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 ■V" 
 
 
 MARIA LOUISE I 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mrs. Marion Randall Parsons 
 

 /vwti* <7£ 
 
IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 a novel 
 
 BY 
 
 MARIA LOUISE POOL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "MRS. GERALD" " DALLY " 
 "ROWENY IN BOSTON" ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1896 
 
By MARIA LOUISE POOL. 
 
 AGAINST HUMAN NAT- 
 URE. 
 
 OUT OF STEP. 
 
 THE TWO SALOMES. 
 
 KATHARINE NORTH. 
 
 MRS. KEATS BRADFORD. 
 
 DALLY. 
 
 ROWENY IN BOSTON. 
 
 Post Svo, Cloth, Or?iamental, $i 25 each. 
 MRS. GERALD. Ill'd. $1 50. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 Copyright, 1896, by Harper & Brothers. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 GIFT 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. A Gray Colt i 
 
 II. "What's an Understudy?" 21 
 
 III. Miss Cobb Relates 41 
 
 IV. Newspaper Paragraphs • . . . 59 
 
 V. " To You, My Love, to You " 76 
 
 VI. " There's My Nephew, Vane " 89 
 
 VII. Broken Bones 106 
 
 VIII. Before Witnesses 122 
 
 IX. By the Unquenchable Sea 140 
 
 X. A Stranger 158 
 
 XI. "You've no Idea How Persistent I Am" . 177 
 XII. "Long Live the King!" 196 
 
 XIII. "Farewell, Leonora" 214 
 
 XIV. On the Train 233 
 
 XV. Another Chance 251 
 
 XVI. Change 271 
 
 XVII. The Whole Story 289 
 
 XVIII. To Learn to Sing 309 
 
 MS16G5S 
 
IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 i 
 
 A GRAY COLT 
 
 "I should think by the looks out there in the west that 
 there was a dretful tempest comin' up.'" 
 
 Aunt Lowizy was hurrying into the kitchen with a hot 
 flat-iron in her hand. This iron she had taken from a ker- 
 osene stove that stood lighted on a table in the " unfin- 
 ished part," where we did most of our housework in the 
 summer. It saved labor, and gave us an opportunity to 
 stay in the back of the house, and keep the front rooms 
 more than usually shut up and darkened. 
 
 My mother heard Aunt Lowizy's words, and went with 
 floury hands and an anxious face to the porch, where she 
 gazed at the blue-black mass of cloud which was heaping 
 itself up, and on whose bosom the lightning was darting 
 in dazzling crinkles, followed after a moment by a rolling 
 sound of thunder. 
 
 It was so hot that, as father said, "jest to stand still and 
 think made a feller sweat." The leaves on the maples in 
 our yard did not move, but the poplars showed the white 
 under-side of their foliage even without any wind : and that 
 was a sign of rain. 
 
2 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I had read a little poem about the poplar's leaves, and I 
 felt like quoting it, but I held my tongue. 
 
 The tree-toads were making their bubbling noise ; there 
 was one on the side of our chopping-block under the brakes. 
 He was near enough for me to see his little gray shape as I 
 stood behind mother on the porch. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if we did ketch some of it any- 
 way," said mother, in her subdued voice, " though most- 
 ly, you know, Lowizy, they foller the river. But we do 
 need rain amazingly. I'm glad the house ain't all het up. 
 I can't bear to have the house het up when there's a tem- 
 pest." 
 
 Mother hurried back to the buttery. She was kneading 
 dough for the second rising for bread, and we intended to 
 have " riz biscuit " for supper. We held that riz biscuit 
 were in every way better than the same thing made with 
 baking-powder. 
 
 She called to me through the open door of the pantry: 
 
 " Sis, I wish you'd go out 'n' look 'n' see if your father's 
 in sight. I shouldn't wonder a grain if he got caught. It's 
 jest like him to get caught. He'll stay down to the store 
 talkin' 'bout his colt till all is blue V green." 
 
 I sauntered down the long yard to the road. The grass 
 was already ankle-high in this yard, and the dandelions had 
 gone to seed and blown away ; but some of their tall steins 
 were standing. I pulled one of these steins, split it down 
 the length of it, and put it in my mouth to make a curl of. 
 Do you know the bitter taste of the cool stem ? Does 
 the taste recall days of hot sky and long, long hours when 
 you felt as if life were made for you to drink of, as I used 
 to think the gods drank nectar on Olympus? 
 
 It wasn't a great while since I had learned that there had 
 been gods, and where they lived when, as we say, they were 
 
A GRAY COLT 3 
 
 at home. Being new acquaintances, I thought much of 
 them, and I would refer to them occasionally, arousing the 
 great interest and admiration of mother and Aunt Lowizy. 
 For I had had "advantages." 
 
 That's the phrase which was used in speaking of any girl 
 who had been sent away to school. 
 
 The neighbors wondered why Lemuel Armstrong had 
 taken it into his head to give his daughter " advantages." 
 
 "What's your notion, Lem, anyway?" they asked him. 
 
 He used to look at them and wink, and answer that he 
 believed " in training colts, 'n' why shouldn't he have his 
 gal trained ? And if they didn't know up to Mount Holyoke 
 how to file down and polish up a gal, he guessed they didn't 
 know anywhere. He said he called his Billy halter-broke, 
 'n' now he guessed experience would have to make her run 
 in harness. Experience 'd make the very Old Harry run 
 in harness, single or double." 
 
 Then he would burst into one of his laughs that sounded 
 so whole-hearted and honest. 
 
 I am Billy. Father began calling me that as early as I 
 can remember, and mother and Aunt Lowizy fell into the 
 habit, though they occasionally tried to say " Miny." 
 
 I suppose it is rather a dreadful thing for a girl over 
 twenty years old to think of herself always as Billy. 
 
 Our minister and his wife invariably say " Wilhelmina," 
 and I suppose it is that which makes me feel so respectable 
 when I am with them. But somehow I don't exactly enjoy 
 feeling respectable. It's something like wearing a pair of 
 tight corsets. You feel a great deal better when you have 
 taken them off. And there's the Venus de' Medici — our 
 physiology teacher used to tell us about the Venus and 
 that she was a beautiful example of the uncorseted female 
 form. But the physiology teacher was the tightest -Iaeed 
 
4 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 woman in the whole seminary — it wasn't a college then. 
 So we didn't swallow much that she said, unless we felt 
 good enough to die — which wasn't often. 
 
 We didn't mean to be so good that we should have to 
 die young. 
 
 Father came up when I graduated. I felt kind of queer 
 when he talked with some of my chums, and called me 
 " Billy." I was Wilhelmina up there. Only my clearest 
 friend, who meant to go to Germany, and was giving a 
 good deal of time to German, she would insist upon saying 
 "Vilhelm" always; and I sign my letters to her invariably 
 " Vilhelm." 
 
 Though I wished father could use a little grammar when 
 he talked, and that he didn't wink so often, I was bound not 
 to show that I wished it. I took him everywhere ; and I 
 had a chance to introduce him to the principal, lie shook 
 hands with her, and swung her hand round so hard that 
 she grew red in the face, trying not to have vertigo, I suppose. 
 But she would keep on smiling; I just loved her for that, 
 and for being so sweet and unsurprised when pa said : 
 
 "Now, don't you think my Billy is as promisin' a little 
 filly 's you ever snapped a whip at ?" 
 
 "But we don't snap whips here, Mr. Armstrong," she 
 replied, with one of her best little laughs, as if father were 
 an ex-governor who had just made a joke. 
 
 Then father winked, and burst into an enormous laugh 
 which made everybody in the room turn and look our 
 way. 
 
 But I held my head up, though my face was on fire ; and 
 I took pa's arm and walked him out as soon as I could. 
 
 When I had him by myself I thought for a moment I 
 would ask if he would, as a great favor to me, stop doing 
 that perfectly awful wink. But when I examined his face 
 
A GRAY COLT 5 
 
 it all came over me as it had never done before that his 
 was precisely the kind of a face that had got to wink. It 
 wouldn't do any good to try to prevent him, for the wink 
 was in his soul. So was his great laugh. 
 
 I heard somebody in our village say once that he sup- 
 posed " Lem Armstrong's laugh had sold more horses than 
 you could shake a stick at. A feller jest wanted to buy a 
 horse when he heard that laugh." 
 
 I was mad — indignant, I mean — when I heard that. But 
 I thought it over, and somehow it seemed to me there was 
 truth in those words, though I didn't understand. 
 
 I told mother, and I shall never forget how disturbed she 
 looked. What she said was : 
 
 ; - We all have our peculiarities." 
 
 It was a year ago since I graduated — I had been at home 
 all that time. People seemed to think I ought to get a 
 school to teach somewhere, but I told father, to begin with, 
 when he began to talk of sending me to South Hadley. that 
 I wasn't going to be a school-teacher. I would rather work 
 in some factory. He said he guessed there wasn't any 
 hurry about my earning anything. So I was at home, and 
 helped mother and Aunt Lowizy; but I didn't work very 
 hard. I liked to sit out of doors as soon as it became mild. 
 I liked to sit and let the sun shine on me — just loaf. Aunt 
 Lowizy said I was the biggest loafer she ever saw. 
 
 Sometimes I would repent and set to work hard, and 
 make blisters on my hands. 
 
 To-day I hadn't done much. I had taken the scythe and 
 mowed down the grass between the two maples, and put a 
 barrel-stave hammock there. I had made the hammock the 
 day before. This afternoon I had spent lying there, under 
 the maples, until an hour ago. 
 
 Xow I looked down the long white road which led past 
 
6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the house. I looked in the direction of the village, which 
 lay two miles away. 
 
 The birds were flying about swiftly, uttering short calls as 
 they do when a tempest is coming up. 
 
 "We shall catch it," I said, aloud. 
 
 In front of me was the west, and there the clouds were 
 bluer and blacker than ever, except the very tops of them, 
 which were a soft but brilliant white. 
 
 There was a distant roar somewhere, and I knew it was 
 the wind rushing through the gorge between the high hills 
 a few miles to the north of us. 
 
 The breeze would be here presently, but now it was so 
 quiet that one wanted to gasp. 
 
 How excited it does make one feel to look right at a com- 
 ing tempest ! It was as if something alive were on the way. 
 and would presently snatch you up and toss you somewhere. 
 
 My heart began to beat. Somebody says it's the electri- 
 cal state of the air that is so exciting. I used to read about 
 it up at Holyoke. But it didn't take the mystery away, this 
 explaining. 
 
 I stepped out into the road and began to run down it, for 
 I saw, far along at the curve, a carriage coming. The horse 
 was trotting fast, stepping high, and making a cloud of 
 dust. I was sure it was the gray colt that father had just 
 trained, and that was for sale. 
 
 As I ran I saw that there were two people on the seat of 
 the light buggy, and then I almost thought I had been mis- 
 taken in thinking it was father coming. 
 
 But no — there was no other horse with such a dash and 
 stride as that. 
 
 And now I saw that it was a woman with father — some- 
 body he had taken up on the way, of course. 
 
 The roar of the wind grew louder and nearer. The gale 
 
A GRAY COLT 
 
 bent over the trees ; it swept up a blinding cloud of dust 
 and dashed it at me, so that I turned and scudded back to 
 the house, my skirts flying out before me and I feeling as if 
 some great hands were pushing me forward. 
 
 At the same moment some big drops splashed slanting 
 along; then floods and floods sluiced across the hot earth, 
 and boiled, and roared, and hissed. 
 
 Through the falling water I saw the big gray spank on by 
 me, and whirl the buggy in at the open gate of the road that 
 led to the barn. 
 
 I heard my father shout : " Hullo, Billy ! Scud into the 
 house this minute ! Scud !" 
 
 The woman with him had her head bent, and she was 
 holding her hat down with both hands. 
 
 That's all I seemed to see; yet as I did scud, as pa had 
 said, I thought "She isn't a neighbor." 
 
 A flash of lightning came full across my eyes as I stepped 
 into the entry. Mother caught my hand and drew me in, 
 slamming the door after me. 
 
 The thunder cracked and split, and appeared to be tear- 
 ing the world apart. I clapped my hands over my ears. 
 
 "You're wet as sop," I heard mother say. " Go right up- 
 stairs and change your clo'es." 
 
 But I didn't go directly. I stood in the middle of the 
 large comfortable kitchen and looked out at the tempest. 
 Though it was broad day, how dark it was ! The rain it- 
 self was thick enough to shut out the light of heaven, even 
 without the clouds. 
 
 Aunt Lowizy came in from the other part of the house. 
 She had been shutting a north window which had been 
 overlooked, and the front of her gown was drenched. 
 
 " The wind's goin' to change," she said. " There's a strip 
 of clear sky below the cloud a'ready. 'Twon't rain more'n 
 
8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 five minutes more. 'N' we sh'll have a rainbow, I guess. 
 I always do love to see a rainbow. It makes me think of 
 God's promise." 
 
 " Did somebody come with your father, Sis ?" asked 
 mother. " I thought he wa'n't alone when I had a glimpse 
 of him." 
 
 "There's a woman with him," I answered. 
 
 "I s'pose it's Eunice Small, ain't it? I knew she'd gone 
 up to the village this morning." 
 
 "No; it isn't Eunice. It's a stranger." 
 
 " I'm sure I d' know who it can be," was the response. 
 " I guess she'll go on when it slacks up. Of course they'll 
 stay in the barn while it comes down like this." 
 
 We three women drew our chairs into the centre of the 
 kitchen, after we had shut all the doors so that there should 
 not be a draught anywhere, for we thought that lightning 
 was liable to follow a current of air. We always talked in 
 low tones during a tempest. Mother said it wasn't " seemly " 
 to be making a noise at such times. She said that to her it 
 was as if the Lord was speaking in His holy temple. 
 
 Mother was a Second Adventist. She didn't say much 
 about her belief, and she went every Sunday to the " Ortho- 
 dox Church " at the village. But once in a while, when I 
 was alone with her, she would speak of the coming of the 
 Lord, and her face would flush and her eyes begin to shine, 
 while her voice wasn't quite steady. 
 
 At such times I used to look at her in wonder and feel in 
 my soul some curious and answering cry of mysticism. But 
 I didn't believe in the second coming of Christ, though I 
 used to try to believe it, thinking that such a belief might 
 perhaps make me as good a woman as mother was. 
 
 Now, as we all sat in the kitchen and waited for the 
 tempest to abate, I couldn't help noticing the kind of glo- 
 
A GRAY COLT 9 
 
 rifled look there was on mother's face. She watched the 
 blinding flashes, her eyes growing brighter and brighter. 
 
 Once Aunt Lowizy reached forward and put her hand 
 on mother's arm. 
 
 " Serissy," she said, " now don't go and get excited." 
 
 " No, no," was the answer, "but I can't help thinkin' 
 it's awful grand. What if He should come in His might, 
 ridin' on the cloud ?" 
 
 I heard this, though I did not appear to hear it. I 
 wondered what father thought of this kind of talk, and then 
 I knew intuitively that she would never speak in that way 
 before him. 
 
 Presently there came longer spaces of time between the 
 flash and the thunder, and then the rain grew less heavy. 
 
 The sun came out. I ran to the door and opened it; 
 there was the rainbow, growing brighter every minute. A 
 great rush of damp, sweet smells came in. The birds be- 
 gan to sing again, now in that triumphant way they have 
 after a rain. 
 
 Two figures came hurrying in from the barn. They 
 were father holding an umbrella over the woman. They 
 stepped into the porch, and mother went forward to meet 
 them. 
 
 " Who in the world is she ?" exclaimed Aunt Lowizy ; 
 "I'm sure I don't know her from Adam." 
 
 "Wall, Serissy," said father, "you see, I did git caught 
 this time. But I guess I've sold the gray colt. Though, 
 of course, there ain't anybody goin' to give me all he's 
 worth. I declare, I ain't got the cheek to ask all the crit- 
 ter's worth, and that's a fact." 
 
 Mother made no answer to this remark. She was look- 
 ing at the woman who had come in with father, and who 
 was standing behind him, glancing from one to the other 
 
10 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 of the group in front of her. There was a slight smile on 
 her face, and an extremely amused look in her eyes. No 
 one would for an instant have taken her for one of the 
 townspeople. She was as different as a person could well 
 be. She was dressed in a dark gown with absolutely no 
 frill, or fold, or ruffle, and we country folks were greatly 
 given to frills and ruffles on our frocks. Having had " ad- 
 vantages," I knew that this woman's gown fitted in what I 
 thought a marvellous way ; but I had also a dim idea that 
 it was, after all, more her carriage — her pose, perhaps, I 
 mean — than her dressmaker's art that gave her that dis- 
 tinguished air. 
 
 She appeared old to me. I was young enough to have 
 thirty-five seem an age when one might just as well die, 
 for life could have nothing more for a person who had 
 lived out such a number of years. She was light ; she had 
 an immense quantity of chestnut hair, streaked somewhat 
 with gray; she was tall; she had broad, well-knit shoul- 
 ders, and she carried her head high. 
 
 When she spoke there was a precision in her enuncia- 
 tion and a sonority in her voice. Altogether she was so 
 different from any one I had ever seen that she gave me a 
 bewildering sensation, as if I were somewhere else, or 
 somebody else, myself. 
 
 "There are my folks," said father, taking off his wet 
 coat ; " it's my wife, and my wife's sister, and the young 
 one is Billy. I hope you'll make yourself to home, Miss — 
 Miss — I can't seem to git the hang of your name, somehow." 
 
 " Runciman," in a tone so clear that the word seemed to 
 •be presented bodily to us. 
 
 "Wall, Miss Runciman, you'll stop to supper with us. I 
 s'pose we're goin' to have a picked -up meal, but you'll 
 make allowances for that." 
 
A GRAY COLT II 
 
 Mother stepped up nearer and held out her hand. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "you'll have dinner. It'll be ready in 
 a little while now. Ain't you wet?'' 
 
 " Thank you, no ; I'm not wet — only my hair a little. I 
 shall be so glad to stay a while. You see I had driven over 
 to this town because some one told me that Mr. Armstrong 
 had a horse for sale. I was looking for one to make out 
 my team, and it happened that your husband was at the 
 village. He wanted me to drive with him and see how the 
 colt went. So I did. We were caught in the shower, and 
 he said we were nearer his home than anywhere else, so we 
 came here." 
 
 Having made this explanation to mother, Miss Runci- 
 man, in answer to an invitation to go into the other room, 
 asked leave to sit down in the kitchen. She said she hoped 
 they wouldn't make company of her, and that every mo- 
 ment she spent in a farmhouse like this was like — she hesi- 
 tated, smiled, and continued — 
 
 " I was going to say like wine to me, but I don't mean 
 that. I mean like one of my childhood's days come back 
 again.'' 
 
 So she sat down by the window and looked out, or 
 looked at us, and sometimes spoke a few words, saying 
 them with a wonderful, new kind of gentleness, and in some 
 mysterious way putting a great deal of meaning into them. 
 
 I helped about getting the meal. We had fried ham and 
 eggs, and Miss Runciman, when I came with the basket 
 of e2f2fs, rose and said she wished I would let her attend 
 to them ; that it was a thousand years since she had broken 
 eggs into a spider with hot fat in it, and had to jump back 
 for fear the fat would spatter on her face. 
 
 So I brought her the little flat spade that we use to turn 
 the eggs and take them out. She took the instrument, but 
 
12 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 she remarked that she had never been used to luxuries like 
 that, and didn't know as she could adjust herself to it. 
 Then she laughed and we all laughed ; and I, for one, had 
 a sense of pleasurable interest that lacked very little of 
 being excitement. I began to think of how I would de- 
 scribe this woman in a letter to my friend, who called 
 me Vilhelm ; and I finally decided that I couldn't de- 
 scribe her at all, because the very thing that seemed so 
 interesting was a thing, whatever it was, that hadn't a 
 name. 
 
 We were usually very silent at our meals, but to-day we 
 grew gay and full of talk. Even mother told a little story, 
 and told it with a zest that was charming ; and Aunt 
 Lowizy remembered something that had happened when 
 she was a girl, and took such delight in telling it that we 
 all shared her pleasure. 
 
 As for father, he beamed and shone. I didn't know what 
 ailed us. The stranger did not talk much. Her eyes, brill- 
 iant, laughing, stimulating, glanced from one to the other, 
 as she said a word or two. 
 
 And it was good to have a guest so hungry. Miss Run- 
 ciman ate with a relish. I furtively watched her large, 
 white, strong-looking hands. They gave me an idea that 
 she could do anything. These hands had the unmistak- 
 able appearance of not working ; the nails were pink and 
 polished. 
 
 Very likely it is silly in me to try to tell so much about 
 this woman's appearance, when, as I have hinted, the vital 
 thing can't be told. 
 
 ' After supper we all went to the barn to see the colt again. 
 He was led out into the middle of the great floor and Miss 
 Runciman walked round him, looking at his legs and lifting 
 up his feet to see his hoofs. 
 
A GRAY COLT I 3 
 
 " I never would allow a frog to be cut off so much as that," 
 she said, emphatically, holding one of the forefeet in her 
 hand and putting the tip of a finger on the frog. 
 
 Father burst into asseverations that the horse had never 
 walked a lame step ; that he had the best shoer in the 
 county ; that the hoof was sound as a dollar, and would 
 have gone on if the lady had not interrupted him. 
 
 " I know the hoof is sound," she said, ' : but it's a cruel 
 thing to cut a horse's foot to fit a shoe, instead of fitting the 
 shoe to the foot. Do you think this fellow will let me mount 
 him ?" 
 
 For the first time my father failed in his glibness of speech. 
 He hesitated. 
 
 " I didn't know you wanted a saddle-hoss," he said. 
 
 "Let's try him," she responded, cheerfully. 
 
 In a few moments my old side-saddle was on the gray's 
 back, and he was tossing up his head and his eyes were dis- 
 tending. 
 
 " I vow, I'd ruther you wouldn't !" exclaimed father. 
 
 Miss Runciman did not reply. She was standing in front 
 of the horse, looking at him, and stroking his nose. He 
 stopped throwing up his head, and in a moment the head 
 drooped slightly toward her, as if the animal were asking for 
 another caress. 
 
 " Just give me a hand, Mr. Armstrong," said Miss Runci- 
 man. 
 
 " I tell you I don't like it !" cried my father. 
 
 The lady smiled and said again : 
 
 ' ; Please help me up." 
 
 Father extended his hand and our guest sprang into the 
 saddle. 
 
 The gray snorted and made a dash out of the barn. 
 
 " Darn fool !" cried father, in a low, furious voice .• " this '11 
 
14 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 spoil the sale ! And I was goin' to git five hundred for 
 that colt ! What's she want to ride him for ?" 
 
 " Lemuel !" said mother, reprovingly. 
 
 But father only swore under his breath. 
 
 We ran out of the barn to see where the colt had gone. 
 
 There he was, galloping down the road, going at a great, 
 swinging pace, the wet sand flying up from his feet, his 
 long gray tail straight out behind. 
 
 " What kind of a woman is that, anyway ?" 
 
 It was Aunt Lowizy who asked this. 
 
 "I d'know," said father, "but she's a woman who's got 
 to buy the colt, anyway." 
 
 " I hope you ain't misrepresented anything to her, Lem- 
 uel," said my mother. 
 
 "Misrepresented! Don't you go 'n' be a fool, Serissy. 
 That woman knows a hoss 's well 's I do. Them frogs was 
 pared down too much ; 'n' I give the blacksmith a good 
 cussin' for it, too. Thunder ! There they go into the cross- 
 road ! I do hope the colt won't smash her all to flinders. I 
 ain't settin' up the gray for a saddle-hoss. She said she 
 wanted a hoss to go with another in some kind of a pri- 
 vate travellin' coach. One of her animals had broken 
 his leg." 
 
 Father spoke with what seemed profane emphasis. 
 
 As soon as he had finished he ran down the road until 
 he could see along the cross-road, and I followed him. 
 
 There was a hill in this road, and evidently the colt and 
 its rider had gone up the hill and down the other side, out 
 of sight. Anyway, we could not see them when we reached 
 the corner. 
 
 I knew how alarmed father was by the whiteness of his 
 face. 
 
 He kept running on, and I kept beside him. 
 
A GRAY COL1 1 5 
 
 ■ I vish I'd stopped hei he panted. il I wish I'd 
 stopped her by main forcr 
 
 e mounted the hill, and could now see the long line of 
 wet road with its bushes and trees glistening on each side. 
 
 Thtrt. :;.r::;tr iheii :hir. sterr.ei :: : ssibl±. ".vis :::t :::v 
 h ::;: ::. i his riher 
 
 •Thank the Lord, she ain't got throwed yet!" cried 
 father. " I guess 'tain't no use to try to foller any further." 
 
 I did not say anything My eyes were fixed on the 
 woman who rode the big horse, sat him with an easy sway 
 to his stride that made me directly put away all apprehen- 
 s : : :: . 
 
 " She's all right, pa/" I said, after a little. 
 
 "By George! I do believe she is," was the response. 
 " But Til tell you, Billy, though you needn't let on to your 
 ma, that the only two times I ever tried to get on the g: 
 back he kicked and cut up so that I went off like a shot, 
 and I gave it up. I thought if I trained him to harness 
 'twas good enough. There ! She's turned round." 
 
 We sat down on a stone by the roadside and watched the 
 gray as he came along flinging his feet up and carry :r__" 
 himself in that proud way which so stirs one to witness. 
 
 Miss Runciman pulled him up in front of us. 
 
 "Wall?" said father. 
 
 He was still white ; and when he went to the horse and 
 ; -'-: h 5 :.i:.i :r. ::.-.• g-issy r.e:k his hi:. 2 '.:t::.'z'.±i 2 ..::'.-.- 
 
 " I suppose it isn't policy to say anything in praise of 
 the horse until he is mine," responded the rider. 
 
 :::'::: i::kti reiitvti. H: s:::i :ht:t r.v;5:ir.i- :... 
 rr ly's : : : t . : : '■: r : ur. 2 :.:. 2 71222 i r. his h . z t rs 
 
 "You c"n say what you're a mind to," he answered; 
 " there's the hoss, V if you c'n pick flaws in him you're 
 welcome to do it. I don't pretend hr 
 
1 6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 But he's young 'n' sound, V he c'n road his twelve miles in 
 an hour without a whip. All you've got to do is jest to 
 suck in your teeth to that hoss, 'n' he'll start, I c'n tell ye." 
 
 Miss Runciman laughed gayly. Her face showed ex- 
 hilaration and delight. 
 
 "Now I ought to beat you down on your price," she 
 
 said. 
 
 At this father looked injured. He thrust his hands into 
 his pockets and rattled the loose silver. 
 
 " I ain't askin' you what the animal's really worth," he 
 said, solemnly. "You bein' a woman, I ain't goin' to try to 
 git the better of you 's I would if you was a man. I cal- 
 kilate a man knows how to look out for himself. But I 
 tell you I don't never take advantage of a woman when 
 I'm dealing with her." 
 
 Miss Runciman laughed again. I wished father wouldn't 
 talk just like that. But he was very serious. 
 
 " Now if I were a man," said Miss Runciman, " how 
 much would you ask for this horse ?" 
 
 " Five hundred and fifty," was the prompt reply. 
 
 " And now ?" 
 
 " Five hundred." 
 
 " And you take off fifty just because I'm a woman ?" 
 
 " Eggsactly," with the utmost solemnity. 
 
 " Oh, this is gallantry indeed !" 
 
 My father's face did not change. He nodded gravely. 
 
 " I d'now whether it's gallantry or not," he said, " but 
 you can't make me take advantage of no woman. I never 
 did 'n' I never will." 
 
 Miss Runciman's face showed such keen amusement that 
 I felt the blood rush hotter than ever to my cheeks. 
 
 She glanced at me and then seemed to try to subdue 
 her mirth. 
 
A GRAY COLT I 7 
 
 " I'll take him at five hundred," she said. 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Father's countenance looked almost dejected ; but I knew 
 he was full of triumph. Still one would have said that he 
 had just made a very poor bargain. 
 
 " I'll send you a check to-morrow, and will write you 
 where to bring him." 
 
 Then she shook the bridle, and the gray galloped round 
 into his own yard. 
 
 I followed lagging. I walked so slowly that when I 
 reached the house the buggy, with the colt again hitched to 
 it, and father and the stranger on the seat, was just turning 
 into the road. 
 
 Miss Runciman made a movement, and father drew in 
 the horse. I went up to the side of the carriage where the 
 woman sat, and she leaned out and extended her hand to 
 me. 
 
 "Good-by, Billy," she said. " I must call you Billy be- 
 cause that's the name by which your father introduced 
 you." 
 
 " Good-by," I answered. 
 
 She was holding my hand closely and looking down at 
 me. It seemed to me that she had not looked at me before. 
 
 " How old are you ?" she asked, suddenly. 
 
 "Twenty-three." 
 
 " Have you ever earned any money?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Should you like to earn money?" 
 
 " Yes, but I don't want to teach school." 
 
 She smiled. I thought she was going to say something 
 more, but she only repeated her good-by. Then the gray 
 colt sprang forward, and I was left standing in the road 
 staring after her. 
 
l8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " That's curious," I said to myself. " I don't know why 
 she asked if I wanted to earn money." 
 
 When I went into the house I found mother and Aunt 
 Lowizy talking about the woman. Mother was saying — 
 
 " I don't know what to make of her, I'm sure. I can't 
 tell whether I like her or not." 
 
 " I can tell," said Aunt Lowizy. " I don't want nothing 
 to do with her. What's she going round buying horses 
 for ? And who is she, I should like to know ? I hope 
 Lemuel won't let her take the colt away 'fore he sees her 
 money." 
 
 Lemuel saw her money the next day, as she had said. The 
 check came, and father took it to the bank in the town and 
 got the cash. 
 
 " How does she know but I'm goin' to keep hoss 'n' 
 money both ?" he chuckled. 
 
 There was something in the note which accompanied the 
 check which made my blood start with wonder. It was this : 
 
 " Please bring the horse to the Ottawa Hotel in Chilton 
 on the 17th, and please also let Billy come with you. When 
 I see a child with a face like hers I have a wish to see her 
 again. Don't fail to bring her." 
 
 Father read this note slowly to us when he came home 
 with it. He looked at me. 
 
 " What does she mean by ' a face like hers ?' " he asked. 
 " What's the matter with Billy's face, anyway ?" 
 
 Mother turned and gazed at me, and her own face grew 
 troubled. 
 
 " I don't know, I'm sure," she answered. " I never 
 thought Mina was pretty." 
 
 " I'm not pretty ; I know all about that," I said, deci- 
 sively. " I haven't an idea what Miss Runciman means, 
 but she doesn't mean that, and I want to go with pa. It's 
 
A GRAY COLT 
 
 l 9 
 
 thirty miles to Chilton, isn't it? Yes, I must go with you, 
 pa." And, of course, I went. 
 
 The 17th came two days later. We started early in the 
 morning in the light buggy, the gray colt in the shafts and 
 another horse hitched to the back of the wagon, that he 
 might take us home again. 
 
 The long drive stands out in my memory as distinctly 
 as if it had been taken yesterday. It was early summer 
 and we drove through a country of great farms and wide 
 pastures, where cows and sheep were feeding. The sky 
 was blue and the sun hot, but the wind was fresh from the 
 west and filled with the odors of grass and lush brakes and 
 wild roses. Do you know what such an air is ? 
 
 Over the plains of heaven does any sweeter air blow ? 
 
 Father was in great spirits. He talked, and whistled, 
 and sang snatches of song in a rough bass voice, and I 
 joined him in the song when I could. 
 
 We drove at a good pace and were entering the city 
 of Chilton in less than four hours from the time we had 
 started. Father always said that eight miles was enough 
 to drive in an hour when you were on a long journey. 
 
 The Ottawa Hotel was a big building with fluted white 
 pillars in front, standing on the main street. 
 
 My heart was beating very fast when I sat in the ladies' 
 parlor, waiting for Miss Runciman to come down. Father 
 sent me in while he had the horses put up. He said he 
 would be round and call for me in an hour or two. 
 
 I had told the servant to inform Miss Runciman that 
 Miss Armstrong had come. 
 
 The man disappeared, having gone out of sight in the 
 elevator which was sliding up and down directly opposite 
 the open door of the parlor. 
 
 There was no one in the room when I first entered it 
 
20 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 and I gazed about at the big, soft chairs, the marble tables, 
 the stiff palms in green pots in the bay window. 
 
 Very soon a man and two women came in. The two 
 women sat down, but the man strolled about, holding his 
 hat and cane, and diffusing an odor of cigar smoke. He 
 looked at everything, including me ; looked with large, 
 authoritative eyes that did not linger, but that apparently 
 comprehended. 
 
 Another servant appeared and took their cards from 
 these people, and then he also was swallowed up in the 
 elevator. 
 
 One of the women, slowly wielding a fan, spoke. She 
 said : 
 
 " It's so difficult to catch Miss Runciman. Ronald, are 
 you sure she was to be at the Ottawa ?" 
 
 " I'm sure the paper made such a statement." 
 
 " But you can't tell anything by the papers." 
 
 " I know they lie like troopers," he responded. 
 
 " But you can try to see Miss Runciman. You'll never 
 see her if you don't try." 
 
 " I do wonder how she looks when you meet her in a 
 room like this," said the other woman. As she spoke, she 
 rose and moved uneasily to a window. 
 
II 
 "what's an understudy?" 
 
 I sat very still, far back in my big chair at the end of 
 the long parlor. I wondered what Miss Runciman was, 
 anyway, and why it was " so hard to catch her." Evidently 
 these people did not know her, but then why did they want 
 to see her ? 
 
 The woman with the fan, whom her companion called 
 " Cornelia," sauntered slowly down my way, apparently 
 saw me for the first time, looked irresolutely at me for an 
 instant, then paused in front of my chair. She was dressed 
 too richly, I thought, and the perfume of " frangipanni " 
 was really quite stifling as she waved her fan back and 
 forth ; the breeze thus created moved the short, dark hair 
 on her forehead, and I was afraid the rice powder, visibly 
 deposited on her cheeks and chin, would be wafted abroad 
 in the room. 
 
 "Perhaps you're acquainted with her?" she said to me, 
 with a little air of condescension. 
 
 As she spoke the man drew near and stood staring at a 
 lurid painting of the " Plains of Heaven " which filled the 
 space on the wall behind me, between the top of my head 
 and the ceiling. 
 
 " I don't know," I answered, somewhat confused, for I 
 had not supposed she was going to speak to me. 
 
 The man brought his eyes down from the painting and, 
 
2 2 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 tucking his cane under his arm, began to smooth his silk 
 hat round and round with the palm of his hand. A diamond 
 on that hand flung a spark into my vision. It seemed a 
 very large diamond, indeed. 
 
 " Miss Runciman, I mean," went on Cornelia. " Per- 
 haps you've met her." 
 
 " Yes," I answered, and I felt quite proud. I flushed 
 up with still more pride as I added, " I came by appoint- 
 ment." 
 
 " Oh !" lifting up heavy, white eyelids with a more ani- 
 mated stare. " Ronald," turning to the man, " this — per — 
 I mean this young lady, knows Miss Runciman. She came 
 by appointment." 
 
 The gentleman — I had a dim idea that he was a gentle- 
 man, notwithstanding the size of his diamond — glanced at 
 me and then turned away, saying : 
 
 " Well, Cornelia, she is more fortunate than we are, then. 
 Perhaps we might better go, and come some other time." 
 
 He made a movement as if to put on his hat, recollected, 
 and did not put it on. 
 
 He commenced to walk round the room again, and I 
 thought he began to hum a tune, but stopped immediate- 
 
 'y- 
 
 The elevator opposite the wide door of this public parlor 
 had not omitted arriving and departing, and people had 
 not ceased from stepping out of it and into it. Two or 
 three times some one had come to the door, glanced in, and 
 then gone away. Two women had entered, rustled about, 
 and gone. A black servant came in with a salver in his 
 hand, but he apparently did not find the person he wanted. 
 
 Every time any figure approached the door my heart 
 gave a jump. There was the elevator stopping again ; this 
 time a tall woman stepped from it and walked forward with 
 
"what's an understudy ?" 23 
 
 that decision of motion which showed that she came in 
 with a purpose. 
 
 She had a parasol in one hand and gloves in the other, 
 and a large hat on her head ; I thought I had not known 
 a hat could be quite so picturesque, though my friend who 
 calls me Vilhelm knows how to wear a large hat. 
 
 Of course this was Miss Runciman. I did not move, 
 for I felt as if this gentleman and these two ladies would 
 have the first chance of an interview. 
 
 Cornelia, the woman with the fan and the frangipanni, 
 did indeed step forward instantly, exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh, do forgive us, Miss Runciman ! But when we 
 knew you were here at the Ottawa, we — " 
 
 Miss Runciman, as she walked forward, glanced over the 
 speaker, but her face did not change into the very slightest 
 smile as she responded : 
 
 " Pardon me." 
 
 That was all she said as she came towards me. I rose. 
 She held out her hand and asked : 
 
 " How do you do, Billy ?" 
 
 " I'm very well, I thank you," I answered. 
 
 " And how's the gray colt ?" 
 
 " He's all right. Came in at the end of his thirty miles 
 as fine as when he started from home." 
 
 t; Ah ! That's the kind of a colt to have." 
 
 She began to draw on one of her gloves, looking at me 
 as she did so. I grew red and white, but she did not with- 
 draw her eyes ; she would have gazed at something inani- 
 mate in just that way, I was sure. 
 
 " I'm glad you came," she said, at length ; " I thought, 
 perhaps, your mother would forbid it. I'm going out just 
 now. I want you to wait until I come back" — she walked 
 a little way from me and touched a button on the wall. 
 
24 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 A black man came gently forward from somewhere. " Take 
 this lady to my room," she commanded. I followed the 
 servant, who said I was "to please to take the elevator." 
 I did so, and found myself going up and instantly stopping. 
 The black man wasn't with me and I stood in a wide hall, 
 a sense of confusion upon me, which was mitigated, how- 
 ever, by the immediate appearance of the servant, who 
 knocked on a door near. 
 
 Somebody said " Come in," in a muffled voice, and I 
 opened the door, finding myself in a large parlor where a 
 young woman was arranging the folds of a velvet skirt over 
 a " form." It was a red velvet skirt, and the train of it, 
 lined with white silk, was laid out several yards over the 
 floor. 
 
 The girl was kneeling down as I entered and closed the 
 door softly behind me. She had her mouth full of pins 
 and couldn't speak very clearly. She looked back over 
 her shoulder at me as I stood just within the room. I will 
 confess that I was awed somewhat by the great grandeur 
 of the gilt and plush chairs, the gilt mirrors, and the gen- 
 eral sense of glitter from the heavy, embossed paper on the 
 walls. I wasn't used to hotels, and didn't know that there 
 is usually a great deal of plush and gilt in them. 
 
 " Miss Runciman's gone out," said the girl, thickly, one 
 pin dropping from her mouth as she spoke. 
 
 "I know it," I said. 
 
 She held her hand under her lips and ejected all the pins 
 into it ; but she continued kneeling. 
 
 " Miss Runciman's gone out," she said again, as if I had 
 
 not heard. 
 
 " I know it," I answered for the second time. 
 
 I was irritated by the way the girl looked at me, and so 
 I would not volunteer any explanation of my appearance. 
 
••what's an understudy?" 25 
 
 ' ; Have you seen her?" she asked, now sitting back on 
 her heels that she might the better gaze at me. 
 •• Yes," I answered. 
 
 I apparently irritated her, for she exclaimed : 
 
 •• Can't you speak more 'n that?'' 
 
 •■ Yes. I can. Miss Runciman told me to come here and 
 wait for her," I replied. 
 
 "All right, then. Sit down somewhere, and make your- 
 self to home." 
 
 I advanced into the room upon this. I went to a table 
 upon which lay a heap of cabinet photographs. The first 
 one was a picture of Miss Runciman in street dress ; she 
 was looking right at me with that same expression of gen- 
 tle imperiousness I had seen in her face. The next one 
 was a picture of Miss Runciman in ermine and velvet robes, 
 with her head flung up, her hand out, the whole attitude 
 one of queenlike command. I felt my eyes begin to dis- 
 tend as I went on with the photographs — they were all of 
 Miss Runciman. though in some the features and expres- 
 sion were so different, not to mention the dress. 
 
 I dropped the last card on the table and turned to my 
 companion, who was still on the floor, by the skirt. 
 
 " What !" I exclaimed, i; is she an actress ?" 
 
 There was that in my manner that made the girl, who had 
 again filled her mouth with pins, once more very hastily 
 drop them into the palm of her hand. 
 
 She gazed up at me. 
 
 " Gracious !" she cried, as if I had betrayed an ignorance 
 beyond her understanding. 
 
 I was very uncomfortable, but I persisted, as, perhaps, 
 was my way. 
 
 "Why don't you tell me?" I inquired. "I suppose it 
 isn't a secret." 
 
26 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " Well, I should say 'twasn't a secret," she burst out. " I 
 declare I didn't know there was a person in the civilized 
 world who didn't know what Miss Runciman is." 
 
 I was aware that I had a strong desire to go up to this 
 girl and slap her ; but I suppose it is vulgar to slap people. 
 I stood still and glared. I was suffering from curiosity, but 
 I would ask no more questions. I said stiffly that I lived 
 in the country, and that there were some things that country 
 people knew, but there were other things that they did not 
 know. 
 
 Having said this, I walked over to the window and gazed 
 into the street, with my back to the person on her knees. 
 I heard her laughing to herself, and I had a feeling of 
 great virtue because I did not, even now, go forward and 
 "give her a hit," as we do when we are children and a play- 
 mate becomes too exasperating. 
 
 Presently the girl rose to her feet and went to the other 
 side of the room contemplating the skirt on the form, with 
 her head on one side. She was still laughing somewhat. 
 
 " I'm sorry I'm so very funny," I said, severely. 
 
 "The idea," she cried, "of asking who Miss Runciman 
 is!" 
 
 " She may be a very great person, indeed," I retorted, 
 " but you see every one does not know it." 
 
 " So it seems," was the response. 
 
 The girl came towards me. She threw herself down in a 
 chair near me, and stretched her arms over her head as if 
 she were weary. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "she's a actress, and she's more'n that; 
 she's a opera singer. She's a primy donna — A number one 
 every time." 
 
 "Is she?" 
 
 I suppose my face must have shown the awe I felt. I 
 
'what's an understudy?'' 27 
 
 had never been to an opera in my life. But we seminary 
 girls had acted in an operetta once, and I had taken one of 
 the leading parts, and had wrung my hands and sung at the 
 very top of my voice. The local papers afterwards said that 
 ' ; Miss Wilhelmina Armstrong had performed her difficult 
 role with surprising facility and effect." I bought twenty 
 copies of that paper and sent them to as many different 
 people with deep, black strokes around the above remark. 
 
 After having received this information, I asked no more 
 questions. I gazed out into the street, but I saw nothing 
 more than a confused jumble of men and women. There 
 was a sort of fearsome glow over me that would every now 
 and then give place to a delightful chill. It was a very 
 curious and wonderful thing that a " primy donna" should 
 have come to our house and have bought a horse of father. 
 
 I don't know how long it was that I sat there looking from 
 the window upon the streets of the city. I saw my father 
 come along with his hands thrust into the pockets of his 
 duster. His hat was on the back of his head and he was 
 whistling. He turned in between the fluted pillars of the 
 hotel entrance. After a while I became aware that I was 
 watching for Miss Runciman, watching with all the curiosity 
 and eagerness of a woman who has not yet ceased to be a 
 child. I wondered what she had said to Cornelia. 
 
 Some one touched me on the shoulder. It was the girl 
 who had received me. I started. 
 
 " She's come," she said. "You're to go in there." 
 
 There, as she pointed, I noticed a door opened into another 
 room. I walked towards it. Miss Runciman was lying back 
 in a long chair with a fan in her hand. Her hat and gloves 
 were thrown on the bed near. 
 
 " You're a good child to wait," she said. " Sit down there 
 where I can see you." 
 
28 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I obeyed. She looked at me up and down, and down 
 and up. 
 
 " I believe you told me how old you were — twenty- 
 three ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And I'm thirty-five," she laughed, and then she sighed. 
 " At thirty-five a woman begins to remember when she was 
 young, and to be surprised that she doesn't feel old. And 
 people, in speaking of her, begin to say ' she was,' instead 
 of ' she is.' " 
 
 I was silent. She swung her fan languidly, her half-shut 
 eyes fixed on my face. 
 
 " The critics haven't dared to say ' she was ' about me yet 
 — but they are waiting." Then, suddenly, " Haven't you a 
 singing voice, Billy ?" 
 
 I blushed and hesitated. Finally I answered : 
 
 " I believe I can carry a tune." 
 
 "Of course you can. You have what I call a violin face. 
 Sing me something." 
 
 As I was silent, she said : " Anything, you know." 
 
 Frightened almost out of my senses, I piped forth feebly 
 one verse of the first thing I could think of, and that hap- 
 pened to be " Come, ye disconsolate," which I had sung at 
 the funeral of old Deacon Marie the week before, at the re- 
 quest of " the relatives." 
 
 My listener could not help smiling somewhat as I went on. 
 When I had finished she exclaimed : 
 
 " What a dismal little thrush it is ! Now I'll sing it." 
 
 She sat up erect and began. By the time she had fin- 
 ished the line, "Where'er ye languish," I was ready to 
 throw myself at her feet and become hysterical in my admi- 
 ration. But I did no such thing. I sat perfectly still, my 
 eyes cast down, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. And 
 
" what's an understudy ?" 29 
 
 I said nothing when she ceased singing at the end of the 
 verse. 
 
 " You have a good natural voice," she remarked, " but I 
 don't know why you sing coldly." 
 
 I had nothing to say to that, either, so I kept still. 
 "I understand that you are frightened," she went on, 
 more kindly. " But we won't talk about singing any more 
 now. I must tell you that I am a woman of whims ; I sup- 
 pose every one who amounts to anything has whims. When 
 I saw you at the farm-house the other day I took a fancy to 
 have you along on our trip this summer. It's my vacation. 
 Another whim of mine is to go on a long carriage trip— live 
 in the carriage, you know — stop here and there— get ac- 
 quainted with nature. And I want to make sure and not 
 have any one about who will jar. I hate to have a per- 
 son near me who doesn't know that a woman may have 
 moods. Such people ought to be shot. And when you are 
 going on forty, and haven't become reconciled to the fact, 
 it does seem as if you are justified in killing people who 
 jar. Don't you think so, Billy ?" 
 
 She spoke in the most genial tone, and she held out her 
 hand to me as she asked the last question. I rose and went 
 to her side. She placed her hand on my arm. 
 
 "I do hope you haven't a lover," she remarked, and I said 
 " No." 
 
 " Then I don't see but that you can go in a house car- 
 riage this summer. And I can try your voice. Do you 
 sing in your village ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I sit in the seats," I answered. 
 
 "The seats?" 
 
 " The choir ; the singers' seats, I mean." 
 
 She laughed, seemed to recover, and then laughed again. 
 
 " Forgive me, but you don't know what a picture your 
 
3° 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 words recall to me. Now you may go home and get a wool 
 frock made. We are not going to be stylish. Be ready in 
 a week. I'll send you word." 
 
 I was a bit nettled at the way I was dismissed. I walked 
 to the open door of the room, and there I paused to say : 
 
 " I don't think my mother '11 be willing for me to go." 
 
 " What !" in surprise. 
 
 I repeated my words. Miss Runciman frowned slightly; 
 then she said, " I'll write to her." 
 
 I understood that I was to leave. I walked through the 
 large adjoining apartment and did not notice the girl there. 
 I was so confused that I could hardly find my way to the 
 public parlor. I entered that room rather blindly, and was 
 thankful to hear a hearty, familiar voice saying: 
 
 "Well, Billy, how are things? Have you seen her?" 
 
 I went up to father and took his hand. 
 
 " Yes, I've seen her. But I don't know how things are," 
 I answered. 
 
 He drew me closer to the window and looked sharply at 
 me. "What's the matter, anyway?" he inquired. "Your 
 cheeks are jest as red as fire, and your eyes are startin' out 
 of your head." 
 
 " I guess I'm kind of excited," was my reply. " Can't 
 we go home right away, father?" 
 
 " I guess you be excited," he responded. " I s'pose you 
 know she's a great opery singer ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know it now. And she made me sing to her. 
 Father, let's go home right away." 
 
 He laughed ; he seemed to be laughing at what I said. 
 He put more questions, and when I told him that Miss 
 Runciman wanted me to go with her in her house-carriage 
 he stared and exclaimed : 
 
 " What for, I sh'd like to know ?" 
 
"what's an understudy?' 1 31 
 
 " Because," I answered. " she is a woman of w r hims." 
 
 When I made this answer I wished again that father 
 wouldn't laugh so much. It seemed to me that this was 
 serious enough for him to seem concerned. 
 
 He put his big, rough finger under my chin and lifted 
 my face up. Then he said : 
 
 " Well, Billy, I guess you're in luck this time. They 
 say she makes lots of money. Of course you'll go. Meb- 
 by she's taken a notion to you 'n' will leave you her 
 prop'ty." 
 
 After this remark I had no inclination to talk anv more 
 
 J 
 
 on the subject. I drew back and walked mechanically to 
 the marble-topped table that stood in the room. A fan 
 was lying there, and I detected the odor of frangipanni. 
 I took the fan and unfurled it, not thinking what I was 
 doins;. At that moment a man entered from the main hall 
 and came forward, hat in hand, his somewhat bold eyes — 
 very bright, and, as I had thought before, full of authority 
 — on me as he advanced. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he said, " but my sister 
 sent me back for her fan ; she was quite positive she had 
 left it here. Oh, thank you !" 
 
 I awkwardly held out the fan, provoked with myself that 
 I had been found with it in my hand. 
 
 He thrust the article into an inner pocket of his coat. He 
 glanced at my father, who still stood at the window. Then, 
 without any hesitation, he walked across the room and said : 
 
 "You'll excuse me, I'm sure, for speaking to you, but 
 that's a mighty fine colt you've brought into town. I saw it 
 at the stable just now. I'm looking after a good animal 
 myself." 
 
 How animated and pleased father grew on the instant ! 
 
 " If you want a good hoss 's ever was sold in this State," 
 
32 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 he said, in his loud, hearty way, " why, I'm the man to come 
 to, and that's a fact every time." 
 
 I was not looking at father, but I'm sure he winked as he 
 made this assertion. 
 
 "How lucky for me!" was the response. "Where do 
 you live? A man that knew how to raise that gray is the 
 man to pick out my horse for me." 
 
 The gentleman pulled a little note-book from his pocket 
 and held his pencil poised over a page as he glanced inter- 
 rogatively at my father, who answered that anybody out 
 our way could tell where "Lem" Armstrong lived — "out 
 Worthing way, you know ; cars leave you within five mile ; 
 lem me know when you're coming 'n' I'll be to the dee- 
 po with as good a piece of horse-flesh 's you ever seen." 
 
 " Thanks " — the man wrote in his book — " I'll set the 
 time now," he said, as his pencil moved; "we'll say on 
 Wednesday, the morning train. Will that do ?" 
 
 " First rate." 
 
 The stranger put up his note-book and drew out a card- 
 case from which he extracted a bit of pasteboard, his dia- 
 mond making a great glitter meanwhile. 
 
 Father took the card, the man made a fine bow and 
 walked out of the room. 
 
 "Great swell, ain't he?" father exclaimed, searching for 
 his glasses. " I tell you what 'tis, Billy : if I sell another hoss 
 I'll make you a stunnin' present ; di'mond, or something." 
 
 I advanced and looked at the card. " Mr. Ronald Mav- 
 erick" was what I read; and father read it aloud after me , 
 as if he were spelling the words. 
 
 "Wall, all I've got to say is, if Mr. Ronald Maverick 
 c'n 'ford to wear a ring like that, he c'n 'ford to pay a good 
 stiff price for his hoss. Now le's go to a restaurant, Billy, 
 'n' have a howlin' good dinner." 
 
" what's an understudy ?" 33 
 
 So we went, and father ate, and talked, and laughed ; 
 and he winked at the waiter, and was in extremely good 
 spirits. 
 
 As we were on our way home, while the sun gradually 
 went lower and lower down the clear blue sky, father ques- 
 tioned me more about Miss Runciman, and seemed to have 
 no doubt as to my going with her. 
 
 " You'll be a reg'lar fool if you don't go," he said, in his 
 good-natured way. He was almost always good-natured. 
 
 Mother was in the yard when we drove down the road. 
 The bright red light of the setting sun was on her, and I 
 felt a sudden, strange pang as I saw how delicately lovely 
 her face was, with its large, mysterious-looking eyes, which 
 seemed to be able to see strange things. 
 
 For the first time in my life this question came to me : 
 " How did she come to marry this man ?" 
 
 Immediately the query seemed to me so disrespectful 
 and disloyal to them both that I hastened to put it from 
 me. But it had come once, and I had a curious feeling that 
 it would come again and again. 
 
 It is a significant time in the life of a daughter when she 
 begins to judge her parents, not as her parents merely, but 
 as human individuals like herself. 
 
 " Hullo, mother !" called out father. " I've brought Billy 
 back this time ; but mebby next time I sha'n't be so lucky." 
 
 He pulled in the horse and I sprang out of the carriage. 
 Mother extended her hand quickly and took hold of mine. 
 She smiled rather a wistful smile, and she kissed me, which 
 she very rarely did. 
 
 " I can't be thankful enough you've come," she said, 
 softly. " I don't know why 'tis, but it seems 's if I'd got you 
 back from something dreadful." 
 
 The horse and carriage had gone on into the barn. We 
 
 3 
 
34 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 could hear father whistling as he unharnessed. Mother 
 led me on into the orchard, which was at the other side 
 of the yard. 
 
 " Lowizy's bakin' the biscuits," she said. " Ive been so 
 nervous 'bout you, Wilhelmina, that it was all I could do 
 to hold myself together. What 'd that woman want?" 
 
 I hesitated. I held mother's hard, thin hand fast. 
 
 " I thought you liked her when she was here the other 
 day," I responded. 
 
 " So I did ; so I did," she answered, quickly. " Some- 
 how she made me feel so kind of satisfied with myself, 'n' 's 
 if I was real bright 'n' smart. What is she, anyway ?" 
 
 " She's a great opera singer, what they call a prima 
 donna." 
 
 I spoke proudly. Mother looked at me fearfully. 
 
 "Oh !" she exclaimed, in a whisper. "One of them opera 
 singers ? Did she make you sing, Sis? You've got a beau- 
 tiful voice, I think." 
 
 "Well, you're mistaken about my voice," I answered. 
 " She did not care for it. And she says it is cold. She 
 wants me to go with her this summer in a house carriage. 
 She says she has whims. She's got a whim to have me." 
 
 Mother hurried me along down the slope of the orchard 
 until we were under the old chestnut-tree and out of sight 
 of any one. There she stopped. She laid a hand on each 
 of my shoulders. A glow of beautiful, solemn light came 
 from her eyes. 
 
 " My daughter," she said, impressively, " you mustn't go 
 with that woman. She won't do you any good. No — no. 
 I see a picture of your life. I see — " 
 
 "Oh, mother— don't! Don't!" I cried. 
 
 Some great wave of mystery seemed to be rising higher 
 and higher in my soul. I couldn't bear to have her go on. 
 
"what's an understudy?" 35 
 
 I flung my arms about her neck and leaned my head down 
 on her shoulder. I was a tall girl, and she seemed very 
 frail to me then. 
 
 " We'll pray about it," she said, in a few moments, during 
 which she stroked my hair softly, for my hat had fallen off. 
 
 " You know it may help us to pray, and something has 
 got to help us. I've passed a sorrowful day. All the time 
 I've seen my little girl drifting away from me, going into 
 bad places that glittered and looked like good places. Yes, 
 we'll pray right here. Wilhelmina, kneel down close to 
 me." 
 
 Mother knelt down on the grass, and I placed myself 
 beside her. She put her arm close about me and drew me 
 to her. Her eyes were wide open and fixed on the bright 
 western sky where the sun was slowly going down. The 
 brilliance of the sky dazzled me, but it did not seem to 
 dazzle her. 
 
 "The Lord is coming," she said, at last, in a solemn 
 voice. 
 
 I started in uncontrollable terror. I tried to look straight 
 into the glory of the heavens. But I could not, and again 
 I hid my face on her shoulder. Why did she think the 
 Lord was coming ? I was afraid of the Lord ; I did not 
 want Him to come. 
 
 " On pillars of white fire,'' she said, in a half-whisper, 
 " and He will take us, or He will leave us forever. For 
 years I've looked for Him — " 
 
 " Mother," I said, with my lips close to her cheek, " you 
 said you were going to pray." 
 
 "Yes, so I did— so I did." 
 
 She held me closer yet, but she did not pray aloud. I 
 remained motionless, my heart filled with awe and a kind 
 of delightful fear of I knew not what. I could feel mothers 
 
36 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 heart beat, pressed as I was against her, and that it grew 
 to a calmer movement, as the moments passed. 
 
 The sun had just dropped below the pine ridge when we 
 rose from our knees. Mother was clasping my hand tightly, 
 and she dropped it and held my face a moment between 
 her palms, smiling at me with a sort of beatified smile. I 
 didn't know why this smile should make me cry out: 
 " Mother, don't you worry. I won't go with that woman. 
 At least" — here something tugged at my consciousness — 
 
 11 T 55 
 
 " Stop ! Stop !•' she said. " Don't make any rash prom- 
 ises. You'll be in God's hands wherever you are." 
 
 I did not understand why I should be aware of a feeling 
 of rebellion against being in God's hands, and a conviction 
 that I could take care of myself quite well. I had a sense 
 of being a prisoner. My wings were grown ; I wanted to 
 try them. I knew I was wicked — my consciousness of 
 wickedness made me indignant. 
 
 " Serissy ! Serissy! Where are you?" 
 It was Aunt Lowizy's voice coming stridently across the 
 still orchard spaces. 
 
 " Yes, yes — here I am," was the answer ; and the ex- 
 pression of gratified resignation faded from mother's face, 
 leaving it old and tired. 
 
 " Come in to supper right away," returned the voice. 
 " Lemuel's ready, 'n' the biscuit are out 'n' gittin' cold." 
 
 We hurried back to the house. Though the doors were 
 open, the kitchen felt hot and close, and there was a strong 
 smell of boiling tea. We always boiled our tea, for father 
 said there wa'n't any taste to it unless it had had a good 
 bile on ; 'n' if bilin' brought out the pizon, why, he'd resk it. 
 He'd drunk biled tea for more'n forty years, so he guessed 
 'twas mighty slow pizon, anyway. 
 
"what's an understudy?" 37 
 
 This was a remark he usually made when we had company 
 to a meal, and the almost black decoction was poured into 
 the cups. 
 
 " Billy says they don't have such lookin' stuff up to Had- 
 ley," he would say; "but then we folks that 'ain't had 'ad- 
 vantages' can drink this. Mother, I wish you'd turn me 
 another cup, will ye ?" 
 
 I thought that every one who heard father must for the 
 moment think they liked this beverage better than anything 
 else. I remember once overhearing two women who had 
 been spending the afternoon with us. They were putting 
 on their things, which I had just brought from the spare 
 bedroom. I had gone back into the bedroom to find a miss- 
 ing veil. 
 
 " What a dretful pleasant man Mr. Armstrong is !" said 
 one of them. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," was the response, " and my husband says 
 he'd ruther be cheated by ' Lem ' Armstrong than git the 
 best of a bargain with anybody else. 'N' I don't wonder. 
 I don't think his wife 'predates how good he is in his fam'ly. 
 I tell you I don't much care what a man is out round, if he's 
 only good in his fam'ly." 
 
 What further conversation there might have been on the 
 subject of their hosts I nipped in the bud by entering the 
 room with the veil, which I carefully tied around the head 
 where it belonged, sternly putting away the desire to draw 
 the article chokingly tight. 
 
 Yes, father was a very pleasant man ; but of course he 
 didn't cheat. 
 
 After supper that night he bade me to come out to the 
 barn and hold the lantern for him. But when I asked him, 
 after we had reached the stable, where I should take the 
 lantern, he sat down on the meal-chest, picked up a straw 
 
38 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 from the top of it, and began to chew it, as he said : " Stan' 
 right where you be with it. What's your mother been say- 
 in' to ye down in the orchard?" 
 
 As I hesitated he went on : " You needn't hold back 
 nothin 1 . Your mother'n I are one, you know, and," wink- 
 ing, " I'm the one." 
 
 The light of the lantern was directly on his face, and I 
 had a strange fancy that I had never seen his wink quite so 
 plainly. 
 
 " Speak up, Billy, that's a good girl," he said. 
 
 " She didn't say much of anything," I replied. 
 
 " She don't want you to go with that woman, does she ?" 
 
 " No ; I don't think she does." He leaned forward and 
 took hold of my arm. 
 
 "Now look here, Billy," he said, in a low voice. "You 
 needn't mind bothering 'bout what she says in a case like 
 this. She's one of the best women in the world, but she's 
 got mighty queer notions — I call 'em Advent notions. You 
 go with the opera singer. 'Tain't best to throw away 
 chances. You go with her, if she sticks to the idea. But 
 she may forgit all about it. That's what I'm afraid of, that 
 she'll forgit. Lord ! didn't she ride that colt good ? You 
 go with her. Here, give me the lantern. Run in now, 'n' 
 you needn't say I've said anything." 
 
 I obeyed. When I entered the kitchen where mother 
 was washing dishes she looked at me anxiously, but she did 
 not speak. 
 
 The next few days were full of a feverish interest to me. 
 Every day I watched father when he came from his drive to 
 the post-office. But I tried not to care whether Miss Run- 
 ciman wrote. 
 
 It was on the fifth day that he tossed a letter into moth- 
 er's lap. She turned pale and clutched at it. I held myself 
 
i( what's an understudy ?" 39 
 
 perfectly still where I sat by the window. I would not even 
 look at the group in the room, but gazed persistently out at 
 the horse and buggy, which were standing in the yard. 
 
 But I heard the sound of the tearing open of the envelope 
 and the unfolding of the paper. 
 
 " No, no !" exclaimed mother sharply, after a moment. 
 
 " Now, Serissy," said father, in a low voice, " I shall be 
 dretful sorry to have you act foolish. Lem me read it." 
 
 He had got his glasses on. He read aloud, in sort of 
 half-voice, but he read so slowly that I understood. 
 
 "To Billy s Mother : 
 
 " My dear Madam, — Your daughter thinks you may not allow her 
 to spend a month or two with me in driving about the country. Let 
 me explain to you that when I saw her I immediately had a fancy that 
 I might be able to train her to be my understudy — if she had a voice, 
 and I was nearly positive, from hearing her speak, that she did have a 
 voice. But it's cold, and of course it isn't trained, though she sits ' in 
 the seats.' I used to sit in the seats a thousand years ago. The matter 
 resolves itself into this simply. Let the child come with me for my 
 summer vacation ; I shall make up my mind as to her capabilities, and 
 if by fall I don't think she has the required gifts, she will have had a 
 pleasant summer, I hope, and can go back home. I needn't tell you that 
 I am very sanguine that she will, in time, be what I want. I think, 
 now that you understand the matter, there can be no objections to her 
 joining me some time next week. I will send you more definite word 
 shortly. Very sincerely yours, 
 
 " Leonora Runciman." 
 
 As soon as father had read the name he lifted his eyes, 
 saw me, and exclaimed : 
 
 " Hullo ! There's Billy herself. Billy, what's an under- 
 study?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 I rose and came forward. I saw that father was in great 
 spirits. I looked fearfully at mother, and she met my gaze 
 
4o 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 with such beseeching eyes that I ran to her and dropped 
 down on my knees beside her, leaning my arms across her 
 lap. 
 
 "You don't want me to go ?" I whispered. 
 
 Before she could answer father said : " Now, Serissy !" 
 
 Mother seemed to shudder, and father said : " I'm 'fraid 
 you're gettin' nervous, Serissy. Don't you go 'n' begin to 
 worry now." 
 
 She drew herself together as she met father's gaze. 
 
Ill 
 
 MISS COBB RELATES 
 
 I did not feel as if I ought to stay in the room. There 
 was that sense of something in the air which I cannot de- 
 scribe, and which surprised and excited me ; and, more than 
 that, I had a curious and confused sense of disillusion- 
 ment. I gazed at father, who did not glance at me. He 
 was looking at mother ; his eyes had a peculiar, contracted 
 appearance, and I had never noticed before that they were 
 so near together. 
 
 I walked towards the door, but just as my hand was on 
 the latch father said, quickly : 
 
 '''You needn't go, Billy. [Mother 'n' I ain't goin' to talk 
 any secrets from you. Se' down." 
 
 I obeyed, but I longed to get away. Mother was now 
 sitting with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast down. 
 I thought as I looked at her that I had never seen her face 
 so cold and expressionless ; and I had a sudden terror at 
 her remoteness. I wanted to hurry to her side, but I knew 
 father would think I was very silly ; so I kept quiet. 
 
 He had the letter still in his hand, and he was flapping 
 it gently against his trousers-leg as he talked. 
 
 ''When you really come to think it all over, Serissy," he 
 said, " you ain't goin' to stan' in the child's way ; are you, 
 now ?"' 
 
 Mother's face quivered slightly. I thought she was 
 
42 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 going to speak, but she did not; and she did not raise 
 her eyes. 
 
 " You see, Serissy, it's jest about here, I call it : We've 
 always be'n real proud 'cause Billy could sing, but we never 
 felt we knew exactly how to have her voice eddicated ; 'n' 
 so we ain't done nothin' about it. But here's Providence 
 steppin' right in 'n' openin' the way. Do you feel like 
 stan'in' in the way of Providence ?" 
 
 " Not if 'tis Providence." 
 
 Mother did not raise her eyes as she answered, though 
 I was watching eagerly to meet her glance. 
 
 That sense of remoteness from her still continued, and 
 it made my heart sink lower and lower. 
 
 " I guess we sha'n't quarrel about that," returned father, 
 in his jovial way. " Now, if you'd jest let Billy know that 
 you was all right on the question of her goin', why, then, 
 we'll call the thing settled; sha'n't we, Serissy?" 
 
 Mother did not speak for a moment ; then she turned 
 towards me, but still without raising her eyes.. 
 
 "It's all settled, Miny," she said; "you're to go with 
 Miss Runciman." 
 
 "That's the talk, mother!" exclaimed father; "now 
 you're sensible !" He went to her, and gave her a loud 
 kiss on the forehead. Then he turned to me, and said : 
 "You never '11 be so pretty as your mother, child; you 
 needn't never expect it, either. Now you c'n run away." 
 
 As I turned to go I saw him stoop and take mother's 
 hand, and her fingers closed around his. 
 
 I went up to my room, a sense of elation taking the place 
 of every other feeling. I began to look over my very 
 modest wardrobe, my heart beating delightfully as I did so. 
 
 Miss Runciman had mentioned a wool frock as some- 
 thing necessary. How curious it would be to drive about 
 
MISS COBB RELATES 43 
 
 and stop where one pleased, and to — but I could not go 
 on coherently. My imagination ran wild. And how that 
 woman had sung "Come, ye disconsolate," after my poor 
 little piping! What could an " understudy " be? And 
 where should we go ? 
 
 I left my gowns on the bed and sat down by the window. 
 I extinguished my light first, so that I might see into the 
 beautiful night ; but I remember that I did not think much 
 of the beautiful night. My thoughts were galloping hither 
 and thither into the future, and the color of rose was over 
 everything. 
 
 At last I left the window and put my frocks back into the 
 closet. It was already late for our household. The June 
 days were long, and it had been dark now more than two 
 hours. There was nothing for me to do down-stairs, so I 
 undressed and crept into bed. But, of course, I did not go 
 to sleep. I lay staring at the grayish patch in the wall, which 
 was the window. 
 
 My eyes were thus when the door moved softly. I in- 
 stantly dropped my eyelids, and did not stir as steps drew 
 near. Some one — I did not need to look to know it was my 
 mother — stooped over the bed. I heard a long-drawn breath. 
 I was longing to let her know that I was not asleep, but 
 something made me keep very still. Was it that I was 
 afraid, if I spoke to her, I should suddenly tell her that I 
 would not go ? And I wanted to go — yes, I longed to go. 
 Something brilliant and dazzling was beckoning to me and 
 smiling. Mother had consented, and father had more than 
 consented. I would keep still. 
 
 Presently mother sighed again. I thought she whispered, 
 "God bless the child," and then she noislessly left the 
 room. I turned and began to sob into my pillow. 
 
 The days went quickly enough after that, and with every 
 
44 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 day I fancied mother's spirits seemed to rise, for every day 
 made greater the probability that Miss Runciman, being a 
 woman of whims, had forgotten her last whim. And all the 
 time I wondered, among other things, what an understudy 
 might be. 
 
 It was ten days later. June was getting well on, and I had 
 now nearly given up the hope of going anywhere in a house- 
 wagon with that great opera singer. 
 
 Miss Rachel Cobb, who lived on the river road, was spend- 
 ing the day at our house. Miss Cobb was fat, and she had 
 eyes as small and bright as a pig's eyes; and a little 
 mouth, with protruding teeth that made a kind of snout of 
 the lower part of her face. When she talked, which was 
 nearly all the time, her jaws clacked and snapped as if they 
 were going by a sort of machinery that had been wound up, 
 and that was not at all near to running down. Father, in 
 the privacy of his own home, called her " piggie-wiggie," 
 and said that it was a great mistake that she hadn't some 
 front legs and a little tail with a curl in it. 
 
 Miss Cobb often referred to the fact that she had never 
 married; and always said that if Timothy Hopkins had 
 lived she was sure he would have married her, and that 
 they would have been the happiest couple in the world. 
 
 " Not," she explained, " that Tim had ever paid her no 
 attention, but that he was so homely there wouldn't no girl 
 under the canopy but her have him." 
 
 Here she would chuckle, and her jaws would click, and 
 her eye-glasses fall off. 
 
 When she told this at our house father would roar out his 
 laugh, and say that Hopkins was the unluckiest man in 
 creation because he was dead. 
 
 Here was Miss Cobb sitting near the open end window 
 making some new sleeves to put into her brown flannelette 
 
MISS COBB RELATES 45 
 
 "body." She always spoke of a dress waist as a "body," 
 and the word never failed to affect me uncomfortably. 
 
 It was known throughout the neighborhood that Rachel 
 Cobb's rule was to spend three days of every week visit- 
 ing. It will be perceived that such a rule, closely adhered 
 to as it was in this case in a country town, will bring a per- 
 son with frequency to every house. But she did not stop 
 at every house. She openly acknowledged that she couldn't 
 bear to visit where "the victuals wasn't torrable good; for 
 her stomach wasn't that kind that could bear everything 
 tossed into it as if a person was nothin' more'n a hog. 
 She'd got a digestion now, V she meant to keep it," and 
 so on — clack, clack, snap, snap. 
 
 " There's b'en a lot happenin' this week," said Rachel, 
 as she ran her " shears " through her silesia lining. " I d' 
 know 's you have heard nothin', have you, Serissy ? You're 
 one of them kind that don't ever seem to know no kind of 
 news, even if you live right in the midst of it." 
 
 Aunt Lowizy, who was washing dishes in the kitchen, 
 and continually running to the sitting-room door with a 
 dish and a towel in her hand, now appeared, passing her 
 towel around and around a blue-edged pie-plate. 
 
 " That's jes' so, Rachel," she remarked. " Serissy don't 
 brins home no news, even when she goes to the ladies' 
 aid, up to the vestry. News rolls off her as if 'twas water, 
 'n' she was a leather shoe all tallered up for winter." 
 
 At this the two women laughed, and mother smiled. 
 She was slicing potatoes for the "shin stew" for our din- 
 ner. Her hands did not pause in their work, but Miss 
 Cobb laid down her shears and contemplated her hostess. 
 After a moment she said : 
 
 "There was Lyddy Lowndes, over t'other side the gris'- 
 mill. She was a Adventist. 'n' she was jes' so. Some Ad- 
 
46 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 ventists ain't more'n half on this earth, anyway; they're 
 so taken up listening for Gabriel's trump they can't hear 
 much else. I don't mean no offence, Serissy," resuming 
 her shears. " I'm sure if I was expectin' the trump to 
 sound, I shouldn't one grain mind who was married or 
 ' dead. But I've noticed that when you're lookin' for Gabriel 
 he don't never come." 
 
 The shears slashed through an extent of flannelette. 
 
 " But you 'ain't told your news, Rachel." 
 
 It was Aunt Lowizy who spoke ; she had darted back 
 to the sink, put down her dried plate, taken an undried 
 one, and darted back again to the door. 
 
 " That's a fact, so I 'ain't " — click, clack, with jaws and 
 shears. " Wall, 'twas las' night. I'd eat some hull corn 
 for my supper over to Lorin Waite's ; 'n' either there wa'n't 
 sody enough put in it, or else 'twa'n't cooked enough ; any- 
 way, it didn't set well, 'n' I was up with my stomach pretty 
 much all the time from ten o'clock till daylight broke. 
 'Tain't a pleasant thing to be up with your stomach when 
 you ought to be gittin' your rest. 
 
 " 'Bout 'leven I was sippin' some pain - killer, when I 
 heard the sound of wheels, 'n' laughin', 'n' talkin'. Some- 
 how the laughin' 'n' talkin' didn't seem jes' like folks' round 
 here. I wropped a shawl tight over my shoulders, 'n' went 
 to the front door. There was a great big carriage comin' 
 awful slow 'long the river road, jest about by the falls. You 
 know the scenery there is first-rate, 'n' folks come from 
 quite a ways off to see the falls, V the gorge, 'n' the moun- 
 tains back there. I think myself it does look well, 'specially 
 when the sun or the moon is risin' and shinin' on the falls. 
 It was the moon that was shinin' on the water now ; 'n' it 
 glittered ; the mountain was black where 'twa'n't in the 
 light, 'n' everything was kind of strikin'. 
 
MISS COBE RELATES 47 
 
 " My house is near enough so I c'n watch the excursion- 
 ists that come from off, V see how odd they look when 
 they're starin' at the scenery. Scenery does affect some 
 folks queer enough sometimes, I tell you. 
 
 " This was a wagon different from what I'd ever seen ; 
 it had two great horses to it, 'n' when it stopped a tall 
 woman got out and walked slow towards the edge of the 
 river. Somebody in the wagon seemed to want to come, 
 too, but the woman flung her hand at them — not like any 
 one else flinging her hand — and she said : ' Come not, at your 
 peril ! I would be alone !' That's exactly what she said, 
 and then she laughed, and somebody inside the wagon 
 laughed, too. 
 
 " I guess I kinder forgot 'bout my stomach, for I walked 
 along in the black shadder of them hackmatack trees till I 
 was considerable near. The wagon was something like a 
 photygraph car, you know, only han'somer. There was a 
 funnel runnin' out of the roof at one end. The harness on 
 the horses glittered like anything, 'n' when they shook their 
 heads some little bells jingled. 
 
 " I stood in the deepest shadder, V watched. That 
 woman had gone down to the river's edge, 'n' jes' then the 
 moon had got to the top of the mountain, 'n' struck on her, 
 'n' on the falls. I could see her good V plain — tall, with a 
 red cloak fallin' from her shoulders, 'n' nothin' on her head. 
 I s'pose she's a play-actor, or something of the kind. Jest 
 as the moonlight reached her, she put up her clasped hands 
 and began to sing. I will own up that I shivered up 'n' 
 down my backbone, 'n' gooseflesh crept all over me. I 
 tried to hear what she said. It sounded like ( Caster 
 deever — caster deever.' I couldn't make out nothin' more. 
 Some foreign language, I guess. 
 
 " She only sung two or three lines. Then somebody on 
 
48 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the back steps of the wagon, where I couldn't see, clapped 
 hands, 'n' hollered ' Brarver !' though there ain't no sense to 
 a word like that; but what c'n you expect of folks that'll 
 travel 'round in a cart with horses with bells on 'em ? 
 
 " The woman kep' stan'in' there s' long that I began to 
 be shivery. So I went back real ca'ful to my house. I 
 took some more pain-killer to keep the cold from strikin' in. 
 I was jest thinkin' I'd run out agin, jest to see what they 
 was up to, when steps come to the front door V then a 
 knock. I've lived too long all by myself to git frightened 
 very easy. So I marched right to the door 'n' opened it a 
 teenty crack. There was the woman who'd been singin' 
 1 Caster deever.' You ain't 'fraid of nothin' but a man, 
 anyway, so I flung open the door and told her to walk in. 
 She stepped inside, and said she seen a light, so she vent- 
 ured to come. I said yes, I'd been up with my stomach, 
 'n' had to take something. She gave me the curiousest look, 
 'n' said for her part she 'didn't know which of her internal 
 orgins she'd ruther be up with.' " 
 
 Having reached this point in her narrative, Rachel Cobb 
 paused as if she were leaving the chapter to be continued 
 at some indefinite future time. She lifted the old flannel- 
 ette waist and contemplated it absorbedly. Aunt Lowizy 
 had come in and sat down with her towel and plate in her 
 hands. Mother had stopped paring potatoes, and her pale 
 face was turned steadily towards her guest. 
 
 " I declare !" cried Aunt Lowizy. " That's the same 
 woman, I do believe, Serissy !" 
 
 Rachel glanced shrewdly from one to the other. As for 
 me, I did not move, and I didn't take my eyes from Miss 
 Cobb. 
 
 "Well ?" said mother. 
 
 "Oh, there ain't so very much more to tell," responded 
 
MISS COBB RELATES 49 
 
 Rachel. ''The woman had come in, 'n' I didn't make no 
 reply to that remark of her'n. I was sorter nettled. I felt 
 as if she was laughin' at me, though she was solemn as an 
 owl. 
 
 " ' I thought/ said she, the next thing, ' that p'raps I 
 could get some milk here, or cream, for our coffee, 'n' mebby 
 a fresh egg or two. We're jes' goin' to have supper.' 
 
 " ' Supper !' I cried out, ' at this time er night ?' 
 
 " ' Oh, yes,' as easy 's you please ; ' you know tastes vary !' 
 
 " < I sh'd think they did,' I says. 
 
 " ' Can you let me have any milk ?' she asked. 
 
 "Now, you know I 'ain't kep' no cow sence more'n two 
 year ago, V I told her I hadn't ; 'n' how I come to sell it, 
 V not git another. That's quite a long story, you know. 
 Serissy ; V I thought she oughter know that cow was gar- 
 gety ; 'n' how I felt sure she got the garget 'cause I fed her 
 too much meal that last winter I kep' her. 
 
 " When I got through the woman said she thanked me 
 warmly for the tale of the gargety cow — I'm giving her 
 very words — 'n' she hoped the cow wasn't havin' as much 
 meal at the present time. 
 
 " ' No,' I said, ' I guess she wa'n't, for she'd been put in 
 the beef barrel 'n' et up long ago.' 
 
 '•Then I ast her to se' down. She said she'd ruther 
 stand ; V had I any milk I could let her have ? She had 
 been the solemnest-lookin' bein' you ever seen, but I felt 
 eggsackly 's if she was laughin' at me the wust kind of a 
 way ; and it made me mad. 
 
 " I ripped out that I didn't use nothin' but condensed 
 milk sence I sold my cow. I'd got 'bout a table-spoonful 
 of that if she wanted it. No basket of chips was ever 
 pleasanter V she was. She explained that she was already 
 the owner of several cans of condensed milk, but, bein in 
 
 4 
 
r IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the country, and so forth — and then she ast if my hens had 
 become gargety and been sold, or did I have some eggs ? 
 
 " I got her half a dozen eggs, 'n' I charged her -twenty- 
 five cents, though they ain't but thirty cents a dozen down 
 to the store, I b'lieve. I don't care if they ain't. 
 
 " She took the eggs off in a corner of her cloak. When 
 she got to the carriage, you should hev heard the laughin'. 
 I put on my shawl agin', 'n' I crep' round in the shade till 
 I was near enough to hear, V I heard that woman goin' 
 on an' sayin' jest what I'd be'n sayin' to her, V I had to 
 pinch myself to see if 'twas me talkin' or not. I was mad, 
 but somehow I couldn't help laughin', too, to save my life. 
 
 " I heard another woman's voice, 'n' a man's voice ; V 
 a half-grown boy was takin' the horses outer the sharves 
 an' rubbin' 'em down. I stayed till I begun to shiver agin'; 
 then I went back, 'n' I took more pain-killer, but I didn't 
 hev a very restful night. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder one mite if my body wouldn't fit 
 my sleeves, nor my sleeves my body." 
 
 The transition from her night adventures to her present 
 dressmaking was so abrupt that it was confusing. 
 
 Aunt Lowizy rose, and having forgotten the plate in her 
 lap, it fell with a crash to the floor. She stooped and picked 
 up the fragments mechanically, gazing at mother mean- 
 while. 
 
 " I do declare, Serissy !" she cried. " How curious things 
 happen !" 
 
 Miss Cobb glanced sharply at the speaker, but she said 
 nothing. She had not spent so much of her life in visiting 
 without having learned a good deal about refraining from 
 asking questions. She would interrogate an unsuspicious 
 child if it were away from its guardians, but she was very 
 wise in her refraining at other times. 
 
MISS COEE RELATES ej 
 
 Mother gave her sister a quick look, which Miss Cobb 
 did not fail to see, and Aunt Lowizy retreated into the 
 kitchen. 
 
 •• I guess likely, from what you say, Rachel," said moth- 
 er, with an air of being willing to tell everything, " that 
 that woman you saw must be the one that bought Lem- 
 uel's gray colt." 
 
 " I want to know !" was the response. " Now, ain't that 
 odd ? I heard over by the Great Medders that she was a 
 play-actress, 'n' he got a tremendous price. But he's one 
 that always doos git good prices.'' 
 
 " It's a remarkably good colt/' returned mother, with 
 some severity, and Miss Cobb hastened to asseverate she 
 knew it ; oh yes, everybody from Great Medders clear down 
 the river knew that gray Armstrong colt was real tiptop. 
 
 I remained sitting quietly in my chair until it seemed 
 absolutely beyond my power to keep still longer. Perhaps 
 Miss Runciman had not, after all, forgotten me ; perhaps 
 she would soon call ; perhaps — here I rose abruptly. I felt 
 mother's eyes on me, but I would not appear to notice 
 them. 
 
 I caught up my big straw hat from the grind-stone in the 
 shed where I had last flung it. I hastened with it in my 
 hand out through the yard and along the low path that 
 wound towards the river. This path was used by many 
 people, for it cut of! more than half a mile if one wished 
 to go from our vicinity to the falls. It was along this path 
 that Rachel Cobb had come in the morning with her reti- 
 cule holding her silesia and her "body." 
 
 I had not gone many rods when something made me 
 look back. There was mother standing at the shed door. 
 I hesitated, a throb of rebellion in my heart. She was 
 looking at me, but she made no sign to recall me. So I 
 
5 2 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 hurried on ; but there was still a faint pain which I re- 
 sented. I said to myself that mother really must have 
 strange notions; and she had told me I might go' to Miss 
 Runciman. Not that I was going to her now — by no means. 
 I only meant to stroll along until I came near Miss Cobb's 
 little house. There was no reason why I should not go to 
 Miss Cobb's house ; it stood in the most picturesque spot 
 in the town. I had often been there, and sat and gazed 
 at the falls, and the gorge, and the far background of 
 mountains. 
 
 There was Bidwell Blake just jumping over the fence 
 into the path. Of course he saw me ; he always saw every- 
 thing. He had a pitchfork over his shoulder, and a pail 
 swung on the pitchfork. 
 
 " Hullo !" he cried. " Goin' down to see the circus ?" 
 
 I shook my head. The tall young fellow's face was posi- 
 tively animated. I was indignant, to begin with, for I knew 
 what he had called a circus. 
 
 " Oh, you'd better by half go,'' he returned, standing 
 leisurely in front of me. " Red 'n' yeller wagon, full of 
 plate-glass winders ; elephant goin' round ; monkey dancin' 
 on the grass; band playin' ; flags a-nutterin' to the breeze; 
 all free gratis, for nothin', V nobody goin' to pass round 
 the hat. Walk right up, ladies 'n' gentlemen. Tootle — too 
 — tootle — too — turn !" 
 
 He put one hand to his mouth as if he were blowing a 
 trumpet. His eyes laughed at me over his brown fist. 
 
 " You ought to get a place as clown somewhere, Bidwell," 
 I said, with emphasis. 
 
 " Oh, I've got a place now," he answered ; " clown for 
 Worthing, the Great Medders, 'n' the falls. Seen the circus 
 wagon, Billy ? I ain't jokinV 
 
 " Where is it ?" 
 
MISS COBB RELATES 53 
 
 I suppose there was something unusual in my face, for 
 Bidwell suddenly gave me a keen, searching look, which I 
 pretended not to see. He wheeled about and pointed clown 
 the valley. 
 
 "There, the other side of the birches. You can see 
 smoke comin' out of that funnel." 
 
 "What is it?" I asked. I put the question as if I didn't 
 much care whether he answered me or not. 
 
 " It's folks that don't know whether they tread on ye 
 or not,'* with a quick ferocity in his tone — "folks that 
 look at ye 's if you was dirt, 'n' they was goin' to rub 
 their shoes in ye if they was a mind to. There he is 
 now !" 
 
 The figure of a young man emerged from among the 
 birches where the carriage stood. This figure lounged 
 forward into the full sunlight. It was not very near, but 
 my eyes were strong, and I saw that this stranger wore a 
 short coat of gray, that his gray trousers ended at the 
 knees, and were met by rough stockings. He had on no 
 hat ; his hands were thrust into his pockets. He appeared 
 to be whistling, for the higher strains reached us. 
 
 " Who is he ?" I asked, repeating my question with a 
 change of pronoun. 
 
 " How do I know ? There's a curious gang down there. 
 That feller was over to our house this mornin'. He said 
 he wanted to buy some chickens ; 'n' he wanted a little pig 
 to roast whole. Father was goin' to sell him something, but 
 I come along jest then, 'n' when I seen the cut of that 
 feller's jib I jest said up loud that we hadn't got nothin' to 
 sell, not a darn thing." 
 
 " What did he say ?" 
 
 " Oh, he looked me over 's if I was pu'sley, and he 
 drawled, ' Nothin' but cheek, eh F Then he whirled round 
 
54 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 'n 1 walked away, he V his brindle dorg behind him. I 
 wanted to fire a stone at the dorg, but I didn't." 
 
 I was always quite frank with Bid Blake, and I was 'frank 
 now, for I immediately informed him that he seemed to 
 have acted like a fool. He swung his hayfork from his 
 shoulder and leaned on it. 
 
 " Think so ? Wall, I differ ; that's all. Do you think I'm 
 goin' to have a feller from a red 'n' yaller wagon, with short 
 britches on his legs, come V look me over ? No, I ain't. 
 How's your mar to-day, Billy ?" 
 
 Bidwell made this inquiry with a rapid change to good- 
 humor. I replied that mother was quite well. All the 
 time I was looking at the figure further down the river, and 
 this figure appeared entirely absorbed in contemplating the 
 falls. But I was not really thinking intently of the strange 
 young man. I was really wondering where Miss Runciman 
 
 was. 
 
 " T' 
 
 I'm awful sorry you've had 'advantages,' Billy," ex- 
 claimed my companion. 
 
 " Why ?" I spoke vaguely. 
 
 "'Cause a girl like you 's good enough 'thout 'em. 'N' 
 then, ' advantages ' make ye kind of — wall, kind of far away, 
 somehow." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! They don't either." 
 
 " Yes, they do, too. I wish — " 
 
 I hardly heard him. Another person, a woman, had 
 appeared from the direction of the wagon, and she was 
 advancing towards the young man, who had not noticed 
 her. 
 
 "Oh !" I exclaimed ; " I wonder if that is she ?" 
 
 Bidwell flung himself around. "What she you talkin' 
 'bout?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 "Oh, no; it isn't," I said, not paying any heed to him; 
 
MISS COBB RELATES 55 
 
 " it isn't her carriage ; she isn't tall enough, and she isn't 
 old enough. It's — it's somebody else." 
 
 A keen apprehension came to me. What if Miss Runci- 
 man had had another whim in regard to some one else, and 
 taken that some one else, and. forgotten me ? A black 
 certainty that she had done so seized me. 
 
 '•What's the matter?" asked Bidwell, apprehensively. 
 
 "Nothing. I'm going home." 
 
 I turned and began to retrace my steps hurriedly. The 
 young man kept beside me until I was nearly frantic in my 
 longing to be left by myself. I paused. 
 
 " I wish you'd go on !" I said, impatiently. After all, I 
 had no chance of going with Miss Runciman. It was ter- 
 rible. I was shut in the dark, away from full and glowing 
 life. Not until this moment did I know how eager I had 
 been. Why, I could not bear it. 
 
 " Won't you go ?" I repeated, sharply. 
 
 "Yes, if you say so. But what in the world has hap- 
 pened ?" — solicitously. " Do lem me help you, Billy !" 
 
 " I do say so !" 
 
 I couldn't even try to answer his other words. 
 
 Bidwell looked at me an instant; then he turned and 
 hurried away in the direction from which he had come. 
 When he had left me I stopped walking. I stood still un- 
 til Bidwell had gone so far that there was no likelihood of 
 his returning. And even then I hesitated. 
 
 At last, however, feeling tolerably certain that no one 
 down there by the falls would see me, I slowly retraced my 
 steps, watching those two who stood there gazing up the 
 gorge. Yes, that was a young girl. Miss Runciman had 
 changed her mind. I must give up all hope of going with 
 her. My spirits sank and sank. Not being one who easily 
 sheds tears, I did not shed them now. But I had a very 
 
56 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 romantic, and, I thought, terrible conviction that my heart 
 was weeping. I had read of heroines whose hearts wept 
 while they themselves wore what was technically termed 
 "gay masks." 
 
 I was certainly very unhappy. And I must really think 
 of some way of earning money. Of course father could sup- 
 port me, but even a girl has now and then a wish for an in- 
 dependent individual existence. 
 
 I had chosen to sit down under a small, thick, growing 
 pine. It did not seem to me that I should be observed. I 
 leaned my elbow on my knee and my chin in my hand and 
 gazed downward. Ah ! some one else came from the neigh- 
 borhood of the carriage now. Yes, that was Miss Runci- 
 man herself. She came slowly up to the group • they 
 seemed to talk ; the elder lady gestured in that large, free 
 way of hers. Then she turned and looked about her; she 
 walked up and down the river-bank with her hands behind 
 her. I heard the high notes of something she was singing. 
 With her face in my direction, she suddenly paused. She 
 turned and appeared to speak to the young man who joined 
 her and gave her something from his pocket. The next 
 moment I was aware that an opera-glass was levelled at me. 
 My cheeks began to burn. Miss Runciman lowered the glass, 
 spoke again to the young man, who now left her, was lost a 
 moment to my sight, then appeared on the nearer side of the 
 thicket of birches. He was rapidly and unmistakably com- 
 ing towards me. I rose in confusion. I wavered between a 
 desire to run away and a wish to remain. Of course I re- 
 mained. 
 
 I watched the stranger's approach. He was bareheaded, 
 and I saw how white his forehead was, then how noticeably 
 luxuriant his hair was; his beardless face, square jaw, with 
 a decided cleft down the middle of the chin ; and yet, in 
 
MISS COBB RELATES 57 
 
 spite of that chin, his long, dark eyes gave a sort of dreamy, 
 foreign look to his face. There was no dreamy look in it 
 now, however, as he came up the slope towards me ; and 
 my after-fancies concerning his countenance are here pre- 
 maturely put down. This was the man to whom Bid well 
 Blake wouldn't sell chickens because he, Bidwell, was made 
 to feel like dirt ! 
 
 I sat perfectly still and grew more and more excited. It 
 does not require much to excite a girl who lives in a place 
 like Worthing. There was the brindle dog, nosing leisurely 
 along at some distance behind his master. 
 
 This young man came up to within a few yards of me, 
 paused, and bowed. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, " but are you Billy ?" 
 
 " Yes/ V " 
 
 " Then I am to ask you to go down there," waving his 
 hand in the direction from which he had come. " Miss Run- 
 ciman sent me for you. Miss Runciman is my aunt. If 
 she wants a thing, she has to have it. She wants you." 
 
 I rose, but I didn't feel quite like going with him, now 
 that I had lost my chance. That is the way I looked at it. 
 Miss Runciman had some one else, and I had lost my 
 chance. I stood in evident indecision. 
 
 " Come," said the young man. 
 
 " But I don't know that I want to go," I responded. 
 My glance slid away from his somewhat mocking eyes. In 
 point of fact, I was afraid that if I met Miss Runciman she 
 would discover how disappointed I was. And I was angry 
 with her for playing with me. 
 
 The brindle clog came up to me now and sniffed at my 
 skirts, then licked my hand. 
 
 " No," I said, suddenly, " I think you may ask Miss Run- 
 ciman to excuse me." 
 
c8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 And as I spoke I was afraid I should choke in the in- 
 tensity of my anger and disappointment. It was mean of 
 her — yes, mean of her. 
 
 The young man did not look at me now. He stood 
 glancing down the valley, with his hand on the top of his 
 doo-'s head. But I had a conviction that there was a hint 
 of amusement in the corner of his mouth. As this con- 
 viction came to me I was glad that the Blakes hadn't sold 
 him a little pig or any chickens. I stood up quite stiffly. 
 
 " Please ask Miss Runciman to excuse me," I repeated, 
 in a tone to match my attitude. 
 
 He turned away without speaking, and began to run 
 down the path. Was he laughing? I was almost certain 
 he was laughing. Now, in the light of a great deal of wis- 
 dom acquired since that day, I know that I ought at this 
 stage to have made a dignified retreat. But I did not. I 
 sat down again under the pine-tree, and I watched Miss 
 Runciman's messenger until he joined her and related his 
 adventures. I saw them all turn and look up to where I 
 was sitting. I suppose they were all laughing. 
 
 In a moment Miss Runciman left her companions and 
 began walking up towards me. Then I began to be ashamed 
 of my childishness. How could they know that it was be- 
 cause of my disappointment that I was behaving in this 
 fashion ? Miss Runciman came on easily and lightly. She 
 wore a loose blouse waist, abbreviated skirt, and heavy 
 shoes. She walked directly to me, where I waited in a fool- 
 ish agony. She came and put her hand on my shoulder. 
 
 " What's the matter?" she asked, authoritatively. 
 
IV 
 NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 
 
 " Nothing," I answered. 
 
 Into what an idiotic position I had put myself! Miss 
 Runciman's eyes dwelt upon me as she stood there silently. 
 Then she asked : 
 
 "Are you sulking?" I tried to put on an air of dignity. 
 
 " Sulking ?" I repeated, not too politely. " Why should I 
 do that?" 
 
 " Indeed, I don't know ; but you seem amazingly like a 
 sulking child who ought to be whipped." 
 
 Having made this very humiliating remark, the lady sat 
 down not far from me and occupied herself with gazing at 
 the scenery. If I had done just what I longed to do at 
 that moment I should have screamed savagely. My pres- 
 ent attitude was all my own fault, and for that reason I was 
 furiously indignant with what I called fate. It's such a fine 
 thing to be indignant with fate. 
 
 The moments went by, and still my companion contem- 
 plated the prospect. My furtive glance at her showed me 
 a serene face turned towards the mountain. I looked down 
 the river-bank ; the two figures were gone. 
 
 Now, when I had thought I had successfully overcome 
 all symptoms of " going to pieces," I suddenly began to 
 cry. I was bitterly ashamed of myself, but I couldn't stop, 
 try as I would. I know that Miss Runciman turned and 
 
60 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 looked at me in a puzzled way, in which there was some 
 impatience. I heard her exclaim : 
 
 " What queer things women are !" and then, in a voice 
 below her breath, " I didn't think this one was of the cry- 
 ing kind." 
 
 I was stung. I flung up my head. 
 
 " No more I ain't !" I cried out fiercely, my tears burning 
 on my cheeks. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " I'm not," I repeated ; " I don't cry once in a hundred 
 years — mother "11 tell you that. But I've been suffering. 
 Yes, and you made me, and I've hoped, and hoped ; and 
 then you didn't come — nor send — and I tried to give it all 
 up, and the more I tried the more it hurt. And it's too 
 bad, too awfully bad, of you to be a woman of whims ! 
 There, now r , I've said it!" 
 
 My tears were effectually dried now, you may be sure. I 
 didn't care what I said. The accumulated hope and uncer- 
 tainty of the past fortnight were pushing the words out of 
 my lips. I sprang to my feet. I blush now as I remember 
 my impertinence. I was rushing away when I heard the 
 words : 
 
 " My dear child !" The tone of them was like a hand laid 
 on my arm, and I stood still. What storms youth does in- 
 voke ! 
 
 " Sit down here by me," were the next words. I hesi- 
 tated, but I obeyed the next moment. 
 
 After a silence Miss Runciman asked : 
 
 " Have you had a quarrel with your lover ?" 
 
 This question seemed contemptible to me. That she had 
 asked it injured my ideal of her. 
 
 " I told you I had no lover," I replied. 
 
 '" So you did ; I remember. But you know it is a tradition 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 6 I 
 
 of the world to ascribe any real suffering of the grown femi- 
 nine to some masculine." 
 
 I made no answer. I was still quivering with my recent 
 emotion. And now she was disappointing me by talking 
 thus ! Had I not just told her? Was she stupid, after all, 
 this great prima donna ? 
 
 " Is it the simple truth you've been telling me ?" she in- 
 quired after a time. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She turned towards me smiling. 
 
 "Though I've been a young girl myself," she said, " I still 
 think a young girl is the most mysterious thing God has 
 ever created." 
 
 Of course I had no reply to make to this. And I didn't 
 know what she meant, either. That was a very foolish way 
 people had of talking about girls. 
 
 " You didn't seem very eager to come with me when I saw 
 you in Chilton," she said. 
 
 " But I was eager," I answered, in a low voice. Then I 
 hurriedly continued : " Mother didn't want me to go — mother 
 thought that — that it was something glittering but not good, 
 that— that — But, oh, • dear ! I didn't mean to tell— I — 
 What must you think of me ?" 
 
 I looked at the face near me. It was smiling, but there 
 was a bright gleam in the eyes that I could not understand. 
 She did not speak, and I went on : 
 
 "But, now you've got some one else, it's all over. And 
 mother will be glad — yes, mother will be very glad." I 
 tried hard to get comfort from this fact. 
 
 "I haven't got any one else," said Miss Runciman. 
 
 I turned towards her, but I did not speak. She gazed at 
 me for an instant, then she exclaimed : 
 
 " Oh, youth : youth !" 
 
62 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 What did she mean by that ? She laughed gently. 
 
 "I certainly was not mistaken. You have the violin 
 face. But when am I mistaken in such matters? Oh, I 
 know some things about the divine, human countenance !" 
 
 Here she fell silent again, gazing at me. As for me, I 
 didn't think much of what she had just said. Perhaps that 
 was the way great opera singers liked to talk. I was fast 
 growing happy. I had been mistaken. She had no one 
 else. I had rashly jumped to a conclusion, and she had not 
 let us hear from her for so long. But nothing mattered 
 now. I had not lost my chance. My soul was growing 
 radiant again. She still watched me. At last she said that 
 she didn't know why I should think she had some one else. 
 
 "Because — because there's that girl down there. Of 
 course I thought you were going to make her into an un- 
 derstudy. And you said you were a woman of whims." 
 
 I was surprised at my boldness. Miss RuncimarTs 
 laugh rang clearly. She seemed much amused. She 
 suddenly bade me walk about a little on the level ground 
 in front. I rose and walked about, forgetting in my newly 
 come good spirits to be self-conscious. 
 
 " Now stand where you are and sing me a bit of some- 
 thing," she commanded. 
 
 It was a curious thing that I could think of nothing this 
 time also but " Come, ye disconsolate," and I was ashamed 
 to try that again. 
 
 " Come !" imperatively. 
 
 My mind was one sheet of white paper with "Come, ye 
 disconsolate " written on it. The blood rose to my face 
 and threatened to burst from it. 
 
 " I can't," I said, feebly. 
 
 "Good heavens! You re not a stick, are you?" she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 63 
 
 Then I clashed wildly into — 
 
 " I'll chase the antelope over the plain, 
 The tiger's cub I'll bind with a chain ; 
 The wild gazelle with its silvery feet 
 I'll give thee for a playmate sweet." 
 
 That was what Aunt Lowizy sang sometimes from morn- 
 ins: till nis;ht as she worked about the house. On such 
 clays father used to say, "Lowizy's got onto her wild ga- 
 zelle." Miss Runciman rose as I finished. 
 
 "You've been crying, and your voice shows it," she 
 remarked. " Now, let's go clown to the carriage, and 
 then you can go home and tell your mother you've seen 
 me." 
 
 I followed her as she walked on along the path. Often 
 she stopped to look about her, but presently we were at the 
 river's edge, and then I saw two figures sitting on a black 
 bearskin which was spread beneath a hackmatack by the 
 bank. These two rose and came forward. One of them 
 was the young man whom Miss Runciman had sent for me. 
 The other was a girl about my own age, I judged. She was 
 dressed in a short flannel suit, and altogether had apparently 
 as much freedom of movement as the young man. This 
 freedom, though it seemed desirable to me, yet also had a 
 quite indescribable flavor of something not respectable. I 
 wished to gaze unrestrainedly at her, but I had no oppor- 
 tunity, particularly as she was staring at me with undisguised 
 persistence. She stood leaning on a rough stick she had 
 evidently just cut from a clump of chestnuts near her ; and 
 she had an open pocket-knife in her hand. The young man, 
 who had called himself Miss Runciman's nephew, was be- 
 hind her, looking over her head. I could not but have a 
 feeling that they considered me a country creature who 
 
6/j. IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 could be examined quite at their leisure. I stood straight, 
 and shut my mouth to keep it from quivering. 
 
 " You've heard me speak of Miss Armstrong, children ?" 
 said the elder lady. 
 
 The girl nodded and resumed the trimming of her walk- 
 ing-stick. She glanced up to say: " You called her Billy." 
 
 " So I did. I hope she forgives me. Vane, come out 
 here — don't hide behind your sister." 
 
 The young man stepped forth. 
 
 "Miss Armstrong, let me present my nephew, Vane 
 Hildreth. He has a pretty tenor voice. He can already 
 do a lover on the stage very well." 
 
 " Not so well as I can, Miss Armstrong, 1 ' said the girl, 
 quickly. "Young men don't know how to make love until 
 we've taught them. I did Romeo once ; you ought to have 
 heard and seen me. Romeo had a contralto voice; he 
 couldn't have sung a tenor note to save his life. And a 
 girl fell in love with me and sent me a bouquet with a 
 three-cornered note in it. Oh, Jupiter ! I wish girls were 
 not always fools." 
 
 "So do I," I responded, fervently, whereat we both 
 
 laughed. 
 
 " So don't I," exclaimed Mr. Hildreth, " for if girls were 
 not sometimes fools, who would smile upon us ?" 
 
 No one paid any attention to this remark. The girl now 
 said that she had not been introduced, and she thought that 
 she was worth knowing. 
 
 " So you are, Bathsheba," responded Miss Runciman, 
 "and you never will fail because you hang in the back- 
 ground. She's my niece, Miss Hildreth," continued the 
 speaker, glancing at me. 
 
 " Commonly known as Bashy," amended the girl. " We'll 
 make a fine team, Bashy and Billy." 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 65 
 
 Here she laughed shrilly and showed a great many very 
 white, sharp-looking teeth. She had a look as if she might, 
 if she were angry, defend herself by biting, I did not know 
 why I should begin to feel homesick. I tried to think of 
 something to say that should be an opening for me to go 
 away, but I could think of nothing. I stood silent and awk- 
 ward. Finally I summoned courage to announce that I 
 must go home. 
 
 " Let us sing something first," cried the girl. 
 
 " Oh, no, no ! I can't !" 
 
 I shrank. Somehow my independent spirit deserted me 
 before Bathsheba Hildreth: 
 
 " But everything here hangs upon whether one can sing," 
 responded Bashy. " We don't ask if you're good, or beau- 
 tiful, or anything, but can you sing ?" 
 
 " Pshaw !" exclaimed Miss Runciman, impatiently. 
 
 "But isn't it true, what I say, Aunt Nora?" lifting un- 
 blenching eyes to the elder woman. 
 
 " It's of no consequence, anyway," was the response. 
 
 "Miss Armstrong," said the girl, "don't you believe her. 
 It's just like this : If you were suspected of murder, and 
 forgery, and a few other trifles, and you came to my aunt, 
 she wouldn't ask if you were guilty ; she would want to 
 know if you had a natural voice, and how many octaves. 
 Oh, we are an awful lot! We don't care much about 
 the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not sharp — above 
 all things, thou shalt not flat \ and thou shalt learn the 
 Rubini method. Aunt Nora, you know I'm telling the 
 truth." 
 
 " I think it's time for me to go home," I said again to 
 my hostess. 
 
 "You see you have frightened the child, Bashy," said 
 Miss Runciman, with some severity. 
 
66 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " No ; I'm not frightened, and I'm not a child," I re- 
 sponded, with dignity. 
 
 The girl laughed as she whittled at her stick. The young 
 man, her brother, as I understood, had walked away. I 
 saw him lying on the bearskin, reading. 
 
 " Good-bye !" 
 
 I looked at Miss Runciman as I spoke. 
 
 " You won't mind Bashy after a little," she remarked. 
 
 "Oh, no," I answered; " I sha'n't mind her." 
 
 I looked over at the girl as I spoke. My fingers were 
 tingling with anger. I could hardly tell why I was so 
 angry. And a wild, silly hope that I might be able to sing 
 better than she came to me. I knew it was wild and silly, 
 but I could not put it from me. I wanted to sing better, 
 far better, than that girl who was laughing and whittling, 
 and who was despising me. Wasn't she despising me ? 
 Our eyes met for an instant. She had small eyes, but 
 they were well set, sparkling, and expressive. 
 
 " Good-bye," I said once more to Miss Runciman. 
 
 " Very well, if you must go," more indifferently than I 
 had expected her to speak. " I think we shall remain here 
 for a few days. It's really delightful, and then we are near 
 Miss Rachel Cobb," with a laugh. " Do you know Miss 
 Rachel Cobb ?" 
 
 " Yes ; she is at our house this moment," I answered. 
 
 Then I nodded at Bathsheba Hildreth and walked away. 
 I was choking. Everything was ruined by that horrid girl. 
 I doubled my hands into fists as I hurried up the path. 
 But I wanted to hear her sing. I must really hear her. 
 I had as little technical knowledge as one may have, but 
 I could trust to my natural taste to tell me something of 
 her powers. Oh, yes, I would hear that girl sing before 
 another twenty-four hours had passed. I went faster and 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 6j 
 
 faster ; the pace I was going was the only expression I 
 could give to my excitement. 
 
 In the kitchen of my home I found Aunt Lowizy and 
 Miss Cobb. The latter informed me directly that her body 
 wouldn't fit nothin', and there wouldn't nothin' fit her body; 
 so she'd given up tryin', after having spoiled two yards of 
 flannelette and a yard and a half of silesia. She was sit- 
 ting with her hands resting on her lap. She looked at me 
 with exceeding sharpness. She asked me if I felt as well 
 as usual, and had I seen Bid Blake ? 
 
 To both of these questions I answered yes. She then 
 remarked that Bid had jest been there, and that she for 
 one thought there was something heavy on his mind. She 
 had made inquiries and he had told her that he had never 
 felt quite so well in his life ; but she knew better. There 
 was something on Bid's mind, or else set her down for a 
 hen with her head cut off. Having said so much, she sud- 
 denly asked : 
 
 "You seen urn, I'll bet?" 
 
 I looked at her in momentary indecision. Then I an- 
 swered that I had. 
 
 " Did they want to buy something ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Wall, they will. 'N' you'll feel 's if— oh, land, p'raps 
 you won't, either ! Mebby you're one of them kind your- 
 self. Jew see um all ?" 
 
 "I guess so." 
 
 " How many was they ?" 
 
 I told her. 
 
 "That ain't all. There's a boy that tends to the hosses. 
 I'm bound to see every one of um. They can't put me 
 down — no, sir, they can't do it." 
 
 Mother came into the room at this moment. Yielding 
 
68 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 to a strong impulse, I went to her quickly. I was about to 
 throw my arms about her when I caught Miss Cobb's eyes 
 on me. 
 
 "You look kinder hystrikcy," she remarked. 
 
 " I am," I responded ; "and if I am, I have a right to be." 
 
 Then I flung out of the room and ran to the barn. I 
 climbed into the hay mow and sat down on the hay. I 
 hoped mother would come here to find me. But the mo- 
 ments passed and no one came. I had plenty of time to 
 decide that I had no reason to expect mother. I leaned 
 back on the hay. The new crop was still to be put in, the 
 most of it ; but I was lying upon a pile of fresh-cured 
 grass that had been tossed up into the mow but the day 
 before. Its fragrance filled the place. I looked up into 
 the roof. From rafter to rafter were the same dusty, volu- 
 minous cobwebs that had been there ever since I could 
 remember. They were swaying now in the warm wind that 
 swept through the open windows, and in at these windows 
 the barn swallows were flying and sweeping about in the 
 peak of the roof. I looked at them until their movements 
 grew dimly rhythmic, then more vague. I was asleep in 
 that blessed way that allows you to know you are asleep. 
 
 Very soon, or I thought it was very soon, I heard steps 
 on the floor below, then on the stairs. Mother was coming 
 at last. I did not take the trouble to open my eyes. I lay 
 there half-awake in that delicious state which sometimes 
 comes between sleeping and walking, thinking absolutely 
 nothing, conscious of life as a happy baby ought to be con- 
 scious of it. 
 
 Yes, the steps had ascended the stairs. I lazily opened 
 my eyes and saw a man standing hat in hand not far from 
 me, gazing at me. 1 sal up qui< kly, feeling the blood surge 
 up into my face. 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 69 
 
 " Mr. Ronald Maverick !" I exclaimed. 
 
 The man bowed. " I suppose you're Mr. Armstrong's 
 daughter ?" he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 I had a confused wonder as to whether he knew how 
 fine he looked. He was dressed in white duck, even to 
 his shoes, and the hat in his hand was white also. To my 
 surprise I noticed now that he was somewhat bald. My 
 eye unconsciously sought the diamond on his finger ; yes, 
 there it was, sparkling in the gloom of the hay mow. 
 
 " If I only knew you a little more, I'd ask you to let me 
 sit down on this hay," he now said. 
 
 I made no reply to this remark. I didn't wish to have 
 him sit here. I rose. 
 
 " Father expected you more than a week ago," I informed 
 him. 
 
 " Yes; I meant to come then, but I was detained, and 
 as it was so uncertain when I could come, I didn't write. 
 I hope he can get me a horse?" questioningly. 
 
 " Oh, father can always get a horse if anybody wants 
 one," I answered. Then Mr. Maverick said, "So glad, 
 I'm sure," and laughed a little, showing beneath his carefully 
 trained mustache a great deal of gold in his teeth. 
 
 I wanted to ask after Cornelia, but I knew I mustn't do 
 that, so I stood silent until I could think what to say. 
 
 " Won't you come in the house and wait for father ? 
 He's only gone to the village to get his mowing-machine 
 mended." 
 
 " Thank you ; I'll stay out-of-doors. I don't want to be 
 in a house if I can help it." 
 
 He stood aside deferentially for me to move towards the 
 stairs. Then he followed. When we were in the barn- 
 yard he asked if I would tell him which way was the pleas- 
 
70 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 antest for a stroll. I hesitated. Then I answered that I 
 liked all the ways, but strangers usually went down the path 
 to the falls. He looked at me as if he were going to ask 
 me to accompany him ; but he said nothing. He only made 
 one of his impressive bows that somehow gave me the feel- 
 ing that I was a very attractive sort of a person. Then he 
 started on down the river-path and I went into the house, 
 giving the information that a " man wanted father." This 
 I felt to be extremely meagre and insufficient in regard to a 
 being like Mr. Ronald Maverick. 
 
 Rachel Cobb was just putting her scissors and thimble 
 and " body " and silesia into a much rubbed leather bag 
 which had always accompanied her in her years of visiting. 
 She was telling mother that " she thought she'd better go 
 home early, for somehow she kinder felt 's if she ought to 
 be round 's long 's that set of folks in the long wagon was 
 down by the falls." 
 
 As she tied the strings of her sunbonnet she looked at me 
 and informed me that she was hopin' I'd come, for she 
 wanted me to go back with her, 'n' she'd send some of the 
 seedlin' strawberries by me in time for our supper. The 
 seedlin's was jest in their prime now. I did not manifest 
 any eagerness to accept this invitation. I was not particu- 
 larly happy in Miss Cobb's society, but Aunt Lowizy now 
 said she did hope I'd go. So I found my hat and walked 
 out with Miss Cobb. 
 
 There was a bicycle leaning against a fence. I had not 
 seen this before. My companion called it "one of them 
 critters," and guessed that the feller in white down there 
 ahead of us must have come on it. So I guessed, though 
 he was not in cycling suit. We had not gone far along the 
 path before Rachel turned her sunbonnet towards me and 
 from its depths said, in a mysterious voice : 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 7 I 
 
 "I've jest found out her name. It's Runciman. That's 
 why I wanted you to come with me. That's why I thought 
 of the seedlin's ; though I guess there is some left that you 
 can take with ye." 
 
 I immediately felt the sting of a vital interest. But what 
 did she mean ? I asked her. Her jaws snapped and 
 clacked with great vivacity as she answered : 
 
 " Why, I mean that woman that b'longs in the wagon. 
 I didn't know her name. Your mother says it's Runciman. 
 Now I jest want you to see something 'bout her. I knew I 
 reck'lected the minute your mother spoke the word. 'Tain't 
 a common name, somehow. I'll show ye. I saved the 
 paper ; but I always save papers, for kindlin', you know. 
 This is a Philadelphy paper ; come 'round some cotton flan- 
 nel that Miss Rill sent me ; Miss Rill's brother 'Gustus 's 
 in Philadelphy — works there. That's how 'Melia Rill come 
 to have it, you see. I guess I know jest where to lay my 
 hand on it ; I guess it's the third paper from the bottom in 
 the old pile. It's quite a spell ago. But I remember jest 
 as plain. Land ! I guess I do ! I tell ye what 'tis, Wil- 
 helminy Armstrong, when you see a woman kinder dif'rent 
 'n' kinder takin', somehow, 'n' kinder not takin', either, you 
 may jest be sure 't there's be'n somethin' or other in their 
 lives that won't bear too much light." 
 
 Here the clicking stopped for a moment, and Miss Cobb 
 turned the opening in her sunbonnet to me again, gazing in- 
 tently at me, her gaze seeming intensified by the concentra- 
 tion, if I may call it thus, of her glance in the bottom of her 
 bonnet. 
 
 " I've been awful 'fraid, sometimes," she said, " when I've 
 be'n thinkin' of you, Wilhelminy, that you was one of them 
 kind yourself. I hope not; I do hope not, for your poor 
 mother's sake f ' 
 
72 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 "What kind?" I asked, sharply. "That I'd done some- 
 thing to be ashamed of ?" 
 
 " No — not that, eggsackly. I can't tell jest what I do 
 mean. I s'pose now you're mad 's you can be, ain't you ?" 
 
 " I am — some mad," I acknowledged. 
 
 Then I asked myself why I should care what this woman 
 said ; and why her words should produce a kind of excite- 
 ment as well as indignation. I tried to laugh. 
 
 " I always did say you hadn't ought to have be'n sent 
 to that boardin'-school. You ought to have be'n kep' to 
 home." 
 
 I stopped in my walk and I caught hold of Miss Cobb's 
 arm. "What do you mean ?" I asked. "What's the matter 
 with me ?" 
 
 " Nothin'," with a sharp click, " 'n' I'm jest a fool, that's 
 all. Here we be 'most to the bars." 
 
 At the bars she paused long to enough say : 
 
 " I s'pose 'twas your face 's you come in to-day after 
 you'd seen them folks that made me say such foolish 
 things. But you always was kind of a favoright of mine. 
 Yes, here we be to the bars. That top one 'most always 
 sticks. How strong you be !" as the rail clattered down 
 beneath my hands. " Come right in 't the back door. Can 
 you see any of them folks stirrin' ? No, there ain't nobody 
 in sight. Likely 's not they're gone to bed. Folks that 
 stay up all night 'n' have suppers of hearty victuals at 
 eleven o'clock must go to bed some time." 
 
 Miss Cobb began to fit the key in the door, but her eyes 
 were so drawn down to the locality where one could dimly 
 distinguish the glossy, bright side of the wagon among the 
 trees that her key went here and there, but not into its proper 
 place. I stood as patiently as I could. I was thinking of 
 the third paper from the bottom in the old pile. 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 73 
 
 At last Miss Cobb's key went in quite accidentally and 
 was turned ; the door opened, and I followed my compan- 
 ion into the little "entry" that was not large enough to 
 hold us without a great deal of crowding. How hot it was 
 at the west side of that bit of a house ! It stood sheltered 
 from the wind, and the sun had been shining on it all the 
 afternoon. There was a close smell, as of heated flannel, 
 diffused in the rooms. 
 
 "It doos git close here," remarked the owner. " You se' 
 down." 
 
 I sat down, gasping. There was one plate, one cup and 
 saucer, and one spoon, with a knife and fork, set rigidly on 
 a table drawn against the wall. The cover was large blue 
 and white squares, over which a few flies walked investi- 
 gatingly. Rachel said she liked to have her table set ; it 
 seemed more social like. To me it appeared one of the 
 most desolate, unsocial sights I had ever seen. 
 
 Miss Cobb hung her bag on one of a row of nails that 
 ran along against the wall. She hung her sunbonnet 
 on another, patted her hair a little, then went straight to 
 a closet, the door of which she flung open. She brought 
 a chair and climbed into it. I saw piles of newspapers. I 
 rose and also walked to the closet. I eagerly held out my 
 hand, and I knew that my hand trembled. She had been 
 right. She knew just where to find what she sought. 
 
 " There !" she dropped the paper towards me. " You 
 jest see what you make of it. There's several places where 
 she's mentioned." 
 
 I walked out of doors, notwithstanding her request that 
 I read where I was. There was a chopping-block standing 
 by a pile of " trash wood." I sat down on this block. The 
 first thing my eye caught was a paragraph beginning : 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Runciman is not Miss Runciman at 
 
74 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 all." I read rapidly. " This famous — or shall we say noto- 
 rious? — woman declined to state, when questioned, whether 
 her name is really the name by which she has become so 
 well known. She said that was her affair, which is very 
 true. She has displayed a good deal of shrewdness and 
 sagacity. Probably she is a genius. At any rate she is as 
 good, or as bad, as a genius. And now, more than ever, 
 people are nocking to hear her sing. And she sings bet- 
 ter than ever, with an indescribable fervor, passion, aban- 
 do?i, which sweep her audience along. Still, she never 
 oversteps ; there is always that subtle restraint which, after 
 all, is the hall-mark of genius. Leonora Runciman's vogue 
 was never greater than now." 
 
 I read this paragraph through twice, each time as if with 
 one sweep of my eye. Then I turned the sheet ; I turned 
 it about and about. Presently I saw another paragraph : 
 
 "The crowd at the opera went wild over Miss Runci- 
 man's Lucia last night. It was really magnificent. It is 
 a curious fact that the women stand her friends as they 
 do. They say she is the most maligned person in the 
 world just now. But women, when they do take up an- 
 other woman, are as unreasonable as a flock of sheep. 
 It is likely to be all feeling with them. There is one 
 woman, however, who will not, probably, profess any love 
 or admiration for the prima (donna, and that is Mrs. Drew 
 Hollander." 
 
 What did these insinuations mean ? Of course I did 
 not know ; but the keen bitterness, the sneer, I did rec- 
 ognize. 
 
 My heart was sinking like lead. What if mother knew 
 this ? I was not aware that sometimes too much weight 
 need not be given to the innuendo of a newspaper ; I was 
 ignorant that some papers print a paragraph one day that 
 
NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS 75 
 
 they may deny it the next. Anything in a public print 
 was of mighty consequence to me. 
 
 I hurriedly scanned every bit of the paper. But I could 
 find nothing more, save the advertisement of the appear- 
 ance of Miss Runciman in Ernani. Of course Rachel 
 Cobb had found this. She found everything. I wished to 
 do some bodily injury to her. Why was she nosing about 
 among 'Melia Rill's old things ? I flung the paper from 
 me with an exclamation. I saw Rachel's face at the win- 
 dow over the sink. She was looking out at me. The 
 breeze carried the paper away, and I heard it rustle as if 
 a hand had caught it. A hand had caught it. Miss Run- 
 ciman herself was coming along the path that led to the 
 door. She was carrying a small basket. She was prob- 
 ably coming for more eggs. This was my frivolous thought 
 as I first saw her. 
 
 "Well," she said, "what has the poor newspaper done? 
 And do you think Miss Cobb's hens have laid any eggs 
 to-day ?" 
 
 I did not notice her words ; I only heard them mechan- 
 ically. I jumped down from the chopping-block and walked 
 towards the lady. I was foolishly excited. If I had had 
 time to think I should not have said what I did. 
 
 "Miss Runciman," I asked, quickly, "why was it that 
 the women stood your friends ?" 
 
 She seemed to stiffen slightly as she stood ; but I did 
 not notice that her face changed ; I was not, however, very 
 well acquainted with her face, yet — 
 
 "What?" she said. 
 
V 
 
 "to you, my love, to you" 
 
 " Why did the women stand your friends ?" I repeated 
 as steadily as I could ; but I was now beginning to be 
 frightened at my own audacity in putting the question at all. 
 
 Miss Runciman began to smile. Her eyes sparkled. She 
 glanced down at the paper crushed in her grasp. And I, 
 following her glance, had a curious notion that that strong 
 hand might crush a great many things. But before she 
 made any reply she put her basket on the ground and 
 examined the paper. 
 
 "Ah !" she said, " ten years ago ! Newspaper rot ten 
 years old ! Who has been giving you this stuff ?" (Her 
 eyes travelled over the columns as she spoke.) 
 
 " Miss Rachel Cobb," I replied, concisely. 
 
 " Oh ! And she is doubtless watching us now from some- 
 where. Yes, there she is !" 
 
 Certainly, Rachel was still looking through the window 
 over the sink. 
 
 Miss Runciman nodded at the face as seen through the 
 glass. "Good-morning, Miss Cobb!" she called out. 
 
 Miss Cobb left her place of observation and came to the 
 open door. She looked confused. 
 
 " It was 'Melia Rill's paper," she said. " Her brother 
 'Gustus has worked in Philadelphy for a good many years." 
 
 She actually had the air of apologizing. 
 
"to you, my love, to you" 77 
 
 " I'm sure you ought to be grateful to 'Melia Rill," re- 
 sponded Miss Runciman. " You are, aren't you ?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Rachel; and then, hastily, "I mean 
 no, I ain't grateful ; I don't care nothin' about it ; it ain't 
 nothin' to me." 
 
 " But you saved the paper, my dear Miss Cobb. You 
 had a feeling that you'd need it some time, eh ?" 
 
 The speaker's eyes, with metallic brightness, looked over 
 the old maid's figure in a relentless way. 
 
 Rachel rallied. She stood more firmly, and she grasped 
 the side of the door with one hand. Her little pig-like face 
 grew braver. 
 
 " I d' know," she said, " 's you need to look at me like 
 that, Miss Runciman, if you be Miss Runciman, or whoever 
 you be, anyway. I guess I've got a right to save 'Melia 
 Rill's old papers if I want to. Yes," gathering courage, 
 " 'n' I guess I've got a right to show urn, too." 
 
 " Bravo !" cried Miss Runciman, and there was such a sneer 
 in her face and voice that I quite shrank for Rachel's sake. 
 
 " I d' know what you mean by your outlandish words," 
 said the woman in the doorway. 
 
 She turned away and sat down. I could see her sitting 
 there looking white and tired. 
 
 Miss Runciman saw her, too, and the next moment her 
 aspect changed. The glitter left her eyes. She advanced 
 to the doorway. How cordial her voice was as she said : 
 
 "We are not going to quarrel, though, are we, Miss Cobb? 
 If you knew as much about public life and newspapers as 
 I do you wouldn't have saved this thing," dropping the 
 paper on the floor. She had now evidently cast the whole 
 matter behind her. She went on, still with that air of good- 
 fellowship : " I do hope your hens have laid some more 
 eggs, Miss Cobb. I want every one you can spare." 
 
78 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 Rachel drew a long breath. She gazed wonderingly at 
 the woman before her. I don't know why there seemed 
 something pitiable in her appearance to me at that mo- 
 ment. Her face changed from its expression of anger and 
 suspicion to something I had never before seen on her 
 countenance. But then I had never taken much notice of 
 Rachel Cobb's face, save to be glad mine was not like it, 
 not that mine was anything to boast of, Heaven knows. 
 She rose ; she extended her hand for the basket. 
 
 " I guess I c'n spare you a few," she said. " You'd better 
 come in while I git um." 
 
 As Miss Runciman stepped over the threshold I walked 
 away. But I purposely kept in the path that she would 
 naturally take when she returned to her carriage. 
 
 Presently I sat down under a tree and waited. It was 
 very hot ; the tree branches hardly protected me from the 
 afternoon sun that kept searching me out more and more 
 warmly. But I was not hot ; I was cold : I seemed to be 
 cold with suspicious questioning. Who was Mrs. Drew 
 Hollander, and why wouldn't she stand by the prima don- 
 na? And perhaps, if father knew about those paragraphs, 
 even he would withdraw his consent to my going with that 
 woman. And I kept thinking of what mother had said 
 about something that was glittering, but was not good. 
 More and more I was convinced that 1 must find out for 
 myself whether it was good or not. 
 
 The sun was certainly very bright. I turned ; I stretched 
 myself out on the grass, with my head so that my gaze 
 could take in the space down below there at the foot of the 
 falls. The lovely mist rose up from the falling water ; I 
 heard the soft monotone of the falls. Yes, and in a mo- 
 ment I heard something else — a female voice, not far from 
 me, beginning to sing. I held myself rigidly still, fur I did 
 
" TO YOU, MY LOVE, TO YOU " 79 
 
 not wish to lose a note. I was sure it was Bathsheba Hil- 
 dreth singing. At first she seemed to be playing with a 
 few notes, tossing them about and catching them again. I 
 had always envied the possessor of a contralto voice, and 
 now I began to envy this girl. 
 
 I couldn't make out at all what she was singing, for at 
 last she did sing some song — or, rather, a sort of recitative, 
 which changed into a song, mellow and sweet and per- 
 suasive, but surely lacking somehow. I was wicked, for I 
 was distinctly glad that this voice was lacking. I knew I 
 was mean-spirited. Gradually I sat up, that I might listen 
 the better. I had no more than gained an upright, sitting 
 position than the singing stopped, and at the same moment 
 I was saying to myself: "She flats; it is horrible to flat." 
 I began to go over in my mind, on a higher key, what I 
 had just heard. 
 
 Almost immediately a man's voice, farther away — Vane 
 Hildreth's voice — took up the tune lightly, but dropped it 
 directly to say, with brotherly frankness : 
 
 " I don't see that you get over your flatting in the least." 
 
 " I didn't ask you whether I did or not," was the retort. 
 
 There was a slight rustling , then a hand put aside a 
 branch close to me, and Miss Hildreth's face appeared 
 among the green leaves. " You've been listening !" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " Well, then, do you think I flat?" she asked. 
 
 I hesitated, then I nodded again. 
 
 " Oh, the devil you do !" said this young lady. Then : 
 " You mustn't mind my saying 'the devil.' It's enough to 
 make any one say it. and worse to be told that you flat. 
 But I don't believe it, all the same. I kept to the key. 
 Just listen !" 
 
80 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 She burst tumultuously into something that I knew after- 
 wards was a song of Azucena's. I thought she sang glori- 
 ously, and told her so. 
 
 " But did I flat ?" 
 
 " Ye-es," I answered, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Are you sure ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Then, to my utter surprise, Bathsheba Hildreth threw 
 herself forward on the grass and began to cry with fury 
 and considerable noise. I did not quite dare to beg of her 
 to stop. She paused in her sobs long enough to articulate 
 indistinctly : " You must know that the woman who flats is 
 as bad as the one who hesitates." 
 
 Then she sobbed again. 
 
 " But I don't know what becomes of her," I said. 
 
 She raised her swollen face. " Oh, the d — I mean 
 oh, good gracious ! Don't you ? Oh, that is good !" 
 
 "Is it?" I asked, irritably. 
 
 " Yes, indeed !" 
 • She sat up. "Why," she said, "she is lost." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 I was deeply chagrined. I thought some one might have 
 told me before this about that woman. 
 
 This ignorance of mine seemed to compensate Miss Hil- 
 dreth in some way for my having told her she flatted. She 
 drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her blouse and 
 dried her face. 
 
 Somebody else now came from the other side of the tree. 
 It was Miss Hildreth's brother, and he inquired : 
 
 " Was that you blubbering, Bashy ?" 
 
 "No; it was Miss Armstrong," was the prompt reply. 
 " She was crying because she can never hope to sing as 
 well as I do." 
 
"TO YOU, MY LOVE, TO YOU " 8l 
 
 The young man looked at me and took off his cap with 
 great gravity. 
 
 " Be sure you are right technically," he said, as if he were 
 giving a lessen. " First be as mechanically correct as a ma- 
 chine, then, put all the feeling you choose into your voice, 
 but be a machine first." 
 
 " Oh, bosh !" from the sister. 
 
 "That's one reason why Bashy fails," he went on; 
 "she has omitted the machine stage, and another reason 
 is, she hasn't the voice. Two serious defects, Miss Arm- 
 strong." 
 
 I could not help gazing curiously at these two people. 
 But they did not appear to notice me much. I wondered 
 if they knew anything about Mrs. Drew Hollander. But 
 that had been " newspaper rot ten years ago," and ten years 
 ago these two, like myself, had been far more childish than 
 we were at present. 
 
 Vane Hildreth looked at me now. 
 
 " Perhaps, as the Dominie says in Guy Mannering, you 
 will kindly cantata with us — just for fun, you know, Miss 
 Armstrong." 
 
 "Oh no! No!" 
 
 His eyes dwelt on my face. 
 
 " I think you can sing," he said. " I suppose not at pres- 
 ent, but some time." 
 
 I rose. I said something about being obliged to go. I 
 hurried away and almost ran into Miss Runciman, but, fort- 
 unately, I did not break the eggs she was carrying in the 
 basket. She paused in her walk. 
 
 "What have they been doing to you ?" she asked. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 I had glanced at the woman's face. It was cold and 
 hard, and the metallic glitter was in her eyes. She did not 
 
82 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 linger. If I had ever thought she was interested in me I did 
 not think so now. She walked on without saying another 
 word, and I hurried back home, feeling snubbed .and dis- 
 carded, and wondering how I could ever, even in view of 
 her own words, have had any belief in Leonora Runciman's 
 apparent interest in me. 
 
 I found the family just sitting down to the supper-table. 
 Father was in excessively good spirits. He had just sold a 
 horse to Mr. Maverick, who was coming the next day for 
 the animal. 
 
 " I tell you," said father, " I made him pay for wearin' a 
 ring like that. I ast him exactly fifty dollars more on ac- 
 count of that di'mond." Here the speaker gave a laugh and 
 reached forward for more griddle-cakes. 
 
 " But, Lemuel," began mother, in her gentle voice, " do 
 you think that was quite fair ?" 
 
 " Pooh !" good-naturedly; "you jest tend to your religion, 
 Serissy, 'n' Til run the other kind of things. I know more 
 about a hoss trade in a minute than you'd know in a year. 
 I'm goin' to git you V Billy some kind of a present with 
 that extra fifty dollars." He looked at me. " How's the 
 opery business, Billy ?" 
 
 I said, gloomily, that I didn't know. Mother glanced at 
 me anxiously, but father went on with his griddle-cakes, 
 smacking and gurgling over them. I felt sick and tired of 
 everything. Life seemed one great confusion, and I felt 
 myself very old. 
 
 I washed the dishes and hurried off to walk somewhere 
 until bedtime. I did not want to even see mother. I was 
 continually thinking of Miss Runciman's cold, hard face. I 
 don't think I cared very much for what I had read in the 
 newspaper Rachel Cobb had shown me. Those paragraphs 
 made the prima donna more mysterious and interesting. 
 
" TO VOU, MY LOVE, TO YOU " 83 
 
 But nothing mattered. I should have to stay at home and 
 be just nothing. It was too bad — oh yes, it was too bad. 
 There was no doubt at all about Miss Runciman being: a 
 woman of whims. 
 
 " I just about hate her P I said, aloud. 
 
 I was leaning on the top rail of a fence that divided our 
 11 mowing " from the pasture-land. Twilight was deepen- 
 ing. The whippoorwills were calling down below there. 
 The sky was clear, and the summer air sweet and soft. But 
 something had taken the charm away. I could hear the 
 sound of the falls in the valley, and the sound brought still 
 more plainly to my mind the encampment there. I had never 
 seen such people before. But then I had never seen much 
 of the world, though when I had come home from Hadley I 
 thought myself quite worldly-wise. That was two years ago ; 
 I hadn't been wise at all at the time ; I knew that now. 
 
 I began to hum the gypsy song I had heard that girl sing. 
 I remembered every note of it. I pitched it higher, how- 
 ever. I had a high voice in singing. 
 
 For the second time I began, and was part through it 
 when I became aware that some one was whistling an ac- 
 companiment. I staggered on with the inarticulate song 
 for a moment; then I stopped and looked about. 
 
 A brindle dog advanced from the gloom of a huckleberry- 
 thicket and came to me, slowly wagging his tail. He was 
 immediately followed by his master, Vane Hildreth, who 
 took off his cap, saying as he did so : 
 
 " Stage set for sylvan scene. Heroine leaning on fence, 
 singing. Enter hero in corduroys with his faithful dog. He 
 advances up right front to heroine, takes her hand, kisses 
 it respectfully, and asks her how she does." 
 
 Mr. Hildreth took my hand and kissed it, and as I was 
 not at all used to such salutes, I felt my face growing hot 
 
84 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 and uncomfortable. There was a certain air about him, 
 too, which I did not understand. I pulled away my hand 
 and said I was very well, and just thinking about going home. 
 
 He made no response to this information, but asked me, 
 with a great appearance of interest, if I remembered that 
 Azucena song just from hearing Bashy sing it. 
 
 "Yes, I had never heard it before," I said. 
 
 "Some people can remember like that," he remarked; 
 "it's a gift. But you're soprano," in apparent surprise, and 
 as if he were saying, " You're English, when I supposed you 
 were Hottentot." 
 
 " Of course I'm soprano," I answered. 
 
 He still held his cap in his hand, and he leaned on the 
 rail at a respectful distance, and contemplated me steadily, 
 much as though he were looking for the reason for my hav- 
 ing that kind of a voice. 
 
 I gave him a quick look, which made me think his face 
 very foreign indeed, as I had first thought it— quite outland- 
 ish, in fact. His long eyes were now well opened, and did 
 not have a languid appearance. I had had a fancy, such 
 as I imagine many young girls have, that I could make up 
 my mind immediately concerning a person, could guess cor- 
 rectly as to what his or her leading tendencies were, and I 
 knew at one glimpse as to whether the person was going to 
 find favor in my eyes. 
 
 But I didn't know whether I liked this young man or not. 
 At one moment I was sure I should like him extremely ; at 
 the next I thought quite the opposite. I recalled that his 
 aunt had said of him that he had a pretty tenor and made 
 rather a good operatic lover. I had a sudden, deeply rooted 
 feeling that I despised any man who " made a good oper- 
 atic lover." 
 
 " It's really astonishing that you are soprano," he now said. 
 
"to you, my love, to you" 85 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because you overturn all my theories." 
 
 " I'm so sorry to do that," I answered. 
 
 "Well, you ought to be sorry," he responded, "for it's 
 a dreadful thing to do — to crash right into one's theories. 
 You'll have to make it up to me in some way." 
 
 " No," I said, " I'm not called upon to do that. Good- 
 night, Mr. Hildreth." 
 
 " Don't go, please," as I turned. " It seems so kind of 
 romantic to meet you here. If you'll stay a bit longer I'll 
 sing to you. It's something I'm getting up for an encore 
 next season. You see, we poor singers have to be pegging 
 at something even when we are doing nothing. Our vaca- 
 tions are poisoned by the fact that we have to see that our 
 voices don't get rusty. My aunt would kill us ruthlessly if 
 we should permit a rusty note. Don't you want me to sing 
 to you, Miss Armstrong ?" 
 
 I certainly did wish very earnestly to hear him sing. I 
 turned back and leaned on the fence again. The brindled 
 dog sat down on his haunches with a resigned appearance, 
 glancing at his master and then at me. 
 
 " I warn you," said Hildreth, " that it's real sentimental, 
 and I'm going to sing right at you." 
 
 "Very well ; I'll try to bear it," I replied. 
 
 " So good of you," was the response. The young man 
 cleared his voice and flung up his head, his eyes fixed on me. 
 I was a bit excited, but I took a nonchalant attitude and com- 
 pelled myself to look at him, though I fixed my gaze judi- 
 ciously on the tip of his nose. So he began. This is what 
 
 he sang: 
 
 "To you, my love, to you, 
 I drink this crimson wine ; 
 To you, my love, to you, 
 
 I brine this heart of mine." 
 
86 IN THE FIRST TERSON 
 
 Before lie had finished the second line I knew very well 
 what Miss Runciman had meant by calling her nephew a 
 tenor lover. He had not a remarkably powerful voice, but 
 tin- tones were heart-breakingly sweet, and he sang in what 
 seemed a wickedly impassioned way. The tears gathered 
 in my eyes ; my heart beat heavily. I stopped gazing at 
 the young man's nose; my eyelids drooped until I saw 
 nothing. 
 
 Mi' sang two verses of that commonplace stuff; but I 
 had no idea it was commonplace, his singing was so de- 
 licious. Still, I was afraid of it. And he sang at me so 
 that I could easily have thought it was really for me ; and 
 this notion made me just enough indignant to tone me up 
 a little. But 1 couldn't, to save my life, prevent the tears 
 from coming. 
 
 In the beginning of the last line the dog suddenly rose 
 to his feet, the hair along his backbone stood up stiffly, and 
 he growled. Mr. llildreth finished his line, however, but 
 he had no more than done so when in the deepened dusk 
 a figure Stepped from the same clump of huckleberries, 
 strode up to the singer, and put a hand rudely on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 Mr. llildreth flung himself about. The do^ leaped for- 
 waid at the intruder, and 1 did not scream, though I choked 
 in the suppression of a cry. 
 
 It was Bid well Blake who had thus reprehensibly ap- 
 peared, and who now caught the leaping dog and threw 
 him over the fence. 
 
 Bidwell was in his overalls and jumper, and he imme- 
 diately Stepped back and said, in his cool drawl: 
 
 " 1 guess you'll have to excuse me, Mr, Singer. I didn't 
 mean to tip you over, but 1 s'pose it's kinder hard to keep 
 your balance 'n' sing like that at the same time. Mebby 
 
"TO YOU, MY LOVE, TO YOU " <^7 
 
 you'd better call your dog off. If 1 should git hold of him 
 agin I might throw him further." 
 
 Mr. Hildreth straightened himself and seemed to swal- 
 low something. Then he spoke to his dog, who did not 
 come, but who stood a few yards away growling and grin- 
 ning. 
 
 Bidwell contemplated the other young man in a way that 
 could not have been soothing. 
 
 "I wonder," he said, " now 'bout how much would they 
 pay ye for singhV like that to urn, eh?" He puckered his 
 mouth and whistled the strain, " To you, my love, to you." 
 Then he asked again, "Good pay. eh ?" 
 
 " Excellent," was the reply. The singer put on his cap, 
 took it off again, bowed to me, and then walked away, fol- 
 lowed, growling, by his dog. 
 
 Bidwell pushed back his big straw hat as if the better 
 to watch the retreating figure. Then he began to laugh, 
 silently, but with great apparent enjoyment. And 1 laughed 
 too, though the strains of the song were still ringing in 
 my ears. 
 
 Finally I said : " You're a regular brute, Bid." 
 
 "I know it," he said, "but that feller ain't ; that feller's 
 sweet as honey in the comb; but 1 ain't the kind of dirt 
 lie's goin' to walk on — not by a long chalk. Let me see 
 you home, billy. If you stay here he may come 'n' sing- 
 to ye some more; in which case I'd knock his little damn 
 head off. If you'll kindly overlook my language, Billy, 1 
 sh'll be thankful.' 1 
 
 I was tried with bidwell, but he was usually so good- 
 natured that you couldn't hold out in a bad temper against 
 him. 
 
 1 turned away and began to walk towards home. Bidwell 
 jumped over the fence and walked beside me. lie talked 
 
gg IX rill" FIRST PERSON 
 
 .1 pood deal, but 1 could not follow him, and at last gave 
 up trying to do so. After a while he grew silent. When 
 we reached the house he would not come in. 
 
 Father was smoking near the back door. '•Hullo!" he 
 
 called out: "that you. Fully? Who've you got with you?" 
 1 told him it was Bid Blake. Bid looked at me in the 
 dusk. I sat down on the bench with father, who puffed 
 serenely at his pipe. Bid lingered a moment: then he said 
 good-night, and his long figure slouched away m the dusk. 
 
 When we were alone together father said : " Billy, some- 
 thing's happened." 
 
VI 
 
 "there's my nephew, vane" 
 
 I drew nearer to father as he said that. 
 
 "Oh, what?" I exclaimed. Then, as I saw how peace- 
 fully he blew the smoke from his lips, I thought that noth- 
 ing very serious could have occurred. 
 
 " Your mother's gone." I rose quickly, as if I would im- 
 mediately go in search of her, and my heart sank. 
 
 "Yes," said father, "just after you went off this after- 
 noon Nick Freeman brought a telegram over from the 
 depot. 'Twas from your gran'mother. She's sick. There 
 was exactly time for her to git ready 'n' ride back with 
 Nick to ketch the train for Kyle, so she went ; 'n' we can't 
 know anything more about it till we c'n git a letter." 
 
 J stood silent for a few moments. Kyle was a four hours'" 
 ride away in the steam-cars. An unreasonable dejection 
 possession of me. 
 
 " Didn't she leave any word for me?" I asked. 
 
 " She left her love. She was in an awful hurry, you 
 know. I s'pose she didn't take half the things shell want. 
 We'll have to send 'em to her, I guess." 
 
 " And she left no word for me ?" I repeated. 
 
 " Her love, I tell ye. She hadn't any time, you know." 
 
 Father took his pipe from his mouth and looked at me 
 in the dusk. "You ain't goin' to be silly, are you?" he 
 asked. " I sh'd think her love was about all she could 
 
no IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 leave ye, anyway. Did I hear somebody singin' in the 
 paster ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Who was it ?" 
 
 " Mr. Vane Hildreth." 
 
 " Oh, the feller in the fancy cart at the falls." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ain't you goin' with 'em, Lilly?" 
 
 I moved uneasily. How good-naturedly father spoke! 
 As if he hadn't much interest in the matter, anyway. And 
 yet I moved again. 
 
 " Eh ?" said he. 
 
 " Miss Runciman was coming over to see mother to- 
 morrow," I answered. 
 
 " What for ? 1 thought 'twas all settled." 
 
 "Yes; I think 'tis. But she wanted to see mother. 
 Good-night, father." 
 
 I hurried into the house. It was desolate. Aunt Lowizy 
 was sprinkling the clothes for to-morrow's ironing. 
 
 " Her goin' was dretful sudden ; I can't get used to it," 
 she remarked, as I came to the table where she was at 
 work. Her words sounded as if mother were dead. 
 
 " Don't !" I cried. I ran up to my own room. 
 
 Mother was never away from home. Once a year grand- 
 mother usually came from Ryle and made us a long visit. 
 I sat down by my open window for an hour. I could hear 
 the soft sound of the falls. The scent of father's tobacco 
 came to me. When I lighted a lamp and went to turn 
 down the bedclothes I found a bit of paper pinned to my 
 pillow. I knew who had put the paper there, and the very 
 sight of it made me sob. 
 
 Mother had written in pencil: "It's hard to go without 
 seeing you. Am I weak and foolish to wish you would 
 
" THERE S MY NEPHEW, VANE QI 
 
 feel like deciding not to go with that singer-woman ? God 
 bless and keep you, my precious child!" Below, in faint 
 marks, were the words : " I guess I wouldn't tell your fa- 
 ther. I gave my permission, and I don't take it back." 
 
 I sat down on the side of the bed, with the scrap of paper 
 in one hand and the lamp in the other. I read the words 
 over and over. Every time I read them I wished that I 
 could make up my mind to decide as mother wished me to 
 decide. I felt, somehow, sure that she was right, though I 
 did not know why. But I couldn't make up my mind — no, 
 I could not do it. When I fell asleep I but went over and 
 over, in the confusion of dreams, the same matter. And 
 through the confusion I heard a velvet tenor voice singing 
 "To you, my love, to you."' 
 
 Miss Runciman came the next day. She came walking 
 up the path with her nephew's dog at her heels. She did 
 not seem in a mood for much talking, and she said very 
 little to father, who kept at home, I was sure, that he might 
 see her. 
 
 •• I want you to bring over your things," she said to me. 
 ' ; We may stay here a few days longer, and we may go in an 
 hour." There was a set look about her mouth, and a faded 
 aspect to her eyes that rather startled me. " Come with 
 me now," she said, looking towards me. " I want to try 
 your voice. Vane and Bashy have gone for the day ; there'll 
 be no one to hear us. Come." 
 
 Of course, I obeyed. Father suggested that I come back 
 and put my things together, and he would take them over. 
 I walked away, following Miss Runciman as she went 
 clown the path. Once I looked back at the house. There 
 came a stricture across my chest that made it difficult for 
 me to breathe. I thought I saw my mother standing at the 
 open shed door and beckoning me to return. 
 
92 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " Miss Runciman," I said, suddenly. She turned and 
 waited for me to go on. " I — I — " but the words would not 
 come. My companion came to me and took my' hands. 
 Her face softened with a marvellous quickness. 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked. " Do you hesitate ?" 
 
 I clung to her hands that held mine strongly. I tried to 
 stand erect. 
 
 " No," I answered, after a moment ; " I don't hesitate." 
 
 She did not say anything more, but resumed her walk, and 
 I followed her. 
 
 People often come to a parting of the ways, but rarely, I 
 think, are they conscious of that moment. But I knew ; 
 I knew that I was stepping out of my old life. Perhaps it 
 was some mysterious inheritance from my mother, some 
 freak of imagination that made, at the instant I stepped 
 again after Miss Runciman, a picture appear to unroll be- 
 fore me of all my past, even to that time, which I could but 
 just remember, when I could not go to sleep unless mother 
 sat on my bed and held my hand. The picture of the 
 future was blank. 
 
 It was curious that I always believed that if mother had 
 been at home that day I should not have gone with Miss 
 Runciman. I believed this, notwithstanding that my char- 
 acter contradicts this belief. But how little youth knows 
 of itself ! Wait until years have pointed out to you the 
 furrows that this habit and that inclination have made — too 
 late to smooth them out, too late to etch the picture dif- 
 ferently. Why is it that we poor human beings must pay 
 such a price for our knowledge ? 
 
 Recalling the moment when I walked down the river path 
 that morning, I am weak enough to moralize, and to be as 
 weak as that is to be very weak, indeed. But you may be 
 sure that I did not moralize as I went on in this sunshine. 
 
" THERE S MY NEPHEW, VANE 93 
 
 And it was not ten minutes before all ray morbid imagin- 
 ings had left me, and I was treading joyously forward. As 
 we came near Rachel Cobb's house, that person was vis- 
 ible behind the screen door. It was one of her days at 
 home. She stepped outside and came forward, shading 
 her eyes with her hand, blinking at us and looking more 
 like a pig than usual. 
 
 " I was watchhv for ye," she said, without any preliminary 
 greeting. "The young feller, your nephew," nodding at 
 Miss Runciman, "came back to tell me to tell you that 
 they might stay all night, after all. Billy, where you 
 goin' ?" 
 
 I answered briefly. I had not much patience with 
 Rachel Cobb this morning. She looked at me intently, 
 so intently that I thought, perhaps, her errand was really to 
 me. When we started, she followed on behind me. After a 
 moment she touched my arm, and as I looked around she 
 made a gesture towards the woman in front, and shook her 
 head with such violence that her eye-glasses fell off. She 
 stooped to pick up the glasses, and I did not linger. She 
 called after us that she " guessed her hens would lay more 
 eggs by to-morrer." 
 
 •For the first time I entered the house -carriage which 
 stood among the birches and hackmatacks close by the falls. 
 I was trying not to be excited. I wished to look about 
 me calmly. It was a little room, and things were as com- 
 pact in it as in a ship's cabin. Matting was on the floor, 
 bamboo folding-chairs that could be leaned against the 
 wall, a table that folded up and was also now close to the 
 wall ; no pictures, no bric-a-brac — a suggestion of nomadic 
 life, as if the place were a kind of tent that could, like the 
 other articles, be folded. 
 
 Miss Runciman spread out one of the chairs and placed 
 
94 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 herself in it. She told me to sit down and rest. She did 
 not speak again for a full half-hour. I sat still and looked 
 about me. There was a pile of music on the floor in one 
 corner. On the wall hung a guitar and a banjo. The dog 
 had come in and was lying stretched out on his side near 
 me on the matting. The windows, which were large, were 
 open and protected by screens. Through them came the 
 sounds of the country and of the falls. A catbird sat on a 
 birch close by and sang his lovely notes. 
 
 "Well !" at last said Miss Runciman. 
 
 When I turned towards her I knew that she had been 
 watching me, and I blushed painfully. 
 
 "Yes," 1 said. 
 
 " Now I'm going to put you through the scale." 
 
 I braced myself. 
 
 " Stand up." 
 
 I did so. She continued looking at me. 
 
 " I once knew," she said, " a woman who could sing the 
 scale in a way to draw your soul out of your body. Begin." 
 
 I began ; how I went on and finished I didn't know. 
 But the high notes always were a sort of inspiration and 
 challenge to me. I liked to seize them as if I were their 
 conqueror. I stood there with my hands clasped behind 
 me, singing. 
 
 " Again," said Miss Runciman. 
 
 I did better the second time. When I had finished she 
 sat upright in her chair. There was a slight flush on her 
 cheeks. 
 
 "I was right," she remarked. "You have the same 
 kind of a voice that I have. That's why I wanted you. 
 In you I may renew my own youth, my triumphs. But 
 they will be your own triumphs, just the same. Still, it all 
 depends upon you — all. You may have the voice of an 
 
" there's my nephew, vane " 95 
 
 angel, but it will not avail if you haven't work in you. Can 
 you work — work like mad — work day and night, harder 
 than any man ever toiled in the fields? Can you? For 
 that's what it means to be a good singer. Tell me ; can you 
 do it? Do you want to do it?" 
 
 I was on fire. Her questions were like a stimulating 
 draught to me. But I could not find any words in which to 
 tell her. I was trembling pitiably. My companion was 
 looking at me with probing eyes, eyes that had no compas- 
 sion, I fancied, and that were searching me as they would 
 have searched into some musical mechanism of which their 
 owner would avail herself. 
 
 " Answer me ; do you want to do it ?" she repeated. 
 
 I took a step forward. " Yes, yes !" I cried out. " I 
 want to do it." My face and eyes were burning; furious 
 pulses beat all through me. 
 
 "Ah!" she said, in a half -voice; then she laughed soft- 
 ly, as if at some thought which I had suggested. " Come 
 nearer." I went to the side of her chair. " Do I look like 
 a wicked woman ?" she inquired. 
 
 The question was so unexpected that I could not speak. 
 She did not wait for my answer. 
 
 " I wonder if people expect that a person can sing out of 
 a blank past. It can't be done. Of course, musical sounds 
 can be made on any musical instrument. To be able to sing 
 you must be able to live. The fulness of life ! Do you think 
 that means a sheet of paper with nothing written on it ? 
 Bah ! Some folks make me sick ! Those were pretty para- 
 graphs in the paper that woman showed you — that little pig 
 woman, I mean." From flaming heat I began to go down 
 towards icy coldness. "The thought of them makes you 
 shrink away from me ?" 
 
 '■ No." I said. 
 
96 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " Better go back to your home now. You have the 
 chance now. Give up the hope of singing." 
 
 " No," I said, again. 
 
 She contemplated me through half-shut eyes, as she had 
 done once before. At last she asked : 
 
 " Have you ever heard the phrase ' a woman with a past' ?" 
 
 " I don't think I have. What does it mean ?" 
 
 "Oh, it always means something bad — always." 
 
 She offered no explanation of the remark, and I did not 
 dare to ask for an explanation. 
 
 " People like to say things, you know," she went on. " For 
 instance, a writer has just put this fine thing into his book : 
 ' The basis of the musical temperament is sensuality and 
 egotism.' What do you think of that ?" 
 
 " It — it frightens me," I answered, in a low tone. 
 
 " Oh," carelessly, " his assertion doesn't make it a fact. 
 Though he may be right, after all — only why didn't he make 
 it a still more sweeping thing by saying the artistic temper- 
 ament? That, now, would have covered a wide ground." 
 
 She rose and went to the pile of music. She selected a 
 sheet and turned towards me with it in her hand. 
 
 "What are you thinking ?" she inquired, quickly. 
 
 And as quickly, without reflection, I answered : 
 
 " Of Mrs. Drew Hollander." 
 
 A deep red rose over the woman's face. She waited an 
 instant before she put her second question. 
 
 " What do you know about her ?" 
 
 " Nothing. She was mentioned in that paper Rachel 
 Cobb showed me. It said that probably Mrs. Drew Hol- 
 lander was one of the women who would not stand by you. 
 Oh," I burst out with, " I wish I hadn't said her name ! I 
 don't know what made me do it !" 
 
 Miss Runciman was now pale. 
 
"there's my nephew, vane" 97 
 
 " Your instinctive truthfulness made you do it," was the 
 response. " But let's drop the subject. I'm going to sing ; 
 I want you to take notice how I do it. And have I told 
 you," looking at me with a keen, searching expression, 
 " your voice isn't cold to-day. I thought it was unaccount- 
 able that it should be, with your face. But I fancy it is 
 liable to moods. Well, you'll learn to summon any mood. 
 Now, listen to me." 
 
 She stood turning the leaves of her music for a moment. 
 Then she laid down the sheets. How strangely, how won- 
 derfully her face softened ! Even before she had opened her 
 lips I was conscious of the coming of a delightful excitement. 
 
 It was something I had never heard that she sang — but, 
 then, I had heard nothing. 
 
 "By the first rose thou hap'st to meet, 
 Send fondest greetings to my sweet." 
 
 I stood silent and agitated. This, I knew, was what was 
 meant by the phrase "perfection of technical culture," 
 which I had once read applied to Jenny Lind's singing. 
 And this was something that Jenny Lind had sung at Leip- 
 zig. I was trying to remember what I had read, for by thus 
 exerting my memory it seemed to me I could divert my 
 mind so that I might be able to bear this voice which 
 pierced my soul as if it were a knife that could divide the 
 very spirit. 
 
 " In the soul that vibrated in her tones, and in the 
 charm of a peculiar voix voilee, an inimitably tender or- 
 gan, her piano was a breath such as angel lips might 
 breathe." 
 
 I kept up my endeavor to recall these words, for I was 
 afraid — of what ? It must have been for fear of the loss 
 of that self-control which the sane person grips hard. 
 
 7 
 
q8 in the first person 
 
 As Miss Runciman stopped singing I sat down suddenly 
 in the nearest chair and covered my face with my hands. 
 This was what I had dreamed about, and longed for as 
 something impossible. It was possible, after all ; God had 
 given something very precious to some of His children. 
 Was it possible that He had given this precious thing to 
 me ? What would my mother think if she had heard this 
 singing ? It was from her that I had inherited my voice, 
 though mine was stronger and better in every way. Why 
 had mother so often said that she thought a " musical gift 
 was a dangerous gift"? But father used to assert, with 
 his laugh, that " Serissy hadn't much hard sense, anyway. 
 Serissy was as full of dreams V notions as an egg was full 
 of meat." 
 
 Miss Runciman opened the door and stood leaning 
 against the casing. She was standing thus when I took 
 my hands from my face and timidly looked at her. I was 
 timid because she seemed superhuman to me just at that 
 moment. Without turning her head, she asked : 
 
 "Did you like it?" 
 
 " Like it ?" I repeated, as soon as I could speak. " Is 
 that the way you sing in public ?" 
 
 " Sometimes ; but sometimes I'm just a wooden ma- 
 chine." 
 
 "You can't be wooden." 
 
 " Can't I ? How do you know ?" 
 
 She turned now quickly towards me with that manner 
 which had been hers when she had stopped at my home, 
 the manner that put you at ease and somehow gave a stim- 
 ulus to your mind. My spirits began to be released and 
 to flow towards her. Instead of answering her question, I 
 said : 
 
 " I shall never sine; like that." 
 
It 
 
 there's my nephew, vane" 99 
 
 " Not like that— better," she responded. She smiled at 
 me, but her face was very sad in spite of her smile. ' ; Yes, 
 better. You will have all my high notes, and you will have 
 a more powerful lower register ; notwithstanding the furore 
 they make about a soprano voice, it is the lower tones that 
 move one most. That rloridness, that profusion, is deco- 
 ration, and decoration in any kind of art never stirs the 
 depths." 
 
 •■' But you move the soul." I could not speak clearly. 
 
 " Oh yes ; I know it. And it's my life-blood that does 
 it, and every time you offer such a libation as that you are 
 just so much impoverished. " 
 
 I did not understand her, but I would not ask what she 
 meant. I had a feeling, however, that one might be willing 
 to pay a high price to be able to move the multitude. How 
 could I know then how T much of the glamour of youth was 
 over my eyes ? 
 
 I began that very day — yes, that very hour — to study. 
 IMiss Runciman said she was sorry I was so old, that she 
 wished she had found me years before. " Say at sixteen ; 
 but then the time was not ripe ; I shouldn't have been 
 ready to take you then ; I was thinking of other things. 
 Did you ever notice. Billy, that, strive as we may, nothing 
 happens until the time is ripe :" 
 
 She began to turn over the music sheets in the corner 
 of the room. She was on her knees. 
 
 " I confidently expect that you will master the first stud- 
 ies rapidly," she was saying. " You must, because you've 
 lost so many years. Let me tell you one of the great things 
 now. Are you listening ?" 
 
 She caught hold o^ my skirt, and I stood looking down 
 at her. 
 
 " Speak clearly — enunciate — enunciate — enunciate — 
 
IOO IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 make as much of the words as if you were an actor. Con- 
 sider your words first. Will you remember ?" 
 
 I nodded my head, but I thought she was telling me a 
 strange thing. 
 
 "Even if you sing in a tongue your listeners do not 
 understand, you must understand, you must suck the mean- 
 ing from every word, and the meaning will flow into your 
 tones. Who cares, save superficially, for warbling like a 
 bird ? That isn't what you desire. Sing like a human be- 
 ing — like, a woman who hopes and despairs, who loves and 
 hates, who lives. Billy, know, to begin with, that you are 
 to be a dramatic soprano ; that's the promise of your voice ; 
 don't do anything to vitiate that promise. If you go and 
 fall in love and marry, I shall be disgusted with you — dis- 
 gusted. Fall in love if you please ; girls are constantly 
 doing that. Emotional experience enriches the vocal powers. 
 But keep your love in hand, and tell your lover he may 
 only adore from afar. It will be good discipline for him, 
 and what lovers chiefly need is discipline ; they don't get 
 half enough of it." 
 
 Here Miss Runciman paused to laugh slightly. She re- 
 leased my skirt from her grasp. 
 
 " When you practise, accustom yourself to singing in all 
 sorts of positions. Now, this is hard — to cry out at the 
 top of your voice, melodiously" — still on her knees, she 
 wheeled about and extended her hands, clasped, forward 
 and above her head — " Edgardo ! Edgardo !" 
 
 The tone swept into the warm air outside and along 
 the summer stillness of the country, pleading, beseech- 
 ing. 
 
 "You see," she went on, rising to her feet, "the mere 
 effort almost makes you lose your balance and fall over 
 backward. And you must do it spontaneously, and as if 
 
"there's my nephew, vane*' ioi 
 
 you meant it ; otherwise you are ridiculous. Every time you 
 are sentimental or romantic you are so perilously near the 
 ridiculous. That old saying about its being but a step, you 
 know, is the truest thing in the world. 
 
 " I'm giving you quite a lecture. But I'm not going to 
 do that very often. Billy, don't disappoint me, please." 
 
 She glanced at me. 
 
 "I shall do my best," I answered, with enthusiasm. 
 
 She did not reply. She was walking about the little 
 room. She stopped in front of me. 
 
 " I'm rather in a singing mood," she remarked, " and 
 then I want you to get an idea as to how the thing is 
 done." 
 
 She be^an : 
 
 "Stay, Corydon, thou swain, 
 Talk not so soon of dying ; 
 What tho' thy heart be slain, 
 What tho' thy love be flying : 
 She threatens thee, but dares not strike ; 
 Thy nymph is light and shadowlike ; 
 For if thou follow her she'll fly from thee, 
 But if thou fly from her, she'll follow thee." 
 
 She sang, it seemed to me, as no one else ever sang, and 
 as no one ever would sing. I stammered out something 
 to that effect, and she laughed. 
 
 "That's very sweet of you," she answered, "but have 
 you ever heard any one else ?" 
 
 I was obliged to confess that I had not. She made no 
 reply to this response of mine. 
 
 " Xow, there's something I want to warn you against," 
 she said, suddenly. 
 
 I waited, looking at her. She seemed displeased by her 
 thoughts. 
 
102 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " It's very annoying, but it's my nephew, Vane. He'll 
 be making love to you, of course." 
 
 I drew myself up. I was angry. " I don't think we need 
 to worry about that," I responded, in a very high manner. 
 
 " Don't you ?" she laughed, but there was a fold between 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Indeed, no." 
 
 " Oh, you don't know Vane. He's a born lover. Per- 
 haps I ought not to blame him. He'd make eyes at a wax 
 doll if there were nothing alive near. Why, I shouldn't be 
 surprised if, without speaking a word, he had somehow 
 made that little pig woman — what's her name ? — Cobb — 
 think he had a tenderness for her which a cruel fate obliged 
 him to nip in the bud. Oh, Vane Hildreth must make 
 love to some one. If he were only a little younger, I would 
 cut a switch from one of these birches and use it across his 
 shoulders. He will try to make love to you, as sure as 
 you are standing before me. Now, will you please tell 
 me what course you are going to take ? Will you snub 
 him ?" 
 
 She looked at me quizzically, but still earnestly. I was 
 indignant to the very tips of my fingers. 
 
 " I think I can snub him," I answered. I was wishing I 
 might see that switch applied to the young man's shoulders, 
 and I was aware that this was a grossly unladylike wish. 
 
 " But you may overdo the thing, in which case he will 
 suspect. He is a very quick-witted boy. It is really phe- 
 nomenal how the women like him." 
 
 " Do they ?" 
 
 " Yes ; you see, he is what you'd call lovable." 
 
 " Is he ?" 
 
 " Certainly. He sang to you the other night, didn't he ?" 
 
 Miss Runciman's eyes suddenly made a dive into mine. 
 
"there's my nephew, vane" 103 
 
 I stiffened myself and stared back at her. I wished I was 
 brazen as brass. 
 
 " It was last night," I said, boldly. 
 
 " I thought I heard him from a distance. He's learning 
 a new encore. He must have somebody to try it on. It's 
 quite a lovesick little thing. Did you like it, Billy ?" 
 
 " He has a sweet voice," I answered. 
 
 " Yes, like the scent of a jasmine flower. I do hope you 
 didn't let him stare at you. He has great faith in the 
 power of his eyes." 
 
 I turned away. I thought we had had quite enough talk 
 about Vane Hildreth. I didn't dare to say much, but I did 
 remark that if I had been on the verge of falling in love with 
 Mr. Hildreth, I was now sufficiently forewarned. I ought to 
 be perfectly safe. Miss Runciman smiled. 
 
 " That's right. Now let us get up some kind of a lunch. 
 I find I'm hungry at the oddest times. By-the-way, I'm 
 going to give you a lesson every forenoon, and you must 
 practise all the rest of the day. You'll have to go into 
 the great out-of-doors to do it. I'm sure that, at this stage, 
 your voice will strengthen out-of-doors ; usually we ought to 
 fence in our tones, you know. Go as far afield as you 
 please, only peg away — you're to make up for lost time." 
 
 We had a lunch of sardines and biscuit, and some wine, 
 which I did not drink. I had never seen a woman with 
 a wineglass in her hand before, and the sight of it and 
 the smell of it made me shrink as from a tangible evil. 
 There seemed to be something low-lived in the drinking 
 of wine. I had heard that some women did such a thing, 
 but in my mind the act smirched them. Do not forget that 
 there are many hamlets in New England where the people 
 still feel as I felt then. 
 
 Miss Runciman filled a beautiful little glass and pushed it 
 
104 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 towards me across the table. The odor filled the room. I 
 was conscious of a sense of repulsion such as I had not 
 thought I could know towards this woman. 
 
 " It is only Tokay," she said. I shook my head. I had 
 / signed the pledge when I had belonged to our minister's 
 Bible class. I had hardly thought of the pledge from that 
 day to this. It had meant very little to me at the time, and 
 this was the first opportunity I had had to break my promise. 
 I was not in the least tempted. That delicate glass with 
 its fragrant contents to me was literally of the devil. I 
 think only the New England country girl can understand 
 me, but she will understand. Vague pictures of bad men 
 and bad women rose up before me. I did not know that 
 my hostess was observing my face until she suddenly said : 
 
 "You look as if you were disappointed in me." I made 
 no reply. " Is it the wine ?" she asked. 
 
 " I don't think it's nice to drink. It seems wicked, and — 
 and—" 
 
 " What ?" 
 
 " Low." 
 
 I flung out the words desperately. Miss Runciman con- 
 templated me in silence. Then she set down her glass of 
 wine, which she had.not tasted; but she did not seem aware 
 that she had not tasted. She drew a long breath. She took 
 up a lemon and put a few drops of its juice on the sardine 
 which lay on her plate. Then she pushed her plate from 
 her. 
 
 " I know what you mean," she said. " I know, because I 
 used to feel just like that. But I had forgotten all about 
 it; I'm glad I had forgotten. I don't want to remem- 
 ber. Besides, you are wrong. This glass of Tokay would 
 do no harm. You'll soon drink a little wine now and 
 then with no more thought than if it were tea. We don't 
 
"there's my nephew, vane" 105 
 
 keep our youthful notions. We should be idiots if we did. 
 Idiots !" 
 
 To my inexpressible surprise, Miss Runciman laid her 
 arms down on the table and her head upon them, and began 
 to sob. 
 
VII 
 
 BROKEN BONES 
 
 I sat motionless. If Miss Runciman had suddenly be- 
 come a maniac I could not have been more amazed. I 
 longed to go to her and put my arms about her, but I did 
 not dare to move. Suddenly upon the stillness of the place 
 there came the sound of a voice singing hastily, the sound 
 coming nearer and nearer. I recognized the voice, as did 
 Miss Runciman. She raised her head, but she put one 
 hand over her eyes. I saw the tremor of her mouth as she 
 smiled. 
 
 " She flats on F," she said ; " and how I have drilled 
 her !" The speaker took her hand from her eyes and raised 
 her head. 
 
 The next moment Bathsheba Hildreth sprang up the 
 outer steps that led into the room. She had on her blouse 
 and her short skirt and her knickerbockers. She wore a 
 polo cap on the back of her head. She had a stick in her 
 hand. She landed close to her aunt's chair, as if she had 
 just vaulted over something and the jump had brought her 
 to that spot. She gave a quick glance at Miss Runciman 
 and then asked : " What's the row ?" 
 
 She leaned forward and took the flask of wine. She 
 sniffed at it 'and exclaimed : " That baby stuff ! I want a 
 nip of whiskey. Where is the whiskey-bottle ?" 
 
 She did not wait for a reply, but hurried into the next 
 
BROKEN BONES 107 
 
 room. She came back with another bottle and a bit of a 
 folding silver drinking-cup. She put some whiskey in this 
 cup and tossed down the liquid. 
 
 " Billy, you are shocked/' she said, looking at me. Then 
 she turned to the elder woman and continued : " Xow I'll 
 tell you what's happened. But then it might better happen 
 now than later. He'll manage to be out in time for our 
 first night, I reckon." 
 
 " What are you talking about ?" sharply from Miss Run- 
 ciman. 
 
 "Vane, of course. I don't know how manv bones he's 
 
 J 
 
 broken." Bashy took a sardine in her fingers and pulled 
 a morsel from it. "I've run until I'm one mass of palpi- 
 tating flesh. These sardines are not as good as the last 
 ones. Billy, will you pour me out a few spoonfuls of that 
 Tokay ?" 
 
 I gave her the flask. For some reason I did not wish to 
 pour the wine. 
 
 " Is Vane hurt ?" still more sharply from Miss Runciman. 
 
 " If it hurts to break a leg and a few ribs and a clavicle 
 or two, he's hurt." 
 
 The girl's aunt crossed the short space between them and 
 took hold of her niece's arm as one takes the arm of a re- 
 fractory child. She shook Bashy, and I was glad to see her 
 do it. 
 
 "Now tell me what you mean !" she commanded. 
 
 "Just what I say. It was over on that long road that 
 leads to — well, to Gehenna, I fancy. It's five miles away 
 if it's a rod. It follows the river, you know, and there's 
 another gorge there. You remember we thought of out- 
 spanning in that place instead of here. Vane never has 
 common-sense about steep places. He wanted to go down 
 into that ravine after we had looked into it. He said there 
 
108 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 was a flower growing there that made him think of our new 
 soprano" — here the girl gave me a glance. "And he said 
 that it was the proper thing to go down in ravines after 
 flowers. So he did it, and he lost his balance. He went 
 crashing on until I thought I should die watching him. 
 Please remember, ladies, that I've had my fright, and you've 
 just got yours. So I'm not so hard-hearted as you appear 
 to think. I scrambled after him, though I knew I couldn't 
 lug him out. He lay still there, white and groaning. He said 
 he hadn't a whole bone in his body. I scrambled back up 
 the bank and stood in the road a minute thinking. It was 
 four or five miles to anywhere. People didn't come along 
 this road very often. I decided to start in the direction 
 that would lead me to Four Corners. Perhaps I should 
 meet some one there, and not have to go the whole dis- 
 tance. And I did meet some one in a farm -cart — that 
 fellow who scorns us, and who won't sell us chickens nor 
 pigs. You know him, Billy. What's his name ?" 
 
 " Bidwell Blake," I explained, in surprise. 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Bidwell Blake couldn't refuse to go to the 
 ravine at my request. I got into his cart and he whipped 
 his horse. But, oh, it was an awful job to get A r ane up ! 
 Bidwell Blake knew how to do it, though. He told Vane 
 he should half kill him, but he'd got to be half killed, or 
 stay where he was. He asked me if I had any kind of fac- 
 ulty for lifting, and I said I guessed I had ; and he told me 
 now was the time to raise up my muscle and see what I 
 could do. So I took hold of Vane's feet and Bidwell Blake 
 took his shoulders, and we went along till we came to a 
 better place to climb up, Vane swearing like Beelzebub, and 
 Bidwell Blake not speaking a word. When we did come 
 to the place Bidwell Blake said he'd got to take Vane in 
 his arms, and he was sorry he'd been swearing so, for now 
 
BROKEN BONES 
 
 IO9 
 
 he'd need more swearing by a great sight than he had be- 
 fore. Then Vane shut his lips as he does when he's stuffy, 
 and Bidwell Blake took him and went up the steep side. 
 And when he was up and put Vane on the ground, Vane 
 was limp and white. He had gone into a dead faint. But 
 we brought him to life again and got him into the wagon, 
 and I sat down beside him, and Bidwell Blake walked his 
 horse, and when we got near here I said this cart was no 
 place for a man to be who had a job of knitting bones on 
 hand, besides injury to his insides. And where do you 
 think Bidwell Blake has taken him ?" Bashy drank some 
 more Tokay. "Why, to the little pig woman's, close by. 
 Yes, he's on Rachel Cobb's best bed, and Bidwell Blake has 
 taken his horse from his wagon, got on the horse's back 
 and galloped after a doctor, and I've come over here to 
 tell my tale." 
 
 Here the speaker poured more Tokay into her cup and 
 drank it. Miss Runciman stood as if she had hardly 
 taken in the story to which she had listened. 
 
 " But what did Miss Cobb say ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, she hasn't said anything," was the reply, sipping at 
 the wine. 
 
 "That's odd; she generally says things," I responded. 
 
 "Well, you see, she hasn't had a chance to say anything 
 yet. She doesn't know it." 
 
 "Not know it?" 
 
 "Oh no; she wasn't at home. Visiting somewhere, I 
 s\jose. But I'd seen her put her key on the window-ledge 
 behind the lilac. So I looked for it, and there it was. 
 Bidwell Blake said he wouldn't be responsible ; he said it 
 was burglary ; but I didn't care what it was. Vane had got 
 to go somewhere, and this was the place. So I unlocked 
 the door and led the way into the bedroom that leads out 
 
IIO IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 of the sitting-room. The sun was beating down, and it was 
 like an oven. You never saw a bed stand up so high as 
 that one did, and there was a quilt on it made of large 
 yellow birds, with red wings, cut out and sewed on. I 
 couldn't help seeing and noticing the birds. I should have 
 noticed them if Vane and I had both been dying. I flung 
 back this cover, and Bidwell Blake put Vane down on the 
 bed. He had come to by this time, you know. He told me to 
 take that cursed thing with the birds on it out of his sight ; 
 he told me he'd kill me if I didn't keep it out of his sight ; 
 he said it was a damned discord. I threw it on the ground 
 back of the house. The hens there are afraid of it, and 
 they are protecting the cockerel from it." 
 
 Miss Runciman had gone into the other room of the 
 wagon. She now came back with a rubber pillow and a 
 few things for her nephew's comfort. She was very pale, 
 and she did not notice us as she passed on by us and left 
 the carriage. I saw her from the window hurrying away in 
 the direction of Miss Cobb's cottage. 
 
 My companion sat down quickly. " I'd go with her," she 
 said, " but the truth is I'm played out. You wouldn't think 
 it perhaps, but I am." She leaned back in her chair. I 
 noticed now that she looked exhausted. " I wouldn't sit 
 here if there were one thing I could do," she went on. 
 " But just now there isn't, and Aunt Nora '11 stay with him. 
 The doctor can't be here under an hour and a half at the 
 shortest. I've got to rest while I can. We shall have a pull 
 with Vane now, I tell you. We shall need all the strength 
 we can get. Oh, I am sorry !" 
 
 . Here the girl's voice trembled. I was afraid she was 
 going to cry, and I was somehow out of sympathy with her, 
 though I was deeply sorry for her. She did not cry, how- 
 ever. She sat quite still for some moments, and all the 
 
BROKEN BONES III 
 
 time I was trying to think what to say to her. I felt as if 
 I seemed quite hard-hearted. 
 
 Suddenly she exclaimed, "I wish you'd give me some more 
 wine. I feel as weak as a mouse after all this." I rose 
 and carried the bottle and a glass to her. " Pour it out 
 for me, please." I hesitated. I knew as well as any one 
 how inconsistent my hesitation was. 
 
 ''What's the matter?" in surprise. 
 
 " I don't know. I hate to pour wine," I answered, grow- 
 ing red. 
 
 " Well, you are a curious one !" She seized the flask and 
 glass. 
 
 After she had drunk she said : 
 
 " There's one thing I wish you'd do." 
 
 " What is it ? I want to help you." 
 
 " See that Miss Cobb, and tell her what's been done with 
 her house." 
 
 " But I don't know where she is." 
 
 "Watch out for her. You ought to know her habits. I 
 haven't the patience. I should give her something tough, I 
 know I should." 
 
 Bashy rose and left me ; I sat there by myself a few mo- 
 ments. I was trying to recall Rachel Cobb's routine of 
 visits. As nearly as I could remember she ought to have 
 "•one over to the " Great Medders " about this time. The 
 Great Medders settlement was three miles away. She 
 would get a "lift" over there with the butcher, and a lift 
 home with the baker. But she wouldn't be home until 
 afternoon ; she would come early enough to feed her hens 
 before they went to roost. I wished to catch her at some 
 distance from her home ; I wanted to have time to explain 
 matters and to let the truth sink into her mind. But there 
 were several hours to pass through before I could expect 
 
112 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 her. Miss Rimciman and Bashy would be with Vane Hil- 
 dreth. I should be by myself. 
 
 Presently I left the carriage. I purposely wandered off 
 towards the road that led to the village. Here this road 
 was very solitary. I kept in the high pastures, but within 
 sight of the highway. I began to try my voice ; I ran up 
 and down the scale over and over again, noting critically 
 the volume of sound and its quality. I was not afraid that 
 any one would hear me, so I let lungs and throat have full 
 play. As soon as possible I knew that Miss Runciman 
 would give me a few hints as to these exercises. 
 
 I was standing up to my full height, head back, and 
 " holding on " to high C, when a rustle in the sumacs 
 close to me made me drop my note suddenly. But it 
 was only a brindled dog that came out of the bushes 
 towards me. He came slowly and inquiringly, but when 
 he had reached my side he licked my hands eagerly, and 
 with a pathetic sort of questioning. He sat down on his 
 haunches and looked at me. I put my hand on his head. 
 Of course, I recognized the animal as Mr. Hildreth's dog, 
 whom he called " Lotus." His owner had explained that 
 he had given the dog this name on account of its striking 
 inappropriateness. 
 
 " Why are you not with your master ?" I inquired. 
 
 Lotus wagged his tail furiously and whined. He was 
 explaining, but I could not understand. Having risen to 
 go through with this explanation, he sat down again with 
 the air of one who begs not to be driven away. At this 
 stage of our interview I heard a shout of " Hullo !" down 
 in the road. I looked and saw a man on horseback gallop- 
 ing. He was swinging his hat towards me. Immediately 
 he dismounted, tied his horse to a birch-tree, and came up 
 the hill. I had directly recognized Bidwell Blake. 
 
. BROKEN BONES 113 
 
 " I s'pose you've heard ?" he said, as he came near. I 
 nodded. " Pretty kettle of fish !" he exclaimed. " I've seen 
 the doctor. He's on behind with splints 'n' bottles 'n' band- 
 ages, 'n' he'll need urn all. I can't stop but a minute. He 
 said he might want me to help— he couldn't tell ; V it 
 wouldn't do to count on the feller's womenkind. Didn't 
 he swear, though ! Yes, he did. But I vow I couldn't 
 blame him. Whose dorg's that?" 
 
 " Mr. Hildreth's. He's just come to me." Bidwell 
 glanced at me frowningly. " Why don't the dorg stay where 
 he b'longs ?" he asked. " I thought dorgs was the only 
 faithful things in the universe. Why ain't he with his 
 master ?" 
 
 I said I didn't know. Bidwell continued to frown as he 
 gazed at me. Then he remarked that if he was in the habit 
 of kicking; doss he should kick this one. 
 
 " The cheek of the critter to come to you in that way," 
 he exclaimed ; " jest 's if he had a right to ! Why don't 
 you drive him off?" 
 
 " No," I answered, " I shall not drive him off." 
 
 Bidwell whistled, but the expression of his face was still 
 a scowling expression. " Wall, I must be goin'. The doc- 
 tor '11 be along, V I must be on hand." The young man 
 turned and walked a few paces ; then he came back. He 
 gazed at me a moment before he spoke. " I s'pose you're 
 goin' with them folks, Billy ?" he said. Yes, I was going 
 with them. Bidwell gazed at me intently. Something in 
 his gaze made me uncomfortable and indignant. I thought 
 he intended to speak again, but he did not. He suddenly 
 swung about and hurried down the slope. I watched him ; 
 he mounted his horse and rode away without looking in 
 my direction again. Lotus was sitting at my feet. He 
 glanced up at me deprecatingly, drooping his clipped ears. 
 
H4 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 It was a strange day. I remained out in the pastures all 
 the time, wandering here and there, singing, breathing great 
 draughts of the delicious air. If mother had been there I 
 should have gone home for a while. About noon I went 
 down to the carriage. I found no one. I discovered some 
 bread and cold meat, and Lotus and I had a lunch. The 
 horses belonging to the wagon were kept in the nearest sta- 
 ble, which was half a mile away. I had a sudden wish to 
 go to that stable and see the gray colt ; but I controlled 
 that wish. I must watch for Rachel Cobb. 
 
 When I went out again I went to Miss Cobb's house, 
 Lotus going with me. The doctor's sorrel mare and gig 
 were still at the fence. An air of strange stillness was about 
 the place. It was always still, but this was something dif- 
 ferent. Bathsheba was sitting at the open door, on the 
 threshold. She had her elbows on her knees and her hands 
 supporting her face. On the ground not far away I saw in 
 a heap the bedquilt with the yellow, red-winged birds on 
 it. I gathered up this quilt, shook it, and with it in my 
 arms I advanced to Bashy. 
 
 " How is he ?" I asked. 
 
 " Bad," without looking up. I wanted to ask if he would 
 die, but I could not. I stood there hesitatingly. Then the 
 girl said : 
 
 "Doctor says there's a chance for him ; but perhaps the 
 doctor doesn't know anything. They mostly don't." 
 
 I went softly in and put the bedquilt on a chair. The 
 dog came treading behind me. He sniffed at the open 
 door of the bedroom. There was the sickening odor of 
 anaesthetics in the air. I went out as softly and quickly. 
 I had had a glimpse of the figures of Miss Runciman and 
 the doctor. The whole house seemed entirely changed, and 
 yet it looked the same. I saw Rachel Cobb's plate and 
 
BROKEN BONES 115 
 
 cup and saucer on the checked table - cloth of the table 
 that set up against the wall. 
 
 I did not speak again to Bashy as I hurried out. I was 
 several rods away when I heard a low whistle from the di- 
 rection of the house. I looked back ; there was Lotus fol- 
 lowing me at a gentle trot. He also looked back in re- 
 sponse to Bashy's whistle, but he did not obey. He glanced 
 at me pleading!} 7 . I was surprised. I had not thought of 
 his following me now ; and I was touched at the same time 
 that I decided that he must be a fickle dog. And were 
 dogs fickle? I didn't know much about them. I tried to 
 motion Lotus away. He crouched down, slowly and inter- 
 rogatively moving the tip of his tail. 
 
 Then I went on again. I heard Bashy whistle once more. 
 I plunged in among the birches and huckleberry-bushes in 
 the direction of " Great Medders." When I came to an 
 opening I glanced back. There was Lotus, stepping softly 
 along. He stopped the instant I looked at him. I smiled 
 and held out my hand. He dashed forward, stump of a tail 
 up, ears cocked. How eagerly he licked my fingers ! How 
 joyfully he whined ! I knelt down and took his head be- 
 tween my hands. I gazed intently at this new companion 
 of mine. He had bright, light hazel eyes, a snub nose, 
 protruding lower jaw, a scar on the right side of his grizzled 
 face. 
 
 " You don't look inconstant," I said, " but you must be 
 so.*' I rose. "Well, come on;" and he trotted cheerfully 
 at my heels all the long afternoon, or he sat down gravely 
 by me when I sat down. 
 
 It was altogether, as I said, a strange day to me, and it 
 seemed a week long before it was time to expect the Farwell 
 baker to be on his way from Great Medders. But I was 
 sitting on a big rock under a pine-tree on the Great Med- 
 
u6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 ders road at so early an hour that I knew that the baker 
 would not escape me. If Rachel Cobb should not be with 
 him, I should be greatly surprised. 
 
 At last I heard the tinkle of bells. There he was, and 
 there was a woman on the seat beside him. Very soon I 
 saw the leather bag in her lap. That bag held her "body." 
 I walked out to the roadside. Presently the wagon was 
 sufficiently near for me to see that Rachel's jaws were 
 clicking up and down. The baker wore a drowsy aspect. 
 Poor man ! He had heard that clicking for nearly an hour. 
 He roused. He evidently expected a demand for cookies. 
 
 Rachel leaned forward and stared at Lotus. " Why !" she 
 exclaimed, "that's them singers' dorg, ain't it?" 
 
 " Yes," I said. " I wish you'd get out, Miss Cobb, and 
 walk home with me from here." 
 
 " Gracious !" was the response. " Of course I will. 
 What's happened? Have the hens be'n stole ?" 
 
 When I assured her of the safety of the fowls she said 
 there'd be'n a " terrible time to Great Medders with hen 
 thieves." While she spoke she was climbing down from 
 her seat, and the baker, looking much relieved, was saying, 
 "Whoa! Sh ! Stand still, I tell ye !" to his horse, though 
 the steed was drooping forward with an air of not being 
 able to move again. 
 
 Rachel landed safely on the ground, and the baker then 
 handed to her a paper bag which its owner explained con- 
 tained " dried high-tops " from the Mosely farm. These 
 high-tops were early sweet apples, and Rachel would stew 
 them in sugar and water, and eventually eat them in milk 
 in conjunction with bread. I volunteered to carry the ap- 
 ples, and we started forward " across " towards my com- 
 panion's home. 
 
 "You said 'twasn't the hens," she remarked, as soon as 
 
BROKEN BOXES 117 
 
 we were well on the way, and she had cried "scat!'' two 
 or three times to the dog, as if he were a cat. He had 
 manifested a wish to smell of the leather bag, and she was 
 equally determined that he should not smell of it. 
 
 "Nor fire?"' she asked, before I could speak. "You've 
 got kind of a look 's if 'twas fire." 
 
 " Xo— no,'' I answered. I felt very much embarrassed. 
 It was an indefensible thing that had been done. I plunged 
 at once into my story. 
 
 She stopped in her walk to listen. I held the bag of 
 apples well up in front of me and spoke as fast as I could. 
 Twice she exclaimed : "The old cat!'' and when I was 
 through she said, " Goodness gracious me ! I do declare !'' 
 
 Then she sat down on a convenient stone, and announced 
 that she could not noways take it in, and she didn't know 
 as she should ever be able to take it in, and she hadn't, so 
 to speak, got no home to go to, she that set so much store 
 by a home, too. 
 
 She talked thus for some time, and I did not interrupt. 
 Indeed, I had nothing to say. I thought Bathsheba Hil- 
 dreth had done an unwarrantable thing. Her brother 
 should have taken his chances in the big wagon. I would 
 not, in my own mind, admit of the possibility of Bashy's 
 being right in what she had just effected. At last I was 
 aware that my companion was asking a question. 
 
 ' ; Can't you speak ?" she inquired, fretfully. " I've been 
 askin' you over 'n' over what in the world I was goin' to do." 
 
 " You might visit," I suggested, timidly. 
 
 "Visit!" she repeated. "What do you mean by saying 
 anything like that? I know," in a milder tone, "I s'pose 
 I might go visitin' some day times, but I've got to be here 
 nights 'n' mornin's, for there's my hens, 'n' my cat must be 
 seen to. You say that feller's all smashed to a jell ?" 
 
IN THE FIRST PER 
 
 There - m her tones ; -:"ac- 
 
 , I supp : her house by the 
 
 :>ccupa 
 
 •• No," I answerei " I didn 
 
 i . - makes-much dif Tunc ■ 
 
 rcse and took up her 
 k I : remarked. 
 
 I offered to the dried app 
 
 ■:ed on dong 
 
 I to her 
 
 being turned av im me. Ion 
 
 then. 
 
 WB > the door ?od 
 
 open, but Basfay "ded the apples to 
 
 bb. but si: L got to come in 'n' introduce 
 
 v from d 
 
 . but I cou. 
 
 o the . hot 
 
 at of e:. 
 msed in 
 Perhaps Miss R . i heard tfai 
 
 tnsed 
 laid her hand on her arm and 
 
 . Rachel, 
 iman L 
 ...... tried to 
 
 :d out of h though the 
 
 - 
 "I got * she bega 
 
 . - 
 Rur. 
 
 We all stood just without the door now, and Miss Cobb 
 
; 
 
 [ turned and 
 
 I 
 
 i i 
 
 •■II 
 
 • 
 
 i 
 I by he 
 
 I L 
 
 ! I | 
 
 in, 
 
 ■ 
 little here tf. 
 
 he eno >b feath 
 
 hed to Clin? 
 
 ent in her mir. 
 Mr. Hildreth, I \ \ookc ild lik' 
 
 :i the feather 
 thing for a time. I he tun. eyes 
 
 e and tried to 
 •• I -. . i I 
 
I2 o IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 " There were some flowers there," he went on. " They 
 made me think of you — ridiculous — when you're not like a 
 flower. I think" — a hesitation and a smile that seemed 
 mocking — " I think they must be dramatic soprano flowers; 
 anyway, I did not get them — that's the main point." 
 
 " Vane, aren't you talking too much ?" asked Miss Run- 
 ciman. 
 
 " No," crossly. " Perhaps by to-morrow I can't talk at 
 all. Where's Lotus ?" 
 
 " He's been with me," I said. 
 
 " Will you allow him to stop with you ? Bashy told 
 me—" 
 
 " I'll let him stay," was my reply. 
 
 " Now you may go," was the response from the bed. I 
 was walking out of the room when the irritable voice ex- 
 claimed : " Are you going like that ?" 
 
 " In what other way can I go ?" I stopped in the door- 
 way as I asked this. 
 
 " Why, it's barbarous not to shake hands, I call it!" 
 
 I went to the bed and held out my hand. His own hand, 
 as it clasped about mine, was hot and pitiable, somehow. 
 
 " I don't know when I shall sing the little song for the 
 encore again," he said ; and then, not waiting for any re- 
 ply : " Well, good-bye ! If I'm not dead, I wish you'd let 
 me hear you practise when you know how to do it. Well, 
 good-bye, I say !" 
 
 I was now permitted to go, after I had said good-bye. I 
 was so sorry for him that my voice was not perfectly steady. 
 The dog lingered a moment by the bedside, and licked 
 his master's hand. Then he followed me. 
 
 "What on earth 's he be'n sayin' of?" eagerly inquired 
 Rachel, who had remained in the next room, but who ap- 
 
BROKEN BONES 121 
 
 parently had not been successful in her attempt at listen- 
 ing. She looked at me in a kind of gloating way. 
 
 '• Nothing," I answered, shortly. 
 
 " Oh, land ! Wilhelminy, I hope you ain't goin' to be in- 
 terested in him !" she exclaimed. 
 
 To this I made no answer. What could I say to such a 
 remark as that? To assert or deny would be equally use- 
 less. I was silent. 
 
 " Of course," she went on, " you needn't tell if you 'ain't 
 a mind to. But if you go 'n' set your mind on that singin' 
 feller you'll be master sorry; V what do you s'pose your 
 mother 'd say ?'' 
 
 "Wait till I do set my mind on him," I snapped. "I 
 went in there because Miss Runciman asked me." 
 
 I walked out of the house. I hurried down the river 
 path. I did not pause until I had entered the big carriage. 
 I don't know why I should be surprised and annoyed to 
 rind Bashy there. She was sitting in one of the long chairs, 
 with her hands clasped over her head. Her face was red 
 and swollen. 
 
 "Very likely he'll be a cripple," she said, as I entered. 
 
 " Did the doctor say so ?"* 
 
 " No ; but you can't very well break every bone in your 
 body without being some kind of a cripple. And he's so 
 interested in his singing. And he doesn't flat, as I do. 
 We shall have to get a new tenor, and that's an awful 
 nuisance. Aunt Nora '11 hate that." She looked at the 
 brindled do°; who had followed me. " That's confounded 
 odd about Lotus," she said. 
 
VIII 
 BEFORE WITNESSES 
 
 Yes, it was certainly a very strange summer, and it 
 passed as if it were but a day ; and, though it seemed as 
 if I were doing one thing all the time, it was not monot- 
 onous. It was strange, also, for me to be living so near my 
 home and yet not there. In my heart I felt far off. But 
 I used to go there once or twice a week — Lotus and I. 
 Mother was still in Ryle. She wrote to me at intervals, 
 but she was not one who was at home with her pen, so I 
 felt curiously forsaken, though I knew I was not forsaken. 
 Grandmother was very feeble, and begged mother from 
 week to week to stay with her. Aunt Lowizy kept house 
 for father, so he was comfortable, and I was with Miss 
 Runciman. 
 
 " It seems as if my duty lay here," mother wrote. 
 
 As for me, I did one thing ; I studied to sing. I did 
 not know I could study so. Instead of urging me on, my 
 teacher was obliged to restrain me. She said I must keep 
 in robust health, or my voice would suffer ; I must not 
 practise too much, or my voice would suffer ; I must not 
 practise too little, or my voice would suffer. Above all, 
 accustom throat and chest, by cold bathing, exercise, grad- 
 ual exposure to cool air, to changes, so that I should not 
 contract that detestable habit of taking cold. A singer who 
 was always taking cold was of no account. 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 1 23 
 
 Miss Runciman said that many things would have to be 
 omitted in my training, because I had begun so late, 
 or, as she phrased it, because "she had not found me 
 earlier.'' " But you have intelligence," she added, look- 
 ing at me keenly; "you will be constantly picking up 
 things.'' 
 
 The summer had turned out so differently from what I 
 had expected. We did not travel about ; the carriage re- 
 mained there by the falls; it seemed as stationary as Rachel 
 Cobb's little house itself. And Vane Hildreth was shut 
 up in that house. A nurse had been brought from Chil- 
 ton, a middle-aged woman, who was very patient, who did 
 not resent it even when her charge snatched up her own 
 hymn-book from the stand by the bed and threw it at 
 her. Fortunately the hymn-book missed fire, but it landed 
 squarely against Miss Cobb's mirror, which was hung upon 
 the wall opposite the bed. The glass splintered symmet- 
 rically from the centre outward, and at almost the same 
 moment the owner of it, who was in the kitchen stewing 
 currants, rushed into the room and said she thought she 
 heard a crash. 
 
 Bashy, who was visiting her brother at just this time, 
 and who gave me the account of what occurred, said that 
 if Vane had had a pistol within reach she supposed he 
 would then and there have shot the three women cono-re- 
 gated in the room, and afterwards turned the weapon upon 
 himself. He was sitting bolstered up in the bed. The 
 nurse had just entered, singing "Hark, from the tomb." 
 Not only was she singing this, but she was snuffling, as if 
 the nasal passages were obstructed. Bashy informed me 
 that she did not in the least blame her brother, whose tem- 
 per was becoming " something perfectly awful." 
 
 " What would you be, Billy," the girl interrupted herself 
 
124 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 to ask, "if you had been shut up in Rachel Cobb's bedroom 
 for more than four weeks ?" 
 
 I felt myself unable to guess what I should be. 
 
 "Well," went on Bashy, who was sitting on the bearskin 
 which was spread on the river bank, " Miss Cobb came in 
 as if she had been thrown from a mortar by somebody who 
 had aimed her as near Vane's bed as she could alight and 
 not be actually on it. She had a handful of currants in one 
 hand, and the red juice dropped on to Vane's face. She 
 looked around the room. 'Didn't I hear a crash?' she 
 asked. Then she saw the mirror and flung up her hands, the 
 currants dropping into Vane's neck. Of course he swore j 
 he doesn't do much else now, poor fellow, and you can't 
 blame him much. ' My lookin'-glass !' cried Miss Cobb. 
 Then her eye-glasses fell off. ' It's the one my great- 
 grandmother had when she married her second husband — 
 and it's a dretful bad sign ; it's a wuss sign 'n hearin' the 
 death watch or seem' three white bosses one after the other. 
 Somebody in this house '11 die 'fore the year's out. I never 
 knew a broken lookin'-glass to fail — never !' 
 
 " Having told us this cheerful bit, Miss Cobb proceeded 
 to gather up the fragments and carry them out. The nurse 
 followed. She said she didn't suppose her presence was 
 necessary while Mr. Hildreth had his sister with him. What 
 do you suppose Vane did then ? Well, he cried ; he actually 
 sobbed like a girl, and I cried with him. He said if the 
 looking-glass knew what 'twas about he'd be the one to die, 
 and a good thing, too ; he never 'd be able to sing another 
 note, and wouldn't I ask Miss Armstrong if she wouldn't 
 please come in and sing to him ; he wanted to know how 
 she was getting along. Now, will you go ?" 
 
 This request had come so very unexpectedly that I hesi- 
 tated involuntarily. I had not seen Mr. Hildreth since that 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 1 25 
 
 day when he had been brought to Miss Cobb's. Seeing my 
 hesitation, Bashy flushed and said, quickly : 
 
 " I hope you're not a prude as well as — " 
 
 "As what?" I asked, quickly. 
 
 " Oh, as well as having notions about wine and cards, and 
 being a little Puritan generally." 
 
 This made me angry. If there was anything I did not 
 feel like, that thing was a Puritan. I rose. 
 
 " I'll 2:0 now and see your brother," I said. 
 
 I walked away; I walked slowly because I wanted to run. 
 I felt my cheeks burning. I heard Bashy's contralto voice 
 singing in a very irritating way. This is what she was sing- 
 ing, apparently improvising the music on the spur of the 
 moment : 
 
 " Did you ever see the devil, 
 
 With his little spade and shovel, 
 Digging praties in the garden, 
 With his tail cocked up ?" 
 
 These words did not seem appropriate to me or to the 
 situation, but the girl was singing them with great air, as if 
 they were remarkably fitting. I would not turn my head. 
 I heard her laugh. Then I asked myself if she had told me 
 the truth — had her brother really made that request. 
 
 However, I had said I would go, and so I kept on. Lotus 
 had come from somewhere, and was sedately following me. 
 I walked slower and slower as I came near Miss Cobb's 
 house. That lady was in her kitchen. There was the 
 smell of boiling sugar in the air, and a dish of currants was 
 standing on the table. Miss Cobb was flushed as if from 
 some recent excitement. On my appearance she instantly 
 told me, in a high voice, that she hoped I'd never let a 
 young man into my house, no matter if he had broken 
 
126 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 every bone in his body. And then her eye-glasses fell off 
 and narrowly escaped going into the syrup on the stove. 
 
 I passed on to the bedroom. Mr. Hildreth's face was 
 towards me ; it changed greatly when he saw me, and I 
 thought he must be very grateful to any one who would 
 come to see him. He tried to raise himself higher. 
 
 When I entered I saw that the nurse was sitting in a 
 large rocker by the one window. She rose and said she 
 would go and see about "his broth." Bathsheba had told 
 me that the nurse never spoke of her patient by his name, 
 but always " he" and "him," just as if, said Bashy, "she 'd 
 been his wife." 
 
 " Shut the door," said the man on the bed. " I don't 
 want those creatures to look at me." 
 
 I didn't like to obey him. It seemed so ridiculous to do 
 as he ordered. I swung the door a little. 
 
 " Now come here !" I advanced to the bed and put my 
 hand in his extended palm. "You see I can't be polite," 
 he exclaimed. " Oh, how good it is of you to come ! I 
 lie here day after day with nothing to do but look at those 
 two women and think how I might be out-of-doors — perhaps 
 with you — and I'm afraid I shall swear my soul into hell. 
 Oh, do forgive me ! Sometimes I try to think a few good 
 thoughts, but I can't do it — I'm like that man who would 
 rather curse than bless any time, because it ' seemed more 
 nttin'!'" 
 
 The speaker's face, now that it had grown thin and pallid, 
 brought out his noteworthy eyes still more ; and what I 
 have called his foreign look was emphasized. 
 
 "Sit down in that chair," said he; "you look now as if 
 you were going directly." I sat down in the chair. I was 
 uneasy, and I had a very strong feeling that Miss Cobb 
 might be listening behind that half-shut door. I suppose 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 127 
 
 I glanced that way, for my companion immediately asked, 
 " Do you think that pig-woman is listening ?" I observed 
 that she might do such a thing. "Might! She would — I 
 know she would. Well, since you won't shut the door, I'll 
 see if I can talk so that she can't possibly hear me. It's so 
 good of you to come ! You're a regular missionary, aren't 
 you ? And I always hated missionaries." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 " Never mind thanking me, since I don't hate you. Are 
 you happy ?" 
 
 I didn't quite like to answer this question, but I did say 
 "yes." 
 
 " My aunt is good to you ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, yes!" 
 
 " Ah ! Then I know your voice is coming on all right. 
 Won't you move your chair up a little nearer this cursed 
 bed — no, no, I mean this — well, this blessed bed?" I 
 obeyed him. ".Now, please, let me hold your hand. It is 
 as if, when you touch me, a stream of health came into my 
 poor veins. Thank you. You are a missionary, surely. 
 Sometimes I hear you a good ways off practising. Sing the 
 scale to me." 
 
 I sang the scale. I don't know how I sang it, for Vane 
 was looking steadily at me. In my heart I called him Vane, 
 for I heard his sister continually speaking of him by that 
 name. He groaned. 
 
 "And to think I sha'n't be the tenor this fall!'' he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 I would not respond that I should not be the soprano. 
 I only made the remark that he was so much better that 
 he might sins: before the season was out. 
 
 "What, come in on crutches and hobble about the stage ? 
 Besides, my voice is as lame as I am. Just hear it !" 
 
I2 8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 In a half-voice he sang, " To you, my love, to you." I 
 felt myself blushing, and then blushing yet more hotly with 
 rage that I had done so. Certainly this man's eyes were 
 more effective in his white, hollow face than they had been 
 when he was well. At this moment the door was pushed 
 slowly open, and Miss Cobb asked, " Did you call ?" 
 
 " No," snarled Vane. 
 
 I saw Rachel's eyes dart to our clasped hands, but I sat 
 quiet, without starting in the least, though my impulse was 
 to spring away. I wondered where would be the next 
 visiting-place of our hostess, for there would she tell a tale 
 about me and this sick man. The door was drawn back 
 to precisely the position in which I had placed it, and 
 Rachel retired. 
 
 "You are ever so much better," I repeated, hardly know- 
 ing what I said. 
 
 "Am I? Yes, I know that I am. But — " he paused, 
 gazing at me. His look was so wistful, so piteous, that 
 something seemed to melt within me. It was as if his dog 
 had looked at me thus. 
 
 " You are sorry for me," he whispered ; and I whispered 
 back, "Yes, I am sorry." 
 
 I did not understand why this whisper interchanged 
 should have such an effect of intimacy, even more than 
 our mutual handclasp had produced. 
 
 "Well," he said, drawing a deep breath, " it's something 
 to have you sorry for me. Please don't go yet," as I with- 
 drew my hand. I sat still. " I've almost made up my mind 
 to tell you something," he said, still in a half-whisper. " If 
 I were sure that woman wouldn't come in, I'd try to tell 
 you. You would let me ?" eagerly. 
 
 "Certainly," I replied, promptly. And then it almost 
 seemed as if my promptness annoyed him. He turned 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 120. 
 
 his head restlessly on his pillow. He looked at the 
 door. 
 
 " I suppose you don't want to shut that door and latch 
 it ?" he said. 
 
 " No ; there's no reason why I should do that." 
 " But those damn women — I mean those clear women — 
 may come in at any moment." 
 " No matter." 
 
 "What !" He raised himself on his elbow, and his face 
 grew red. " Supposing you were a man who had seen a 
 girl who was — whom you — who wasn't like any other girl 
 you'd ever met — whom you thought of every minute — 
 whom you couldn't see because you had broken all your 
 bones — and — and you heard her voice sometimes — and 
 you ate your heart out lying and thinking of her— and now 
 she was sitting beside you — and though you hadn't really 
 known her, it was just as if you had known her a long time, 
 what should you — Oh, the devil !" 
 
 He sank back on his pillow as this exclamation left his 
 lips. The nurse was just entering with a tray on which 
 was a cup of steaming broth. 
 
 " It's quite time he had his nourishment," she said, look- 
 ing at me. I rose. 
 
 "Are you going?" he asked. This inquiry was made 
 with such a desperate air that I sank back in my seat. 
 " Take that broth away !" Vane commanded. 
 11 But the doctor's orders are to keep up your strength," 
 responded the nurse, standing in the middle of the room. 
 "Take that broth away !" repeated the young man. 
 I rose again. I felt that I would not remain another 
 minute. I walked to the door. There I turned to say 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 "Miss Armstrong," cried Vane, with a still greater ap- 
 9 
 
j^O IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 pearance of desperation. "If you won't stay until this 
 lady with the hot broth will go, why, then, I must tell you 
 before her — " 
 
 " Mr. Hildreth !" I exclaimed, my heart jumping with 
 still greater excitement. But he would not be stopped. 
 His eyes were flashing fire. 
 
 "That I love you, Miss Armstrong! Yes. I haven't 
 known you long, but I began to love you the first time I 
 saw you, and have gone right on loving you more and more. 
 Now," glancing furiously at the nurse, " hand me that 
 broth!" 
 
 I hurried from the room, coming plump upon Rachel 
 close to the door. She caught at my sleeve as I was trying 
 to go by her. Her jaws snapped and her glasses dropped 
 off. 
 
 " Good land, Wilhelmina Armstrong !" she cried. " Did 
 you hear that ?" She had fast hold of me, and I could not 
 go on without taking her with me. " Of course he must be 
 raving crazy, or he wouldn't think of such a thing." 
 
 This complimentary remark I swallowed in silence, hardly 
 noticing it at the moment. But I recalled it later with no 
 exhilarating effect on my self-esteem. I made another at- 
 tempt to go, but Rachel was not ready to release me. She 
 was staring at me and listening at the same time for sounds 
 in the next room. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " them broken bones have gone to his 
 head. The doctor said they might." She now manifested 
 a willingness to walk along with me. I hurried out of the 
 house. As soon as we were in the yard Rachel seized me 
 again. " He's certainly crazy," she repeated. " I d' know, 
 I'm sure, what I should do if any man should tell me, 'fore 
 folks, that he loved me. I do s'pose I should go right into 
 hysterics." 
 
EEFORE WITNESSES 
 
 131 
 
 She spoke as if hysterics were something made and pro- 
 vided as a retreat for women before unexpected declara- 
 tions of love. I began to laugh excitedly. Then I be- 
 thought me that, if Mr. Hildreth heard me, he might think 
 I was mocking at him. I stopped as suddenly as I had 
 begun. My one longing at this instant was to get away 
 from Rachel Cobb. And Rachel plainly intended that I 
 should not get away just yet. She had more to say. The 
 incident was too full of interest : it was something to roll 
 under the tongue now and for many a visit yet to come. 
 
 I hurried down the narrow path towards the road, Rachel 
 close by my side. She had given up listening to what 
 might pass between the nurse and Mr. Hildreth, deciding 
 that she would rather, in view of the circumstances, be with 
 me for the next few moments. I saw that I could not shake 
 her oft. Instead of trying any more to do so, I suddenly 
 stopped at the turnstile in the fence and leaned upon it, 
 putting on an air of leisure. Rachel did not lean ; she 
 stood upright close to me. I was quivering with excite- 
 ment, but I called up all my self-control, that I might hide 
 that fact from my companion. 
 
 " I never did !" she exclaimed, after a silence, during 
 which she had stared closely at me. I made no reply to 
 this. "What you goiiv to do 'bout it?" she asked. 
 
 " Do ? Nothing." 
 
 " Nothin 1 ? Sha'n't you soo him ?" 
 
 "No : I don't think I shall sue him." 
 
 "Wall ; you'll have to do something. You can't let such 
 a thing pass 'thout doin' nothin'. 'Twouldn't be right. I 
 guess your father '11 see 'bout it. Why, it's equal to breach 
 of promise, or divorce — or — or — " Imagination failed Miss 
 Cobb at this juncture. I remained motionless, leaning on 
 the turnstile. "He ought to be took up." clicked Rachel. 
 
132 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 "I don't believe but what the s'lectmen can take him up. 
 If you want me to, I'll speak to 'em 'bout it. I s'pose you'll 
 feel kind of delikit 'bout doin' it yourself." 
 
 "You needn't speak to them on my account." 
 
 " Needn't ? Wall, jes' 's you say. But I hope you ain't 
 goin' to take any stock in what that feller's jest said." I 
 made no reply. I was asking myself in a startled way if I 
 did " take any stock " in his words. " Be ye ?" insisted Miss 
 Cobb. 
 
 " I don't know," I answered. 
 
 " All I c'n say is, you'll git dretfully took in if you do. 
 Why, he's makin' fun of ye. Anybody c'n see that with 
 half an eye. I call it shameful ! He ought to be took up." 
 
 Here my companion turned and went back into the house. 
 Thus released, I hurried along the river path. But I was 
 not going where I should be likely to see any one. I went 
 on past the falls. Bathsheba, under the hackmatacks, 
 called to me to come and practise with her, but I shook my 
 head. I was sure I could not sing now. I heard Miss Run- 
 ciman's clear high notes from somewhere beyond the car- 
 riage. We never know when there will be an apparently 
 causeless revulsion in us. I wanted to put my hands over 
 my ears as the delicious notes reached me. I ran on. Be 
 sure I had not forgotten anything that Miss Runciman had 
 told me about her nephew. I was thinking of what she had 
 said all the time I was listening to him. 
 
 Yes, of course, he was amusing himself. There could 
 not be the slightest doubt about that. And I resented the 
 fact deeply and seriously. Still — well, this was the first 
 time any man had ever told me he loved me, and naturally 
 the words had a different effect from what they might have 
 had upon another listener — Miss Rachel Cobb, for instance. 
 Certainly Mr. Hildreth was trying to kill time ; he couldn't 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 133 
 
 occupy himself entirely by swearing. He needed some other 
 recreation. Still, I could not help recalling his eyes, and 
 the peculiar vibration in his voice. At the same time, I 
 knew that his eyes and his voice could ably take part in a 
 scene of love-making. Taking everything into considera- 
 tion, it seemed very fortunate that I understood Vane Hil- 
 dreth — this phase of him — so well ; very fortunate, indeed. 
 Otherwise I might, having had no experience in love affairs, 
 have taken him rather seriously ; yes, I might even have 
 srone so far as to " soo " him. Here I be2:an to lau^h, 
 and I was still laughing when some one spoke just be- 
 hind me. 
 
 It was Miss Runciman, and she said she was glad to find 
 me so happy. She came forward, pausing close to me. She 
 looked at me ; then she looked again. " What have you 
 been doing?" she asked. 
 
 I made up my mind on the instant. Rachel would tell 
 the whole affair to a great many people before twenty-four 
 hours were over. I would tell it, too. It was not like other 
 tender declarations. "I have been hearing a man tell me 
 he loves me," I answered, promptly. 
 
 She glanced still more sharply at me. " Remember," she 
 said, with emphasis, " that you are to be a singer. A singer 
 gives herself to her art wholly. She mustn't play at love, 
 save on the stage." 
 
 " I know it," I responded, eagerly. Before I could speak 
 again, she said : 
 
 " I hope you made young Blake understand. Of course, 
 he, however, could not tempt you." 
 
 " It wasn't young Blake." How very odd that she had 
 thought of Bidwell ! 
 
 " Xot Blake ?" She put her hand on my arm, and turned 
 me more fully towards her. I looked in her eyes ; I sue- 
 
!34 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 ceeded in keeping my gaze in hers during the next question 
 and reply. " Who, then ?" 
 
 " Mr. Hildreth." 
 
 " Oh !" Here her gaze wandered, and she visibly relaxed 
 in her attitude. If I had been cherishing anything senti- 
 mental in regard to Vane Hildreth, I should have received 
 another blow now. Miss Runciman gave a little laugh. 
 "Oh!" again. "So Vane has been taking up his time in 
 that way ? Poor fellow ! I hope you'll overlook his weak- 
 ness. Still, he ought to know better. How did you find 
 him this morning?" I replied that he seemed very impa- 
 tient, but that he was gaining. " Yes ; he will be out of bed 
 within a few weeks, the doctor says. But the whole affair 
 will be very tedious. Do you feel that those lower notes 
 are strengthening any, Billy? Try them — but try not to 
 appear as if you were uncertain, you know. Attack them 
 with confidence. I wish I could give you an example, but 
 my lower register — bah ! I'm growing old." 
 
 I did as she requested, and I felt myself excelling all my 
 other efforts. I sang so that my soul seemed to catch fire 
 from my voice. And all the time I watched Miss Runci- 
 man's face as if that were the source of my inspiration. 
 And I saw it change and glow with greater and greater 
 triumph — and what was that ? How could it be suspicion ? 
 Suspicion in regard to what ? When this question entered 
 my mind it seemed to have an instant effect on my voice. 
 I stopped singing. Miss Runciman suddenly and impul- 
 sively took me in her arms, pushing my hat off and thrust- 
 ing the hair from my forehead. 
 
 " Magnificent ! Magnificent !" she cried. " Oh, I wasn't 
 wrong in this whim ! But — " Here she paused. I could 
 not ask a question. " I suspect you — yes, I suspect you. 
 But no, that is impossible !" 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 135 
 
 I had not the slightest idea as to what she meant. I 
 stood there in silence while her eyes continued to dwell 
 upon me as if they were trying to probe my soul. After a 
 little she released me, saying, as she did so, " What a clear 
 lake your consciousness is ! Well, that's a good thing. 
 But the trouble with good things is, they don't last. Billy, 
 in five years, nay, in two years from now, I wonder if your 
 soul will be as transparent ?" 
 
 Again I did not answer. I did not know that I was 
 transparent in any way. It occurred to me, fleetingly, at 
 this moment, that I had hitherto been very little self-con- 
 scious. I had never analyzed a thought, a feeling, or a 
 motive. Did people analyze themselves ? That must be 
 a strange thins: to do. 
 
 When Miss Runciman spoke again, she said, lightly : 
 " It's quite a relief to me to know that you have not imag- 
 ined that you had an entanglement with that young Blake. 
 Such affairs sometimes make more or less unpleasantness. 
 But as for Vane — " here she paused and laughed. She did 
 not finish the sentence. It was really not worth while to 
 contemplate Vane's love-making to me. 
 
 The next morning Miss Runciman had the gray colt 
 saddled, and rode off to the post-office. She occasionally 
 did this, and every time I saw the colt gallop away carry- 
 ing her upon his back I was seized with a harrowing fear 
 that he would throw her off. I confided this fear to my 
 father one day when we met the gray tearing home from 
 the village with Miss Runciman in the saddle. The gravel 
 flew up from the horse's hoofs as he dashed by. 
 
 " He'll throw her some day !" I exclaimed. 
 
 Father took the pipe from his mouth and winked and 
 laughed. ' ; Don't you fret, Bill. That's a woman that 
 can take care of herself. Besides, she's paid for the colt. 
 
136 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I shaVt lose a cent if she does git throwed — not a 
 cent." 
 
 I turned and looked at father. I remember that this 
 was the first time that I really suspected that he wasn't jok- 
 ing when he said such things — that he really meant them. 
 Something cold seemed to touch my heart. I made in- 
 voluntarily a slight shrinking movement. I saw that he 
 noticed that movement. A curious glint came to his eyes ; 
 but he laughed again as he said: "You ain't goin' to set 
 up to be like your mother, be you, Billy ? But," with unc- 
 tion, " there ain't many such good women 's your mother, 
 now, I tell ye." 
 
 It was the very next day after that — it was the last clay 
 of August — that I hurriedly entered the kitchen when Aunt 
 Lowizy was picking over huckleberries. 
 
 " I've come to say good-bye," I announced. " Miss Run- 
 ciman has decided to move on. We start, this afternoon." 
 
 " I want to know !" Aunt Lowizy looked up from her 
 berries. I glanced about the old-fashioned room, and then, 
 without the least warning, I began to cry. 
 
 " Oh, I wish mother was here !" I exclaimed. 
 
 Aunt Lowizy said : " There, now, so do I. But she'll be 
 here when you come back, sure." 
 
 When I came back ! To my exaggerated sense it was 
 as if years might pass before then — and I had a wild, in- 
 tense feeling that I couldn't — no, I could not — go without 
 seeing mother. I tried immediately, however, to control 
 my emotion. 
 
 There was father coming in from the barn. I struggled 
 with myself to such good purpose that, though my face 
 was red, I was yet able to tell father when he entered, in 
 a matter-of-fact way, that the big wagon would start that 
 afternoon — that I had only an hour. He walked out with 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 137 
 
 me, keeping with me along the river path. He asked if Bid 
 Blake knew; and I said no, the decision had been reached 
 since Miss Runciman heard from the post-office. And I 
 asked him to say good-bye to Bidwell for me. 
 
 Father kissed me when we reached the curve in the path, 
 and he told me that if I had a mind to play my cards right, 
 Miss Runciman would probably do first-rate by me. Then 
 he kissed me loudly again, and turned, while I went on 
 towards the carriage. I stopped and looked back at him, 
 a strange, confused feeling having possession of me. 
 
 As I stood there gazing at him, Bathsheba from below 
 called : " Billy, come down here ! Don't stand sentimen- 
 talizing. Help me pack these eggs. It is as if we were 
 going into an eggless country." 
 
 At almost the same time Rachel Cobb appeared outside 
 her door. "Wilhelmina," she called, distinctly, " Mr. Hil- 
 dreth wants you to come here." 
 
 I hesitated between Mr. Hildreth and the eggs. I had 
 not seen this gentleman since the interview I have narrat- 
 ed — the interview when he had, before witnesses, informed 
 me that he loved me. Miss Cobb had apparently recov- 
 ered from the excitement caused by that declaration, and 
 she had not, to my knowledge, communicated with the 
 Selectmen concerning it. But she had, as father had told 
 me, "peddled it all over the neighborhood." 
 
 As he gave this information he had looked sharply in my 
 face. I replied that it was perfectly ridiculous, and that I 
 supposed it had happened because, as Rachel had suggested, 
 the young man's bones had gone to his head. Whereupon 
 father had given his great laugh and had said nothing more. 
 
 As I stood undecided, Miss Cobb called again, and this 
 time Bashy also heard her and immediately advised me to 
 obey what she said was the higher call. So I went. 
 
138 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 Mr. Hildreth was sitting in the shade of the house in a 
 large chair. Two crutches were resting against this chair. 
 He leaned forward as I approached. Lotus was lying on 
 the ground near him. The dog now often visited his mas- 
 ter. I naturally felt some embarrassment as I drew near, 
 and this feeling was not lessened by the knowledge that 
 Rachel was standing in the doorway carefully examining 
 me. 
 
 " I'm so glad you are better," I exclaimed. I held out 
 my hand, which was taken and retained. 
 
 " Thanks — so much," returned Vane. 
 
 Then he glanced at the woman watching us. With ex- 
 treme politeness he begged for a glass of water. Rachel 
 moved reluctantly away. The instant her back was turned 
 Vane kissed my hand , and he said in a low voice : " You've 
 been atrociously cruel to me. Don't you know I meant 
 what I said ?" 
 
 I smiled-, and I'm afraid I blushed also. But I was 
 able to say, lightly : " I suppose I haven't given the matter 
 much consideration." 
 
 It was Vane who grew red now. But before he could 
 say anything Rachel came hurrying out with the water. I 
 said we were all so thankful that Mr. Hildreth would be 
 able to get away so soon, and that Miss Runciman now 
 felt confident that he would be able to sing before the sea- 
 son really closed, and — Good-bye, Mr. Hildreth !" 
 
 The young man had drawn himself up in his chair quite 
 rigidly, and he was very white. " Good-bye, Miss Arm- 
 strong !" he returned. 
 
 And I went away, with Miss Cobb looking at us both. 
 Presently I heard a soft footfall behind me. There was 
 the brindled dog following. At almost the same instant 
 his master called him sharply, fiercely. Lotus paused,- I 
 
BEFORE WITNESSES 139 
 
 glanced back to see him hesitate. He whined a little under 
 his breath. His master called again. The dog went slowly- 
 back. I hurried on. I did not go to the carriage im- 
 mediately. I sat down in a retired spot and listened to the 
 sound of the falls. I hoped that Bashy would not happen 
 to find me just yet. Very probably she had seen me re- 
 turning from Miss Cobb's. I was grieved that Vane had 
 called Lotus back in that way. And Lotus had wished to 
 come with me. Yes, I was sore about that. He might 
 have let the dog follow. What harm would his coming have 
 done ? 
 
IX 
 
 BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA. 
 
 In the middle of that September there was a great south- 
 erly gale. It was to be our last week in the carriage. Miss 
 Runciman had kept near the coast. Sometimes we travelled 
 fifteen miles in a clay, and some days not at all. We always 
 stopped not far from a settlement, but never in the village 
 itself. The young man, or rather big boy, who was driver 
 and hostler would then unhitch the horses and take them to 
 a stable, finding some place for his own stay ; Bashy or I 
 would sally forth to get whatever provision we needed, and 
 Miss Runciman and the girl who remained with her would 
 prepare the meal. We had very good times at those meals. 
 Miss Runciman possessed great skill with a chafing-dish, 
 and many were the curious concoctions she made. Some 
 of them Lotus ate when he had been with us, but the most 
 of them we devoured. I should have been ashamed of my 
 appetite if the others had not been equally hungry. And 
 they drank wine with luncheon and dinner. Our most 
 elaborate meal was at night. For a time the having din- 
 ner at night was, as Rachel Cobb would have said, " most 
 upsetting" to me. Occasionally we all went to the hotel 
 nearest us, and Miss Runciman, who was what seemed to 
 me ridiculously fastidious, would make the waiters there 
 rather unhappy. 
 
 But it was the custom of drinking wine to which I could 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 141 
 
 not become reconciled. It was some light wine at luncheon, 
 and often a bottle of champagne at dinner, or supper, as I 
 always thought of the meal. And there were many delicate, 
 beautiful glasses from which to drink, and two or three curi- 
 ous silver cups which our hostess had picked up in her 
 travels. 
 
 I recall that I wished to drink from those vessels — there 
 was a charm in connection with them ; wine in such recep- 
 tacles was a draught of romance. At the same time I 
 shrank, and had the feeling that it was low to do such 
 a thing. These feelings were contradictory, but then emo- 
 tions are frequently contradictory. 
 
 And I was horribly shocked when I perceived sometimes 
 that Bathsheba's spirits were a little higher after her cham- 
 pagne than before it. I suppose she saw this in my face 
 one evening as she was leaning back in her chair after din- 
 ner. She had been trolling out a drinking-song. In the 
 midst of the chorus she suddenly stopped, gazing at me. 
 
 "Dear little Puritan maiden Priscilla !" she exclaimed. 
 " Look at her, Aunt Nora ! Is it my champagne or my song 
 that brings that expression of horror ?" 
 
 Miss Runciman was sitting twirling her delicate-stemmed 
 glass absently around and around between her thumb and 
 finger. There was a slight flush on her face. She smiled 
 at her niece as she responded : " Bashy, you flatted at F in 
 the last line." She rose and suddenly flung up her hand 
 with her glass in it. There was the fine freedom of a Bac- 
 chante in her gesture and attitude. I leaned forward eager- 
 ly, my heart beating fast. 
 
 Standing thus, Miss Runciman burst out singing, or, more 
 accurately, chanting : 
 
 " Go, let others praise the Chian! 
 This is soft as Muses' string, 
 
142 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 This is tawny as Rhea's lion, 
 
 This is rapid as his spring. 
 Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, 
 
 Light as ever trod her feet ! 
 And the brown bees of Hymettus 
 
 Make their honey not so sweet." 
 
 I cannot describe the enchanting swing and rush of the 
 words as enunciated by this woman. By the time the last 
 line had left the singer's lips I had sprung up from my 
 chair. I did not know what I was thinking of doing. 
 Bashy laughed. How could she laugh ? My eyes were 
 burning as they rested on the woman's face. Bathsheba 
 poured some champagne into a tall-stemmed glass. She 
 rose and held out the glass to me. I was hardly conscious 
 that I extended my hand for it. I had already grasped it 
 when a curious change came to Miss Runciman. 
 
 " Bathsheba !" she cried, sharply. She reached forward 
 and suddenly gave a sharp, though slight, blow to my hand. 
 The glass fell, breaking on the table ; the wine spread on 
 the cloth. 
 
 " Well, Aunt Nora !" exclaimed Bashy, " you are a queer 
 woman. What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 Miss Runciman was cool and calm on the moment. She 
 placed her own glass by her plate and sat down deliberately. 
 " I mean just this," she observed, " that if Billy has any in- 
 dividual notions about wine — or — or — brown bread, why, let 
 her have them." 
 
 Here the speaker laughed. She glanced at me. My face 
 was hot. I was grateful to her for knocking that glass from 
 my hand. And I was thinking of mother ; and I was try- 
 ing to keep the tears back. 
 
 " Thank you," I said, in a whisper. 
 
 "No," said Miss Runciman, seriously, "you needn't 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 1 43 
 
 thank me. If there be any blame in the matter it belongs 
 to me more than to Bathsheba." 
 
 And when I came to think the matter over by myself I 
 agreed with her. I determined to write all about it to 
 mother, but the days kept going by and I did not find time, 
 and I think I became a trifle bewildered concerning the sub- 
 ject. Once I asked myself if I was making the drinking of 
 an occasional glass of wine stand for too much. When I 
 saw my mother I would have a long talk with her. But, 
 then, in the bottom of my heart I knew that mother did 
 not approve of my being with Miss Runciman and learn- 
 ing to sing of her. 
 
 I hardly know how I came to tell of this little incident 
 when I began this chapter by speaking of the great storm 
 in that September. Our big wagon was standing on the 
 shingles close to a cove that was called Peggotty's Cove. 
 We had arrived the night before, and had sat on the beach 
 until almost midnight. Not a person had come near us. 
 Off to our left was the stretch of rocks running out to pro- 
 tect the entrance to a small harbor. On this point of rocks 
 burned the Bug Light like a little candle, throwing its beams 
 upon a naughty world. There were small cottages over 
 there, and we could see the lights in them. It was breath- 
 lessly still that evening. The water rustled placidly on the 
 pebbles. 
 
 We three women talked very little, but we sang a good 
 deal. I had been learning some of // Trovatore. Miss 
 Runciman said she had a fancy to see what I would do 
 with it. I went over several of the soprano solos at her 
 request now. I sang the English version of the libretto, 
 for she wished me to understand my words. She laid great 
 stress from the first on my knowing the meaning of what 
 I sang, word for word. 
 
144 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " It's a good time for that first solo of Leonora's," Miss 
 Runciman remarked. " Try it." I did try it. Let me say 
 that to me Verdi's opera, that everybody has heard, so many 
 times, was all fresh and new. It appealed to me keenly. I 
 was carried along on its tide of emotion. 
 
 I began, " The night, calmly and peacefully," and I went 
 on until I had reached "A wand'ring minstrel sung," then 
 I stopped suddenly. 
 
 " Well, continue," commanded my teacher. 
 
 I hesitated. I had not a single secret to keep ; I was in 
 love with no one. Yet I had a kind of dread in regard to 
 singing. The next moment, however, obeying her request, 
 I finished the solo. 
 
 " To heart, and eyes, with rapture filled, 
 The earth like heav'n appeared." 
 
 Miss Runciman had been noiselessly picking up peb- 
 bles. Now she dropped the stones and turned deliberately 
 towards me. But the dusk prevented any clear sight. Still, 
 her gaze was fixed for a moment or two ; then she reached 
 forward and laid her hand on mine. 
 
 "Of course, your hands are cold," she said; and that 
 was all the remark she made then. I was disappointed. I 
 wished to know what she thought of my voice ; but I could 
 not ask her. After a little Bashy exclaimed, glancing at 
 her aunt : " I say, Auntie, sha'n't you some time be jealous 
 of your understudy ?" I had begun to tremble with the re- 
 action. 
 
 Miss Runciman laughed. " No, my dear Bashy. I tri- 
 umph with her." 
 
 The elder woman's face, when we went back to the car- 
 riage, where the lamp was, seemed very white, the eyes 
 shining steadily. 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 1 45 
 
 At the door we all delayed to look at the bank of black 
 cloud which lay along the southern horizon. A fisherman 
 came slouching along as we stood there, his great rubber 
 boots flapping about his legs as he walked. " Better reef 
 all your sails, you folks!" he called out, as he rolled by. 
 A strong scent of whiskey came from him; and we heard 
 him swearing to himself as he went on. In the night, or 
 rather in the early morning, I was wakened by the roaring 
 of the wind across the harbor. The carriage rocked and 
 clattered. The gale had begun, and a southerly gale on the 
 Massachusetts coast is something to be remembered. I 
 could not think of sleeping again, and just as the light grew 
 more clear I rose and dressed. The wind always excited 
 me. I was afraid of it, and yet I longed to be out in it. 
 As I crept along noiselessly by the hammock where Miss 
 Runciman lay, she caught me by the sleeve. 
 
 " Where are you going ?" she whispered. 
 
 "To see how it looks," I replied, in the same tone. 
 
 She still held my sleeve. 
 
 " Have you slept?" she asked. 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "I have not — not a wink," she said. 
 
 " I'm so sorry." 
 
 "Yes; I'm sure you are. What do you suppose I've 
 been saying over and over to myself ?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Why, this: The king is dead; long live the king! Now 
 go. Perhaps I will have a nap." 
 
 I went on, asking myself what Miss Runciman could 
 
 mean. But I forgot to wonder when I was trying to walk 
 
 across the shingles towards the village, which was more 
 
 than a mile distant by land; but across the harbor water, 
 
 from this bit of a peninsula, it was not half that distance. 
 10 
 
Iz j.6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 The clouds raced over the sky, and the stars shone fitfully. 
 The rocks and the black hollows looked blacker than ever. 
 The wind drove from the land, flattening every wave that 
 tried to rear a crest out there beyond the low-tide line. 
 The Bus Light shone. I had a wild idea that the world 
 was whirling off somewhere, and that, if I watched, I could 
 see it going. I would go on. I had never been on the 
 coast until I came this journey with Miss Runciman ; when 
 I was by myself I had a kind of feeling as if I were be- 
 witched. 
 
 My skirts and long cloak wound about me so that I could 
 only move slowly. My hat had blown off as I had stepped 
 from the carriage; it had instantly whirled away into space, 
 and I knew I could not reclaim it. I pulled up the hood 
 of the cloak and drew it far over my face. 
 
 I moved on towards the village, thus facing the gale, 
 and conscious of a delight in it. The gray of the morning 
 was fast becoming luminous. Suddenly the east became 
 flushed ; the sun came up and went into a cloud. 
 
 " It's going to rain," I said. I had reached the corner 
 where the road left the coast somewhere and curved tow- 
 ards the bit of a hamlet where fishermen and farmers lived. 
 Perhaps some of them would be up and I could get some 
 new milk to carry back with me. I knew how early coun- 
 try people rose. I walked on, with head bent, not seeing 
 anything but the ground I stepped on, and not knowing 
 that I had passed a corner of a highway that led inland. 
 The wind was roaring in the tops of some elms by the 
 roadside ; the sumacs by the path were laid over half 
 their height, their great maroon-colored tufts draggling in 
 the road. 
 
 I had hardly had a vague thought that there was a sound 
 of rushing steps somewhere, I did not know where, when 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 147 
 
 something hit me and I fell. My principal sensation was 
 of the palms of my hands smarting from rubbing on the 
 gravel. Before I could gather myself together, some one 
 was lifting me up. I had a glimpse of brown gauntlet 
 gloves which were unfamiliar to me. 
 
 " Do tell me you're not hurt !" exclaimed a mans 
 voice. 
 
 I withdrew myself from the detaining arms and answered 
 
 promptly : 
 
 " I'm not hurt at all. But what knocked me over ?" 
 
 I looked up, staggering by reason of the wind as I did so. 
 
 " What !" said the man's voice. " It's you, is it ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but who—" 
 
 I had managed by this time to see the person who was 
 talking to me thus. A tall man, with bright, strong eyes. 
 Where had I seen those eyes ? Oh, yes — 
 
 " Why, is it Mr. Maverick ?" I asked. I was surprised 
 that I recalled his name, but it came pat enough the in- 
 stant I saw his eyes. 
 
 " Yes ; it's Mr. Maverick." He took off his close cap 
 as he spoke. "Audit's Miss Armstrong. How curious ! 
 But tell me again you're not hurt." 
 
 " Not a bit." 
 
 I was preparing to resume my walk. There seemed no 
 reason why I should stop and try to talk in this gale with 
 a man whom I knew so very little. 
 
 " It was horribly careless of me," he went on. " But I 
 never dreamed any one would be on the road as early as 
 this. And this wind makes my horse wild. He has come 
 five miles like a crazy thing. He dashed around that cor- 
 ner as if he were possessed." 
 
 "Are you staying here ?" 
 
 Mr. Maverick had put on his cap with a firm gesture ; he 
 
I 4 8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 had turned and taken his horse by the bridle as if he 
 would accompany me. 
 
 " I'm staying a short distance from here," I answered, 
 "for a day or two." 
 
 "You really must let me walk with you for a little," he 
 now said, " until I've satisfied myself that you're not in- 
 jured. By good rights, you ought to have a broken bone 
 or a sprain." 
 
 " But I haven't." 
 
 " Nevertheless, I won't be sent away just yet." 
 
 We walked on side by side, he leading the horse, which 
 I recognized as the one father had sold him. The wind 
 shrieked and roared around us. It was not a good oppor- 
 tunity for conversation if we had wished to talk. 
 
 " No broken bone develops itself," he shouted, after lie 
 had watched me walk by his side for a few moments. 
 
 " No," I shouted back. 
 
 And now I supposed he would go. He seemed to be 
 looking here and there. Presently he said : " They told 
 me a few miles back that that travelling house carriage 
 was somewhere down here." 
 
 "Are you trying to find that?" I asked, rather startled. 
 
 " Yes," at the top of his voice. " I was going to put 
 up my horse, and then explore until I found it. I want to 
 see the lady who 'runs it,' as they said when I inquired. 
 Of course, you can't tell me. You haven't seen it." 
 
 " Yes, I've seen it," I replied. I turned and pointed 
 in the direction from which I had come. " When you 
 get around that corner you'll see the carriage — on the 
 beach." 
 
 " Oh, thank you !" 
 
 He paused and asked again if I were sure I was all right; 
 and again I told him. 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 1 49 
 
 He stepped near his horse, put his hand on the animal's 
 withers and sprang into the saddle. 
 
 The horse plunged ; its rider snatched off his cap once 
 more, then the horse dashed into a swift gallop. Even 
 above the wind I could hear the smiting of its hoofs on the 
 ground. I resumed my walk. Suddenly it occurred to my 
 mind to wonder why I was out walking in such a gale. 
 Was it merely to be in a gale ? I hurried up to the lee 
 side of a barn and sat down on a piece of timber lying there. 
 I was looking towards the north, where the sky was still 
 clear, as if the wind had swept it. I could feel the old barn 
 reel as I leaned my back against it. Presently I heard the 
 sound of feet on the floor within. A horse ' ; nickered "; a 
 man's hoarse voice spoke. Then came the sharp, well- 
 defined noise of milk falling in small streams into a tin pail. 
 
 After a few moments I rose and was about to go around 
 to the entrance of the barn and ask to buy some milk. As 
 I reached the corner of the building the gale gave me such 
 a buffet full in the face that I shrank back again. There 
 was a dash of rain in the wind, too. I saw, coming through 
 the slanting rain, the '-'depot wagon " from the first train. 
 
 I did not think anything about this fact, however, and I 
 stood in the shelter, idly thinking that it could not rain long 
 with such a clear sky to the north. 
 
 Somebody in the barn said: ' ; Hullo, Bill, that you? 
 Ain't ye 'bout blowed ? Got any passengers ?" 
 
 " One. He's goin' to git out here. Ain't this the nearest 
 to that cart with them women in it ?" 
 
 " Yes, I guess 'tis." 
 
 Something more was said, but the wind began a still 
 more violent shriek and wail. 
 
 "What, still another visitor?" I was saying to myself. 
 
 The next moment a man spoke. He must have been 
 
150 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 close to the other side of the boards of the barn wall. He 
 asked: "'Bout how fur is it to that wagon where the 
 women stay?'' When I heard the question I jumped. It 
 was my father who had made the inquiry. I stood still for 
 an instant to take in this fact. Then I ran around to the 
 entrance, pushing against the wind as against a solid wall. 
 I ran up to father and caught hold of his arm. The ques- 
 tion in my mind was so dreadful I could hardly speak it. 
 
 " Father," I cried out, " is there anything the matter with 
 mother?" 
 
 Father had his big rubber coat on and his cap tied over 
 his ears. 
 
 "If there ain't Billy herself!" he cried, and he kissed me 
 resoundingly. The milk ceased going into the pail, and I 
 knew the man on the milking-stool had stopped work to 
 listen to us. 
 
 "How is mother?" I asked again. 
 
 " Oh, I guess she's all right," was the answer. " She 
 ain't got home yet." 
 
 I grew weak with the relief I felt. I had not heard from 
 mother for nearly three weeks. I stood staring at father. 
 He didn't return my gaze. He moved towards the horse 
 stall, slapped the animal on the hip, then walked in beside 
 it, opened its mouth, and looked at its teeth. I began to 
 feel an ill-defined but decided resentment stirring within 
 me. Then I reproved myself for that resentment. 
 
 Father came from the stall and stood beside me. He 
 took a pipe from an inner pocket and carefully examined 
 the contents of the bowl ; then he tapped the bowl against 
 the timber at the end of the stall. He seemed entirely 
 occupied with what he was doing, and yet I suddenly im- 
 agined that I detected a slight embarrassment in his man- 
 ner. As for me, I resolved that I would stand there and 
 
EY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 151 
 
 choke with my rising curiosity before I would ask why he 
 had come. 
 
 I could not understand why there was a current of rebel- 
 lion or indignation in my mind, a rebellion growing stronger 
 every moment. 
 
 " Terrible hard wind, ain't it? !? asked father. 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 He put his pipe back in his waistcoat pocket. He spat 
 on the floor. Then he asked : 
 
 " Ain't there no place where you 'n I c'n talk a minute?" 
 
 I reflected. With a stranger already at the carriage 
 there seemed no room there. And the wind blew so— then 
 I thought of a place. 
 
 "We can be sheltered on the north side of that cliff," 
 
 pointing. 
 
 ■• All right : come on. then." 
 
 Father started, and I followed. The rain had ceased. 
 The wind blew us on. In ten minutes we were standing 
 safely under the big sand cliff. Father pulled out his pipe 
 again. This time he filled and lighted it. 
 
 ' ; I hope nothing has happened," I said. 
 
 He looked at me and laughed. 
 
 "Oh, yes, something's happened," he answered. "It's 
 something that happens to most girls some time or other," 
 and now he winked. What in the world did he mean ? I 
 decided that he would tell in good time. I waited in 
 silence. "I s'pose you've kinder understood young Blake 
 all this time, ain't ye?" he asked. 
 
 "Understood him ?" 
 
 " Yes. You ain't no fool, ye know. Of course, you knew 
 he wanted to marry you." 
 
 ■• Xo : I didn't know it." 
 
 Father chuckled as if this were a girlish denial. I felt 
 
152 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the blood rising to my head. And in mymind was the per- 
 plexing question as to why I seemed to feel differently to 
 father from the way I used to feel. There was some re- 
 morse in this question. 
 
 " Course, you want to say that ; that's all right, you know," 
 was the response. " Wall, Bid's been comin' over a good 
 deal, 'n' smokin' with me on the back stoop there ; 'n' so 
 finally he told me how "twas with him. He said he never 
 got screwed up to speakin' to you. He was in a great state, 
 now, I can tell you ; V you goin' off 's you be, 'n' so on. 
 You c'n imagine all that. The long V short is, he thought 
 I'd better come 'n' see you 'fore you went still further away. 
 So here I be." 
 
 "Bidwell needn't have sent you, father," I said, with 
 rather a high air. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 Father's tone was short. 
 
 " Because I sha'n't marry him." 
 
 "Shan't you?" 
 
 This question was followed by a slight laugh, different 
 from father's ordinary laugh. 
 
 " No." 
 
 Father leaned back against the cliff, with his hands in 
 his pockets. He was looking at me with narrow eyes. 
 
 " I d' know how much of your mother you've got in you," 
 he said, after a momentary silence, " but I guess we'll have 
 one good, square talk. Then we'll know how we stand, 'n' 
 what kind of a trade we c'n make — 'ain't that so ?" 
 
 I nodded my head. 
 
 " You know the Blakes have got the biggest V best farm 
 in the county, V Bid's the only child. Now I look at it in 
 this way : there's nothin' more uncertain under the canopy 
 than whether you'll make a go of this singin' business. The 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 153 
 
 chances are you won't. There can't be only 'bout so many 
 big singers, 'n' we can't expect you to be one of 'em. If 
 you should turn out one, why, of course, you couldn't hardly 
 be expected to marry Bid. Now, I should say 'twould be a 
 capital plan to give Bid your promise — you see that'll be 
 security, so to speak. You c'n fall back on Bid if you 
 don't make a go, and if you do make a ten strike, why, 
 how could a feller expect a first-class opery singer to marry 
 him 'n' settle down on a farm ? I can't live forever, 'n' I 
 ain't so well off 's some folks think I am." 
 
 Father's pipe had gone out. He lighted three matches 
 before he could kindle it again. I watched each tiny flame 
 start and grow, as if I were thinking of nothing else. My 
 heart was like lead. How expressive that old phrase is — 
 a heart like lead ! 
 
 "Wall, what do you say, Billy?" when he could puff out 
 the smoke once more. 
 
 " No," I answered again. I wanted to tell father that I 
 understood the proposition he had made, but my tongue 
 just then could only utter monosyllables. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Several puffs of smoke, and then father remarked in a 
 very mild voice : 
 
 "P'raps you've be'n 'n' got a notion for that singin' feller 
 — the one that was laid up at Rachel Cobb's, 'n' that made 
 love to you 'fore 'em all." 
 
 No answer to this. 
 
 "Have you?" he insisted, still in the mildest possible 
 way. " Gals '11 do awful queer things sometimes. I don't 
 expect you to be more nor less than a gal, nohow, Billy. 
 Have you ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
ICJ4 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 Father's eyes, still narrowed, were on me. I did not 
 blush in the least as I answered. 
 
 " All right. I did hope you wouldn't be such a thunder- 
 in' fool 's that. That feller didn't mean nothin'. I guess 
 he was rehearsing." 
 
 " Yes," I responded promptly, " he was rehearsing." 
 
 "You knew it, then ?" exclaimed father, gazing still more 
 keenly at me. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I knew it." 
 
 " Oh, by gum ! That's a good joke on Rachel Cobb, 
 ain't it ? She's be'n peddlin' the story all over creation." 
 
 I winced inwardly, but I made no reply to this remark. 
 
 " I guess we c'n come to an understandin' all right now, 
 Billy," father went on with his most comfortable manner. 
 " You jest git engaged to Bid. You'll be allfired glad of 
 it when you find you can't be a first-class singer. He's a 
 real good feller. Of course he 'ain't had advantages ; I 
 s'pose he don't talk no better grammar V I do. But he'll 
 make a prime husband. Now you say yes, 'n' I'll go back 
 'n' tell him, 'n' he'll come right down to see you him- 
 self." 
 
 " Will he ?" 
 
 But what did I care for the fact that he had let father 
 come on such an errand ? 
 
 " You bet he will. Wall, it's all settled, ain't it ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Father seemed to have the power to wellnigh take away 
 my speech just now. 
 
 " That's a good Billy. I knew she was father's own 
 girl." 
 
 Here he kissed my cheek. " Now I guess I better take 
 the next train back." He looked at his watch. As he 
 raised his eyes from the timepiece I suppose something in 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 1 55 
 
 my face made his gaze remain on me. I made an ex- 
 ertion. 
 
 " It's all settled/' I repeated, " but not in the way you 
 wish." 
 
 " Eh ?" 
 
 '■ Xot in the way you wish,'' raising my voice even more 
 than was necessary. ''I'm not going to engage myself to 
 Bid Blake, thinking I'll keep my word if I fail in my pro- 
 fession, and that I won't keep it if I succeed." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 I went over my sentence again, word for word. 
 
 " That's the way you look at it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "You needn't git up any high-minded tantrums about 
 that," responded father, still in his most calm way. Then, 
 as if to himself. " I always did kind of suspect she had 
 something of her mother in her, though she 'ain't shown 
 it much." He turned and looked at the water as if he 
 saw it for the first time. With his face thus averted, he 
 went on : 
 
 " You jest engage yourself to Bid, 'n 1 then you 'n' he 
 can manage" as you please. I didn't know 's you was 
 going to take my little plan so solemn like. I didn't mean 
 nothin' out of the way." 
 
 "No," I answered, " I won't engage myself to him." 
 
 "Don't you like him ?" 
 
 "Very much indeed." 
 
 "Then what you kickin' against?" I could not reply 
 to this. 
 
 Father was gazing at me now, and I thought there was 
 contempt in his expression. There was a strange feeling 
 rising in my heart. 
 
 " It's that singer feller, after all !" 
 
156 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 And then father swore emphatically, and I stood silent 
 and drooping until there was a chance for me to say : 
 
 " I told you no." 
 
 " What if you did ? But I guess we won't talk any more. 
 I must try to ketch my train so 's to git back in time for 
 the chores to-night. Good-bye, Billy!" 
 
 He kissed me on both cheeks, and started to walk up 
 to the road. I watched him, his big boot-tops flapping, 
 his burly frame bent over to meet the wind. Suddenly, 
 without knowing that I was going to do so, I called : 
 
 " Father ! Father !" 
 
 He did not turn. I suppose the noise of the wind 
 drowned my voice. I started to run after him. But I only 
 ran a few yards before I stopped. I returned slowly to the 
 shelter of the cliff. 
 
 I said, aloud, " I feel horribly about father." 
 
 In a few moments I left the shelter ; I wanted to be out 
 in the wind ; it was good to feel it striking me hard blows. 
 Stoutly I climbed up on the grassy side of the cliff, feeling 
 like a pygmy twisted about by a giant. 
 
 Youth is a strange phase — nay, a strange thing — for 
 sometimes it seems something tangible. I was not think- 
 ing now of father or Bidwell, or even of singing, but only 
 of that poem of Elizabeth Stoddard's which Miss Runci- 
 man had read to us two girls after we came to this place. 
 
 Inexplicably at this moment the lines seemed to have 
 some definite mission in my life. 
 
 Was it this very headland upon which the poet stood ? 
 
 "What is my recompense upon this soil, 
 For other paths are mine if I go hence, 
 Still must I make this mystery my quest ? 
 For here or there, I think, one sways my will. 
 
 ■H- * rr -?r ^C ><S 
 
BY THE UNQUENCHABLE SEA 157 
 
 Here, but the wiry grass and sorrel beds, 
 
 The gaping edges of the sand ravines, 
 
 Whose shifting sides are tufted with dull herbs, 
 
 Drooping above a brook, that sluggish creeps 
 
 Down to the whispering rushes in the marsh. 
 
 And this is all, until- 1 reach the cliff, 
 
 And on the headland's verge I stand, enthralled 
 
 Before the gulf of the unquenchable sea — 
 
 The sea, inexorable in its might, 
 
 Circling the pebbly beach with limpid tides, 
 
 Storming in bays whose margins fade in mist." 
 
 I said aloud, '' The unquenchable sea !" and then some- 
 thing pulled my cloak from behind — something that was 
 not the wind. 
 
 There was Bathsheba. 
 
 " Well, I must say/' she exclaimed, breathlessly, " that I 
 didn't think you were quite such a donkey as to come out 
 on this cliff and quote poetry in a gale like this ! And 
 where's the milk for breakfast ?'' 
 
 " Breakfast !" I cried, irritably, " who supposed we should 
 have breakfast for two hours yet ?" 
 
 "You never can tell," responded Bashy, putting a hand 
 on each side of her mouth and shouting. " Aunt Nora sent 
 me to find you — great call for Billy Armstrong — audience 
 won't leave — Billy ! Billy Armstrong ! Bouquets thrown on 
 the stage. And — listen! There's a man come! Man 
 with a diamond ring — and eyes !" 
 
 Having shouted this the girl turned and ran, or rather 
 was blown, down the cliff. And I followed. 
 
X 
 
 A STRANGER 
 
 The man with the diamond ring — and the eyes — was 
 sitting with Miss Runciman when we entered the house 
 carriage. The lady was at the table stirring something in 
 the chafing-dish which was over its lamp. 
 
 It was a very small room, and this new-comer appeared 
 to fill it. 
 
 " Here she is !" said Miss Runciman, glancing at me. 
 
 Mr. Maverick rose. 
 
 "What, you?" he exclaimed. Our hostess looked again 
 at me, this time keenly, but she said nothing. 
 
 Mr. Maverick immediately and deferentially explained 
 how we had met before. Bathsheba stood by me listening ; 
 then she poked her elbow at me. When the gentleman had 
 finished, which he did in a very few words, Bashy gave him 
 this information : 
 
 "She doesn't flat, Mr. Maverick; but I do, at present; 
 though I'm expecting to stop it." 
 
 Mr. Maverick smiled and stroked his mustache. He did 
 not seem at all like a man who underestimated himself. 
 Bathsheba that day gave him the name of Ahasuerus, and 
 generally called him thus thereafter. As he stroked his 
 mustache his diamond glittered. It sent a ray of light 
 straight into my eyes. 
 
 " I flat myself sometimes," he said, much as if he had 
 
A STRANGER 159 
 
 affirmed that he was human, though we might have thought 
 him more than human. 
 
 " You sing, then ?" I asked. 
 
 He smiled and Miss Runciman smiled. I felt annoyed. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "sometimes.*' 
 
 " He is to be our new tenor," said Miss Runciman ; and 
 Bashy giggled. But how was I to know he was a tenor? 
 
 " Yes,'' said the new-comer again, and still looking at me 
 with a slight smile, he continued: ""Miss Runciman has 
 done me the honor to send for me. I've been a singer ever 
 since I was born, it seems to me." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 This was all I could think of to say, and I had an awk- 
 ward consciousness that I seemed stupid, and also a still 
 keener feeling that I did not wish to seem so. 
 
 There was very little more holiday for us. In a week the 
 house carriage was put up in a barn, one of the horses was 
 sold, but the gray was kept for its owner to ride when she 
 wished. We went to a town within a few miles of New 
 York city, and then began harder work for me than I had 
 ever imagined. 
 
 When we broke up I asked Miss Runciman if I might go 
 and see my mother. She was at home, and had taken 
 grandmother there for the winter. I had heard this the 
 day before. 
 
 Miss Runciman was sitting with a guitar on her lap, 
 sin^ins in a half-voice from a sheet of music before her. 
 She glanced up. There was a marked coldness in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " No," she answered shortly. She had never spoken like 
 this before, and I had a sensation as of having been struck. 
 I turned away. She put her guitar down and called : 
 "Billy!" 
 
l6o IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 She was smiling now, but there" was a glitter in her 
 smile. 
 
 " I don't wish you to see your mother at present," she 
 went on. " I want your heart and soul, and all you are. 
 You are to work like a horse, an ox, a slave, all winter. 
 Do you shrink ?" 
 
 "Not from work." 
 
 " From what, then ?" 
 
 " I don't know — from hardening, I think." 
 
 The woman laughed. 
 
 " You need not shrink from that process — welcome it." 
 
 We were in a quiet house, and if any one came to see 
 Miss Runciman she declined the interview. We saner, and 
 sang, and sang, or rather I did, and the rest more desultorily. 
 I sang in my dreams as well as in my waking hours. I grew 
 thin and excited, but I was well. I could not write home 
 to mother, save little non-committal notes that must have 
 been very unsatisfactory. But mother tried to write me all 
 the news. I knew how she must labor over those epistles. 
 She wrote that Bidwell Blake came very often and smoked 
 with father. She said she thought father wasn't as well as 
 usual ; anyway, his spirits were lower ; but she supposed 
 he missed his Bill)-. He never sent me any word. 
 
 Mr. Maverick, the new tenor, was not with us. Bath- 
 sheba informed me that he did not need to study and prac- 
 tise, because he knew everything already. In the first 
 weeks in December, after much sending and receiving of 
 letters, Miss Runciman and Bashy went away. They went 
 South to begin their "season." I was left with a house- 
 keeper and a great many directions, and twice a week a 
 teacher was coming from New York to instruct me. 
 
 " You'll find out what stuff you're made of now," Miss 
 Runciman remarked to me as she informed me of her plan. 
 
A STRANGER jftj 
 
 I used to wonder in the days following of what stuff I was 
 made. Left to myself, I returned to my country-bred cus- 
 toms and rose early. I sat at the piano and sang for an 
 hour : then I breakfasted ; after breakfast I went to walk, 
 and then I took my exercises in breathing. 
 
 Though the place was but an hour from New York, it 
 was solitary, and seemed remote, as it was not on the way 
 to any large town. Nearly all the people I saw were market 
 gardeners or their families. These carts, loaded with 
 winter vegetables, sometimes went slowly along over the 
 narrow, yellow roads, which were muddy if it were mild, or 
 frozen in deep ruts and "hubbies'' if it were cold. 
 
 It was not interesting to walk anywhere, but I persisted ; 
 I walked in the forenoon and in the afternoon, and gener- 
 ally I went to the post-office, which was in the railroad sta- 
 tion one mile away. I was always looking for a letter from 
 mother, and I usually received one on Tuesday after- 
 noon. So, if I missed going any day to the post-office, it 
 would not be on a Tuesday. 
 
 I used to have curious fancies in those days ; the strangest 
 among them was the fancy that I was somebody else ; not 
 at all the Billy Armstrong who went to ML Holyoke Semi- 
 nary and who later made barrel -stave hammocks on the 
 home farm and dreamed hours away in them. 
 
 Though I knew I was not that girl, I had not in the 
 least decided who I was. And I studied and sang and 
 sang and studied, and solfeggio and arpeggio and high 
 quick notes and low slow notes were in my mind dreaming 
 or waking. It was not an unhappy time. But some days 
 would be colorless, days when my work was drudgery, 
 though I loved my work with enthusiasm. I would have 
 hours of grieving because father sent me no word. I won- 
 dered if he were really angry with me. I began to think 
 
l62 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 that I had not known much about him. I recall with what 
 childish delight I used to measure my chest and find how 
 my singing and breathing had increased its size. My routine 
 was like the routine of machinery, but I had a very un- 
 machine-like enthusiasm. 
 
 Miss Runciman did not write to me save once, and then 
 it was merely to tell me to learn the opera of Trovatore 
 as best I could, and to consult my teacher when I was un- 
 certain. When I did first consult him he looked at me 
 queerly, and permitted himself to say that Miss Runciman 
 had curious notions. He never praised me in the least ; 
 and he always listened as if he could bear it because he 
 was resolved to bear it. Two or three times after I had 
 sung to him he remarked : "Well, Miss Armstrong, that was 
 not as execrable as it might have been." But he took no 
 end of pains with me. 
 
 Do you ask what had become of Vane Hildreth in these 
 months ? I did not know. I used to wonder, when I had 
 time, where he was, and how he was. Bathsheba, from 
 New Orleans or Mobile, or some other city, would some- 
 times send me a square envelope with a square card with- 
 in, on which would be scrawled a few lines : 
 
 "Jolly time here — house packed — Aunt Nora in splendid feather — 
 and even poor I had an enormous bouquet. Guess I didn't flat much. 
 Mr. Maverick is perfectly magnificent to sing with — he just carries one 
 right along. Hope you are gay. Ta-ta. BASHY." 
 
 But Bashy never wrote of her brother. It was as if she 
 had forgotten him. Still, she wrote me such scraps of notes 
 that it was not strange that she did not mention him. 
 
 It was one bitter cold day in January that I was hurrying 
 along the lonesome road to the post-office. The snow 
 creaked beneath my feet. But I was warm. The sky was 
 
A STRANGER I 63 
 
 gray — one smooth gray, out of which more snow would 
 surely come. 
 
 " Be sure and get back before it storms," Mrs. Ridge, the 
 housekeeper, had called after me. 
 
 With rubber boots, a thick jacket, and a fur cap one cares 
 little whether it storms or not. I had just reached the rail- 
 road when the mail -train from New York came sliding 
 almost noiselessly along the track. I paused for it to stop 
 at the bit of a station and go on. It barely paused, then 
 started off. I ran across the track and into the building 
 to wait until the mail was assorted ; it would not be many 
 minutes, for very few letters came here. I noticed one 
 passenger— only 'one. He was a tall man with a slight 
 stoop in his shoulders, closely cropped gray hair, and a 
 closely shaven face. Perhaps I noticed him more par- 
 ticularly because, though the air was so biting cold, he 
 wore no overcoat. Having seen this, I further saw that 
 his clothes, brown in color, looked quaint and somewhat 
 old-fashioned, as if they were a suit that had been long 
 laid aside and now taken out and donned. 
 
 All this as I passed by him into the station. Then I for- 
 got him in watching the postmaster take out the letters. 
 There was nothing for me ; no, absolutely nothing, though 
 this was a Tuesday, and I had expected to hear from 
 mother. When I went out the tall man was standing by the 
 red-hot cylinder stove, his hands spread over it. 
 
 I hastened on up the slight acclivity from the track, the 
 sharp wind in my face and cutting like a knife. The mile 
 I was to traverse looked rather long to me now. I turned 
 up my jacket collar and bent my head. I wished mother 
 had written. Surely, if she were ill, Aunt Lowizy would 
 send me word. 
 
 I hurried ; I thought of the warm room that awaited me. 
 
j64 in the first person 
 
 Half of the distance was traversed when I felt an impera- 
 tive wish to look behind me. Not that I heard anything. 
 The wind carried all sound from behind farther away. I 
 turned, and was startled to see, a few rods in the rear, the 
 man who had just alighted from the mail -train. His tall, 
 emaciated figure looked taller and longer against the snow. 
 His shoulders were drawn together in a pitiable manner, 
 his narrow velvet coat collar was pulled as high as possible. 
 
 I did not linger to gaze. It was an absolutely solitary 
 road for the most part — acres of market-gardens lined the 
 way, but there were few houses, and those were set in back 
 some distance. I was not easily alarmed; I had never 
 dreamed of anything to alarm me in my walks, though Mrs. 
 Ridsre sometimes said that she did not like to be so near 
 New York and yet in the country ; she prophesied that 
 some dreadful creatures would eventually stray out our way. 
 
 Perhaps this was one of them. I glanced back again. 
 Indeed, I was now bewitched to look back. The man was 
 always coming on in just that manner. He did not appear 
 to see me, although of course he did see me. And I soon 
 began to fancy that he was gaining on me. Yes, he was 
 gaining. I hurried faster than before. I glanced behind ; 
 he was hurrying faster, too, and still he did not appear to 
 see me. At this I slackened my pace. I felt that it would 
 be better to let him overtake me than to go on like this. 
 And I was rather ashamed at my lack of courage. Why 
 should I be afraid? This man looked forlorn, but not 
 wicked. That is, his forlornness was certainly his most 
 visible attribute just now. 
 
 I will confess that my heart was beating up in my throat 
 as I heard the snow creak nearer and nearer. In another 
 moment the stranger had ranged up alongside and was 
 fingering his hat brim with his blue, bare fingers. 
 
A STRANGER 165 
 
 " I hope you'll pardon me, miss," he said, huskily, as if 
 the cold took away his voice, "but the man down at the 
 station told me that if I followed you I should find the 
 place I'm after." 
 
 Having fingered his hat brim by way of respect, he hur- 
 riedly thrust his hand back into his trousers pocket. 
 
 "Where are you going?" I asked. He really did not 
 look like a person to be afraid of. He was walking by me 
 now, save that he kept, respectfully, somewhat behind. 
 
 " I'm looking for the old Holloway farm-house," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 " The Holloway house !" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He came up alongside again and gazed at me out of red- 
 rimmed, faded eyes of a green gray color. They did not 
 seem to be bad eyes, though there was something a little pe- 
 culiar about them, almost as if they were veiled in some way. 
 
 He dropped back, saying as he did so : 
 
 " I've been there before ; but this railway wasn't here 
 then, so I was kind of turned round in my mind. I didn't 
 come to it from here. It was all woods here. I was a 
 young man, then, yes — a young man." 
 
 We went on in silence for some time. The place where 
 I was living was called the old Holloway house, from the 
 name of the family who had put up the building. I imme- 
 diately thought that the man was on his way to see Mrs. 
 Ridge. He must be going to see her, since it was certain 
 he was not my visitor. 
 
 As we approached I thought he grew agitated. Though 
 I could not see him I was sure he was agitated. 
 
 Suddenly I felt a light touch on my arm. The tips of 
 his finders rested on my coat sleeve. I looked around at 
 the man. His blue lips were trembling. 
 
l66 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 "You see I'm weak, and — and hungry," he said, hurriedly. 
 " I hate to have her see me this way. I hate it !" 
 
 He spoke the last words with a kind of feeble violence. 
 
 " I want to be strong, and well, and prosperous, when I 
 see her. Prosperous !" 
 
 He glanced down at his shabby figure, and repeated the 
 word " prosperous !" in an indescribably bitter tone. 
 
 "But I had to come, anyway." 
 
 I had nothing to say. I began to walk on again. I was 
 getting very nervous, having this person just behind me in 
 this way. I had never suspected the slightest mystery in 
 connection with Mrs. Ridge, who was a middle-aged, pro- 
 saic woman. 
 
 When we had approached still nearer to the house the 
 man came closer again. I saw that his eyes were wan- 
 dering eagerly, and yet fearfully, over the front of the 
 building. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, quaveringly, " that I should have a 
 little more courage if I were not so weak from hunger." 
 He looked at me appealingly. " You see, I haven't had a 
 bit to eat since my last meal — there. I only had money 
 enough to pay my fare here — or only a dime over. I didn't 
 know just what the fare was, and I was so afraid I shouldn't 
 have enough. I couldn't have borne that — no, I don't think 
 I could, anyways, have borne that. If I hadn't been weak 
 I could have walked all the way. But I didn't dare to 
 risk it." 
 
 He was evidently impelled to talk, and all the time he 
 was speaking his eyes were wandering over the house. He 
 had been eager in his walk, but now he slackened his pace 
 as if he dreaded something. He turned weakly and appeal- 
 ingly to me. From the time he had begun to talk I had for- 
 gotten all thought of fear. 
 
A STRANGER 167 
 
 "No," with puerile repetition, "I didn't dare to risk 
 that."' 
 
 He stopped and leaned against a post of the fence. The 
 icy wind now blew a few flakes of snow that swirled and 
 swirled about without seeming to fall anywhere. Two 
 snowbirds came down into the yard and pecked at the 
 ground. 
 
 "We cannot stay here/' I said : and as I spoke I resolved 
 to ask him into the house. I was hoping that Mrs. Ridge 
 would see us, recognize him, and come to the door. She 
 did see us, and the door opened. She had a broom in her 
 hand, and her manner was as if this article were a weapon 
 of defence. 
 
 "Miss Armstrong/ 1 she called out, ; 'come right in this 
 minute. You needn't stay out in this cold talking to 
 tramps." 
 
 I took a step forward. 
 
 "What!" I exclaimed, "don't you know him?"' 
 
 "Know him? No; I guess I don't. You'll ruin your 
 voice if you keep standing there." 
 
 I took another step. 
 
 " I'm going to ask him in, I announced boldly. 
 
 Airs. Ridge raised her broom a little. 
 
 " Is he a friend of yours ?" she inquired. 
 
 " No ; but I'm going to ask him in," I repeated. 
 
 I said this so resolutely that Airs. Ridge lowered her 
 weapon. But she remarked : 
 
 " I s'pose he's a burglar. You've got to be respon- 
 sible." 
 
 While this conversation was going on I noticed that the 
 stranger paid little heed to it ; his eyes were still darting 
 from window to window, fearfully and hopefully. I now 
 informed the man that he must come into the house. He 
 
^8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 bent his head and humbly followed me up the path. When 
 we were inside the door he whispered quickly : 
 
 " Do give me a morsel to eat before I see her ! and a 
 cup of coffee — for God's sake, a cup of coffee !" 
 
 I led him into the kitchen. By this time I had almost 
 decided that he was not quite sane, and I was trying to 
 think what we two women must do. I was annoyed that 
 Mrs. Ridge had made me responsible. What if he were a 
 burglar come to spy out the land ? But it was a poor place 
 for thieves if they expected much booty. 
 
 I moved a chair to the kitchen table and he sat clown 
 in it. Mrs. Ridge resumed her seat by the window and 
 pretended to go on with the paring of some apples. I 
 brought out cold meat and bread and put them before him. 
 He began to eat hurriedly, ravenously; but at the same 
 time it was evident that he was trying in some measure to 
 control the savage manifestation of the beast of hunger 
 within him. 
 
 I was sure that he wanted to claw and tear and devour. 
 His face flushed as he made the attempt to eat like a gen- 
 tleman. I brewed some coffee as quickly as possible. I 
 grew more and more sorry for him. As I passed near Mrs. 
 Ridge she caught hold of my skirt. 
 
 " For mercy's sake !" she whispered, " where does he 
 come from, that he's starved like this ?" 
 
 I shook my head. In a few moments I set the coffee 
 also on the table. He clashed the cream into it, and then 
 drank feverishly. Now, as his hunger was somewhat ap- 
 peased, he glanced at me and said, deprecatingly : 
 
 " It's so hard not to be just an animal." 
 
 Then his eyes turned to the door. He made a move- 
 ment as if to rise, while his flushed face paled. 
 
 " I thought I heard some one, 11 he said. 
 
A STRANGER I 69 
 
 "No," I responded. I could not explain to myself why 
 I should feel somehow drawn to this poor wretch, who 
 showed so plainly that he was once a gentleman and still 
 wished to be one. And why should he expect to see some 
 one here ? 
 
 The next moment the stranger had risen from the table. 
 
 ''I can't tell you how I thank you," he said, and he 
 bowed to both of us, infusing into the salutation a lovely 
 deference. 
 
 "I beg you will let me wait here a little," he continued, 
 looking at me. 
 
 11 You'd better have him into the sitting-room, Miss Arm- 
 strong." 
 
 I noticed that Mrs. Ridge spoke in a milder tone. That 
 bow had had its effect upon her as well as upon me. " You 
 can stay with him,"' she added. 
 
 So I took the stranger into the room, which was littered 
 with sheets of music and music- books. A piano was in 
 one corner; a banjo lay on a chair, a guitar on the table. 
 There were various old-fashioned pictures on the walls, 
 ''Washington Crossing the Delaware," "The Surrender of 
 Cornwallis," and the like of them. At the end of the room 
 was a very striking portrait in oil of Miss Runciman. This 
 canvas had been sent here because, as the lady had ex- 
 plained, she had just now no better place for it. It repre- 
 sented her as standing, head uplifted, the pose full of regal 
 life, the eyes dominating you the moment you met them. 
 And yet the face had the winning softness of a coming 
 smile upon it. It was Miss Runciman at her best, and her 
 best was something quite indescribable. 
 
 The strange man advanced slowly into the room. As I 
 looked at him I wondered again that I should ever have 
 feared him in the least. His face, now that the fierceness 
 
170 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 of hunger was gone from it, was gentle and refined, and 
 in some way appealing. But there was something of shame 
 and deprecation in his bearing which I accounted for by 
 his poverty and his being obliged to beg. 
 
 I saw his eyes go from one thing to another in the room. 
 
 " Music — always music !" he muttered. He turned to me 
 and asked, quickly, " Do you sing ?*' 
 
 "I am learning," I answered. 
 
 " God forbid !" he cried ; then instantly and humbly, " I 
 beg your pardon ; a beautiful voice is a gift from Heaven !" 
 
 With every moment I was becoming more and more 
 interested and curious. He walked farther into the 
 big room, that looked quaint by reason of its low ceil- 
 ing and large beam running along it. Now, right be- 
 fore him was the portrait. He stopped, instantly and 
 markedly. I was watching him. I saw his hands close 
 tightly, the nails growing white. His profile was tow- 
 ards me ; his features stiffened, then seemed to relax 
 and melt, then glow. I had never in my life seen that 
 glow, as of some ineffable emotion, upon any human 
 countenance. The sight of it sent a thrill through me. I 
 had a feeling that I ought to leave the room. Then I re- 
 called common-sense and prudence, and they told me that 
 I did not know what this man might be, and I must stay 
 and watch him, and at last turn him out into the storm. It 
 was storming now — I saw the snow drifting past the win- 
 dows — saw it even while I was watching my companion. 
 
 He walked quickly nearer the portrait and stood before 
 it. I could not see his face now; I saw only the tall, 
 emaciated form with its bent shoulders. I heard him mur- 
 mur : 
 
 " Oh, my God ! My God !" I sat down quickly by the 
 table and shaded my eyes with my hand. I was ashamed 
 
A STRANGER 171 
 
 for myself that I had watched him so closely. What did 
 I know about Miss Runciman's life? Absolutely nothing. 
 But I did know a little about her charm and power, and I 
 thought I could guess at the hardness in her. But perhaps 
 she was not hard; perhaps she was only strong. I find it 
 difficult to place my impressions of people and incidents 
 just where they belong, and not confuse them with beliefs 
 and impressions formed later. 
 
 I do not know how long the man stood there gazing at 
 the portrait, which gazed back at him with what, merely by 
 contrast, seemed an insolent prosperity and happiness ; for 
 in reality there was no insolence in the pictured face. 
 
 At last I heard the stranger move, and I raised my head. 
 He had turned towards me. Tears were dropping fast 
 down his face. 
 
 " Does she look like that now ?" he asked. 
 
 " I have never seen her look just like that," I answered. 
 
 " It's older, but even more attractive," he said. " I 
 haven't seen her for ten years — ten horrible years." 
 
 He walked across the room and back again. He still 
 had an air of listening. He stopped in front of me. 
 
 "I came to see her," he said, abruptly. "Isn't she 
 here ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What?" with a sharpness like a cry. 
 
 I repeated my one word. The ascetic, worn, and yet 
 tender face grew whiter. The man uttered some kind of a 
 despairing cry. Then he plainly tried to pull himself to- 
 gether. 
 
 " I made sure — I made sure," he said. 
 
 In a moment he thrust a thumb and finger into his waist- 
 coat pocket and pulled out a bit cut from a newspaper. 
 
 " The paper is not a week old," he said, " I knew I should 
 
1^2 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 find her here ; I never doubted it an instant. I thought 
 God was willing to stop my suffering — after ten years." 
 
 He sat down quickly and leaned his head forward, cover- 
 ing his face with both hands. The paragraph read thus : 
 "The celebrated prima donna, Leonora Runciman, is oc- 
 cupying a house near Wallingford that she may be out of 
 the way of disturbance. We learn that she is contemplat- 
 ing even greater treats for music lovers. If she desires 
 solitude, the old Holloway house is — " 
 
 Here the paper had been torn away. 
 
 " She was here," I said; " this paper is late with its news, 
 that's why you've been misled. Haven't you seen — " I 
 stopped, for I didn't know where he had been. 
 
 11 I've seen nothing," he answered. " I could not see 
 anything." 
 
 He seemed to be unable to recover from the shock of 
 not finding Miss Runciman. " No, I could not see any- 
 thing, and I would not ask. Whom should I ask ? I haven't 
 read the papers. By accident I saw this — and like a fool 
 I built upon it. What a fool I've been all my life !" 
 
 He had lifted his head to speak thus. Now he bent it 
 and again covered his face. Looking towards him I saw 
 beyond him the snow driving still more furiously by the 
 window, and the wind had begun to shriek about the chim- 
 ney. 
 
 " It's the beginning of a terrible storm," I exclaimed 
 irrelevantly. I rose and walked to the window, standing 
 there and gazing out, absently watching the whirl of snow- 
 flakes and acutely wondering what I should do. How cold 
 it was ! Frost figures were already forming on the panes 
 of glass. Several snow buntings were gayly disporting 
 themselves in the yard. I heard a sound in the room, and 
 I turned. The stranger had risen. He made a fumbling 
 
A STRANGER 173 
 
 movement, as if to button his coat more tightly across his 
 chest, but he found it already buttoned. 
 
 "I must be going," he said. 
 
 He went towards the door ; there he hesitated ; then he 
 came back and stood near me. He reached forward, took 
 my hand, and bowed over it. 
 
 " You've been so kind," he said, tremulously. " I thank 
 you." 
 
 He still hesitated. 
 
 " If you will be so good as to add to your kindness," he 
 continued, in his old-fashioned way, " by telling me where 
 Miss Runciman now is." 
 
 I answered that she was in the South, that I did not know 
 more definitely than that. She had planned to come to 
 New York and Boston in the middle of spring. 
 
 He stood silent for a moment. 
 
 "She is successful?" he asked. 
 
 " Very." 
 
 " She has taught you ?" 
 
 " For a while she taught me." 
 
 '•Then you would be likely to catch her mannerisms, her 
 ways. You have been so good. Will you sing one song to 
 me ? After that I will go." 
 
 I hesitated ; then I walked to the piano and sat down. 
 He followed and stood near, not looking at me, but at the 
 portrait on the wall. 
 
 "Do you care what I sing?" I asked. "I don't know 
 many things. I can sing something from the Trovatore. 
 Miss Runciman has been particular for me to learn that." 
 
 " Go on," he said, and there seemed eagerness in his 
 manner. I began and sang: 
 
 ' ' Of love like this, how vainly 
 Do words attempt expression." 
 
174 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 Half way through the solo I stopped, my hand striking a 
 discord on the keys. I could not go on, for the man had 
 sunk down on his knees by a chair ; his face, covered by 
 his hands, was pressed into the cushion, and he was sob- 
 bing openly. 
 
 I was saying to myself, " What shall I do ?" I gazed 
 helplessly down at him. But only for the briefest space. 
 He sprang to his feet with more alertness of action than he 
 had yet shown. 
 
 " I was a fool to ask you to sing !" he cried. " You have 
 her trick of voice, but you have something more. Young 
 woman, let me tell you one thing — go back home, if you 
 have a home. Go back to it." 
 
 He left the room so suddenly that I was startled to find 
 he had gone. As soon as I could collect my senses a little 
 I ran to the kitchen, where I found Mrs. Ridge gazing from 
 the window. She was looking at the figure of the stranger. 
 He was breasting the wind, staggering, reeling before its 
 violence. 
 
 " I'm thankful he's gone," she said. " Have you been 
 singing to him ?" 
 
 I did not answer her question. I was watching the man 
 and thinking it was an unkind deed to let him go out in 
 such a storm. A yet stronger blast came thundering from 
 the northeast. That ill-clad figure reeled still more — it fell. 
 
 " I can't bear that !" I exclaimed. " He'll die out there. 
 I'm going after him." 
 
 Mrs. Ridge took hold of my arm. 
 
 " Let somebody else take him in now," she said. " We've 
 done our share. He'll get to some place, never you fear. 
 But I shook her off. 
 
 " It's a cruel thing not to help him," I said. 
 
 I snatched a shawl from a chair, put it over my head, and 
 
A STRANGER I 75 
 
 hurried from the house. The wind caught my shawl and 
 flung it across my face. But I went blundering on. I 
 reached the man and bent over him, holding out my hand 
 to him. He grasped it strongly and rose to his feet. 
 
 " It's my weak ankle that made me fall," he explained. 
 " I'm greatly obliged to you. I shall do very well now, I 
 think." 
 
 He took off his hat to me. 
 
 "But where are you going?" I asked. 
 
 " Where ? Well, I've not quite made up my mind. You 
 have my thanks, miss." 
 
 He attempted to go on again. The wind sprang at him 
 fiercely. I saw plainly that it was simply impossible for 
 him to walk in this storm, reduced in strength as he was. I 
 made him take my arm and we started back towards the 
 house, the wind now blowing us on so that we must hurry. 
 When we entered the yard Mrs. Ridge flung open the door 
 and waited for us. 
 
 " I do wonder," she said, angrily, " how you dare to do 
 such a thing, Miss Armstrong." 
 
 I made no answer to this remark. I helped the man to 
 the old lounge that stood in the kitchen. He laid himself 
 down upon it as one whose strength is spent. He closed 
 his eyes and hardly moved. 
 
 "Aren't you willing to let him stay there for the rest of 
 the day?" I asked of Airs. Ridge. 
 
 She replied sulkily that it wasn't any affair of hers, and 
 she washed her hands of it. So he did stay. The storm 
 was the very worst of the season thus far. It raged all over 
 the Northern States and strewed wrecks on the coast. It 
 was three days that I did not get out to the post-office, and 
 three days that the stranger remained beneath the shelter I 
 had first given him. During that time he said very little. 
 
j^6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 He sat quietly by the kitchen stove during daylight hours, 
 and at night lay on the lounge. 
 
 Once when I was alone with him he suddenly looked up 
 at me and said, quickly : 
 
 "I didn't warn you against singing because singing is 
 wicked, but because that life of praise and excitement un- 
 fits you for any other. It takes the sweetness out of calm 
 days." 
 
 He seemed to make this explanation as if it had been on 
 his mind to do so as a matter of duty. 
 
 On the third day it cleared. The sun came out brill- 
 iantly at noon, shining on the deep drifts that lay about 
 the house. By the middle of the afternoon the teams were 
 breaking open a pathway. The mercury in the glass that 
 was fastened by our north door kept going down until in 
 the evening, when I took a lamp and went to examine it, 
 it registered eighteen degrees below zero. My hand on the 
 latch stung as if it were burned. 
 
 " He can't go away to-night," I said to Mrs. Ridge, when 
 I returned to the sitting-room. 
 
 " I do wonder what Miss Runciman would say,' 1 was her 
 response to my words. 
 
 She put down her knitting, and, shivering, drew nearer 
 the great coal stove, whose sides were glowing red with 
 heat. There was the sound of sleigh-bells outside in the 
 road. 
 
 "I pity any one who has to drive to-night," I said. 
 
 As I spoke there came a loud knock at the front door. 
 Immediately the door from the kitchen opened. Our guest 
 appeared on the threshold. His face was colorless, but 
 eager and hopeful. 
 
 " Perhaps she has come !" he exclaimed. 
 
XI 
 "you've no idea how persistent I am" 
 
 The knock had excited me. It was nearly ten o'clock, 
 and in this place the hour was late. While Mrs. Ridge 
 was bustling towards the door I recalled that a train from 
 New York stopped at our station at nine every evening. I 
 stood in the middle of the room, listening. The stranger 
 — he had not told us his name — had withdrawn into the 
 kitchen, where Mrs. Ridge had of late insisted that he 
 should stay. I could imagine how intently he was waiting 
 to know who had come. Was not that a man speaking in 
 the hall ? Surely. My cheeks grew hot as I stood there. 
 It seemed a long time before the door was opened. 
 
 Mrs. Ridge came in first. There was a stumping of blunt 
 sticks on the carpet, as of crutches moving rapidly. 
 
 " Ah. ha !" exclaimed a triumphant voice, " I've found 
 you. I was bound to find you." 
 
 It was Vane Hildreth, in a long fur coat, a fur cap, with 
 fur gloves on his hands, and crutches under his arms. He 
 paused and pulled off his gloves, flinging them and his cap 
 on the floor. He held out his hands, and I went for- 
 ward and put mine in them for the space of a second of 
 time. The young man's eyes were sparkling, his voice 
 glowing. 
 
 "They told me I was an idiot, and should freeze to 
 death." he said, trying to hold my hand longer. "But I 
 
178 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 should have been an idiot not to come. Please ask me to 
 take off my things and stop awhile." 
 
 Here he laughed joyfully. 
 
 " Take off your things and stop awhile," I repeated. 
 
 "Thank you; I don't care if I do. In fact, I mean to 
 stay until morning, perhaps longer. You wouldn't turn 
 even a dog out to-night — much less a popular tenor singer." 
 
 And he laughed again. He seemed bubbling over with 
 good spirits, and it was impossible not to be cheered by his 
 presence. Even Mrs. Ridge looked enlivened. 
 
 " Do present me to this lady," he said ; and I performed 
 the introduction. 
 
 I drew a large chair up to the fire. Vane threw off his 
 coat and sat down, leaning his crutches against his chair. 
 He glanced at them and then at me. 
 
 " It was all because I was after the flowers, you know," 
 he said ; and then, in an undertone, " and because the flow- 
 ers made me think of you, Miss Armstrong." 
 
 I ignored this last sentence, and said, briskly, that he 
 seemed quite active, and I hoped that he wouldn't have to 
 use the crutches for long. 
 
 " For long ! Haven't I been hitching about upon them 
 for a century already ? And isn't Maverick singing in my 
 place all this time ? And he's a man to sing himself into 
 the good graces of anybody. Has he sung himself into your 
 good graces, Billy ?" 
 
 He gazed anxiously across the space that separated us 
 as he put this question. 
 
 "I've never heard him sing," I answered. 
 
 "Ah! That's where I'm in luck, then. I'm going to 
 call you ' Billy,' you know. You are going to let me call 
 you that, aren't you ?" 
 
 After our life in the house carriage it seemed as if it 
 
" YOU VE NO IDEA HOW PERSISTENT I AM 179 
 
 would be silly in me to insist upon the Miss Armstrong, so 
 I answered yes. Vane now leaned back in his chair and 
 thrust his feet out towards the stove. Mrs. Ridge was 
 gazing at him with undisguised admiration. 
 
 " By spring I'm promised that I may fling away these 
 things" — putting a hand on his crutches. 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad !" I exclaimed. 
 
 He turned his shining eyes my way. 
 
 •• Thank you, thank you." Then he looked at me for 
 an instant without speaking. I turned away and moved 
 a pile of music from a chair to the floor. Were my hands 
 trembling ? But it is discomposing to have a person come 
 so unexpectedly. 
 
 '•Why don't you ask me how I escaped from Rachel 
 Cobb ?" he inquired. " Did you think I was going to pass 
 my entire life in Miss Cobb's bedroom that led out of the 
 sitting-room ? Did you ? Tell me that — and don't prevar- 
 icate.'' 
 
 " I thought you would escape as soon as possible,'' I 
 replied. 
 
 This young man's aspect was so radiant that one could 
 not very well help basking more or less in that radiance. 
 I saw that Airs. Ridge's face looked brighter than I had 
 ever seen it. She now rose from the chair in which she 
 had been sitting and smiling delightedly. 
 
 " You must need some coffee and something to eat," 
 she said, " and I will go and get your supper ready." 
 
 " Thank you," returned Vane ; " this cold does whet up 
 one's appetite." 
 
 And he rose to open the door for Mrs. Ridge. He care- 
 fully closed it behind her. He did not take his crutches ; 
 he limped back quickly and stood in front of me. 
 
 " Oh, Billy !" he exclaimed, in a half-whisper. 
 
jgo IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I did not reply nor look up. I was remembering what 
 I had thus far since his coming forgotten, and that was 
 what Miss Runciman had told me of her nephew's pro- 
 clivities. But the next moment I said : 
 
 " Now is a good time to tell me how you left Miss 
 Cobb." 
 
 " No," he answered, decidedly, " I'm not going to talk 
 of Miss Cobb. Wait until Mrs. Ridge comes back for that 
 subject to be taken up." 
 
 " But I want to know about her," I insisted. 
 
 " Sorry to disappoint you. Miss Cobb will keep any 
 length of time. Billy — " 
 
 I rose. 
 
 " Mr. Hildreth," I said. 
 
 He caught hold of my hand. 
 
 " I think you are treating me shamefully," he remarked. 
 " Can't you improve ?" 
 
 " No — yes, I'm going to try to improve," I stammered. 
 
 " What do you mean by improvement ?" he asked. 
 
 " This," withdrawing my hand, " and this," sitting down 
 a few yards away. 
 
 " But, you know, Billy, I'm not going to stand any such 
 conduct on your part. No, really, I'm not going to bear 
 it." 
 
 He followed me. I hated to see him limp. 
 
 " Don't you remember how I told you, before witnesses," 
 here a smile, " that — " 
 
 " Yes, yes," I interrupted, hastily ; " I remember. There's 
 no need to repeat — " 
 
 " But I want to repeat — I'm going to repeat it this very 
 minute. Billy, I—" 
 
 " Oh, I wish you wouldn't !" 
 
 I was afraid. 
 
"you've no idea how persistent i am" 181 
 
 " But I will. Billy, I love you !" 
 
 He had followed me to my chair, and he now bent over 
 me. 
 
 " I should like to kneel down at your feet," he went on. 
 
 "Perhaps.it is your custom to kneel on such occasions, M 
 I remarked, in rather a loud voice. 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 I repeated my words with much distinctness, not falter- 
 ing before the grieved and perplexed expression which 
 came to his face. How excellently well he did it ! 
 
 " Really, you are admirable !" I exclaimed, and I laughed. 
 
 He drew back a step. He became quite pale. I con- 
 tinued to smile. He sat down quickly in the nearest chair. 
 
 " We are not rehearsing," he said, after a moment. 
 
 "Not?" 
 
 " No — ten thousand times, no !" 
 
 I was silent. I had my hands clasped in my lap. I 
 recall that one of the predominating wishes in my mind at 
 that moment was that I might succeed in preventing my 
 fingers from tightly interlacing ; I wished them to lie loosely. 
 
 Vane rose again. It did hurt me to see him limp. 
 
 " I'm in earnest," he said, " with all my heart and soul 
 in earnest." 
 
 I looked up at him ; then my eyelids dropped. I would 
 certainly keep my hands loosely clasped. 
 
 " I was drawn to you from the very first day when Aunt 
 Nora brought you to the carriage. Oh, I loved you from 
 the first ! And when I sang to you that night by the bars — 
 do you remember?" 
 
 He waited for my answer, and I replied, " Yes." 
 
 " I loved you then, but thought you'd be shocked if I let 
 you know it. So I tried to make a jest of the song. Do 
 you remember?" with a lover's repetition. 
 
l82 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 I wished that he would not make me answer him in that 
 way. 
 
 " My dog knew it — Lotus knew it." 
 
 Vane stood silent now and gazed down at me for a mo- 
 ment. Then suddenly he drew a chair close and sat down 
 in it. He took my hands. 
 
 " Don't be cruel to me !" he murmured. 
 
 He kissed my hands ardently and repeatedly. I sprang 
 up and stepped away. 
 
 " We won't go on with this scene any longer," I said, 
 sharply. 
 
 Vane sat upright and stared at me. 
 
 "Why do you call it a scene?" he asked, authoritatively. 
 
 "Because that's what it is," I answered. "Now, if you 
 want me to stay in the room, you will begin directly to talk 
 of something else." 
 
 A curious expression came into the man's eyes, and 
 something peculiar to the curve of his lips. There was 
 silence for a brief time. Then Vane said, in a sort of 
 casual way : 
 
 "I suppose you are taking singing-lessons?" 
 
 "Oh yes," and I went on, with great glibness and un- 
 necessary particularity, to tell all about my practice and 
 my teacher. 
 
 Vane had returned to the easy-chair and was now lean- 
 ing back carelessly in it, easily twirling the charm on his 
 watch-chain, listening to me not very intently, but yet with 
 great politeness. The change in his manner was so marked 
 that I was angry in thinking how extremely well he had 
 acted. Or, perhaps, he had not been acting ; perhaps he 
 felt what I will call a spasm of interest in me. 
 
 I could not be sufficiently thankful that I had behaved 
 
"you've no idea how persistent i am" 183 
 
 as well as I had. A scorching blush covered my face at 
 thought of the possibility of my having felt a tenderness 
 for Vane Hildreth. I was obliged to own that he was 
 precisely the man who might be successful in winning a 
 girl's fancy. That he should try to make me love him ! 
 Looking at him now I almost doubted, from his appearance, 
 that he had tried. That steel shining in his eyes, that 
 cynical, smiling lip, that assured air, strengthened my doubt. 
 He met my glance with a full look, and it was as if a little 
 imp peeped at me from his eyes. 
 
 " You've been pegging away so at your singing," he said, 
 " what if you give me a specimen of what you can do ? 
 You know I'm a judge of that sort of thing. And when I 
 see my aunt, I'll report." 
 
 My first impulse was to refuse ; but the tone and air of 
 the speaker irritated me, and were in some way a challenge. 
 Should I let him think I could not sing, merely because he 
 had chosen to make love to me ? 
 
 " That is so good of you," I responded. " My teacher 
 reports occasionally, but perhaps he would wish to speak 
 well of his pupil." 
 
 I went to the piano with an air of promptness. He should 
 have no die-away, love-sick song. But what should I sing? 
 I knew really, as I had told the stranger, so few things, that 
 my choice was limited. I sat a moment with my fingers on 
 the keys. I could not attack anything with much feeling 
 in it. Stimulated and indignant, I dashed into that gay lit- 
 tle thing — 
 
 "You are just a porcelain trifle, 
 Belle Marquise, 
 Just a thing of puffs and patches, 
 Made for madrigals and catches, 
 Not for heart wounds, but for scratches, 
 O Marquise ! 
 
184 I N THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 "Just a pinky porcelain trifle, 
 Belle Marquise ! 
 Wrought in rarest Rose Du Barry, 
 Quick at verbal pout and parry, 
 Clever, doubtless, but to marry, 
 No, Marquise !" 
 
 Before I had reached the second line Vane had risen and 
 moved to the end of the piano, and he was leaning there, 
 looking at me as I sang. Though I did not return his look, 
 I yet saw him plainly, and I think the notes never fell more 
 easily from my lips. I had been afraid of failing; I now felt 
 as if I could not fail. When I had finished Vane continued 
 to gaze at me in silence until I began to think that, after 
 all, I had done ill. When he did speak, he asked, coldly: 
 
 " Does Aunt Nora know how you sing now ?" 
 
 " She has not heard me, of course." 
 
 I was distressed, and I inquired, in a faint voice : 
 
 "Do you think she will be very much disappointed ?" 
 
 " How can I tell ? Try something with some emotion 
 in it." 
 
 I hesitated. It is rather curious that emotion, as ordina- 
 rily used, is very limited in its interpretation. No, I de- 
 cided to myself, I was not going to sing emotionally simply 
 because Vane requested me to do so. 
 
 " Sing whatever you please for yourself," I answered. 
 
 "All right, so I will." 
 
 When he had said that I was seized with terror lest he 
 should begin what he had called his little encore, 
 
 " To you, my love, to you." 
 
 But I need not have feared. He reached round and 
 touched a note for the key. Then with his eyes unswerv- 
 ingly on me he began : 
 
"you've xo idea how persistent i am" 185 
 
 "A silly shepherd woo'd, but wist not 
 
 How he might his mistress' favor gain ; 
 For on a time they met, but kis't not, 
 
 And ever after that he woo'd in vain. 
 Never stand on ' Shall I ? shall I ?' 
 
 Nor command an after wit. 
 He that will not when he may, 
 
 When he will he shall have nay." 
 
 I had not known that Vane had such a masterful way 
 with him while singing; but then I had not known much 
 about him. I had barely thought thus when he suddenly 
 left his position. He had taken my face in his hands and 
 was bending over me, the light in his eyes streaming into 
 mine, when the latch clicked. He started back and stood 
 upright. He uttered some expletive which I did not quite 
 catch. I felt sure that I hated him. Did he think it im- 
 possible for a woman not to love him ? Mrs. Ridge entered. 
 
 " I begun to think," she was saying, " that the water never 
 would boil. You see, the fire had gone down 'fore I knew 
 it. But the coffee's ready now. Please walk out, Mr. Hil- 
 dreth." 
 
 Vane followed the housekeeper into the next room. I 
 was not going, but Mrs. Ridge expressly requested me to 
 come ; so I went. The man whom we had sheltered was 
 sitting on the lounge there. Perhaps Vane was preoccu- 
 pied, for he did not at first notice that other occupant of 
 the room. 
 
 In a moment the stranger rose, and then I looked at him. 
 He was standing grasping a chair and gazing at Vane ab- 
 sorbedly. I could not in the least interpret the expression 
 on his face, but it was an expression which held my atten- 
 tion immediately. 
 
 "If you'll tell me your name, mister," said Mrs. Ridge to 
 
1 86 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the elder man, " I'll introduce you." As she spoke, Vane 
 turned on his crutches. I saw his eyes dilate, his jaw drop 
 in the first instant of his surprise. He stared persistently. 
 The two knew each other. That was evident enough. 
 Gradually the unknown man reared himself upright and 
 met the scrutiny fixed upon him with a more courageous 
 air. 
 
 " Well," said Vane at last, " this is a surprise ! When did 
 you get out ?" I tried not to start as I heard that phrase. 
 
 " Three days ago," was the concise reply. Food and 
 warmth had given strength to the speaker, for he answered 
 unflinchingly. 
 
 " And you came here ?" Vane, in his great surprise, 
 seemed for the moment to forget that there were others 
 present. His face showed that he could hardly believe 
 his eyes. 
 
 "Yes; why not?" responded the man. 
 
 Vane shrugged his shoulders. " Well, as a matter of 
 taste, I would not have come," he answered. 
 
 " It wasn't a matter of taste," was the answer, " it was a 
 necessity. I had to come. I heard she was here. What 
 made her come here? Was it a matter of taste with her?" 
 
 "It was rather an accident, I imagine. It's her house, 
 you know. But you didn't find her." 
 
 " No ; I didn't find her. She is prosperous. She hasn't 
 been near me all this time ; she has not written. Do you 
 think I would have treated her so ?" 
 
 Vane's shoulders went up again. " You can't expect a 
 woman to thank you for dragging her down — at least, you 
 can't expect Leonora Runciman to do it." 
 
 " Dragging her down ! Good God ! Hear what he says !" 
 
 The man flung up his hand with an uncontrollable gest- 
 ure. His pallid face grew almost purple. Vane turned 
 
'•you've no idea how persistent i am" 187 
 
 away from him. He remembered that there were others 
 present who were ignorant of what these two were speak- 
 ing about. He gave himself a slight shake as if trying to 
 throw off an influence. 
 
 " Really," he said, " we ought to beg pardon of you ladies. 
 I don't need any introduction to this— this person. His 
 name is Robert Dreer. Though I haven't seen him for ten 
 years or more, I remember him perfectly. I suppose you've 
 been pardoned out, eh ?" 
 
 I did not like Vane Hildreth as he spoke thus, and I was 
 conscious of a wish to shield the man whom he addressed. I 
 did make an involuntary movement towards him. I checked 
 that movement and stood quiet. Vane was hard. 
 
 " Dreer?'' now exclaimed Mrs. Ridge. She had the cof- 
 fee-pot in her hand. She set it down on the stove, and put 
 a hand on each hip as she regarded the man standing in 
 front of the lounge. ' ; Don't I remember something about 
 Robert Dreer ? Wasn't it in the papers?"' 
 
 Mr. Dreer lifted his head still higher, while the purple 
 deepened on his face. He put his hand up to his throat. 
 He did not look in the least like a criminal. How could 
 Vane speak to him as he had done ? 
 
 ' ; Yes," said Mr. Dreer, huskily, "it was in the papers— the 
 trial— everything; and I was the accused man— forgery, em- 
 bezzlement, robbery of the man who had been my bene- 
 factor. It was all in the papers — my sentence — my be- 
 havior in court — ten thousand things for people to gloat 
 over. Perhaps you read it ?" looking at Mrs. Ridge, who 
 had gradually moved back until the table was between her 
 and the speaker. 
 
 " And we've had you here these three days I" she cried. 
 
 " Oh, I'm quite harmless !" he said. 
 
 "Accused?" repeated Vane, with inexpressible scorn in 
 
1 88 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 his manner. " You were more than accused — you confessed 
 your guilt." 
 
 " So I did — so I did," was the response. 
 
 At this Dreer looked squarely in Vane's contemptuous 
 eyes. 
 
 " How did you get out ?" asked the young man again. 
 
 " I told you I was pardoned — for good behavior." 
 
 Vane laughed. 
 
 "And now I'm going." Having said this the man turned 
 and marched with head up towards the outer door. Half 
 way to that place he staggered and fell forward, face down, 
 his arms spread out. I heard Mrs. Ridge cry, " Oh, what 
 shall we do ?" Vane did not at first move. I ran and knelt 
 down by the man. He was quite senseless. The next in- 
 stant Vane came to my side. 
 
 "You have done it!" I said to him fiercely. 
 
 " I ? You don't know what you're talking about," he 
 retorted. 
 
 Somehow, among us all, we got Mr. Dreer on to the 
 lounge. 
 
 " I want him carried right away, somewhere," declared 
 Mrs. Ridge ; " I can't have him here another minute. Why, 
 he might have killed us in our beds !" 
 
 " Absurd !" I said, shortly. 
 
 "Why, he's just out of prison! He says so himself. I 
 s'pose he came straight here from Sing Sing. Yes, it's a 
 wonder we were not killed in our beds !" The woman's 
 voice exasperated me. What if he had come from Sing 
 Sing? He was not a wicked man. I said aloud that he 
 was not a wicked man. Vane glanced at me. 
 
 " He must be taken right away," reiterated Mrs. Ridge. 
 I thought that she was going to repeat her remark about 
 being killed in our beds, and I felt as if I could not bear 
 
"you've no idea how persistent i am'' 189 
 
 to hear it for the third time. I did not stop to think that 
 it might be strange that I should unhesitatingly espouse 
 this convict's cause. I did not care how surprisedly Vane 
 gazed at me. 
 
 " Don't you know of anything to do ?" I asked, turning 
 upon Mrs. Ridge. " Why do you stand there doing noth- 
 ing ? You see he can't be carried away this cold night. 
 You wouldn't turn a brute out ! I won't have it ! I say, I 
 won't have it !" 
 
 Before my imperiousness Mrs. Ridge bestirred herself. 
 And Vane helped; I will say that for him. After Mr. 
 Dreer had revived and was lying with head averted on 
 the lounge, Vane took my arm and led me into the sitting- 
 room. His lips were compressed and his eyes stern. 
 
 " You're like a woman," he said. " You're very unreason- 
 able." I bent my head in silence. I would listen, but noth- 
 ing he could say should make any difference with me. 
 
 " Entirely unreasonable," he went on. " I see you con- 
 demn me directly. Why do you do that? Do you dislike 
 me so much ?" 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 " Do you dislike me so much ?" more sternly than be- 
 fore. 
 
 " I don't dislike you at all. But we needn't talk about 
 
 that." 
 
 " No , that's true, we need not. You thought me cruel 
 to that man. What do you know about him ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; only I mean to help him if I can," a little 
 
 defiantly. 
 
 " Regardless of his past?" 
 
 " Certainly. His past is nothing to me." 
 
 " Have you written to Aunt Nora that he is here ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
igo IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 11 You should not do so. What right have you to keep 
 him in her house ?" 
 
 At this I hesitated; but in my mind I did not retreat 
 from my resolution. 
 
 " I shall not do anything to harm Miss Runciman," I 
 answered at last. 
 
 " What has he told you about her ?'' 
 
 " Nothing. He came here because he thought he should 
 find her. He was much affected at sight of her portrait 
 there." I glanced at the picture on the wall. Vane moved 
 and looked at the portrait, and I watched his face, which 
 the lamplight shone upon. He turned his back towards 
 me. 
 
 " We owe a great deal to Miss Runciman," he said. 
 
 " I owe her a great deal," I answered, warmly. I thought 
 he was going on with the subject, but his countenance 
 suddenly changed, as if a light had flashed through it. 
 
 " Can't you love me ?" he asked, softly. "Are you sure 
 you never could love me the least in the world ?" 
 
 I wanted to answer promptly, but for some reason I could 
 not do it. 
 
 "You're not sure, then?" he went on, with a touching 
 eagerness in his manner — at least, it would have been a 
 touching eagerness if I had not understood his tendencies 
 so well. I raised my eyes. 
 
 " Oh yes," I answered, " I'm perfectly sure." 
 
 Vane sat down and leaned his crutches against his chair. 
 I still found it impossible to see those crutches without a 
 pang. You know I had not had time to become at all 
 accustomed to them, and Vane had been so gayly, almost 
 insolently, active. 
 
 " Then that is done with," he said, gloomily. " I've 
 been a poor fool all this time, thinking of you night and 
 
"youve no idea how persistent i am 191 
 
 day. Sometimes I hoped, and then I despaired. I sup- 
 pose that's the way with lovers." 
 
 " You ought to know," I retorted before I thought. Then 
 I blushed with keen discomfort. 
 
 He looked up quickly. " What do you mean by that ?" 
 
 I put on a bold face. " Because it's a part you've played 
 so many times," I answered. 
 
 "Oh yes," he responded. "Of course, a tenor is con- 
 tinually playing the lover. But I didn't mean that — I'm 
 not acting now. I wish I could think you were." 
 
 I saw no reason why this scene should be continued. I 
 walked towards the door. Perhaps Mrs. Ridge would try 
 to turn Mr. Dreer out of the house, and I must be present 
 to protect him. 
 
 " Are you going to leave me ?" Vane asked. He was 
 leaning forward, with his hands on his knees. I just glanced 
 at him and then turned away. 
 
 "Go, then," he exclaimed, passionately, "but you've got 
 to love me — it's your fate ! I can't stop loving you, and I 
 wouldn't stop if I could. Remember, every time you think 
 of me, think, ' That man loves me — he's going to love me 
 as long as he lives!"' Here he burst out laughing, with not 
 much merriment. "That sounds something like a curse, 
 doesn't it ? But I don't mean that my love shall be a curse 
 to you." He now leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "Wait one moment," as I put my hand on the latch. 
 "You needn't avoid me after this, thinking I shall keep 
 harping on my love. I won't annoy you, you'll see. Now, 
 promise me you won't try to keep away from me. I'm go- 
 ing to be here a few days, unless you drive me off, and it'll 
 be very uncomfortable for both of us if you are to regard 
 me as a person who is liable to talk love at every opportu- 
 nity. You've no idea how well I shall behave." 
 
192 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I was puzzled by Vane now j but I gave the promise he 
 asked for. It would be quite ridiculous to try to keep out 
 of his way in a quiet place like this. But I did not like his 
 remaining. I thought he ought to go immediately, no mat- 
 ter if he froze to death in the awful air outside. That was 
 my idea of how a rejected lover should act. Now I turned 
 the latch and left Vane alone. I hurried into the kitchen, 
 to find Mrs. Ridge sitting dejectedly in a chair by the cook- 
 stove, her feet on the stove hearth, and her hands clasped 
 over her knees. Mr. Dreer was lying on the lounge, mo- 
 tionless. 
 
 " I've been trying to think, and I can't do it," said Mrs. 
 Ridge. 
 
 I did not make any response. I found that I was trem- 
 bling for some reason. I sat down and tried to hold my- 
 self quiet. 
 
 "I s'pose," went on the woman, "that this is the select- 
 men's business, if they have such things as selectmen here. 
 But who's to go and hunt 'em up such a night 's this, I 
 should just like to know ! That man's going to be sick " — 
 sinking her voice — "and what's to become of us I can't 
 guess." 
 
 " I'll help take care of him," I answered, promptly. I 
 could be prompt on that subject. And I kept my word. 
 
 The next two weeks were made up of strange days. 
 I stopped practising and taking lessons. Dust gathered 
 on the piano and the guitar and the banjo. Vane did not 
 go away, to my surprise. He sat and read in the sitting- 
 room, or walked out slowly on the snow. The cold held 
 on wonderfully. 
 
 The sick man lay in the chamber over the kitchen. Now 
 that he was relegated to a bed, and could not possibly get 
 up and murder us in our beds, Mrs. Ridge's instincts as a 
 
"you've no idea how persistent i am" 193 
 
 nurse had full play. She dosed her patient with a great 
 many different kinds of herb teas. She called in the doc- 
 tor, whose opinion was that the man would rally after a 
 while, if fed with nourishing food and allowed to rest. " He 
 has evidently been under a great and prolonged strain," he 
 said. Perhaps the physician had a suspicion that there 
 was no fund from which his fees would be forthcoming, and 
 so he left us with the remark that if anything new set in we 
 might send for him. Nothing new did set in, but for the 
 first week I felt sure that Mr. Dreer would sink away and 
 die just from lack of a motive to live. 
 
 He was not wildly delirious, but he continually mistook 
 me for some one else. He called me Leonora in a feeble, 
 pleading voice. It was so pitiable that I was guilty of the 
 deepest sympathy, and sympathy is " ruled out," they tell 
 me, in these days. 
 
 At the very first I overheard Vane saying to Mrs. Ridge 
 that she need not write to Miss Runciman anything con- 
 cerning this new occupant of the house, and the next day 
 he gave me the same advice. He explained that the knowl- 
 edge might trouble her, and in the height of an opera sea- 
 son she should have all her strength for her work. So I did 
 not write ; indeed, I was not in the habit of sending letters 
 to Miss Runciman. 
 
 I have no need to dwell further upon this episode of my 
 winter in the old Holloway house. On the third week Mr. 
 Dreer struggled upon his feet. He looked like a ghost. 
 He said he would go now; he tried to tell us how kind we 
 had been to him, but he choked and stopped. I didn't 
 have much money ; I had $10 and some change in my purse. 
 I sought a private interview with Mr. Dreer, and I made 
 him take the $10. I thought he would faint when I offered 
 the money to him. It was some moments before he under- 
 13 
 
194 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 stood that I would not be refused. Then he tried again to 
 speak some thanks, and again could not. 
 
 No, I told myself, though he had spent all his life in 
 prison because of a confessed crime, he was not a wicked 
 man. This was one of my convictions, and I began to 
 think that I was one who acted out a conviction — or why 
 should I have a conviction ? 
 
 Mrs. Ridge, having done kind acts for this man, began 
 to feel kindly to him. Isn't there a theory that to feel a 
 certain thing one must perform an act in that direction ? 
 For instance : you will not have the emotion of anger un- 
 til you have struck some one. It's a fine theory, and will 
 bring you out to quite curious conclusions sometimes. 
 
 Well, Mrs. Ridge, I suppose, was acting after the man- 
 ner hinted at in the above paragraph, for she brought for- 
 ward an old, heavy gray shawl that had been the property 
 of her deceased husband. She made Mr. Dreer wrap him- 
 self in this shawl, and she prepared sandwiches for him. 
 Thus equipped, the man said good-bye to us and started 
 forth. At the gate he turned and looked back at me and 
 at the house — he looked longest at the house — a persistent, 
 mournful gaze that haunted me. Vane was not present. 
 It seemed heartless in him to be away just then. In about 
 an hour, however, he returned and came to the sitting- 
 room, where I was at the piano. He held out two $5 
 notes. 
 
 "These are yours," he said. "I saw Mr. Dreer at the 
 station, and he sent the money back to you. He said he 
 knew you had but little." 
 
 " But," I began, " he will need—" 
 
 " No, he'll get along," interrupted Vane. " You see — " 
 
 Here he hesitated, and I filled out the sentence. " You 
 gave him some money." 
 
"you've no idea how persistent i am" 195 
 
 "Yes— a little." 
 
 I was thankful to learn that Vane had not been so hard 
 as I had believed him to be. Perhaps I looked my grati- 
 tude, for my companion's face suddenly kindled. " You 
 thought me a hard-hearted wretch !" he exclaimed. He 
 came close to the piano. 
 
 "You seemed hard." 
 
 " Seemed ? When in truth I'm the softest-hearted fellow 
 on the face of the globe — but persistent — ah, Billy, you've 
 no idea how persistent I am." 
 
 Here Vane gave me a glance. 
 
XII 
 
 "long live the king!" 
 
 If this were a novel I think I should know just what 
 thread of the plot to take up, but as it is only the record 
 of the life of a girl who once tried to become an opera 
 singer, I sometimes am in doubt as to what incidents I 
 ought to relate. Have you never noticed that in one's 
 own life all incidents seem important? Just as, when we 
 come down to breakfast in the morning, we think it is a 
 matter of interest to tell the people at the table how we 
 slept and what we dreamed. But they don't care in the 
 least whether we slept or dreamed ; what they care for is 
 for us to listen to their tale of how they spent the night. 
 
 However, it is strictly correct for me to think that the 
 17th of March of that year was an important date to me. 
 It was on the morning of that day that I received Miss 
 Runciman's telegram. It was written on the train, between 
 Buffalo and New York, and this is what it said : 
 
 " To Wilhelmina Armstrong, 
 
 "The Old Holloway House, 
 
 " Lally's Falls, near Wallingford, N. Y. 
 '■ Go to New York on the 2.15 train if no one calls for you before that 
 
 time. Go to the S Hotel and wait. Imperative — imperative. 
 
 "Leondra Runciman." 
 
 Do you imagine that these words set my heart to beat- 
 ing ? In ten minutes from the time the message had been 
 
"long live the king!" 197 
 
 received I had a satchel packed with some of my belong- 
 ings; ten minutes later I had taken those things from the 
 bag and put in others ; I had not the least idea what I 
 ought to carry, and this was more than four hours before I 
 was to start. 
 
 Mrs. Rid°"e, whom I consulted, seemed to think I should 
 be " safe" — that is her word — if I filled my bag with stock- 
 ings. She said a girl always felt a kind of self-respect if 
 she had plenty of stockings within reach of her hand. So 
 I packed stockings ; but a half-hour after thus doing I had 
 removed them and had substituted handkerchiefs. 
 
 Between these occupations I reread the telegram, and I 
 looked at a New York newspaper of the day before. I had 
 found in one of the columns an announcement of the com- 
 ing of the Runciman opera troupe. The praise bestowed 
 upon these singers was very great ; it made me flush and 
 my temples throb to read it. 
 
 Would any one call for me ? I hated to go alone. I had 
 never been to New York in my life. I was afraid of the 
 city as if it were a great ravening monster. But I would 
 brave it, nevertheless ; I would run the risk of being de- 
 voured. Nothing would prevent my getting, some way, to 
 
 t h e s Hotel that afternoon. I counted o^ser my money. 
 
 I should not dare to try to go by street-cars from the sta- 
 tion to the hotel ; I might get lost. I would take a car- 
 riage. Would $3.73 pay for a carriage? 
 
 I put this question to Mrs. Ridge, who hastily shook her 
 hands from the dish-water as if she could not tell me if she 
 hadn't her hands free. 
 
 "Mercy, child!" she cried, "I sh'll go with you rather 
 than have you go alone. I ain't much acquainted in Ne' 
 York, but I shaVt have you spending your money on hack- 
 drivers." 
 
Iq8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I wandered aimlessly about the house. I sang with fit- 
 ful enthusiasm. My hands were cold, my cheeks hot. I 
 was continually looking at the clock. The hands barely 
 crawled over the face. A train from the city stopped here 
 at 12.03. It would kill a little time if I went to the station. 
 It is always an excitement in a lonely place to see a train 
 come in. It is as if a hand from a live, palpitating, far-away 
 giant reached forth and touched you with the tips of its 
 fingers. 
 
 The engine came puffing up, dragging its burden behind 
 it. A March wind whirled about the bit of a station, but it 
 was an April sun that glittered on the building and on the 
 bare fields about it. 
 
 I stood staring at the train. I saw two women alight, 
 one of them with a pug dog, who strained and choked at the 
 leash, pulling his mistress incontinently over the platform. 
 I watched them. Everything interested me this morning. 
 To myself I was humming, 
 
 1 ' Lace up my shoe ; 
 Put on my basquina ; 
 Can you see my black eyes ? 
 I am Manuel's duchess." 
 
 Just as I had reached for the second time the words " I 
 am Manuel's duchess," the train drew along over the rails 
 and went, faster and faster, out of sight. 
 
 The station-master was assorting the mail. The first let- 
 ter he took in his hand he gave to me. It was from mother. 
 The man glanced up, and then asked, " Did you miss your 
 visitor?" 
 
 I said I had no visitor. 
 
 " Oh yes, you have. Man got off the train — wanted Miss 
 Wilhelmina Armstrong. I sent him to the Holloway place. 
 He's gone." 
 
"long live the king!" 199 
 
 I hurried on up the road. As I hurried I sang inaudibly : 
 
 " Lace up my shoe ; 
 Put on my basquina — " 
 
 Ah ! There was a figure ahead ; a figure quite different 
 from that of Robert Dreer. This must be the person who 
 had come to take me to New York — a man in a long coat 
 and a silk hat, who was swinging on rapidly. 
 
 Perhaps he heard my footsteps, for he stopped, gazed 
 down the slope, then hastened towards me. I am far-sight- 
 ed, and it was not until the stranger was within a few yards 
 that I recognized him. It was Mr. Maverick. He came 
 up, hat in hand. 
 
 " I bessed Miss Runciman to let me come," he said, 
 quickly, after we had shaken hands. The man's keen eyes 
 were glancing over me. My impression of those eyes was 
 the same now that it had been in Chilton at the Ottawa 
 House. They were ruling eyes. But his manner was def- 
 erential and gentle in the extreme. 
 
 I held mother's letter with unconscious closeness in my 
 hand. 
 
 " I wanted to see you," he went on, "for myself as well 
 as for Miss Runciman." 
 
 He looked me up and down. 
 
 " I'm glad you're tall," he said. 
 
 I laughed with some constraint. I did not relish being 
 appraised in this way. 
 
 " Oh," he continued easily, " you must not be offended. 
 A tall woman is much more effective on the stage. When 
 we get to the house you'll sing to me." 
 
 " Did Miss Runciman wish you to hear me sing ?" I asked, 
 
 quickly. 
 
 This man's air of command excited rebellion in my mind. 
 
200 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " She did not tell me so." 
 
 " Then you'll have to excuse me," I responded, with de- 
 cision. 
 
 He smiled as if he said: "We'll let this child think she 
 has her own way — since to think so amuses her." 
 
 And I did not sing to him. I let him stay in the sitting- 
 room while I hurried to my own chamber. In less than an 
 hour I should be on my way to the city and to Miss Runci- 
 man. 
 
 But now there was mother's letter. My own home 
 seemed in a "country that was very far off." I unfolded 
 the sheets and gazed blindly for an instant at the illiterate, 
 painstaking hand. But this time the writer had expressed 
 herself fluently, not hesitating for words, as I knew she 
 was usually obliged to do. There were several written 
 pages. At first I could not quite put my mind on the lines, 
 and I seemed to myself to be wicked for that reason. My 
 thoughts would fly away to Miss Runciman, to the man 
 down-stairs, to the future, and I could not help singing, in 
 my mind : 
 
 " Lace up my shoe ; 
 Put on my basquina," 
 
 though I was not in the least thinking of the song ; it was 
 that sort of sub-consciousness which, after all, forms so large 
 a part of our lives. 
 
 But in a moment everything else dropped from my 
 thought; I was absorbed in what I was reading; I was 
 sitting again on my little footstool by my mother's chair. 
 
 • " My dear WlLHELMINA, — I did not write to you la.st week. I tried 
 three times, but when I got my paper on the table and my pen and ink 
 somebody came to disturb me. To-day your father has taken Lowi/y 
 over to Great Medows" — mother was never quite certain about her 
 
"long live the king!" 201 
 
 spelling — "and I am all alone in the house. Even the cat isn't here. 
 The cat is dead. I know you will be very sorry to hear that. We 
 think she must have eat some poison that your father put in the barn 
 cellar for rats. She is buried at the head of the lane, under the wild- 
 apple tree." 
 
 My heart swelled as I read this news. The cat had been 
 given to me when she was a four-weeks-old kitten, and I 
 was a child always running about the yard. She was a part 
 of my childhood, and that wild-apple tree at the head of the 
 lane — did I not know every crook in the branches, and 
 just where the robins had built for so many years, and 
 the sharp, puckery quality of the small, blood-red apples? 
 I shut my eyes, and for the moment I was back there, 
 smelling the scents of the river -banks, hearing the frogs, 
 holding the cat in my arms while she purred and narrowed 
 her eyes in the sunlight. A keen pang went through me. 
 Presently I went on with the reading : 
 
 " It's just as still here to-day as can be, and somehow I feel as if I 
 could write freely ; I can't do that usually ; my pen seems like some- 
 thing that stands in the way of my thoughts. I cried about the cat. I 
 thought how you'd feel. Your father laughed at me. He said the cat 
 was real old, and that there were plenty more. He said I was foolish, 
 and I know I was. Seems as if your father had grown old. All to 
 once, you know, folks begin to look old. Maybe something troubles 
 him ; he don't speak of anything troubling him. 
 
 " How curious 'tis for me to feel just as if my pen wasn't stopping me 
 from saying things to you ! I guess it's 'cause there ain't anyboch 
 in the house. I can hear the sound of the falls real plain, though the 
 windows are all shut. 
 
 "I wish you felt like writing home more about how you get along 
 with your singing. You don't mention much of anything, somehow. 
 I suppose you don't have time. Your father gets a daily paper some- 
 times when he goes to the village. Twice I've seen things in pi 
 of Miss Runciman's singing and acting. I wish I could believe in that 
 woman more. You know, I don't believe in her, though she does make 
 
202 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 you feel so pleased with yourself, somehow. But I hope you've got 
 sound principles to make you straight wherever you are. I don't s'pose 
 she gambles, or drinks, or any of those things. I think of you all the 
 time, Billy. I bear you in my heart. I've got so I dreem almost every 
 night about you. I wish I didn't. Always I'm trying to save you from 
 something — from fire, from drowning, from some dreadful thing ; and I 
 struggle after you, and reach my hands to you, and I can't quite get to 
 you ; and I wake up all covered with cold sweat. Then I pray and 
 pray for you until I fall asleep again and go all over the same thing. 
 So I don't get so much good rest as I ought to have. But you needn't 
 think I'm complaining. Last night my dreams were more real than 
 ever, but so confused, you know. I was trying so hard to get to you. 
 You were with a man who had such strong eyes, and he had you in his 
 arms, and was carrying you off all the time, only he was always just the 
 same distance away. And I was screaming to him to stop, and he 
 smiled and wouldn't stop. You had your arms round his neck, and you 
 looked at me over his shoulder, and you kept crying ' Mother ! mother ! 
 can't you save me ?' And the man changed into that young singer 
 named Hildreth, and all the time I tried to run after you and I couldn't 
 run, till I thought I was going to die. Finally I woke up, groaning, 
 and your father had to get me a few drops of brandy in some water, I 
 was so prostraited. I can't get over that dreem. It hasn't been out of 
 my mind a minute all day, and the more I think of it the more that 
 man who was carrying you off makes me think of the man that came here 
 and bought a horse of your father last summer, and just as much of the 
 Mr. Hildreth, too. How odd that is ' It makes me feel sick. He had 
 a great diamond in a ring on his finger. He was handsome, and I 
 guess he always has his own way. I don't s'pose you remember him ; 
 perhaps you'd forgot all about him, and you won't he likely to see him. 
 Now he'd call it silly, and so 'tis. But, oh, if you felt like coining 
 home ! I feel as if you wasn't safe where you are. But I know that's 
 all a notion. I tell myself twenty times a day that it's all a notion. I 
 wouldn't speak of it to your father, because he'd call it silly, and so 
 'tis. But, oh, if you felt like giving up trying to sing, and would come 
 home ! You could sit in the seats Sundays and sing. My dear little 
 girl, my own Baby that I've prayed over ever since you were born, do 
 be good — do be good- I'm trying to be good ; every day I try. When 
 the Lord comes — and He's coming — any day He may come — I want we 
 
"long live the king!" 203 
 
 should go together to everlasting Blessedness. I feel as if I couldn't 
 be Blessed ; no, I couldn't take Blessedness from the Lord if He didn't 
 give it to you, too, my dear daughter. 
 
 " I sha'n't dare to read this over, for fear I sha'n't think I ought to 
 send it. I don't know what your father would say if he should see it. 
 I'm goino- to sit by the window and watch for the baker when he comes 
 from Great Medows and ask him to mail it for me. I want it to go 
 now. I feel as if I couldn't wait a minute for it to go. 
 
 "Laura Lincoln is going to marry John Haskell. You know they 
 were en^ao-ed two years ago, and she broke it off 'cause she got be- 
 wiched with that book agent. But the agent left her, and now John 
 Haskell has begun going with her again, and they are engaged. The 
 minister called here last week. He asked particular about you. He 
 said he always understood that a singer's life was one of great tempta- 
 tions. I told him I hoped you had good principles, and he said no 
 doubt you had. And you have, haven't you, my dear daughter? It's 
 most time to begin to look for the baker. I feel as if I could keep on 
 writing for hours. I guess it must be 'cause I'm alone in the house. 
 
 It does seem as if I heard bells. I must hurry. 
 
 " Mother." 
 
 When I reached the last word I turned back and began 
 again to read, almost as breathlessly as I had read the first 
 time. And now I saw, scribbled across the top of the first 
 page, these words : 
 
 " I hope you won't happen to meet that man I dreemed about. He 
 was exactly like the one that bought a horse of your father. I do 
 hope you won't meet him. And like that other young man, too." 
 
 Why, he — one of them — was down stairs at this very mo- 
 ment, waiting to escort me to New York. There was no 
 mistaking that one. 
 
 A cloud of doubt and fear and homesick longing came 
 over me, and thickened and deepened as I reread mother's 
 letter. Perhaps, as I had thought before, something of the 
 mystical vein in her nature was in me. I was afraid as I 
 
204 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 read. And the longing to go to my mother grew upon 
 me to such a degree that I suddenly started from my chair 
 with the letter pressed against my bosom. 
 
 But no. How could I sacrifice my work in life — my glo- 
 rious work that I was loving more and more ? And it was 
 not wrong to be a public singer. And mother really was 
 fanciful and imaginative. She had taken this fancy about 
 the man down-stairs and about Vane. It was strange that 
 her letter came when he came — the same train brought 
 them. Father approved of my leaving home and learning 
 to sing. No, mother ought not to make so much of a con- 
 fused dream. Why, everybody had dreams, and what would 
 become of us all if we paid heed to them ? As for Mr. 
 Maverick, even if he wanted to work any harm to me, how 
 could he succeed ? And there was not the slightest reason 
 for his wishing to harm me. 
 
 I hurriedly dressed. I pinned mother's letter inside the 
 waist of my gown ; it seemed to me like an amulet that 
 would help to keep evil from me. I had spent so much 
 time in reading that letter that it lacked but a few mo- 
 ments of the hour when we must leave the house for the 
 train, for we were to walk. I was glad there was no need 
 for me to wait. I could not linger a moment now before 
 I was on the way. 
 
 Mrs. Ridge had given Mr. Maverick a cup of coffee, 
 and he was now sipping it with as much an air of leisure 
 as if he were going to remain all day. The very sight of 
 him doing this made me impatient. I tried to drink my 
 own coffee, but I could not; and I could not eat, though 
 Mrs. Ridge remonstrated with me, and said it wasn't any 
 way to start on a journey and run the risk of being faint 
 the first thing. Mr. Maverick put down his cup and looked 
 at his watch, I was standing motionless by the window. 
 
"long live the king!" 205 
 
 I was obliged to hold myself rigidly quiet ; I did not wish 
 Mr. Maverick to think I was "nervous." 
 
 At last we stepped out of the door into the wind. Mr. 
 Maverick carried my satchel ; he said Miss Runciman 
 would send down for my trunk. The sunshine was very 
 bright; though the March winds were blowing, "heaven 
 had put on the blue of May." I was so thankful that the 
 sun shone. It is always a good omen to go out into sun- 
 light. 
 
 I remember with gratitude that Mr. Maverick did not 
 talk to me on the brief journey, and he let me sit in my 
 seat alone. There were very few passengers. My com- 
 panion sat behind me and read. I looked out of the win- 
 dow blindly. I was going to Miss Runciman. She would 
 perhaps make me sing, or she would not have sent for me. 
 I was both frightened and exhilarated. I was not trained 
 — I did not know how to sing or to act. 
 
 The landscape flew by the car ; before I had begun 
 to think it possible we were near our journey's end; the 
 houses grew more frequent ; there were big buildings with 
 verandas all about them, and in front, on arched signs, the 
 words, "Beer Garden." There seemed to me a great many 
 places where one might get lager beer. I wondered idly 
 about this. Then soon there were long rows of brick build- 
 ings standing; in what seemed to be desolate fields — the 
 city had not grown to them — and tumble -down shanties 
 and goats ; and then the train shot into a long, dark tun- 
 nel, the lights in the cars burned dimly and shed strange 
 gleams on the faces of the passengers. There were many 
 more people in the cars now, and presently they began 
 to move, to draw their wraps about them, to take down 
 bundles from the racks, and to talk about friends who were 
 to meet them. 
 
206 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 Mr. Maverick took my satchel ; he helped me put on my 
 jacket ; then he drew on his own overcoat. But he would 
 not hurry when the train stopped. I noticed that, among 
 the men and women who crowded by, several looked at my 
 companion, then glanced again, and one said : " It's the 
 singer — it's Maverick. You ought to hear him as Lohen- 
 grin — magnificent !" 
 
 Mr. Maverick heard the words, too, I was sure, for I 
 saw him smile slightly under his mustache, and a gleam of 
 gratification came to his eyes. Then we also left the car, 
 and my escort made me take his arm as we walked through 
 the long station. He signalled imperatively to one car- 
 riage-driver and motioned the others away. In a moment I 
 was on the seat of a close carriage, Mr. Maverick was sit- 
 ting opposite me, and we were going rapidly, in and out, 
 among a thousand other vehicles; the city was roaring all 
 around us; I was in New York. 
 
 "You were never here before?" Mr. Maverick leaned 
 very near me that I might hear what he said ; and he smiled 
 right into my eyes, in a curious way, that struck me even 
 then. 
 
 " Oh no," I answered. " But, then, I've never been any- 
 where — only to Mount Holyoke," and I laughed excitedly. 
 
 He laughed also, with a kind of good comradeship that 
 was delightful. He talked with me now and then, for the 
 drive lasted more than a quarter of an hour. I thought we 
 must come to the end of New York very soon. Mr. Maver- 
 ick's manner was not in the least condescending; it had a 
 genial deference and half-veiled admiration which made him 
 charming. I felt that he was not bored by being with an 
 ignorant girl. 
 
 At last we turned away from the noise and crowd of 
 Broadway — Mr. Maverick said it was Broadway — into a 
 
"long live the king!" 207 
 
 still wider thoroughfare, where it was almost quiet, arid 
 where the brown houses stood tall on each side. Then we 
 stopped at a taller, larger building than the others. The 
 carriage door was banged open. We entered a beautiful 
 room, where there seemed no effect of roof, it was up so 
 high. There were pictures on panels, a half-light, a half- 
 sound of I know not what. 
 
 People moving, some of them bowing and smiling to Mr. 
 Maverick and just glancing at me. But w r e did not linger 
 here. We entered an elevator and stepped out into an 
 upper hall, only less grand than the place we had left. 
 My companion knocked at a door, which was immediately 
 opened by Bathsheba Hildreth, who reached forward, took 
 my hand, and pulled me in quickly, kissing me and saying : 
 
 " Howdy, Billy ? So you've come, have you ?" 
 
 Bashy' s face was pale and tired ; there were dark circles 
 under her eyes, but she seemed alert and bright. She was 
 dressed in a gay, soft wool wrapper, which swept about on 
 the thick carpet. She just nodded to Mr. Maverick, who 
 said he hoped that Miss Runciman had not gone out. Be- 
 fore Bashy could reply Miss Runciman herself came from 
 a connecting room. As she came forward Mr. Maverick 
 bowed and went away. Miss Runciman kissed me, then 
 she stepped back and looked intently at me. She also had 
 dark circles under her eyes, and she was pallid. 
 
 " Well ?" she said, interrogatively. " Have you worked ?" 
 
 I could truthfully say I had worked, and I added, " But I 
 don't know whether I do well or not." 
 
 "Oh, aunt, Billy's one of the conscientious kind, isn't 
 she ?" remarked Bashy. " Why don't you tell her what the 
 Signor says about her ?" The Signor was my singing-master. 
 
 " He says he is proud of you," said Miss Runciman, 
 promptly. 
 
2 o8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 "Oh, does he?" I exclaimed, feeling my cheeks flush. 
 "He never praises me — he has told me that my singing 
 was not entirely execrable." 
 
 Bashy laughed. 
 
 "That's like him. He was afraid you'd relax your ef- 
 forts." 
 
 "When you have rested 111 try your voice," said Miss 
 Runciman. 
 
 I sat down in one of the big soft chairs that seemed to 
 embrace me. Bashy sat down near, and clasped her hands 
 over her head, questioning me. I did not know why it was, 
 but I felt a sense of disappointment. But what had I ex- 
 pected? I could hardly bring my mind to listen to the 
 girl who was asking me this and that. I replied so me- 
 chanically that she suddenly inquired where I was. Then 
 I roused myself. I felt mother's letter in my gown. A ;'• t- 
 ing wish that I had given up all this and gone home came 
 to me. I heard Bashy say that her brother was rubbing up 
 his voice again ; it had become rusty. " But it's better 
 than ever now," she asserted, " and sometimes he walks a 
 bit with only a cane." She did not say where he was, and 
 I did not ask. I wondered if he had told about coming to 
 the Holloway house ; and for fear he had not done so, and 
 that it should be discovered as if it had been a secret, I 
 said : 
 
 " It was very kind of Mr. Hildreth to come out to see 
 how I was getting on." 
 
 " Mercy !" exclaimed Bashy. " You don't mean that Vane 
 has been to Lally's Falls ?" 
 
 "Yes," I answered, boldly, "and I thought it was so kind 
 of him." Bashy turned. 
 
 "Aunt Nora," she called, "Vane has been to Lally's 
 Falls to see Billy." 
 
•"LONG LIVE THE KING!" 200, 
 
 ■•Has he?" in an indifferent tone, but I thought that 
 Miss Runciman gave me a quick glance. 
 
 •■ Yes. and how odd that he didn't mention the fact?*' 
 
 Here Bashy contemplated me with open curiosity, as I 
 remarked that he probably had not thought of his visit. 
 Bashv girled. " Not thought of it !" she exclaimed. 
 '"Pray how long was he there?" 
 
 "Really, I can't remember just now," I replied. 
 
 ■• More than one day ?" 
 
 ••Yes." 
 
 " "More than two days ?" 
 
 i; Ohyes." 
 
 Mercy ! Aunt Xora,' ? turning again, :i Billy thinks Vane 
 was at Lallv's Falls more than two days." 
 
 "Very well,*' with the same indifference. 
 
 " Hasn't he been secret about it, though ? Was he there 
 a week ?" 
 
 -Yes." 
 
 Bashy glanced apprehensively at her aunt, who was at 
 some distance in the large room. 
 
 •• Xow. I want to know one thing," she went on in a whis- 
 per, ; " and you might just as well tell me as not. Did Yane 
 make love to you there ?" 
 
 I was somewhat prepared for the question, so I laughed 
 and answered, " Find out, if you can," and then I felt very 
 flippant, and quite ashamed of myself. I would not have 
 replied in that way if I had supposed there had been real 
 seriousness in Vane's "love-making." 
 
 •• Certainly I shall find out," she responded, and I thought 
 she was going to say something about her brother's tenden- 
 cies in the direction of making love to different women. 
 But she did not. She sat gazing seriously before her and 
 kept silent. 
 
2io IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 The next night the Runciman Opera Company began 
 their season in New York. They began with La Sonnam- 
 bula, and Miss Runciman commanded me to sit in a box 
 and watch and listen. She said that I must sit in the rear 
 of the box, and that I must keep behind backs. There 
 were two older women who occupied the box with me. I 
 obeyed. I sat behind backs, but I saw and heard every- 
 thing. It was my first opera. I heard Mr. Maverick, and 
 Bashy, and Leonora Runciman. On the whole, I have de- 
 cided not to try to tell what that first evening was to me, 
 knowing how I should fail in the attempt. I was cold and 
 prostrated at the end of it. When I was sitting with Bashy 
 and her aunt in the carriage later I did not wish to speak. 
 Miss Runciman, when we reached her rooms at the hotel, 
 drew me towards her. She looked at me keenly. 
 
 " I don't want any of your praises," she said, " but what 
 is your criticism of me ? You'll tell the truth, because you 
 can't help it. Your criticism ?" I hesitated. This woman 
 had carried me to heights I had never dreamed of — she 
 had made me live within the last few hours. "Your criti- 
 cism ?" she repeated, harshly. 
 
 I opened my lips — she was actually pale as she waited. 
 It was very hard for me to say what I did say. 
 
 " Sometimes your voice seemed to be — to have — oh, a 
 kind of thread in it — your breath trembled across some- 
 thing — oh, you make me tell it !" 
 
 " Certainly I make you tell it." 
 
 Miss Runciman turned away and sat down. She put a 
 hand up across her eyes. I followed her and stood close 
 beside her. I was suffering with her. At first she did not 
 seem to notice me. I heard her say to herself : " I knew 
 it ! I knew it !" 
 
 After a moment I whispered : " Why did you make me 
 
"LONG LIVE THE KING!" 211 
 
 tell you ? Oh, I don't want to say it ! and you were glori- 
 ous, magnificent — I can't tell how you affected me. I did 
 not know I could feel so much !" 
 
 Miss Runciman tried to smile. She looked up at me. 
 "My little Yankee girl," she said, softly, "you enjoyed, 
 and thrilled, and criticised at the same time. I'll wager 
 you caught every false note, every untrue phrasing there 
 was perpetrated through the whole opera. I knew your 
 ear was marvellously accurate, and your judgment is unvi- 
 tiated. You are to hear opera in the back of that box 
 every night this week. Every morning the Signor is to 
 drill you in Trovatore. Are you brave ? Are you going to 
 shrink ?" 
 
 I said I was brave, and I was not going to shrink. I did 
 not tremble ; I was tense. Give up trying to be a singer 
 because mother had fancies ? Miss Runciman smiled with 
 indescribable bitterness. 
 
 " If I ever relinquish my crown I give it to one whom I 
 have chosen," she said, not to me apparently. " But," 
 turning towards me, "you needn't expect that I can love 
 you. What king ever loves the heir- apparent ? I don't 
 mean to hate you, if I can help it, and perhaps you'll 
 fail." 
 
 A fire seemed to go through my very bones. I stiffened 
 myself straight. "No," I said, fiercely, "I shall not 
 fail." 
 
 Miss Runciman's eyes shot a swift glance of interroga- 
 tion. ' Not fail?" She rose quickly. 
 
 " I am the count," she exclaimed, " you are Leonora. 
 You know the scene." She sang : 
 
 "My whole desire is for vengeance. Go!" 
 She made a gesture of command, and drew back as I 
 
212 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 dropped on my knees at her feet. I burst out into that 
 agonized appeal of Leonora's : 
 
 "Witness the tears of agony 
 Here, at thy feet, now raining." 
 
 How old and time-worn the solo seems to me as I write, 
 but it still moves me, it always will move me as long as I 
 have ears to hear it. I sang it now with a very passion of 
 appeal. I gave myself up to its anguished supplication, 
 but I was conscious every instant of something in me that 
 governed every note of my voice, every enunciation. After- 
 wards I was told that that something was the "artistic 
 sense." Possibly it was ; I know it was something that I 
 was obliged to obey as a boat obeys the rudder. 'While I 
 gave myself up, I yet controlled myself. I forgot to won- 
 der whether my listener would approve. She had drawn 
 further away, and was standing with her hands resting on 
 the back of a chair, gazing down at me. 
 
 "But spare the Troubadour!" 
 
 I sang, and I knew that my heart had gone into the words. 
 I rose to my feet. I pressed my hands on my bosom, and 
 I felt there my mother's letter. Miss Runciman did not 
 move ; she stood looking at me over the chair. When she 
 spoke she used the same words she had used on that early 
 morning when the gale had blown against the house carriage 
 on the Massachusetts coast: "The king is dead; long live 
 the king !" 
 
 After a moment she added, " I am satisfied with you. 
 You will have some technicalities to overcome — you may 
 seem fresher to jaded- opera-goers if you never overcome 
 them. I'm sure you have the essentials. And you are 
 
"long live the king! 213 
 
 new. and young — young! Now go. I hope I shall not 
 hate you. It would be wicked in me to hate a girl with a 
 violin face — the very girl I selected. Why don't you go ?" 
 A great wave of pity had come over me. I obeyed the 
 impulse that urged me to go to the woman and put my arms 
 about her neck. " Oh, forgive me ! ! ' I whispered. 
 
XIII 
 
 " FAREWELL, LEONORA " 
 
 The week passed so quickly that I was bewildered. 
 Every morning at eleven I went to the Signor, who scolded 
 and scolded, and drilled and drilled, and always it was 
 Leonora. He never praised. Rarely he would say, " Not 
 quite execrable." I felt that I was getting so that I did 
 not know anything clearly. I have never been certain 
 that those mornings with the Signor were of benefit to me; 
 they gave me such a conviction that I was more of a machine 
 than anything else. But I used to recall what I had been 
 told in the last summer : " First be as accurate as a 
 machine/' So I submitted, on the whole, gladly. Every 
 evening I was in the rear of that box at the theatre listen- 
 ing and watching — ah, how I did listen and watch ! I found 
 that Bathsheba, though an unreliable singer, was frequently 
 a very telling one, and that she had many admirers. Mav- 
 erick sang superbly, but there were moments when his voice 
 showed how much he had used it, and when he did not 
 quite rise to the occasion. His stage presence, however, 
 always had the effect of great and magnificent success, and 
 was confusing to one not versed in the technicalities of 
 vocal performance. 
 
 As for me, you may be sure I was screwed up to a pitch 
 where everything vibrated across my nerves. But I had 
 never felt so strong in my life, nor so capable of accom- 
 plishing whatever I should undertake. 
 
" FAREWELL, LEONORA " 215 
 
 Tl Trovatore was announced for the Monday night fol- 
 lowing this week, and of course Miss Runciman was ad- 
 vertised as the Leonora. On that afternoon she ordered 
 a rehearsal of the whole thing, an order that was obeyed 
 with some grumbling, as the company had been playing the 
 opera in every city where it had stopped through the win- 
 ter. Miss Runciman came to me as soon as we had left 
 the dining-room of the hotel. 
 
 " You are to rehearse in my place this afternoon," she 
 said. I bent my head. It was my duty to obey. 
 
 "And now I wish you to listen to what I tell you: You 
 are not to sing out fully; go through everything so that the 
 rest of them will not know how you can sing. That's my 
 whim. Will you do so ?" 
 
 Again I assented. 
 
 " You may be called upon suddenly to take my place. I 
 may have a cold— a sore throat — a fever — the cholera' 1 — 
 here the speaker paused to laugh with the bitterness which 
 was often in her manner of late.- "You are summoned. 
 You do as well as you can in the emergency. It is also my 
 whim to have you do this. That is all. No — come back." 
 
 I returned. 
 
 " Are you afraid ?" 
 
 " Yes, I am afraid — but I mean to do the best I can, all 
 the same." 
 
 I knew that my voice trembled as I spoke. Miss Runci- 
 man's eyes, somewhat hard, were fixed on my face as she 
 asked, carelessly : 
 
 " Have you ever told me what you think of Mr. Maver- 
 ick ?" 
 
 I don't know precisely what I replied. Something in the 
 woman's manner confused and perplexed me. She walked 
 away and I left the room. 
 
2l6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 On the Monday evening I was in Miss Runciman's dress- 
 ing-room at the theatre. She turned me about and exam- 
 ined me. Then she bade Bashy, who was with us, pencil 
 my brows, and " bring out my eyes " more. I submitted, 
 but I was rebellious inwardly. I did refuse to have the 
 carmine put on my lips, but I am not aware of the reason 
 why I drew a line there. 
 
 I had passed through the rehearsal — how, I did not know. 
 The members of the troupe had been curious, but had not 
 snubbed me very much. Oddly enough the person who 
 seemed to despise me unspeakably was Leonora's attendant, 
 Inez. All of us rather walked through our parts, so that 
 my very inadequate singing was not peculiar, but we per- 
 formed the stage business. 
 
 And now it was evening. Miss Runciman again drew 
 me to one side. The opera had already begun. Ferrando 
 and the soldiers w r ere on the stage. We could hear them 
 singing, and tramping back and forth. It would require 
 some time for Ferrando to relate the story of the gypsy. 
 Bashy was in the garb of Azucena, her face a dark brown, 
 big rings in her ears, a gay but dingy costume making her 
 picturesque. 
 
 In a lull, from where we now stood, I could detect the 
 occasional clatter of seats swung down for late comers. 
 All through the air w r as that peculiar odor of cigar smoke 
 and perfume and brandy and coffee which pervades be- 
 hind the scenes. Perhaps it was not brandy, but it smelled 
 like it. Miss Runciman herself frequently drank a cup of 
 scalding hot bouillon when she came from a particularly 
 exhausting scene. 
 
 "You are to stay where you'll see and hear me all the 
 time," she said. "I mean to sing my part until Act II. 
 Then, without any announcement, you will fill my place in 
 
" FAREWELL, LEONORA " 217 
 
 the cloister of the convent. You are about to take the veil. 
 You know the whole. From that to the end it is you who 
 are Leonora. Now let us see what the public will say. Are 
 you calm ? I mean, are you so excited that you are calm ?"' 
 
 She put her finger on my cold wrist. I don't know how 
 the pulse beat there, but she smiled. I obeyed her to the 
 letter. I had never heard her sing so divinely, or seen her 
 act so magnificently. How she sang that first solo ! — and 
 the warmth, the ardent sadness of the "Of love like this!'' 
 A blackness came over me at thought that I was to go on 
 after her. The audience applauded vigorously— again and 
 again. Bouquets came — she bowed and bowed. I could 
 see her eyes shine with triumph. Perhaps she would change 
 her mind and continue through the opera. But no. She 
 was at my side at the moment. I was strung on steel. 
 The Count had given his " Oh, fatal hour !" The nuns 
 were singing within the convent. I had on the white gown 
 and veil. I was sorry it was Inez who was my companion. 
 The voices of the nuns ceased. Miss Runciman was still 
 with me in what seemed, from the audience, to be the con- 
 vent. 
 
 " Courage !" she whispered. I moved forward, the attend- 
 ant Inez a pace in the rear. She seemed to be shedding 
 tears. Again I heard Miss Runciman whisper sharply, 
 " Courage !" 
 
 Inez and I went down the convent steps on to the stage. 
 I turned towards her and sang, "Why art thou weeping?" 
 There is very little in this question. I had hoped I 
 should not be in the least aware of the audience ; I had 
 hoped that the glare of the footlights would make a wall 
 of fire between me and the people beyond. Inez sang her 
 answer. Then I went on. I was conscious of a stir and 
 rustle in the semi-darkness where the crowd sat. But when 
 
2l8 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the Count " enters suddenly," I forgot the people, as I 
 had wished to do. 
 
 When Maverick as Manrico led me off the stage and 
 the curtain went down, I became aware that there was 
 a curious and perplexed hesitancy beyond that curtain. 
 Maverick retained my hand and kissed it warmly. But 
 before he could speak there came a thunderous sound be- 
 yond. It continued. 
 
 "We must go," he whispered. Then he led me outside. 
 The lights were up now — there was one great flame before 
 my eyes, and in that flame I saw what seemed to be thou- 
 sands, but what were really only a few score opera-glasses 
 levelled at me. 
 
 " Bow — bow deeply !" said my companion. 
 
 I did so. 
 
 "Again — again !" 
 
 I obeyed. Bashy had drilled me in that profound cour- 
 tesy, but I was aware that I did it very awkwardly. 
 
 Something came sweeping from one of the boxes at my 
 left. I saw a woman fling it — it was a bunch of red roses 
 that she had been holding. Maverick picked up the flow- 
 ers and presented them to me deferentially. I felt so 
 wretched all at once that it seemed as if I should never 
 get back behind the curtain without tumbling over my 
 white train. But my companion caught up the trailing 
 folds of the gown in which I had been about to become 
 the bride of the Church. 
 
 " I cannot tell you how I congratulate you," he said 
 in an undertone, and he looked at me with a lingering 
 glance. I hurried to Miss Runciman's dressing - room. 
 She sat there alone, with a fur cloak wrapped about her. 
 She was ghastly white, and not by reason of powder, I 
 thought. 
 
FAREWELL, LEONORA 
 
 219 
 
 " I heard them," she said. I put the bunch of roses on 
 the table among the rouge and paints. 
 
 "And I heard and saw you," she went on. "You com- 
 mitted a dozen solecisms, but you sang — oh yes, you 
 sang." I could make no response. I was beginning to 
 feel the reaction. 
 
 " Pull off that gown, put on a wrapper, and lie on the 
 couch there, or the next scene will kill you. You know it's 
 Azucena's turn now." 
 
 I was glad enough to do as she bid me. I stretched my- 
 self out on the couch and lay motionless. After a while I 
 was able to draw a deep breath and to relax somewhat. 
 But I could not really rest — until the work was done. Miss 
 Runciman did not speak again, and I began to go over and 
 over in my mind what I had yet to do. 
 
 In recalling that night my memory now goes straight to 
 what happened later. You will remember that Leonora's 
 next appearance is in the tower scene. In a clinging black 
 gown, with a cloak about me, I enter with Ruiz. I must 
 have sung "On rosy wings of love" with more or less of 
 a mechanical effort, for I cannot remember anything about 
 it. I only know that I must have sung it, and that I ought 
 to have made much of it. It has gone out of my mind, 
 perhaps, because of what occurred after. 
 
 When Manrico in the tower began to sing, my pulses 
 leaped and then would not go on — at least, I thought that 
 they would not go on. I gasped in that first intent moment 
 of listening. It was not Maverick singing there invisibly. 
 It was that voice which somebody had said was like the 
 odor of the jasmine. When it had finished singing "Fare- 
 well, love ; farewell, Leonora," there was no acting at all 
 in my wailing forth that "faintness o'erpowers me." 
 
 If the singing of the chorus within had not given me a 
 
220 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 little time, I could not have gone on with my part; but 
 somehow I did go on with it, and then came the long-famous 
 solo of Manrico in the tower. My very heart was drawn 
 out of me — that is a figure of speech that but poorly hints 
 at the emotion I felt as I knelt there in my black gown, 
 alone in the middle of the darkened stage, and listened to 
 Vane Hildreth — for it was Vane who was singing to me, 
 calling me his love, and bidding me farewell. I wonder 
 if that solo has ever been sung with a more solemn and 
 passionate fervor. I was young and unsophisticated ; per- 
 haps now I would not feel as I did then, but my soul was 
 in my tones as I burst out, " Can I forget ?" And then at 
 the end the audience literally rose at us. We had to do 
 it all over again. I saw the white handkerchiefs waving, I 
 heard the applause, and I remember but hazily how I per- 
 formed my part with the Count. The next thing that stands 
 out distinctly is my walking uncertainly off the stage after 
 my compact with Di Luna, and at the wing a man catching 
 my hands and drawing me to him. 
 
 Vane was in his ordinary dress. He stood there waiting 
 for me. He pulled me back into the dusk, saying as he did 
 so, sharply and huskily : 
 
 " How much do you think I can bear ?" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean," I answered, breathlessly. 
 
 "Don't know! Did you fancy I could let that cursed 
 Maverick sing the tower song to you ? Dear Billy ! Dear- 
 est ! Don't you love me any ? Not any ? Oh, my darling ! 
 My darling!" He kissed me, and I clung to him. I must 
 have clung to him, for the next instant I started away with 
 a sensation of fright at what I had done. His face in the 
 gloom where we stood was brilliant enough to have illu- 
 minated the dusk. 
 
 " Dearest !" he murmured again. 
 
" FAREWELL, LEONORA " 221 
 
 " Where is Mr. Maverick ?" I asked, quickly. " How did 
 you keep him away ?" Vane laughed slightly. 
 
 " Oh, he was detained ; I arranged that, and then I ran 
 up the steps to that grating in the tower ; and when I began 
 to sing he couldn't very well help himself. He'll have to 
 finish, though— he'll be singing in the cell with Bashy in a 
 few minutes. I suppose he'll want to cut my throat. But 
 he can't do it. To think that I couldn't sing with you first ! 
 Bashy told me that you were going to take Aunt Nora's 
 place, and then I thought I'd play a small trick myself, and 
 Bashy helped me. Bashy' s a trump, anyway. Let me put 
 you into the carriage when the thing is done. There, they re 
 at it in the cell. Hear Maverick ! Oh, he must be furi- 
 ous ! But no matter if he is." 
 
 " I must go," I said the next moment. I wanted to get 
 away from him, and from myself. Vane held my hand 
 tightly ; two " supes " hurried by us. When they had gone 
 Vane said : 
 
 " Yes, I know you must go. You must rest for the last 
 scene. But— dear Billy — you love me ?" 
 
 " Yes, I love you." 
 
 It was said; and now I wondered that I had not said it 
 before. Vane's eyes flashed a soft fire ; his whole aspect 
 was so eager, so intense, that I drew away from him, whis- 
 pering swiftly : 
 
 " Some one will come. I must go." I darted down a 
 dim alley, and the next moment I was in Miss Runciman's 
 dressing-room. She was in street costume now, and was 
 sitting back in a large chair. 
 
 The sight of her brought to me as in a vivid bar of light 
 the recollection of what she had said about Vane's ten- 
 dency to fall in love, and now he fancied he was in love 
 with me. I became suddenly cold. I sank down on the 
 
22 2 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 lounge, and hoped that she would not speak. But she did 
 speak. 
 
 " How happened Vane to sing, then ?" 
 
 She put the question abruptly and sternly. It did not 
 seem quite truthful to say I did not know. 
 
 I began : " He said he wanted to sing with — with me." 
 
 "It was unwarrantable !" she exclaimed. "I shall tell 
 him so. And I'm sorry he is amusing himself with you. 
 He always has such a way of seeming in earnest." She 
 said no more. 
 
 I turned my head aside. As I sat there in the dressing- 
 room, in the midst of paint and powder and silken and 
 velvet garments, recalling Vane's words and glances, there 
 suddenly unrolled before me, with absolute clearness, the 
 picture of the farm-house at home — the sunlight upon the 
 river path and the orchard, and myself kneeling by mother's 
 side. I heard her saying: " The Lord will come on pillars 
 of white fire." 
 
 I wanted to put my hands over my face and sob. You 
 will not wonder that I was excited. 
 
 "It is time for you to get ready to go on," said Miss 
 Runciman, coldly. "You must be a ghastly, blue white. 
 Come here and I will make you up." 
 
 The next day Bashy spent an hour in looking through the 
 morning papers for criticisms. She made merry over them. 
 She read me brief extracts. One critic said I could not 
 sing, but might learn to act ; another that I could not act, 
 but might learn to sing; and so on. In one thing all the 
 papers were unanimous ; that I was a novice who must 
 study a long time if I wished to be a real prima donna, and 
 one writer had the kindness to say that "though the public 
 must regret the severe and sudden illness of Miss Runci- 
 man, the public was grateful that she had had so promising 
 
" FAREWELL, LEONORA " 22$ 
 
 a protegee to put forward last evening." Then followed a 
 tale about my having been found by the prima donna play- 
 ing a tambourine and singing in a Southern city. I took 
 the paper to Miss Runciman and asked her if she would 
 contradict some things. 
 
 " Why should I ?" she responded. 
 
 " Because they are not true," I answered, hotly. " And 
 you were not ill last night." 
 
 "I don't think I'll contradict," she said. 
 
 "But they're not true." As I spoke these words again 
 my companion's face, turned towards me, showed an in- 
 tense dislike. I shrank away a little. Did she really dis- 
 like me ? Was she tired of her whim ? 
 
 " No," she went on, " I'll not try to make any change in 
 the story, since it was I who gave it to the reporter." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 " Certainly. The dear public, for some reason, seem to 
 prefer that an opera singer should first have been a tam- 
 bourine girl. It is a favorite notion. Now, Billy, do you 
 want to hear a few truths ?" 
 
 I did not answer. I stood gazing at my companion, who, 
 somehow, seemed to be some one else, and not the woman 
 who had come to my home and taken a fancy that she 
 would have me taught to sing. 
 
 "They say," she went on, after a moment, " that truths are 
 always salutary, even if not pleasant; that's why I don't 
 like them. Perhaps you think, because the audience ap- 
 plauded you last night, that you are already a diva. Well, 
 you are not. The people were surprised into applause be- 
 cause you are young and new ; and you did sing well part 
 of the time. Yes, you have a voice, and dramatic instincts. 
 If you will go abroad and study four or five years, say with 
 Marchesi, you may become a prima donna. But in five 
 
224 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 years, since you are now almost twenty-four, you will be 
 quite an old lady. I've been thinking over things. I'm 
 not going to give up yet. I shall sing to-night. The 
 chances are that the next time you were heard the audience 
 wouldn't raise a hand in applause. But you may try it, if 
 you choose. We give // Trovatore next week. I'll let you 
 take Leonora if you wish." 
 
 As she ceased speaking Miss Runciman reached forward 
 and took up a paper, running her eyes over the columns, as 
 if my decision as regarded Leonora was of no special mo- 
 ment to her. I stood there trying to speak. She was tired 
 of me ; she was sorry that she had ever meddled with me. 
 She had told the truth when she had announced herself 
 as a woman of whims. Why is it that you always believe 
 that, though others may be the object of a fickle notice, 
 you may not be ? There is something in you that will 
 make interest permanent? I did not know I had felt thus, 
 but I know it now. 
 
 At last I gave up the attempt to find any words. I turned 
 away and walked to the door. There I paused. I remem- 
 bered that Miss Runciman had spent what seemed to my 
 mind a great deal of money upon me. I went back to my 
 former position in front of her. She looked up. 
 
 " Well ?" she said. 
 
 " I think my father will pay you back — " I began abruptly. 
 I was burning with anger now, and I could hardly speak 
 steadily. She made no reply. Her eyes returned to her 
 paper. In the face of this silence I could not say anything 
 more. But I did stammer out something to the effect that 
 perhaps I could earn the money myself in time. Then I 
 left the room. In half an hour more I was stepping into 
 the elevator with my satchel in my hand, my hat and jacket 
 on. Bashy was just stepping out, having come in from 
 
FAREWELL, LEONORA 2 2 
 
 3 
 
 the street. She glanced at me, then turned and resumed 
 her place. 
 
 " Have you killed anybody ?" she asked in a whisper as 
 we began to slide downward. I shook my head. 
 
 -What, then? 1 ' 
 
 •• I'm going home." 
 
 She gazed at me in silence for an instant, then she 
 gripped my hand and exclaimed : 
 
 •• I knew Aunt Xora could not stand it !" 
 
 " Street floor !" announced the boy. 
 
 We walked to the entrance. 
 
 ' ; Couldn't stand what ?"" I managed to ask. 
 
 " The promise of your being a better singer than she ever 
 was. Oh, dear ! I'm so sorry ! But it was sure to come. 
 The fact is, the person who depends upon Aunt Xora is — 
 well, is lost. And she begins so sincerely, and is just love- 
 Iv. Are you going to take a street-car? I'll go to the sta- 
 tion with you." 
 
 In the car Bashy sat by me, and I forgot that I had not 
 at first received a good impression of her, and had thought 
 her sharp teeth looked ready to bite. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," she said two or three times. "Do 
 you know," speaking into my ear as the car clanged on, " I 
 couldn't do it myself, but I've been glad to have some one 
 along who wouldn't drink nor smoke a cigarette, and who 
 insisted upon telling the truth, and who " — here a jolt, and I 
 lost her words ; the next I heard was : " I guess I've for- 
 gotten that I ever lived in the country and breathed pure 
 air." 
 
 At the station I found I should have to wait an hour and 
 a half. At first Bashy proposed to wait with me, but this 
 soon proved too much for her. She insisted upon knowing 
 how much money I had. We found that, after buying my 
 
22 6 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 ticket, there would be sixty-five cents left. She turned the 
 contents of her own purse into her lap and discovered that 
 there was enough to purchase the ticket, and she walked 
 off to procure it without heeding my remonstrance. 
 
 "You'll want a bit left in your pocket/' she said. Then 
 she kissed me, repeated that she was awfully sorry, and left 
 me. In a moment more she had returned and had asked : 
 
 " How about Vane ?" I tried to meet her eyes and failed. 
 I could not answer. 
 
 " Very well," she said, as if I had answered. 
 
 This time she did not return. When she was really gone 
 I bethought me that I ought to have made her promise 
 that she would not tell her brother that I was sitting an 
 hour and a half in the Grand Central Station. Having 
 thought that, I fell to watching the people who were con- 
 tinually coming in, wondering if one of them would be 
 Vane Hildreth. I did this in spite of a strenuous resolu- 
 tion not to do so. 
 
 I hoped that he would not come — hoped so most earnest- 
 ly, and yet, when the moments had gone on to the limit of 
 an hour, I was very unhappy. It was useless to reason that 
 he could not have more than time enough to reach the sta- 
 tion if he should start the very moment his sister could in- 
 form him. It seemed to me a curious thing that, though 
 I would surely have prevented him from meeting me here, 
 I was yet longing for him to come. 
 
 The never-ceasing stream of men and women finally 
 seemed like a blurred line before my eyes. I could look at 
 them no longer. And now I might take my place in the 
 train. Shall I confess that I waited until the very last mo- 
 ment, and then I hurried along and sank down upon a seat 
 in the end of a car ? I sat there rigidly upright, my satchel 
 upon my knees. I fancied that I felt like an old woman 
 
" FAREWELL, LEONORA " 227 
 
 whose dream of life is over. I was going home to live as 
 I had always thought I never could live. Perhaps I should 
 become like Rachel Cobb ; perhaps I should learn to visit 
 half my time, and to carry about a much-rubbed leather 
 bag, and wear eye-glasses. 
 
 And there was mother; I was going home to her. My 
 heart was so sore that I could not think of mother without 
 tears. I resolutely wiped the drops from my face and tried 
 to sit even more rigidly straight. 
 
 I heard a man outside shout : 
 
 " 'Board T 
 
 Two or three late-comers darted up the steps ; the train 
 gave a slight hitch. A man who had been sitting with a 
 woman in front of me kissed her hurriedly, passed through 
 the door, and I saw him let himself down to the platform, 
 lurching forward as he dropped. We had started. I was 
 holding the handle of my bag with a grip that made my 
 hand stiff. Yes, everything was all over. Miss Runciman 
 was tired of me ; I could never learn to be a singer now ; 
 and Vane had not come. That was very well, indeed ; I 
 was so thankful that he had not come. Perhaps his sister 
 had not told him ; perhaps there had not been time ; per- 
 haps he had not cared to come. 
 
 Yes, it was very well, and just the way I would have 
 arranged the matter. I drew a long breath and tried to 
 look out of the window. The car door slammed close to 
 my seat ; the brakeman had come in and was walking down 
 the aisle. Then some one bent over me, and Vane said 
 close to my cheek : 
 
 " Thank Heaven !" 
 
 A sudden wave of delicious happiness went over me, 
 submerged me ! I had resolutely hoped, intellectually, as 
 they say, that he would not come ; I had done nothing to 
 
228 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 make him come; but here he was. I looked up at him for 
 one instant, not thinking at all what my face might tell 
 him. I suppose it did tell him something, for his eyes 
 suddenly blazed, his lips quivered as he whispered : 
 
 " My darling, you are glad I came, aren't you ?" 
 
 I could not make any sort of reply. I had never been so 
 happy in my life ; but I couldn't tell him that. My eyelids 
 fell, and I said nothing. Vane was leaning one hand on 
 the arm of my seat, the other was resting on his cane. He 
 had given up his crutches. 
 
 " If I had been one moment later I should have been 
 too late," he said. "I barely scrambled on to the last car. 
 Bashy told me ; she came right to me without losing an 
 instant. Bless Bashy, I say." 
 
 To this I made no reply. I still sat there quietly; but 
 now the light shone for me. I could not remember at such 
 a moment the things Miss Runciman had told me about 
 her nephew. I forgot how wretched I had been a moment 
 before. I knew that the wretchedness would come back 
 to me soon enough, but it was gone now. I was not feel- 
 ing a bit like a Puritan ; it was very foolish of Bashy to 
 call me a Puritan. Vane stood up and looked down the 
 car. My seat was the short one at the end; I had dropped 
 into it in my despair when I had entered the train. 
 
 In a moment Vane took my satchel and said : 
 
 " Come !" 
 
 I followed him, and we were soon established, sitting 
 side by side. I leaned up against the window and gazed 
 through it. We were silent for a time. Into my mind, like 
 a serpent, there had now stolen again the remembrance 
 of all Miss Runciman had told me concerning the man 
 who had just joined me. It was Vane who broke the 
 silence. 
 
"FAREWELL, LEONORA ,J 229 
 
 "Where are you going?" he asked. "Are you really 
 going home, as Bashy said ?" 
 
 ' ; Yes." 
 
 I could not turn towards him. I was trying to arrive 
 at some definite decision as to my course. I was afraid 
 that old simile about standing on the edge of a precipice 
 was in my mind. But, think as I would, and warn myself 
 as I would, I could not put this lovely happiness from me. 
 
 Vane sat with his elbow resting: on his knee, his face 
 turned my way. Apparently he was not in the least en- 
 deavoring to be warned in anv manner. His whole face 
 was luminous and satisfied. It was hard for me to meet 
 his gaze, and yet his eyes were seeking mine imperi- 
 ously. I could not have him talking of love, and he must 
 banish that expression from his face. I made a great ex- 
 ertion. 
 
 "Mr. Maverick was furious last night," I said. 
 
 "Very likely; but I don't wish to talk of Maverick." 
 
 " Oh, very well. Do you think it is likely to rain ?" 
 
 " Perhaps; but I'm not going to talk of the weather." 
 
 " Indeed ! Possibly your lordship will suggest a topic." 
 
 " Yes. I will. Dearest" — bending nearer — "I love vou 
 — I love you." 
 
 " But I'm not going to talk of love," lightly. 
 
 " Still, you'll listen to me when I talk of it, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " Certainly not. Just now I'm going to converse upon 
 the average rate of speed of passenger trains." 
 
 I laughed. Xo, notwithstanding all my reasoning, I could 
 not make my heart heavy. How could I imagine that the 
 stta was hidden when I was in its brightest, loveliest rays ? 
 VanV laughed, too. He drew himself up. 
 
 •■ I'll have my revenge some time," he answered. Then, 
 
230 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 with a seriousness which rather startled me, he asked : 
 " Did Aunt Nora send you away ?" 
 
 I related the particulars of my interview with Miss Run- 
 ciman. Vane looked more serious still. 
 
 " Leonora Runciman is a tiger," he said ; " all velvet 
 and claws. When she is velvet she is entirely charming ; 
 when she is claws she is — not charming. I've made up my 
 mind, after close observation, that she is perfectly sincere 
 in both phases. Naturally, people suffer from this com- 
 bination. She fully believed she could resign herself to 
 the fact that you would some day be a better singer than 
 she is. She thought that she would like the eclat of bring- 
 ing you out. But, after all, she couldn't bear it. And 
 there was Maverick. He admired you too much. Previ- 
 ously he had admired her. I don't mean she loves him — 
 I wonder if she loves any one ? But she has a sort of soft- 
 ness that makes you think she could love. She is one of 
 those women who yield to some tender emotion, or to pen- 
 itence, or that sort of thing, if she happens to feel inclined. 
 But who cares for the caress of a sheathed claw ? And she 
 has a way of making women like her— I don't know how 
 she does it. You liked her. And now, in a half-hour she'd 
 make you like her again. She has a kind of power of be- 
 witchment. I don't know what it is. And she can seem 
 so frank. She has moods of frankness and tenderness and 
 generosity. I've made up my mind that she doesn't feign. 
 For the time being she is genuine, therefore she is success- 
 ful — you trust her. If a poor creature ever turns upon her, 
 what do you think she says ? Why, that she had given fair 
 warning. Hadn't she told you that she was liable to 
 change her mind? Oh, my aunt Leonora is a person who 
 does exactly as she pleases. I once heard her say that God 
 had given us certain natures, and we were obliged to act 
 
" FAREWELL, LEONORA " 23 I 
 
 accordingly. There's something in that, too. When she 
 is through with the squeezed orange it is dropped. What, 
 Billy, are you taking all this so hard ?" — with a tender 
 glance. " But of course it hurts, and the worst of such an 
 experience is that it is likely to make you distrust where 
 you ought to believe." 
 
 " Yes," I said, bitterly, "it makes you distrust." 
 
 Vane gazed at me intently, a slight frown in his eyes. 
 . " Do you know," he said, " that you make me suspect 
 that you are going to distrust me ? Are you ?" 
 
 " I don't know," I answered, weakly. 
 
 It was impossible to meet his serious, impassioned looks. 
 I moved uneasily. I knew, or I thought I knew, that I 
 ought to doubt him. But in the very bottom of my heart I 
 felt the conviction that I believed in him absolutely. This 
 conviction at last made me turn impulsively towards him. 
 I put my hand on his arm. 
 
 "Vane," I said, tremulously, "I believe in you. Will 
 you be true to me ?" 
 
 The shining of a great glory came into his countenance. 
 I had never seen such a look on any face. And I thought 
 it would be a cruel injustice to remember again the things 
 Miss Runciman had said to me about this man. In the 
 emotion of that moment I wished that I could do something 
 to prove how sincerely I repented of the wrong I had done 
 my lover in my thoughts. For I accepted him as my lover ; 
 and now I liked to think that I had loved him that first 
 time I had seen him, when he had come up the path from 
 the falls at his aunt's bidding, and I had thought him 
 " foreign-looking." 
 
 He did not speak. At first it seemed that he could not. 
 And at the same moment I imagined that we both re- 
 called the fact that this was no place in which to allow a 
 
232 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 face to express too much. I turned quickly again to the 
 window and gazed blindly out, my pulses throbbing in 
 throat and temples. I heard my companion's whisper: 
 
 " My darling, my darling, I will be true to you — I couldn't 
 help being true !" 
 
XIV 
 
 ON THE TRAIN 
 
 There was a silence after these words. I would not 
 turn from the window. The train was now dashing on at a 
 great speed. It would be the whole day before we should 
 arrive at the town where I must leave the express for the 
 local train that would take me to the station nearest my 
 home ; and that nearest was a distance of several miles. 
 
 It had not occurred to me that Vane was not going the 
 entire distance ; and then I could present him to father 
 and mother. Of course they would like him. Here I stole 
 a furtive glance in his direction. Mother would not ap- 
 prove at first, perhaps ; but she would soon do so ; and 
 father — 
 
 Vane was looking at his watch. 
 
 "Only three hours more," he said, "for I can only go to 
 
 W Junction. There I catch an express back to New 
 
 York. If it were not for this express I don't know as I 
 could have allowed myself to come — now, and yet I might 
 have come. How could I have waited until my return 
 from England ?" 
 
 "Are you going to England?" To my country-bred 
 thought he might almost as well have said Africa or the 
 Himalayas. 
 
 "Yes, and that is one thing I wanted to tell you about. 
 A cable despatch yesterday — great chance for me — the 
 
234 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 greatest I have ever had. If I care to do anything in my 
 profession I must go and see Alford. You've heard of Al- 
 ford?" 
 
 I shook my head. I was trying to be quite calm, and to 
 behave like a reasonable being. 
 
 " He is a famous impresario. You advise me to go, 
 Billy ?" leaning towards me again. 
 
 "By all means," I answered. 
 
 "I knew you would. It's the best thing that has ever 
 happened in my work. But I may have to be gone a year — " 
 
 At this I folded my hands ; and once more I made the 
 effort to keep them loosely clasped. 
 
 " Dear Billy " — this in a sudden, quick whisper and with 
 an apparently uncontrollable movement nearer to me. 
 " Dearest, if you could — if you would only go with me !" 
 
 "No— no." 
 
 " Don't decide in a moment like that," hurriedly. " It's 
 dreadful to hear you say 'No ' in that manner. I — " 
 
 A tall man in a clerical coat came down the aisle, glanced 
 at us, then stopped and shook hands cordially with Vane. 
 He looked my way. 
 
 " I wish you'd present me, Hildreth. I heard this young 
 lady sing last night. I was one of those who applauded 
 her." 
 
 The gentleman smiled genially as he gazed in my face. 
 Vane named a name I had heard as belonging to a cler- 
 gyman who was well known as a great lover of music. 
 Bathsheba had said once that we were sure of one listener, 
 anyway, and that was Mr. Moreton. 
 
 The gentleman stood and chatted a few moments. He 
 
 said he was taking a run to YV Junction ; he went every 
 
 month to pay a little visit to his mother. " Very glad, in- 
 deed, to have seen you, Miss Armstrong. Let me urge you 
 
OX THE TRAIN 235 
 
 to study for the profession that has so plainly called you. 
 Really, I could not bear to think the world was going to 
 lose your voice. I'm in the drawing-room car, back here. 
 Perhaps I'll see you again. This is good luck, indeed." 
 He lifted his hat and sauntered on. Vane sat with his 
 head bent upon his hand. I stole a look at his profile, and 
 saw how set and severe it was. He seemed to be thinking 
 intently. As for me, I had enough to do to bear myself 
 calmly. 
 
 At length Vane raised his head. I was half afraid of his 
 eyes, and I did not meet them. He put his arm on the back 
 of the seat, and his hand up to make a sort of shield for his 
 face. 
 
 " Vou said you loved me," he whispered. 
 
 " Yes," I answered in the same way. 
 
 " And you trust me, and believe in me ?" 
 
 ••Yes/' 
 
 If he only knew how fully, in the revulsion from doubt, I 
 did trust him ! 
 
 " Bless you for that ! Oh. bless you for that ! Xow don't 
 be shocked and don't shrink at what I'm going to say. I 
 want you to go with me to Mr. Moreton's car and let him 
 marry us — now, this very hour." 
 
 I did shrink, and at first I could not speak. Then I said 
 
 "No." 
 
 Vane drew a deep breath and appeared to be trying to 
 possess his soul in patience. 
 
 "I thought you loved and trusted me," he said. 
 
 " So I do— so I do," fervently. 
 
 " And you're going to marry me some day ?" 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 " You are certainly going to be my wife. Xow here is 
 Providence — or chance — sending Mr. Moreton right to 
 
236 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 us. Why do you object ? Don't you think I love you 
 enough ?" 
 
 I did not answer this last question. I was thinking of 
 mother, and that I could not — no, I could not go away from 
 her in such a manner. As soon as I was able to command 
 my voice I told him this ; and that it was not because I did 
 not love him. He must wait. 
 
 " Wait ! If I were only to be near you ! But how can I 
 wait thousands of miles away? And I'm jealous of Mav- 
 erick — I'm jealous of time, and distance — of everything. 
 Billy, please don't tell me to wait. I simply can't do it !" 
 
 There was something childish in this outburst that made 
 me able to smile at him, and that also made him seem a 
 great deal dearer and nearer. Did you ever notice that 
 when a person has asked of you a thing you cannot possibly 
 grant, and then gives that thing up, begging for something 
 else which you thought was also impossible — then you say 
 yes to this second request ? 
 
 This was what happened to me. And now, as I write 
 about this day, it seems to me to be the first time in my life 
 when I acted as if I were some one else. Was it really I ? 
 Have not we all asked ourselves this question in regard to 
 some circumstance? Yes, it was I who gave a consent 
 which I regretted the moment I had given it, and which ap- 
 peared to open up to me afterwards, when I could think, a 
 new phase of my character, and never since then have I 
 thought myself strong. Always now I believe that I also 
 may be borne along by that " wind of destiny" which wafts 
 our bark to fair or stormy seas. And what is that wind of 
 destiny but the attributes with which God endowed us ? 
 This is not the way mother thinks ; she prays that I may 
 be led to believe otherwise. Perhaps I shall. Sometimes, 
 in an ecstasy of longing, I, too, pray that I may come to 
 
ON THE TRAIN 237 
 
 believe as my mother believes. No, I am not a strong 
 woman, though youth is almost always certain of that one 
 thing — strength. 
 
 Vane sat leaning his head on his hand again. Mean- 
 time I felt hard-hearted and cruel. I could not bear to 
 grieve him. Why did he ask me to do such a thing ? He 
 turned to me and pulled out his watch for the second time. 
 
 '• We have only an hour and five minutes left," he said, 
 " and then I must leave you — for a year probably. I can 
 explain all that at some other time. It is like death to go 
 away from you, my darling. You don't know — " 
 
 He paused. Ah, didn't I know ? I had been thinking of 
 his love ever since that time in the little room at Rachel 
 Cobb's — the memory of his words and voice and look had 
 been underneath all my thoughts and deeds. Why not 
 confess this to myself now ? But I could not confess it to 
 him. I shrank from such confession as every woman at 
 first shrinks. 
 
 "There's Maverick," he went on. 
 
 Here I smiled and exclaimed emphatically: 
 
 "That is ridiculous!" 
 
 " Oh, you don't know that man as I know him. And 
 there's my aunt ; it is not impossible that she may change 
 her mind. She has as many shades of moods as a peacock 
 has colors." 
 
 " I am done with Miss Runciman," I said, bitterly. 
 
 "No matter, I don't know why I feel so horribly uncer- 
 tain. It is enough that I do feel so." 
 
 Vane was talking fast; a flush had risen to his face. 
 There was something desperate in his manner. 
 
 " I give up asking you to go with me, Billy," he said, 
 "but I can't give up my hope that you'll let Mr. Moreton 
 marry us here on the train. Stop ! Don't speak yet ! You 
 
238 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 are going to be my wife. Why not marry me now ? You 
 have no reason — unless you don't love me enough. Billy, 
 did you mean it when you said you loved me ?" 
 
 He looked at me with an agony of entreaty in his eyes. 
 
 " Did I mean it ?" I cried. 
 
 "Yes, did you?" 
 
 "Oh yes, yes, ' in a distressed whisper. 
 
 " Then marry me now. I tell you it is God himself who 
 has given us this opportunity. Then I shall cross the water 
 with the thought of my wife in my heart.'" 
 
 Why need I repeat all he said, and all my heart re- 
 sponded ? I consented. Vane went back to find Mr. 
 Moreton. I sat cold and still, and without a coherent 
 thought in my mind, awaiting his return. In a few mo- 
 ments he came back for me and I followed him. His face 
 was so set and pale, and at the same time resplendent, 
 that I could only give it one swift glance. He took me to 
 a compartment where were Mr. Moreton, two other men, 
 and a woman. "Witnesses," I thought dully, when I saw 
 these latter. 
 
 Mr. Moreton grasped my hand in a firm way as he said 
 rapidly that under the circumstances he had consented to 
 do as his friend Mr. Hildreth had asked him to do. Of 
 course it was a little irregular, but in good faith, and would 
 be as binding as if I were in my father's house with brides- 
 maids about me. Here he smiled slightly. 
 
 Ten minutes later the ceremony had been performed. 
 Mr. Moreton congratulated us, and then the unknown two 
 men and the unknown woman congratulated us. The lat- 
 ter, pitying my position, I think, kissed me and whispered 
 that I must " bear up." Vane tried to listen to something 
 that Mr. Moreton told him about the certificate. Vane's 
 face still had a very determined expression upon it. He 
 
ON THE TRAIN 239 
 
 turned from the clergyman and for the third time looked 
 at his watch. 
 
 "We have just fifteen minutes before the train stops at 
 W Junction," he said, stiffly. 
 
 The woman hurriedly said something to the men, and the 
 group quickly left the compartment. Vane and I were 
 alone. I sat down and he placed himself beside me. He 
 put his arm about me. With his other hand beneath my 
 chin he gently lifted my face until he could look down into 
 my eyes. 
 
 " Wilhelmina," he said, solemnly, " remember — remember 
 always that I love you — love you — as I've never loved any 
 human being in this world. God forgive me ! Oh, how I 
 love you !" 
 
 Then he kissed me with something of the solemnity he 
 had used in speaking. We hardly spoke again. The train 
 was dashing on at a great speed. Vane and I sat close to- 
 gether, he holding me to him. Finally he said: 
 
 " I shall come back as soon as I can. And I shall write." 
 Then after a moment, "You will never know how I thank 
 you for doing this — for showing me your love." 
 
 The train began to slow. It stopped. 
 
 "Tell me you love me," he whispered. 
 
 " I love you," I answered. He kissed me again. 
 
 Three minutes later Vane was gone, and the train was 
 gathering speed as it left the Junction behind it. I began 
 to be keenly afraid that some one would come and speak 
 to me. I rose and left the car, going forward until I came 
 to the car I had first entered. I found my satchel in the 
 rack where Vane had put it; we had both forgotten it. 
 
 An old man was in the seat beneath the satchel ; he made 
 room for me to sit beside him. I sat down and put my 
 hands together. At first I was fearing all the time that the 
 
240 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 old man would speak to me. At last I saw that he was 
 asleep. Then it came over me with a terrible power that I 
 would give everything, my life even, I thought, if. I could 
 undo what had just been done. Oh, why had I done it ? I 
 longed to start up and scream that question aloud. 
 
 I held myself down on my seat and did not open my lips. 
 I had consented to the marriage ; and I loved Vane. There 
 was no doubt as to my love for him, surely. Then why 
 should I feel this way about the marriage ? It was its sud- 
 denness, its clandestine character. And now that I was 
 away from Vane I thought I could see plainly that an en- 
 gagement would have been far better until his return. 
 Then, all at once, my thoughts took a turn, and I thrilled 
 with happiness because I had not refused, because I was his 
 wife. The memory of his face was like his caress ; and his 
 eyes, the beautiful, magnetic eyes, that had made me love 
 him from the very first — I would tell mother everything. 
 She would not approve, but all the same she would comfort 
 and counsel me. 
 
 This last resolution gave me a superficial peace for a 
 time. Then presently I went through again the entire 
 round of frenzied regret at what I had done, the ecstatic 
 joy in Vane's love ; and I groped after the peace my 
 mother's affection would give me; but that fleeting peace 
 would not come again. I hardly thought of father, and 
 that seemed strange. The day wore on at last. By the 
 time I had reached the town, which was the end of my car 
 ride, I was so worn out with that constant whirl of thought 
 that my mind was mercifully dulled. 
 
 I stood on the platform and watched the train glide 
 away. I had a fancy that it took from me the last ves- 
 tige of the episode .in my life which belonged to Miss 
 Runciman. I thought that all my fervid ambition to learn 
 
ON THE TRAIN 241 
 
 to sing had been destroyed. I had come back humbled 
 and old. Yes, I smile now as I recall how old I felt as I 
 waited in front of the bit of a station. There was no one 
 there at the moment but the agent, who was hauling some 
 freight towards the shed provided for it. The big boxes 
 made a scrunching noise, and the sound grated terribly on 
 my nerves. The station-master had looked at me, and I 
 had said I supposed there was a depot carriage to Worth- 
 ing : and he answered : " Oh, yes, but sometimes it was a 
 
 little late." 
 
 So I walked back and forth, gazing at the desolate brown 
 landscape with its bare trees. Only some willows by a 
 brook showed in their branches that it was April— their 
 reddened bark betrayed that the sun had come north. 
 Very soon I heard the rattle of wheels. Two brown 
 horses came up to the door of the station, bringing the 
 familiar, long, covered wagon with its trunk -racks at the 
 
 end. 
 
 It was Bidwell Blake who sprang from the seat and 
 strode forward, not seeing me, and calling out to the agent : 
 
 " Any plunder for Worthing to-night, Nat ?" 
 
 "Two barrels and a woman," was the answer from the 
 shed. Then Bidwell turned to find the woman and saw me. 
 He grew red, hesitated, then came forward. 
 
 " What, Billy ! I declare this jest knocks me !" he cried, 
 and then we shook hands warmly. " Folks ain't expectm 
 ye, are they ?" he asked. The old familiar way of speaking 
 affected me as I had not thought it would do, and at first I 
 could not speak. But the next moment I replied that I had 
 suddenly decided to come home. 
 
 " Jest for a little visit, I s'pose," remarked Bidwell as he 
 tucked the carriage blanket about my feet. 
 
 " Xo, for a long time," I answered. 
 16 
 
242 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 He did not respond directly; then he said, cordially: 
 
 "That so? Now that's good. Won't your folks be set 
 up, though?" 
 
 Then I summoned courage to ask, almost in a whisper 
 though, as if I feared the answer : 
 
 " How are they all at my home?" 
 
 " Oh, prime, first-rate. I've seen your father look better, 
 but he ain't complainin' as I know of." 
 
 "And mother?" I leaned forward towards Bidwell as I 
 spoke. Somehow I suspected that he was telling that things 
 were better than they were. As so often happens, now that 
 I was approaching home, I was seized by an uncontrollable 
 anxiety as to the welfare of the people there. 
 
 " Oh, she's tollable chirk," was the reply. "I've seen 
 her look better, too, and I've seen her look worse." 
 
 Here Bidwell left me, and presently I heard the thump- 
 ing of the barrels as they were loaded on to the back of the 
 wagon, and I heard the voices of the two men. 
 
 A squirrel came down a tree-trunk across the road, vent- 
 ured within a few yards of the horses, paused and gazed 
 keenly about, then darted back up the tree. The sight of 
 the little thing gave a strange, exultant throb to my heart. 
 I liked to think that it was a good omen. When the barrels 
 were loaded and strapped, Bidwell mounted to his seat, the 
 horses wheeled about and trotted strongly over the soft road. 
 Bidwell turned half round towards me. 
 
 "Frost's 'bout out," he said, cheerfully; "didn't know 
 one time but we were goin' to be frost-bound all the spring. 
 But it's got to give when the sun gits along this way. Yes, 
 it's got to give. I put in early pease three weeks ago, south 
 of my barn, ye know. We'll have a mess 'fore the 17th of 
 June, you be sure." 
 
 My eyes stung and my throat swelled as I listened. I 
 
OX THE TRAIN 243 
 
 would have said it was ten years since I had heard the 
 country dialect instead of a few months. A breath of fresh 
 air, of air clearer and sweeter than any I had known for 
 ages, swept across my face. My nostrils dilated to inhale 
 it. It was as if I had breathed only heavy, luscious per- 
 fumes, but now — I sat up with greater erectness. Some- 
 thing kindled within me. I asked how Bidwell happened 
 to be driving the depot wagon, and where was Mr. Nute ? 
 
 " Oh, Xute's be'n laid up with rheumatism, 'n' he wanted 
 me to take his trips for a spell. But I couldn't stan' his 
 old hosses, so I put my browns in. Ain't they beauties ?" 
 
 The speaker turned and looked affectionately at the ani- 
 mals he was driving. I questioned him concerning every 
 one I had ever heard of in Worthing. I felt a quite unac- 
 countable interest in everybody. He told me with a laugh 
 that Rachel Cobb had sprained her ankle six weeks ago 
 when she was going out to feed her hens, and that he, Bid- 
 well, had "tended to the Cobb fowl ever sence. Rachel's 
 niece, Myra, from Great Medders, was stoppin' with her ; 
 Myra had a constitootional objection to takin' care of hens. 
 But Rachel was 'bout able to go visitin' again." 
 
 So Bidwell talked on in response to my inquiries. But 
 we fell silent when the chimneys of my home came in sight. 
 I did not know I cared so much — so much. And I had 
 been so eager to go away. Grandmother's face was at the 
 window. I knew that she was sitting in the big rocker 
 there. And they would all look when they heard the depot 
 carriage coming. It was almost dusk now, but the April 
 days were long. 
 
 The door opened, the south door under the porch, and 
 there was mother gazing questioningly at us. I saw the 
 li^ht come in her face, and grow until the delicate features 
 shone. Bidwell hurried to help me alight, but I was out of 
 
244 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 the carriage before he could reach me. I sprang into 
 mother's arms. 
 
 " Why, my dear little girl !" she exclaimed, as she clasped 
 me to her. And how strange, how entirely inexplicable, it 
 was to me that the instant I saw her I felt as if I could not 
 tell her, it would be simply impossible to tell her, of that 
 marriage a few hours ago on the train. As I thought this 
 I clung still more closely to the frail form. I must be the 
 gentlest, the most loving, the most obedient daughter, but 
 I could not tell her of my marriage. I would wait ; yes, I 
 would wait. 
 
 Bidwell had set my satchel on the stoop, jumped into the 
 carriage, and driven off. My trunk Bashy would send on as 
 soon as she could think to do it. Grandmother came for- 
 ward walking waveringly, as the old will walk. She gave 
 me a dry little kiss from withered lips, and said she 
 " couldn't b'lieve S'rissy when she said 'twas Wilhelminy." 
 
 " 'N' how be ye ? I s'pose you c'n sing 's well 's Me th it- 
 able Crossley now, can't ye ?" Miss Crossley had sung 
 once in the chorus of Judas Maccabaus at Chilton. 
 
 They told me that Aunt Lowizy was spending the day 
 with Rachel Cobb. And where was father ? I was ner- 
 vously waiting to see him. I recalled his figure in its high 
 rubber boots, stooping forward in the wind and the rain 
 as he had left me at the shore on that day when he had 
 come on Bidwell Blake's behalf. Having just met Bidwell, 
 I could almost doubt that he had been knowing to that visit. 
 
 " Your father's out milkin'," said mother, in response to 
 my unuttered question. 
 
 She had been taking off my hat and patting down my 
 rumpled hair. Her eyes kept filling, and the tears would 
 drop on her cheeks. She led me to a chair, and gently 
 pushed me clown into it. She stood before me, her eyes 
 
ON THE TRAIN 245 
 
 fixed on my face. I met her gaze, and my heart sank as I 
 knew again, with still greater emphasis, how impossible it 
 was for me to tell her now. Yes, I would wait. But it 
 seemed as if she must know instantly that I was keeping 
 something of importance from her. I jumped up from my 
 seat and put my arm about her ; I walked with her to the 
 open door. 
 
 " Oh, how natural everything is !" I cried. " Xothing has 
 changed. I don't think I could have borne it if anything 
 had changed. There are the same loose shingles on the 
 east roof of the cowshed. I'm glad that no new ones have 
 been put there. And there's the turkey-gobbler that used 
 to run at me." 
 
 I was conscious of trying to talk, and this consciousness 
 troubled me deeply. The words in my mind were, " I am 
 Vane Hildreth's wife, and I want to tell my mother, but I 
 cannot/' She gazed at me wistfully. At last she asked : 
 
 " Have you come home for a little visit? You did not 
 write that you were coming." 
 
 " No, I did not write. It was all very sudden. I only 
 decided about half an hour before I started. I'll tell you 
 all about it soon. I guess I'll go out and surprise father. 
 Is he well ?" 
 
 I stepped down on to the broad, flat stone at the door 
 and turned towards mother as I put the question. Her face 
 grew troubled. 
 
 " He don't complain none," she answered, "but it seems 
 to me he ain't what he was six months ago." 
 
 I hurried across the yard to the barn. At the open door 
 I hesitated an instant. A hen with a brood of white, fluff 
 balls on legs came hastening up to me, expectant of food. 
 I heard steps in the barn. I walked across the big room 
 we called a carriage-house into the place beyond where the 
 
246 IN THE FIRST PERSON' 
 
 horse and cow stalls were. I stood in the entrance an in- 
 stant watching father as he raked some hay down from the 
 mow. He had not stooped like that when I had last seen 
 him work. I was shocked by his looking like an old man. 
 I hesitated still longer at the threshold. He lifted his rake 
 full of the loose hay he had gathered to put into the rack 
 of the cow near him. As he swung round the rake he saw 
 me. He hastily flung the hay into its place and came for- 
 ward. 
 
 " Hullo, Billy !" he cried, but I thought not in his old, 
 boisterous good-humor. He came to me, shook hands, and 
 kissed me ; was it my fancy that there was something me- 
 chanical in his manner? And I actually wondered if he 
 w ? ere glad I had come. 
 
 " How's the opery business ?" he asked. 
 
 I answered that it was good, I believed. Then I added 
 bravely that I thought I was through with it. 
 
 "That so? Wall, I ain't supprised at anything you c'n 
 tell me 'bout primy donnas, 'n' that's a fact. Company 
 broke up ?" 
 
 "No; but I've had a — a misunderstanding with Miss 
 Runciman." 
 
 "Oh, that's it, is it? Mebby you could sing too well, 
 after all." I thought my father was very shrewd to think of 
 that, but I said nothing. 
 
 " Goin' to stay to home now ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes," I replied, " if you want to have me, father." 
 
 I spoke rather timidly. The thought came to me, for the 
 first time in my life, that perhaps my father would think me 
 a burden. This thought turned me cold. 
 
 " Stay jest as well 's not," he answered, indifferently : 
 " mother '11 like to have ye ; 'n' so shTl I, of course." 
 
 This was so different from his former rough and exuber- 
 
OX THE TRAIN 247 
 
 ant manner that I felt colder still. I recalled that since 
 that time when he had taken the journey to the shore to see 
 me on Bidwell Blake's behalf, he had never sent his love, 
 never a word in mother's letters. Was he "laying up'' 
 something against me ? Was it my refusal to become en- 
 gaged to Bidwell ? 
 
 •• Your mother '11 be glad. Have ye told her ?" 
 
 " No, not yet." 
 
 " Ain't ye ? Yes, she'll be mighty glad to have a chance 
 to make ye into a Second x\dventist." 
 
 Now father laughed and winked, something in his old 
 manner, but I thought there was a drop of bitterness in it. 
 I wanted to go back to the house. I was so disappointed 
 and pained that I could hardly keep the tears from my eyes. 
 And how old father did look as he stood there leaning on 
 his rake ! 
 
 "D'you come over in the deepo wagon ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then you seen Bidwell, I s'pose ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Here father shot a keen glance at me ; then he put his 
 hand out and took hold of a stanchion with a tight grip. 
 Certainly every moment made it seem more and more im- 
 possible to tell of my marriage, and I had to ask myself in 
 bewilderment if that marriage had really taken place. I 
 had not even a ring. Perhaps that was as well, until Vane 
 came back, but I did wish that I had a ring. You will see 
 that I was often very weak and childish. 
 
 " Bid's be'n a great comfort to me this last winter, 'n! 
 'long back," he said. 
 
 "Has he?" I asked, faintly. 
 
 "Yes; he's be'n a real friend. I'd have be'n in a tight 
 place if it hadn't be'n for him." 
 
248 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I tried to say that I was glad Bid had been kind, but I 
 could not. I was so afraid that father was going to renew 
 the subject he had mentioned at the shore that I had no 
 words. 
 
 " Bid's a first-rate feller, V no mistake," he went on, "V 
 I guess he's goin' to git a good wife. Bid deserves a good 
 wife." 
 
 In my relief I dared not look up, but I knew that father 
 was gazing sharply at me. 
 
 " So he does," I answered in a barely audible voice. 
 
 I thought my companion chuckled, but I wasn't sure. 
 
 "That's so. I expect he's taken with that girl Rachel 
 Cobb's had to her house a month or two back. You know 
 Rachel sprained her ankle 'n' had to give up visitin 1 for a 
 spell. Folks round are tryin' to be reconciled to her not 
 comin' to see um. She's got her niece from Great Medders 
 stayin' with her — girl with great eyes that seem to ask a 
 feller to guide her 'n' take care of her, ye know. Fellers 
 like to have a girl make um feel that way. Myra Foster's 
 one of them kind. Myra sot out that she didn't want to 
 take care Rachel's fowls, but she'd do everything else. 
 She told Rachel this right 'fore Bidwell, 'n', of course, Bid 
 was glad 'nough to say he'd come over twice a day 'n' see 
 to the fowls. I tell you, when he ain't busy, that twice-a- 
 day business takes up 'bout the whole time. She wa'n't 
 with him when he went to the deepo this afternoon, was 
 she ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Wa'n't? Wall, she gees out real often behind them 
 brown hosses of his. She's kinder takin'. I guess you'll 
 like her first-rate." Then with an abrupt change : "Opery 
 goin' on jest the same ?" 
 
 I thought that the sooner I explained how I had left the 
 
ON THE TRAIN 
 
 249 
 
 better. So I hurriedly related the outline of the case. But 
 I found that I could not speak very freely, because my 
 father did not seem the same. When I went back to the 
 house the dusk had deepened. There was a lamp lighted 
 on the kitchen table, and mother was stirring up some 
 "cream-y- tartar" biscuit for supper. She gave me a joyful 
 glance when I went up to her and stood for a moment with 
 my arm about her. I was continually thinking, what if I 
 should say, "Mother, I'm married — I married that tenor 
 singer, Mr. Hildreth."' 
 
 I hoped that when I had been home a few days I should 
 cease to have these words in mind. And when Vane wrote 
 to me, perhaps the address on the envelope would tell the 
 story; then I would explain everything. While we three 
 were sitting at the supper-table the door opened that led 
 into the wood-room, and light steps came quickly towards 
 the kitchen. Some one who was very much at home was 
 coming. The kitchen-door was flung open, and a young girl 
 entered with a little run that brought her to father's chair. 
 She paused with her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Lem — " she began : then she seemed to see 
 me for the first time, and she did not go on with her speech. 
 
 She was certainly very pretty, with what I thought a 
 gaudy, uninteresting prettiness of pink and white. She had 
 a way of arching her brows and opening her blue eyes very 
 wide, with a baby stare that wasn't agreeable at all. And 
 why did she call father Uncle Lem ? He was not her uncle. 
 Who was she, anyway? Father seemed pleased to have 
 her come to him in this way. He put his hand up and 
 patted her fingers that lay on his shoulder. 
 
 " I didn't know you had company," she said. 
 
 "Oh, this is only Billy," was the reply. "She's be'n in 
 the opery business for a spell."' 
 
250 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " Is it Billy ? Well, why don't you tell her I'm Myra ?" 
 
 She walked around the table and held out her hand to 
 me, a bit of a hand that I took, though I did not care to 
 take it. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Foster ?" I asked, formally. 
 
 " Oh, pray don't call me Miss Foster !" she exclaimed. 
 u I'm just Myra, that's all. I d' know what Bid would say 
 to hear me called Miss Foster " — here she gurgled a laugh 
 — " do you, Uncle Lem ? Ain't it funny to be called Miss 
 Foster ?" 
 
 "Almighty funny, I declare," said father. "Won't ye 
 se' down V have some hot biscuit? My wife knows how 
 to make biscuit." 
 
 Though father said this, he was eating very little himself, 
 and he used to be very fond of his food, taking enormous 
 quantities. 
 
 " I don't care if I do," said the new-comer. " Don't you 
 get up, Aunt S'rissy" — as mother made a movement to 
 rise — " I'll get my plate 'n' cup." 
 
 She tripped into the pantry and came back with the 
 articles she had mentioned. 
 
XV 
 
 ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 I pretended to eat ray biscuit and drink my tea, and I 
 tried not to be annoyed. Myra sat opposite me. It was 
 so dark now, for our supper was late, that a lighted lamp 
 was standing in the middle of the table, and its rays fell 
 full upon her face as upon mine. When I made an attempt 
 to look at our guest I found that she was looking at me. 
 Her round, doll eyes did not fall as they met mine, as why, 
 indeed, should they ? She chattered almost incessantly and 
 laughed. 
 
 She had little teeth that were milk-white, and bright red 
 lips ; there was a dimple in her left cheek. It was an ex- 
 tremely pretty dimple and cheek. Why was father so 
 pleased with her? He watched her and laughed at her 
 and led her on. I saw that mother only smiled in her 
 gentle way, and that she did not seem so joyful at sight of 
 this girl. 
 
 " I've jest eat one supper at Aunt Rachel's, " she said • 
 " ain't it funny to eat two suppers close together ? But I 
 made the biscuit down to auntie's, 'n' they waVt half so 
 good as these. These are jest tip-top, I call urn. Why don't 
 you eat more of urn. Uncle Lem ? D'you know Bid's brown 
 hoss, the nigh one, was a teenty-tonty bit lame the other 
 day? He was jest as worried 's he could be. I told him 
 he hadn't a friend in the world he'd worry 'bout's he would 
 
252 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 'bout one of them brown hosses. Is that honey, Aunt 
 S'rissy, in that bowl ? Oh, ain't it clear V nice ? Our 
 bees never make honey like this." 
 
 Having put a honeyed morsel of biscuit into her mouth, 
 she was of necessity silent a moment. Father gave up 
 making an attempt to eat. He sat back in his chair with 
 his hands thrust into his pockets, looking amusedly at the 
 girl. He did not notice me, and hitherto he had always 
 been talking to me, or laughing with me. 
 
 " They ought to make sweet honey with you 'round, 1 ' he 
 said now. Myra bowed deeply; then she giggled and re- 
 marked that there couldn't none of the young men pay com- 
 pliments equal to Uncle Lem. Uncle Lem beat um all. I 
 tried to smile pleasantly. I was ashamed of myself that it 
 was such an effort to smile at all. Was I so small natured 
 as this ? I made a great effort. I asked cordially if she 
 did not find it lonesome staying with Miss Cobb. " Great 
 Meadows is quite a village, and it's so very quiet here." 
 
 " Lonesome !" with a great opening of eyes and uplifting 
 of brows. " Well, I guess not !" Here father chuckled, 
 and then Myra began to laugh, showing her teeth, h-er 
 whole face having something the appearance of a fine 
 baby's face. 
 
 " There's be'n lots to take up a gal's mind down to 
 Rachel's," said father. Myra took a small spoonful of 
 honey, gazing at me meanwhile. When she had swallowed 
 the honey she asked me if I could sing like that singer in 
 the Roman Catholic Church in Chilton. She had heard 
 that woman once and it had been just like heaven. 
 
 I could not resist saying that I did not think that my 
 singing was at all like heaven. Father shoved back his 
 chair and remarked that he hoped I hadn't come back 
 with any objections to smoking. 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 253 
 
 " Of course she hasn't," said mother. There was an anx- 
 ious expression in mother's eyes. 
 
 Myra now declared that she did like the smell of a pipe, 
 and she thought Uncle Lem smoked better tobacco than 
 anybody she knew ; she wished Bid would smoke. 
 
 She remained a half-hour longer, prattling incessantly. 
 When she had gone father's face lost its smiling look of 
 interest. He sat smoking, with his stockinged feet resting 
 on the hearth of the cook-stove. I washed the dishes while 
 mother mixed the dough for rising overnight. It was warm 
 with the fire in the stove, and I opened the back door. 
 The sound of frogs came in loudly and cheerfully through 
 the mild April air. 
 
 "I wish you'd shet that door," cried father, "I hate that 
 continual peepinV 
 
 Mother closed the door in silence. Presently father 
 went to bed. He left the room without saying good-night 
 to us. Mother and I were alone together. I followed her 
 about until the dough was set in a big pan on the broad 
 shelf above the stove. Then we sat down on the sofa in 
 the sitting-room. I put my head on her shoulder and she 
 held me to her in silence. 
 
 I had not known how tired I was until now. After a 
 few moments my eyes closed — a moment more and I was 
 asleep. It was not until nearly an hour later that mother 
 wakened me, saying that we should take cold, and that I 
 must go to bed. Then she took me to my old room. She 
 had kept it ready for me ; she explained that she liked to 
 have it so, for that made her feel as if I were coming home. 
 She left me, saying that to-morrow, when I was rested, we 
 would talk. I clung to her for an instant, then I let her go. 
 I slept that night as if I had no secret that I had not the 
 courage to tell, and as if there were no trouble in the world. 
 
254 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 The next day we did not talk, though mother had said 
 that we should. We went on exactly as if I had not been 
 away, save that I helped about the house more tlian I had 
 been accustomed to do. I knew now that I should not be 
 questioned, and that I was to be left to tell just what I 
 pleased of my life during the last few months. I related 
 very freely to mother everything that was not connected 
 with Vane. When I mentioned him it was as " Mr. Hil- 
 dreth," and my tongue refused to touch the one subject that 
 never left my thoughts. I was wondering when Vane would 
 write. I longed for a letter from him, and yet I dreaded its 
 coming. He could send me a word before he sailed j after 
 that it would be a long time before I should hear again. 
 
 The next day father did not go to the village. It had 
 been his custom formerly to drive there nearly every day. 
 But I would not speak of this fact ; I would wait ; I would 
 not even ask a question. The day following he did not go 
 either. This was hard for me. Father sat a good deal in 
 the three-cornered, flag-bottomed chair by the stove. This 
 was so strange that I tried not to remark upon it. I did 
 ask mother " Isn't father well ?" and she answered, " He 
 don't complain any." 
 
 Myra Foster came over four times in the first three days, 
 flitting in and up to father as if she, and not I, were the 
 daughter of the house. On the afternoon of the third day 
 there was a trampling of hoofs in the yard, a shrill little 
 laugh, and, looking from the window, I saw Myra jump 
 from Bidwell's open buggy before he could leave his seat. 
 He glanced at the house, saw me, and smiled in his cheery 
 way. The smile was so much brighter than anything in 
 our house that it quite did me good. I thought it would 
 be pleasant to see Bidwell sometimes ; but evidently he 
 was occupied. 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 255 
 
 "Where's Billy?" 
 
 I heard Myra's voice, pitched high, asking this question, 
 and I went forward. She held a thick letter in her hand. 
 My heart jumped. It surely was from Vane — and how had 
 he addressed it ? 
 
 "Wilhelmina Armstrong/' pronounced Myra, extending 
 the missive to me. I did not know whether the hand I put 
 forth was steady or not, but I did know that all were watch- 
 ing me. I said " Thank you," in an easy way, and stood, 
 holding the letter, while I asked the girl if she were having 
 a pleasant drive. 
 
 " Oh yes," laughing and dimpling, " ever so good ; 'n' 
 now we're going to get some arbutus ; we'll bring you some, 
 
 Billy." 
 
 She flew back to the carriage and alighted on the seat by 
 Bidwell as if she had been a bird. She nodded at me and 
 called out, " We'll be sure to bring you some flowers." 
 Then the brown horses were turned and trotted down the 
 road. 
 
 " I wish I was havin' 's good a time 's Bid Blake's 
 havinV As father spoke his face seemed to grow black. 
 I remained a moment standing there with the letter, 
 which was burning my fingers. No one seemed to notice 
 that I had it ; and presently I left the room and went up- 
 stairs to my chamber. Even then I could not at first open 
 the envelope. Now that I was alone I suddenly began to 
 
 tremble. 
 
 Then I hurriedly tore the paper and drew out the folded 
 sheets. I saw the words " My wife ! — my love ! — my love !" 
 
 It was true, then ; it was not something I had imagined. 
 I had really been married to Vane Hildreth on the train a 
 few days ago. Before I read any further I bolted the door. 
 Then I sat down, and, shivering with excitement, thrilling 
 
256 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 to the love written on the sheets before me, I read on and 
 on, the lines telling all the story of my husband's love from 
 the moment he had met me — repeating again and again — 
 but what lover does not repeat ? 
 
 There is no need to give the letter here. Having read 
 it, I turned back to the first page and devoured it once 
 more. How fond he was — how ardent — how foolish he was 
 about Mr. Maverick ! It was really funny that he should 
 speak in that way about Mr. Maverick. On the last page 
 Vane mentioned that he directed his letter to my old name, 
 as he did not know whether I would announce our marriage 
 before his return. If I had not done so, perhaps it might 
 be as well to wait until then ; but that should be left with me. 
 
 Here I breathed a long sigh of relief. When he came 
 back everything would adjust itself. Then I could tell 
 father and mother. Till then — I rose and stepped softly 
 about the room. I held the letter clasped closely to me. 
 Till then I would stay here and help mother, and all things 
 should be as they had been before I left home. This was 
 what the foolish girl said in her heart. Did she not know 
 that, having tasted another life, things could never be as 
 they had been ? 
 
 I did not dare to go down-stairs for a long time. I was 
 afraid that my face would reveal something that I would 
 wish unrevealed. At last 1 dashed water on my burning 
 cheeks and eyes, and then joined my mother. I knew that 
 it would be held very strange if I should not speak of my 
 letter; so I said as soon as I entered the room that Mr. 
 Hildreth had written to me — he was just starting for Liver- 
 pool and had sent me a long letter; he had a fine opening 
 in London ; he expected to do wonderfully well. 
 
 Father sat dozing by the stove. He lifted his head, 
 darted a keen glance at me, and asked : 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 257 
 
 " That"s the feller that got his bones broke, V stopped at 
 Rachel's so long, ain't it ?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I thought so," and father laughed in a way that made 
 me tingle with anger. 
 
 But he said no more ; he appeared to go to sleep again. 
 In the weeks that followed nothing seemed as it used to 
 seem. On the third day from the arrival of that first letter 
 from Vane I received another sent from the outgoing steamer 
 by the pilot, but this one I happened to take from the post- 
 office myself, and I could not make up my mind to mention 
 it. Since father did not go to the village often, I took it upon 
 myself to harness one of the horses, or sometimes I went on 
 horseback. So I carried my letters to Vane, or received 
 his, which came by every steamer which brought a mail 
 from England. But when one was delivered to me by 
 Myra, or Bidwell, I always spoke of it as coming from Mr. 
 Hildreth. Xo one asked me any questions. I was thank- 
 ful for that, but it was strange all the same. 
 
 Aunt Lowizy had come back, but she did not stay ; she 
 went to Ryle to be with grandmother. She would have ques- 
 tioned me, and showed that she watched me ; I was glad to 
 have her go. She manifested such unbounded surprise that 
 I was at home that I could hardly restrain my irritation. 
 
 I worked harder than I had ever done before. I took the 
 butter-making from mother, and butter-making is the hard- 
 est kind of labor. 
 
 When the long May days came I began to wander down 
 the river path ; and I began to sing. I took up the practice 
 where I had left it. It was as if I couldn't help doing this. 
 There was something stirring within me that Miss Runciman 
 had been the first to waken, and that would not be smoth- 
 ered into inaction. I must sing — I must sing better and 
 17 
 
258 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 better. It was a long time before I could bear to go to the 
 falls, and to the place where the house carriage had been. 
 How long ago it seemed ! But it was not yet a year. 
 
 The thought of Miss Runciman was a bitter-sweet one — 
 she had been so kind and so cruel ; how cruel I did not 
 yet begin to realize. She had taken me up with ardor ; she 
 had set me down with cold scorn. In those days I was con- 
 stantly asking myself if there were not some way in which I 
 could learn to sing. I would not think of Vane. Until the 
 marriage was announced I was still free to do as I would, 
 or rather as I could. All the time this goading desire to 
 sing, to move great multitudes with my voice, grew upon me. 
 I thought of it as I washed dishes and as I " worked over " 
 the butter. 
 
 I knew that father would not — perhaps he could not — 
 help me to go abroad and study. Yes, I wanted to go to 
 Marchesi ; that was the name Miss Runciman had said. 
 The boldness, the daring, of this wish rather overawed me 
 at first ; what was I that I should think of such a project ? 
 Sometimes my mind was so filled with this thought that the 
 thought of Vane was below it ; still, he was always present 
 with me, a burning thrill of memory, or the more quiet con- 
 sciousness. Possibly it was the secret I was keeping from 
 mother that was the cause ; at any rate, as time went on we 
 had none of those confidential talks which had once been 
 such a comfort to me, and perhaps to her. She was always 
 gentle and patient and loving. Often as I sat with her or 
 worked with her the secret I carried with me uncoiled, as if 
 it were a snake, and bit me. I had the insane idea that I 
 could see its mouth open and its forked tongue dart out. 
 Then I would wish to throw myself at mother's feet and 
 tell her that secret. 
 
 I knew that I had physical courage, which is, after all, 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 
 
 2 59 
 
 but a poor sort of thing compared with the thing I did not 
 have, moral courage. I could not bear to hurt mother, and 
 I could not bear to be blamed. Always, since I can remem- 
 ber, this fear of being blamed has at times been a kind of 
 torture to me. But we are curious beings, we humans, for 
 there w 7 ere some things in which I would persist, whether I 
 were approved or condemned. I would not drink wine, 
 though my companions had laughed at me and called me a 
 " temperance reformer." I did not think this such a term 
 of reproach as they thought it. And Bathsheba used to 
 smoke cigarettes, and she swore occasionally, rapping out 
 an oath as fierce and pat as if she had been a man. I 
 didn't like such things, and I didn't feel a coward about 
 them ; but now, here at home with father and mother and my 
 secret, I couldn't understand myself. It was now for the 
 first time that 1 had seasons of turning my thoughts inward 
 upon my own character, and of trying to interpret it. But 
 I had no more success than I fancy others have at the same 
 work. We are riddles to our own selves. 
 
 One day in the fourth week Bidwell drove into our yard in 
 his farm cart. Tied to one of the stakes was a brindled dog. 
 From the dog's collar depended a small, thin board. I saw 
 it dangle as he stood. I was picking up chips from where 
 father had been making hoop-poles in the winter. My apron 
 was full of the chips as I stood up to see who had come. 
 The dog looked at me and began to wag his whole body 
 violently and to whine. Of course I knew him ; it was Lotus. 
 
 " I've got something for you," called Bidwell. " Found 
 him over to the deepo this mornin', 'n 1 they wanted me to 
 bring him along. He's ticketed to you, Wilhelmina Arm- 
 strong, Worthing. That's you, I reckon." 
 
 He took the rope from the dog's neck and Lotus leaped 
 to the ground and dashed at me. The chips fell from my 
 
260 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 apron, and I nearly fell myself before the onslaught. Tears 
 came to my eyes, but I succeeded in hiding them as I greet- 
 ed the new-comer. I knew very well that it was Vane who 
 had had the dog sent to me. Bashy had informed me in 
 the winter that Lotus was in the country with a friend. I 
 was so glad to see him that I was afraid Bidwell would see 
 how glad. But he did not seem to notice. He took off his 
 hat and handed me a letter from it. 
 
 " B'n to the office," he remarked. " Folks all well ?" 
 I nodded. I saw the letter was from Bashy. I hardly 
 noticed Bidwell as he drove from the yard. I hurried to 
 the woodshed and sat down on the chopping-block. The 
 dos: hurried with me and threatened to make it difficult for 
 me to read the letter. But I did read it; it was short 
 enough, like all of the writer's epistles. 
 
 '* My Dear Old Billy, — Vane wanted me to have Lotus sent to 
 you. I ought to have got him started before, but somehow I didn't. 
 Singing business over for the year. Aunt Nora isn't well. Her voice 
 almost gave out at the last of it ; but she managed to squeak through. 
 Critics down on her — they are barbarians, anyway. They say I flat 
 more than I did the first of the season. It's rather tough being with 
 Aunt Nora when she's like this. One day she said she missed you. 
 Think of that, by Jove ! She's a queer one ; but she's done a good 
 deal for me. Hope you're having a good time ; I ain't. 
 
 "Your Disconsolate Bashy." 
 
 Presently I again filled my apron with chips and went 
 back to the house, Lotus at my heels. I was willing that 
 mother should see this letter, but I felt awkward about 
 showing this when I had not shown the others. 
 
 " Whose dorg's that ?" asked the father, crossly, as Lotus 
 bounded in. I hastened to explain that Bathsheba Hil- 
 dreth had sent him. Father, who was lying on the lounge, 
 pushed Lotus from him as he exclaimed : 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 26 1 
 
 ;; I call that cheeky enough ! What d' she think you 
 wanted of a dorg, I sh'd like to know?" 
 
 I made no answer. I put some of the chips into the 
 stove and the rest went into the wood-box. Mother came 
 from the pantry with a pan of skimmed milk, which she 
 gave to Lotus, calling him "poor doggie' 1 in her gentle 
 way. I wonder if mother ever knew how I loved her ? 
 Father dropped his head on the lounge cushion and shut 
 his eyes. From that time Lotus was as if he had always 
 belonged with us, and particularly to me ; but he never 
 noticed father, and father did not notice him. 
 
 When Myra came in that afternoon she made a great 
 show of being afraid of Lotus, gave little cries, and ran 
 to father to be protected. I didn't in the least believe that 
 she was timid, for all her behavior. 
 
 It was not long after that day that I came cantering home 
 from the post-office to find mother coming down the road 
 to meet me. It was June now, and she had on her faded 
 blue sunbonnet; but the bonnet didn't hide the pale, anx- 
 ious face. She came right to the horse's head, and that 
 was something strange for her to do. She caught hold of 
 the bridle, and I saw still more plainly how excited she 
 looked. 
 
 " He has come !" she exclaimed, in a low voice. 
 
 I started ; I must have grown red, then white. 
 
 "Vane Hildreth ?" I cried. 
 
 She gave me a strange look. 
 
 " I was sure you loved him," she said. She added im- 
 mediately : " Xo, it's not Vane Hildreth. It's the other 
 one." 
 
 " The other one ?" I repeated, confusedly. 
 
 "Yes; it's Mr. Maverick, and he's waiting to see you." 
 
 Here she laid hold of my skirt, but did not let go the 
 
262 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 bridle. We were in the road just outside of the yard. I 
 remember that I heard the sound of father's hoe in the 
 garden back of the barn. 
 
 " Don't go yet," said mother, in a sharp voice. 
 
 I was agitated myself, and intensely curious, but I could 
 not see why mother should be so excited. Her large, sen- 
 sitive eyes were dilated painfully, and her cheeks were red. 
 
 " Don't go yet," she repeated in the same voice. 
 
 " No, no. Why, mother, why do you feel so ?" 
 
 I bent down and put my hand on her shoulder. " Mr. 
 Maverick can't harm me," I added, " and I'm sure I don't 
 know why he is here. It's probable that he was travelling 
 near the town, and so thought he would call. What are 
 you afraid of, mother ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid ; oh, I'm afraid of everything !" she exclaim- 
 ed, still in her half-whisper. " My dream, Billy, my dream !" 
 
 I couldn't help shuddering as she spoke. I had forgot- 
 ten her dream, but I remembered it now distinctly. I threw 
 up my head and laughed. 
 
 " I hope we are not so foolish as that," I said. 
 
 "And I saw his diamond on his finger," went on mother. 
 " It sparkled so, and shone so, right into my eyes — jest as 
 if it were laughing at me ; jest as if it was tellin' me that 
 no matter what I felt, he was going to have his own 
 way." 
 
 I laughed again, but I was not merry. There was a wild 
 look in mother's eyes. 
 
 " Don't you fear," I said, soothingly. 
 
 But mother did not let go of my skirt or of the bridle. 
 It was pitiable to see her fingers clutch. 
 
 " I've suffered," she said, " these months back. I've suf- 
 fered, 'n' I've had to keep it all to myself. Don't go with 
 him, Wilhelmina ; don't go with him !" 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 263 
 
 "Why, mother, of course I shaVt go with him," I an- 
 swered in as calm a voice as I could command. 
 
 "Promise !" she commanded. 
 
 I was becoming more and more alarmed. I did not like 
 to give my word, and this seemed unnecessary. Seeing 
 my hesitation, mother's face grew in excitement. 
 
 " You've got to promise," she cried, but always in the 
 half-whisper. " If you do I shall know you won't break it, 
 spite of that man's eyes.' 1 
 
 " Well, then, I promise," I answered, "but there isn't the 
 slightest need." 
 
 Mother sighed deeply ; she loosed her grasp of bridle and 
 skirt. She plainly tried to regain her usual manner, but as 
 plainly could not succeed at first. Her lips trembled as 
 they formed something like a smile. 
 
 "I guess you'll think I'm 'most crazy," she said, "but 
 I've been through a lot sence you left home, V I guess I 
 couldn't stan' much more." 
 
 I reached down and caught her hand. 
 
 "Dear mother," I cried in a whisper, "you needn't bear 
 anything more." 
 
 Then I thought of my secret. I am tempted to write that 
 word with a capital, and I wished that I had told her when 
 I first came home. But I had felt that it would shock her 
 so, and grieve her so, and — well, something outside of me 
 seemed holding me back — only I knew really it was only 
 my own cowardice which held me. She looked up plead- 
 ingly into my face. 
 
 " Are you sure ?" she asked. 
 
 Then I did not reply. I only exclaimed, " Oh, you know 
 I don't want to do anything to trouble you !" 
 
 Mother turned away and I rode into the barn. I slipped 
 down from the saddle and put the hook of the hitch-chain 
 
264 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 into the ring of the horse's bit. I stood there an instant. 
 I pulled off my gloves and pressed my hands to my hot 
 face. Then I hurried to the house and into the gloomy 
 parlor where Mr. Maverick sat waiting. 
 
 He rose as the door opened and came forward quickly. 
 How well fed and well groomed he looked ! And somehow 
 I resented this fact. 
 
 He took my hand firmly and looked intently at me as he 
 said : 
 
 " After all, the country's the place, isn't it ?" 
 
 I withdrew my hand. 
 
 "The country is lovely in June," I responded. 
 
 Mr. Maverick drew forward a chair, saw me seated, and 
 then sat down in front of me. A ray of sunlight, coming 
 through a chink in the blind, brought an answering ray 
 from his diamond that flashed in my eyes. 
 
 I had seen many gems while with Miss Runciman, but 
 for some reason this gem from the first had a peculiar sig- 
 nificance for me. That was a fancy, like fancies that had 
 come to my mother ever since I could remember. 
 
 " Beautiful ! beautiful !" he replied, enthusiastically. " I 
 walked up the river path from the falls. Ah, isn't that Hil- 
 dreth's dog ?" 
 
 The door had not been latched, and it was now pushed 
 open by Lotus, who walked in and sat down by me, very 
 close, as if I might need protecting. 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " Bathsheba sent it here." 
 
 " Good fellow ! Give a paw, sir !" 
 
 Mr. Maverick reached forward a hand, but Lotus only 
 grinned in a very suggestive way. 
 
 The gentleman smiled. 
 
 "Dogs have their notions," he remarked. He leaned 
 back in his chair, not at all discomposed. 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 265 
 
 ' ; I hear Hildreth is doing finely — finely — across the 
 water," he went on. " It was the opening of his lifetime — 
 splendid chance. To be with Alford gives one magnificent 
 prestige. I suppose you hear from him, Miss Armstrong?" 
 
 I resented this question, but I sat up straight and an- 
 swered, promptly, " Yes, I hear from him." 
 
 Mr. Maverick twirled a little gold book that hung on his 
 watch-chain. He was looking steadily at me, and my color 
 began to rise. 
 
 •■I really hope, Miss Armstrong," he began, : 'that your 
 affections haven't become entangled by Hildreth. Capital 
 singer, and destined to be better, but not the man for a 
 woman to love — that is, for a woman like you." 
 
 I said nothing; I was so angry that I could not speak; 
 besides, I had nothing to say, and I was indignant with my- 
 self because his words, though I did not believe them, were 
 yet like a poison diffusing itself through my mind. 
 
 Mr. Maverick was perfectly at his ease. He smiled as he 
 asked me to pardon him. He said that there were things 
 concerning Hildreth that he might communicate to me, but 
 that he was no melodramatic creature coming to the heroine 
 of a story to tell her a dreadful secret concerning a man who 
 wanted to be her lover. 
 
 Here the speaker put his hand up to his mustache and 
 laughed gently. He conveyed the idea that it was utterly 
 absurd and out of the question that I could think of Vane 
 as my lover. 
 
 I did not reply to this remark either, and Mr. Maverick 
 changed his position, now sitting sidewise in his chair, with 
 his arm on the back, looking at me. 
 
 " But I didn't come here to talk about Hildreth or any 
 one else save yourself, Miss Armstrong — just you, yourself. 
 Are you interested to have me tell you a few things ?" 
 
2 66 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 Here he waited for a reply, and I answered yes. I was 
 very uncomfortable and extremely vexed, but I was inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " It's about your singing," he said, and here I involunta- 
 rily bent forward a little ; then I drew myself up again. 
 
 " You have superb promise — glorious promise," he went 
 on, his manner growing enthusiastic. " If nothing happens 
 to you, you may command the world." 
 
 I felt my eyes dilate and my face redden, but I tried not 
 to be so affected. My pulses were beginning to beat in 
 that suffocating way that is so difficult to control. To sing 
 — to sing and move myself, and the multitudes who heard 
 me — was that an ignoble ambition? How cruel — how dia- 
 bolically cruel — Miss Runciman had been to awaken this 
 ambition and then to fling me away as she had done ! I 
 felt that I hated her. But even at this moment I could not 
 help recalling her moments of exquisite kindness, recalling 
 them with a sudden melting of the heart. 
 
 Mr. Maverick rose and began to walk about the room. 
 He filled and pervaded it. 
 
 " Yes," he said, with a gesture of the hand, " it is a sin, a 
 crime, if you are to be buried here. I cannot allow it ! I 
 will not allow it ! You must study — why, with your powers, 
 the beginning you have made, perhaps a year's study with 
 Marchesi would be enough. You have that wonderful 
 electrifying power — you start the blood — you appeal to the 
 heart — your voice goes to the very life of your listener. 
 Are you going to let it waste here ? Are you willing to sink 
 down again into a mere New England country girl, when 
 you can sing with the voice of an angel and of a woman ? 
 I tell you, Wilhelmina Armstrong, if you contemplate such 
 a thing I won't allow it — no, I won't allow it. I'd take you 
 away forcibly — I declare I'd abduct you and carry you to 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 267 
 
 Marchesi before you should bury your talent — nay, your 
 genius — here. Once with Marchesi, once in the singing 
 atmosphere, and I'll wager nothing could take you away, 
 nothing. Fancy yourself standing on that mimic stage 
 where Marchesi's pupils sing — fancy singing to ears that 
 can appreciate, to a taste and experience that can direct 
 and instruct, until you are — Miss Armstrong, it is I who tell 
 you that you can be the equal of any prima donna who has 
 ever intoxicated the world. You see, after all, that Miss 
 Runciman couldn't endure to have you sing better than she ? 
 What woman could endure it ? You sang with even more 
 promise than she had expected. She told herself that she 
 would give you your chance — but she could not keep to her 
 resolve. It was too much — too much. Could she stand up 
 and hand you her sceptre — yes, more than that? It was 
 grand of her to think she could do it ; but it was natural to 
 find that she could not. She has suffered much ; I don't 
 believe deeply in Leonora Runciman, but she has suffered 
 much, and I'm sorry for her. She is losing her voice. By 
 Jove ! I'm sorry for her. So would you be."' 
 
 He stopped in front of me. I had risen to my feet. I 
 could not sit still and hear his words, every one of them like 
 a torch that left fire behind it. 
 
 "Yes, yes," I said, huskily, "I am sorry for her." 
 But I was not thinking of Miss Runciman, save superfi- 
 cially. I was not really thinking ; I was longing to begin 
 now— now — to study to become what this man said I might 
 become. He had spoken with impetuous and ardent em- 
 phasis ; it was impossible to doubt the truth of his convic- 
 tion as to what I would be able to do, and he was a judge ; 
 he knew of what he spoke. My soul was " up in arms." I 
 twisted my fingers together tightly — I must make some 
 bodily movement. In a moment, however, I recalled the 
 
2 68 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 truth ; and the truth was that I could not study to become 
 a singer. I had no money. And Vane — I was married — 
 what would my husband think ? He should be consulted. 
 My close-clasped hands unclasped and dropped apart. A 
 chill came to me. "No," I said, "all this is not for 
 me." 
 
 " Not for you ? Pardon me, for you above all others." 
 
 Mr. Maverick's eyes caught mine and held them domi- 
 natingly. 
 
 " Is it that you have no money ?" he asked. 
 
 " It is true that I have no money," I replied. 
 
 " That objection might be overcome," he replied, quickly. 
 
 " No," I said again, " and there are other reasons, strong 
 reasons, why I cannot think of such a project." 
 
 I was trying to be reasonable. Who is it that has written 
 that to be reasonable, to use common-sense, is sometimes 
 like lying down upon paving-stones ? I felt as if I were 
 making my bed upon paving-stones, and the sooner I be- 
 came accustomed to such a bed the better for me. Did 
 you ever think how piteous it is for the human being of 
 splendid possibilities and opportunities to turn from the 
 glory of them and take up with hard and arid days ? Aye, 
 but that way heroism may lie. And I was not made for 
 heroism, I feared. Why had this man come to talk thus 
 to me ? He did not apparently yield at all in his resolu- 
 tion. 
 
 " I won't admit the other reasons," he answered, 
 promptly. "Let us attack and demolish them." 
 
 " No, no !" 
 
 He smiled. " Yes, yes. Now, listen to me. God has 
 given you a voice that you might make the most of it. I'm 
 an instrument in His hands. I'm going to lend you money 
 — only just enough — it will not take so very much, for I 
 
ANOTHER CHANCE 269 
 
 know you'll be economy itself. But the lessons are expen- 
 sive and must be paid tor. This is an investment of mine. 
 I choose to put two or three thousand dollars, as the case 
 may be, into your hands. You give me your note prom- 
 ising to pay with interest, and you can easily pay me the 
 first year you begin to sing. I shall then have saved to the 
 world a voice for which the world will thank me. You 
 perceive that I don't consider your own satisfaction at all. 
 Merely a business transaction. There can be absolutely 
 no objection to this arrangement. Miss Armstrong, you 
 can't bring an objection. I'm going abroad this summer. 
 I'll see Marchesi — I'll attend to every detail. Very early 
 in the fall you will go— you will find even your room en- 
 gaged, and your chum, some American girl studying like 
 yourself, secured/' 
 
 As he spoke, Mr. Maverick would take a few steps about 
 the room, then return to my side, his words coming swiftly, 
 warmly, and with that accent of conviction which goes so 
 far towards convincing another. His eyes, with a peculiar, 
 concentrated glitter in them, appeared to seize my gaze 
 and hold it. 
 
 No words within my reach can tell how powerfully I was 
 tempted to say yes. I was not afraid to borrow the money; 
 I was positive I could return it ; it was, as he said, only 
 a business transaction ; it involved no emotion, and no 
 gratitude that was unbearable. Oh, to be free to take this 
 chance, to step forward into this life ! 
 
 I turned away from my companion. I could sing, then ! 
 I was not mistaken — I could sing. I walked to the win- 
 dow. The light there struck blindingly upon my eyes. How 
 could I have given that promise to my mother ? She did 
 not know. The old did not know for the young — they 
 could never know. They had lived their lives. Xow 
 
270 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 they should let the young also live. Oh, I must learn to 
 sing ! 
 
 Without a word of explanation to Mr. Maverick I ran out 
 of the room. I would find mother. Surely I could make 
 her understand, and she would release me. 
 
XVI 
 
 CHANGE 
 
 I entered the kitchen first. Father had come in from 
 the garden and was pumping water at the sink. He stopped 
 as I hurried forward. He had the tin dipper in his hand, 
 and was about to drink. I had ceased to expect that he 
 would seem to me as he used to seem. He gazed at me 
 over the edge of the dipper. 
 
 " Where's mother ?"' I asked, quickly. 
 
 " I d' know 7 ," he answered. 
 
 I was going to pass him, when he put out his hand. 
 
 " What ye up to now ?" sharply. " What does that man 
 want ?" 
 
 I hesitated. I felt as if I could not tell father what was 
 Mr. Maverick's errand. Father's eyes were full of a hostile 
 curiosity= 
 
 " What does he want ?'' he repeated. " You'd better send 
 him away. I've had enough of your actions, Wilhelminy — 
 goin' off V pretendin' to learn to sing — 'n turnin' a cold 
 shoulder to Bid — 'n' comin' back 'thout amountin' to any- 
 thing. You ain't neither one thing nor another now. 'X' 
 there's Bid's been sensible enough to take up with a gal 
 that 'ain't got no silly notions — cute gal, too, and one that 
 knows she can't run across a feller like Bid every day. 
 You didn't care to do anything to please yer father — you 
 didn't care how yer father got 'long — 'n' spent lots of money 
 
272 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 on ye. But what's he got for it ? Nothing jest nothin'. 
 Git out !" This last, with a kick towards Lotus, who had 
 just walked in from the other room. 
 
 I stood quite still. Father looked at me as if he hated 
 me. And was there not an odor of whiskey on his breath ? 
 This last suspicion I immediately put from me. I could 
 not try to explain anything to him. What could I ex- 
 plain ? 
 
 " Oh, I'm so sorry," I began, weakly ; then I stopped be- 
 fore the fury in his face. 
 
 " Sorry !" he repeated, with great scorn. " You ain't sorry, 
 neither. You don't care. If you had cared you'd got en- 
 gaged to Bidwell 's I wanted ye to. Pooh ! Jest 's if you 
 cared what become of me, anyway ! 'N' what you keepin' 
 up writin' to that singin' feller for ? You hear from him 
 real often. You think I'm blind V don't know nothin' ? 
 Not by a long chalk !" 
 
 A quickly moving figure was seen in the yard. 
 
 " There's Myra — she knows when she's well off — she does. 
 I tell you it makes me thunderin' mad to have you turn out 
 so; and we not knowin' which way to turn." 
 
 Father set down the tin dipper with a clash in the iron 
 sink. Then he hurried out of the house in a way to avoid 
 Myra, who tripped in with her flat sweet smile on her face, 
 and asked, with a pretty vivaciousness : 
 
 " Where's Uncle Lem ? I thought I seen Uncle Lem in 
 here." She glanced at my face, which I was fiercely trying 
 to get under control. "Mercy! What's the matter ? Has 
 anything happened?" 
 
 " No," I answered, " nothing has happened. If you'll ex- 
 cuse me I'll find mother. I have a visitor in the parlor." 
 
 But Myra hastened to the door, saying that she hadn't 
 meant to stop, and must hurry right along. I said nothing 
 
CHANGE 212> 
 
 to detain her. I ran through the sitting-room and pantry 
 trying to find mother. I looked from the window and saw 
 her going through the orchard. In a moment I was at her 
 side. I caught hold of her hand. 
 
 "Mother! mother! 1 ' I cried, "you must let me go ! You 
 must give me back my promise ! Oh, I must have the 
 chance to learn to sing !" 
 
 I can never forget the face she turned to me. Now I 
 know that it was full of grief and disappointment — disap- 
 pointment in her daughter. She waited a little before she- 
 spoke. Then she said, calmly : 
 
 " Yes, I give you back your promise. You must do as 
 you think best. You are a grown woman. You must do as 
 you think best." 
 
 I did not stop to thank her. My only feeling just then 
 was that of release— freedom. A moment later I opened 
 the parlor door. Mr. Maverick had been standing by the 
 window. He turned quickly towards me. He looked 
 much moved as he grasped my hands. 
 
 " You have changed your mind !" he exclaimed. 
 
 I have never been quite able to understand what it was 
 that influenced me then, that came almost like an audible 
 voice commanding me. Perhaps it was because of the look 
 in my companion's eyes — the look from which I shrank. 
 Instead of saying yes, I said "No" in a loud, hard voice; 
 and I snatched my hands away. Mr. Maverick grew pale. 
 
 "I have resolved," he responded, in a very low tone. 
 
 Then, notwithstanding my wish that my eyes should not 
 meet his glance, they did meet it, and were held just as my 
 hand might be held in an unyielding grasp. 
 
 " I have resolved," he repeated. 
 
 I made no response. I stood there looking at him. 
 Though I could not remove my gaze, I felt my resolution 
 
 18 
 
274 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 not to assent to his proposition growing and intensifying, 
 and I was becoming angry. What sort of force was he try- 
 ing to use upon me ? I knew little or nothing of the occult 
 talk of the day. A sort of fright began to mingle with my 
 anger. Every instant that I yielded was making my resist- 
 ing power less — and I would not yield. In a vague sort of 
 way I was telling myself that this was why this man's eyes 
 had always seemed so peculiar to me. 
 
 Then a faint film came over my own vision; my eyelids 
 became heavy, I could not keep them up. But I would not 
 let them fall. I made an effort which appeared to take 
 every particle of moral and physical strength I possessed. 
 I moved ; I looked towards the window ; I saw the blessed 
 sunlight outside ; I heard a robin murmur on the lilac. I 
 put my hand to my forehead. Confusedly I was aware that 
 Mr. Maverick uttered some kind of an ejaculation. His 
 voice sounded fierce. I was not looking in his eyes now. 
 I had escaped, and he knew I had escaped. He moved 
 quickly nearer to me. He tried to take my hands again, 
 but they were clasped behind me. 
 
 "Miss Armstrong," he exclaimed, in a half -whisper, 
 "surely — surely, you must know that I love you! You must 
 know that." 
 
 I was trembling. I could not tell whether I feared 
 this man more than I hated him. How could I have 
 thought of allowing him to do me a favor ? I did not 
 reply. I thought that I could not speak. I turned my 
 eyes again towards the sunlight, which had never been so 
 beautiful. 
 
 " And I have a right to love you." I heard these words, 
 and they made me turn towards my companion. It seemed 
 to me a strange thing that not until this instant of the inter- 
 view had I remembered Vane. But now the memory of 
 
CHANGE 
 
 2 75 
 
 him came to me with great sweetness and strength. And I 
 recalled his words. " I am jealous of Maverick." 
 
 " Nothing can prevent my loving you," went on Mr. 
 Maverick, authoritatively, "and winning you. too." 
 
 He was standing now very erect, head upflung and feat- 
 ures set ; his eyes shining under their brows. He was very 
 white, and there were drops of moisture on his forehead. 
 
 '"Yes," I returned, "I shall prevent you. If we should 
 live ten thousand years, I should never love you.'' 
 
 As I spoke I grew more confident. My indignation at 
 the attempt he had made to hypnotize me was so great that 
 it stimulated me. I began to wonder now how I could 
 have been affected in the least. He smiled, and his smile 
 was so exasperating that I felt that I could not stay in the 
 room with him. I turned and put my hand on the latch of 
 the door. 
 
 " Oh, you need not go," said he, quickly. " I will be the 
 one to go." 
 
 He walked to the table, where he had placed his hat. 
 With his hat in his hand he came towards me again, and 
 now I saw that in that brief time his whole aspect had 
 changed greatly. The assertion in his manner was gone. 
 He stopped in front of me. 
 
 " Bear with me for a moment longer," he said, with gentle- 
 ness. "You must not be angry because I love you." 
 
 •• No," I answered, " I'm not angry with you for that rea- 
 son." 
 
 " Thank you for so much," he returned, " and you must 
 not let me go away without hope — even the smallest grain 
 of hope I will be content with now — no, not content, but I 
 will endure with courage whatever happens. You'll give me 
 that smallest hope, Miss Armstrong ?" 
 
 It is true that there was something very winning in his 
 
276 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 manner now; or this something would have been winning 
 had it not been for the experience of the tew moments pre- 
 vious. 
 
 " No," I said again. 
 
 Mr. Maverick looked down at his hat ; he passed it round 
 and round in his hands, and I watched him mechanically, 
 absorbedly. The diamond on his finger flashed a ray at 
 me. All at once, as in a scene in a theatre, there came be- 
 fore me the parlor of the hotel in Chilton where I had first 
 seen this man when I had gone to meet Miss Runciman. 
 What if I had never gone to meet Miss Runciman ? Why 
 are we so foolish and weak as to ask such questions of fate, 
 for fate will not answer? 
 
 " You are sure that you can never love me ?" 
 
 He put this question without raising his eyes. 
 
 "T am sure," I answered. 
 
 " Ah, well, then, nothing remains for me but to say good- 
 morning." 
 
 He now raised his glance to my face. His eyes were not 
 good to see, and mine instantly fell before them. 
 
 "Before I go," he went on, "let me say that you need 
 not attribute what I have said about your voice to anything 
 but the coolest judgment, uninfluenced by my feeling for 
 you. Your voice is your talent. If you do not make use of 
 it you commit a sin against yourself and against the world. 
 And now, good-morning. Sorry to have intruded thus upon 
 you, I'm sure. All good fortune attend you." 
 
 He passed through the door, out into the sunshine; with 
 his hat still in his hand, he turned back and said, smil- 
 ingly : 
 
 " I beg, Miss Armstrong, that you will not put too much 
 faith in Vane Hildreth ; capital fellow, and fine tenor, still 
 — but, good-morning, good-morning." 
 
CHANGE 277 
 
 He walked down the narrow path that led to the gate 
 between the two rows of dark-green box. At the gate he 
 looked back once more, swung off his hat to me, and then 
 went briskly along the road. I stood in the doorway watch- 
 ing him until he was out of sight. Then I hurried into the 
 house, intent only on finding my mother. Again I could 
 not find her in any of the rooms, and I ran into the or- 
 chard. I knew mother's ways— her " Second Advent ways," 
 father used to call them. The low drooping apple-tree 
 branches brushed roughly against my head as I went. 
 Yes, there on the slope to the west, under the sweet rus- 
 set tree, was my mother on her knees. I saw her arms 
 clasped about the tree-trunk, and her head laid against the 
 bark. Should I never get to her to comfort her? I threw 
 myself down by her side. 
 
 "Mother! mother!" I cried, "he has gone! That man 
 has gone !" 
 
 She lifted her head and looked at me. 
 
 "Don't tell me that," she said, "if you are to go, too." 
 
 Before I could make any reply to this, mother, still on 
 her knees, turned about and grasped me by the shoulders. 
 
 " I've had a vision," she said, and her voice was shrill, and 
 unlike her voice. " Since I've been here I've seen myself, 
 myself as I was at your age, come back to me — come walk- 
 ing up from the meadow down there. How curious it was ! 
 It was like me, and it was like you, too, Wilhelminy." 
 
 " Don't, mother, don't !" I cried out. 
 
 " Let me go on. You needn't think I'm out of my head, 
 Miny. You jest listen, V don't you be frightened. Yes, I 
 came up from the meadow, and I was just as I was when I 
 married your father, only I had your eyes, my little girl ; 
 and havin' your eyes, p'raps, made me able to understand 
 "bout things, V see them plainly. 
 
278 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " Yes, that girl walked up to me and she put one finger 
 on my shoulder so," touching me, " and she said, ' S'rissy, 
 don't hold her back — don't hold her back. 1 
 
 " Then I burst out that I must — I must hold you back — 
 I couldn't let you go. And then this girl, that was me 
 and you both, looked at me with your eyes and she said, 
 'She's gone, S'rissy — she's gone. Now you must let — 
 let her.' 
 
 " Oh, how strange it was to see your eyes in my face ! I 
 kept staring at her until I almost went blind. Mebby I 
 did go blind, for when I could see again she was gone. I've 
 been tryin' to think how foolish I am. I can't have my girl 
 do jest as I think ; I couldn't do jest as my father V 
 mother thought. The young folks grow up different, some- 
 how ; 'n' us older ones mustn't think they're wrong 'cause 
 they're different. Jest because I have such a feeling about 
 that man, don't make it that he's wicked. 'N' dreams ain't 
 anything, anyway." 
 
 So mother talked, and I stood beside her, for she had 
 risen. Perhaps I had begun to have a little different feel- 
 ing about mother from what I used to have. I could see 
 now that she was a "dreamer of dreams," that she was 
 full of superstition; that she believed in "signs"; that her 
 wide, sensitive eyes saw things that I could never see. 
 None the less I loved and reverenced her; and I knew that 
 there was something in my own nature that answered to 
 hers, though the practical mingled in me with the visionary. 
 
 When mother became silent I began to reassure her. I 
 said that I shrank from Mr. Maverick, and that I did not 
 believe in his integrity. I remember how the robins flew 
 about us as we stood there, and one hung, and fluttered, 
 and scolded without cessation. We were near his nest in 
 the branches above us. Mother stood gazing at me. She 
 
CHANGE 
 
 279 
 
 was holding my hands closely. When I had finished speak- 
 ing, she said, slowly : 
 
 " But the other one ? Miny, you love that other one ?" 
 
 I opened my lips to say, "I am his wife," but before I 
 spoke we heard a shrill scream from the direction of the 
 river path. I recognized the voice, and I exclaimed, indig- 
 nantly : 
 
 ' ; What is Myra Foster shrieking about now ?" 
 
 Then Myra herself came running up the acclivity ; she 
 was rushing on towards the house, when she saw us and 
 changed her course. 
 
 " Perhaps she has seen a mouse," I was saying to myself. 
 
 K Oh, come quick!" she cried, breathlessly; "Uncle Lem 
 --he's got a fit ! Down here — on the path !" 
 
 We both started to run, but I reached the place long be- 
 fore mother, who seemed to be held back as if her feet were 
 chained together. There lay father, face down on the 
 ground. His arms were stretched out. I bent over him 
 and tried to lift him. How heavy he was ! Myra wouldn't 
 help ; when I asked her, she said she didn't dare to touch 
 him, for she was afraid he was dead. In a moment I had 
 turned him over so that he lay with his face up towards the 
 sky. A bluebird circled down close to that motionless form. 
 
 Myra gave another shriek. I wanted to turn and strike 
 her for making such a sound. Father's face was dark, al- 
 most purple, his jaw hanging heavily, his eyes partially 
 open. Mother came staggering up and knelt down on 
 the ground. 
 
 " Lemuel !" she said ; " Lemuel !" 
 
 I turned to Myra. " Will you take the horse and ride 
 for the doctor ?" I asked. 
 
 " Oh, I can't ! I can't ! I'm so frightened !" 
 
 " I'll go, then," I said. I bent over mother. She did not 
 
250 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 seem to notice me. I told her that I was going to ride to 
 the village for Dr. Shores. She made no response, and I 
 left her crouching over that senseless form. As for my- 
 self, just at that time I seemed to have no feeling, save the 
 feeling of hurry to the village. 
 
 But the doctor could do nothing. Father must have 
 been dead when Myra had left him. She said she had met 
 him on the path and he had called out, " Hullo, Myra!" and 
 the next instant had fallen as we had found him. Apo- 
 plexy, the doctor called it. 
 
 When the funeral was over mother and I began life by 
 ourselves. Aunt Lowizy came and stayed a week with us, 
 but she had to go back to Ryle, for grandmother needed 
 her. So we were alone, Lotus being our only companion. 
 Bidwell was very kind ; everybody was kind. It was Bid- 
 well who milked the cows and did all the " chores," for 
 chores must be done, whether people live or die. 
 
 In the second week after the funeral I proposed that we 
 hire a boy; I thought I could do a great deal of work my- 
 self, and with a boy to help us we might get along until 
 something permanent could be arranged. Instead of reply- 
 ing, mother rose from her chair and went to the old desk 
 that always stood at the end of the long kitchen. She un- 
 locked it, then she stood a moment looking at the key 
 which she had withdrawn from its place. 
 
 " It was in his pocket," she said ; "he has carried it for 
 'bout a year, V kept the desk locked. I feel wicked look- 
 in' 'mong his papers that he kep' so close. He never used 
 to keep um so. Wilhelminy," turning tremulously towards 
 me, "I think we're poor — I think we 'ain't got a cent." 
 
 I rose and flung open the desk. I sat down before it, de- 
 termined to know what could be known. Mother drew a 
 chair close to me and watched me as I took out paper after 
 
CHANGE 28l 
 
 paper and examined everything. I can tell in a very few 
 words what I learned. We didn't own anything. The 
 farm and everything on it belonged to Bidwell Blake. 
 Father had lost all he had ever owned of money and 
 horses and land in a stock company he had joined — a 
 company formed to carry on a large horse-breeding farm 
 in Kentucky. And, in spite of my resolve not to believe, 
 I yet had to believe that father had not been honest. I 
 was sure now that even when he sold horses he had not 
 been honest, and the neighbors knew it — oh yes, the 
 neighbors knew it, of course. But I hoped that mother 
 might be kept ignorant. But even as I hoped I recalled 
 her face as I had seen it many times since I was old enough 
 to remember — her face when she had been listening to 
 father. Yes, she had always known ■ but she had loved 
 him ; I was quite sure she had loved him ; and it is a terri- 
 ble thing to give affection to a man or woman whom you 
 cannot respect. 
 
 I stole a look at mother now as she sat close to my 
 chair. Since father's death she had looked like an old 
 woman. We had both tried to be calm. As for me, I 
 seemed to be grieving for the father of long ago — the jolly, 
 kind-hearted man who had seemed to love me. Within the 
 last few days that man had come very near to me, and I 
 knew that I should forget his later self. 
 
 " What shall we do ?" 
 
 Mother put this question a long time after I had told 
 her that we had nothing in the world. I rose ; I could not 
 sit still. I was thinking of Vane. He would take care of 
 us. He had sent two money drafts since he had gone, but 
 I could not make up my mind to use them. They lay now 
 in my little desk, the desk father had given me on my four- 
 teenth birthday. I shrank from touching Vane's money 
 
282 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 until he came back and the marriage was known. It was 
 wrong; I had done a wrong thing when I consented to a 
 marriage, as I had done. Yes, Vane would take care of us ; 
 but not until he came back. Meanwhile something must 
 be done. 
 
 " I must think," I said. I walked into the yard, Lotus 
 at my heels. 
 
 On the bench by the shed door was lying the folded 
 newspaper that I had taken out to read but this morning. 
 It was a New York daily that Bidwell had left. It was four 
 days old now. Without thinking of it or caring to look at 
 it, I yet unfolded it and absently ran my eyes down its col- 
 umns. It was some moments before my mind responded 
 to my eyes. When it did respond I found myself reading 
 this paragraph : 
 
 " Country board wanted for the summer by an invalid 
 lady ; a quiet place, with good air; absolutely a quiet place. 
 Address ." 
 
 Sometimes one makes a decision at once. I did this 
 now. I read the advertisement twice. The address was 
 a post-office box in Worcester, Mass. With the paper in 
 my hand I hurried back to the kitchen, where mother still 
 sat by the old desk. 
 
 " Here is a chance to earn money through the summer," 
 I said ; " and then we can make other plans. We will hire 
 the house of Bidwell for six months. After that, perhaps, 
 I can teach/' 
 
 I spoke with more hopefulness than I felt. It devolved 
 upon me to take up the burden of care, and I would en- 
 deavor to do it cheerfully. Meanwhile I tried not to think 
 of Vane. I wondered if any other girl was ever in just 
 such a position. The more I thought of telling mother, the 
 more I shrank from knowing that she would blame Vane 
 
CHANGE 283 
 
 for what he had done, and he was blameworthy, but so 
 was I. Mother fell in with my proposition, but only dully 
 and mechanically. She said there would be many replies 
 to that advertisement, and that it was probable that the 
 lady had already engaged board, there had been so much 
 time. She hoped I wouldn't "build on it." 
 
 Nevertheless I did " build on it." I couldn't help doing 
 so. I wrote my note, and then I saddled the horse and 
 galloped off with it. I was in a feverish haste to earn 
 money. And deep in my heart I still hoped some time 
 to be able to repay Miss Runciman every penny that she 
 had spent upon me. I tried not to think of Miss Runciman, 
 for the thought of her galled me so. 
 
 I mailed my note, and then I had to wait as patiently 
 as I could, which was not patiently at all. On the third 
 day I took from the office an envelope with a compact 
 superscription upon it. 
 
 " 'Tain't your usual one," said the postmaster, with a sig- 
 nificant smile, which I resented. I would not break the 
 envelope until I had ridden out of the village. Then, sit- 
 ting in the saddle, I found that the writing within the wrap- 
 per was very different from that on the outside, and I knew 
 the dashing characters well — it was Miss Runciman's hand 
 that had drawn them. My heart jumped and my fingers 
 trembled. Here is what she wrote : 
 
 " My dear Billy, — Do you think it is fate, or God, which made 
 you answer my advertisement ? Let us call it God, for I suppose there 
 is a God, and if there be one He would be likely to meddle in the 
 affairs of His world sometimes, wouldn't He ? 
 
 " The moment I saw your envelope I said to myself, 'Could this 
 have come from Billy?' I don't know why, I'm sure, that I should 
 be so glad to think I may go to your home for the summer. For you 
 must let me come — you must. Perhaps you hate me. But you must 
 
284 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 remember how you are commanded to use those who have wronged 
 you. I'm in wretched health. I talk as if I should get well ; but I 
 shall not. I'm going to die soon — soon. And people who are going 
 to die soon want to be forgiven, don't they ? Let me come imme- 
 diately. I will make as little trouble as I may. I shall not be alone ; 
 but you must take us both. Don't wait to write ; telegraph — telegraph 
 as soon as you can ride over to that little station where the wire stops. 
 Go now and send me these words, ' Come quickly.' 
 
 " Leonora Runciman." 
 
 My hand, with the letter in it, dropped down on the 
 pommel. Can you explain why the bitterness that had 
 been in my heart towards this woman suddenly fell away 
 from me ? Surely it was not merely because she was ill. 
 Was it because she was just Leonora Runciman ? There 
 was a dimness in my eyes as I looked down at the paper. 
 She was not alone — then Bashy was with her. I was sorry 
 for that. Bathsheba's sharp teeth, and the especial, carniv- 
 orous look of biting they had, had made an impression on 
 me which had never been effaced, and yet the girl had 
 been kind in her way, and she was Vane's sister. Some- 
 how she never seemed like Vane's sister. 
 
 I thrust the note into my jacket-pocket, I gathered up the 
 bridle rein and cantered on towards the station just as Miss 
 Runciman had bidden me, and I sent the precise words to 
 her that she had dictated — "Come quickly." Then I rode 
 homewards as fast as I could, and my horse's neck and sides 
 were wet when I dismounted in the barn. 
 
 I longed to rush into the house to mother, but first I made 
 myself unsaddle and rub down my steed as well as I could. 
 There is often something comforting and soothing in con- 
 tact with some animals, and when I was ready to meet 
 mother, though I was red and perspiring from my work, I 
 was quite calm. I w r as prepared for opposition, and re- 
 
CHANGE 285 
 
 solved to overcome it. Mother looked startled and alarmed 
 when I read the note. She shrank away and put out her 
 hands as if to ward off something; but when I read again 
 those words about the writer's illness mother's face changed 
 to pity. 
 
 " Poor thing !" she exclaimed. " Let her come. It's not 
 for us to judge." 
 
 Of course it was Bidwell's horse I kept and used. He 
 had tried to make me believe that I should be doing him a 
 favor if I would keep it until the fall, and he was so earnest 
 about it that I consented. Have I set down here how kind 
 and thoughtful Bid was ? I think he did not often come to 
 see Myra at Miss Cobb's without walking up the river path 
 to ask if he could do anything for us. It was on one of 
 those visits that I arranged with him concerning the rent ; 
 I would go right on paying what father had agreed to pay ; 
 only, just now he must wait, I must earn the money ; and 
 I would keep the hens, and one cow; these mother and I 
 could care for. Bidwell had the appearance of dealing with 
 me as if I were another young man, and he could never know 
 how I thanked him for that. 
 
 After I had sent the telegram mother and I fell to house- 
 cleaning like mad. We cleaned the south front room and 
 the bedroom adjoining. I was sore and lame every time I 
 waked in the night, but I did not care for any physical ills ; 
 or I thought I did not. 
 
 The next afternoon it was I who seemed calm and mother 
 who was, as she said, " as flustered as she could be." A tel- 
 egram received in the morning informed us that our boarders 
 would arrive on the 6:30 p.m. train. Could I meet them ? 
 
 I had just led the horse, harnessed, to the carry-all that 
 had once been father's, and that was now Bidwell's, into 
 the yard. Mother was at the door, and came out to say 
 
286 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 good-bye, as if I were going on a journey. Her eyes looked 
 more timid and sensitive than usual. 
 
 " I do hope we've done right," she said, in an unsteady 
 voice ; " but now the time has really come, I almost wish 
 we'd said no. You know, I don't believe in her, Billy." 
 
 " It isn't necessary," I answered, briskly. " I don't be- 
 lieve in her, either." 
 
 So I drove off. At the first corner I met Bidwell with 
 Myra on the front seat of his carriage, and Rachel Cobb 
 on the back seat. Rachel had on her glasses and peered 
 sharply at me. Bidwell pulled in his brown horses, and 
 called out, cheerily : 
 
 " So you've got started, eh ? I'm jest takin' Rachel out 
 a piece. She's be'n shut up so long I thought 'twould do 
 her good." 
 
 Then he clucked to his horses, Myra "snuggled" yet 
 closer to him, and I was left to continue my way. 
 
 " I suppose that's the kind of girl men like," I said, aloud; 
 and I added that I wished she was in any measure worthy 
 of Bid ; Bid was such a good fellow ! Having thus ex- 
 pressed myself, I forgot them. I had plenty of subjects to 
 think of besides Myra Foster and her admirers. 
 
 I reached the station half an hour before train time in my 
 fear lest I should be late. I carefully hitched the horse, 
 and then I walked up and down on the platform. The 
 agent occasionally came out and looked at me. Once he 
 said he " s'posed " I was Lemuel Armstrong's daughter. 
 Having informed him that I was, he went back and prob- 
 ably meditated on that fact. Presently he returned and 
 again gazed at me intently a moment before he remarked 
 that he guessed I must be the one that had been studyin' 
 to be a great singer ; was I ? 
 
 "Yes." 
 
CHANGE 287 
 
 He stepped back as if the better to contemplate such a 
 being. 
 
 " Well, be ye a great singer?" 
 
 "No, I'm not." 
 
 He walked to the utmost edge of the platform and squint- 
 ed reflectively along the rails. Without removing his eyes 
 from their occupation, he said : 
 
 " I guess it didn't pay, did it ?" 
 
 " No," I answered. 
 
 This conversation consumed a few moments of the half- 
 hour, but the time that still remained was heavy. Even 
 the knowledge that the fact that I had studied to be a 
 great singer, and failed, was making me an object of inter- 
 est, did not allay the excitement with which I waited for 
 the train. 
 
 The shadows cast by the hills to the west were long and 
 cool. Above them the summer sun was still brilliantly 
 shining; but here the day seemed nearer an end, and the 
 birds were flying about, making their soft little calls to each 
 other. A great peace appeared to have descended upon 
 the world, but, try as I would, I could not partake of that 
 peace. Sometimes nature is so alien, so unsympathetic. 
 A certain vague, distant sound, or rather vibration, be- 
 came perceptible. The agent, who had come out again, 
 now pulled his watch from some very deep receptacle, and 
 remarked, as he examined it : 
 
 " I guess she's goin' to be right on the tick." 
 
 I stood up straight. Why should my pulses beat so be- 
 cause Miss Runciman was coming? There she was, de- 
 scending the steps — pale, thin, with hair more gray, with 
 no suggestion now of physical power, and yet still a notable 
 woman. I stepped quickly forward. She put a hand on 
 each shoulder, and looked at me. 
 
288 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " This is good of you, Billy," she said earnestly. " Now 
 I can die in peace up here in the country." 
 
 She kissed me, and I did not shrink. I thought that I 
 ought to shrink. I was indefinitely aware that there was a 
 figure behind. Where was Bashy? Miss Runciman turned. 
 
 "Billy," she said, "here's some one you have seen — and 
 you were kind to him, too ; but then you're a kind little 
 girl. Robert—" 
 
 I did not hear what else she said, for the man who stepped 
 forward, laden with wraps and satchels, was Mr. Robert 
 Dreer, the man who had come to that house where I stud- 
 ied last winter. He was now remarkably well dressed, and 
 his face was happy, in spite of its expression of anxiety. 
 
 " Billy," said Miss Runciman, as if she were presenting 
 an ordinary acquaintance, " this is my husband, Mr. Dreer. 
 Is that your carriage ? Do you know, Tin to have the gray 
 colt sent up here ? I pretend that I'm going to ride him, 
 but I never shall ; no, I never shall." 
 
 She walked slowly forward to the carriage. Mr. Dreer 
 hastened after her, piling his wraps as well as he could 
 upon one arm so that he might offer the other arm to his 
 wife. But she turned to me with a smile : 
 
 " You help me, Billy." She took my arm, and Mr. Dreer 
 walked on to put his shawls and bags in the carry-all. 
 
XVII 
 THE WHOLE STORY 
 
 I did not ask a question. I was too bewildered to do so, 
 even if I had thought it courteous. In that first moment 
 I was not even putting inquiries to myself. Mr. Dreer 
 turned towards us as we came forward. Miss Runciman 
 made a movement to signify that she would not be put into 
 the carriage directly. She leaned both hands on the shaft 
 and looked above the horse into the distance. Presently 
 she said, not addressing any one : 
 
 •' I don't know why God made such a beautiful world 
 just for us to die in." 
 
 " But we live in it first," I responded, with some eager- 
 ness. She smiled. 
 
 " You say that because you are living ; but I am dying. 
 Robert" — to Mr. Dreer, who stood close beside her — "help 
 me in. I'm tired."' 
 
 I watched the man as he obeyed. The tenderness in his 
 
 worn face was indescribable. I recalled the time when he 
 
 had gazed at Miss Runciman's portrait in the low-ceiled 
 
 room at YYallingford. She had been his wife then ; I felt 
 
 sure of that. Let me say here that I am going to call her 
 
 Miss Runciman to the end of these chronicles, for it was 
 
 bv that name that I always thought of her, by that name 
 
 I remember her now. 
 
 There was hardly a word spoken during the drive home. 
 19 
 
290 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 The two new-comers sat in the back of the carriage, with 
 the woman leaning her head on her companion's, shoulder, 
 her eyes closed nearly all the time, Mr. Dreer holding 
 her carefully, as if he would shield her from everything. 
 As mother came out into the yard to meet us the moon 
 was shining over the tops of the poplars that grew at the 
 end of the house ; it shone directly upon Miss Runciman's 
 face, and when mother looked at her I knew that there was 
 nothing but pity in her heart. 
 
 After a few days the invalid seemed so much better that, 
 instead of sitting or lying almost all the day on the piazza, 
 she would walk about the yard, always on her husband's 
 arm, and she began to say things that reminded me of her 
 old self. This improvement continued until I, for one, 
 began to think she might get well, or at least much better, 
 and she did not cough nearly so much. The terms which 
 she had set for board seemed to me munificent, but she 
 insisted that it was worth even more to have a sick woman 
 like her about the house, and she might die on our hands 
 at any time. At this she smiled, and Mr. Dreer, as he stood 
 behind her couch, tried to repress a shudder. 
 
 Later I often watched Mr. Dreer, thinking to myself that 
 he must have loved much to be able to forgive so much, 
 for I felt sure there had been need of forgiveness on his v 
 part. Perhaps there was some spaniel-like quality in his 
 nature. He did not notice me, save in a merely civil way. 
 But once he took occasion to thank me earnestly for what 
 he said I had done for him at the Holloway House. 
 
 It was at this interview that I proposed to Miss Runci- 
 man to allow her board to cancel the debt I must owe her. 
 I had resolved to say this, though it was difficult for me to 
 do so. She raised herself on her elbow that she might the 
 better look at me. 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 
 
 291 
 
 •• What debt ?" she asked. 
 
 ,; For singing lessons, and — and — " Here I stopped. 
 
 " Come here," she said. 
 
 I approached the lounge. 
 
 li Sit down on this footstool." 
 
 I obeyed. 
 
 She was silent for a time. She put her hand on my 
 head. 
 
 ; ' I told you that when you are going to die soon you 
 want to be forgiven. You owe me nothing but forgiveness. 
 It was a cruel thing to take you and leave you as I did. I 
 suppose I have done many cruel things in my life. But 
 they never troubled me ; and I'm not much troubled by 
 them now. That's a curious fact, isn't it? Xow, there's 
 Robert — I suppose he loves me — he really loves me. Bill}-, 
 if you'll close that door leading into the house I'll talk to 
 you a little. I feel like talking about myself. But if Miss 
 Cobb should come over, and should happen to hear me, I 
 should be sorry. Miss Cobb isn't a woman in whom I 
 would confide. I really am strong to-day — quite like my- 
 self. Odd, isn't it? Robert thinks I may get well, but he 
 is wrong — wrong. Come back here to the footstool. You 
 see, after all, I couldn't bear to have you sing better than I 
 could sing. I couldn't bear, when the time really came, to 
 have people say 'that girl some day will far outshine Miss 
 Runciman.' They did say that. Then I hated vou. And 
 
 J J J 
 
 Maverick was taken with you. I don't wonder, of course. 
 There's a singular simplicity in your character and manner 
 which is like a drink from a cold mountain spring on a hot 
 day. Speaking of drinking, I was always afraid you would 
 begin to take wine. It seemed so against your whole self 
 — odd notion, wasn't it?" 
 
 Here the speaker paused. She was silent for so long a 
 
292 IN THE FIRST PERSON • 
 
 time that I glanced up at her. Her eyes were closed, and 
 from beneath the lids two tears had started. Impulsively 
 I leaned forward and kissed those drooped lids. Even as 
 I did so I knew that the reasonable feeling for me to have 
 was the feeling of repulsion towards this woman. But, 
 thank God, we are not always reasonable. 
 
 " That's lovely of you," she murmured. 
 
 She opened her eyes and added, with animation, " And 
 you don't run any risk in regard to me now, for I shall not 
 get well and do any more unprincipled things. And Rob- 
 ert is safe too. Poor fellow ! I'm glad he's safe. He has 
 suffered horribly through me. But having loved me, he 
 couldn't stop loving me. That was strange, too. Billy, 
 will you be bored if I talk about myself ? I am in the 
 mood to do that. It is as if I were standing off and con- 
 templating my own individuality. And you are such a 
 sympathetic, intense kind of a listener. Shall I bore you ?" 
 
 " Oh no, no !" I answered. 
 
 " Very well, I'll go on, then. I married Robert when I 
 was nineteen. I thought love was a fine thing. I suppose 
 it is ; people seem to believe in it. But I became weary of 
 it. Robert didn't weary, however ; he continued to be de- 
 voted. He isn't like a man in that respect — nor like a wom- 
 an, either ; perhaps like some dogs, and a very few human 
 beings. I knew that I could sing before I married, but it 
 was not until later that I learned that I might do something 
 with my voice. We were poor ; I was a country girl, like 
 you, Billy, and Robert had a good opening in business with 
 Mr. Hollander. I see you remember that name. 
 
 " At a concert at which I sang a professional in singing 
 heard me. He sought me out and prophesied a great future 
 if I would study abroad. I was set on fire by his words. I 
 told my husband that I must cultivate my voice ; but we 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 
 
 were poor then ; he wanted me to wait. How could I wait ? 
 The Hollanders were very kind to us both. But I'm sure 
 that Mrs. Hollander never liked me. Her husband was too 
 fond of leaning on the piano and staring at me when I sang. 
 And I confess that I used to glance at him occasionally. 
 Why not? And Mrs. Hollander sometimes saw me do it. 
 It was about this time that Robert became his employer's 
 confidential clerk. He knew as much about the business 
 as Mr. Hollander himself knew. I was wild for money 
 then. I was discontented and unhappy. I was constantly 
 telling my husband that he must get money in some way. 
 Now. you must know that Robert isn't a strong man in 
 some respects, and that he is wonderfully strong in other 
 ways. That's the way with us all, I fancy, only in not so 
 marked a degree. 
 
 ' ; I'm to blame for it all ; I can see that plainly enough. 
 You don't care for the particulars of the affair. Robert, 
 eager to get money for me, when he saw an opportunity, 
 acted. You don't remember reading in the papers about 
 the Hollander frauds. You were too young. Rachel Cobb 
 showed you a few paragraphs. The transaction involved 
 the firm. Robert's spoils were $20,000— not large, as frauds 
 go in these days, but it seemed a great deal to me then. 
 And he put the whole sum into my hands and sent me 
 abroad. Mind you, I knew it was a fraud, and I helped 
 him with my acuter brain. 
 
 "We thought, as criminals usually think, that we should 
 not be found out. Everything would be ' squared up 1 be- 
 fore discovery. It was a ' great deal.' But the crash came, 
 nevertheless, and Hollander was disgraced utterly, as well 
 as made a poor man. What does Robert do then ? He 
 comes forward and confesses that it was he who had done 
 this thing, he who was guilty, and that he had used Hoi- 
 
294 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 lander's name to float the thing. People talked about the 
 affair for a time ; it was a little more interesting than the 
 ordinary embezzlement, and, for some reason, it was gen- 
 erally believed that I was really the power that had moved 
 the puppet to make a criminal of himself. My extrav- 
 agance, this thing and that, were dwelt upon. Mrs. Hol- 
 lander started all that. Of course, the woman didn't feel 
 too kindly towards me. She and her husband had to move 
 into a poor part of the city and take boarders for a living. 
 They didn't have even $20,000. You may be sure that I 
 arranged so that I needn't lose that. I was smart. I was 
 learning to sing. Robert was sentenced to eleven years' 
 hard labor. They pardoned him at the end of ten years 
 for good behavior. 
 
 " Meantime I had become famous. I took my maiden 
 name, but some ferret of a newspaperman published a few 
 facts in the case. I was famous, all the same, and the 
 crowds came to hear me. At first I used to think about 
 Robert, but I grew to think less and less about him. Why 
 should I remember him ? It did him no good. It must 
 have been a curious remnant of sentiment that made me go 
 to that old house in Wallingford — that made me take you 
 there last winter. It was there Robert and I spent the 
 first few months after our marriage ; and Robert came there 
 from prison. Poor fellow ! He kept right on loving me 
 all the time." 
 
 Miss Runciman, who had been sitting up on the lounge, 
 now laid herself back on the pillows. I sat perfectly still. 
 I was feeling very far from her. I was wondering if there 
 were many people like her in the world. And did those 
 men and women who had committed crimes have any 
 " realizing sense" of what they had done? Did the capac- 
 ity to do an evil deed nullify the capacity to repent of it ? 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 295 
 
 Did people repent just from pure sorrow for their actions, 
 or only when those actions brought suffering to them ? 
 And what did God — God, who really knows us — think of 
 us ? To be God's child is to be loved by Him, and un- 
 derstood by Him — so He understands why we do a bad act. 
 
 Mother believes that God looks tenderly upon a wicked 
 child. How does He look upon a woman like Leonora 
 Runciman ? I rose from my place on the footstool by the 
 lounge. I walked to the edge of the piazza and leaned 
 against one of the pillars. 
 
 There was my father. He had cheated people. I was 
 convinced that it was his practice to cheat whenever he 
 could do so. And I was quite sure that his conscience 
 never troubled him, and that he was only troubled when he 
 did not succeed. But mother — she was upright — she was 
 a person of integrity. 
 
 " Billy." 
 
 It was Miss Runciman who spoke. I went back to the 
 lounge. The pale, attractive face was towards me, and the 
 eyes were looking earnestly at me. 
 
 " I knew you would feel just as you are feeling," she 
 said, "but I had a strong wish to tell you. That's another 
 marked weakness of humanity — the tendency to confess. 
 Now, why should I have told you this ? Such telling serves 
 no purpose whatever. I simply wished you to know about 
 me. My inhibitive power ought to have kept me silent. 
 But it did not. I have risked your feeling, thrust away 
 from me by my evil deeds. It's a strange thing that I'm 
 not made unhappy by the thought of them. I ought to be 
 unhappy." 
 
 Here she coughed. When she could speak she said : " I 
 wish you would sit down here again." I resumed my place. 
 She put out her hand and clasped mine. 
 
296 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 " It's such a strong, young hand," she said. " And now 
 I'm going to talk about your future. You are going to 
 study under Marchesi. Oh yes " — as I started uncontrol- 
 lably — "you grow pale at the very thought — and no won- 
 der. I have made my will. I have saved some money. If 
 I don't die, you have the money all the same — $5000. 
 That will be enough for the way you will live. I propose 
 that you and your mother go this fall. I have already writ- 
 ten to Marchesi concerning you. It is not yet time for a 
 reply. I can see your future resplendent. To sing — to 
 move hearts — to make the blood leap— to play upon the 
 pulses — " 
 
 Miss Runciman rose to a sitting position. A bright red 
 came to her face. She began to cough again. After a time 
 she took up her talk once more. 
 
 " I am so grateful that you didn't become entangled with 
 my nephew," she said. 
 
 I could not help a quick, slight movement. I could not 
 tell whether she noticed this movement. She went on : 
 
 " Such an entanglement would most likely be fatal to 
 your future as a singer. Yes, I'm very glad that such a 
 thing did not happen. Billy !" — suddenly. 
 
 Miss Runciman seized my arm and pulled me down tow- 
 ards her. She looked alarmed ; I could see that, even in 
 the midst of my own confusion. 
 
 " You know I warned you !" she exclaimed. 
 
 " Does warning ever do any good ?" I asked. I had, on 
 the moment, made a resolve. I withdrew myself somewhat 
 and tried to look in Miss Runciman's face as I said : 
 
 "Vane and I are married." 
 
 " What !" 
 
 But I did not think of repeating my words ; I could not 
 have spoken again immediately. The look that came into 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 297 
 
 the countenance before me had a very strange effect — it 
 frightened me thoroughly. But why should Miss Runci- 
 man's eyes fill with horror ? She stared at me an instant 
 in silence. Then she roused herself and looked about her 
 as if in search of some one. 
 
 " Where is Robert ?" she asked. " Find Robert for me." 
 
 Without any response in words, I turned and went along 
 the yard towards the path that led to the river. It was in 
 this direction that Mr. Dreer had gone for a walk. He was 
 never away for more than an hour. I should be likely to 
 meet him. I had no more than reached the bars of the 
 fence when Miss Runciman called me quickly. I hurried 
 back to her. She was standing now, with one arm clasped 
 about a post of the piazza. She looked full of alert, and I 
 might almost say defensive, life, in spite of her pallor. 
 
 " Come here — come close," she said, in an eager whisper. 
 " Before you call Robert tell me more. Does your mother 
 know ?" 
 
 " I have never told any one until this moment," I an- 
 swered. I also was on the defensive now. Was she going 
 to blame Vane ? I could not bear that. 
 
 "Did Vane wish the marriage kept secret?" 
 
 " He did not say so." I spoke stiffly, and as if I should 
 resent too much questioning. " Under the circumstances, I 
 thought I would remain silent." 
 
 " Even to your mother ?" 
 
 " Yes, even to my mother." Miss Runciman put her 
 hand up to her head a moment. Then she asked, peremp- 
 torily : 
 
 " What were the circumstances ?" 
 
 I hesitated, and as I did so my companion said, with still 
 more command in her manner : 
 
 " The date ? Tell me the date instantly." 
 
298 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I mentioned the day of the month, and, instead of put- 
 ting another inquiry, she stepped down from the piazza and 
 walked a few yards, exclaiming as she did so : 
 
 " I must find Robert !" 
 
 There was a touching anxiety and helplessness in her ap- 
 pearance ; it was particularly affecting to see a woman like 
 her helpless in any degree : I felt this even in my preoccu- 
 pation. I hurried forward. 
 
 " I will go," I said, shortly. She paused, and I went on 
 towards the path. 
 
 In my vague alarm there was much indignation, and this 
 latter emotion grew as the moments passed. Why should 
 Miss Runciman appear like this, even though my marriage 
 had been, in a measure, clandestine ? I began to run along 
 the path. It was a very irritating thing to meet Myra Fos- 
 ter coming up the slope, swinging her hat in her hand. 
 
 " Mercy sake !" she exclaimed. " There ain't nothin' 
 happened, has there ?" 
 
 " No — no," 1 trying to pass her. 
 
 " I'm so glad. I was comin' up to ask you to go out 
 to Great Medders with us towards night — Bid V I, you 
 know." 
 
 "Thank you — my time is so taken up — excuse me — 
 there's Mr. Dreer," and I dashed on. 
 
 It was really strange that I should dislike that girl so 
 much. And what could Bidwell Blake see in her ? But 
 father also had liked her. Confusedly I was thinking thus 
 as I hastened towards Mr. Dreer. As soon as he saw me 
 he came quickly to me, his ever-present anxiety intensified. 
 •I hastened to give his wife's message, and to assure him 
 that she was no worse. Having done this, I lingered. I 
 did not care to return immediately. I walked down to the 
 hackmatack-trees, where I had strolled and sat so many 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 299 
 
 times with Bathsheba and her brother. There was the spot 
 where the big; carriage had stood. 
 
 I went back and leaned on the bar of the fence as I had 
 done when Vane had sung his little encore song to me. 
 My heart was aching. My dry, hot eyes turned vaguely 
 this way and that. I was continually asking myself why 
 Miss Runciman had looked so horrified — and why had she 
 so wished to know the date of my marriage. It was that 
 fact alone which concerned her. 
 
 I put my hand in my pocket and drew out Vane's letter. 
 It was my habit to keep one letter with me until another 
 one came. He wrote constantly, and with the ardor and 
 abandon of a lover who loves absorbingly, and without cau- 
 tion. It has not seemed necessary to mention these let- 
 ters ; but I read them unceasingly, it seems to me now as I 
 look back ; and I thought of the writer from morning till 
 night, and dreamed of him while I slept. Those letters, and 
 the memory of their writer, filled the summer with a glow 
 and a subtle and delightful excitement that colored every- 
 thing. Xo matter of what I was thinking, I was thinking 
 also of Vane. I was enveloped in something which made 
 it impossible for any grief or pleasure, not connected with 
 this one subject, to touch me deeply. 
 
 Perhaps this confession reveals a very selfish person ; it 
 is the truth, however. But, notwithstanding this truth, I 
 never ceased regretting that marriage. Still my thoughts of 
 the ceremony grew more and more indefinite and shadowy. 
 Now, since Miss Runciman's question, these memories 
 started out into a brightly defined distinctness again, and 
 were not like the remembrance of a dream. And the in- 
 comprehensible and contradictory gladness in that I was 
 Vane's wife was stronger than ever. Fortunately for me, I 
 did not try to understand these things. The human heart, 
 
300 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 which is desperately wicked, is also quite as mysterious. 
 What else is capable of two distinctly contrary emotions at 
 the same time ? 
 
 When I returned an hour later Miss Runciman was lying 
 on the lounge on the piazza. She did not open her eyes as 
 I came softly forward. So I passed on into the house and 
 to the kitchen, where mother was sitting. When I entered 
 the room she asked quickly why Mr. Dreer had gone off 
 in such a hurry, and why he had gone to Chilton. I could 
 answer neither of these inquiries. She informed me that 
 Mr. Dreer had saddled the gray colt, which now sub- 
 mitted to be ridden by others besides its mistress, and 
 that he had galloped off as soon as he could go. 
 
 As it was a thirty-mile ride to Chilton, Mr. Dreer could 
 hardly return until the next day. Of course, I would not 
 ask any questions. Miss Runciman, the next morning, did 
 not leave her room until nearly noon. When she did ap- 
 pear she showed plainly that she had not slept ; and she 
 could not eat. She drank a glass of milk and then estab- 
 lished herself on the piazza again, asking if I could sit be- 
 side her. I was expecting her to refer to the subject which 
 had been of such interest to her the day before. Finally 
 she said : 
 
 " Poor Billy !" 
 
 I resented this exclamation, and showed that I did so. 
 
 " Don't be angry," she murmured. 
 
 Then she said nothing more. She was uneasy, and when 
 afternoon came she was constantly going to the end of the 
 piazza, where she could see the road that led towards 
 Chilton, and gazing in that direction. It was almost night 
 when the gray horse appeared, galloping steadily on. I 
 waited by her side until the rider entered the yard. Then 
 I went into the house and sat down. I was glad that I was 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 301 
 
 alone. Mother had gone to Rachel Cobb's. I had not 
 noticed that the window towards the piazza was open until 
 I heard Miss Runciman ask, in a loud voice: 
 
 " Did you find them ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And get an answer ?" 
 
 Then I hastened into the kitchen, where I could not 
 hear. But I had not been there ten minutes when the door 
 was flung open and Mr. Dreer came forward. 
 
 " Leonora wishes you to go to her,'' he said. He went 
 on out of the house. I rose from my chair immediately, 
 but I hesitated. "What would she say to me? As if for a 
 protection, I took Vane's letter in my hand. Then I joined 
 Miss Runciman, who was sitting up now, with a fur cloak 
 about her shoulders. She was holding this cloak together 
 at her throat, her thin hand showing strained and white. She 
 had her head flung back as she watched the door through 
 which I came. With her free hand she motioned me to 
 sit beside her on the couch. As I obeyed she seemed to 
 be looking at me. 
 
 " I ought to have told you the truth at the very first," 
 she began, abruptly ; " but who could imagine that Vane 
 would do such a thing ? And what I did say to you about 
 him was not true. There is really sometimes something 
 more than a moral satisfaction in speaking the exact truth. 
 What information did I give you concerning my nephew?" 
 
 I answered directly : 
 
 "You said that he was always falling in love, and that 
 I must not think his manner meant anything." 
 
 "Oh yes; I remember now. But that was not so. I 
 thought, however, it would do as a warning. It seems it 
 did not serve at all." 
 
 I remained perfectly quiet as I listened. Miss Runciman 
 
302 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 had evidently decided to resume her usual somewhat cyn- 
 ical manner ; she was not going to be dramatic, as she had 
 been in her surprise of the day before. 
 
 "No," I returned, after a moment, " it did not serve." 
 
 She turned and scrutinized me. Then she suddenly 
 dropped her calm appearance, and exclaimed: 
 
 " He ought to be shot ! I did not dream that he was 
 such a rascal. " Having pronounced these words in a high 
 tone, she evidently made an effort to appear calm again. 
 
 " Robert went to Chilton," she. said, "that he might send 
 a cable message to Bordeaux, in France, and await the an- 
 swer. Here it is." 
 
 She opened the hand which had been holding her cloak 
 together ; from it there fell a crumpled bit of paper, which 
 I picked up. 
 
 "Read it," she commanded; "read it aloud." 
 
 " Mrs. Olive Hildreth, now living with her mother at Rue 
 No. 17." 
 
 I gazed at the words after I had spoken them. I did 
 not know what they meant ; but they must be charged with 
 something terrible. 
 
 " Olive Hildreth !" I repeated, in a half-whisper. And I 
 waited, for I was not ready to ask questions. 
 
 " I will be as brief as is possible," went on Miss Runci- 
 man. " I don't believe much in explanations. And you 
 need not try to act as if you were not moved, as if you did 
 not suffer ; spare yourself that effort. 
 
 " It is nearly five years since my nephew married Olive 
 Jewett. Dear Billy, don't try to be a stoic, please. No 
 matter who Olive Jewett was. The marriage was very dis- 
 pleasing to Vane's friends, and they let him know it. He 
 was furiously indignant, flounced off to Europe with his 
 bride, and swore he would never mention her to me — par- 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 303 
 
 ticularly to me, because I was more angry with him than 
 any one else. That was a kind of silence that I could very 
 well bear, and I aided it by declaring that I would not 
 listen to any information concerning Vane's wife. 
 
 "In six months they were tired of each other. I will say 
 that Olive Jewett was a chorus singer to whom men had 
 made love, but whom nobody had married. Vane got it 
 into his head that she was a lovely creature who had been 
 much traduced, and he thought he was in love. Some of 
 her relatives in the wine business have a house in Bordeaux, 
 and Olive took up a residence there with her mother. 
 They considered that Olive had done very well, for Vane 
 made his wife an allowance that left him with very little 
 money, indeed. 
 
 " Perhaps he was doing penance for his folly in marrying 
 her by thus sending her so much. Mind you, no one tells 
 me anything of the Jewetts — I mean that neither Vane 
 nor his sister gives me any information. But a friend of 
 mine, visiting Bordeaux this last spring, wrote to me that 
 Olive was dangerously ill of a fever. Later, this same 
 friend, then in Paris, wrote that she had heard that Olive 
 had died. That is the last I have known, and since neither 
 Vane nor Bashy spoke of Olive, you may be sure that I did 
 not; in no way was the girl a pleasant subject. Vane's 
 marriage was never alluded to in any manner. I thought of 
 it when I saw that Vane was attracted to you, but I confess 
 that I gave no serious attention to the fact. I was ab- 
 sorbed in other things. But I did give you a casual warn- 
 ing. To do more than speak casually seemed to me to 
 emphasize matters too much. 
 
 " When you told me yesterday that you and Vane were 
 married, the first thing I thought of doing was to send 
 direct to Bordeaux to the address my friend had given me. 
 
304 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 This is the answer. You see that girl did not die. Such 
 people don't die — they live. It is others who die. You 
 have followed me, Billy ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Miss Runciman turned towards me now. But I withdrew 
 further from her. 
 
 So Vane was married. While he was writing me these 
 letters he knew that he had a wife living. He knew it ; 
 and yet he wrote like that. And he knew it when he had 
 pleaded with me on the train. I had old-fashioned ideas. 
 I had been thinking of this man as a man whom I had every 
 right in the world to love. 
 
 " Billy," said my companion again. 
 
 I did not make any response. It did not seem to me 
 that there was anything for me to say. That was fortunate, 
 for I could not speak. Just then it was simply impossible 
 for me to utter a word. Perhaps Miss Runciman perceived 
 this, for she kept silence for a few moments. At last she 
 spoke again. 
 
 " I'm not straitlaced. I'm not particularly strict," she 
 began, " and perhaps I'm not shocked at things that would 
 shock you, Billy; but I'm not going to try to justify Vane. 
 Only let me say this : He used not to be a bad fellow. 
 He must be very much in love with you." 
 
 I trembled as I heard these last words. I wished that I 
 might see clearly. There was a blackness over my vision. 
 I passed my hand across my eyes. But I could not see. 
 There was nothing that I could do just now. I recall that 
 I wished to rise and walk away so that I might be by my- 
 self, but I did not dare to move lest I might fall. Yes, all 
 the time that Vane had been writing those letters he knew 
 that I was not his wife. And he must be aware that there 
 was a chance of my being told of his former marriage. He 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 305 
 
 might say that he would risk that chance. But I could 
 not follow out any train of thought — if I began coherently, 
 my mind immediately became obscured, and like the mind 
 of an insane person. 
 
 I longed to get away, but I still dared not rise. What if 
 I should fall down there at Miss Runciman's feet? What 
 strange people there were in the world ! My mother had 
 dreamed that I was in danger. Did she guess this ? No, 
 she could not by any possibility guess this. This was 
 too dreadful for her to think of. Oh, if I only could get 
 upon my feet and walk away to my own room ! I hoped 
 that Miss Runciman would not speak again now. But she 
 did speak, and I tried to listen and to distinguish what she 
 said. The words had no sense — I could make nothing; of 
 them. And presently the light seemed to go out of the sky. 
 
 When I could see and hear again I was on mother's bed 
 in her room, and Mr. Dreer was putting a cold wet towel on 
 my head. His wife was sitting on the edge of the bed 
 holding my hand. She uttered some kind of an exclama- 
 tion. At first I thought only of her, and that for some rea- 
 son she had fainted. 
 
 " I suppose you were a little faint," she said, soothingly, 
 " and Robert brought you in here. You'll be all right in a 
 few minutes." 
 
 " Then it wasn't you who fainted ?" I asked. 
 
 I did not yet remember anything ; but before she could 
 reply, all that she had been telling me came back with burn- 
 ing distinctness. I tried to sit up, but I fell back again. I 
 despised myself for having swooned ; I had never had such 
 a thing happen to me before. I had had a contempt for 
 a girl who could be so weak. 
 
 "You may leave us now, Robert," I heard Miss Runci- 
 man say, "but be within call." 
 
306 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I turned my head on the pillow. I longed to have this 
 woman go away. I wanted to be alone ; I must be alone 
 soon or these rushing, fiery thoughts would unbalance my 
 brain; and presently mother would come, and what should 
 I do then ? She would have to be told. How thankful 
 I was that the neighbors did not know — that they could 
 not talk about it. Yes, even then I could be thankful for 
 such a thing as that. And there was Vane's last letter in 
 my pocket. As soon as I could I must destroy that letter 
 and all the others. But no — a dreadful horror came upon 
 me at thought of such a deed. Part with those letters ? I 
 tried to sit up ; I tried to cry out something incoherent. 
 And then it came to me that I was behaving like a weak, 
 hysterical woman. I succeeded in getting a partial control 
 of myself. 
 
 When we were left alone Miss Runciman moved still 
 nearer to me. Mv suffering seemed to give her a ileeting 
 strength. She put her hand on my forehead for a mo- 
 ment. As she bent over me she looked keenly in my 
 eyes. 
 
 "Let us have the whole story now," she said, imperative- 
 ly, "and if there is anything to be done I may see my way 
 clearly to do it. Tell me all." 
 
 So I began, and I did tell her all hurriedly, but without 
 a thought of keeping anything back. When I had finished 
 she drew a long breath. 
 
 " I have heard of worse things," she said. 
 
 " Worse things!" I cried, "and I love him ! I suppose I 
 love him !" 
 
 I was surprised at the relief it was to me to be able to 
 say those words aloud to my companion. She smiled ; then 
 she kissed my cheek. 
 
 •• If you were a perfectly well-regulated young person." 
 
THE WHOLE STORY 307 
 
 she responded, ''your love would have died the moment 
 you learned that Vane had deceived you."' 
 
 I moaned a little as I heard her speak thus, and I found 
 that it was also a relief to moan. I knew perfectly that I 
 had never been a well-regulated young person. But I was 
 not going to lie there and make my moans. I sat up reso- 
 lutely. I pushed back the hair from my face. 
 
 ■• Wait one moment," said Miss Runciman, command- 
 ingly. 
 
 I turned towards her. What more was there to say ? 
 
 " Give me your word about one thing," she said. " Prom- 
 ise me that you will go to Paris in the early fall and go on 
 with your studies. Don't you see that the hand of Provi- 
 dence, if there is a Providence, in all this is clearing the 
 way for you ? You go unhampered. That hurried mar- 
 riage on the train will soon seem even more unreal than a 
 dream. Come, give me your word/' 
 
 Her manner, her tone, stirred me even more than her 
 words. After an instant's hesitation I replied: 
 
 ; ' On one condition." 
 
 " Name it." 
 
 " That you let me repay the money I shall use." 
 
 " Oh yes, if I live." 
 
 "Then I will go." 
 
 I spoke firmly. A spark of enthusiasm was in my soul. 
 But the next moment I thought it died. Before my com- 
 panion could speak again I hurried out of the room. As I 
 went up the stairs to my own chamber I heard footsteps 
 near the outer door and the voice of Myra Foster saying : 
 
 " I wonder where they all be ?" 
 
 Mother had come home, and Myra had come with her. 
 
 I fiercely locked my door. It would not be safe for that 
 girl to come near me now. How could Bidwell Blake care 
 
308 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 for a girl like that ? The next instant I had forgotten her. 
 I was gathering up Vane's letters. As my eyes caught his 
 written words they seemed different to me — remote in some 
 strange way. It was as if we had suddenly been pushed 
 apart. I was suffering and bewildered. Where was my 
 Vane ? My Vane could not have done this thing ! 
 
XVIII 
 TO LEARX TO SING 
 
 The summer went on just as sweetly after this day as 
 though it were assisting at some gay nuptials. 
 
 Mother and I were busy at the housework. I learned to 
 milk, and I sent away the boy whom Bidwell had engaged 
 to do our chores. I was young and strong, and I could do 
 more work than I had been doing. Mother expostulated. 
 But I would not listen to her. I labored from morning 
 until night, and the moment I laid myself on the bed I 
 dropped into a dreamless sleep. But between one and 
 two o'clock, always at the same time, I woke with a start, 
 and then I lay staring at the open window at the foot of 
 my bed. Then I recalled every word that Vane had said 
 to me or written to me, every look, every inflection of voice, 
 until I thought I came near going mad. But, thank Heaven, 
 God has made his creatures able to bear a great deal with- 
 out going mad. Sometimes I did not go to sleep again ; 
 sometimes I slept uneasily for an hour. I knew that Miss 
 Runciman watched me. Once she called me "brave girl," 
 and once she said, " It will pass ; everything passes." But 
 I made no reply to either of these remarks. I had noth- 
 ing to say. Lotus followed me about, looking wistfully at 
 my face. 
 
 I had immediately written to Vane. First, I wrote a long 
 
3io 
 
 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 epistle, saying many things. That I promptly destroyed. 
 Then I wrote this : 
 
 " Miss Runciman has just told me of your marriage to Olive Jewett. 
 Please do not write to me again." 
 
 This I sent ; and I tried to forget the date of my sending 
 it, so that I might not think of the time when he would 
 probably receive it. Even then I hated to hurt him. And, 
 like many other women in similar circumstances, I believed 
 that he loved me. He had done an evil thing, but he loved 
 me. He had wronged and deceived me, but he loved me. 
 You will perceive that I was no more reasonable in regard 
 to him than the ordinary girl would have been. And, in- 
 deed, I was but an ordinary girl, and could not be expected 
 to act differently from one. 
 
 And I hope you do not greatly wonder that, now that it 
 was all over, and I was not Vane's wife and never should 
 be, I did not tell my mother that I had once believed I was 
 his wife. I did tell her that my friendship for Mr. Hildreth 
 was at an end. And I added that some day she should 
 know all. She acquiesced, and forbore to question me. I 
 never knew until long afterwards how she had read me in 
 the silence she preserved during the summer. 
 
 It was not quite a month since I had sent my note to 
 Vane. Of course, his letters had kept coming — those he 
 had written before my word had reached him. But I did 
 not open these ; I put them with the others. It was now 
 fall, the early, hot days of September, when, if it be a "dry 
 time," as it often is at that season, the earth seems to be 
 about to break into flames and consume like stubble. 
 
 Miss Runciman was still maintaining her more comforta- 
 ble state. The heat was like a balm to her. At the com- 
 ing of the earliest frosts she and her husband were going 
 
TO LEARN TO SING 311 
 
 South. They would follow the sun. She might, by doing 
 that, live a few months longer, she said. It was a foolish 
 thing to make a fight for a few months, but it was human 
 nature. She hurried our preparations for leaving home. 
 Once she caught my skirt as I was passing her couch. 
 
 " You will learn to sing ?" she exclaimed, with her old im- 
 periousness ; " you are in earnest ?" 
 
 I looked full in her eyes, my heart swelling as I an- 
 swered : 
 
 " I am in earnest." 
 
 She sank back on the pillows. 
 
 "I see I can trust you," she returned. "Well, after all, 
 the world will owe a great singer to my deed." 
 
 I went out of the house. I hurried, for I would try my 
 voice. For the first time in weeks I would sing the scale. 
 My heart began to beat at the mere thought of doing 
 this. 
 
 I ran down the river patch, as the nearest way of escap- 
 ing from interruption. I reached the bars, where I paused 
 to recover my breath. Xot since that marriage ceremony 
 on the train had I been so stung; with the longing to sing;. 
 That longing had lain partially dormant, but ready to be 
 roused, and Miss Runciman had roused it. I began the 
 scale. Half-way through it Lotus, who had come with me, 
 made a dash in among the bushes. As he did so Vane 
 parted the branches and came towards me. 
 
 I gave him one look that took in his haggard eyes, his 
 pallor, his wretchedness ; then I turned. I think I began 
 to run. My one dominant feeling was that I dared not see 
 him. In a moment my arm was caught. I vaguely saw 
 the dog leaping and fawning upon his master, who did not 
 notice him. 
 
 " Are you running away from me ?" asked Vane, savagely. 
 
312 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 I stood, on the instant, perfectly still. 
 
 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 He held my arm yet more closely. 
 
 " Do you dislike me so much ?" 
 
 I made no answer. He did not repeat the question. He 
 had dropped my arm and was looking intently at me. This 
 I knew, though my eyes were lowered. 
 
 " It was because I loved you so," he said, suddenly. 
 
 Now I raised my eyes. 
 
 " You deceived me because you loved me so ?" I said. 
 
 " Yes. I was afraid, if I told you, you would turn from 
 me ; and I hoped to arrange about a divorce — and there 
 was Maverick — and it all came upon me in the train that if 
 you could only think you were my wife I should feel secure, 
 and I could arrange everything — everything — and I should 
 not lose you — my darling !" 
 
 Vane's voice was pitched low, and it thrilled upon the 
 hot air almost as if it were a part of the beautiful day itself. 
 And I knew that Vane's very soul was in his voice and 
 words. But what had come over me ? I was excited, but 
 I was in a way unmoved. There was no answering, unrea- 
 soning thrill in my heart. And I was keenly thankful for 
 that — yes, I could have gone on my knees then and there 
 and thanked God that Vane's presence was not to me what 
 I had thought it would be, not what I remembered it, not 
 what his letters had been. Why? Ah, yes, why had the 
 strange glamour gone from my eyes ? Not because he had 
 deceived me, surely, for they tell me a woman will love the 
 man who insults, deceives, and abuses her. Love goes as 
 mysteriously as it comes. Nay, but " it was not love that 
 went." A matter of glamour, of the senses, of propinquity, 
 of the subtle power of the singing voice, of the romance of 
 youth and ignorance, of a thousand mysteries, but not of 
 
TO LEARN TO SING 
 
 3*3 
 
 love — oh, not of love ! though love may hold in it many 
 things as mere inferior attributes. 
 
 I stood there agitated, sorrowful, but cold. There was 
 no ardor, no passion, in my heart ; but there were pity and 
 tenderness. I could not understand. I had expected a 
 great battle with myself if I should meet Vane. As for 
 Vane, he was silent for a long time, silent and gazing at 
 me. At length I lifted my eyes and met his. He burst 
 into a loud laugh, that sounded horribly in the stillness. 
 
 " It never occurred to me that you would tire of me so 
 soon," he exclaimed. 
 
 " I'm not tired of you," I answered. 
 
 "Who is it?" he asked, sharply. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean." 
 
 " Why, who has taken your fancy now ?" 
 
 I shrank away ; his words seemed vulgar to me. 
 
 " Xo one." 
 
 A spasm of suffering crossed Vane's face. I suddenly 
 leaned forward and took his hand. 
 
 " Oh, I don't understand it," I cried. " I thought I loved 
 you, but, now I see you, something is different. I know 
 you deceived me, and I supposed I must fight against my 
 love, because I had no right to love you ; but now I don't 
 have to fight. Oh, how hard-hearted and strange you must 
 think me !" 
 
 I could not bear to see the anguish in Vane's face. I had 
 thought that he was the wretch, and now here I was feel- 
 ing as if I were the sinning one instead of Vane. 
 
 " How strange you must think me !" I repeated, feebly. 
 "Indeed I don't understand. But, Vane, our love was 
 hopeless, you see, and you were wrong — so wrong !" 
 
 " I tell you I could have arranged everything. I would 
 have moved the world to be free of that woman," he began, 
 
314 IN THE FIRST PERSON 
 
 hurriedly, " but I know I was wrong. However, there is 
 no need of explanations." 
 
 He drew his hand from mine, and tried to hold himself 
 erect. He turned and gazed off towards the falls. He was 
 ashen in color, and his eyes looked hot and stained. 
 
 "You're sure there is no one else?'' 
 
 " I'm sure." 
 
 He thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. Then 
 he withdrew one hand and grasped the post of the fence. 
 
 "Perhaps, after all, you have the artistic temperament," 
 he said. 
 
 I could not bear to hear him try to speak lightly. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 "Only that you are fickle, and that kind of thing. Well, I 
 think I'll go back to England again. Miss Armstrong, you 
 can regard our acquaintance as a slight episode in your life. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye," just audibly from me. 
 
 Vane lifted his hat with a slow movement. He walked 
 away. His brindled dog followed him hesitatingly a few 
 yards, paused, whined under his breath, then came back to 
 me. 
 
 I folded my arms on the fence rail, put my head down 
 on them, and began to cry as if my heart were broken. 
 
 In two weeks from that time Miss Runciman and her 
 husband had gone South ; they took Bathsheba with them. 
 Mother and I were on board a Cunard steamer. I was 
 going to learn to sing. At the very last moment I changed 
 my mind about Lotus, and did not leave him with Bidwell, 
 who had kindly offered to care for him. The dog was on 
 board the boat. I wanted him. 
 
 Mother was holding my arm closely, and we were looking 
 
TO LEARX TO SING 315 
 
 at the wharf. The steamer had just started. Bidwell was 
 waving his hat to us. A carriage came dashing over the 
 planks— too late. 
 
 We saw Vane Hildreth jump from the carriage. 
 
 " Oh, I'm glad he can't get aboard !" whispered mother. 
 
 She clasped my arm more tightly. " Wilhelminy," she 
 said, with solemn earnestness. " I do hope, if you should 
 ever see him, that you won't think you are in love with him 
 again." 
 
 THE END