan. Well, no. But if they destroyed the 
 mill a liquor saloon would go up immediately. The 
 proprietor was simply waiting. And they didn't 
 want that. So they kept it quiet. And nobody need 
 go there. Nobody had been alarmed or hurt except 
 197
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 the meddlers. And in villages the people have less 
 scientific curiosity. But Darby was going immedi 
 ately. It was December twenty-third now. Joan 
 must come, too; it would be most exciting. Joan 
 argued against it, but he too was curious, so they 
 agreed to go. And the next day they went." 
 
 II 
 
 BY this time the circle was absolutely silent, 
 concentrated to ears and eyes. They stared and 
 leaned towards the shadowy corner behind the stove 
 where the dimly defined figure crouched. The clerk 
 got up and turned down the gas, which flared in 
 his face, and the room was almost wholly dark. 
 The man spoke in a dull, mechanical way, as one 
 speaks who clears his mind, once for all. At in 
 tervals he waited fully ten seconds to rest his voice, 
 strangely impressive, with its strained, choked 
 tones. 
 
 "The next day they went," he repeated. "Darby 
 
 was not only clever he was extremely sensitive. 
 
 Ridicule was unbearable to him. And though he 
 
 was a literary fellow, and artistic and all that, he 
 
 198
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 was practical, too, for all he was so brilliant and 
 winning. It actually troubled him that people 
 should believe anything but what he called 'the 
 strictly logical,' and he thought Joan's ideas far 
 too flexible and credulous. It was really for Joan's 
 sake, he said in joke, whom he rather suspected of 
 spiritualistic leanings, that he intended to make the 
 excursion into the country. And he would tell no 
 body. He would make no inquiries. He would con 
 duct the search along somewhat unusual lines, he 
 declared. One of them should sleep in the room. 
 At one o'clock precisely the other should quietly 
 mount a ladder fixed just where the mythical 
 ladder had been and enter the room in that way, 
 thus preventing any mischievous practical jokes 
 from without, and insuring help to the man with 
 in, should he need it. 
 
 "And Joan agreed to this. He was interested 
 himself, and he'd have been as eager and scornful 
 as Darby if it hadn't occurred to him for he was 
 a terribly literal fellow that four tragedies, sad 
 as these had been, and all unexplained, couldn't 
 be accounted for by chance nor made less sad even 
 199
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 by a good logician like Darby. So he suggested 
 one or two friends to fall back upon in case of 
 foul play of any kind. And Darby looked at him 
 and laughed a little sneering laugh and called 
 
 him " The man choked and bent lower. He 
 
 seemed to be unable to speak for some seconds. 
 Then he hurried on, speaking from this point very 
 rapidly and using a kind of clumsy gesture that 
 brought the scenes he spoke of strangely clear to 
 the men around him. 
 
 "He called him a coward. So Joan agreed to 
 go. And on the afternoon of the day before Christ 
 mas they took a long ladder and a lantern and 
 some sandwiches and two revolvers and drove in 
 a butcher's cart to the little village. And Joan was 
 as eager as Darby that no one should kndPPrHL oil 
 sec, Darby called him a coward. 
 
 "They slipped into the old, dingy mill at dusk, 
 and went over it with the greatest thoroughness. 
 Everything was open and empty. Only the corner 
 bedroom and one of the living rooms were rar- 
 nished at all. The dust lay thick in the mill 
 proper, but the living rooms were singularly free 
 200
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 from it. Darby noticed this and remarked it to 
 Joan. 'It doesn't smell half so musty, either,' 
 he said. 'I'm glad of that. I hate old, musty 
 smells. 5 
 
 "Then a queer, crawly feeling came over Joan, 
 and he said: 'Darby, let's go home. Life's short 
 
 enough, heaven knows. If anything ' And 
 
 then Darby told him once for all that if he wanted 
 to go home he might, and otherwise he might 
 shut up. 
 
 " 'Do you want it dusty and smelly ?' said he. 
 
 " 'Yes,' said Joan, 'I do. I don't see why it isn't, 
 either. It's just as old and just as deserted as the 
 other part.* 
 
 " 'You might get a little dust from the other 
 side and scatter it about,' said Darby, and 
 before Joan could reply he had scooped a handful 
 of dry, brown dust from the bagroom of the mill 
 and laid it about on the bureau and chairs of the 
 bedroom. 'Now come out for our last patrol,' he 
 said. They went out and studied the mill carefully. 
 As they came around to the house side, keeping 
 carefully in the shadow, Joan looked surprised 
 201
 
 THE MAID OP THE MILL 
 
 and pointed to the door by which they had en 
 tered. 
 
 " 'That door's shut,' he said. 
 
 " 'Well?' asked Darby. 
 
 " 'We left it ajar.' 
 
 " 'Oh, the wind !' said Darby, and went up to 
 the door softly, listening for any escaping joker. 
 He rattled the knob and pushed it inward, but the 
 door did not yield. ' Why, you couldn't have left it 
 ajar,' he said, 'it's locked!' 
 
 "Joan stared at the house, wondering if it was 
 possible that the window-panes really shone so 
 brightly. And the cobwebs about the blinds, where 
 were they? He could have sworn that the 
 
 y 
 
 was full of dead leaves and sticks when they 
 in it was as clean as his hand now. 
 
 " 'We'll go in by the window, the broken one, at 
 the back,' he said quietly. They went around the 
 house and hunted for the broken window, but did 
 not find it. The window was not only whole fcrf 
 locked. Then Joan set his teeth. 
 
 " 'The broken window must have been at the mill 
 side,' he said, 'we'll go there.' So they went around 
 202
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 and clambered in by a paneless window and went to 
 the bedroom. The room was dim, but they could 
 distinguish objects fairly well. Darby looked 
 queerly at Joan. 
 
 " 'So you cleared away the dust,' he asked. 
 
 "'What dust?' asked Joan. Then he followed 
 Darby's eyes, and where the little piles of brown 
 dust had lain were only clean, bare boards. 
 
 "Outside, the teams of the home-coming farmers 
 rolled by. A dog barked, and now a child called. 
 But they seemed far away in another country. 
 Where the two young fellows stood, there was a 
 strange lonely belt of silence. 
 
 " 'Perhaps I brushed the chair as we went out,' 
 said Darby slowly. But he looked at Joan queerly. 
 
 "They took their supper, and then Joan an 
 nounced his intention of staying in the room while 
 Darby patrolled the house, and climbed the ladder 
 at one. At first Darby demurred. He had planned 
 to stay. But Joan was inflexible. It was utterly 
 useless to argue with him, so Darby agreed. If 
 Joan wanted help he was to call. At eleven and 
 twelve Darby was to climb the ladder and look in, 
 203
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 and at one he was to come in, whatever the situa 
 tion. At the slightest intimation of danger of any 
 kind Joan was to fire his revolver and Darby 
 to call for help and rush up the ladder. For . 
 that the people were so quiet round about, tHey 
 were probably uneasy they knew that things 
 might happen on the night before Christmas. 
 
 "Joan sat for some time after Darby had left 
 him, staring about the room. It was simply fur 
 nished with a large bed, a table, and two deal 
 
 chairs. Thrown over the bed was a moth-eaten 
 
 
 blanket, checked white and red. Joan swept it pff 
 from the bed and shook it, closing his eyes In 
 stinctively to avoid the dust. But no dust came. 
 He shook it again. It was as fresh and clean as 
 his handkerchief. He threw it back on the bed and 
 looked out at Darby walking quietly around in ijfce 
 shadow. 
 
 "He was glad Darby was out there. He got to 
 thinking of ghosts and strange preparations for 
 their coming. The boards of the window creaked, 
 and he gasped and stared, only to see Darby's 
 face at the window. 'Anything happened?' he 
 204
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 signalled. Joan shook his head. It must be 
 eleven o'clock. How was it possible? The time 
 had seemed so short. He stared at a big star till 
 his eyes swam. He felt dull and drowsy. He had 
 sat up late the night before, and he needed sleep. 
 
 "A thought came to him, and it seemed some 
 how very original and striking. He tapped on the 
 pane to Darby. 
 
 " 'I'll lie down and take a little nap,' he whis 
 pered, opening the window softly. 'You can call 
 me at twelve.' Darby nodded. 
 
 " 'How do you feel, old fellow? All right?' he 
 asked." 
 
 The man choked again and was silent for a time. 
 The strain was growing. The men waited for some 
 thing to happen as one awaits the falling of the 
 red, snapping embers. 
 
 "Joan lay down in that bed," said the stranger 
 hoarsely, and from this point he hurried on almost 
 too quickly for clearness, "on that hideous checked 
 blanket, and fell asleep. He fell asleep thinking 
 of Darby's words and how thoughtful they were: 
 'How do you feel, old fellow? All right?' 
 205
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 "He had bad dreams. He dreamed a woman 
 stood at the foot of the bed and stared at him 
 and motioned him to go. And she was an unnatural 
 woman. She kept changing colour, from red to yel 
 low, from yellow to cream colour, from cream 
 colour to white, from white to ah ! she was a dead 
 w r oman ! 
 
 "She motioned him to go, but he refused. She 
 came to the side of the bed and took off her long 
 red sash and bound him down. Then he was will 
 ing to go indeed, and strained his muscles in use 
 less efforts to break away, but she laughed at him 
 and then breathed in his face till her damp, icy 
 breath chilled his very soul and he woke, covered 
 with the sweat of terror to see her standing at the 
 foot of the bed, looking, looking into his staring 
 
 eyes! 
 
 Ill 
 
 "So it was true. There were such things. But 
 at least his limbs were free, and to his joy he dis 
 covered that he was not afraid. No; he had a dull 
 feeling of coming disaster, but no fear. She was 
 206
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 a young woman, with big shadowy eyes and a 
 strange mouth. She had on a long, loose white 
 night-gown, open at the throat, and she carried 
 a little lamp. 'Go!' he saw in her eyes as plainly 
 as if she said it. He looked about the room he 
 could have sworn it was changed. It had the air 
 of a woman's room, that she is living in and keeps 
 her things in. He had no right there none. He 
 should have gone. But he was proud because he 
 wasn't afraid, and he answered her with his eyes 
 that he would not go. A tired, puzzled look came 
 into her face, a kind of frown, and she leaned 
 over the footboard and begged him with those big 
 dark eyes, begged him hard to go. He had his 
 chance oh, yes, the fool had his chance! 
 
 "But he was so proud that he could master her, 
 master a returned soul for lovely as she was, he 
 knew she wasn't human that he only set his teeth 
 and started up to come nearer her. But she raised 
 her hand and he fell back, feeling queer and 
 drowsy. Then she came to the edge of the bed and 
 sat down and took from behind her a soft red silk 
 sash and drew it across his face. A sweet, languid 
 207
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 feeling stole over him ; the bed seemed like a cloud 
 of down, her sash smelled like spice and sandalwood 
 in a warm wind. He felt he was being drugged and 
 weakened, and he tried to stumble up, but the soft 
 silk smothered him, and he became almost uncon 
 scious. 
 
 "He only wanted one thing to feel her fingers 
 touch his face and to hold her long brown hair. And 
 while she drew the sash across his mouth he 
 stretched out his hands on either side to catch it and 
 reach her fingers. There was nothing ghostly about 
 her she was only a lovely dream- woman. Maybe 
 he was asleep. 
 
 "And then she pulled the sash away, and he 
 caught her eye and awoke with a start her look 
 was full of triumph. She didn't beg him any longer. 
 This was no helpless, gentle spirit of a woman; 
 this was a weird elemental creature ; she hadn't any 
 soul or any pity; something made her act out all 
 this dreadful tragedy, without any regard for hu 
 man life or reason. He knew somehow that she 
 couldn't help his weakness; that though in some 
 fiendish way she had bound him hand and foot, 
 208
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 she did it not of herself, but in obedience to some 
 awful law that she couldn't help any more than 
 he. And then he began to be afraid. Slowly great 
 waves of horror rose and grew and broke over him. 
 He tried to move his feet and hands, but he could 
 not so much as will the muscles to contract. He 
 strained till the drops stood on his forehead, but 
 still his arms lay stretched motionless across the 
 bed. 
 
 "Just then he met her eyes again, and his heart 
 sank, they were so mocking and bitter. 'Fool! 
 fool!' they said. They were so malignant, and yet 
 so impersonal he could have sworn that she was 
 afraid too. What was to happen? Would she kill 
 him? His tongue was helpless. He worked his lips 
 weakly, but they made no words. And she turned 
 down her mouth scornfully and played with the 
 sash. Why did she wait? For she was waiting for 
 a time to come her eyes told that. What was that 
 time? A great joy that Darby was safe outdoors 
 came to him, and he remembered that Darby would 
 come at twelve! He would break the spell. And just 
 then she left the bed and bent down over the little 
 209
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 lamp, and when she took it up it was lighted. She 
 moved across to the window and set it in the sill. 
 Then she glided to the door and locked it. Joan 
 heard the bolt slip. 
 
 "Steps sounded on the ladder outside. Into 
 Joan's half-dulled thought came a kind of com 
 fort. Darby was coming. Some one knocked on the 
 pane and the window was raised from the outside. 
 
 " 'Joan ! Joan !' whispered Darby, 'are you all 
 right? Why did you light the lamp? Where are 
 you?' And then Joan, the fool, forgot that if he 
 had not answered, Darby would surely have come 
 in. It seemed to him that if he did not speak now, 
 he was lost. He strained his throat to say four 
 words only four : 'All right. Come in.' Just that. 
 The first two to reassure Darby, the second to bring 
 him. He made a mighty effort. 'All all right!' 
 he shouted, 'c c ,' and then her eyes were on 
 him and he faded into unconsciousness. He saw in 
 them a terror and surprise. He understood that 
 she wondered at his speaking. There was a sting 
 ing pain in his throat, and he heard Darby whisper 
 angrily, 
 
 210
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 "'Keep still, can't you? Don't howl so! It's 
 quarter to one. I looked in at twelve, and didn't 
 want to wake you. You'd better get up now 
 who's that down there?' and with a sickening de 
 spair he heard Darby hurry down the ladder. 
 
 "The leaves rustled a little and then all was 
 still. He didn't struggle any longer. It was clear to 
 him now. He was to play the lover in this ill-fated 
 tragedy, whose actors offered themselves, fools that 
 they were, unasked, each time. And what happened 
 to the lover? Why, he was killed. Well, rather that 
 he should die than Darby. It seemed to him so 
 reasonable, now. No one had asked him to suffer. 
 He had had his chance to go and refused it. No 
 one could help him now. Not even she. They must 
 play it out, puppets of an inexorable drama. 
 
 "And then the girl dashed to the bed, and sank 
 beside it as if to pray. And he felt her hair on his 
 face, as he had hoped, but it brought no joy to 
 him. For something was coming up from the floor 
 below. Something that sent a thrill before it, that 
 advanced, slowly, slowly, surely. The girl shud 
 dered and grasped the bed and tried to pull her- 
 211
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 self up, but she sank helplessly back. And slowly 
 the bolt of the door pushed back. No one pushed it, 
 but it slipped back. Then slowly, inch by inch, 
 the door opened. Joan grew stiff and cold, and 
 would not have looked but that his eyes were 
 fixed. Wider, wider, till it stood flat against the 
 wall. 
 
 "Then up the stairs came steps. And with them 
 others, quick and pattering. What was that? Who 
 walked so quickly, with padding, thudding feet? 
 He longed for them to come in he dreaded their 
 coming. The door was ready for them. The room 
 was swept and clean. 
 
 "Up, up, *they came, the heavy steps and the 
 scratching, pattering feet. Nearer, nearer they 
 came in. The man, large, dark, heavy-jawed; the 
 stone-grey, snarling hound, licking its frothing 
 jaws, straining at its chain. The girl writhed 
 against the bed in terror she opened her lips, 
 but with a stride the man was upon her, 
 his heavy hand was over her mouth. He dragged 
 her up, shaking and sinking, he snatched the sash 
 and bound her mouth, he held her at arm's length
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 and stared once in her eyes. Scorn and rage and 
 murder were in his. 
 
 "Joan forgot his own danger in terrified pity. 
 He struggled a moment, but it was useless. His 
 dreadful bonds still held. The man came to the bed, 
 dragging the hound, and Joan shut his eyes, not 
 to see the dark evil face. He would die in the dark, 
 alone, unaided. Oh ! to call once ! To hear a human 
 voice! But there was no sound but the panting 
 of the great, eager dog. 
 
 "The man seemed not to see him. He seized the 
 girl, and turning her toward the light that burned 
 at the pane, he bound her to the bed-post with the 
 silken sash. She writhed and bent and tried to 
 grasp his feet; she pleaded with her eyes till their 
 agony cut Joan like a knife, but the man tied her 
 straight and fast. Then he walked to the pane 
 and crouched down by it and held the dog's muzzle, 
 and became like a stone image. 
 
 "And suddenly it flashed across Joan's mind, 
 with a passion of fear to which all that had gone 
 before was as nothing, that Darby was coming up 
 that ladder to that light! Darby, whom he had
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 thought so safe, was to come unknowing, un- 
 . warned, to that straining, panting beast. He 
 turned faint for a moment. And then with all the 
 power of his soul he tried to scream. He felt his 
 throat strain and bend and all but burst with the 
 tremendous effort. He tried again, and the pain 
 blinded him. At his feet there the girl strained and 
 twisted, great tears rolling down her cheeks. And 
 yet there was a ghastly silence. The stifled pant 
 ing of that hound echoed in a deadly quiet. It 
 was horrible, pitiful! The girl's white gown was 
 torn and mussed; her soft naked shoulder quiv 
 ered when she strained against the cruel sash. 
 He could see that her arm was red where it was 
 tied. 
 
 "She trembled and bent and bit her lip till the 
 blood stained her chin. He cursed and prayed and 
 shrieked till the sound, had it come, would have 
 deafened him but it was all a ghastly mockery! 
 It was as still as a quiet summer afternoon and 
 the dog and the man waited at the window. 
 
 "There was a sound of scraping. Someone was 
 coming up the ladder someone who whistled 
 214
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 softly under his breath, and came nearer every 
 moment. Up, up the ladder rattled against the 
 window-frame. The man at the window slipped his 
 hand slowly, slowly from the dog's muzzle. The 
 dog stiffened and drew back his black, dripping 
 jaws from his yellow teeth. The man's fingers sunk 
 in the beast's wrinkled neck and he held him back, 
 while he threw one look of hate and triumph at 
 the tortured woman behind him. 
 
 "The man bound to the bed couldn't bear it any 
 longer. As a hand grasped the window-sill from 
 outside, he summoned all his iron will, and with a 
 rasping, rending effort that brought a sickly, 
 warm taste to his mouth, he gave a hoarse cry. 
 
 "Then the woman leaned over till the sash sunk 
 into her soft flesh, and shrieked with a high, shrill 
 note that cut the air like a knife. But even as she 
 shrieked, a form rose over the sill, there was a 
 rush from inside, and their voices were drowned 
 in a cry of terror, a scream so broken and despair 
 ing that Joan could not recognise the voice. And 
 then there was a horrid crashing fall, and the light 
 went out, and something snapped in the brain of 
 215
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 the man chained to the bed, and he dropped for 
 miles into a deep, black gulf." 
 
 There was a dead silence in the room. No one 
 dared to speak. The stranger's voice had quavered 
 and broken, and in a hoarse whisper he said, ris 
 ing and stumbling to the door while they made 
 way for him silently: 
 
 "And when he knew his friends again, Darby 
 had been buried a long time. Joan did not know 
 whether a broken neck is so much worse than any 
 thing else in the world. He hadn't any curiosity 
 about the mill he didn't care to hear the details 
 of how they burned it to the ground. Perhaps 
 after a while he will be too tired to contradict ig 
 norant people. But he thinks he has said, that 
 when a man has not slept five hours in a week, nor 
 spoken for days together without agony, much 
 may be forgiven him in the line of intolerance 
 of other people's ignorance a blessed ignorance 
 gentlemen, a blessed ignorance." 
 
 The door closed behind him and the men drew 
 a long breath. No one turned out the gas and it 
 216
 
 THE MAID OF THE MILL 
 
 burned till morning, for they took their keys in 
 silence and went upstairs, for the most part arm 
 in arm, haunted by the hoarse, rough voice of the 
 stranger, whom they never saw again. 
 
 And indeed they did not care to see him. "For 
 what could one say ?" as young Sanf ord demanded, 
 the next day. "It either happened, or it didn't. If 
 it didn't, he can say no more; if it did, then he 
 is right, and we are in blessed ignorance." And 
 no one of the circle but nodded and looked for a 
 moment at the chair behind the stove. 
 
 217
 
 f^r* ' 
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 W HEN they left him, in the warm, late after 
 noon, lying listless on his couch in the porch, they 
 thought he would stay alone there till they 
 came again. His little granddaughter, indeed, felt 
 so sad at deserting him that she ran back and 
 kissed him twice, "To leave Grandpapa alone!" 
 she said. But he was not alone; there came to him 
 strange guests and sweet. And this was the man 
 ner of their coming. 
 
 As he watched the shadow creeping up the steps, 
 he thought how often he had marked the time by 
 it in the far away days. He remembered how he 
 had tried to keep in the broad sunbeam that lay 
 along the walk, when he used to run home to sup 
 per tired and hungry, shouting to his mother that 
 his school was over and out and that he had come 
 "So hungry, mother dear!" And as he thought 
 of her, slow tears crept from under his old eye 
 lids, and he raised his hand feebly to wipe them 
 221
 
 THE TWILIGHT G U E" S T S 
 
 away. When he saw clearly again, he started 
 slightly, for up the path, walking in the sunbeam, 
 came a boy. He smiled sweetly, cheerily at the old 
 man, and sat down confidingly, close to the couch. 
 "It is so warm in the sun !" he said. 
 
 The old man turned uneasily and looked at him. 
 "Are you Arthur's son?" he asked doubtfully. 
 "My eyes are so dim I cannot always tell you 
 apart, at first. Are you Arthur's son?" 
 
 "No," said the child. 
 
 "Are you " but then the boy looked full in 
 
 his face and the old man could not take his eyes 
 from that searching smile. And as he looked, there 
 grew around his heart the sweet faint breath of 
 lilac trees, though it was early autumn and not at 
 all the spring. And deep in the child's eyes was 
 so strange a soul yet so familiar! As he looked 
 yet deeper the lilac scent grew stronger and he 
 dared not turn away his eyes, lest he should lose 
 it. So he listened to the child, who spoke brightly 
 yet gravely, with his head resting against the old 
 man's knee. 
 
 "See!" he said, "the lilacs are all out! I took 
 222
 
 THE^TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 a bunch to school, and the teacher wore them in 
 her dress. Oh, but I grow tired of the school in 
 the mornings, when the birds sing under the win 
 dow! The brook is all full with the flood water, 
 do you know?" 
 
 "Yes," said the old man dreamily, "yes, I 
 know." 
 
 "There are pickerel there I saw one, anyway '" 
 said the boy. "The old one he lives under the 
 stone all alone. If I could get him, I'd be proud 
 enough ! But I never can I can only catch him 
 on a Friday night when the moon is full, and then 
 I'm not allowed out ! The man that weeds the gar 
 den told me that. Do you remember?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember," said the old man. 
 
 "But if I don't fish, I don't care so much," said 
 the boy happily. "For I get so wet and dirty, and 
 Rachel doesn't like me then. I can't look on her 
 book. She is so dear! She never spots the ink on 
 her apron, like the other girls. And she never eats 
 fish, either. She thinks it hurts them too much to 
 kill them. I don't think so do you? But girls are 
 different."
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "Where are you going to-night?" said the old 
 man, quietly, yet his voice trembled. 
 
 "I'm going to sing to Rachel's grandfather. 
 He's blind, you know." 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, "and old. His hair is 
 white. He walks with a cane. But he loves the sing- 
 ing." 
 
 "Then to-morrow I must go to church," said 
 the boy. "The minister talks and prays and I get 
 so sleepy. But mother keeps a peppermint for me, 
 just before the second hymn. Then I have it for 
 the long prayer. And I can sing the hymns. 
 Rachel never looks at me, she sits so still in church. 
 And she won't play on Sunday. I can have my 
 whip and two of the largest marbles. Do you think 
 that is wrong?" 
 
 "No," said the old man, "I don't think that is 
 wrong." 
 
 "And we have gingerbread on the porch in the 
 afternoon," said the boy, "and Rachel comes. 
 Mother says children must not be vexed at the 
 Lord's Day." 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, "mother is so good to
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 us so good " and when he saw clearly again, 
 
 'ihe child was gone. Only the shadow lay upon the 
 upper step of the porch, and the sunbeam was 
 shrunken to a narrow path of light. 
 
 He stretched out his trembling hands and called 
 sorrowfully to the boy. "Come back ! O come back ! 
 
 I had forgotten so much! And the lilacs " but 
 
 he was alone. And his hair was almost white. He 
 covered his face with his hands and shivered. For 
 the shadow was creeping up the porch. 
 
 And then over his chilled heart there came the 
 breath of roses summer roses. The air struck 
 warm and soft upon his cheeks. And when he 
 dropped his hands there stood in the sun-ray a 
 straight tall youth. His eyes were shining with 
 strength ; his smile was happiness itself. In his firm 
 brown hands he held roses summer roses. The 
 old man forgot to be afraid and raised himself 
 on the cushions. 
 
 "Give them to me give them!" he cried. The 
 young man laughed low and laid the red flowers 
 softly up against the withered cheeks. Then he sat 
 down and took the cold, dry hands in his. 
 225
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "What do they make you remember?" he said. 
 
 The old man sighed for pure joy. "Ah, how 
 sweet how heavenly sweet! Did they come from 
 the garden behind her father's house?" 
 
 "Yes," said the youth, "from the old bush near 
 the wall. It was moonlight, and we picked them 
 together. I reached the highest ones, because 
 Rachel is not tall. She wore " 
 
 "She wore the white gown with the big shade 
 hat," said the old man eagerly. "And I made a 
 wreath for her shoulders. I called her what did 
 I call her ? The queen the queen " 
 
 "The queen of roses," said the youth. 
 
 "Ah, yes, the queen of roses !" said the old man. 
 "Her mouth was like the pink, young buds. We 
 went up and down the long paths, and I wanted 
 her to take my arm." 
 
 "But she would not," laughed the young man. 
 "She said that old folks might lean, but she could 
 run as well as any man!" 
 
 "So she ran through the garden, and I after!" 
 cried the old man, crushing the roses till they 
 filled the porch with sweetness. "She hid behind 
 226
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 the old elm and let me call and call. And I had to 
 find her in the moonshadows. You know she grew 
 afraid and cried out when I caught her? And yet 
 she knew I would. But women are so. Her mother 
 knew I was with her, so she let us stay till it was 
 late. Rachel's mother was kind to me, you 
 know?" 
 
 "Yes," said the young man. "But she knew that 
 Rachel " 
 
 "Ah!" said the old man quickly, "it seems they 
 all knew! All but Rachel and me! Now that is so 
 strange. For we should have known it first. But 
 Rachel laughed so when I tried to tell her, she 
 said what was it she said?" 
 
 "That you were too young to know how you 
 would think of it later," said the youth. 
 
 "And I said, 'I'm old enough to know I love 
 you, Rachel, now and for ever !' " said the old man 
 softly, clasping his hands together so that the 
 roses dropped to the ground. "And then she did 
 not laugh at all, but only held her head down so 
 I could not see her eyes, and would not speak." 
 
 "It was so still," said the youth. "There was
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 no breeze, and everything in the garden listened, 
 listened, for what she would say." 
 
 "But nothing in the garden could hear," said 
 the old man eagerly, "because she only whis 
 pered !" 
 
 "Was it then that her mother called?" asked the 
 youth. 
 
 "Yes," said the old man, and he smiled. "But 
 we did not come, for Rachel was afraid to go; 
 She thought her mother would not like to have 
 her leave the old home. And she feared to tell her 
 that she wanted to go. So we sat like silly chil 
 dren in the dark. You see, I was afraid, too. Her 
 father and mother were old, and old people can 
 not know how we feel when love first comes to us 
 and yet they loved, once!" 
 
 "Yes, they loved once," said the youth, "but 
 they forget. They think of lands and money and 
 the most prudent course they cannot feel their 
 heart's blood rushing through their veins, surging 
 in their ears, 'She loves me !' They cannot feel that 
 one hour with her is dearer than years with the 
 others of the world!" 
 
 228
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "And then we went in !" said the old man softly. 
 "Then we went in ! And her mother stood waiting 
 for us. Rachel would not look up and I had to 
 lead her by the hand. She feared that we could 
 not make it plain, that her mother would scold 
 
 us- 
 
 The youth laughed aloud. "But did she?" he 
 said. 
 
 And the old man laughed too. 
 
 "No. She came to me and kissed me and then 
 she held Rachel and cried. But not that she was 
 sorry. Older people feel strange when the younger 
 ones start away, you see." 
 
 The young man picked up the roses and laid 
 them again by the side of the couch. "Sleep," he 
 said softly, "and dream of her !" And the old man's 
 eyelids drooped and the hands that held the roses 
 relaxed in quiet sleep. 
 
 When he awoke the sun had almost set. The 
 path of rays had faded and the creeping shadow 
 had covered the highest step and lay along the 
 porch. He felt feebly for the roses, but they were 
 gone. And the sweet warm scent of them was only 
 229
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 in his dim memory. But there sat in the shadow a 
 man. 
 
 Threads of grey were in his hair and lines 
 around his firm mouth. But in his eyes shone yet 
 a sweet strength, and he held his head high as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "Do you know where I have been?" he said. 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "Think !" said the other. 
 
 Then while he looked into the stranger's eyes, 
 there stole across his heart the wind that blows 
 through the orchard when the fruit is ripe. He 
 drew in great breaths of it, in doubt, and at last 
 he said in a whisper so low that he hardly heard 
 himself, "You have been to his grave his little 
 grave !" 
 
 "Yes," said the man, "I have. His mother goes 
 there alone not even I go with her. She goes 
 alone." 
 
 "No," said the old man solemnly, "no. God 
 goes with her. I thought that she would have died 
 why did she live?" 
 
 "Because," said the other, "because you would 
 230
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 have been alone. And you could not have kept 
 yourself a man, if she had gone, too." 
 
 "Ah, yes !" said the old man softly, "that is it. 
 She is an angel! When he was born I was almost 
 afraid. I said, 'My son ! I have a son ! If I should 
 die to-night, he would live and I should live in 
 him!' And when she brought him herself into the 
 orchard I see her now I see her now !" 
 
 He could not lift his head from the pillow, he 
 was so tired and weak, but with his eyes he begged 
 the other to come nearer. The man came close to 
 the couch and looked down tenderly at the old 
 man. "She wore the white trailing gown," he said. 
 
 "Yes," whispered the old man, "and the great 
 wide hat. And she held him up under the brim 
 and said that if it should rain, she and he could 
 keep dry together, but I must stay in the rain!" 
 
 "Do you remember," said the other, "how when 
 he could just say words, you played with him un 
 der the apple tree?" 
 
 "Can I ever forget?" said the old man. "But 
 now the angels teach him a better language, so 
 that he had but one to learn !" 
 231
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "Do you remember how she left him with her 
 mother and went away with you?" said the other. 
 
 The old man smiled a little. "Ah, yes! Well 
 enough !" he said. "We thought we would be young 
 again, and leave him to his grandmother and his 
 sisters. He had enough care! It was not lack of 
 that " 
 
 "And when you had gone only a few miles she 
 grew anxious " 
 
 "Yes, yes!" said the old man. "She said, 'Sup 
 pose he is sick? Suppose he falls into the brook? 
 He walks about so brave and strong and he is 
 our only son!' So we came back." 
 
 "You were good to her," said the other. "You 
 did always just as she wished." 
 
 "I loved her," said the old man simply. 
 
 The stranger's eyes grew moist and his voice 
 shook as he said, "When he grew sick " 
 
 "Ah, when he grew sick!" cried the old man 
 bitterly. "Almost I lost my trust in the Giver of 
 my child, and dared not give him back! How I 
 begged ! How I prayed ! you know !" 
 
 "Yes," whispered the stranger, "I know." 
 232
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "Then she left me for the first time," said the 
 old man slowly. "For the first time. She went alone 
 and prayed. Oh Rachel, my dear, dear wife, I 
 could not go with you to God! I think even we 
 go best alone! I said 'It cannot be! He cannot let 
 it come! I have done all my life as best I knew 
 how, and is this my reward?' And I heard her 
 crying, and I wished I had never lived." 
 
 "But not for long?" said the other. 
 
 The old man smiled through his tears. 
 
 "No, no, not for long!" he said. "When Rachel 
 saw that I was weak she grew strong. It is strange, 
 but women are the strongest then. And she showed 
 me the folly and wickedness of throwing away my 
 faith because the Most Faithful had taken away 
 my child. And she brought me my little daughters 
 and set them on my knees and put her arms around 
 my neck. So I grew comforted. And there have 
 come other sons Arthur and John. But he ah. 
 Rachel! Little we thought when we laid him on 
 the grass under the tree and measured him with 
 goldenrod, that he would so soon lie there for all 
 our lives!"
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "And he lies there now," said the stranger. 
 
 "Yes," said the old man softly, "he lies there 
 now. Under the apple tree where he lay and 
 laughed that day, he lies there now. For Rachel 
 wanted it so. 'I carried him out there the first 
 time,' she said, 'and he always loved it there. I 
 used to walk there before he came, and plan for 
 him, how he should grow so great and famous and 
 good ; and now I want him to be there, while he 
 is asleep. And I think that all the fields are God's 
 the orchard as well as the graveyard.' So we 
 laid him there, and she goes there often, and I." 
 
 "You miss her?" said the stranger. 
 
 "Miss her?" said t^ie old man, staring at 
 the visitor, "miss her? Why, she is here! She is 
 
 my wife ! " but he was alone, on the couch, 
 
 with the faint breath of ripening apples dying 
 on the air. 
 
 And as he turned wearily, the shadow crept 
 softly and covered the porch and the couch where 
 he lay. The sun dropped behind the hills and the 
 air struck cold on his uncovered shoulders. He was 
 too tired to cry, too old and weak to question or 
 234
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 find fault, but he dimly felt that to be left alone 
 was hard. His memory grew suddenly untrust 
 worthy ; had they come or not? It was all so plain 
 to him now. He was not with Rachel, he was 
 neither in the church nor in the garden nor in the 
 orchard. He was an old man, strangely weak and 
 confused, left alone. 
 
 "Ah, Rachel," he murmured, "only come again, 
 while I go! Come to take me not that it will be 
 long to wait before I see you, dear ! We have been 
 so happy, you and I ! But it was so cold " 
 
 And then while he shivered helplessly and half 
 afraid, there came the scent of spring lilac-bushes, 
 and by his bed stood the bright-eyed child. 
 
 "Come ! come and sit by me !" cried the old man. 
 But the boy only smiled. "Take my hands they 
 are so cold !" he begged. Still the boy smiled. And 
 as the old man looked, the child's eyes filled him 
 with half hope, half fear. "Are you are you 
 he tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. 
 
 "If I come and touch you," said the boy, "it 
 will be the end. Shall I come?" The old man's face 
 lighted softly. 
 
 235
 
 THE TWILIGHT GUESTS 
 
 "Yes," he said in his heart, for he could not 
 speak aloud, "yes, come now!" The boy laughed 
 and stepped to the couch and lay down beside him, 
 putting his cheek close to the white hair. 
 
 Into the heart of the old man rushed a quick, 
 new life. "Ah, Rachel, Rachel," he said strong and 
 clear, "sit on the step and eat your cake with me? 
 Here is the flag-root I promised you it's quite 
 clean. I took off all the mud! And here is the red 
 marble" but the child kissed him and he went to 
 sleep, holding to his heart his happy youth. 
 
 And when they found him in the evening, they 
 were not too grieved, for on his face was a great 
 content. 
 
 236 
 
 8163
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 > mil HI in in | || 
 
 A 001 372 785 4 
 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH, 
 
 .iiTY OF CALIFORNIA, 
 
 LIBRARY, 
 
 i) -OS ANGELES, CALIF.