HILURA 
 
 ^% 
 
 ORENCE MORSE 
 - KINGSLEY • 
 
 .^. 
 
 ^p^^-'^^ 
 
 
 ^ =d^: ^

 
 THE HEART OF PHILURA
 
 Quite calmly and simply she found 
 herself ihinkinej of tlie hidden picture
 
 /THE 
 HEAKT OF PHILURA 
 
 ^ 
 
 By 
 FLORENCE MORSE KINGSLEY 
 
 Author of "The Transfiguration of Miss 
 
 Philura," "Miss Philura's Wedding 
 
 Gown," "The Glass House," etc. 
 
 FRONTISPIECE BY 
 ROBERT W. AMICK 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 
 1915
 
 Copyright, 1915, by 
 DODD. MEAD AND COMPANY
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I The Hidden Pictuke 1 
 
 II Apriling 15 
 
 III Transfiguration 24 
 
 IV ''A Spot Where Spirits Blend " . 33 
 V The Closed Door 46 
 
 VI The Hill Family 57 
 
 VII Malvina Bennett, Dressmaker . . 70 
 
 VIII The Ornes 82 
 
 IX The Door Ajar 91 
 
 X A Night of Rain and the Morning 
 
 After 99 
 
 XI A Little Journey in the World . .111 
 
 XII Millstones and Opportunities . . 129 
 
 XIII Not at Home to Visitors .... 143 
 
 XIV Molly Drives the Cow .... 155 
 XV On the Old Eoad 163 
 
 XVI Malvina Bennett Points a Moral . 171 
 
 V
 
 Ti CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTEK PAGE 
 
 XVII Where Is Sylvia? 187 
 
 XVIII Wings of the Morning . . . 201 
 
 XIX Grandma Orne Speaks Her Mind 208 
 
 XX At the Parsonage 221 
 
 XXI The Confession 241 
 
 XXII A Rainy Dawn 252 
 
 XXIII Playing Mother 256 
 
 XXIV Sylvia's Child 271 
 
 XXV '' Unto Us a Son Is Born " . .290 
 
 XXVI The Parish Hears the News . . 298 
 
 XXVII The Ladies Aid 317 
 
 XXVIII Miss Phh^ura's Baby .... 327 
 
 XXIX The Lord Gave 345 
 
 XXX MiLLY 355
 
 THE HEART OF PHILURA
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 
 
 April came in on a Monday that year ; and Mon- 
 day being, as all the world knows, the minister's 
 Sabbath, the Reverend Silas Pettibone decided to 
 celebrate it by going to Boston, with the avowed 
 purpose of attending a missionary convention. 
 
 ** You will — er — of course accompany me, my 
 dear? " he said to his Tvife, in a tone of perfunc- 
 tory kindness which did not for a moment deceive 
 her. 
 
 She was a small person, with blue eyes under 
 faintly marked, childish brows, and an indeter- 
 minate, rosy mouth, like that of a young girl. 
 
 At the moment she was industriously employed 
 in cleaning the collar of Mr. Pettibone 's best 
 preaching-coat with a bit of black cloth, which she 
 dipped now and then in a cup containing ammonia 
 and water. 
 
 '' It will look," she said, rather proudly, " al- 
 most like new." Then she shook her head. 
 
 "No; I really couldn't go to Boston to-day. 
 Thank you for asking me, Mr. Pettibone." 
 
 '' You're welcome, I'm sure, Miss Philura," he 
 replied, a slow smile wrinkling the corners of his 
 kindly eyes.
 
 2 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 She looked up at him, and they both laughed, 
 sedately. 
 
 " Why won't you come along? " he pursued, 
 with a notable access of eagerness. ''I'd really 
 like to have you ^ith me." 
 
 But she persisted in her refusal, advancing va- 
 rious housewifely and, therefore, incontrovertible 
 reasons. There was, she said, the study to be 
 cleaned, for one thing. 
 
 He frowned slightly at the suggestion. 
 
 " Eeally, my dear Philura, as I think I have 
 said before, I — er — very much prefer not to have 
 you, or anyone, touch that room. Everything is 
 quite as I like it — though I dare say it may ap- 
 pear very untidy to you. Books and papers once 
 arranged to one 's hand cannot be disturbed with- 
 out serious inconvenience. If you don 't mind — er 
 — doing something else, my dear ; and — ah — leave 
 my study precisely as it is." 
 
 She smiled astutely. 
 
 " I oughtn't to have mentioned it," she said. 
 " I know you dislike having your room cleaned. 
 Anyway, I have to sweep the parlour to-day, and 
 look after the washwoman." 
 
 " Ah, yes," he murmured, " I had quite forgot- 
 ten the laundress. I suppose you couldn't leave 
 Mrs. Wessels in the house to wait on herself? She 
 would — ah — resent it." 
 
 Again that demure smile flitted over Mrs. 
 Pettibone's lips.
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 
 
 << 
 
 I couldn't think of going," she said, gently. 
 
 And since the preaching-coat was by this time 
 cleverly freshened and pressed, the minister pres- 
 ently went away in it, quite happy and satisfied, 
 after kissing his wife good-bye at the door. 
 
 She stood watching his tall, spare figure as he 
 hurried away down the street. It was a pleasant 
 morning; the sun lay warm and yellow on the 
 rough brown sod, where slender young grass- 
 blades were already pricking greenly to the light. 
 Overhead the big maples tossed their scarlet 
 blooms against a brilliant sky, and from some- 
 where a great way off came the piercing sweet cry 
 of a meadow lark. 
 
 At the precise moment when the rapidly reced- 
 ing figure of the minister disappeared at the far 
 corner of the street, the gate of the parsonage 
 yard clicked, then slammed shut behind the 
 shawled and hooded figure of a woman. 
 
 '' Good-mornin', Mis' Pettibone," said a sadly 
 resigned voice. '' Watchin' him out of sight — 
 uh? Didn't you know that was awful bad luck? " 
 
 *' Why no, Mrs. Wessels," smiled the minis- 
 ter's wife, '' I never heard that it was. Why 
 should it be? " 
 
 The woman sighed despondently as she slowly 
 mounted the steps. 
 
 " Well, I s'pose it come out the Bible, first er 
 last; most everythin' like that doos. I s'pose 
 mebbe Noah watched the heathen a-goin' away —
 
 4 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 him a-standin' in tli' door of th' ark — after they'd 
 got through a-laughin' at him fer biiildin' it. He 
 didn't see 'em no more. They was all swep' away. 
 An' I remember once I stood on my front stoop — 
 jus' like you was doin' — a-watchin' Wessels goin' 
 to 'is work, an' that very day he fell off the roof 
 an' done somethin' to 'is insides, so he's never 
 been no good fer work sence. My! I no more 
 'xpected t' be goin' out washin' fer other folks 
 'an you do this minute! But I'm sure I hope our 
 paster '11 come home mth a hull skin." 
 
 Her rebuking glance fastened the responsibility 
 for Mr. Pettibone's needlessly imperilled safety 
 where it belonged. 
 
 *' Have you had your breakfast, Mrs. Wes- 
 sels? " the guilty party inquired, as she led the 
 way to the kitchen. 
 
 " Well'm, I supped a swaller o' coffee when I 
 give Wessels an' the childern their breakfas'es; 
 but I didn't stop to t' eat nothin'. — No'm, I don't 
 care fer cod-fish; if you've got a strip o' bacon 
 or a slice o' cold meat " 
 
 Mrs. Wessels exhaled a sibilant breath, indica- 
 tive of profound exhaustion, as she surveyed Mrs. 
 Pettibone's preparations for her refreshment. 
 
 " As I says t' Wessels this mornin', ' I dunno,' 
 I says, ' how much longer I'm goin' t' be able t' do 
 other folks' dirty work. I ain't feelin' so well as 
 I did a spell ago.' An' he says t' me, ' Knock on
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 5 
 
 wood, Louisa,' he says. I had t' laugh. He doos 
 git things mixed so ! 
 
 " Now I'll set dowTi an' try t' eat a "bite. 
 Mebbe I'll get up stren'th t' rub out a few pieces. 
 I s'pose you put the clo'es t' soak, same as usu'l? 
 It's quite a help, if it's done proper." 
 
 Having set Mrs. Wessels in the carefully oiled 
 grooves of her morning activities, Mrs. Pettibone 
 betook herself without further delay to the minis- 
 terial sanctum. The opportunity was an imusual 
 one and must be improved to the full. Mr. Petti- 
 bone was seldom absent from his study for more 
 than an hour or two at a time. He appeared 
 possessed of an uncanny prescience which led him 
 to reappear at unexpected moments in search of 
 an address-book, a pencil, or a fresh supjDly of 
 enrollment cards for his Sunday school. On at 
 least tw^o occasions he had surprised his wife, ar- 
 rayed in dust-cap and apron, stealthily removing 
 the accumulated debris of his ministerial labors. 
 
 On the first of these occasions, which occurred 
 soon after their marriage, he had bestowed one of 
 his rare caresses upon his bride, as a sort of 
 soothing preliminary; after which, with great 
 gentleness and firmness, he had pointed out to her 
 the totally unnecessary character of her self-ap- 
 pointed task. 
 
 " A minister's study, my dear Philura, does not 
 require so-called cleaning," he said. '' Cleaning, 
 as you know, involves rearrangement, vicissitude,
 
 6 THE HEAKT OF PHILURA 
 
 change; in a word, disturbance. However desir- 
 able, and even useful, such periodic conditions 
 may be in other parts of our home — here they are 
 totally unnecessary and must be — ah — inter- 
 dicted." 
 
 Whereupon he had taken the pains to go into 
 the subject more in detail, pointing out to his wife 
 (who was, as he well knew, the pink of house- 
 wifely neatness) how much more serviceable and 
 useful were his various commentaries, concord- 
 ances, and sacred histories when scattered about 
 the floor in piles convenient to his hand. Arranged 
 in neat, well-ordered rows upon the shelves, the 
 appearance of these volumes might indeed please 
 the eye of a person unacquainted with labors of a 
 literary and religious nature. Order, he pointed 
 out, was unquestionably heaven's first law; but 
 order on the higher planes of mental activity fre- 
 quently involved what might appear to the un- 
 initiated as a very chaos of disorder. Where- 
 upon, he learnedly illustrated his point by an 
 allusion to the cosmic disintegration incident to 
 the building of a universe, a world, or even so 
 unimportant a sphere as a moon. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was honestly thrilled by his 
 eloquence ; she blushed and smiled, even while she 
 whisked a stray tear from her lashes. 
 
 ^' But the waste-basket," she hesitated, *' it was 
 quite full, you know, and the papers were all about 
 the floor. I may empty the basket, mayn't I? and
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 7 
 
 — and dust just a little — a very little, and quite 
 carefully? Eeally, the dust was stifling." 
 
 But the minister shook his head. 
 
 "Decidedly — no!" he said. "Sometimes — 
 that is to say, occasionally — I mislay a paper. 
 Why, only last week I could not, for the moment, 
 lay my hand on the first sheet of my Sunday even- 
 ing discourse. And where do you think I found 
 it? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone could not possibly guess. 
 
 " On the floor, my dear Philura, where I may 
 casually have dropped it in a moment of abstrac- 
 tion. Now, if, in the meantime, some well-inten- 
 tioned person — yourself, for example — had en- 
 tered my room, and had, as you say, tidied it 
 up, I should have been obliged to entirely re- 
 write that page at great inconvenience to my- 
 self." 
 
 " How long," inquired Mrs. Pettibone de- 
 murely, but with growing hardihood, "were you 
 obliged to hunt for that page? " 
 
 " How long? Why — er — really, my dear, I 
 couldn't tell you precisely. I know I went 
 through the entire contents of my waste-basket, 
 and also examined the stray papers on the floor. 
 But I came upon my quarry at last behind the 
 sofa, where I suppose some chance draught had 
 carried it. From this you can see how essentially 
 important, how entirely necessary it is to allow 
 me to care for my own study. I may assure you
 
 8 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 that whenever this room really needs cleaning, 
 I will clean it! " 
 
 And he made a large gesture. 
 
 It was more than a month thereafter before she 
 had ventured to disobey these precise commands. 
 To one brought up in the straight and narrow way 
 of New England thrift and order the picturesque 
 confusion of the minister's study was almost more 
 than one could support with outward calm. But 
 when thickly overlaid with dust and the product 
 of the industrious spider it became positively 
 unendurable. With Machiavellian cunning there- 
 fore, and dire thoroughness, Mrs. Pettibone 
 swept, cleaned, and dusted her husband's study, 
 sparing not a single cobweb, nor the smallest par- 
 ticle of dust. After which she had restored (as 
 she thought) everything to its accustomed dis- 
 order. 
 
 But the minister knew better. An experimental 
 morning convinced him that his privacy had again 
 been invaded. Most certainly he had not located 
 Simpkins' Commentary on the Pauline Epistles 
 to the left of his chair, and buried it moreover 
 beneath a staggering load of mediaeval histories. 
 Simpkins was a most useful man, always to be 
 kept atop the pile on the armchair at his right. 
 Other subtle, but incriminating evidence cropped 
 up on every hand. 
 
 The Reverend Silas gazed narrowly at his 
 wife's unruffled front when he emerged at noon in
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 9 
 
 response to her cheerful summons to the midday- 
 meal. 
 
 Did she really suppose she had deceived him I 
 
 But the dinner was very good, which might be 
 set down as an extenuating circumstance. He 
 felt his just indignation cooling, as it were, while 
 he partook of a delectable pudding compounded 
 of the humble bread-crumb, to which she was 
 serving him a second time with a shy smile of 
 triumph. 
 
 ' ' My dear Philura, ' ' he said, ' ' you are a very 
 superior and — er — a very dear little hypocrite. 
 I'm sorry to have to tell you so. But it is quite 
 true, you know." 
 
 " Why — Mis-ter Pettibone! " was all she could 
 say. Yet her eyes sank guiltily under his accusing 
 gaze. " I — I can't think what you " 
 
 * * Yes ; you can, — and you do, ' ' he corrected her, 
 calmly. " Didn't I tell you that the stars in their 
 courses must not be interfered with? Didn't I 
 explain how a woman with a broom and dustcloth 
 would doubtless work irremediable havoc in a 
 revolving nebula? And didn't you promise that 
 you would never — never " 
 
 " No, Silas; no! " She shook her head. ** I 
 didn't promise you I would never clean your 
 study. How could I? " 
 
 " Well," he conceded, '' it amounted to the 
 same thing. I forbade it." 
 
 She was mute.
 
 10 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 ** You won't do it again? " 
 
 She drew a long, quivering breath. 
 
 *' I — I'm afraid I'll — ^have to; if — if — it gets 
 too d-d-dirty! " 
 
 She was in his arms the next minute. But, all 
 the same — once she had done crying comfortably 
 on his shoulder — ^he repeated his former prohibi- 
 tion, with various impressive addenda, calculated 
 to penetrate and suitably influence a mind grown 
 (Mr. Pettibone could not heljD thinking) somewhat 
 inflexible and unyielding during the years of her 
 solitary maidenhood. 
 
 This was the last time the difficult subject of 
 the study had been broached between them. The 
 sacred precincts had remained to the abstracted 
 gaze of the minister in precisely the state of de- 
 lightful disorder in which, from day to day and 
 from week to week, he had left them. Strangely 
 enough it had not required even the occasional 
 and desultory use of the feather-duster, which he 
 kept hanging on a peg in his closet. A feather- 
 duster, Mr. Pettibone had discovered, speedily 
 and easily restored a fictitious appearance of 
 cleanliness without the devastating processes 
 known and approved by his various house- 
 keepers. 
 
 But the initial experience of Adam — to say 
 nothing of countless crucial instances of a later 
 date — has proved conclusively that while man 
 may be the mate of woman he is certainly no
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 11 
 
 match for lier, in her diligent, inexorable, almost 
 unperceived control of the smaller things of life. 
 The Jesuitical quality, as somebody has observed, 
 is essentially feminine. A carefully compiled list 
 of the books to be found in various heaps to the 
 right and left, also at the front and rear of her 
 lord's writing-table; a discreet as well as discrim- 
 inating elimination of waste paper; and the rest 
 was easy. 
 
 To-day, with Mr. Pettibone innocently and 
 safely occupied at the Missionary Convention in 
 Boston, the unprincipled Mrs. Pettibone fairly 
 turned the study inside out. Rugs and curtains 
 fluttered merrily in the wind of the back yard; 
 while learned commentators, hairsplitting theo- 
 logians, and sober church-historians were uncere- 
 moniously shaken, flapped, clapped, and rubbed 
 free from dust. Even the sacred desk itself was 
 dismantled down to its shabby baize cover, and the 
 blotting-pad, originally of a fresh green colour, but 
 long since defaced with the superfluous ink of un- 
 counted sermons came in for a vigorous assault 
 calculated to dislodge the most secretly intrenched 
 particle of the hated dust. 
 
 And just here an unkind Fate, Chance — it were 
 an obvious impiety to call it Providence — 
 maliciously (or otherwise) brought Mrs. Petti- 
 bone's ardent activities to a sudden halt. For 
 under the impact of her determined little hand a 
 photograph suddenly slipped from its hiding
 
 12 THE HEART OF PHH^URA 
 
 place. It had been inserted well out of sight be- 
 j;ween two sheets of blotting-paper. 
 
 It was a small card-portrait of a woman, 
 pressed in a gown fashioned after the mode of a 
 previous decade. Mrs. Pettibone picked it up and 
 gazed at it with a mingling of emotions she made 
 no effort to formulate or control. The youthful 
 face which looked back at her from the somewhat 
 dimmed and yellowed card was very sweet and 
 mild; the eyes, large and dark, were shadowed 
 with long lashes, and the mouth, set in wistful 
 curves, seemed to implore the beholder to be 
 kind. About the long, white throat a scarf of lace 
 was knotted loosely, and from behind one ear (the 
 arrangement obviously the careful work of the 
 photographer) hung a long, full curl of dark hair. 
 Beneath was written in the minister's firm, neat 
 hand: '' Mary, April 2, 1893." 
 
 Like one in a hushed dream, wherein a vague 
 yet aching grief is overlaid with calm, Mrs. Petti- 
 bone swiftly and noiselessly restored the writing- 
 table to its wonted condition, with books, pam- 
 phlets, papers, and letter-file contesting every 
 available inch of space. She allowed herself no 
 second glance at the picture; but slipped it back 
 at once between the sheets of the blotter, feeling 
 curiously awed — ^yet, withal, sorry and ashamed, 
 like one who has unwittingly blundered into the 
 presence of the sacred dead in the house of a 
 stranger. Mr. Pettibone had never but once re-
 
 THE HIDDEN PICTURE 13 
 
 ferred to his dead wife in their talks together. 
 But she knew now what before she had only 
 timidly guessed : he had not — and could not forget 
 the wife of his youth. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Wessels was more than unusually loqua- 
 cious and companionable that noon, while Mrs. 
 Pettibone was preparing the lunch, of a variety 
 and toothsomeness especially calculated to ap- 
 pease that lady's capricious appetite. 
 
 *' If you're a-fixin' that p'tato fer me," she 
 observed, '' leave out the pepper an' put in plenty 
 o' butter. Pepper don't never agree with my 
 stomick. An', as I tell Wessels, if a body's 
 stomitk gives out it's all day with 'em. — No; Mis* 
 Pettibone, the clo'es didn't dry a bit good t'day, 
 fer all the wind; so I ain't done a stroke o' ironin.* 
 I c'n rub off some o' the plain pieces this after- 
 noon, if you — Oh, you're goin' out, you say? 
 Why, you look all beat out, what with your sweep- 
 in,' and dustin' an' cleanin' all them dirty rugs. 
 I had an awful good mind t' whirl in and help; 
 but, think's I, she'd ruther I'd git this washin' 
 out; so I stuck to m' rubbin'. — Be sure an' have 
 the tea hot. Ef there's anythin' I hate an' de- 
 spise it's ivarm tea. It kind o' turns a body's 
 stomick, same 's it says in Rev'lations: things 
 that's neither hot ner cold, but jest lukewarm, 
 makes a puss'n feel like spittin' 'em right out their 
 mouth. Le' me see, was it th' 'Postle Paul, er the 
 Lord that felt that-a-way? I kind o' ferget. But
 
 14 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 wMchever of 'em it was, I'm built the very same 
 way. I like my tea hot! Where 'd you say you 
 was goin' this afternoon? The Ladies' Aid don't 
 meet a Monday — heh? — Oh! An' Mr. Pettibone 
 — Where's he gone? — Oh! Well; as I said this 
 mornin', I do hope an' pray he don't git smashed 
 up on the train, er run down by one o' them 
 automobiles. My! ain't they awful! If Wessels 
 hadn't fell off the roof an' hurted 'is insides the 
 way he done, like es not he'd a-been run over an' 
 killed b' now. Then I'd 'a been a lone widow, 
 with four small childern t' look after; ' Louisa,' 
 says Wessels, — whenever I git fretful over him 
 not workin' — ' half a 'usban' is better'*! no 
 'usban',' he says. An' I guess that's right. 
 'Course, Wessels, he ain't no real good, settin' 
 all day an' smokin' 'is pipe b' th' stove. But I 
 guess I'd miss 'im if he wa'n't there. Knocl^ on 
 wood! — You don't believe in it — heh? W'y, Mis' 
 Pettibone, I wouldn't no more neglect knockin' on 
 wood than anythin'! I c'd name hunderds o' 
 times when if I'd f ergot t' knock on wood I don't 
 know where I'd 'a be'n. As I was tellin' you, you 
 look all beat out." 
 
 She approached her weather-beaten face close to 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's. "I'm willin' t' bet," she 
 added, impressively, '' you've said er done some- 
 thin' reckless 'n' f ergot t' knock on wood."
 
 CHAPTER n 
 
 APRILING 
 
 The clock on the cliurch-tower was striking the 
 hour of three when Mrs. Pettibone locked the door 
 of the parsonage behind her, with a pleasant con- 
 sciousness of the spotless order reigning within, 
 and of the willow-basket, filled with tidy white 
 rolls against the morrow's ironing. Mr. Petti- 
 bone would not arrive from Boston before seven^ 
 She had, therefore, three hours of well-earned 
 leisure before her. 
 
 What use to make of her brief holiday Mrs. 
 Pettibone had not yet decided, as she hurried 
 down the long street under the tossing maple 
 blossoms. Always there were parish calls to be 
 made, as Mrs. Buckthorn and other influential 
 ladies of the church had kindly pointed out. 
 
 " We've done without a paster's wife for seven 
 long years," Mrs. Scrimger reminded her, " and 
 I will say Mr. Pettibone has been faithful. But I 
 guess there's some 'at would just as soon he'd 
 stayed single. It made it kind o' interestin' to 
 widows an' single ladies, even if he didn't pay 
 'em no special attention. I don't know as you've 
 noticed it, but there's several I c'd name that 
 
 15
 
 16 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 hasn't darkened the doors of the church since you 
 was married." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone passed in meditative review two 
 or three old ladies, who had, to use their own 
 forceful phrase, '^ been housed up all winter." 
 Or perhaps she ought to improve the opportunity 
 by calling on the Widow Grover, who had not 
 for more than a year been present at prayer- 
 meeting, where once she had been a conspicuously 
 bright and shining light. It was true that the 
 iWidow Grover had not, during a like period, called 
 at the parsonage. But no doubt it was her duty 
 (as the wife of the pastor) to present, as it were, 
 the blameless sacrifice of her shrinking person 
 upon that lady's hair-cloth sofa. 
 
 She sighed, as with guilty haste she passed the 
 corner of the street where dwelt the Widow 
 Grover. Then, almost before she was aware of 
 it, the houses of the village, which had appeared 
 to level curious and observant eyes upon her, 
 melted quite away, and she was in the open coun- 
 try, with the wild wind blowing all about her, and 
 brilliant masses of snowy cloud overhead, shining 
 against the intense blue of the sky. There were 
 song-sparrows flitting athwart the brown pas- 
 tures, and the piercing sweet voices of meadow 
 larks, calling and answering from distant fields, 
 where already the naked earth was upturned to 
 the fruitful sun. 
 . The road wound steeply upward in wide curves
 
 APRILING 17 
 
 from the lap of the valley, where lay the village 
 of Innisfield, its rows of houses shining warmly 
 amid the leafless trees. Almost at her feet — 
 or so it seemed to the woman on the hillside — 
 the steeple of the Presbyterian church pointed 
 skyward, like a thin, white finger. Near it she 
 could just make out the dull brown walls of the 
 parsonage, half hidden in shrubbery. 
 
 Then, quite calmly and simply, she found her- 
 self thinking of the hidden picture. He had not 
 meant she should see it. But from henceforth 
 she would be aware of it, like an invisible presence 
 in the room. Did he often take it from its con- 
 cealment, she wondered? And did he still mourn 
 in secret over the dark, softly-fringed eyes, and 
 the sweet, pensive mouth with its wistful appeal? 
 
 She sought diligently among clouded memories 
 of the time when she herself had met and spoken 
 with — Mary. She dared to call her this to herself. 
 Once, she remembered, Mrs. Pettibone had come 
 to church wearing a very beautiful blue silk dress, 
 and a hat with a plume of dark blue drooping 
 almost to her shoulder. All during the sermon 
 she had feasted her eyes on the graceful figure. 
 At the close of the service she had hurried down 
 from the choir loft, hoping for an opportunity 
 of speaking to the minister's wife as she passed 
 out of church. But Mrs. Pettibone was already 
 walking away beside her husband, who bent his 
 tall head to listen to something she was saying.
 
 18 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 Another time she had ventured to carry a 
 bunch of the earliest arbutus to the parsonage. 
 Mrs. Pettibone was ailing; she had not been to 
 church for a long time. The minister himself had 
 admitted the visitor and conducted her at once 
 to his study, where the invalid was lying on a 
 sofa near the window. 
 
 '' Just see, Mary, what little Miss Philura has 
 brought you ! " he said ; — ' ' Arbutus ! — and only 
 this morning you were longing for some." 
 
 And Miss Philura, blushing very much, and 
 feeling herself very plain and insignificant under 
 the bright dark eyes of the minister's wife, had 
 surrendered the fragrant bunch of pink and white 
 blossoms into fingers almost as fragile and deli- 
 cate. She remembered still the passion of delight 
 which beamed in the thin face, and the low cry of 
 pleasure, as she inhaled the exquisite wild breath, 
 of the flowers, — which, in truth, is unlike and far 
 sweeter than any other sweet odour under the 
 sun. 
 
 Was it the memory of this little scene out of 
 her vanished past? Or did she indeed catch the 
 subtle fragrance of the hidden flowers? There 
 were woods near, tall chestnuts and hickories 
 clothing the crest of the hill behind the old Eggles- 
 ton farm. No one lived in the house now, and 
 there was sure to be arbutus in bloom on the 
 sun-warmed slope beyond the orchard. The sun 
 was still an hour above the horizon; she would
 
 APEILING 19 
 
 have time, before hurrying home to prepare the 
 late supper. 
 
 It was delightfully still and warm under the big 
 trees; the wind had fallen to a low murmur, 
 ineffably peaceful and soothing; under foot the 
 dry leaves rustled pleasantly, sending up clean, 
 penetrating odours of hidden mosses and the good 
 black earth teeming with waking life. Mrs. Petti- 
 bone walked slowly, her eyes bent upon the 
 ground; here, perhaps, beneath the shelter of 
 sweeping evergreen boughs; or, yonder, where 
 the sun filtered through tangled branches of beach 
 and hickory. Dropping to her knees she drew 
 aside the warm coverlid nature had spread above 
 her darlings. Then a low cry of rapture burst 
 from her lips. All along the ground lay the 
 arbutus in long, straggling sprays, the small 
 rough leaves of dull green starred with half-open 
 clusters, white as the vanished snows, rosy pink 
 as a baby's crumpled palm. 
 
 The true lover is she who gathers arbutus 
 frugally, severing the tough stem with due regard 
 for the shallow, fragile roots; mindful too of the 
 day when the sweetest of all wild flowers will be 
 only a memory. It was no greedy, grasping hand 
 that gathered arbutus on that far hillside. Mrs. 
 Pettibone's work-worn fingers touched the deli- 
 cate blossoms tenderly, detaching the fragrant 
 sprays with a gentle firmness that destroyed no 
 smallest rootlet. Then, mindful of the reddening
 
 20 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 sun, presaging a frosty nigM, she drew the cover- 
 ing leaves over the unopened buds. 
 
 As she rose at last, blossom-laden and meditat- 
 ing swift flight to the kitchen of the parsonage, 
 where (she feared) the fire might be dying, a low 
 sound as of suppressed weeping came to her ears. 
 For an instant her heart beat suffocatingly in 
 her throat. Then all at once she saw coming 
 toward her, between the stems of the trees, a 
 girl. 
 
 The youth of the approaching figure was at 
 once apparent. Something in its reckless aban- 
 donment to grief; its wild hands beating the air, 
 suggested the futile rage of an angry child, 
 thwarted in some eager desire, or too harshly 
 punished for some trivial fault. Disjointed words 
 mingled with the sobbing came distinctly to the 
 startled listener. 
 
 '^'11 not bear it— I'll not! I'll not! I can't— 
 I won't! I — I'll run away — anywhere — any- 
 where! I'll kill myself before I submit " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone came forward quickly. Ob- 
 viously this was only a child ; but a child in deep 
 trouble. 
 
 " My dear," she said, resolutely, though her 
 voice shook a little with the fright of that un- 
 looked-for apparition. *' What is the matter'? 
 What has — happened? " 
 
 The girl stopped short, staring with startled 
 eyes at the small grey figure which seemed to
 
 APRILING 21 
 
 have stepped forth from the greyer boles of the 
 hickories. 
 
 '' Who are you? " she demanded angrily. 
 " "What are you doing? How dare you come 
 here — spying — and — and listening? Did you — 
 did you hear what I said? " 
 
 " I heard enough to know that you are in 
 trouble of some sort. Can't I help you — if, per- 
 haps, you have lost your way, or " 
 
 ^' Lost my way! How could I lose my way! I 
 live there." 
 
 She pointed to the house halfway down the 
 slope. 
 
 *' Oh, I thought the place was unoccupied," 
 faltered the minister's little wife. *' It has been 
 for so long, you know. I — was just gathering 
 some arbutus; but I haven't taken it all. Won't 
 you take this? " 
 
 The girl refused the flowers with a reckless 
 gesture. Then she turned sharply. 
 
 " I supposed I could be alone — up here," she 
 muttered, as she moved away. 
 
 *' Won't you tell me your name, my dear? " 
 urged Mrs. Pettibone. " Eeally, I am very sorry 
 — but I only wish you'd tell me — let me — help you. 
 I know how it feels to be — lonesome," she added, 
 with a sudden inspiration. "■ If you are living in 
 the old Eggleston place you would be sure to find 
 it lonely — just at first. But in summer it is beau- 
 tiful."
 
 22 THE HEART OF PHHjURA 
 
 The girl had paused, half turning her head. 
 
 '' Very soon now the orchards will be all in 
 bloom," went on Mrs. Pettibone, in her gentle 
 voice, ^' and there are wild flowers — quantities 
 of them all about: violets and pink azalias and 
 columbine and trilliums. Oh, you will be sure to 
 like it; and — if you don't mind telling me your 
 name, my dear? " 
 
 The girl gulped down a recurrent sob. 
 
 '^ I — I shall never like it here," she muttered, 
 her red mouth drooping sullenly. " I hate the 
 country. But mother insisted — I say she had no 
 right to bring me here, when I " 
 
 * ' But surely you '11 like it better after a while, ' ' 
 persisted Mrs. Pettibone, soothingly. " It isn't 
 far to the village, where there are plenty of young 
 people. You'll be going to school, perhaps, and 
 then " 
 
 The girl 's short upper lip lifted, trembled, as if 
 she were on the verge of a laugh. 
 
 " School! " she echoed, scornfully. " I see you 
 think I am a child. Well, I'm not." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone sighed vaguely; then smiled. 
 
 ''You didn't — tell me your name," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 '* My name is Sylvia — Sylvia Cruden, and I'm 
 — married ! I was crying because — Oh, because I 
 felt like it ! I'd stayed in that stuffy old house till 
 I couldn't stand it another minute! Anybody 
 'd hate it, and the way mother "
 
 APRILING 23 
 
 The girl was halfway down the steep slope, 
 her angry words trailing behind her like sparks 
 from a flying engine. Mrs. Pettibone watched her 
 perplexedly as she plunged recklessly through the 
 underbrush fringing the orchard fence. A mo- 
 ment later the wild figure had disappeared among 
 the rambling outbuildings at the rear of the farm- 
 house. . , . 
 
 Mr. Pettibone was very cheerful and compan- 
 ionable that night as the two sat over their be- 
 lated tea. The convention, he told his wife, was 
 more than usually interesting. He had thought 
 of her, while the native missionary from India 
 was describing the marriage customs of that far 
 country, and had really wished he had insisted 
 upon her company to Boston. 
 
 '* Next time," he concluded, beaming kindly 
 across the space of white table-cloth, " I shall not 
 take * no ' for an answer. ' ' 
 
 Later, while she cleared away the supper things, 
 she heard him moving about his study. Would he 
 notice the arbutus on the writing table, she won- 
 dered; and would he — remember f 
 
 She was setting the cups on the pantry shelf, 
 her fingers trembling with an emotion akin to 
 fear, when she heard his swift steji behind her. 
 
 *' Some dear little friend of mine has been 
 Apriling! " he cried gaily. ''Was it you, my 
 dear? "
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 TRANSFIGURATION 
 
 ' ' Miss Philuea, — Heaven bless her ! ' ' murmured 
 the minister. 
 
 Mr. Pettibone had paused in the slow, medita- 
 tive progress he found most conducive to logical 
 thought to gaze smilingly out of his study window. 
 Bounding the bleak parsonage yard was a picket 
 fence, innocent of paint these many years, and on 
 its hither side the small, stooping figure of Mrs. 
 Pettibone, clad in the shabbiest of her shabby 
 gowns, appeared exceedingly busy with a garden 
 rake several sizes too large. The minister could 
 already see the green shoots of daffodils and 
 tulips, aspiring hopefully to the unfriendly April 
 skies, while the pile of sodden leaves at one side 
 of the narrow border increased with every vigor- 
 ous motion of the awkward tool. 
 
 The smile faded from Mr. Pettibone 's lips; he 
 even sighed, vaguely, as he resumed his steady 
 pacing of the study floor — down a badly worn 
 breadth of carpet, past his desk, heaped with ref- 
 erence books and littered with the loose leaves of 
 an incomplete discourse; from thence, avoiding 
 the crammed waste-paper basket and with a wide 
 detour around the ugly structure of cast-iron, 
 
 24
 
 TRANSFIGURATION 25 
 
 truthfully called base-burner, to the equally worn 
 breadth on the opposite side of the room. 
 
 Here, in front of the high, narrow shelves, 
 stained in imitation of black walnut and in- 
 felicitously decorated with scalloped strips of red 
 '* leatherette " affixed with rows of brass-headed 
 nails — the work of the minister himself in odd 
 moments — his abstracted gaze fell upon a sort of 
 oasis of fresh red and black carpet. It marked 
 the spot where Mrs. Pettibone (she of the garden 
 rake) had thoughtfully spread a rag rug of 
 chastened and inconspicuous tints. The missing 
 rug was airing in the back yard; but of course 
 the minister hadn't noticed. He surveyed the 
 vivid patch of carpet beneath his slippered feet 
 with vague discomfort. The staring colours in 
 close juxtaposition appeared singularly disturb- 
 ing to his present line of reasoning. He stared 
 frowningly at the jumble of geometric figures of 
 brilliant red on their black background — or stay, 
 could not the design be interpreted as black figures 
 on a red ground? Either, he concluded, was, if 
 possible, more objectionable than the other. 
 
 The Ladies' Aid Society (always written with 
 capital letters) had bought the carpet, '' taking 
 money from the unsaved in heathen lands," to 
 quote the fervid protest of Mrs. Deaconess Buck- 
 thorn ; had sewed the breadths in solemn conclave. 
 After which Mrs. Buckthorn, still j^iously protest- 
 ant, had helped Electa Pratt to nail it firmly to
 
 26 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 the floor. All this had taken place on the occa- 
 sion of the pastor's marriage to Philura Rice, last 
 November. And now here was the red and black 
 carpet, betraying the minister's idle pedestrian 
 habits to every keen-eyed parishioner. 
 
 '' If Mr. Pettibone wants t' tromp," Mrs. 
 Scrimger had observed acidly to Electa Pratt, 
 * ' why in creation don 't he tromp 'round the par- 
 ish? He's fallen off in his pastoral visitin' some- 
 thin' scand'lous sence he got married t' Philura 
 Rice! " 
 
 Whereat Miss Pratt had giggled disagreeably. 
 
 *' Us church members oughtn't t' expect too 
 much of Mr. Pettibone," she pointed out. ^' I 
 guess he's kind of busy 'round the house most the 
 time. ' ' 
 
 She nodded her befrizzled head in face of 
 shocked incredulity. 
 
 '' You don't mean t' tell me? " 
 
 '^ Uh-huh! Ma saw him shakin' the parlour 
 rugs last Friday; an' only yeste'day I saw him 
 through the window waterin' her house plants! " 
 
 '' Well, I never! Somebody 'd ought to speak 
 t' Philura." 
 
 '' That's what I sez t' ma. But ma sez t' me, 
 * I'd let somebody else do it, Lecty, if I was you.' " 
 
 By now the minister in his peregrinations had 
 again reached the study window, from whence he 
 had so whimsically apostrophised the lady with 
 the rake. ''Miss Philura" indeed! It wasn't
 
 TRANSFIGURATION 27 
 
 even proper. After a brief period of indecision 
 the minister removed his doublegown — that is 
 what he called it; and it was double, being com- 
 posed of faded maroon-coloured flannel within and 
 sprawling palm leaves of divers colours on its outer 
 surface. Having divested himself of this priestly 
 garment, Mr. Pettibone clad his spare person in 
 his third-best preaching-coat, clapped an ancient 
 felt hat, plucked from the top of the book-case, 
 on his rumpled hair, and flung open the door, 
 which connected his sanctum with the outer world. 
 
 " Well, my dear!" 
 
 The small person with the big garden-tool 
 paused in her labours, turning toward him a smil- 
 ing face, pinkened with the rude buffetings of the 
 April wind. 
 
 '' The daffodils are all in bud! " she told him. 
 
 He bent his short-sighted gaze upon the sparse 
 border, where clustered green spears were pierc- 
 ing the half-frozen mould. 
 
 " Budded? " he repeated, unbelievingly. '' Isn't 
 it too early to be looking for flowers, my dearl " 
 
 She vouchsafed him a pitying glance. 
 
 * ' Look ! ' ' she cried and parted the thick dark 
 leaves with her reddened fingers. *^ Do you see, 
 way do\\Ti deep, those little pointed buds? " 
 
 Such a passion of suppressed eagerness shook 
 the low voice, that involuntarily he turned puzzled, 
 examining eyes upon her. She was still stooping 
 over the inchoate daffodils, her mouth, faintly red,
 
 28 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 set in wistful curves. Mrs. Pettibone was not in 
 her first youth, as everyone in Innisfield knew, 
 being well into her thirties when she married the 
 minister. Electa Pratt, indeed, had been heard to 
 declare that Philura Rice was thirty-six, if she 
 was a day. But Silas Pettibone was not thinking 
 of the delicate lines about his wife's down-drooped 
 eyes, nor of the threads of silver in the soft waves 
 of her brown hair. He was wondering, in dazed, 
 helpless man-fashion, if, after all, Philura was un- 
 happy. It had been something of an experiment, 
 this marriage of theirs. Nobody, it seemed, had 
 approved of it. This much had become increas- 
 ingly apparent since the day of their return to 
 the parsonage of the Innisfield Presbyterian 
 church. 
 
 Philura Rice, living quietly alone in the dilapi- 
 dated little dwelling of her dead and gone for- 
 bears, had attracted neither praise nor blame from 
 the busy maids and matrons of the parish. 
 
 She was only " Miss Philura," willing — even 
 anxious to work on committees, pass refreshments 
 at church teas, labour uncomplainingly as teacher 
 of badly-behaved children in Sunday school. But 
 all this had been changed, and by his own deliber- 
 ate act. 
 
 The minister was listening abstractedly to what 
 his wife was saying: 
 
 *' I couldn't help thinking, Silas, those little 
 round buds are like — like tiny babies cuddled
 
 TRANSFIGURATION 29 
 
 close and wrapped warm next to their mother's 
 heart." 
 
 *' Yes, yes; my dear," he assented, ''"a very 
 pretty idea ; and you are quite right ; I think' we 
 may count on an earlier spring than usual. Let 
 me see, this — er — is the tenth; isn't it? " 
 
 " No, dear ; it is the twelfth," she corrected him, 
 gently. 
 
 The she raised herself with a sigh. 
 
 ** I must go in," she said. '* There is a meet- 
 ing of the Mothers' Club at the public school this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " But why a Mothers' Club? " he asked, a 
 slight frown gathering between his brows. " I 
 should think you had enough to do without " 
 
 " The women asked me to join," she told him, 
 
 '' and I Really, Silas, I like to go. There are 
 
 questions of — of interest to be discussed." 
 
 ' ' To mothers of school children — yes, ' ' he 
 agreed. '' But you, of course " 
 
 Something in her look halted his words, expres- 
 sive as they were of simple, unquestioned fact. A 
 flood of hot colour surged into her averted face. 
 
 '' Oh, of course, I " she echoed faintly. 
 
 " But, you see, dear, I thought I ought to be in- 
 terested, since so many of the children from our 
 parish are in the school. And on that ac- 
 count " 
 
 *' H'm," he commented dubiously. '' Well; if
 
 30 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 you like it, my dear, there's nothing more to be 
 said. But I cannot consent to have you running 
 hither and yon at everybody's beck and call. You 
 must remember, Miss Philura, you married me, 
 not the parish." 
 
 She smiled up at him — he was a tall man and 
 she a little woman — the hot colour in her face 
 slowly subsiding into the delicate wild-rose flush 
 he loved to see there. 
 
 ^' It would certainly be dreadful to marry the 
 parish," she declared. "I'd rather live and die 
 an old maid." 
 
 The mirth suddenly dropped out of his face. 
 He looked down at her anxiously. 
 
 *' If you should ever really think that," he 
 mused in a low voice. ' ' If you should be sorry — 
 I've been wondering lately " 
 
 " About me? " she queried. '' You've been 
 wondering? " 
 
 " If you are really quite happy. If, after all, 
 I wasn't wholly selfish to bring you here. This 
 isn't an easy parish; and, collectively, I believe it 
 has an ogreish notion it has married you — ^blood, 
 bones, and body." 
 
 Her blue eyes, full of gentle raillery, met his. 
 
 " You know you're talking nonsense! " she ac- 
 cused him. '' I was just a lonely, unhappy old 
 maid, when you — wonderful you — came to me, 
 right out of the Encircling Good. Oh, what a sur-
 
 TRANSFIGURATION 31 
 
 prise you were! — And happy? Of course I'm 
 happy; — living with you, seeing you every 
 day " 
 
 " Yes, and working for me like a slave," he 
 interrupted ruefully. ' ' Cooking and scrubbing for 
 me, patching and darning and the rest; it's no 
 sinecure. I know that much, and often you look 
 very tired. And besides all this, the endless meet- 
 ings and committees and " 
 
 " Stop! " she cried, a wonderful rose of love 
 blooming in her face. He had witnessed that 
 subtle transfiguration of its gentle commonplace 
 twice before ; once when he told her he loved her, 
 and again on the day of their marriage. 
 
 *' Don't you know," she said; "it is just that 
 — the work, the — being tired, yes ; even the parish 
 — for you — that makes me happy? Oh, if I could 
 only be something greater, grander, more worth 
 while — for you! " 
 
 A swift lightning flash from the shy virginal 
 depths of her soul to unplummeted deeps of his 
 passed between them. 
 
 *' Do you mean? " he asked, his voice suddenly 
 shaken and eager; " Am I to understand, my dear, 
 that you " 
 
 She shook her head. The light and colour, so 
 suddenly kindled within her, subsided as swiftly, 
 leaving her middle-aged face quiet, even dull, like 
 a sober landscape from which the sun has with- 
 drawn itself.
 
 32 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 '' No," she said, without pretence of misunder- 
 standing his agitated look and gesture. '' There 
 is no hope of that, I fear." 
 
 Her small, roughened fingers closed across her 
 breast, as if she could no longer bear his gaze, 
 bent to scrutinise its unveiled secret.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A SPOT WHERE SPIRITS BLEND" 
 
 << 
 
 I wonder/' said Mrs. Pettibone timidly, '' if 
 you would tell me something, honest and truly, 
 black and bluely, as the children say. Or at 
 least," she corrected herself, " as they used to 
 say when I was a child. It was a long time ago, 
 and perhaps " 
 
 *' Come, come, Miss Philura," protested the 
 minister, who was in the act of struggling into his 
 greatcoat, a very shabby coat, by the way. 
 *' You're not old, and you never will be ! And I'll 
 tell you anything and everything you want to 
 know, up to the limit of my knowledge, cross my 
 heart an' hope t' die, as they used to say when I 
 was a boy, 'way back in the last century." 
 
 He stooped and kissed his wife, who stood wait- 
 ing for him, clad in her waterproof and second- 
 best hat. She coloured becomingly, as her hus- 
 band surveyed her with smiling eyes. In truth 
 those delicate, girlish blushes, and the trick she 
 had of lowering her lashes before his direct gaze 
 lent a perennially youthful look to her small face. 
 
 It was Thursday evening, and as the two 
 stepped from the shelter of their porch large blobs 
 of wet snow, like pallid hands reaching down out 
 
 33
 
 34 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 of the darkness, smote against tlieir faces. Two 
 or three church bells, unattuned as the rival 
 doctrines they strove to voice, were tolling dis- 
 mally. 
 
 ''I'm afraid we shan't have many out to meet- 
 ing to-night," the minister was saying. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone sighed. Faint as the sound was, 
 he heard it. 
 
 '' You must be tired after all that gardening, 
 dear," he protested. *' Why not go back and stop 
 by the fire? " 
 
 '' No — oh, no! I'm not a bit tired. I was only 
 wondering ' ' 
 
 '' Ah, I had forgotten. Out with it, little 
 woman! " 
 
 She hesitated, and he felt her fingers tighten 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " Perhaps I'm dreadfully wicked to even think 
 of such a thing ; but — do you — really like — prayer- 
 meeting? " 
 
 *' Do I — really like prayer-meeting f Isn't that 
 — er — rather what one might call a leading ques- 
 tion to put to your pastor? " 
 
 " Yes; it is," she acknowledged, with what she 
 felt to be almost brazen calm. " But you said 
 you'd tell me." 
 
 *' H'm," mused the minister, smiling to himself 
 under cover of the darkness ; '' why, so I did. And 
 the question is, do I like " 
 
 '' Yes; do you? "
 
 A SPOT WHERE SPIRITS BLEND " 35 
 
 i I 
 
 1 ought to, Heaven knows! If I don't, isn't 
 it my own fanlt? " 
 
 " No," she said, still calm and bold beyond Her 
 wont. ' ' No, ' ' she repeated, still more firmly ; " it 
 is not your fault. Now I " 
 
 She paused, as if to choose her dreadful words 
 with scrupulous care. 
 
 ^ ' I — dislike and — dread — prayer - meeting. 
 There! I've said it! " 
 
 '' My dear! " cried the minister, honestly 
 aghast. ^' You don't really mean " 
 
 ' ' Yes ; I do ! I've been thinking for a long time 
 — ever since we were married. I didn't mind it so 
 much before. Do forgive me. I oughtn't to have 
 said it! " 
 
 The minister had unconsciously quickened his 
 long stride so that the little woman at his side was 
 half running to keep up. 
 
 ' ' Please forgive me ! " she entreated breath- 
 lessly. 
 
 "I'm not angry," he assured her. "I'm only 
 surprised and — er — ashamed. But what shall I 
 do? We've got to have a prayer-meeting; 
 and " 
 
 He cleared his throat argumentatively. 
 
 " The upper room in Jerusalem," he went on, 
 " where the disciples were gathered, with one ac- 
 cord, in one place, furnishes the example, my dear. 
 The church is bound to follow it. Don't you see, 
 Miss Philura, it would never do to give it up I "
 
 36 THE HEART OF PHH^URA 
 
 * ' They wanted something, ' ' murmured the lady 
 he persisted in miscalling. ' ' They wanted some- 
 thing real — perhaps they didn't know exactly 
 what it was; but they wanted it. Besides they 
 were afraid." 
 
 '' Of the hostile Jews; yes," he approved, '' and 
 they received their reward in the shape of cloven 
 flames of fire, the gift of tongues, and all the rest. 
 It was a magnificent demonstration and — ah — ex- 
 ample." 
 
 '' But we don't get anything," persisted the 
 gentle, carping voice at his elbow. '■ ' Elder Trim- 
 mer and Deacon Buckthorn and Sister Sal- 
 ter " 
 
 '' Be careful, my dear," warned the minister. 
 " Somebody might be coming behind us." 
 
 ' ' They tell God things when they pray, as if he 
 never even heard of Innisfield," she pursued sotto 
 voce; '' and when Mrs. Buckthorn prays for the 
 pastor, I " 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Pettibone," interrupted a 
 majestically nasal voice out of the darkness, and 
 a large figure loomed up in the immediate fore- 
 ground. " I was just comin' out of my house, and 
 I thought to myself : seems to me I hear Philuf a 
 Rice's voice. How are you this evening, Phi- 
 lura? " 
 
 Thus invoked, the minister's wife, all pink and 
 trembling, confessed to a degree of health as if it 
 were a crime.
 
 *' A SPOT WHERE SPIRITS BLEND " 37 
 
 *' I really can't bring myself yet to call you 
 Missis Pettibone, when I recall the many, many 
 years you sat under my instruction in the Sabbath 
 school as Philura Rice. I little thought in those 
 days that I was a chosen vessel for sowing the good 
 seed in our pastor's second wife. No, indeed, how 
 little do we realize our responsibilities. The first 
 Mrs. Pettibone was living at that time, I recall; 
 quite a different type of woman from yourself, 
 Philura. Mary Pettibone was too good for this 
 wicked world, as I've often and often remarked to 
 Mr. Buckthorn." 
 
 The lady heaved a windy sigh, as she slowly 
 descended the steps leading to the basement room 
 where the prayer-meetings were held. There was 
 a subtle air of reproof in Mrs. Buckthorn's man- 
 ner, as she shook the clinging snow from her gar- 
 ments in the dimly-lighted vestibule. 
 
 ** Yes-s-s, my dear Philura," she went on sibi- 
 lantly, with a final comprehensive clash of her 
 jetted cape, " more than once of late I have 
 wr-wrestled before the Throne of Grace in your 
 behalf. It has been borne in on me that you 
 stand in special need at this time." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn was a tall, stout person, of a 
 cast of features the minister's wife had more than 
 once compared with the dreadfully fascinating 
 portrait of the Pharaoh of the Oppression as 
 depicted in the back of her teacher's Bible. 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn's resemblance to the mummy
 
 38 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 of Eameses II. was more strongly marked than 
 common as she turned to the pastor, who was in 
 the act of depositing his umbrella in a remote 
 corner. Grown sadly wise during a long pastorate 
 he had observed that parishioners, even of the 
 most sanctified type, sometimes appropriate the 
 ministerial umbrella. 
 
 " I learned to-day, Mr. Pettibone, that you have 
 not yet called upon an influential family which has 
 recently moved into the old Eggleston place. I 
 was sorry to hear it.'' 
 
 '' Ahl " said Mr. Pettibone urbanely. " But I 
 was not aware " 
 
 *' If you had asked me/' anticipated Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn, *' I could have told you the very day they 
 came to town." 
 
 Her large wagging forefinger pointed, as it 
 were, the moral. 
 
 ' ' Two weeks ago yesterday — in all that rain ! — 
 You niay recall the storm we had, Philura? — the 
 expressman called at our house for a package. I 
 make it a rule to send our outworn winter gar- 
 ments to the Salvation Army at this time of the 
 year. And, as I was saying, John Snider had six 
 trunks on the wagon. I counted them myself. Six 
 trunks marked C. But Snider insists the name is 
 Hill. I do hope and trust ^^ou'll not delay to visit 
 them, Mr. Pettibone. If the Methodists " 
 
 But the minister, turning a troubled, though 
 benevolent smile, upon the Avife of his senior
 
 '' A SPOT WHERE SPIRITS BLEND " 39 
 
 deacon, was holding wide the door for the two 
 ladies to precede him. 
 
 " All in good time, my dear Mrs. Buck- 
 horn," he said. " And thank you for letting me 
 know." 
 
 His quick eye took in at a glance the sparse 
 sprinkling of men and women on the wooden 
 benches. He knew them well; the '' Faithful 
 Few," he was accustomed to apostrophise them 
 in his opening prayer, making mention also of the 
 familiar jDromise relating to the gathering of the 
 two or three and the mystic, unseen presence in 
 their midst. 
 
 The cracked bell overhead ceased its complain- 
 ing; the minister mechanically reached for his 
 hymn-book. Electa Pratt was already in her 
 place before the wheezy little cabinet organ. 
 
 " Let us sing hymn five hundred and twenty- 
 eight, omitting, if you please, the second stanza," 
 he heard himself saying, in his usual forensic 
 voice. 
 
 Then like one in a dream, wherein many braided 
 streams of thought mingle confusedly, he listened 
 to the weak discordant singing, with his wife's 
 thin, clear soprano striving through it. 
 
 '' From every stormy wind that blows, 
 From every swelling tide of woes. 
 There is a calm, a sure retreat; 
 'Tis found beneath the mercy seat! "
 
 40 THE HEART OF PHILUKA 
 
 A sudden gust of sleet pattered against the tall 
 uncurtained windows; one of tlie malodorous 
 gas-jets flared up in a stealthy draft. Deacon 
 Scrimger rose stiffly and tiptoed across the room 
 to turn it down. 
 
 '' There is a spot where spirits blend 
 Where friend holds fellowship with friend. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn was singing loudly, nasally, her 
 pious glance upturned to the dingy ceiling. Mr. 
 Pettibone sighed, his troubled eyes resting for an 
 instant on the small, meek figure of his wife. 
 Her face under the unfashionable hat-brim looked 
 unnaturally pale and delicate in the flickering yel- 
 low light. Eesolutely he took up his Bible and 
 turned to the passage he had selected and marked 
 an hour ago in his study. That was before he 
 knew Philura " disliked and dreaded " prayer- 
 meeting. Then, with entire unexpectedness, a 
 sick distaste for the ugly, ill-lighted room, for the 
 stout complacent matron in the front row of seats, 
 for the hawk-nosed old man, with his shifty eyes, 
 sitting behind her, for Electa Pratt, and the bat- 
 tered instrument at which she presided, surged up 
 within him. He read the familiar words coldly, 
 stiffly, aware of his wife's timidly repentant gaze 
 upon his face, and more remotely of Electa Pratt 
 in the act of absorbing a cough-drop, while she 
 stealthily turned the pages of the hymnal, in
 
 " A SPOT WHEEE SPIRITS BLEND " 41 
 
 search of a tune devoid of supernumerary flats 
 and sharps. 
 
 At his pastor's formal request, Elder Trimmer, 
 arose to lead in prayer. Mr. Trimmer was the 
 enterprising proprietor of Innisfield's largest 
 store: The Trimmer Dry Goods Emporium, to 
 make use of its owner's chosen designation. In 
 just what manner Mr. Trimmer had been led to 
 entertain the belief that the continued prosperity 
 of the Emporium as well as the length of his days 
 depended in some unexplained manner upon the 
 regularity of his attendance at the stated meetings 
 of the church, his pastor only vaguely understood. 
 But this appeared to be the case. Mr. Trimmer 
 was setting forth the matter circumstantially and 
 at great length, in phraseology borrowed indis- 
 criminately from Milton's Paradise Lost, the 
 Psalms and the Pauline Epistles. He spoke of his 
 miraculous " conversion from the way of sin- 
 ners," of his " blessed experiences since he first 
 met the Lord," of his " godly sorrow over lost 
 souls;" passing on after a brief but pointed allu- 
 sion to the heathen in foreign lands to the condi- 
 tion of the Presbyterian church in Innisfield. 
 This particular outpost of Zion, Mr. Trimmer 
 confidentially informed Deity, was in a most 
 lamentable condition. The Saints (presumably 
 excepting the proprietor of the Emporium) were 
 languishing; the walls were broken down, and 
 there appeared (^vith one notable exception) to be
 
 42 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 no one who felt a flaming zeal in the subject of 
 their upbuilding. Meanwhile the wicked flour- 
 ished like a green bay-tree, and the Devil went 
 about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he might 
 devour, with no one to let or hinder. In view of 
 this untoward condition of affairs, Mr. Trimmer, 
 in a loud and truculent voice, demanded that' the 
 pastor of the church might be " visited from on 
 high;" that his lips might be " touched with a 
 live coal from off the altar, ' ' and that he might be 
 more faithful in the performance of his duty. 
 Then evidently fearing misapprehension, either on 
 the part of the Most High or Mr. Pettibone, the 
 fervid petitioner kindly enumerated these duties, 
 as he (Mr. Trimmer) saw them. 
 
 It was a masterly effort, even for Elder Trim- 
 mer. Mrs. Buckthorn heaved a pious sigh, as she 
 murmured in the ear of the pastor's wife, '' My! 
 what a beautiful prayer ! ' ' 
 
 Mr. Pettibone, pilloried in the leader's seat, 
 nervously fingered his hymn-book, while Electa 
 Pratt suggested a number in her loud, buzzing 
 whisper. 
 
 " Bles-st be-e the tie-i that bi-in's. 
 Our hear-rts in Chri-istian love! " 
 
 bleated the discordant chorus. But the voice of all 
 others he listened for and loved no longer pierced 
 the weak clamour with its pure, sweet note.
 
 *' A SPOT WHERE SPIEITS BLEND " 43 
 
 They were walking soberly homeward in the 
 quiet starlight, which April-wise had followed 
 rain and snow and sleet, like the sound of the still 
 small voice. 
 
 " I wish," he said, almost roughly, *' that I 
 had learned the art of brick-lajdng, or house- 
 building, or — anything useful and — honest. I 
 fear I'm a complete failure as a minister of 
 Christ's gospel. That prayer-meeting, now; it 
 was no worse than common, I suppose. But I — 
 somehow I never thought it could be anything 
 else." 
 
 " It is all my fault," she murmured, contritely. 
 *' I ought not to have spoken as I did." 
 
 ** What you said was entirely just," he told her 
 firmly. '^ But The Presence in the midst — how 
 could it remain there a single instant to-night? " 
 
 " Oh! " she breathed, with the impetuous little 
 gesture he knew so well. " It is everywhere! It 
 is the All-Encircling Good. We couldn't escape it 
 even if we tried ! " 
 
 '' So we declare in our creeds," he sighed; 
 " but I am so utterly unimaginative — so dull, I 
 fear I forget sometimes." 
 
 " Everything we need — yes, or want is in the 
 Encircling Good," she went on dreamily. " You 
 were there, and I didn't even know it. It was 
 only when I asked — and believed — that you came. ' '
 
 44 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Silas Pettibone did not attempt a reply; instead 
 he absent-mindedly patted the hand that rested 
 on the sleeve of his shabby greatcoat. At the 
 moment he was very far from understanding his 
 wife's changing mood, 
 
 *' We must make a round of visits to-morrow, 
 my dear," he said, after a lengthening pause. 
 " If a family has moved into the old Eggleston 
 place, somebody must show themselves friendly, 
 and that much we can do." 
 
 '' There is a young woman there," his wife in- 
 formed him unexpectedly. 
 
 ' ^ Ah ? When did you ' ' 
 
 '' I met her walking in the grove back of the 
 house the other day. I was looking for arbutus. 
 She had been crying, I think. At least her 
 eyes " 
 
 '' H'm! " mused the minister. 
 
 *' She was a tall, handsome girl ; and she seemed 
 angry because I — at least I thought it was because 
 I met her all of a sudden, when she supposed her- 
 self to be quite alone. Of course I apologise'd and 
 told her I thought the house was unoccupied. It 
 has been for so long, you know." 
 
 '^ And you made some inquiries, my dear? 
 I hope you let her know who you were. It might 
 serve to introduce us." 
 
 *' I'm afraid I forgot about being the minister's 
 wife; I'm not very used to it yet. I tried to com- 
 fort her. But she wouldn't listen. She said she
 
 " A SPOT WHERE SPIRITS BLEND " 45 
 
 hated the place. — And it is lonesome up there, you 
 know. Then I asked her if she wouldn't tell me 
 her name, and she said it was Sylvia — Sylvia 
 Cruden, and she was married. But I'm sure she 
 looked more like a child in her teens. ' '
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 
 
 The old Eggleston place, as it had been called 
 through three generations of that name, lay well 
 back from the town in a lap of the hills, command- 
 ing a view of the village embowered in trees and 
 of the more distant river glassing the sky in long, 
 lazy reaches between its low green banks. Miss 
 Minerva Eggleston, the only surviving daughter 
 of the Squire, had lived in the old house for 
 more years than any one of her neighbours cared 
 to count, cultivating its impoverished acres, with 
 the aid of a superannuated farm-hand, who had 
 worked on the place since his early youth. Some 
 thirty years previous there had been a persistent 
 rumour to the etfect that Nathan Shedd was 
 madly in love with his employer's daughter, and 
 that Miss Minerva, a handsome, robust girl, with 
 two years of boarding-school to her credit, had 
 very properly flouted him, but with unmerited 
 scorn and contumely. 
 
 Yet the years avenged Nathan. Miss Minerva, 
 despite her accomplishments and the undeniable 
 comeliness of her face, remained unwed. One by 
 one her kith and kin died and were buried under 
 the pointing shadow of the tall Eggleston monu- 
 
 46
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 47 
 
 ment ; till at the last Miss Minerva found Herself 
 on the downhill road from her forty-ninth birth- 
 day and only the quasi-possessor of the big shabby 
 house, in the midst of its heavily mortgaged acres. 
 This much is sober history. 
 
 What follows might well be the highly em- 
 bellished tale of a coterie of country gossips; but 
 it is said that on the morning after the old Squire 's 
 funeral Nathan Shedd walked into the kitchen, 
 where Miss Minerva Eggleston was washing up 
 the dishes, slow tears dropping down her faded 
 cheeks. Not, it may be supposed, out of grief for 
 the old Squire, who had died to all intents and pur- 
 poses more than a year before of a stroke of 
 paralysis; but because she thus tardily realized 
 herself alone and lonely on a long and dismal road 
 of life. 
 
 There were only those two in the big farm 
 kitchen, and neither of them ever spoke of what 
 happened. So it must have been the chickadee 
 who told. She was perched on the lilac bush just 
 outside the window, her wise brown head cocked 
 to one side, her bright eyes fixed on the pair inside 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Nathan Shedd stood staring at Miss Minerva 
 without saying a word, while she polished and pol- 
 ished the old knives and forks. After a while he 
 cleared his throat. 
 
 " I've been thinkin','' he said, " I've been 
 thinkin' things over, since yeste'day."
 
 48 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 ' ' Have yon, Nate 1 ' ' said Miss Minerva, wiping 
 lier tears on the corner of her apron. 
 
 Nathan's voice sounded curiously hard to Miss 
 Minerva, and she looked at him beseechingly out 
 of the corner of her wet, reddened eyes. He was 
 •dressed (she noticed) in a new suit of blue serge, 
 she'd never laid eyes on before, and his shirt and 
 his collar and his necktie were all new. He was 
 shaved, too, although it was only the middle of the 
 week. But that she laid to the funeral being the 
 day before. 
 
 '* I've been thinkin'," he said, still in that slow, 
 hard voice, *' about you, Minerva." 
 
 '' Well? " she murmured, dull and heavy with 
 crying. 
 
 " You ain't so rich as you was once, Minerva," 
 he went on, numbering the counts of his indict- 
 ment on the fingers of his left hand. '' An' you 
 ain't so young as you was — by thirty years, say." 
 
 ''I'm forty-nine," she told him, defiantly. 
 
 *' You ain't so han'some as you ust t' be, not by 
 a long chalk," he persisted, like a boy who has 
 learned his piece and is bound to speak it. 
 
 Two big tears dropped into the dishpan. No 
 woman likes to hear the sort of thing he was say- 
 ing in that hard voice of his. 
 
 '' Your folks are all dead," he reminded her, 
 with unnecessary cruelty. '' An' I'm goin' West. 
 I thought mebbe I'd better tell you." 
 
 At that she burst right out crying, and turned to
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 49 
 
 run out of the room. But somehow, being all blind 
 with tears, she ran into Nathan's arms which 
 were outspread to catch her. 
 
 They were married the next week. Then it 
 came out that Nathan Shedd had been steadily 
 growing richer, all the while Miss Minerva, by 
 slow and painful degrees, was slipping into pov- 
 erty. During the thirty-odd years he had worked 
 on the old Eggleston place (enduring as best he 
 might the scorn in Miss Minerva's eyes) he had 
 thriftily saved many dollars, investing them all 
 in Western farm lands. 
 
 The Rev. Silas Pettibone and hi^ wife, jogging 
 along the country road behind the minister's old 
 sorrel horse, were talking over this sober romance. 
 
 " I always felt so sorry for Miss Minerva be- 
 cause Nathan insisted on going West," said the 
 minister's wife, sentimentally, as they turned in 
 at the big ivy-covered gate-posts. ^' She must 
 have loved this old place." 
 
 ^' I think Nathan did exactly right," differed 
 the minister, with some positiveness. "Don't 
 you see, my dear, if they had remained here Miss 
 Minerva's pride would always have stood between 
 them like a barrier. She would have been secretly 
 ashamed to the end of the chapter to think that, 
 after all, she had married the old Squire's hired 
 man. 
 
 *' Out in Oregon she is merely the wife of that 
 prosperous land-owner, Nathan Shedd. Nobody
 
 50 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 knows or cares that she was once the handsomest 
 girl in Innisfield, and the daughter of a rich man. 
 No, my dear, it is sometimes best to wash the 
 slate clean and begin the problem all over again." 
 
 He helped his wife from the old-fashioned 
 buggy with a careful hand, having an eye to the 
 muddy wheel and the shining folds of her best 
 gown. 
 
 '' How nice you look. Miss Philura," he said, 
 gently, ' ' that — er — black and purple stuff is quit© 
 becoming, after all." 
 
 The little lady blushed and smiled. 
 
 ** I haven't worn it often," she said, shaking 
 out the heavy brocade. *' It is almost too rich 
 and handsome for church socials, and we have so 
 few weddings in the parish." 
 
 *' Let me see, wasn't that almost a wedding 
 gown? " he inquired, with gentle jocularity. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had turned her head and was 
 looking at the big house, half hid in overgrown 
 shrubbery. 
 
 '' Do you know," she said, '' I thought for a 
 moment I saw a face at the window looking at us. 
 But it disappeared directly." 
 
 The minister was brushing a few hairs, strayed 
 from the old sorrel's back, off his second-best 
 preaching-coat. 
 
 '* Well, my dear, that wouldn't be so very sur- 
 prising, would it? I don't suppose many people 
 have called on the family as yet."
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 51 
 
 He walked deliberately, yet with a certain 
 kindly authority, toward the front door, with- 
 drawn under its deep pillared portico with an air 
 of dignified reserve. 
 
 *' It doesn't look as if anybody lived here," said 
 his wife, glancing about half timidly. 
 
 '' I have Mrs. Buckthorn's testimony to the 
 contrary — to say nothing of your own, my dear, ' ' 
 quoth the minister, cheerfully. 
 
 He had already pulled the rusted bell-handle, 
 and now stood, a tentative smile on his lips, con- 
 fidently awaiting the opening of the tall, heavily 
 pannelled door. There were narrow ^vindows of 
 leaded glass on either side, and Mrs. Pettibone's 
 bright eyes dwelt meditatively on the grey cob- 
 webs, swinging like tattered curtains in the April 
 air. High up in the tops of the dense evergreens 
 a lonely little wind was sighing, and from a long 
 way oif the cawing of a flight of crows against the 
 clouded blue of the, sky came faintly to the ear. 
 
 The smile slowly faded from the minister's face. 
 He appeared to be listening with bent head to the 
 intermittent dropping of water from a broken 
 leader-pipe into the depths of a subterranean cis- 
 tern. 
 
 '' Perhaps," ventured Mrs. Pettibone, under 
 her breath, '' the door-bell " 
 
 She stopped short, her face assuming the dis- 
 creetly cheerful look of one about to greet a 
 stranger.
 
 52 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 " Did you hear " she whispered, after a 
 
 lengthening panse. 
 
 '' A step I " he finished. ^' I fancied I heard a 
 board creak inside. But " 
 
 He applied his knuckles smartly to the door. 
 
 '' If there is anyone at home, I imagine they 
 will hear that," he observed. 
 
 But the door remained fast. The sound from 
 within, whatever its nature, was not repeated. A 
 dark cloud passed overhead. 
 
 *' Well," said the minister, doubtfully, " I am 
 afraid we are wasting valuable time." 
 
 *' And it looks like a shower," murmured his 
 companion. '' I really wish I'd worn my ala- 
 paca." 
 
 But Mr. Pettibone was not attending. He 
 stepped off the portico with an air of fresh re- 
 solve. 
 
 ' ' You might wait here, my dear, ' ' he suggested ; 
 '* I'll go 'round the house. I remember in Miss 
 Minerva's day we always used the side entrance." 
 
 Left to herself, Mrs. Pettibone perched her 
 small person gingerly on the edge of a wooden 
 bench, built into the side of the porch in more 
 hospitable days. The wind in the tree-tops had 
 by now deepened into a soft, all-pervasive roar. 
 Mrs. Pettibone smoothed down the folds of her 
 gown, gathered providently from a too intimate 
 contact mth the brick floor. There were piles of 
 damp leaves under the opposite bench, she ob-
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 53 
 
 served, and decided that, for once, the omniscient 
 Mrs. Buckthorn had been mistaken. But, on the 
 other hand, she had certainly met a girl walking 
 in the woods behind the house, only the week be- 
 fore. She recalled once more the tall, hurrying 
 figure; the stormy beauty of the face under its 
 wind-blown tresses. The girl was bare-headed; 
 Mrs. Pettibone had noticed j^articularly the heavy 
 reddish hair hanging in a long untidy braid. For 
 the rest the stranger had appeared like a school- 
 girl in her blue serge frock, with its sailor blouse 
 and short skirt. She had been crying, — with 
 homesickness, no doubt. Mrs. Pettibone recalled 
 the big dark eyes, reddened and brimming with 
 arrested tears. 
 
 *' Really, I don't know when I've ever felt so 
 embarrassed," the minister's wife told herself, as 
 she absent-mindedly smoothed and patted the 
 large black leaves sprawled vaguely upon the dim 
 purple background of the brocade across her knee. 
 
 How curiously everything linked itself to some- 
 thing else ! The black and purple brocade, almost 
 before she was aware of the transition, had car- 
 ried her thoughts quite away from the vivid pres- 
 ence of the strange girl under the wind-blown 
 trees to other and more intimate scenes of her 
 own past. How distinctly she remembered the 
 morning when the expressman left the flat oblong 
 package. It had come from Boston — from 
 Cousin Caroline Van Duser, as she guessed at
 
 54 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 once. She had written to Cousin Caroline, in- 
 forming her of her contemplated marriage to Mr. 
 Pettibone, and here was the reply, in tangible 
 form. She knew of course that it was something 
 to make over. 
 
 Mrs. Van Duser, like some stately galleon sail- 
 ing over life's stormy sea, trailed behind her a 
 frothing wake of dresses, cloaks, and bonnets, all 
 of the choicest and most expensive materials. 
 Many women of Mrs, Van Duser 's acquaintance 
 unblushingly sold their cast-otf finery, haggling 
 viciously behind the closed doors of their boudoirs 
 with certain shrill-voiced, hook-nosed women from 
 dubious shops in East Boston. Others, less avari- 
 cious or more indolent, abandoned the flotsam and 
 jetsam of a fashionable career to their maids. 
 But not so Mrs. Van Duser. This estimable lady, 
 while piously recognising the decrees of a Provi- 
 dence which saw fit to array her own ample person 
 with a magnificence akin to that of Solomon in 
 all his glory, was disposed to regard her outworn 
 clothing in the light of a sacred obligation to 
 those less richly provided for. No one could 
 realise more deeply than Mrs. Van Duser the in- 
 calculable detriment wrought by unthinking gifts 
 of finery to those destined by the same discreet 
 Providence to a lowly station in life. Upon Phi- 
 lura Rice she had been in the habit of bestowing 
 certain substantial garments, mostly of woollen 
 materials and sober, inconspicuous hues; saved,
 
 THE CLOSED DOOR 55 
 
 moreover, from a too recent and fashionable ap- 
 pearance by a ripening sojourn in Mrs. Van 
 Duser's attic. Philura Rice was a distant — a very 
 distant — relative of Mrs. Van Duser; and an en- 
 tirely worthy person in her own plane of exist- 
 ence. A plane, be it understood, far removed 
 from the orbit in w^hich Mrs. Van Duser revolved 
 in majestic splendour. 
 
 Mrs. Van Duser had not approved of Philura 
 Rice's marriage to the Rev. Silas Pettibone. Phi- 
 lura, she felt, had been guilty of climbing up some 
 other way— to make use of a scriptural phrase — 
 somehow outwitting Providence, which had 
 plainly indicated the humbler path of solitary 
 spinsterhood. Still, since Philura appeared bent 
 upon rushing in where angels fear to tread, she 
 would look over the contents of her wardrobe of 
 the year before last, with a view to the approach- 
 ing event. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, still gently and absent-mindedly 
 patting the skirt of her gown as she listened to 
 the rising wind in the tree-tops, recalled once 
 more the agitated and hopeful beating of her heart 
 as she painstakingly unknotted the stout string 
 which tied the package from Boston. She was 
 hoping, foolishly, almost sinfully (she told her- 
 self), that Cousin Caroline had sent her a white 
 dress, — or at the least a soft grey, of the sliimmer- 
 ing satin, coloured like the breast of a dove, which 
 Mrs. Van Duser had elected as her favorite garb
 
 56 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 of state. The garment within, as she had already 
 been apprised by letter, was, in Mrs. Van Duser's 
 estimation, a most suitable dress for the occasion 
 of the marriage. 
 
 When at last the cover was off, and the string 
 carefully rolled into a neat ball, Miss Pliilura had 
 lifted the shrouding folds of tissue paper to find 
 — this ! She could never forget the shock of sur- 
 prise and disappointment when at last she found 
 courage to lift the stiff, heavy brocade from its 
 wrappings. Tears there had been, in those first 
 moments; then determined revolt. 
 
 *' I will not be married in a black and purple 
 dress!" she had declared to the surrounding 
 silence, which later had revealed itself as both in- 
 telligent and beneficent, though at the moment it 
 was voiceless of inspiration, or even hope. 
 
 The sound of steps and the creaking of the 
 heavy door on its hinges roused Mrs. Pettibone 
 from a happy vision of herself, clad all in bridal 
 white, soming slowly down the aisle of the 
 crowded church on the arm of the minister. 
 
 Hurriedly she rose to her feet, the thrill of that 
 realised dream flooding her face with radiance. 
 In the doorway stood the tall, stout figure of a 
 woman, regarding her fixedly out of dark, dull 
 eyes.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE HILL FAINIILY 
 
 *' You are Mrs. Pettibone," the woman said 
 quickly; " won't you come in? I hope you'll par- 
 don the condition of our door-bell. It was broken 
 when we arrived, and we haven't been able, so 
 far, to find anyone to fix it." 
 
 Eather dazedly the minister's wife found her- 
 self being piloted into the tall, dark parlour at 
 the left of the hall. The woman's voice — a soft, 
 monotonous voice — ran on: 
 
 "I'm afraid you have been waiting rather 
 longer than you found pleasant on our inhospi- 
 table doorstep. But you see we weren't looking 
 for visitors, and so " 
 
 She paused as she indicated a chair. 
 
 The minister, who had seated himself on the 
 opposite side of the hearth, where a low fire was 
 smouldering, smiled professionally. It was a 
 pleasant smile, expressive of genuine kindness 
 and simplicity of heart, upon which his wide pas- 
 toral experience had superimposed sad knowledge 
 of a sinful and dying world in all its manifold 
 needs and complexities. 
 
 " You understand, Mrs. — er — Hill, that we — 
 Mrs. Pettibone and myself — endeavour to see all 
 
 57
 
 58 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 the new comers to the parish," he began rather 
 stiflSy. " We — ah — hope that we may be able to 
 be of service, either in the way of directing those 
 who may desire a church home, or " 
 
 His hostess was smiling, too; yet the minister 
 felt himself vaguely uncomfortable under the 
 scrutiny of those curiously opaque eyes beneath 
 their drooping lids. 
 
 *' You are very kind, I'm sure," murmured the 
 woman. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, quite unnoticed in the deep 
 chair to which she had been consigned, fell to ex- 
 amining the room with a child's eager curiosity. 
 It was furnished much as it had been in Miss 
 Minerva Eggleston's day. Nathan Shedd had not 
 approved his wife's desire to transport her an- 
 cestral belongings to their new home. 
 
 " The's no use o' carting all that old stuff out 
 West," he had stated. '' We c'n buy a plenty 
 more where we are going. I mean to have every- 
 thin ' new ! ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone recognised one by one Miss 
 Minerva 's antique chairs and sofas ; but they had 
 been curiously transformed by a rich Oriental 
 covering here, and a pile of embroidered cushions 
 yonder. There was a gay little work basket on 
 the table by the fire, and a heap of books and 
 magazines littered the top of the big square piano, 
 which had been dragged from its dark corner to 
 a position near the pendant lamp. Then her eyes
 
 THE HILL FAMILY 59 
 
 wandered to the windows, hung with fresh muslin, 
 and the pot of crocus, gay with purple and yellow 
 blooms, which brightened the high mantel-shelf. 
 
 " You have one or more children, I under- 
 stand? " Mr. Pettibone was saying, still profes- 
 sionally. ' ' I believe my wife met your daughter, 
 quite — er — by accident, not long ago." 
 
 Mrs. Hill darted a keen glance of inquiry at 
 the minister's wife. 
 
 '' My son and his mfe are with me for the 
 present," she said, coldly. " Possibly — you saw 
 Mrs. Walter Hill." 
 
 " Oh! " murmured Mrs. Pettibone in a sur- 
 prised voice. 
 
 Her blue eyes scanned the woman's face with 
 undisguised interest. 
 
 " You are thinking perhaps that my daughter- 
 in-law resembles me," Mrs. Hill said, drj4y. '^ It 
 is easily explained; my son and his wife are 
 cousins." 
 
 " Oh! " commented Mrs. Pettibone again; this 
 time with a falling inflection. ' ' She seemed very 
 — ^young," she added, hurriedly. '' At least I — 
 have that impression." 
 
 Mrs. Hill's curiously disconcerting gaze was 
 levelled full upon her. It seemed impossible not 
 to go on talking — explaining. 
 
 '' I was out looking for arbutus," the minister's 
 little wife went on, stealing a look at her husband, 
 who smiled back encouragement. *' The arbutus
 
 60 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 is always earliest and pinkest in Miss Minerva's 
 woods, you know." 
 
 " Miss — Minerva? " 
 
 The woman's voice expressed a polite, yet chill- 
 ing curiosity. 
 
 '' Perhaps I should have said Miss Eggleston, 
 or — Mrs. Shedd. This is her place, of course you 
 know, — or was. Perhaps they have sold it. But 
 
 I hadn't heard that you It is really veri/ 
 
 pleasant here, especially in warm weather." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, all pink and agitated, gazed 
 beseechingly at her hostess. But Mrs. Hill was 
 apparently blind to her discomfort. 
 
 *' You were speaking of my daughter-in-law," 
 she said, getting up rather quickly for so large a 
 person. ^ ' I will see if she is at home. You — met 
 her, you say? " 
 
 '' In the woods — yes. She was walking there 
 quite alone, and — I — I couldn't help thinking she 
 might be feeling — a little homesick." Mrs. Petti- 
 bone was forced to tilt her chin upward, in order 
 to meet the woman's penetrating gaze. She felt 
 curiously shamed and confused, like a child de- 
 tected in some flagrant bit of mischief. Yet she 
 could not help noticing Mrs. Hill's dress, which 
 "was of rich material, but stained and spotted 
 down the front breadth, as if (Mrs. Pettibone 
 thought) she had washed dishes in it, without an 
 apron. 
 
 ^' We keep no servant," Mrs. Hill informed her
 
 THE HILL FAMH^Y 61 
 
 abruptly. *' And we rent the place. I shall not 
 — buy it, for the present, till we see if we are go- 
 ing to like it. ' ' 
 
 She turned and walked s"v\T.ftly to the door, her 
 feet making no sound on the old velvet carpet with 
 its large dim roses. 
 
 *' I should like you to meet my son," she added, 
 pausing with her hand on the knob to look steadily 
 at the minister; " — if you will excuse me for a 
 moment, while I call him, and Mrs. Walter Hill, — 
 I believe I told you she is my niece." 
 
 The minister and his wife sat motionless in 
 their places, listening to the sound of the woman's 
 receding footfalls, as she ascended the uncarpeted 
 stair. The roar of the wind in the evergreens 
 penetrated the stillness that followed like a 
 solemn voice. Mrs. Pettibone stole a timid glance 
 at her husband. He was looking fixedly out of the 
 window, his lips firmly compressed, his dark 
 brows drawn over thoughtful eyes. She feared 
 he had disapproved her unthinking remarks to 
 their prospective parishioner. 
 
 ** Perhaps I oughtn't to have spoken of her 
 daughter-in-law as being young or — homesick," 
 she reflected. '' But it is a lonesome sort of place 
 for a young girl, even if she is married." 
 
 She wondered vaguely how it would seem to 
 have one's aunt for a mother-in-law, and for no 
 assignable reason decided that it would not be at 
 all nice.
 
 62 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Then her eyes were drawn once more to the gay, 
 beribboned basket on the table almost within 
 reach of her hand. Someone had been working 
 there, a handsome gold thimble had rolled to the 
 edge of the table, and a spool of fine cotton lay on 
 the floor. There was a mass of filmy white stuff 
 in the basket. Mrs. Pettibone could see a strip 
 of narrow lace, partly sewed to the frill of a tiny 
 sleeve. She leaned forward impulsively in her 
 chair, the soft colour flooding her cheeks. 
 
 " Silas! " she murmured. 
 
 The minister turned his abstracted gaze upon 
 her. 
 
 '' Well, my dear? " he replied, in the voice of 
 one whose mind is filled with alien thoughts. 
 
 " Oh, I Do — do you think it is going to 
 
 rain? " 
 
 '' Not immediately," he answered. He glanced 
 frowningly at his watch. '' We shall have ample 
 time to reach home, I think, if we are not detained 
 too long." 
 
 It seemed a long time to both of them before 
 they heard the sound of steps in the passage. 
 
 '' I had some difficulty in finding my young peo- 
 ple," apologised Mrs. Hill. She was breathing 
 heavily and spots of purplish colour had flamed 
 up under her dull skin. *' My son is so fond of 
 outdoor life," she went on, her quick, determined 
 eyes darting from the minister to his wife, then 
 to the door which she had thrown wide. * ' And as
 
 THE HILL FAMILY 63 
 
 for Sylvia Come in, my dear; never mind 
 
 your ruffled hair. Mrs. Pettibone, let me present 
 my daughter, Mrs. Walter Hill. I believe you and 
 Sylvia have met before — in the woods, wasn't 
 it? But you haven't been fortunate enough to 
 find any arbutus, my dear Sylvia. Mr. Pettibone, 
 my son, Walter — Hill." 
 
 Thus urged, the two young people who had 
 slowly followed the older woman into the room- 
 quite like sulky children, Mrs. Pettibone was 
 thinking — came forward. The girl, her handsome 
 mouth set in rebellious curves, barely touched 
 with limp cold fingers the friendly hands out- 
 stretched to greet her. But the boy — ^he was 
 barely twenty, Mr. Pettibone decided — smiled 
 pleasantly, almost eagerly as he shook hands man- 
 fashion with the minister. 
 
 '' Yes, I hope we're going to like it here," he 
 said, in response to Mr. Pettibone 's stereotyped 
 inquiry. ''It's a great house; isn't it? But — 
 lonesome — eh? I " 
 
 He stopped short, with a sidelong glance at his 
 mother, who had stepped softly to his side. 
 
 '* Mother, here, will tell you how we were al- 
 ways teasing to live in the country; I'm fond of 
 shooting, you know, and all that sort of thing; 
 and Sylvia " 
 
 '* Such children as they both are," smiled Mrs. 
 Hill, laying her plump white hand caressingly on 
 her son's shoulder. ^' We are both hoping the
 
 64 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 good country air will bring dear Sylvia back to 
 bealth." 
 
 Still smiling, she lowered her smooth, full lids ; 
 and the minister, revolving various quasi-profes- 
 sional inquiries as to the Hills' former home, their 
 recent church connection and the hoped-for op- 
 portunity of enrolling the young people in his 
 Christian Endeavour Society, suddenly bethought 
 himself of the fact that all in the room were 
 standing and their hostess had not asked them 
 to resume their chairs. 
 
 It was the friendly custom of the countryside 
 to pursue one's visitors quite to the verge of the 
 outer world, the tide of conversation rising to its 
 flood, at the front door. Mr. Pettibone was pa- 
 tiently accustomed to parochial confidences re- 
 served for the shadowy regions of the passage; 
 and persisted in, while he stood hat in hand and 
 ankle-deep in unswept snow on the doorstep. But 
 on the present occasion he found himself dis- 
 missed at the parlour door by the older Mrs. Hill, 
 with a practised ease and aplomb which left no 
 opportunity for valedictory remarks on the part 
 of the minister or his agitated little wife. 
 
 '' Really, I don't know when I've ever felt so — 
 queer," Mrs. Pettibone confided to her husband, 
 when the clumsy hoofs of the sorrel were once 
 more spattering the mud of the highway over the 
 shabby lap-robe her husband had carefully tucked 
 about her.
 
 THE HILL FAMILY 65 
 
 *' H'm," commented the minister non-commit- 
 tally. "I'm not sure we were altogether wel- 
 come. ' ' 
 
 " That young Mrs. Hill is really handsome; 
 don't you think so? " persisted his wife. '' But, 
 oh, I'm sure she — ^isn't happy. Do you suppose 
 that — that woman could be unkind to her ? I don 't 
 like her face." 
 
 " Unkind? " echoed Mr. Pettibone. *' I suppose 
 you refer to the older Mrs. Hill. Why should she 
 be unkind? But personally I don't believe in the 
 marriage of near relatives." 
 
 He shook his head, as he slapped the reins 
 provocatively over the old sorrel's back. Mrs. 
 Pettibone was not paying her usual meek atten- 
 tion; she leaned suddenly forward, her face 
 lighted with a smile ; then waved her small gloved 
 hand vigorously. 
 
 ''It's Milly," she cried, ''— Milly Orne. The 
 child is working among her flowers. And, oh, 
 look, Silas, she has a whole row of daffodils in 
 blossom! " 
 
 The minister's abstracted gaze followed his 
 wife's eager gesture. 
 
 ' ' Ah, yes, ' ' he murmured. * ' — Er — perhaps we 
 might stop for just a moment, and inquire for the 
 old people. Orne was pretty well crippled with 
 lumbago the last time I called." 
 
 The girl had dropped her trowel and hurried 
 forward, as the reluctant feet of the sorrel scuffled
 
 66 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 to a standstill. She was a pretty girl, with quanti- 
 ties of yellow-brown hair wound closely about her 
 small head. As she stood beside the mud-bespat- 
 tered vehicle, her face upturned to its occupants, 
 Mrs. Pettibone observed with a secret pang of the 
 envy peculiar to middle age the unblemished pearl 
 and rose of her softly rounded cheek and the way 
 the glistening hair curled about the delicate ears. 
 The girl's eyes were as blue as corn-flowers, and 
 the softly parted lips revealed the edges of flaw- 
 less teeth. 
 
 '^ Isn't she — beautiful? " breathed Mrs. Petti- 
 bone, with a gentle sigh of resignation, as the in- 
 dignant sorrel resumed his interrupted progress. 
 
 The minister was gazing at the animal's bobbing 
 ears with knit brows. He shook his head with a 
 suggestion of sadness. 
 
 " The child is quite as good as she is pretty,'* 
 he said, slowly. *' But " 
 
 He was silent for a space, while Mrs. Pettibone 
 pensively regarded the bunch of daffodils Milly 
 Orne had given her at the moment of parting. 
 
 '' Ah, well! " he said at last; " the best any of 
 us can do is to trust the hand that spares the 
 bruised reed. — And — er — speaking of the Hills, 
 my dear, I was about to remark that in my opinion 
 the marriage of the two cousins explains the whole 
 matter: the aunt, who is also the mother-in-law, 
 probably objected to the marriage; and quite 
 right, too. The boy is too young. "Well ; we must
 
 THE HILL FAMILY 67 
 
 see what we can do. They'll want to see some 
 company of their o^vn age. You can 't safely bot- 
 tle up young life in a lonesome old place like that. 
 It's bound to break out somewhere." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone looked up mstfully into the min- 
 ister 's strong, kindly face. . . . Sometimes she 
 almost forgot she was his wife. Mr. Pettibone 's 
 *' Mary " had been dead for full seven years and 
 all that time she had been just " Miss Philura," 
 — a shabby, timid little spinster. Twice a year, in 
 the spring and fall, her pastor had called upon 
 her in the course of his regular parochial rounds, 
 and she had received him in her shabby, lonely 
 little parlour in a state of trepidation bordering 
 on awe. He had looked so grand, so wise, she had 
 scarcely dared utter her carefully worded little 
 commonplaces about the weather, the choir, or 
 even the latest social — at which she had passed 
 cake, in one of Cousin Caroline Van Duser's made- 
 over dresses. . . . 
 
 But now, — she drew a long breath of wonder, as 
 she strove for the hundredth time to realize how 
 it had all come about. It had begun early in the 
 spring two years ago, when she visited Cousin 
 Caroline, stopping a whole week in the big, gloomy 
 Beacon Street mansion. And almost the last day 
 of her stay Cousin Caroline had taken her to hear 
 a lecture at the Ontological Club. Suppose she 
 had never heard that lecture? "What if dear 
 Cousin Caroline had chosen to leave her at home
 
 68 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 that day, or consented to send her, under convoy 
 of the coachman, to visit the wax-works. Mrs. 
 Pettibone remembered distinctly that she had 
 wished very much to see the wax-works, which 
 Electa Pratt had described to her in dreadful de- 
 tail. Of course she would have declined to wit- 
 ness an actual murder. But a murder in wax, 
 however realistic, was something different. Any- 
 one might view it with pleasure. Electa had said 
 it made icy-cold shivers run up and down her 
 spine like anything. 
 
 She had mentioned the wax-works to Cousin 
 Caroline, with what she felt to be almost brazen 
 temerity, and had been properly punished by that 
 lady's cold disapproving stare centred upon her 
 small, shrinking person through the large lenses 
 of a lorgnette. 
 
 '^ Wax-works," stated Mrs. Van Duser, " are 
 vulgar, immoral, pernicious. They cater to an 
 essentially depraved appetite, totally demoraliz- 
 ing to the higher faculties of the soul. I am sur- 
 prised, Philura, that you should experience any 
 desire to so stultify yourself; and I beg that you 
 will, instead, accompany me to a lecture on 
 * Thought Forces and the Infinite,' which will, I 
 trust, lift you to a somewhat higher plane of real- 
 isation than you at present appear to occupy." 
 
 How could she have secretly rebelled — almost 
 to the point of disliking dear Cousin Caroline? 
 iWax-works, indeed! What were wax-works and
 
 THE HILL FAMILY 69 
 
 their resultant thrills, however pleasurable, to be- 
 coming aware of one's real powers? It was actu- 
 ally right to want things ! Nay, desire itself was 
 Infinite Good knocking at the door of one's con- 
 sciousness — seeking, almost demanding, entrance. 
 
 She had gone away from the Ontological Club 
 singularly uplifted, tremulously happy, and con- 
 scious for the first time of a vast unexplored 
 ocean of good; viewless, but no less real and 
 beneficent — surging, as it were, all about the bar- 
 ren shores of her life. 
 
 Out of it had come, with inconceivable prompt- 
 ness, a hat with plumes, two becoming gowns, a 
 silk petticoat, a feather boa, and — her husband! 
 How had she dared? Was it, after all, merely 
 chance? Did he really and truly love her? 
 
 She stole a second swift glance at the Rev. Silas 
 Pettibone. How beautiful was the stern, clear-cut 
 outline of his brow, nose, and chin ! What won- 
 derful eyes he had; deep and somber yet kind as 
 love itself. 
 
 Then, without at all meaning to do so, she called 
 back Mrs. Buckthorn's words of the night before 
 — and more reluctantly, more timidly still, the first 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's sweet, wistful face, of a type 
 totally different from her own.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 MALVTNA BENNETT, DRESSiLA.KER 
 
 The dressmaking establishment of Miss Malvina 
 Bennett had become a sort of clearing-house for 
 general and miscellaneous information. Seated 
 in Miss Malvina 's little parlour, in close juxtaposi- 
 tion to the ornate base-burner, the votaries of 
 fashion (as represented by a pile of highly 
 coloured magazines) might learn many things 
 concerning the world at large, but more particu- 
 larly of Innisfield. Miss Malvina herself would 
 have repudiated the title of gossip with entirely 
 just indignation. 
 
 *' Ef there's one thing more'n another I hate 
 an' despise," she was wont to declare, with deep 
 feeling, " it's tale-bearin' an' gossipin'. I min' 
 my business, an' I expect my customers to min* 
 theirs, the hull endurin' time. Anybody 'at sews 
 has got to watch out fer their tongues. As I sez 
 t' Mother, * the's somethin' about settin' an' 
 se\vin',' I sez, ' — more especial bastin' — that doos 
 somehow tempt a body t' tittle-tattle.' But the' 
 ain't anybody c'n say I was ever known t' repeat 
 what comes t' my years in the shop. An' I ain't 
 sayin' I don't know 'bout 's well as most folks 
 what's goin' on in this town." 
 
 70
 
 MALVINA BENNETT, DRESSMAKER 71 
 
 With which tacit admission Miss Malvina in- 
 vited fresh confidences of the sort one makes to a 
 discreet person, whose mouth is filled with pins, 
 while with a pair of sharp scissors she deftly clips 
 about the circle of one 's neck in dangerous near- 
 ness to the jugular vein, or with the same shining 
 implement snips suddenly and ^\ith apparent 
 recklessness under one's arm-pit. 
 
 Miss Bennett was a wiry little person who had 
 never looked young, even in the days when she 
 toddled solemnly about her grandmother's kitchen 
 in sedate and unsuccessful pursuit of an elderly 
 kitten. By the time she was eight Malvina could 
 overcast a seam '' es neat es a pin;" at ten she 
 was sewing her own flannel petticoats, without 
 manifesting a single carnal desire to run out of 
 doors and frolic with other children. 
 
 *' I guess the Lord created me 'special t' be a 
 dressmaker," was Miss Malvina 's pious comment 
 on the workings of a Providence which appeared 
 to have closed every other avenue of usefulness 
 save the one the little seamstress trod so cheer- 
 fully. And having never been young — meaning 
 that Miss Malvina was never in the least rosy, 
 nor pretty, nor idle, nor imprudent; and that in 
 consequence of all these negative virtues she never 
 had a beau — so, likewise, she did not grow old the 
 way other and more fortunate people did. No one 
 remembered just when Malvina had taken to 
 wearing glasses, because the large, steel-bowed
 
 72 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 spectacles (bequeathed to her from her grand- 
 mother) appeared so eminently fitting an addition 
 to her somewhat nipped and wintry little nose. 
 So also the adoption of a much befrizzed black 
 hair front — also an heirloom; but every bit as 
 good as new — made little or no change in Miss 
 Malvina's everyday aspect; even when the frizzed 
 front became, in certain exigencies, pushed rak- 
 ishly to one side, revealing sparse grey hair 
 combed neatly back to join the rigid pepper-and- 
 salt knob at the back of her head. 
 
 '' Here's a han' glass. Mis' Puffer," exhorted 
 Miss Malvina, pressing upon her customer a small 
 cracked mirror. " I want you should look at your 
 back. There! Ain't that a neat fit? It couldn't 
 lay no smoother ner set no snugger, I don't care 
 who done it! Land! I do hope an' pray you'll 
 git a chance t' wear this dress while it's stylish. 
 Last year, I remember, no sooner did I git that 
 velveteen skirt fitted down to you, than you had 
 t' lay it aside, and now I s'pose it's too narrer. 
 You seem t' be some stouter since the last baby 
 was born." 
 
 '' I think I hear him crying," interrupted Mrs. 
 Puffer, resignedly; " I left him outside in his go- 
 cart asleep." 
 
 " Don't you das t' stir," warned the dress- 
 maker, with a threatening gesture; " I jest got 
 them goods pinned onto you in a real stylish 
 draped effect. You know; like the one you was
 
 MALVINA BENNETT, DEESSMAKER 73 
 
 admirin' 'n the Arts an' Modes. I'll take a peek 
 at tlie baby. Anyhow, you couldn't move if you 
 was to try." 
 
 Mrs. Puffer, a stout matronly person, with a 
 perpetual pucker of anxiety between her mild 
 blue eyes, relaxed obediently in the swaddling 
 folds of her inchoate go^\Ti. 
 
 " As long's he don't get under the strap an' 
 choke himself to death," she sent after Miss 
 Malvina's retreating steps. '' Dr. Holt says it 
 don't hurt 'em any to cry. — An' you might turn 
 him over, and give him his }3acifier; it's round his 
 neck on a pink cord." 
 
 Miss Malvina returned presently, her face 
 wreathed in smiles. 
 
 *' You don't need t' worry a mite about the 
 baby," she said. " Who d' you s'pose has got 
 him? — takin' care of him like she was his mother 
 f'om 'way back." 
 
 Mrs. Puffer didn't know, she w^as sure; and be- 
 came restive once more under Miss Bennett's 
 formative hand. 
 
 ''Now you jest stan' still. Mis' Puffer, or I 
 can't do nothin'. These 'ere pernickity folds is 
 the very dickens, ef you don't get 'em right, first 
 off'. — I was jest a-goin' t' tell you, if you'll quit 
 prancin', Philura Eice — I mean Mis' Pettibone — • 
 was comin' along, an' she heard him. Sure 
 'nough he was down in under the strap, his face 's 
 red 's a beet. My! you'd ought t' 'a' seen her.
 
 ,74 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 * Who's baby is it? ' she sez t' me, all pink an' 
 excited. ' I've got Mis' Pnffer all pinned up in 
 ten yards o' dress-goods inside,' I sez, an' begun 
 t' hunt in his blankets fer his pacifier. But, land, 
 Philura she had him out before you c'd say Jack 
 Eobinson! ' I'll take care of him,' she sez. ' I'd 
 love to.' " 
 
 Mrs. Puffer sighed a transient relief. 
 
 '' Well, now, that's real kind of Miss Philura," 
 she said, twisting her head to gaze at the reflection 
 of her large person in the glass. " But I do hope 
 she won't drop him." 
 
 Miss Bennett cackled appreciatively as she took 
 another pin from between her closed teeth. 
 
 '' She won't drop him," she hazarded; '' but it 
 wouldn't s 'prise me none if she run off with him 
 fer a spell. Philura always had a hankerin' after 
 babies." 
 
 Outside in the warm April sunshine the minis- 
 ter's wife was talking confidentially to the new 
 parishioner. Upon being extricated from his 
 perilous position, young Master Puffer had in- 
 stantly ceased his half-strangled cries for ma- 
 ternal aid, and was gazing in round-eyed wonder- 
 ment at the new and interesting phenomenon of 
 a hat with, nodding plumes and a pink rose in 
 front. The face under the hat was almost as pink 
 as the rose, and two blue eyes gazed at him soul- 
 fully. The unfamiliar voice, too, had a pleas-
 
 MALVINA BENNETT, DRESSMAKER 75 
 
 ing cadence, and the stranger's embracing arms 
 held his small, plump person as he liked to be 
 held. 
 
 After a period of reflection the baby opened his 
 rosy mouth in a puckered circle and a sound came 
 out. It wasn't just what he meant to say; but it 
 served the purpose. 
 
 ''You darling!" cried the minister's little 
 wife. " You s-w-e-e-t, pr-r-ecious la-amb! " 
 
 Then she buried her hungry little mouth in his 
 warm, fat neck. 
 
 The new parishioner betrayed no resentment. 
 He was, in fact, used to such demonstrations. He 
 continued to gaze delightedly at the pink rose and 
 the pink cheeks and the blue shining eyes of his 
 captor, waving his small, dimpled hands uncer- 
 tainly toward the objects of his desire. 
 
 ''I'd like to carry you off," were the traitorous 
 words the lady whispered in his ear. " You'd 
 like me for a mother just as well as Mrs. Puffer; 
 wouldn't you, sweetness? And, oh, I'd love you — 
 love you so! " 
 
 At this bold speech the baby blinked dazedly; 
 then closed his eyes, as if the better to consider 
 her audacious proposal. 
 
 " You're sleepy, precious," inferred his self- 
 appointed guardian. 
 
 Somewhat awkwardly she stowed him among 
 his blankets and pillows. With a sigh of content 
 the new parishioner tucked a small, but useful
 
 76 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 thumb into his mouth and resigned himself to 
 blissful slumber. 
 
 '* If you were mine," murmured the unprin- 
 cipled person who had thus deliberately broken 
 the tenth commandment, " I should never, never 
 leave you outside to cry, while I was being fitted 
 for a stupid dress." 
 
 Then she began wheeling the perambulator 
 slowly up and down the sidewalk, though she 
 might better have gone about her business which 
 chanced to be a meeting of the Ladies' Aid and 
 Missionary Society. 
 
 ** If I should stop wheeling him for a single 
 minute," Mrs. Pettibone excused herself, menda- 
 ciously, *' he would certainly wake up and cry. 
 And if Malvina Bennett has pinned a draped skirt 
 on Mrs. Puffer, she'll insist on basting it before 
 she lets her go." 
 
 There was a shabby, mud-bespattered motor-car 
 standing before the next house but one. Mrs. 
 Pettibone eyed it with passing interest. There 
 were very few automobiles in the conservative 
 village of Innisfield. This one, she knew, belonged 
 to Dr. North; and its presence before a house 
 usually betokened sickness within. She wondered 
 vaguely if Mrs. Salter was suffering with another 
 of her ** spells," and whether it was her duty (as 
 the pastor's wife) to stop and inquire. 
 
 Just then the door flew open, as if under the 
 urge of an impatient hand, and Dr. North
 
 MALVINA BENNETT, DRESSMAKER 77 
 
 emerged, in the act of pulling on his driving 
 gloves. He was a tall stout man, with a weather- 
 beaten face half hidden by a great grey beard. 
 
 " The doctor," complained certain of his pa- 
 tients, " was always in a hurry." He had aban- 
 doned his overworked grey cob in favor of an 
 automobile, in a day when the latter means of 
 locomotion w^as no less than an extravagance ; and 
 thereafter appeared always in the act of hastily 
 entering houses, from w^hich he as abruptly 
 emerged; the periods between being wholly neg- 
 ligible. 
 
 To Mrs. Pettibone's great astonishment this 
 energetic practitioner stopped short at sight of 
 her, one foot already in his car. 
 
 ^' Good-afternoon, Miss Philura," he hailed her 
 in his big, hearty voice — a voice, be it said, which 
 had more than once recalled a trembling soul from 
 the very brink of a new and untried existence to 
 the dear, familiar duties of a mundane life — 
 ^' that your baby? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone blushed becomingly. 
 
 ** He's Mrs. Puffer's baby," she explained, 
 with an unconscious sigh. ^' I'm just taking care 
 of him, while his mother has a dress fitted at Mal- 
 vina Bennett's." 
 
 Dr. North gazed thoughtfully at the rather 
 shabby perambulator, exuding pink and blue 
 woolly things ; then at the little lady who grasped 
 its handle. There was no mistaking the look of
 
 78 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 wistful eagerness in her face. The doctor had 
 seen it many times before in the course of a long- 
 ish practice, most of which had concerned itself 
 with women. 
 
 '' He — he's a lovely baby," murmured Mrs. 
 Pettibone, curiously embarrassed. 
 
 She stopped to tuck a pink blanket under a blue 
 one, and pat the rotund little bunch beneath with 
 a gentle hand. 
 
 " Of course — of course! " agreed the doctor 
 cheerfully. " The Puffer children are a fine 
 healthy lot. Pity there aren't more like 'em. 
 (Well, I must be off. Good-day!" 
 
 The car leapt forward ; then paused obediently 
 Tinder the doctor's masterful hand. 
 
 '' Oh, I say, Miss Philura! — er — I beg your 
 pardon — Mrs. Pettibone — Can't seem to get used 
 to the change — why don't you adopt one? " 
 
 " Adopt! — You don't mean — a — a baby? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly; just that. You're fond of chil- 
 dren; and heaven knows there's plenty of poor 
 little things that need a mother. Think it over." 
 
 He was gone in a spatter of liquid mud, leaving 
 the dazed and agitated recipient of his counsels 
 to consider his surprising suggestion. 
 
 Plenty of children without mothers; and — yes, 
 plenty of mothers without children. That was 
 what he meant. Could this in any wise satisfy 
 the secret longing which of late had begun to 
 clamour more loudly than ever within her?
 
 MALVINA BENNETT, DRESSMAKER 79 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone recalled stealthy moments spent 
 in the seclusion of her mother's attic caressing a 
 battered doll, once the joy and solace of her child- 
 hood. On her twelfth birthday the doll had been 
 summarily relegated to the garret. '' Big girls 
 in their teens," she was told rebukingly, " did 
 not play with doll-babies." But the bereaved lit- 
 tle mother bedewed her patchwork with more than 
 one bitter tear, before she ceased to mourn the 
 pink and white image which had been " just the 
 right size to hug." 
 
 But there had always been something: a stray 
 kitten, sick with hunger; a puppy with a broken 
 leg; a forlorn chicken, hatched in the middle of 
 winter by a fatuous old hen who refused to mother 
 her offspring; even a rose-bush, rooted out from a 
 neighbouring garden and doomed to ignominious 
 death in the ash-barrel, because, forsooth, its 
 cheerful blossoms were '' a common shade of 
 red," — all these bits of almost unnoticed wreckage 
 on the tide of life had Miss Philura painstakingly 
 rescued and loved back into life and beauty. The 
 starving kitten had developed into the big maltese 
 cat, which now patrolled the ministerial precincts 
 with a magnificent air of condescension. The 
 puppy, in due course, recovered, and thereafter 
 trotted on four good legs after the butter- 
 woman 's wagon ; while the lone chicken, gro^^^l to 
 a lordly cock, reigned paramount over a flock of 
 silly hens with stern masterfulness. As for the
 
 80 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 disgraced rose-busli; planted in Miss Philura's lit- 
 tle garden, enriched and watered and gniarded 
 from encroaching insects, it had become a glory 
 and a delight. The '^ common red " of its de- 
 spised blossoms had deepened and brightened into 
 a crimson splendour which drew even the eyes of 
 the disdainful person next door. He came; he 
 saw; he leaned across the fence with an ingratiat- 
 ing smile. 
 
 ** Miss Philura, won't you tell me the name of 
 that wonderful rose of yours? "he entreated. " I 
 don't think we have anything like it in our rose- 
 garden." 
 
 Then, oh, then was the moment of rare triumph 
 which crowned the work of many months. 
 
 '* I call this the ash-barrel rose," quoth Miss 
 Philura, very bright-eyed and demure. 
 
 Something of all this — memory and retrospect 
 and vague forecasting of the future flitted through 
 Mrs. Pettibone's thoughts, as she continued to 
 wheel the Puffer baby up and down the sunshiny 
 street. Then, quite breathless and exuberantly 
 apologetic, descended Mrs. Puffer. 
 
 * ' I am so sorry ! What must you think of me ? 
 But really, dear Mrs. Pettibone, you needn't have 
 bothered; his pacifier — Oh, naughty boy; he has 
 his thumb in his mouth ! I never allow him to suck 
 his thumb. It ruins the shape of the mouth, 
 dwarfs the thumb, and causes adenoids. — You 
 didn't know it? Of course not! How could you?
 
 MALVINA BENNETT, DRESSMAKER 81 
 
 I'll take liim now; and I do hope you're not all 
 tired out! " 
 
 How complacent and self-satisfied slie looked, 
 and with what scarifying indifference she bounced 
 the perambulator over the curb in her haste to 
 depart. Mrs. Pettibone stood watching the 
 mother of many children with undefined resent- 
 ment, for a fleeting moment, which yet marked 
 a momentous resolve. . . . Then she walked 
 sedately toward the church, where '' The Ladies " 
 were diligently sewing calico blouses for *' the 
 Mountain Whites. ' *
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE ORNES 
 
 Censorious persons — of whom there were a se- 
 lect few in the neighbourhood of Innisfield — an- 
 nually criticised the Ornes' dooryard. There 
 were too many flowers, they said, of too many 
 varieties growing in the rounds and squares and 
 crescents Caleb Orne had pridefully laid out for 
 his young wife back in the fifties. That sort of 
 thing was well enough, they pointed out, when one 
 had plenty of money and could afford the time 
 necessary to the cultivation of a large flower- 
 garden. But, as everybody knew, the Ornes had 
 little to depend upon except the vegetables old 
 Orne raised in the half-acre plot behind the house 
 and the milk of the two cows pastured in the 
 dwindling orchard. Grandma Orne — as people 
 called the apple-cheeked old woman — owned a 
 loom, and eked out the family livelihood by con- 
 verting myriad balls of carpet rags into sober, 
 substantial breadths of floor-covering, justly es- 
 teemed by all thrifty housewives. 
 
 Then there was Milly. It was Milly who worked 
 among the flowers, rising often in the earliest 
 flush of summer dawns to weed and water and dig 
 about the old-fashioned shrubs and perennials, 
 
 83
 
 THE OENES 83 
 
 whicli had grown and flourished and multiplied 
 exceedingly since the day Grandfather Orne 
 planted them there. Grandfather used to joke 
 Milly about her gardening, declaring that she stole 
 the fresh colour in her cheeks from the pinks and 
 roses, long before anybody was up to " ketch her 
 at it." As for her eyes, no flowers-de-luce, lark- 
 spurs, bachelor's buttons or johnny- jump-ups 
 could '' show a purtier blue." He always ended, 
 did Grandfather, with a chastening comparison of 
 Milly 's ** looks " with the superlative charms of 
 Grandmother, in her younger days : 
 
 " The' ain't no use o' talkin', ye can't hold a 
 candle t' yer Gran 'ma, when I married her! " the 
 old man would chuckle gleefully. ' * Tell ye what, 
 Gran 'ma an' me was one of the finest lookin* 
 couples anywheres around; wa'n't we, Gran 'ma? 
 Fer all I'm s' bent over an' wrinkled-up now I 
 was the tallest, straightest, best-lookin' chap ye'd 
 want t' see. Had m' pick of all the girls. Tell ye, 
 ye don't see no more like I was in them days; 
 ain't that so. Gran 'ma? — Clean es a whistle an' 
 strong. — Say, I'll bet I c'd 'a' lifted two o' them 
 little whipper-snappers 'at comes buzzin' round 
 Milly, here, an' thro wed 'em clean over the barn. 
 Yes, sir! Yer Gran 'pa wa'n't no slouch of a 
 man." 
 
 But if the girl ventured ever so timidly to 
 touch upon later family history, with questions 
 concerning her father and mother — both of whom
 
 84 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 had died in her infancy — the old man would stamp 
 away, pretending not to hear, his wrinkled old face 
 drawn into folds and puckers of wrathful grief. 
 
 *'I wouldn't pester Gran 'pa no more, ef I was 
 you, honey," counseled her grandmother sooth- 
 ingly. " It makes him kind o' crabbity an' out-o'- 
 sorts t' hark back t' th' time when you was little. 
 Y'u see, honey, your mother was all the child we 
 had; so your gran 'pa nach'ally set a lot o' store 
 by her. An' our Milly — she — died when you was 
 born. That's why I wouldn't ask Gran 'pa no more 
 questions about them days, if I was you." 
 
 " Was my mother pretty, like me? " inquired 
 little Milly, innocently. 
 
 '' Did you ever hear th' like o' that! " com- 
 mented Mrs. Orne, rebukingly. " Who said you 
 was pretty, I'd like t' know? You don't want t' 
 pay no 'tention t' Gran 'pa, when he's gassin* 
 about your looks. . . . He can't see s' very well 
 without his specs; most anybody 'd look pretty t' 
 him. . . . ' Pretty is, as pretty doos ' — you 
 want t' remember that. . . . But — ^yes; you do 
 favour our Milly consid'able. She was a mite 
 taller, an' her hair was — some yellower 'n yours. 
 It come clear down t' her knees, a-curlin' all the 
 way. . . . My! I r 'member how I used t' comb 
 it fer her, out in the sun. . . . She liked it done 
 that way. — Her a-settin' in one o' th' kitchen 
 cheers under the apple tree, an' me a-coaxin' that 
 beautiful, soft, shinin' hair through a big comb
 
 THE OKNES 85 
 
 I'd bought a-purpose. Land! a fine-tooth comb, 
 sech es me an' Gran 'pa always used, couldn't get 
 down t' her head nohow. ..." 
 
 The old woman's faded eyes shone with sudden 
 tears. She wiped them stealthily on her gingham 
 apron. 
 
 *' Our Milly was light-complected, like you," 
 she added, softly, after a long pause. 
 
 " And my father," entreated little Milly. 
 *' Won't you tell me? — Was he — do I look 
 like " 
 
 ** We wa'n't neither of us willin' you should 
 bear his name," the old woman said, stiffly. " Me 
 an' Gran 'pa 'dopted you right after our Milly 
 died. . . . You was a poor little wailin' mite of 
 a thing. I never 'xpected t' raise you in them 
 days. . . . Now you run along, honey; an' mind, 
 you don't worry your Gran 'pa no more. Like 
 enough he'd git right up on his year, an' scold 
 real hard, ef you was t' try it." 
 
 So little Milly had weeded her flowers and wiped 
 the dishes for Grandma, and combed Grandpa's 
 thin grey hair with the fine-tooth comb of a Sun- 
 day afternoon, while he dozed peacefully in his 
 chair — all under the luminous cloud of romantic 
 mystery, which in truth was no mystery at all; 
 but only one of those melancholy commonplaces 
 people bury out of sight with their dead. The 
 short, woful story of the first Millicent Orne was 
 no secret to many ; — but few ever spoke of it, ex-
 
 86 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 cept by way of whispered comment on the fresh 
 young beauty of the girl who was growing into 
 blooming womanhood under the guardianship of 
 the two old people. 
 
 They hoped she wouldn't go the way of her 
 mother, and wondered, in discreet whispers, what 
 had become of the handsome young stranger who 
 had come to Innisfield one summer to recover the 
 health shattered by a long illness. He had gone 
 away in the autumn, and the following spring Mil- 
 licent Orne died. That was all. And even the 
 more censorious could see no reason why little 
 Milly should know. Grief and shame had left 
 their mark on the two old people. But they bore 
 the ever recurrent smart of the old wound with 
 patience. And sometimes — for thus benignantly 
 do the passing years soothe and ameliorate mortal 
 agonies — they almost forgot the green mound, 
 once a gaping grave, in the exquisite renaissance 
 of Milly. 
 
 Quite simply and openly Mrs. Orne cherished a 
 single ambition for her grand-daughter. 
 
 *' I want Milly should get married," she would 
 say to Grandfather, as the two watched the girl 
 flitting about among the flowers. '' I want she 
 should marry — young. It'll be a heap better for 
 her." 
 
 At this straightforward avowal on the part of 
 his wife Grandfather Orne would scowl and clear 
 his throat querulously.
 
 THE ORNES 87 
 
 " The' ain't no young fellow 'round these parts 
 good enough fer our Milly," he would declare, 
 obdurately. " I don't see why you talk the way 
 you do, Mother. Milly 's all right, jes 's she is, 
 a-livin' with us. I don' wan' t' part with her, 
 'n' I ain't a-goin' to, neither." 
 
 Maybe Grandpa was losing his memory, re- 
 flected Mrs. Orne, her faded eyes fixed on vacancy. 
 She guessed it would be a blessing if he did. . . . 
 
 None the less she began, when Milly was little 
 more than sixteen, to set cunningly baited traps 
 for the honest young farmers of the countryside. 
 Spicy cakes, shining twists of molasses taffy, or 
 big, fat crullers, suited to lusty young appetites, 
 and flanked by pitchers of raspberry " shrub " or 
 new cider were always forthcoming when ' ' Milly 
 had a beau." 
 
 " You can't never tell," Grandma would mur- 
 mur mysteriously, as she passed her grand-daugh- 
 ter's admirers in keen-eyed review through a 
 crack of the door. "I'm a-goin' t' keep m' eye 
 on 'em — an' on her! " 
 
 To Milly, uneasily conscious of the old lady's 
 espionage, she would say: 
 
 " You can't be too pertic'lar, honey, when it 
 comes t' dealin' with men-folks. The' ain't a 
 girl alive that rightly understan's 'em. But I'll 
 tell you one thing ' ' — lowering her voice and nod- 
 ding her wise old head — " don't you never let one 
 of 'em kiss you; ner s' much as lay a finger on
 
 88 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 you, till you're engaged t' be married, an' me an' 
 Gran 'pa 's gi'n our blessin'. Now you mind what 
 I say. — ^Yes, I know the's plenty of foolish girls as 
 '11 tell you different ; an' like 's not you think your 
 Gran 'ma's too old t' know what's what. But I 
 reckon men-folks 's 'bout the same 's they was 
 when I was young; in fact, styles ain't changed 
 much, es fur es they're concerned, since Bible 
 days. . . . 'Course I wouldn't want t' say any- 
 thin' 'gainst the Patriarchs; but I sh'd think 
 they'd reelly hate t' have accounts o' some o' their 
 doin's handed down f 'om generation to generation, 
 'n' nice women a-readin' of 'em in course; 'n' 
 hevin' t' skip chapters in Sunday-school, 'n' all. 
 But I want you sh'd git married, Milly, an' have a 
 good, honest husban' t' take keer of you, when me 
 an' Gran 'pa 's laid away." 
 
 But at this Milly would stop the old woman's 
 mouth with one of the kisses forbidden to men, 
 crying out that she didn't want any husband. 
 Why should she — when she was perfectly happy 
 as she was? 
 
 A sentiment loudly applauded by Grandfather, 
 but over which Mrs. Orne shook her head 
 dubiously. 
 
 " This ain't no kind of a world for a lone 
 woman," was her disparaging opinion. *' Not that 
 I think much o' men-folks; th' most of 'em 's a 
 pretty poor lot — f'om the Patriarchs, down." 
 
 *' All but me," Grandpa would crow, with a
 
 THE ORNES 89 
 
 prodigious wink at Milly. A proceeding which 
 invariably elicited a dignified reproof from 
 Grandma, to the effect that no reel gen '1 'man ever 
 opened and shut one eye that-a-way; and, say 
 what one would, a conceited, uppity man was 
 enough to make a body wish t' die single. 
 
 Milly Orne was eighteen when the daffodils 
 came into bloom, (Grandmother couldn't bear the 
 sight of a daffodil) and by that token she was 
 prettier than ever, as Mrs. Pettibone had ob- 
 served. Yet she was neither safely married, nor 
 even engaged, a fact which Mrs. Orne took sadly 
 to heart. 
 
 But when the old lady cited the warning 
 prophecy concerning '' w^oods " and *' crooked 
 sticks," with pungent comments of her own, the 
 girl put her pretty head on one side, her eyes scat- 
 tering blue sparkles of mirth. 
 
 '* They're all crooked sticks. Gran 'ma," she 
 laughed, '' and when I've come quite through the 
 wood I'll see a fairy prince, riding toward me, 
 and then " 
 
 *' For God's sake, don't say that, Milly! " cried 
 Mrs. Orne, shrilly. All the colour dropped out 
 of her old face, leaving it grey and twisted and 
 gaunt, like a dead tree in the wind. " Don't — 
 don't say it! I — I guess mebbe I ain't feelin' s* 
 well — this mornin'. Get me a swaller o' tea, 
 honey, 'n' — don't say nothin' t' Gran 'pa." 
 
 She still sat bowed over, shivering a little and
 
 90 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 murmuring to herself, when the girl brought her 
 the cup of hot tea she had hastened to prepare. 
 
 " You — didn't mean it, did you, honey? " she 
 asked, raising herself to peer into the girl's face. 
 
 '' Mean what? — What did I say to worry 
 you. Gran 'ma? " entreated Milly. " I didn't 
 mean " 
 
 " About the — the — you ain't met no strange 
 man lately; have you? — Somebody me an' 
 Gran 'pa don't know? I'm kind o' feared of — 
 strangers, honey." 
 
 The girl soothed her with tears and laughter 
 and denials, and presently, when the steady, 
 thump-thump-thump of the loom proclaimed the 
 old woman's restored equanimity, she stole away 
 on pretence of carrying flowers to the minister's 
 wife.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DOOR AJAR 
 
 MiLLY Orne had known Mrs. Pettibone for as- 
 many years as she could well remember. It was 
 *' Miss Philura," indeed, who had taught the girl 
 many a floral secret when Milly was a faithfully 
 visited member of that conscientious lady's Bible 
 Class. In her new estate the wife of the minister 
 appeared as if mysteriously translated to another 
 plane of existence. Milly gazed at her with re- 
 spectful admiration as she replied with brief sen- 
 tences to various gentle inquiries : 
 
 *' Yes 'm, thank you, Gran 'father's pretty well 
 — only his back. He won't let me dig all the gar- 
 den, and the loam's stiff and heavy in the spring. 
 Gran 'mother is making some carpet for Mrs. 
 Buckthorn. — Yes 'm, I've learned to weave; but 
 Mrs. Buckthorn's so particular, Gran 'ma 
 dassent let me weave her carpet. I can't make it 
 quite so even yet. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, sitting opposite her young 
 visitor in the cool light of the shaded parlour, 
 marvelled anew at the fresh loveliness of the girl's 
 face. 
 
 '' But you're a great help and comfort to the 
 old people, Milly," she said, encouragingly. 
 
 91
 
 92 THE HEART OF PHH^URA 
 
 * ' Mr. Pettibone and I were speaking of it only the 
 other day. ' ' 
 
 The girl leaned forward in her chair, her hands 
 gripping each other in her lap. 
 
 " It — it is that I wanted to ask you about," 
 she murmured, "I'm afraid I'm not — so very 
 much help. I — wondered if you could advise 
 me? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's mind reverted for a swift in- 
 stant to the tragedy of eighteen years back. She 
 hoped no one had told the child. 
 
 " You'll tell me all about it, won't you? " she 
 said, trembling a little under the weight of her 
 responsibilities. '' Then, if I can't advise you, 
 I'll ask Mr. Pettibone when he comes in." 
 
 She straightened herself rather proudly. 
 
 '' Mr. Pettibone," she repeated, " will be sure 
 to know." 
 
 The girl drew a deep breath. 
 
 *' I want to work," she said, abruptly. 
 
 " But you do, my dear, — all those lovely 
 flowers, and " 
 
 The girl made a disparaging gesture. 
 
 '' I want to earn money," she said. ** I 
 must! " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone looked distressed. 
 
 ** I do hope," she began, " you'll let me consult 
 Mr. Pettibone. The deacons' fund " 
 
 ** Oh, I don't mean we are cold or hungry," 
 cried the girl, with a proud upflinging of her
 
 THE DOOR AJAR 93 
 
 pretty head. " We're not in need of charity — 
 yet." 
 
 " My dear Milly," protested the minister's 
 wife, very pink and agitated, "■ I didn't " 
 
 " Won't you let me tell you? " the girl inter- 
 rupted. " Of course it isn't the same now as 
 when I was a little girl. I didn't think very much 
 then ; nor — nor notice how different I was to other 
 girls " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone gasped involuntarily. 
 
 *' Oh, I hope no one has been so thoughtless," 
 she murmured. " Go on, please." 
 
 Milly gazed at her in some perplexity. 
 
 ** Other girls had fathers and mothers," she 
 explained. " I had neither; and I didn't realise 
 that Gran 'father an' Gran 'mother would grow old 
 and feeble while I — before I was " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone nodded understandingly. 
 
 " You were always a good girl, Milly," she 
 said. " You've been a comfort to them, my dear, 
 indeed, you don't know how much. And — every- 
 thing will come right, if you '11 only be patient and 
 — trust. Perhaps you think I'm saying this just 
 because I'm the minister's wife. — You do think 
 so; don't you? " 
 
 " No'm, I don't," the girl said, politely. *' An' 
 I've tried — I do try. But Gran 'father can't 
 work so hard much longer. Yesterday when he 
 was planting the garden his hands trembled so the 
 seeds spilled all over the ground. He didn't want
 
 94 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 me to see, and I pretended not to. And the roof 
 leaks so the rain comes right down through the 
 kitchen ceiling. Gran 'pa's fixed it the best he 
 could; but nearly all the shingles are rotten. It'll 
 be a lot worse b' next winter." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was instant with breathless ex- 
 pressions of sympathy and hope. One shouldn't 
 ever expect misfortune, she reminded herself and 
 Milly; but only the good, which was everywhere, 
 ready to become one 's very own, if one would only 
 take it. 
 
 *' But not a roof? " inquired Milly, doubtfully, 
 *' and new flannels for Gran 'mother, and " 
 
 *' Everything! " afifirmed Mrs. Pettibone, 
 stoutly. 
 
 Her blue eyes became rather wistful, as she re- 
 peated *' Everything! " in a voice so low Milly 
 could scarcely hear it. 
 
 *' It must be nice to think so," sighed the girl, 
 unbelievingly. 
 
 She had been playing with her handkerchief, 
 rolling it into a tight ball at which she gazed 
 nnseeingly. 
 
 " I wanted to work in the mills last winter," 
 she said at last; ^' but they wouldn't let me." 
 
 " I don't wonder," Mrs. Pettibone said, 
 warmly. *' That would never do! " 
 
 " I don't see why I shouldn't work in the 
 mills," persisted Milly. *' I ought to work — to
 
 THE DOOR AJAR 95 
 
 take care of them. What will become of them if I 
 don't? " 
 
 She gazed at the minister's wife from under 
 puckered brows. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, thinking of that other Millicent 
 Orne, was silent, striving to share the girl's per- 
 plexities from the vantage ground of her sadder 
 knowledge. 
 
 Presently Milly spoke again. 
 
 '' I — I'd like to tell you something else," she 
 said, her lashes lowered upon pink cheeks. " If 
 you — if you won't think me silly? " 
 
 '' No, indeed, my dear," promised Mrs. Petti- 
 bone, surreptitiously whisking a tear from her 
 lashes. 
 
 *' Gran 'mother wants me to — to be married," 
 Milly confessed hurriedly. ^' She — talks to me 
 about it. But — but. Miss Philura, how can I be 
 married, when — I don't love anyone? " 
 
 '' You can't, of course — certainly not," mur- 
 mured the minister's wife, aware of Mrs. Orne's 
 ambitions for her grand-daughter, as well as the 
 pitiful reason for them. '' But, perhaps — some- 
 time One doesn't always know of all the 
 
 beautiful things in store " 
 
 The misused handkerchif was being swiftly 
 rolled into a slim white rod under the girl 's busy 
 fingers. Mrs. Pettibone watched them absently. 
 
 '* That's what I said to Gran 'mother this.
 
 96 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 morning," said Milly. '' She was telling me I'd 
 go through the woods and pick up a crooked stick 
 at last." 
 
 ■Mrs. Pettibone made a slight gesture of impa- 
 tient dissent. 
 
 '' But I can't help it," the girl went on. ** I 
 couldn't marry — just to be married, and I've 
 
 never seen anyone — around here Perhaps, as 
 
 you say, someone will come, some day, — somebody 
 I haven't always known. . . ." 
 
 Her eyes, suddenly lifted from their trivial task, 
 surprised a look of poignant distress on the older 
 woman's face. 
 
 *' Oh, you do think me silly! " she cried, with 
 sudden sharp resentment. " You are looking at 
 me just as Gran 'ma does when I — ■ — " 
 
 *' No, no, my dear. You are quite mistaken," 
 Mrs. Pettibone denied, hurriedly. '' And — that 
 reminds me of something I had forgotten: I 
 wonder if you chance to know anything about the 
 family who have taken the old Eggleston place 
 for the summer? " 
 
 Milly shook her head dejectedly. She was 
 thinking she must go ; and that, after all, her visit 
 to the parsonage had been useless. 
 
 " Only this morning," Mrs. Pettibone said, 
 with some eagerness, ^' I received a note from 
 Mrs. Hill. I was very much surprised; but Mr. 
 Pettibone says it was because we called on them. 
 . . . We had just come from the farm the day
 
 THE DOOE AJAR 97 
 
 we stopped at your house and you gave me the 
 daffodils. You remember? " 
 
 Milly was drawing on her cotton gloves. She 
 wished she had not come. 
 
 *' They seemed like nice people — the Hills, I 
 mean — but — different, somehow — not used, per- 
 haps, to doing their own housework. Young Mrs. 
 Hill is hardly more than a child, and not — I 
 imagine she may find it rather lonely up there. 
 . . . They want someone to help in the house, 
 and Mrs. Hill mentioned thirty dollars a month." 
 
 The girl drew a sudden breath. 
 
 *' Do you mean that I — are you thinking " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone wrinkled her forehead per- 
 plexedly. 
 
 '' It just occurred to me that possibly — ^Yet I'm 
 not sure that it would do. Really, I ought to have 
 consulted Mr. Pettibone before speaking of it to 
 you." 
 
 ** I could earn over a hundred dollars before 
 fall," cried Milly, her face shining with joy. 
 
 " But you would be a — servant in their house. 
 I'm afraid they're the sort of people who would 
 think of you in just that way; besides " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was vaguely uneasy, as she re- 
 called the older Mrs. Hill's opaque eyes. 
 
 '* I fear your grandmother would object," she 
 finished. '' There would be hard work to do, 
 and " 
 
 Milly Ome lifted her blond head proudly.
 
 98 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 ''I'm not afraid of work," she said, '' nor of 
 what they might think of me." 
 
 In the end, she went away carrying one of Mrs. 
 Pettibone's small sheets of note-paper, folded into 
 a neat triangle, after a fashion obtaining in Mrs. 
 Pettibone's girlhood for correspondence of a 
 polite but informal nature, and directed to Mrs. 
 Hill. 
 
 ''I'm afraid I oughtn't to have done it, without 
 consulting you," Mrs. Pettibone told the minister 
 at supper that night. " But poor Milly was so 
 eager, and the opportunity was an unusual one." 
 
 " Milly is quite right in wanting to put her 
 young shoulder to the wheel," pronounced Mr. 
 Pettibone, whose nerves had been calmed by a 
 long afternoon spent in the open. 
 
 " But we know so little about the Hills," ob- 
 jected his wife, timorously. 
 
 " We know nothing amiss," he reminded her. 
 " Really, my dear, for a person who professes to 
 believe that Good is All and All-Encircling, 
 you ' ' 
 
 ' ' I know — I know, ' ' she acknowledged, humbly. 
 "I'm always forgetting. One gets so in the habit 
 of suspecting and — and being afraid — more for 
 other people than for oneself." 
 
 The minister smiled, understandingly. 
 
 " Nevertheless, one shouldn't hang mill-stones 
 of fear about other people's necks," he com- 
 mented. 
 
 I
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 A NIGHT OF RAIN AND THE MORNING AFTER 
 
 As for Milly Orne, she had fairly flown homeward 
 on the wings of hope and ambition. Already she 
 beheld in imagination a new roof of shining yel- 
 low shingles replacing the moss-green expanse so 
 deceitfully picturesque under its sheltering apple- 
 boughs. But there was Grandmother Orne to 
 be reckoned with. 
 
 " Work out? " cried the old woman, dropping 
 her dish-cloth and staring at the girl over her 
 spectacles. " That's what it amounts to, in spite 
 of all your pretty words, Milly. No; I ain't 
 a-goin' t' allow it. We've got along all these 
 years, an' took care of you b 'sides; an' I guess 
 we c'n contrive 's long 's the Lord spares us." 
 
 ^' Please, Gran 'mother," entreated the girl, 
 *' don't say no till we've been to see Mrs. Hill. It 
 wouldn 't be like working out in the village, and I 
 could earn " 
 
 ''I'd work my fingers t' the bone," the old 
 woman declared, " before I'd see my Milly 's child 
 a-workin' in another woman's kitchen! " 
 
 But when Grandfather came in from the barn 
 his weather-beaten old face was drawn into 
 myriad folds and puckers of distress. He had 
 
 99
 
 100 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 found the dun cow lying dead in the corner of the 
 pasture, her tongue protruding from her mouth. 
 
 ^' She must 'a' et somethin','' the old man sur- 
 mised, heavily, " though I don't know what in 
 creation 'twas. She was all right this mornin', 
 fur's I c'd see; but she's dead now." 
 
 He sat down by the stove, though it was a warm 
 evening, and spread his shrivelled hands over the 
 griddles. 
 
 '' Yes; she's dead, all right," he repeated, in a 
 mumbling monotone, "an' she was the best 
 milker o' the two. Th' red heifer, she's a-gittin* 
 old. ... I dunno — I dunno. ..." 
 
 Mrs. Orne had wrapped her head in her 
 checkered apron at the first word and hobbled out 
 to the orchard, where the red cow, peacefully ob- 
 livious of the tragedy, was chewing her cud under 
 the budding apple-trees. She came in presently, 
 her glasses pushed high above her forehead, a 
 little angry spot of colour on either cheek. 
 
 '' 'Twas them russet apples, Gran 'pa," she 
 said, shrilly. " I tol' you not t' give 'em t' the 
 cows. She got one stuck in her throat an' choked 
 t' death. Plain es a pike-staff! " 
 
 *' Them russets wa'n't no good," the old man 
 objected, feebly. " I sez t' you " 
 
 '^ Yes; I know you did, Gran 'pa, an' I tol* 
 you " 
 
 *' Now, wife, you let me speak fer once, can't 
 ye? " The old voice rose tremulous but deter-
 
 A NIGHT OF EAIN 101 
 
 mined. ** I sez t' you, * Mother,' I sez, ' the cows 
 '11 relish these 'ere apples,' I sez, ' an' they ain't 
 no good fer cookin' any more,' an' you " 
 
 " I gin in t' you, es us'al," the woman said, 
 bitterly. '* Once you git an idee in yer head the' 
 can't nobody on airth " 
 
 '* Please, Gran 'mother," interrupted Milly, 
 winding her young arms about the old woman's 
 neck, " don't scold poor Gran 'pa. He only 
 wanted to give the cows a little treat." 
 
 *' But I told him they was likely to choke on 
 them apples. Ef he'd a-took the pains t' cut 'em 
 in two " 
 
 *' You might 'a' done that fur me, ef you was 
 s' blamed smart an' knowin'," put in Grand- 
 father, bitter in his turn, *' I was tryin' m' best 
 t' git the beets an' peas int' the ground afore it 
 rained. Lord! I dunno what we're goin' t' do 
 'thout that cow. She was th' best milker o' th' 
 two; the red heifer's gittin' old. . . . Gittin' 
 old. Tha's what's the matter with all of us, I 
 guess — gittin' old an' foolish." 
 
 ** I'm not getting old, Gran 'father," cried little 
 Milly, her pink cheek pressed softly against 
 his withered one. " And I'll not allow you to 
 say you're foolish. You're the wisest man I 
 know." 
 
 *• Think so, honey? " 
 
 He shook his head, despondently.
 
 102 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 *' Nope, I ain't. I ain't never really held up 
 my head since your mother died. I'd ought t' 'a* 
 suspicioned that young feller " 
 
 " Gran 'pa! " 
 
 Mrs. Orne's voice was sharp with fear. 
 
 '^ Yes, Mother; tha's so. I f ergot. But I ain't 
 a-goin' t' say no more." 
 
 He lay down presently on the old lounge and 
 Milly covered him warmly with the crazy-quilt 
 she had pieced the winter before. 
 
 ^' I guess he'll feel better when he wakes up," 
 the girl said, as she tucked the gay covering ten- 
 derly about the bent shoulders. 
 
 Her lips were set in firm, sweet curves as she 
 hurried the remaining dishes to the pantry shelf 
 and made all tidy for the night. Mrs. Orne did 
 not appear to notice the girl's movements. She 
 had dropped into a chair by the window, her 
 withered lips moving soundlessly, her faded eyes 
 fixed on vacancy. More and more often of late 
 Milly had come upon her thus. To-night, some- 
 thing in the aspect of the dim, little room — the 
 old man, already stertorously asleep, and the 
 grandmother's white head, silhouetted against 
 the sombre reds and purples of sunset — stirred, 
 poignant — intolerable, in the young girl's breast. 
 It was as though for once she saw them through 
 other eyes — other, but not alien. ... A great 
 aching tenderness possessed her. She fell upon 
 her knees at her grandmother's side.
 
 A NIGHT OF EAIN 103 
 
 ' ' You will let me help ! ' ' she cried, in a passion 
 of self -giving. ' ' You must let me help ! ' ' 
 
 The day following that night of sorrowful 
 revelation, marked the vernal moment when the 
 chill conjecture of Spring gives place to the shin- 
 ing certainty of Summer. A warm rain had fallen 
 during the dark hours before dawn, and the first 
 faint beams of morning shone upon a world mar- 
 vellously transfigured: gnarled apple-boughs, 
 where only the day before crisp, pinkish buds had 
 shone dimly among the small pale leaves, flung 
 scented garlands of lavish bloom to the wind, and 
 amid the fresh green of the young grass dark vio- 
 lets and purple-pink wild geraniums unfolded 
 myriad blossoms to the light. 
 
 For the first time in her young life Milly Orne 
 had lain long awake in her little chamber under 
 the roof. How could she have been so blind — so 
 selfish all these years, she asked herself. How 
 they had worked and sacrificed for her — Grand- 
 mother toiling late into the night at her loom, that 
 Milly might wear a new dress to the country 
 dance; Grandfather carrying milk to his cus- 
 tomers on cold mornings in winter and laughing 
 at Milly 's offers of help. " No, no," he would 
 say, " this ain't no kind o' work fer a little gal 
 like you. You stay home with yer Gran 'ma an' 
 keep warm b' th' stove." 
 
 Once, she remembered. Grandfather had been 
 stiff with rheumatism for a week and Grand-
 
 104 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 mother had insisted upon taking the milk. " Me 
 an' Gran 'pa don't want you should peddle milk," 
 the old woman had protested. '' We ain't a-goin' 
 t' allow it, neither. You stay home an' wait on 
 yer Gran 'pa." 
 
 It had been the same with all the heavier tasks 
 about the house and garden. Grandmother never 
 allowed Milly to wash the clothes of a Monday. 
 She might pin them to the line if she must do 
 something, '' But the' ain't no sense," said 
 Grandmother, briskly, " in your spilin' your 
 pretty han's when mine's all wrinkled an' out o' 
 shape, anyhow." Likewise and for similar rea- 
 sons, she had been forbidden to milk, to scrub the 
 floors, to dig the vegetables. 
 
 It was all clear to Milly now. As she lay wide- 
 eyed in the darkness, listening to the soft patter 
 of the rain above her head, she beheld herself, 
 always shielded, indulged, idolized by the two old 
 people, growing strong and beautiful, while year 
 by year their bent shoulders stooped lower be- 
 neath the burden. . . . Then her quickened 
 thoughts hovered about Grandfather, crouched 
 over the fire, his distorted old hands with their 
 blackened and broken nails shaking a little, as he 
 described the disaster wliich had befallen the dun 
 cow. '' I ain't held up my head since your mother 
 died," he had said, and — '^ 1 ought to ha' sus- 
 picioned that young feller " 
 
 Did he mean her father? . . .
 
 A NIGHT OF RAIN 105 
 
 Once, when she was a small child, Grandmother 
 had taken her to the churchyard, where in a dis- 
 tant corner, sheltered from unfriendly winds and 
 prying eyes by a row of thrifty young pines, was 
 a solitary grave. At its head a simple white stone 
 bore the name " Milly," with the dates of birth 
 and death. Milly remembered how she had chased 
 a butterfly in the sun, while Grandmother cleared 
 the encroaching lichens from the stone and made 
 the narrow mound bright with pansies fetched 
 from the garden at home. She had captured the 
 butterfly at last with a shout of triumph, bringing 
 it all spoiled and broken to Grandmother. . . . 
 Never had she forgotten the look on the grief- 
 stained old face. " That's just what happened 
 to her," Grandmother said, in a voice not her 
 own. Then, with sudden harshness: — '* Go away, 
 child; you've got his look in your eyes." . . . 
 
 All this, while the sound of the rain on the roof 
 deepened to a steady roar. Then, somehow, the 
 churchyard with its gleaming stones, and the 
 wind in the pines and the gravely bright faces of 
 the pansies, set in prim rows on the narrow 
 mound, became confused; Grandmother's voice 
 came to her from a great way off — not harsh now, 
 but cadenced with patient grief — " You've got 
 his look in your eyes, child — his look in your 
 eyes." . . . 
 
 It was broad daylight when Milly awoke, and 
 already the bees were busy among the apple-
 
 106 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 blossoms under her window. As the girl hurriedly 
 made her simple toilet she heard sounds from be- 
 low; the clash of stove-lids and the click of cups 
 and saucers. 
 
 ''I'm so ashamed, Gran 'ma! " was her greet- 
 ing, as she surprised the old woman in the act of 
 cutting thick slices from a brown loaf. " Why 
 didn't you call me? " 
 
 " 'Cause I'd ruther you'd sleep," replied 
 Grandmother, defiantly. '' The' ain't no call fer 
 you 't be up at five in the mornin', as I know of." 
 
 She set the thick slices in order on a blue-edged 
 plate. 
 
 '' They've took the cow away a 'ready," she 
 added. '' Gran 'pa, he seen t' it first thing. We'll 
 git a good bit fer the hide and taller, 'n' I guess 
 th' ain't no call fer anybody to worry. I c'n stan' 
 it 'ithout s' much milk t' look after, fur 's I'm 
 concerned." 
 
 Milly said nothing, but after she had cleared 
 away the breakfast things and made everything 
 tidy about the little house she pinned a hat of 
 blue straw over her blond braids, and crossed tlie 
 room to where her Grandmother already sat at 
 the loom, busy '' tying on." 
 
 '' I'm — going. Gran 'ma," she said, trying hard 
 to keep a quiver out of her voice. 
 
 The old woman glanced up sharply from her 
 task. 
 
 " Going! " she echoed. " Going where? This
 
 A NIGHT OF RAIN 107 
 
 ain't no time o' day t' gad; it's too early fer the 
 mail. 'Sides, Gran 'pa " 
 
 ''I'm going," said Milly, firmly, " to see Mrs. 
 Hill. If she will hire me at thirty dollars a month 
 I can " 
 
 She had expected sharp expostulation, even de- 
 nial ; but to her surprise the old woman burst into 
 a loud cackle of laughter. 
 
 '' Set down," she ordered, "an' git busy 
 pickin' out all the blue in that there basket." 
 
 " But, Gran 'mother," expostulated the girl, 
 glancing at the small nickel clock which shamed 
 with its noisy activities the silent, dignified old 
 timepiece in the corner. " It's late. I'm afraid 
 she'll find somebody else " 
 
 ''Let her," quoth Mrs. Orne. " You set down,, 
 deary, an' le' me talk t' you a spell. You got 
 money in the bank, an' never knowed it all these 
 years." 
 
 " I Money in the bank? " 
 
 Milly gazed incredulously at the old face, hard 
 twisted in a look of strangely blended pain and 
 triumph. 
 
 " Uh-huh," the old woman nodded. " It's been, 
 there since b'fore you was born, in — in your name, 
 too. Me an' Gran 'pa 'd never touch it. But it's 
 yours, honey. You don't hev t' work in nobody's, 
 kitchen." 
 
 " But — but how did I come to have any 
 money? "
 
 108 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Milly was industriously sorting the blue rags 
 from the mass of heterogeneous material in the 
 basket. She pulled out a long strip of figured cot- 
 ton stuif and began to wind it upon the ball in her 
 lap. 
 
 '^ Don't put in that striped gingham! " snapped 
 Mrs. Orne. " That goes in th' other basket; don't 
 you see? I dunno 's it makes any differ 'nee t' 
 you where the money come from, s' long 's it's 
 yourn. ' ' 
 
 ^' Is there enough for Gran 'father to buy an- 
 other cow with, and — and fix the roof? " 
 
 Mrs. Orne snipped off a bit of warp with a loud 
 clash of her big shears. 
 
 ** Redic'lous," she exclaimed, sharply. " 'Tain't 
 ourn t' use." 
 
 *' If it's mine " began Milly. 
 
 ''It's yourn, jus' 's I said," Mrs. Orne pro- 
 nounced, in a hard voice; '' but you can't spend it 
 
 the way you said. It — it's fur . . . Lord! 
 
 I wisht you'd go out an' work in yer posies. The 
 flowers-de-luce is all in blow this mornin'. Run 
 out an' see 'em, honey. I got t' git these 'ere 
 
 breadths out th' loom b' this aft 'noon. G' on; 
 
 you hender me! " 
 
 Milly had put her arms about the old woman's 
 neck from behind. 
 
 '' I won't go a step," she said, firmly, 
 *' till you tell me. How much money have I 
 got? "
 
 A NIGHT OF KAIN 109 
 
 *' I knew you'd pester the life out o' me," 
 scolded her grandmother. "I toP Gran 'pa so. 
 But he was set. ^ Ef she's bound on goin' out t' 
 work,' he sez " 
 
 "You told Gran 'father? " 
 
 Mrs. Orne nodded. Then she turned suddenly 
 and faced the girl. 
 
 " ' We don't know nothin' 'bout them Hill 
 folks," she said, shrilly. " An' why in creation 
 should you go off an' leave me and Gran 'pa, fer a 
 fool notion ? I '11 give Mis ' Pettibone a piece o ' my 
 mind nex' time I see her. She ain't got no call 
 t' " 
 
 '' I asked her," interrupted Milly. ^' I must 
 do something to help. Can't you see. Gran 'ma, 
 I — I — can't live here and do nothing. You say I 
 have money. If you " 
 
 '' No — no! " cried Mrs. Orne. She threw her 
 apron over her head with the tragic gesture of the 
 countryside. Milly listened to her sobbing in 
 perplexed silence. 
 
 Presently Mrs, Orne lowered the apron from 
 her face, and it was seen that within its familiar 
 sanctum she had regained something of her lost 
 composure. 
 
 '' Losin' th' cow an' all kind o' upset me," she 
 muttered. Then, with sudden sharpness, '' We 
 don't want you sh'd use that money for us. We'd 
 a-gin it back long ago, if we'd knowed where it 
 come f'om. . . . But it ain't as if you didn't
 
 110 THE HEART OF PHH^URA 
 
 have nothin'. An' I guess, when it comes t' that, 
 yon've got the right " 
 
 '* Did — my father give me the money! " asked 
 ■Milly in a clear, distinct voice. 
 
 Her blue eyes, narrowed slightly, gazed straight 
 at her grandmother. 
 
 *' I think I'm old enough to know," she added, 
 slowly. 
 
 Mrs. Orne stared at the girl, her mouth drop- 
 ping open a little. 
 
 " I never thought you favoured him," she 
 said, under her breath, — '' you're like our Milly. 
 But — the' 's times when you put me in mind " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. 
 
 ''I'm a-goin' t' tell you," she went on, after a 
 lengthening pause. " It was your father. He 
 sent two hundred dollars t' — t' Milly, with a let- 
 ter. 'N' after she died, it — 'course 'twas yourn 
 by rights. Me 'n' Gran 'pa wouldn't a-touched a 
 penny of it — not ef we was starvin'. It's been in 
 the bank ever since, drawin' interest. . . ." 
 
 Milly 's fair young face had grown very pale. 
 She walked toward the door, her head with its 
 mass of blond braids, topped by the small blue 
 hat, thrown slightly back. 
 
 "I'm going, now," she said, gently. " But I'll 
 be home before dark."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY IN THE WORLD 
 
 The road leading to the Eggleston farm might — 
 for the sheer wild loveliness of it — have conducted 
 one straight to Paradise. But Milly, walking 
 swiftly between myriads of fluttering leaves and 
 blossoms, jewelled thick with the lavish splen- 
 dours of rain and sun, paid scant heed to its 
 beauty. She was painfully conscious of old Mrs. 
 Orne, sitting alone before the loom; its steady 
 thump-thumping marking the heavy rhythm of her 
 thoughts. And the money — of which she had 
 never been told, and which had been drawing in- 
 terest all these years. — Wliy should the mere 
 memory of it kindle so strange a fire in those mild 
 eyes? Athwart the crystal pool of Milly 's mind 
 an ominous shadow had fallen. But she had not 
 sufficient knowledge of the world, of either books 
 or men, to guess the truth. Something strange 
 had befallen her father and mother — this much 
 was clear. Had he deserted her in her hour of 
 need, sending the money in lieu of his presence? 
 Such cruelty was unthinkable. Yet her grand- 
 mother's words had clearly implied it. And after- 
 ward — what could have become of him ? She had 
 always supposed herself orphaned of both father 
 
 111
 
 112 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 and mother. And yet — now that she considered 
 the matter — Grandmother had never said so. The 
 thought of a father, cold and unloving, perhaps 
 not even aware of her existence, dimmed the warm 
 rose of her cheek, and her blue eyes — lifted sud- 
 denly at the sound of a horse's hoofs in the road 
 behind her — were full of vague trouble. 
 
 The horse, a bright bay, sidled by with a wild 
 glance at the girl's slim blue figure, in its little 
 fluttering cape. His rider spoke to him sharply, 
 touching spurred heels to the animal's glossy 
 flank. They had passed in an instant — the man 
 hastily touching his cap with a muttered word of 
 apology. Milly watched the two figures — man and 
 horse seeming like one — as they topped the rise 
 just ahead. She did not remember to have seen 
 either before. In the flashing moment of their en- 
 counter she had noticed his keen, dark eyes and 
 his riding clothes, of a fashion unfamiliar to the 
 country roads about Innisfield. The single look 
 he had cast in her direction appeared to question 
 her presence on the narrow road leading to the 
 Eggleston farm. 
 
 Yet, such are the intricacies of the human heart, 
 Milly Orne ceased to think further of her myste- 
 rious father, who had somehow managed to earn 
 Grandmother's undying hatred, and of the money, 
 which nobody wanted, drawing interest in the 
 Innisfield Savings Bank, It should continue to 
 draw interest, for all of her, thought Milly,
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY 113 
 
 with a spirited toss of her pretty head. If 
 none of it could be spent to bring comfort 
 to the two old people, it was useless to her. 
 She was strong and could earn money, which 
 she would spend as she liked. Once more 
 Milly beheld in imagination the rows upon rows 
 of yellow shingles, shining in the sun; and this 
 time she added a dun cow to her picture — a young 
 and beautiful dun cow, peacefully chewing the 
 safe cud of contentment in Grandfather's pas- 
 ture. 
 
 There were fresh hoof-prints in the moist gravel 
 of the drive winding between the stately gate- 
 posts of the old Eggleston place. As Milly 
 rounded a curve in the road densely masked with 
 flowering shrubs she beheld the bay horse, stand- 
 ing meekly enough with trailing bridle before the 
 side entrance of the house. The young man who 
 had ridden him was talking with a woman under 
 the shelter of the portico. Neither of them ap- 
 peared to notice Milly 's timid approach. She 
 paused and drew back a little at sight of the man's 
 passionate gesture of denial. He was evidently 
 angry at something the woman was saying in an 
 indistinguishable voice. 
 
 ** I'll do nothing of the sort! " Milly heard him 
 say loudly. * ' I '11 be hanged if I will ! You push 
 a fellow too hard, Mother." 
 
 Then both turned, suddenly conscious of the 
 girl's shrinking presence.
 
 114 THE HEART OF PHH^URA 
 
 ** What are you doing here? " the woman said, 
 sharply. 
 
 The young man had already flung himself upon 
 the horse and ridden violently away. Everything 
 about him seemed violent, Milly thought. The 
 woman repeated her question in a more conven- 
 tional tone. 
 
 ''What do you wish? " 
 
 Her cold, imperturbable eyes were busy with 
 the girl 's face and figure. 
 
 " I came — to see Mrs. Hill," Milly replied, 
 timidly. '' Mrs. Pettibone — I have a note from 
 her." 
 
 " I am Mrs. Hill," the woman said, and ex- 
 tended her hand for the triangular message bear- 
 ing her name. 
 
 ' ' Have you read this ? ' ' she demanded, raising 
 her eyes from its swift perusal. 
 
 '^ Read it? " echoed Milly, her colour rising. 
 ^' No'm; certainly not." 
 
 '' It seems from this you are not an ordinary 
 servant," commented Mrs. Hill, sweeping the 
 girl's slim figure with an appraising stare. " I 
 don't know whether you'll do. I should prefer an 
 
 elderly woman — with experience. Still. Can 
 
 you cook? " 
 
 *' I've never cooked except at home," hesitated 
 Milly, very pink and trembling under the scrutiny 
 of the woman's eyes; " perhaps I oughtn't to say 
 I can. I know how to prepare vegetables, and
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY 115 
 
 cook them ; and — and meat. I can make pies, too ; 
 — Gran 'father likes my pies better than Gran'- 
 mother 's. I — I am strong, and — I can make plain 
 cake, molasses cake and " 
 
 *' You look healthy," the woman conceded, 
 harshly. 
 
 She sighed heavily, yet with a touch of impa- 
 tience. 
 
 ** If you'd try me — just to-day," the girl went 
 on, timidly. " I should like to go home nights." 
 
 *' Where do you live? " 
 
 Milly pointed vaguely. 
 
 " It's not far," she said, *' down the road 
 a piece." 
 
 '' In the village? " 
 
 ' * No 'm ; Gran 'father 's house is quite a ways 
 this side of the village." 
 
 Mrs. Hill considered the girl's reply in a silence 
 which appeared to connect itself with Mrs. Petti- 
 bone 's modest communication. Milly watched the 
 strong white fingers tear the paper into strips, 
 then twice across, in a bewilderment which pres- 
 ently deepened into resentment. Grandmother 
 (she thought) would not like her to stand here 
 begging for work, when, after all, there was 
 money, which belonged to her by right. . . . 
 
 *' I think I'll try you," Mrs. Hill announced, 
 looking up suddenly from her work of demolition. 
 
 She allowed the bits of paper to escape negli- 
 gently from her plump white hands.
 
 116 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 '* You may come in — I see you're dressed for 
 work. ' ' 
 
 " Yes'm," said Milly Orne, meekly. 
 
 '' I've never been without a servant before," 
 •Mrs. Hill observed, as she piloted Milly into a 
 large disorderly kitchen. 
 
 She turned and faced the girl before a table 
 covered with soiled dishes. 
 
 " Perhaps Mrs. Pettibone has already told you 
 of us," she said, interrogatively. 
 
 Her eyes demanded instant reply. 
 
 Milly shook her head. 
 
 *' She said you were — that you had only lived 
 here a little while." 
 
 " We came here for my daughter's — for Mrs. 
 Walter Hill's health," the woman said, slowly. 
 *' — Kindly pay attention to what I tell you. — I 
 shall not repeat it — nor must you. Do you under- 
 stand f You are not to talk to anyone of what you 
 see or hear in my house, while you are employed 
 here." 
 
 She paused, her eyes under gathered brows gaz- 
 ing opaquely at the girl. 
 
 '' Of course I shouldn't think of " began 
 
 Milly, proudly. 
 
 Mrs. Hill cut her short with an impatient ges- 
 ture. 
 
 '^ Not that there is anything in the least pe- 
 culiar, or even interesting in our living here. My 
 daughter-in-law, soon after her marriage to my
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY 117 
 
 son, fell into a nervous, almost hysterical condi- 
 tion. Our physician advised country air and a 
 complete change of climate and environment. 
 Through my agent I learned of this place, and 
 took it for a year. There are only the three of 
 us — my son, his wife and myself. Now I think 
 you know all that is necessary to know." 
 
 The flow of words, spoken in a low, hurried 
 voice, suddenly ceased. But the woman still 
 stood, one plump hand resting on the table, her 
 eyes riveted upon the girl's listening face. 
 
 '' Perhaps," she resumed, suddenly, " I ought 
 to reassure you on one point : my son's wife, while 
 exceedingly nervous and unstrung, is perfectly ra- 
 tional except on one or two points. She had a — 
 a strange fancy concerning her husband, which — 
 our physician assures us — will disappear in due 
 time. Her mental condition, in short, is not 
 wholly unnatural in view of the facts in the case. 
 I am telling you this, so that in case Sylvia — Mrs. 
 
 Hill — should say anything to you If she 
 
 should even attempt to talk to you, kindly report 
 the circumstance at once to me. Your failure to 
 do so might involve us all in great trouble. Do 
 you understand? " 
 
 Milly was looking down, feeling very hot and 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 " I — should not talk to anyone," she said, 
 coldly. *' I wish to earn money; that is why I 
 came. I should do my work."
 
 118 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 ** Oh, as to wages," Mrs. Hill observed, after a 
 slight pause. " You would hardly expect more 
 than twenty dollars'? " 
 
 Milly gazed at the woman with slightly nar- 
 rowed eyes. 
 
 '' Mrs. Pettibone told me you would pay 
 thirty," she said, slowly. 
 
 "I mentioned thirty dollars in my note to Mrs. 
 Pettibone, ' ' conceded Mrs. Hill. ' ' An experienced 
 servant would be worth that much. You are 
 merely an untrained girl. It is not at all likely 
 you can cook anything we could eat, to say nothing 
 of waiting on table, or fine laundry work. I shall 
 have to show you everything. ' ' 
 
 These were incontrovertible facts. Milly turned 
 them over slowly in her mind. Then she put for- 
 ward a fact quite as incontrovertible. 
 
 '' There are no experienced servants in Innis- 
 field," she asserted. '' You will not find any. 
 Nearly everyone is busy at home, or in the 
 mills." 
 
 She looked toward the door which stood open, 
 revealing a stretch of unshorn grass and a weedy 
 flower-border beyond. She was thinking she 
 would go home, and beg Grandmother to let her 
 work in the mills. Perhaps, now that the cow was 
 dead, Grandmother would give her consent. 
 
 ** Well; I will give you thirty dollars," Mrs. 
 Hill said, sharply. ''I'm obliged to have someone, 
 at once. Take off your hat and go to work. This
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY 119 
 
 kitchen must be put to rights, first. We have 
 luncheon at one, and dinner " 
 
 She broke off suddenly at sound of an open- 
 ing door. Milly saw her face change queerly. 
 When she spoke again, her voice was soft and 
 purring. 
 
 *' Sylvia, my dear; this is our new maid. — By 
 the way, what is your name? Oh, Milly — Milly 
 Orne. That is a very pretty name and odd, for a 
 maid. Milly, this is Mrs. Walter Hill, my son's 
 wife. I believe you saw Mr. Hill ; he was talking 
 with me when you came. Really, your sudden ap- 
 pearance quite startled me. I wasn't expecting 
 such good fortune." 
 
 Milly turned and saw a tall girl standing in the 
 door-way, staring at her with a mixture of curios- 
 ity and sullen defiance in her dark face. Her eyes 
 were slightly swollen and discoloured, as if with 
 recent tears, and her mouth drooped dispiritedly 
 at the corners. Mrs. Hill walked resolutely 
 toward the door and attempted to pass her arm 
 about the girl's waist. 
 
 '' Come, Sylvia, my dear," she said, coaxingly, 
 '' suppose we leave Milly to her work and go for 
 a ramble in the woods. It will do you good," 
 
 The girl 's mutinous face quivered as she threw 
 off the caressing hand. 
 
 ^' Don't, Mother! " she exclaimed, irritably; 
 *' you know I can't bear it." 
 
 But she turned to follow with seeming docility.
 
 120 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Milly heard the door close behind the two women 
 and the sound of their retreating steps in the un- 
 carpeted passage. 
 
 Left quite alone in the midst of the untidy 
 kitchen, Milly looked around for a nail on which 
 to hang her hat ; then she invested her slim person 
 in the clean checkered apron she had brought with 
 her. The fire had gone out in the cook-stove and 
 the water in the old-fashioned reservoir was cold, 
 there was neither wood nor kindling to be found 
 in the box behind the stove. After a moment of 
 indecision, Milly opened one of several doors in 
 search of the woodshed. There were steps de- 
 scending to a brick-floored room, its one cob- 
 webbed window opening upon the green gloom of 
 a grassy bank overgrown with rampant lilac 
 shoots. *' The milkroom," decided Milly, looking 
 about the rows of dusty shelves, and the pails and 
 pans, once shining silver-bright, but now dim with 
 the rust of long disuse. There was the sound of 
 running water in the cold greenish gloom, where 
 a sparkling spring gushed from a wooden pipe, 
 falling with a musical drip and gurgle into a rude 
 trough, thence disappearing through a hole in the 
 floor. A second door, half-open, disclosed to 
 Milly 's inquiring gaze a pantry of ample propor- 
 tions, well-stocked with ancient crockery and uten- 
 sils. The shelf before the open window bore a 
 heterogeneous collection of grocer's supplies; a 
 pot of butter, melting in the sun, a tumbler of jam
 
 A LITTLE JOUENEY 121 
 
 besieged by darting flies; a baker's loaf, cut 
 crookedly across; sugar, spilled from a broken 
 bag and already under convoy of a procession of 
 industrious ants; a tin pail half-filled with milk, 
 in which divers of the besieging force had met 
 ignominious defeat. . . . She found the wood- 
 shed at last, and the sight of its ordered rows of 
 hickory sticks and the plentiful supply of 
 " chips," bespeaking former days of thrift and 
 industry, somehow restored her drooping spirits. 
 A competent fire soon crackled in the rusty stove ; 
 then Milly attacked the piled-up dishes on the 
 table, wondering a little how three people could 
 possibly have employed so many plates, cups, and 
 utensils in the course of a single breakfast. There 
 were other things over which to wonder : a quan- 
 tity of silver spoons and forks, thrown negligently 
 into an iron saucepan in which milk had been 
 burned; a broken plate of delicate porcelain con- 
 taining a fragment of yellow soap; a silent clock 
 on the mantel pointing to the hour of six. Milly 
 searched for and found the key. She did not know 
 the hour but guessed it to be ten. 
 
 The clock struck busily, its harsh, rasping voice 
 seeming to rebuke the desolating disorder of the 
 old kitchen. Then Milly bethought her once more 
 of the butter melting in the sun. Obviously the 
 milkroom, with its penetrating coolness, was the 
 place for perishable foods. What might a trained 
 servant do, under existing circumstances, she
 
 122 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 wondered — one really worth the thirty dollars a 
 month she had so boldly exacted? Still pondering 
 this question she plunged the pot of butter in the 
 cool water of the spring ; undertook salvage work 
 on the milk pail and sugar bag ; then fell to wash- 
 ing the dishes, tables, shelves — everything in 
 sight. A step on the newly cleansed floor caused 
 her to look up from a rueful contemplation of a 
 drawer in the kitchen cupboard, crammed to 
 bursting with soiled table-linen. 
 
 The tall young man whom she had last seen rid- 
 ing violently away on his bay horse stood near the 
 door looking about him with an air of astonish- 
 ment. He still wore his riding clothes, spattered 
 with the mud of fast and furious travel. He 
 glanced at Milly with a certain lighting of his 
 somber young face remotely suggesting a smile. 
 
 " Are you here to stay? '* he propounded. 
 
 * ' I don 't know, ' ' Milly replied. " If I suit, per- 
 haps " 
 
 '' Suit? You mean " 
 
 "I'm not an experienced " 
 
 She hesitated, with a slight pucker of her white 
 forehead. 
 
 " I've never worked out before." 
 
 ' ' You don 't look in the least like a servant, ' ' he 
 said, with a brusqueness which suggested his 
 mother. " Rummy old hole — this kitchen. I've 
 done my best ; but it 's not exactly in my line. I'm 
 not — er — experienced, either."
 
 A LITTLE JOUENEY 123 
 
 Milly was silent, her eyes bent upon the mass of 
 soiled linen she was sorting. He did not go away, 
 however, but reached for a glass on the table. 
 
 ' ' I came in for a drink of that bully water, ' ' he 
 stated. " Best thing about the place." 
 
 He came back presently, whistling under his 
 breath. 
 
 ^' Clever idea of yours to put the butter and 
 milk in the water," he commented. " There 
 seems to be no iceman about, and no refrigerator. 
 We didn't happen to think of your little scheme." 
 
 Still Milly did not reply. Mrs. Hill, she could 
 not help reflecting, appeared to have bestowed 
 scant attention upon her kitchen and everything 
 connected with it. 
 
 The singular young man stared at Her with 
 gathered brows. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to have tackled these dishes 
 yesterday, or the day before," he broke out, after 
 a lengthening pause. " Mother — er — you see 
 she's — busy, most of the time, and Sylvia — well; 
 none of us were exactly prepared for the life here. 
 It appears to keep one comfortably busy just to 
 exist, doesn't it? — To exist and — er — clear away 
 the debris. Where is Mother, anyway! " 
 
 '' I don't know," said Milly. 
 
 She walked across to the stove and replenished 
 the fire. Then she looked at the clock. 
 
 " If you would kindly tell me the time. I set 
 the clock by guess."
 
 124 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Pie assisted the old clock to a more exact per- 
 formance of its duties with an almost eager air of 
 friendliness. 
 
 ^' Couldn't we have something to eat pretty 
 soon? " he asked, over his shoulder. 
 
 Milly stole a bewildered glance at him. 
 
 " Mrs. Hill said dinner — no, luncheon,'* — ^^she 
 hesitated over the seldom-used word — '' was to be 
 at one. But she didn't tell me " 
 
 " Well," he said, ^' luncheon hath a pleasant 
 sound. Suppose I help you a bit. Mother ought 
 to be doing it ; but I know where some of the 
 stuff is. What can you cook? " 
 
 ^' Baked potatoes," Milly suggested, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 " Baked potatoes — excellent! What else? Can 
 you toss up a good omelet? " 
 
 ^ ' You mean — eggs ? ' ' 
 
 '^ Of course. I attempted it one daj; it didn't 
 sound hard in the cook-book — there's a cook-book, 
 
 you know — but when it came to the tossing 
 
 Did you ever try it? " 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 '' I don't know what you mean, even," she said. 
 *' But I can cook eggs different ways." 
 
 '' Good! Eggs different ways it shall be. 
 There's bread — if that's what you call the curious 
 stuff the grocer brings." 
 
 ' ' Do you eat — out here ? ' ' asked Milly, timidly. 
 ** I might set the table."
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY 125 
 
 " It's the most cheerful spot in the house — now 
 you're in it," he said, with a short laugh. '* But 
 so far we've observed the rules of the game to 
 the extent of eating in the dining-room." 
 
 He flung open a door and glanced in, with an 
 impatient exclamation. 
 
 ' ' I see Mother left it to you ; and you — just look 
 here! " 
 
 Milly beheld a large sparsely furnished room 
 with open mndows. In the middle of the floor 
 stood a disordered table, covered with the remains 
 of a meal eaten several hours before. 
 
 " I — I didn't know," she said, with desperate 
 courage. " Mrs. Hill said I wasn't trained. 
 Well, I'm not. I didn't think about a dining- 
 room." 
 
 " Mother's fault, if she didn't show you," was 
 his brusque comment. '' Never mind, — you didn't 
 tell me your name? " 
 
 His handsome, boyish eyes looked straight into 
 hers. 
 
 Milly shook her head. 
 
 ''I'm afraid I won't do, Mr. Hill. You're very 
 kind; but " 
 
 ''I'm not kind. I want you to stay. Come, I'll 
 help you hustle these things to the kitchen. It 
 won't take a minute." 
 
 She obeyed him in perplexed silence. Where 
 could the mistress of this disjointed household be? 
 And the husband of the handsome, sullen-browed
 
 126 THE HEAKT OF PHILUEA 
 
 girl — why should he concern himself with neg- 
 lected breakfast things and the proper way to 
 cook eggs ? She resented his half-defiant manner, 
 his boyish eyes, and the jingling spurs upon his 
 heels. Nevertheless she prepared the potatoes he 
 brought her from some unexplored corner; laid 
 the dismantled table with fresh linen and china 
 under his direction, and was in the act of setting 
 a pan of hastily compounded biscuit in the oven, 
 when the door opened and Mrs. Hill glided 
 smoothly in. 
 
 '' Did you think I had quite forgotten you? " 
 was her initial question. 
 
 Her dull eyes glanced frowningly from the 
 girl's flushed face to that of her son, who stood 
 surveying his mother with a deepening of his 
 defiant air. 
 
 " Hard at it, as usual. Mother," he said. 
 *' Somebody had to help, you know." 
 
 " I think Sylvia would like to see you, Walter," 
 she replied, with a significant lifting of her brows. 
 
 Mrs. Hill stood for some moments looking 
 blankly about the kitchen. She did not appear to 
 notice what had been accomplished. 
 
 " I had intended to return sooner," she said 
 stiffly. '^ You — found what was needed? Or did 
 "Walter— Mr. Hill " 
 
 Milly opened her lips to reply. But the woman 
 went on, a sudden, almost apologetic smile over- 
 spreading her features.
 
 A LITTLE JOURNEY 127 
 
 " Of course you've noticed that every tMng is 
 out of order in the house. I thought at first we 
 should be able to live quite simply, without a 
 servant. But there is really so much one does not 
 think of; and being unaccustomed " 
 
 " Yes'm," said Milly, with down-dropped eyes. 
 ** Shall I scramble the eggs? " 
 
 " The eggs — oh, yes. Mrs. Hill is fond of 
 omelet. I think there are some in a bag, or " 
 
 Milly began breaking eggs into a bowl. She set 
 a saucepan over the fire and put a lump of butter 
 in it. 
 
 Mrs. Hill watched her movements specula- 
 tively. 
 
 '' You appear to know what to do," she mur- 
 mured. ^' But . . . " 
 
 The rasping voice of the clock told the hour of 
 one. 
 
 * ' I am sorry to be late, ' ' said Milly, in a small, 
 meek voice. 
 
 '' That is no matter. But . . . " 
 
 Milly tested the potatoes with a practised thumb 
 and finger, and turned the pan of biscuit. They 
 had puffed to a fabulous lightness and were begin- 
 ning to take on a tempting golden brown. She 
 was thinking determinedly of the thirty dollars. 
 It helped to steady her under the gaze of those 
 singular eyes. She felt vaguely that Mrs. Hill 
 was displeasd. 
 
 *' The kitchen floor," she ventured, timidly,
 
 / 
 
 128 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 * ' will look better after another cleaning. So will 
 the tables." 
 
 The eggs in the sancepan required instant at- 
 tention. Milly began lifting spoonfuls of the 
 creamy mixture to the top. 
 
 Into Mrs. Hill's opaque gaze had crept a sud- 
 den gleam of appetite. She appeared to abandon 
 for the moment the train of thought she had been 
 pursuing. 
 
 '* I must have some coffee," she said, abruptly. 
 *' Serve luncheon at once; then make some."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPORTUNITIES 
 
 Despite the minister's perfectly just remark con- 
 cerning millstones of fear as related to the necks 
 of other and innocent persons, Mrs. Pettibone con- 
 tinued to indulge small, fluttering anxieties re- 
 garding Milly Orne, whom she had undoubtedly 
 helped to precipitate into a new and untried way 
 of life. That Milly had actually gone to work for 
 the Hills she had heard from that well-nigh 
 omniscient person, Mrs. Buckthorn. Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn, as was entirely natural for a person 
 athirst for general information, had learned of 
 the circumstance from the grocery-man in the vil- 
 lage, who had actually seen Milly at work in Mrs. 
 Hill's kitchen. 
 
 Mr. Obed Salter, in the act of wrapping up a 
 quarter of a pound of mixed tea and a tin can of 
 baking-powder, just purchased by the excellent 
 matron, averred that he was " some s 'prised 
 to see the girl, down on her ban's an' knees 
 scrubbin' up the floor." He didn't suppose the 
 Ornes was that bad off, — though they hadn't 
 bought no bill of groceries to speak of for a spell 
 back. Mr. Salter's position enabled him to keep, 
 as it were, a sort of commercial barometer, which 
 
 129
 
 130 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 apprised him (and other persons in his confi- 
 dence) very exactly of the varying rises and falls 
 in the finances of his customers. If the wife of the 
 local undertaker, for example, bought lavishly and 
 paid promptly for provisions of the better sort 
 kept in stock by Mr. Salter, that astute gentleman 
 " guessed the' was consid'able sickness an' death 
 'round." So, likewise, items occupying several 
 debit pages of his ledger devoted to the household 
 consumption of Tifson, the jeweller, indicated the 
 fact that '' folks wa'n't buyin' nothin' the' didn't 
 hev to hev these days." 
 
 ** Yes'm," said Mr. Salter, addressing himself 
 to Mrs. Buckthorn, with philosophical seriousness, 
 '' this 'ere 's a queer world, any way you c'n 
 look at it. Settin' right here in my store, I c'n 
 tell which way the cat 's goin' t' jump nine times 
 out o ' ten. But the tenth time 's got me guessin '. ' ' 
 
 He smiled darkly into his change-drawer. 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn dropped, two nickels and a 
 penny into her purse. 
 
 *' Do you go out there often! " she propounded, 
 intelligently linking Mr. Salter's metaphor with 
 an earlier statement. 
 
 *' You mean t' th' old Eggleston place! Well; 
 I git out there 'bout three times a week reg'lar. 
 ' We don't d 'liver goods, es a rule,' I sez to Mis' 
 Hill, ' an' we don't run no bills.' ' Es t' that,' 
 she sez, * I don't mind. I'll pay when you bring 
 the stuff.' They got a horse, an' the' seems t' be
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPORTUNITIES 131 
 
 a young feller hangin' round there with nothin' 
 to do. — No! They ain't doin' nothin' with th' 
 farm; ain't even planted a garden-patch. Can't 
 make 'em out exactly. Seem t' hev money 
 a-plenty. I fetch 'em butcher's meat, days the 
 cart ain't due. But she's hard t' suit, Mis' Hill 
 is — wants things I never heard of b'fore; 
 an-chovies 'n' pap-riky 'n' I-talian oil in tins, 'n' 
 I dunno what all. ' Mis' Hill,' I sez, ' the' ain't 
 no call for them goods in this 'ere town ; but if you 
 want 'em,' I sez, ' 'n' c'n pay for 'em, 1 guess I 
 e'n git 'em for you. Plain, honest vittles,' I sez, 
 ' is good enough for the run o' my customers.' " 
 
 ^' What they here for, anyhow? " inquired Mrs. 
 Buckthorn, with a comprehensive sniff of disap- 
 proval, but an eye intent on the crux of the matter. 
 
 The strange articles of food, particularised by 
 Mr. Salter, inspired in her an active suspicion em- 
 bracing the persons who exhibited such unnatural 
 appetites and desires. '^ Fleshly lusts," Mrs. 
 Buckthorn characterised them, rolling the Pauline 
 phrase under her tongue with pious unction. 
 
 Mr. Salter leaned across his counter upon confi- 
 dential elbows. 
 
 '' Well, now, that's what I'd like t' know; 'n' 
 I put it up to Milly Orne kind o' p'intedly, only 
 yiste'day. ' What sort o' folks be they,' I sez t' 
 Milly, * now 'at you come to know 'em inti- 
 mate? ' " 
 
 ''What 'd Milly say? "
 
 132 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 '' *I don't know 'em intimate,' she sez." 
 
 *' H'h! " commented Mrs. Buckthorn, acidly. 
 *' She must know whether or not they're 
 Chr-ristian people." 
 
 '' That's what I sez t' Milly. ' Ask the Blessin' 
 reg'lar at th' table? ' I sez. An' what d' you think 
 she sez t' that? " 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn shook her head, which sustained 
 a massive structure bristling with sharp-pointed 
 feathers of excellent wearing qualities and fear- 
 some aspect. 
 
 ''I'm sure I can't imagine, Mr. Salter," she 
 replied, in a tone which while anticipating the 
 worst w^as piously prepared for it. 
 
 '' ' I don't eat with 'em,' she sez; ' so I can't 
 tell you! ' That's what she sez." 
 
 Mr. Salter's face expressed a subtle enjoyment 
 of Mrs. Buckthorn's astonishment. 
 
 " Milly Orne— eatin' at second table?— Well, I 
 never! Many 's the time she's 'et at sociables in 
 the church parlour an' at Sunday-school picnics 
 right along mth my own children — for all what 's 
 past and gone." 
 
 *' Milly don't eat at no second table, neither," 
 supplemented Mr. Salter, still enjoyably. " She 
 was havin' her dinner in the kitchen when I got 
 there. Not that I don't eat in th' kitchen m'self. 
 * What's th' use,' I tell m' wife, ' a-mussin' up 
 two rooms with vittles.' B 'sides, griddle-cakes 
 tastes better right smack off the griddle. Y'u
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPORTUNITIES 133 
 
 can't beat m' wife's buckwheats, n' matter what 
 y'u do." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn turned to depart. The boasting 
 reference to Mrs. Salter's buckwheats jarred upon 
 her sensibilities. Everybody knew Jane Salter 
 couldn't cook anything fit to eat. 
 
 '* I'm afraid the Hills ain't my kind o' folks," 
 she observed, moving majestic toward the door, 
 her brown paper bag clasped in both hands. 
 
 " It's a rule o' my life," — she stated to her pas- 
 tor's wife, when recounting the substance of her 
 conversation with Mr. Salter — '^ to say no more 
 than that about anybody. Folks are either my 
 kind; or else they ain't. Ef they ain't; I can't 
 help it. All I c'n do is t' pray for 'em. That's 
 what I tell the deacon." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone's ingenuous blue eyes expressed 
 a resigned interest in this Buckthornian view of 
 one's duty to one's neighbours. 
 
 " So you think," she hesitated, ''that Milly 
 isn't — happy with the Hills? " 
 
 ''Happy!" echoed Mrs. Buckthorn, sonor- 
 ously. " Happy? No, my dear Philura, I said 
 nothing with regard to Milly Orne's liappiness. 
 Why should she be happy? You and I know a girl 
 of Milly 's antecedents ought to consider only her 
 duty." 
 
 " That's what she's trying to do," Mrs. Petti- 
 bone made haste to reply. " She's working to 
 earn money for her grandparents."
 
 134 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 ** I guess they need it," conceded Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn, with severity; '^ I don't take milk of 'em 
 no more." 
 
 In reply to Mrs. Pettibone's surprised inquiries 
 she stated that the Ornes had lost their best cow; 
 and that, for her part, she would never encourage 
 anyone to put water in their milk, however needy. 
 She added, darkly, that she would " say no 
 more. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone did not report the matter in de- 
 tail to Mr. Pettibone. He appeared to expect an 
 exalted philosophy of life from her which she was 
 very far from constantly practising. Old habits 
 of thought, like miasmatic mists, were always clos- 
 ing blindly about her; and it was often difficult, 
 if not impossible, to remember that the only 
 reality in the universe was the All-Encircling 
 Good. 
 
 As she walked quite alone in the direction of the 
 Orne cottage she was striving to bring vividly 
 into the foreground of consciousness the wonder- 
 ful truth, as it had first dawned upon her bewil- 
 dered mind that day in Boston. It had seemed to 
 her then so astoundingly simple, so sweetly 
 natural that a wayfaring man, though a fool, 
 might not err therein. Well ; she was not a way- 
 faring man, nor yet a fool; and perhaps that was 
 the root of the trouble. A fool would not be 
 troubled with doubts, perplexities, vain hopes — 
 nor even with the knowledge of a faded photo-
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPORTUNITIES 135 
 
 graph well hidden from view between the leaves 
 of a blotter. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, walking sedately in her second- 
 best alpaca, thought with a little pang of her 
 husband whom she had left at his writing-table, 
 busily engaged upon his Sunday evening sermon 
 for young people. She had become increasingly 
 scrupulous and painstaking of late, whenever it 
 became necessary to disturb the ministerial 
 privacy with calls from the outside world, paus- 
 ing before the study-door with a gentle cough of 
 warning, or a cautious and prolonged fumbling 
 with the door-knob. If he should chance to be 
 looking at the picture — she felt that she could not 
 bear it. . . . 
 
 Old Mrs. Orne was a little stiff in her de- 
 meanour to her pastor's wife, when she opened 
 the door of the cottage to Mrs. Pettibone 's knock. 
 She had remarked more than once to Grandfather 
 that Milly had no call to go to the parsonage for 
 advice and counsel, so long as she was above 
 ground, and had pointedly announced her inten- 
 tion of giving Mrs. Pettibone " a good piece of her 
 mind," whenever opportunity offered. But Op- 
 portunity, when it finally arrived, wore so sweet 
 and patient a smile, was so gentle and sympathetic 
 in manner, with eyes so blue under childish brows, 
 and small feet scarce touching the floor from the 
 height of Mrs. Orne's best rush-bottomed chair,
 
 136 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 that the old woman's simmering resentment some- 
 how vanished into thin air. 
 
 ''I'm glad you come," Mrs. Orne said, '' I've 
 been wantin' t' talk t' you 'bout Milly. You know 
 she's — but mebbe you put it int' her head t' work 
 out? I kind o' got that idee." 
 
 " Not exactly," she said. " Milly came to tell 
 me that she was most anxious to " 
 
 She paused to choose her words with guileless 
 duplicity. 
 
 " Dear Milly felt that now she was quite grown- 
 up she wanted to help. And so " — smiling timidly 
 — " I spoke to her of — Mrs. Hill. She seemed in 
 great need of someone to — to assist, and Milly is 
 such a — — " 
 
 '* Milly 's a smart girl, an' she's a good girl," 
 declared Grandma Orne, nodding her head. 
 '' The' don't nobody need t' tell me that. But — I 
 wanted she should stay right here along o' 
 Gran 'pa an' me — till she got married." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone murmured sympathy and as- 
 sent. 
 
 '' She ain't got no lack o' beaux," the old 
 woman went on boastfully. '' Two or three of 'em 
 's b'en here this week pesterin' me 'bout Milly; 
 'n' I didn't want to tell 'em she was workin' out. 
 'Twould sp'ile her chance with sech likely young 
 fellers as Seth Marvin an' Ben Buckthorn 
 an' " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone coughed, deprecatingly.
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPORTUNITIES 137 
 
 '' But if Milly isn't — if she doesn't.— A girl like 
 Milly can't marry without " 
 
 *' Well, now, I hope you didn't go an' encourage 
 her in that," Mrs. Orne interrupted, shrilly. 
 *' ' FalUn' in love ' — ' takin' a fancy ' — LandT 
 I'd ruther she'd marry some good honest feller 
 with a few acres o' land in his own right. Nate 
 Scrimger wants t' build her a house with a porch 
 acrost th' front an' a sink in th' kitchen; I heerd 
 him tell her so. But Milly, she didn't take no 
 fancy V Nate; so he's quit comin'." 
 
 '* But you — fell in love with Mr. Orne," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Pettibone, pacifically, " didn't you? " 
 
 *' That ain't neither here ner there," said Mrs. 
 Orne, wi^h dignity. '' You don't come acrost no 
 young fellers like Gran 'pa was in his young days. 
 Seems 's'o' 'twas only yiste'd'y he come ridin' up 
 on his horse t' see me, — me a-wearin' m' new blue 
 calico, trimmed with ruffles — b 'cause I suspicioned 
 he was comin' that day. The yellow roses was all 
 in blow. I r 'member I'd picked a big posy of 'em 
 an' put it in th' winder. Thinks s'l, mebbe he'll 
 notice it. He was always fond o' flowers — Caleb 
 was. But he didn't even look at 'em. He jumps 
 off his horse an' comes straight t' where I was' 
 sittin' pertendin' not t' take notice an' over- 
 handin' a seam like all possess. ' Millicent,' he 
 sez . . ." 
 
 The old voice quavered into a silence Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone did not break. Through the small-paned
 
 138 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 window she could see Grandfather Orne's stooped 
 figure in its patched blue shirt, busy among the 
 ordered rows of vegetables. Perhaps he, too, was 
 thinking of the day when, straight and tall, he 
 had leaped off his horse and come straight to the 
 girl shyly intent upon her sewing, with the words 
 of a masterful wooing upon his lips. 
 
 Mrs. Orne sighed presently. . . . 
 
 '' I've b'en up there," she said, fretfully. 
 
 '' To see Milly? " 
 
 '' I wanted t' find out what kind o' folks they 
 was." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone's eyes expressed a gentle in- 
 terest mingled with doubt. 
 
 '' Well? " she murmured. 
 
 The old woman leaned forward, her knotted 
 hands resting on her knees. 
 
 '* I dunno," she said, and shook her head. '* I 
 dunno. ' ' 
 
 " You mean you didn't " 
 
 ' ' I seen 'em — all three of 'em. The woman was 
 out in th' yard when I come. She an' th' girl was 
 walkin' 'round kind of aimless-like. An' the 
 young feller — her husban'; ain't he? " 
 
 '' Mr. Walter Hill is Mrs. Hill's son. He mar- 
 ried his cousin — the young lady you saw," Mrs. 
 Pettibone explained. Then she added doubtfully, 
 *' He seemed a very pleasant young man." 
 
 '' He doos," agreed Mrs. Orne, promptly. 
 '* Mighty pleasant an' soft-spoken. The woman
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPOETUNITIES 139 
 
 sez t' me when I asked fer Milly, ' You'll find her 
 in th' kitchen, my good woman,' she sez. ' Go 
 'ronnd back an' tell Milly t' give you a cup of 
 tea.' The girl, she never looked at me 't all, no 
 more 'n 's if I was a hop-toad. So I walks 'round 
 back, like I was a beggar-woman — but first I tol' 
 her I didn't want no tea ; I had m' tea 't home, an' 
 plenty of it, thank God ! ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone stirred uneasily in her chair. 
 
 ''I'm sure Mrs. Hill meant — to be kind,** she 
 said, after a little silence, during which the nickel 
 clock on the shelf over her head seemed to tick 
 angrily. 
 
 " Smooth words butter no parsnips," quoth the 
 old woman, oracularly. " I wouldn't *a' eared 
 nothin' 'bout her airs. But when I come 'round 
 th' house I seen hhn a-standin' bare-headed out- 
 side th' kitchen winder — right in a bed o* flowers- 
 de-luce he was — his arms on the winder-sill. I 
 stopped right in th' middle o' m' tracks t' see 
 what was up. An ' purty soon 'long comes Milly 
 with a tumbler o' water an' ban's it out t' him. 
 Her hair was all curlin' 'round her face, like she'd 
 b'en all bet up or flustered 'bout somethin', 'n' 
 her cheeks was pink es apple-blows. ... 
 Lord! " 
 
 " Milly is such a pretty girl," the minister's 
 wife said, softly. 
 
 '' Pretty? " echoed Mrs. Orne. ''—Pretty ain't 
 no name fer it! I guess I know. But I wisht t'
 
 140 THE HEAET OF PHILUKA 
 
 th' Lord she was hiimbly es a hedge-fence. I 
 Tvisht she was all pitted up with smallpox — I've 
 seen it spile many a han'some face in my young 
 days.'' 
 
 '^ Oh, Mrs. Orne! " deprecated the little lady, 
 in the rush-bottomed chair. 
 
 The old woman gave her a powerful look. 
 
 " I guess you ain't f ergot a 'ready," she said, 
 *' n' more hev I." 
 
 *' But Mr. Hill is married, and his wife " 
 
 *' The' ain't no love lost betwixt them two, else 
 he'd a-b'en out walkin' round with her, 'stead o' 
 talkin't'myMilly." 
 
 *' But you said Milly brought him a glass of 
 water. Surely there was no harm in that," Mrs. 
 Pettibone insisted. '' And Milly — I'd trust Milly 
 to know what was right and " 
 
 Mrs. Orne gave vent to a great groaning sigh, 
 which seemed to tear its way painfully from her 
 breast. 
 
 '' Mebbe I'm an old fool," she muttered. '' I 
 guess I be — after all that's come an' gone. But 
 I'm awful feared o' strangers. . . .I'm awful 
 — feared. ..." 
 
 There followed a heavy silence in the room 
 which the nickel clock on the shelf laboured to fill 
 with its anxious ticking. Outside long sprays of 
 bridal wreath, just coming into snowy perfection 
 of bloom, blew against the pane. Beyond the good 
 brown earth of the garden with its rows of sprout-
 
 MILLSTONES AND OPPORTUNITIES 141 
 
 iug green was the orchard, dimly pink against a 
 sky mottled with snow-white clouds. A bluebird 
 flitted past, like a flash of mid-heaven, his musical 
 gurgle streaming far behind him. 
 
 Philura Pettibone roused herself. There was 
 an All-Encircling Good. Everything in nature 
 proclaimed it. The certainty of it stirred once 
 more strong and sweet within her breast. 
 
 '' Milly is safe," she pronounced, slowly» 
 *' You mustn't be afraid. She is quite — quite 
 safe." 
 
 The old woman stared, with a dull air of resent- 
 ment. 
 
 " You mean — r'ligion, I s'pose," she said, 
 sullenly. 
 
 *' I mean — God," half whispered the minister's 
 little wife. ' ' Your Milly lives and moves and has 
 her being in — God — Love. Love will — ^not — lose 
 — her. ..." 
 
 Mrs. Orne was rocking her bent old figure from 
 side to side. " That's all very well — nice r'ligious 
 kind of talk — fer them that ain't seen trouble. I 
 us't t' be awful r'ligious when my Milly was little. 
 Every night I made her say her little prayer, 
 a-kneelin' down by me. 'N' every night reg'lar, I 
 said my prayers, askin' — God — t' — t' take care o' 
 my little girl. But th' come a night when — when 
 I could 'a' cursed Him t' His face! He didn't 
 take no care o' my little girl. She was let t' be — 
 crushed — like one o' them white flowers — ^in th©
 
 142 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 mud. . . . Since I stood b' her coffin — with — 
 Milly, a little wailin' mite in my arms — I ain't 
 prayed. . . ." 
 
 " Bnt — but it's true — only we — we don't — 
 understand. ' ' Mrs. Pettibone 's troubled face had 
 blanched almost to the colour of the bridal flowers 
 tapping softly on the pane. 
 
 " We — don't know," she repeated. '' We — 
 can't, somehow. But God — ^understands. And 
 we must — believe — God. If we don't — oh! Mrs. 
 Orne, life isn't worth living — if we don't — 
 believe ! ' ' 
 
 Her voice rose, filling every corner of the silent 
 old room, like a clear wind, sent forth to pene- 
 trate and scatter dull masses of leaden fog. 
 
 Milly 's grandmother moved a little in her chair, 
 as if the breath of that wind had reached and 
 stirred her heavy thoughts. 
 
 '' 'Tain't often I go on this way," she apolo- 
 gised, weakly. '' I know 'tain't right t' be so — 
 r'bellious. But Milly— Milly 's all we got left; 'n' 
 I — I'm awful feared o' strangers."
 
 CHAPTER Xin 
 
 NOT AT HOME TO VISITORS 
 
 The sun was still an hour above the horizon when 
 Mrs. Pettibone — somewhat shaken and pale of 
 face, after her half-hour alone with grief — came 
 forth into the soft light of the afternoon. She 
 would have time, she thought, to walk the scant 
 mile which separated her from the scene of Milly; 
 Orne's new activities. Mrs. Pettibone was not a 
 very astute person, being amiably inclined to take 
 everyone at his own valuation. In place of 
 worldly wisdom, however, she was often aware of 
 intuitions — familiarly known as " feelings," not 
 to be denied or otherwise put down; and these 
 *' feelings " (she found) were timidly, but no less 
 stubbornly arrayed against the higher dicta of 
 an idealistic philosophy, as she proceeded reso- 
 lutely on her way. She decided that since she 
 had herself assisted in bringing about the change 
 in Milly Orne's life, she must, somehow, control 
 its consequences. Not knowing that consequences, 
 like other seemingly blind forces in nature, cannot 
 be controlled. 
 
 But her resolution, however futile, served to 
 give poise and even a degree of boldness to her 
 manner, as in due time she mounted the steps in 
 
 143
 
 144 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 front of the old Eggleston mansion. Milly her- 
 self, prettier than ever in a fresh blue gingham 
 and frilly white apron, opened the door. 
 
 The ladies, she said, were not at home. 
 
 Then she blushed very prettily. 
 
 " She told me to say it," she whispered. '' It 
 means — they don't want to see anybody. Mrs. 
 Hill says it's perfectly proper." 
 
 '^ But I may come in and see you, Milly? " 
 
 The girl hesitated, gazing at her pastor's wife 
 from under her long, curved lashes. 
 
 * ' I — I might walk with you a piece, ' ' she said, 
 doubtfully. '^ But if you come in I should have 
 to take you to the kitchen. You see I'm being — 
 trained." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone frowned quite portentously for 
 a person with no eyebrows to speak of. 
 
 '' I see you are," she said, while the recal- 
 citrant * * feelings ' ' surged up very strong indeed 
 within her. 
 
 After a moment of natural hesitation she added : 
 
 ''I'm coming 'round to the kitchen, my dear. 
 It won't hurt me in the least, and now that I think 
 of it I've often visited with Miss Minerva Eggles- 
 ton in the kitchen, when she happened to be busy. 
 I know the place very well." 
 
 Milly thought that was '' different." But she 
 obediently closed the door while Mrs. Pettibone 
 picked her way through the long grass to the rear 
 entrance. Of the closeted ladies within there
 
 NOT AT HOME TO VISITORS 145 
 
 v/as no sign, though she fancied she detected the 
 low murmur of voices floating out from an open 
 window. 
 
 " This is a real nice kitchen," Milly said, with 
 faint embarrassment, as she set forth a well- 
 scrubbed chair for her visitor. 
 
 " Yes; it is," agreed Mrs. Pettibone, glancing 
 around the old room, the scene of Miss Minerva 
 Eggleston's slow metamorphosis from defiant 
 youth to resigned middle age. " You — I hope you 
 find it — pleasant here? " 
 
 The girl hesitated, looking down at her reddened 
 fingers. 
 
 '' There is a great deal of hard work to do," 
 she said. '' But — I don't mind that. I'm all the 
 time thinking about the nice new roof we'll have 
 next winter, and the cow — I can buy the cow for 
 Gran 'father before long." 
 
 ** And you don't mind — Mrs. Hill is — consid- 
 erate! " 
 
 Milly looked up quickly, her lips parting in a 
 doubtful smile. 
 
 *' It isn't as if I had to stay always," she said. 
 " I couldn't do that. But just this summer I don't 
 mind — ^very much." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone reflected soberly. It would not 
 be right, she was thinking, to instill the poison of 
 evil suspicion into the girl's mind. And what, 
 indeed, was there to suspect? 
 
 Milly was gazing at her intently.
 
 146 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 " You've been to see my Gran 'mother; haven't 
 you? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone did not deny it. 
 
 " And she is worried about me; and now you 
 
 are wondering whether I But you see, 
 
 Gran 'mother has always been worried about me — 
 ever since I can remember. Of course it's 
 foolish." 
 
 Milly smiled, revealing the edges of her pretty 
 teeth. 
 
 " She'll be glad next winter though; won't 
 she?" 
 
 ''I'm sure I hope so," murmured the minister's 
 wife, mechanically. 
 
 She was skirting her way about the difficult 
 subject of which she wished to speak, timidly in- 
 tent upon her duty. 
 
 ' ' Are you — have you become better acquainted 
 with Mrs. Walter Hill? " she propounded, after 
 a pause. " She seems very young — about your 
 o^vn age, I should say." 
 
 Milly shook her head. She was still smiling, as 
 if she already guessed what her \dsitor was think- 
 ing and found it faintly amusing. 
 
 " Young Mrs. Hill doesn't notice me at all," 
 she sai.d, frankly. " I never see her to speak 
 to her." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's childish eyes expressed disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 "I'm sorry for that," she said. " I thought per-
 
 NOT AT HOME TO VISITORS 147 
 
 haps a cheerful young girl like yourself ruight — 
 And Mrs. Hill — the mother — you are naturally 
 with her a good deal! " 
 
 " Mrs. Hill is always with her daughter. Of 
 course I see her, mornings sometimes, out here, or 
 when — when she tells me things, like to-day." 
 
 A conscious flush rose to Mrs. Pettibone's faded 
 cheek. 
 
 *' You must be very — lonely here," she con- 
 cluded, with what she felt to be machiavelian 
 duplicity. 
 
 ' ' I should be, if it were not for Mr. Hill, ' ' said 
 Milly. ' ' He is very kind. ' ' 
 
 '' Kind! " echoed the minister's wife, very pink 
 and agitated. " Kind! " 
 
 " Well, you see Mrs. Hill seems to forget that 
 I am here, sometimes," explained Milly, " and if 
 it were not for Mr. Hill — I shouldn't know what 
 to do always — where to find things, I mean, and 
 what to have for dinner, and " 
 
 " Isn't that just a little odd, my dear? " ques- 
 tioned the minister's wife, her voice trembling. 
 *' Hasn't Mr. Hill anything to do — any business, 
 — or, one would think he might be very much occu- 
 pied with his wife." 
 
 Milly again shook her head, a troubled pucker 
 appearing between her brows. 
 
 " I don't pretend to understand anything, 
 here," she said, under her breath. '' But — 
 oughtn't I to do my work as well as I can and —
 
 148 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 not try to understand? These people will go 
 away in the fall, and I shall never see them any 
 more. Bnt just now I can help them — cooking 
 their meals and keeping everything tidy, and — 
 Oh, I'm not old or wise, like Gran 'mother; but 
 why should I be afraid of — anything or anyone — 
 as long as I do the best I can — to help 1 ' ' 
 
 The girl's face as she said this wore a look so 
 innocently sweet and strong that Mrs. Pettibone 
 felt suddenly ashamed of her little horde of 
 worldly wisdom. She took the rough little hand 
 in both her own. 
 
 *' You are a good girl, Milly," she said, warmly. 
 *' If you will just trust God to guide you — and 
 keep on helping " 
 
 The girl's expression changed subtly, and Mrs. 
 Pettibone, suddenly aware of an unfriendly pres- 
 ence in the room, turned to face the mistress of 
 the house. 
 
 Mrs. Hill advanced a few steps, her face twisted 
 in an odd smile, her plump hands moving slowly 
 the one over the other. 
 
 " I thought I heard voices," she said, blandly. 
 " In the country, it seems, one must secure one's 
 privacy behind locked doors." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's eyes, opened very wide and 
 blue, suddenly blinked as if she had received a 
 dash of cold water full in the face. 
 
 ** I had no — thought of — intruding," she said, 
 with surprising dignity. '* I came to call upon
 
 NOT AT HOME TO VISITORS 149 
 
 you and your daughter; but I meant to ask for 
 Milly. Indeed, I came eliiefly to see whether she 
 was happy in her position here ; since I — in a way 
 — am responsible for her jDresence in your house." 
 
 Mrs. Hill moved her large shoulders deprecat- 
 ingly. 
 
 " You quite misunderstand me, my dear Mrs. 
 Pettibone. I beg to assure you we fully appreciate 
 your interest in our affairs. Won't you — I think 
 I should like to speak to you for a moment." 
 
 Her gesture peremptorily remanded the small 
 person in drab alpaca to the room from which 
 she had so quietly emerged a moment before. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone remained standing after two 
 doors had closed noiselessly behind them. She 
 was swiftly reviewing the conversation she had 
 just had with Milly Orne and wondering what she 
 ought to have said, in view of the facts. 
 
 Mrs. Hill pointed to a chair. 
 
 *' Kindly be seated," she said, coldly. *' It 
 occurs to me that since I am employing a servant 
 in whom so many persons appear to take an 
 interest " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's eyes conveyed an indignant 
 question, which Mrs. Hill proceeded at once to 
 answer. 
 
 '' I am not referring altogether to yourself, 
 Mrs. Pettibone; your own solicitude for the girl is 
 certainly natural; I might say in a way, profes- 
 sional. But there are others — the trades-people,
 
 150 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 and the girl's relatives. Really, it is quite extraor- 
 dinary." 
 
 * ' I think you must have misunderstood what I 
 said to you about Milly,'^ began Mrs. Pettibone. 
 " She is not '' 
 
 Mrs. Hill waved her hand. 
 
 '' AVe'll not go into that,'^ she said, dryly. 
 " Granted the girl is what persons of her class 
 call ' a perfect lady ^; she nevertheless possesses 
 a tongue, and doubtless forms opinions." 
 
 ** She has told me nothing," began Mrs. Petti- 
 bone. 
 
 *' Yet you were cross-questioning her with con- 
 siderable adroitness. What do you want to 
 know? " 
 
 The minister's wife suddenly bethought herself 
 of the Presbyterial dignities which she repre- 
 sented. Her manner as she rose to her feet con- 
 veyed a rebuke commensurate to the offence. 
 
 " I can see very little use in talking with you," 
 she said, slowly. " You are not " 
 
 ** You would like to tell me that I am not a 
 lady, ' ' smiled Mrs. Hill. ' ' — No ; don 't go. There 
 is something I want you to hear — from me." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had drawn her little figure to 
 its full height, looking down at the woman, who 
 remained seated, with grave dignity. 
 
 " We came here,'* Mrs. Hill went on, without 
 apparent perturbation, '' in order that we might 
 be quite alone and unnoticed. One would suppose
 
 NOT AT HOME TO VISITOES 151 
 
 that in a remote country place, like this, one 
 
 might Don't interr"uj)t me, if you please. I 
 
 acknowledge that I am beaten. And so I shall tell 
 you something of ourselves, and you will oblige 
 me by repeating it to the persons in your parish, 
 who may be interested." 
 
 '' I think I should prefer not to " 
 
 Mrs. Hill smiled, disagreeably. 
 
 ' ' Oh ! But I insist. Kindly understand that I 
 am taking you into my confidence, Mrs. Pettibone, 
 because you are the wife of the local clergyman; 
 and I very much prefer to have you tell people 
 about us — quite naturally, you know, at an after- 
 noon tea perhaps, or a church social — to having 
 Salter, the grocer, or the old woman who comes 
 to see my maid, retail the impressions of that 
 worthy young woman. Of course, I understand 
 that personally you feel no curiosity — er — take 
 no interest, as you call it, — in us, or our affairs. 
 But you do take an interest in the girl, Milly, as 
 you have proved this afternoon." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone took two steps toward the door, 
 an indignant exclamation escaping her lips. 
 
 The woman sat quite motionless, watching her 
 narrowly. 
 
 ' ' If I should tell you I am in deep trouble, you 
 would listen; wouldn't you? — I thought so. Now, 
 sit down — there's a good creature, and let me tell 
 you." 
 
 But she did not speak further for a long minute,
 
 152 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 during which Mrs. Pettibone nervously examined 
 the tips of her shabby gloves. It was her duty, 
 she thought, to hear what the woman had to 
 say. 
 
 '' When you met my — son's wife, in the woods 
 some weeks ago," resumed Mrs. Hill, with dry 
 deliberation, ' ' did she impress you as being quite 
 —rational? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone hesitated, recalling the wild 
 looks and gestures of the tragic young figure. 
 
 " She seemed to be in deep trouble of some 
 kind," she said, slowly, *' — like one who has kept 
 something hidden for so long, that it bursts out 
 as a kind of relief." 
 
 The woman's lashes lifted with a jerk. 
 
 '' Then she told you What did she say? '* 
 
 , ' ' She did not know that I was anywhere about 
 — at first, and I did not understand. It was all 
 incoherent. ' ' 
 
 '' You spoke to her? " 
 
 " I asked her to tell me what was the matter. 
 I was very much surprised to meet anyone in 
 those woods. We had not heard the place was 
 let." 
 
 " Well? You asked her, and she told you '* 
 
 ^' I thought at first she was a mere child — ^her 
 hair was hanging in a long braid, and " 
 
 The woman made an impatient gesture. 
 
 *' She likes it best that way. She told you — 
 what? "
 
 NOT AT HOME TO VISITORS 153 
 
 ** She said she was married, and that her name 
 was Sylvia Cruden." 
 
 '' Is that all? " 
 
 ''All that I think of." 
 
 Mrs. Pettiborne looked directly at her inquisi- 
 tor. " I can think of nothing else," she re- 
 peated. 
 
 Mrs. Hill was staring at her with curious in- 
 tentness. 
 
 " That is Sylvia's illusion," she said. " She 
 thinks she is married to another man. Of course 
 it is very painful for me to speak of this — very 
 painful for my son. She will recover, of course, 
 in due time. On that score we have no anxiety — 
 no anxiety whatever." 
 
 The woman's voice rang flat and insincere. 
 
 *' Why do you tell me this? " asked the min- 
 ister's wife. 
 
 " Because I want you to know it. You can ex- 
 plain, if anyone asks you, that we do not receive 
 visitors, and that we are not in need of popular 
 sympathy — which is merely another word for 
 officious curiosity." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone stood up, her little figure still 
 panoplied in Presbyterial dignity. 
 
 " I am sorry — for your daughter," she mur- 
 mured — " and for you. I am not — curious, as 
 you seem to think; I only wanted to help." 
 
 Mrs. Hill's face twisted painfully, as if the 
 words had touched a hidden spring of violent emo-
 
 154 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 tion. Then her features composed themselves into 
 their usnal expressionless calm. 
 
 '' In a case of this kind nothing can be done by 
 an outsider, ' ' she said, in a slow, cold voice. * ' I 
 shall do for Sylvia — ^what must be done. No one 
 can help." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone moved quietly toward the door. 
 When she had reached it, she turned and looked 
 at the woman, who still sat stolidly in her chair 
 by the window, her face, in the waning afternoon 
 light, curiously resembling a mask of old ivory, 
 with motionless eyes of jade. 
 
 *' I shall not come again," said Mrs. Pettibone, 
 ' ' unless you send for me. And — I shall not speak 
 of what you have told me. I can see no reason 
 for doing so. As for Milly, I think you can trust 
 her. She may not be a lady, after your way of 
 thinking; but she is true and good. She will do 
 what she can to make things easier for you."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 MILLY DRIVES THE CX)W 
 
 The narrow country road, hardly more than a 
 wagon-track between opposing walls of greenery, 
 was pleasantly cool and moist with a recent 
 shower. Here and there a sun-warmed puddle re- 
 flected the dazzling blue of the sky, and furnished 
 a playground for innumerable butterflies, whit© 
 and pale yellow, which fluttered and lifted before 
 the sedate steps of a dun cow, only to settle again, 
 their gay wings moving gently like wind-blown 
 blossoms. Wild roses in their first frail bloom 
 painted the wayside with splashes of pink, and 
 tall bull thistles, beloved of flying things, lifted 
 their mailed heads of purple and white among the 
 twinkling leaves. There was a warm sweet smell 
 of newly unfolded ferns and wild strawberries 
 hiding in the tall grass. The dun cow would have 
 paused to munch and consider, but the girl walk- 
 ing behind gently urged her forward with light 
 flicks of the leafy branch she carried. 
 
 And so in due time the cow, tliinking her bovine 
 thoughts of grass and sweet-smelling clover in the 
 meadows beyond, and the girl, smiling with joyous 
 anticipation, covered the scant mile of their 
 journey. 
 
 155
 
 156 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 Grandfather Orne was weeding the onions, a 
 task requiring concentrated attention, when the 
 eyes of the worker can scarcely distinguish be- 
 twixt the slender onion shoots and the thrifty 
 young weeds crowding close and greedy. His 
 dull ears failed to apprise him of the deliberate 
 footfalls of the dun cow, as she was skilfully in- 
 duced by the combined action of the girl and the 
 leafy bough to pass through the deftly drawn bars. 
 Here were shade and stretches of green grass and 
 the sound of water running over smooth stones; 
 the dun cow gazed about her with placid eyes 
 of contentment. The girl stood watching the cow 
 for a gleeful moment; then, gathering her skirts 
 about her, slipped through the hedge and across 
 "the garden, her light feet making no sound on the 
 soft earth. 
 
 '' Gran 'father! " 
 
 The old man raised himself with a grunt. 
 
 *' Eh!— What? Why, Milly!— Where 'd you 
 come f'om, I'd like t' know? " 
 
 '' From the pasture. Gran 'father." 
 
 '' Come cross lots. — Eh? Well, well! you sure 
 are growin'; seems t' me you look taller 'n' bigger 
 every time I see you. Seen your Gran 'ma? " 
 
 '* Not yet." 
 
 The girl's demure face conveyed a subtle sense 
 of mystery; her blue eyes danced under the wind- 
 blown tendrils of her blond hair. She put up her 
 hand to push them away.
 
 MILLY DRIVES THE COW 157 
 
 *' I bet you b'en up t' sometliing 'er otlier," 
 chuckled tlie old man, sitting back on bis haunches 
 and peering up with an air of superior sagacity. 
 *' I always knowed when you was gittin' ready 
 fer mischief. I ust' t' tell yer Gran 'ma, ' Keep 
 an eye on her,' I sez, ' th's somethin' doin' when 
 Milly gits that spark in her eye.' 'Member how 
 you upset the bee-hive one day t' see if the' was 
 any honey! We didn't hev t' smack ye fer that. 
 The bees seen to it you was 'tended to, good an*^ 
 proper." 
 
 The girl's laugh rang out. 
 
 " I remember," she said. '* It isn't bees this 
 time. ' ' 
 
 " Not bees — eh? Well, I guess you'd better go 
 in an' find yer Gran 'ma. She's always talkin' 
 'bout you, f'om mornin' till night. 'N' I guess 
 she dreams 'bout you 'most every night. I had t' 
 shake her good las' night t' wake her up. She 
 was a-whinin' an' cryin' in her sleep. ' What on 
 airth 's the matter with you. Mother? ' I sez. An' 
 come t' find out she'd b'en dreamin' some fool 
 thing er other 'bout you." 
 
 Milly 's smile faded. 
 
 ^' I wish Gran 'mother wouldn't worry about 
 me," she said, soberly. — '' Can't you make her 
 stop, Gran 'father? You see, I'm grown up, now,, 
 and know how to take care of myself. ' ' 
 
 The old man blew his nose a resounding blast 
 on his red bandanna handkerchief.
 
 158 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 " Shucks! " he said, defiantly. " Y'u might es 
 well try t' keep th' ol' red cow f'om chewin' on 
 her cud. I guess yer Gran 'ma enjoys worryin' 
 full es much, an' docs it as constant." 
 
 The girl laughed outright. Then she caught the 
 old man by the sleeve. ' ' Look ! ' ' she commanded, 
 pointing to the pasture, where the dun cow was 
 making leisurely survey of her new domain. 
 
 *' Heh? — ^What in creation! Where 'd that crit- 
 ter come f'om? Blowed if it don't look like 
 
 Say! I knowed you'd b'en up t' somethin'. 
 Can't fool yer Gran 'pa! " 
 
 *' She's part Jersey, Gran 'father. — ^Wait! I'll 
 run and get Gran 'mother. She's all yours — yours 
 an' Gran 'mother's." 
 
 But Grandmother was already pushing past the 
 unpruned rose-bushes, which stood guard over 
 the vegetable patch, scattering showers of pale 
 pink leaves from their lavish bloom. She took 
 the girl in her arms with a little tender cry of joy. 
 
 " I dreamed las' night you was in some sort o' 
 trouble," she quavered. ^' An' thinks I, I'll go 
 up t' the farm this aft 'noon an' see Milly. But 
 you 're all right ; ain 't you, deary 1 Land ; I b 'en 
 so worried all th' mornin'. " 
 
 " Now you see how foolish it is," chided the 
 girl. '' I'm as right as right can be." 
 
 " What'd I tell ye," crowed the old man. 
 ^' Chewin' the cud o' trouble all th' endurin' while. 
 Come on out t' th' pastur', Mother, an' le's see
 
 MILLY DRIVES THE COW 159 
 
 what we c'n find. Ye '11 hev t ' look close ; yer eye- 
 sight ain't what it was a spell back." 
 
 And thus the chief conspirator and her gleeful 
 coadjutor guilefully baited the credulous old lady. 
 The dun cow had " got in t' th' pastur' somehow 
 er other." Did Gran 'mother think she looked like 
 one of Farmer Craddock's herd? And how was 
 she ever to be restored to her proper o'wner? 
 
 " I bet Milly, here, couldn't drive a cow t' save 
 her life," piped Grandfather. '' Anyway, not a 
 frisky young heifer like that. Say, she looks like 
 some Jersey t' me. Come on. Gran 'ma, le^s take 
 a good squint at her. I got a good mind t' milk 
 her. It 'd be a charity." 
 
 '' I would, Gran 'father," chimed in Milly. 
 '^ I'll go get your stool an' th' pail." 
 
 " You'll do nothin' of the kind," cried the 
 scandalised old woman. — " She'd ought t' be 
 driv' home right off; it's full early fer milkin' 
 yet." 
 
 " I don't see how in creation that critter got 
 int' th' pastur'," cogitated Grandfather, scratch- 
 ing his head. ''Bars is up — b 'en up all day. By 
 cracky! She must 'a' jumped clean over the 
 fence ! Fetch that stool here, Milly. I'm goin' t' 
 milk her, sure es you're a foot high; 'n' I'll bet I 
 get sech a pail full es you ain't seen in one good 
 while. Got plenty clean pans, Gran 'ma! " 
 
 But here Milly, being soft-hearted, told Grand- 
 mother, between laughing and crying, how she had
 
 160 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 bouglit the cow the evening before and paid for her 
 with the wages she had earned. 
 
 Grandmother wiped her eyes and kissed the 
 girl's glowing cheek. ^' Dear, dear! " she mur- 
 mured. " It's awful nice t' hev th' cow. But, 
 honey, I don't like your livin' up there along o' 
 them strange folks. Mebbe they're all right. — 
 Yes, I know you say they be. But they're 
 strange t' me, 'n' I don't like the looks o' that 
 woman." 
 
 " They're going away in November," Milly 
 said, soothingly, 
 
 '' Goin' where? " demanded Mrs. Orne, sus- 
 piciously. 
 
 " Back where they came from, I suppose. 
 They're only here for the summer." 
 
 ' ' Where 'd they come from ? I sh 'd think some 
 of 'em 'd name the place by now." 
 
 But Milly didn't know. She thought it didn't 
 matter, anyway. 
 
 '' 'Tain't natural," contradicted Mrs. Orne. 
 ** Y'u needn't tell me. Ef I was t' go 'way some 
 place fur the summer don't you s'pose I'd tell 
 folks where I come from? Well, I guess! 
 Wouldn't wait fer 'em t' ask, neither." 
 
 Milly pulled a pink rose from the bush, her 
 white forehead puckered thoughtfully. " Oh, well, 
 we're — different," she said, slowly; '^ we don't 
 like — hiding things or having secrets. Some peo- 
 ple make a secret of 'most anything. I guess
 
 MILLY DRIVES THE COW 161 
 
 they're that kind. They don't want to be friends 
 with the people 'round here." 
 
 ' ' J 'rus 'lem crickets ! ' ' cried Grandfather, who 
 had just returned from a jubilant inspection of 
 the new cow. ' ' That there critter 's more 'n half 
 Jersey, er I'm a liar! We c'n make butter. 
 Mother. I bet you c'd beat them creamery folks 
 all holler." 
 
 Mrs. Ome smiled, tolerantly, her eyes on her 
 grand-daughter. 
 
 " Goin' t' stay t' supper, ain't you, deary? '* 
 she asked, wistfully. 
 
 But Milly shook her head. She must hurry 
 home, she said, to get dinner. 
 
 The two old folks stood watching the girl's slim 
 figure till it was on the point of disappearing be- 
 hind a clump of trees. 
 
 '' Y'u don' want t' stand an' watch her out o' 
 sight," warned Grandmother, carefully averting 
 her eyes. 
 
 ^' Don't ye s'pose I know that? " retorted 
 Grandfather, indignantly. ** Anyhow, you've 
 tol' me 'nough times. Blame fool notion, I 
 say! " 
 
 " Well, I s'pose I'd feel some easier 'bout Milly 
 ef them folks didn't eat their dinner at night," 
 quavered Grandmother, plaintively. " It don't 
 seem Christian-like." 
 
 '' Dinner er supper, can't see's it's goin' t' hurt 
 Milly none," spluttered Grandfather. " Ef folks
 
 162 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 want t' name their meals up differ 'nt, what d' yon 
 care? " 
 
 *' An' ef they'd only say, right out, they was 
 f'om some place er other we knowed 'bout " 
 
 " Durn it! " cried Grandfather. '^ — Jes' 's I 
 was feeling good 'bout the cow. — Yes ! I will say 
 it ! Makes me feel a sight better. Double durn ! 
 S' there!" 
 
 " I guess I'd better be goin' in th' house," com- 
 mented Grandmother, quite pink with righteous 
 anger. 
 
 She turned after a few steps, her round old face 
 aglow with the light of a fresh purpose. 
 
 " Seein' we got the new cow," she said, with 
 fine forgetfulness, " how'd you like some nice 
 batter-cakes fer supper. Gran 'pa? I c'n afford 
 th' milk, now." 
 
 '' How'd I like 'em? " piped Grandfather. 
 " Well, you jes' fry up a good dish of 'em, 
 Mother, an' see what '11 ketch 'em — once I git 
 through milkin'."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 ON THE OLD ROAD 
 
 'A -LARGB round moon, coloured like tlie pale wings 
 of the butterflies, floated in tlie soft rose of the 
 eastern sky as Milly Orne walked swiftly along 
 the road. She was thinking happily of the two old 
 people she had left behind, and of the dun cow, 
 with her pretty sleek head and large mild eyes. 
 Grandfather would be milking her now. She 
 wished she might have waited to see the first foam- 
 ing pail carried into the kitchen. But there was 
 the dinner to finish and serve. Being quick-witted 
 and, moreover, of an acquisitive mind, Milly had 
 studiously applied herself to the study of Miss 
 Minerva Eggleston's old-fashioned cook-book, and 
 thereby learned many strange combinations and 
 permutations of the familiar '' potatoes 'n' 
 meat " served at Innisfield tables. Cooking, she 
 had learned, was a science, not to be disdained or 
 thought lightly of; and since the strangers she 
 served appeared increasingly appreciative of the 
 fruits of her newly acquired knowledge, Milly con- 
 tinued to study and experiment with ever growing 
 pleasure in her work. 
 
 She was thinking doubtfully of a certain delicate 
 pudding, compounded for the first time, and at 
 
 163
 
 164 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 present awaiting its destined hour in the cool se- 
 clusion of the spring-room. Had she beaten the 
 eggs sufficiently, she wondered; and was the 
 meringue which topped the confection overbrown?, 
 She stepped daintily about the edges of a 
 puddle, her blue eyes bent upon the ground, when, 
 as once before, she heard the swift tread of hoofs 
 behind her and looked back to meet Walter Hill's 
 dark gaze. Mindful of her freshly-starched skirts 
 and the threatening mud-puddle, Milly hastily 
 took refuge amid the leafy growth of the roadside 
 till the rider should pass. 
 
 But the young man pulled his horse to a stand- 
 still, and slipped from his saddle. Milly watched 
 him with surprise as he walked toward her, the 
 bay horse at his heels. 
 
 '' You've been home? " he asked, his face 
 lighted with a boyish smile. '^ Do you know I 
 thought I might overtake you? " 
 
 Milly said nothing, being vaguely troubled by 
 his presence and the look in his eyes. 
 
 ^' I happened to see you start out from Crad- 
 dock's," he went on, easily. " How did my lady 
 Jersey behave? And what did they say to her? '* 
 
 *' You mean Gran 'father and Gran 'mother? '* 
 inferred Milly, walking very fast, her eyes on the 
 distant glimmer of white which represented the 
 old Eggleston house. '' They — they were glad, 
 of course."
 
 ON THE OLD EOAD 165 
 
 He put out Ms hand as if to guide her past a 
 particularly deep puddle. But she drew back, a 
 quick flush staining her cheek. 
 
 " You didn't seem to be looking," he apologised. 
 " Another instant and you'd have been in over 
 your shoe-tops, you know. It — it's rather wet 
 along here, in spots." 
 
 " Yes," she admitted, coldly, '' but I've walked 
 in muddy roads all my life." 
 
 He studied her averted face, with a slight cloud- 
 ing of his dark good looks. 
 
 " What have I done that you won't even look 
 at me, Milly? " he asked, after a lengthening 
 pause. '' This morning you were as jolly as could 
 be, only you wouldn't let me beat the eggs." 
 
 His tone was slightly aggrieved. 
 
 '* If you please, Mr. Hill, I'd rather you 
 wouldn't wait for me," she said, determinedly. 
 ''I'm late, I know, but " 
 
 " You're not late," he contradicted her; ** and 
 besides, it 's — beautiful ! Look at that moon ; will 
 youf . . . It's — somehow, like you, Milly — all 
 soft rose and pale gold and " 
 
 The girl hurried on faster than before, but his 
 long stride kept him abreast of her. 
 
 '' Don't be angry," he begged. '' That bit of 
 foolishness slipped out before I thought. But — 
 see here; I want to tell you something." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 '' I haven't time to listen," she objected.
 
 166 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 ** There's no real reason why we shouldn't be 
 friends." 
 
 '' You are mistaken," she said, proudly. '' Be- 
 sides, I don 't .wish to be friends with you. It is 
 absurd even to speak of it." 
 
 '' But, why? " he urged. "Is it because I — • 
 because of Sylvia? Can't a man have friends, 
 even if " 
 
 ''It's — because of everything. . . . You 
 oughtn't to be talking to me at all. Mrs. Hill 
 would be displeased." 
 
 His face had grown suddenly dark. 
 
 *' Granted that we cannot be friends," he said, 
 doggedly, "I'm going to tell you one thing. I 
 was on the point of bolting, when you came. I 
 couldn't have stood it another day. . . . Oh, you 
 don't know! Don't judge me — not knowing " 
 
 She was looking at him, her blue eyes wide with 
 unconcealed scorn. 
 
 ' ' You are telling me you would have left your 
 wife — and your mother, alone in that lonely 
 house? " 
 
 ' ' Oh, I suppose I should have come back. . . . 
 Don't look at me that way, Milly; I'm not as bad 
 as you think. ' ' 
 
 " Have you no — pity? " she asked, her voice 
 breaking a little. " No — ^love? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, sullenly. " That's why I'm 
 here. But I didn't know what it was going to be 
 like. ..."
 
 ON THE OLD KOAD 167 
 
 He shook Ms head, his brows knit over gloomy 
 eyes. 
 
 ''No; I swear I didn't grasp the situation. 
 How could I"? . . . "Well, you saved the day, 
 Milly, whether you meant to, or not. I didn 't bolt ; 
 and for your sake I won't. I'll stick it out, even 
 
 if Sylvia But I mustn't speak to you of her. 
 
 lYou wouldn't understand. You couldn't. ..." 
 
 She turned and faced him with sudden courage. 
 
 " Why don't you stay with her more! " she 
 demanded. ' ' Surely you ought to be able to com- 
 fort her — help her as no one else can." 
 
 '' It's entirely natural you should think so," he 
 admitted, a tinge of bitterness in his tone. " But 
 — Sylvia doesn't happen to want me. My presence 
 irritates her. Did you ever hear of a marriage of 
 convenience — which is no marriage at all! " 
 
 His short laugh held no mirth. 
 
 " I can't expect you to be sorry for me," he 
 went on, in face of her troubled silence. ' ' I don 't 
 ask it. But — sometime I may be able to explain. 
 Till that hour comes, promise me you will, at 
 least, give me the benefit of the doubt. Don't pass 
 sentence — in the dark. ' ' 
 
 Her candid eyes searched his face swiftly. If 
 she read truth there and a desperate struggle with 
 some unknown emotion, the girl made no sigm 
 She hesitated for a moment, her face with its 
 delicate pure outlines pale in the softly lighted 
 dusk.
 
 168 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 ' ' I certainly have no right to judge you, or any- 
 one, harshly," she said, at last. " If I seem to 
 have done so — forgive me. ' ' 
 
 He did not attempt to follow her, as she went 
 swiftly from him into the gathering night. As 
 she fled up the long drive she heard the thud of 
 hoofs growing fainter on the road below. 
 
 Mrs. Hill's large presence confronted the girl at 
 the door of the kitchen. 
 
 " You are late," she said, with a rebuking 
 glance at the clock. ' ' I had begun to wonder if I 
 must prepare the dinner myself." 
 
 '' I am — very sorry," Milly apologised, quite 
 breathless with haste and the shock of her late 
 encounter. 
 
 '^ Where have you been? " demanded Mrs. Hill, 
 darting a quick look into the luminous dusk with- 
 out. 
 
 Milly, somewhat accustomed by now to her mis- 
 tress' sharp, incisive questions, answered without 
 embarrassment. 
 
 ^' Did you see no one besides your grand- 
 parents? " 
 
 The girl hesitated for the space of a frightened 
 heart-beat or two. 
 
 '' I saw — Mr. Hill," she murmured, her eyes 
 intent upon the potatoes she had hurriedly begun 
 to peel. 
 
 '' You saw Mr. Hill? . . . Where? " 
 
 *' On the road, as I was coming home."
 
 ON THE OLD ROAD 169 
 
 ** Do you mean he passed youf I haven't heard 
 him come in." 
 
 The girl was conscious of the woman's probing 
 eyes upon her face. 
 
 " I — I think he went by the other road," she 
 
 stammered. " The — moon It is very light 
 
 and pleasant out of doors." 
 
 Her hands shook over their task. 
 
 Mrs. Hill's mouth twisted in a wry smile. 
 
 *' So I see," she said, dryly. She stood for a 
 moment, watching the girl 's nervous fingers with 
 cold interest. 
 
 " You may serve dinner," she ordered, 
 *' as soon as possible. We will not wait for Mr. 
 Hill." 
 
 Milly heard the retreating rustle of her gown 
 with a sigh of relief. But when she ventured to 
 lift her abashed eyes, she was startled to see the 
 tall stout figure standing motionless by the door, 
 as if lost in deep thought. 
 
 *' You are a very pretty girl," Mrs. Hill ob- 
 served harshly. ' ' Quite unusually so for a person 
 of your class. But let me remind you that your 
 position in my house depends entirely upon your 
 discretion. You understand me, I am sure." 
 
 The leaping colour in Milly 's face and the in- 
 dignant flash of her blue eyes appeared to satisfy 
 the woman. Checking with an imperious gesture 
 the girl 's half-uttered exclamation, she swept from 
 the room.
 
 170 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Left to herself, Milly Orne dropped her knife 
 and started toward the door. 
 
 " I will not stay in this house," she told herself, 
 with sudden passion. '* I will go home! " 
 
 There would be a joyful welcome awaiting her 
 there, she knew. But how explain her nnlooked- 
 for change of mind? And the leaky old roof — 
 Only this afternoon she had thought happily of 
 the heavy rains sure to come in late autumn, and 
 of the tight new shingles which would shelter the 
 two ailing old people. 
 
 Slowly she walked back to the table ; slowly took 
 up her knife and went on peeling the potatoes. 
 Afar off, echoing from some distant fold of the 
 hills, came the rhythmic beat of a galloping horse.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 MALVINA BENNETT POINTS A MORAL 
 
 Miss MAL\^JsrA Bennett transferred a pin from 
 her mouth to the heart-shaped cushion on the front 
 of her gown with a quick, darting motion of her 
 right hand, while with her left she gently pro- 
 pelled the lady she was fitting to a proper position 
 before the mirror. 
 
 '' There now, Mis' Salter," cried the little 
 dressmaker, ' ' how d ' you like the set o ' that 
 waist? Ain't that Mas drape over the left 
 shoulder stylish? It's th' very latest from 
 Paris! " 
 
 Mrs. Salter was a thin, stooped woman, with a 
 lavender-tinted complexion, lightly shaded with 
 red about the tip of her pinched nose and the 
 edges of her sparsely-furnished eyelids. She 
 sighed heavily as she surveyed the inchoate gar- 
 ment she was wearing. 
 
 *' Seems t' me," she murmured, ^' the's a 
 pucker, right under the left shoulder-blade." 
 
 " Course the' is," confirmed Miss Bennett, with 
 professional superiority. ^' I ain't put no paddin* 
 in there yet. Y' see, you holler right in where 
 some folks bulges out." 
 
 ' ' I know I do, " acknowledged Mrs. Salter, with 
 
 171
 
 172 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 mournful pride. '' I ain't got no lung t' speak 
 of on that side. Ain't had fer years an' years; 
 the doctor says it's a per fee' mericle I've lived 's 
 long 's I have." 
 
 " 'Tis wonderful," chirped Miss Bennett, her 
 head, with its second-best false front, very much 
 to one side. '' Anyway, you've lasted out lots o' 
 big strong-lookin' folks, I c'd name. . . . Say, 
 I'm a-goin' t' drape the skirt, back an' front like 
 they make 'em this year. It's awful becomin' t' 
 thin folks. Rutland! I do hope reg'lar bunched 
 overskirts ain't comin' in ag'in. I ust t' pretty 
 nigh go crazy over some o' th' goods that come 
 in th' shop — gettin' 'em t' loop jes' so — talk about 
 loopin' the loop! . . . An' basques with eight 
 seams in back, all boned! R 'member how we ust 
 t' make 'em. Mis' Salter? I'd jes' got ont' a 
 secret way o' shapin' th' darts in front when — 
 pouf ! — they went out o' style, like you'd blow out 
 a candle. . . . Jes' a second, Mis' Salter, till I 
 stick a pin in under the arm an' cut out th' neck 
 a mite. . . . Yes, low necks is goin' t' be wore 
 this season, an' elbow sleeves. . . . I '11 make 'em 
 that way, if you say so. But don't you think — 
 seein' you're so kind o' boney " 
 
 ' ' Anyway, my bones is small, ' ' said Mrs. Salter, 
 with an acrimonious sniff. '^ 'N' that's more'n 
 some folks c'n say." 
 
 *' So they be — awful small an' delicate," con- 
 ceded Miss Bennett, soothingly. " I hardly ever
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 173 
 
 fit anybody with your waist-measure. There ! now 
 I'll git you out o' this, right off." 
 
 Mrs. Salter sank into a chair with a dismal 
 moan. 
 
 * ' You got it off me jest in time, Malvina, ' ' she 
 announced, weakly. *' One minute more 'n' I'd 
 a-keeled right over! Now when c'n I expect this 
 dress? I'm in kind of a hurry, because Mr. Sal- 
 ter's first wife's aunt is comin' t' visit, an' of 
 course I want t' look nice fer her." 
 
 Miss Bennett was setting long basting stitches, 
 her thin lips puckered over a mouthful of pins. 
 
 *' Le' me see," she mumbled, a glint of antici- 
 patory joy in her eyes. " T '-morrow I'm goin* 
 out t' sew. I hadn't any idee o' doin' sech a 
 thing. Es a rule, I only take in; but t' accommy- 
 date " 
 
 '* Well, I want t' know," commented Mrs. Sal- 
 ter, acidly. " An' me a-trudgin' over here t' be 
 fitted, with my weak heart " 
 
 *' It come b' letter, in th' mail," Miss Bennett 
 went on, pausing to restore the pins to her cushion 
 in full enjoyment of the dramatic interval. 
 
 '' Well; you was sayin' it come in th' mail,'* 
 prompted Mrs. Salter, with a hacking cough, in- 
 dicative of suppressed exasperation. 
 
 *' You c'd 'a' knocked me down with a 
 feather! " stated Miss Bennett, searching busily 
 among the properties on her table. . . . " Did 
 you bring over any hooks- 'n '-eyes, Mis' Salter! "
 
 174 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 " Yes, I did; a full card. They was the new 
 kind you can't undo unless you try real hard." 
 
 ' '■ Oh, yes ; here they be. . . . But the ' seems 
 t' be two gone." 
 
 Mrs. Salter pinned her collar with an indignant 
 glance at the dressmaker. 
 
 '■ ' It was a full card, ' ' she repeated, ' ' right out 
 th' store." 
 
 '* Oh, I r 'member; I sewed two of 'em on your 
 waist a 'ready. Now le' me see; I'll work on your 
 dress t'-day — ^when I ain't busy with fittin's. . . . 
 Mis' Eeveren' Pettibone's comin' in this aft 'noon. 
 She's b'en there o' course; so she c'n tell me. I 
 always hate t' sew fer strangers, unless I know 
 somethin' 'bout 'em, good er bad." 
 
 Mrs. Salter put on her hat, jabbing home the 
 large rhinestone pins with the effect of skewers. 
 
 '^ Who under th' canopy be you talkin' about, 
 Malvina Bennett? " she inquired, with acrimony. 
 ** You run on so kind of wild an' ramblin' a body 
 might think you was losin' your mind." 
 
 Miss Bennett smiled complacently, but her black 
 eyes snapped. 
 
 *' Oh, I guess I got my faculties, all right," she 
 said, demurely. '' But speakin' o' crazy folks; 
 hev you beared whether the woman that lives up 
 to th' old Eggleston place is in her right mind? 
 I dunno 's I'd want t' go, if " 
 
 " My grief! You ain't goin' there t' sew? "
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 175 
 
 '* M-m-huh," murmured Miss Bennett, rendered 
 once more temporarily speechless with pins. 
 
 Mrs. Salter gently chafed the end of her thin 
 nose with a highly-starched and perfumed pocket 
 handkerchief, which she slowly unfolded from a 
 rigid blue-white square. 
 
 " Well, of course, Mr. Salter hes been goin' up 
 there reg'lar ever sence they come, so I don't 
 s'pose the's anybody in town knows any more 
 about 'em 'an I do, when it comes t' that." 
 
 ^' M-m-m? " interrogated Miss Bennett, gazing 
 at her customer over the top of her spectacles. 
 
 " They buy quite a bill o' groceries every 
 week," pursued Mrs. Salter, moving toward the 
 door. '^ Well, I guess I'll be going now. When 
 you git my dress done " 
 
 " Don't be in sech a hurry, Mis' Salter, I was 
 goin' t' tell you, you'll hev t' come in th' last 
 o' th' week t' try on that waist ag'in after I 
 put in th' paddin'. A mite too much or too 
 little makes an awful sight o' difference in th' 
 set." 
 
 " I s'pose you've heard Milly Orne's helpin' out 
 up there t' th' farm? " vouchsafed Mrs. Salter, 
 her hand on the door. " They treat her like a 
 common hired-girl; Obed says, she eats off the 
 kitchen-table. Ef I was you, I 'd ' ' 
 
 ^' You don't hev t' worry none about her,'* 
 chirped Miss Bennett. "Me 'n' Milly gits along 
 first rate. Th' ain't a nicer girl in this town."
 
 176 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 *' Well, you'll find Milly Orne won't hev nothin* 
 t' say 'bout th' folks she works for," sniffed Mrs. 
 Salter. '' She ain't hardly said aye, yes er no t' 
 Mr. Salter, fer all he goes there s' constant, an' 
 him takin' an int'rest, an' like that. But Obed he 
 ain't no kind of hand t' notice what folks wear. 
 * Can't you tell me! ' I sez, patient, ' what Mis' 
 Hill had on when she come out in th' kitchen t' 
 giv* you th' order? ' 'N' Obed, he shakes his 
 head. ' I think it was somethin' kind o' drab,' he 
 sez, uncertain, ' with white on it, er black — I disre- 
 member which.' But the' was one thing he did 
 take notice of; the young lady give him a letter t' 
 mail last Monday, jes' 's he was goin' out the gate. 
 She was standin' there, hid b'hind a big bush 
 waitin' fer him t' come out. Obed says her eyes 
 was big an' scared-lookin', an' she kep' a-twistin' 
 her head back toward th' house, 's if she expected 
 somebody might be lookin'." 
 
 ' ' Did he take the letter ? ' 'inquired Miss Ben- 
 nett, with breathless interest. 
 
 ' ' Yes ; he did. But no sooner had he driv ' out 
 the gate, with the letter in his pocket 'an he heard 
 somebody a-hollerin' after him. It was Mis' 
 Hill. She's kind of fleshy, Obed says, but fer all 
 that she run like a deer. ' I f ergot somethin',' 
 she says, pantin' like she'd hev a stroke. It was a 
 bottle of some queer kind of sauce. They certainly 
 do eat the most outlandish vittles. I don't see how 
 Milly Orne c'n do their cookin'."
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 177 
 
 *' Well? "murmured Miss Bennett, with a touch 
 of impatience. 
 
 Mrs. Salter sucked in her thin lips with an air of 
 virtuous reserve. " I guess I'd better say no 
 more. It ain't none o' our business, es Obed says, 
 if she did want t' git the letter back." 
 
 '' But the' can't nobody help takin' an int'rest," 
 broke in the little dressmaker, eagerly. " The's 
 one thing about me, I don 't never gossip. Es I tell 
 Mother, I won't hev no gossipin' in my shop. But 
 the's a big differ 'nee b 'tween gossipin' malicious 
 an ' takin ' a deep int 'rest in folks. A body might 's 
 well be a buried corp, an' done with it, ef we didn't 
 open our mouths t' say a word." 
 
 *' That's th' way I feel," approved the grocer's 
 wife. '* Well, what she'd really come after was 
 that letter. She smiled pleasant, 'n' told Obed it 
 wa'n't directed right, so she'd take it up t' the 
 house an' fix 't. He couldn't do nothin' but give 
 it to her, of course." 
 
 " Who was it d'rected to? " breathed the little 
 dressmaker. 
 
 '* I wish 't I c'd tell you," said Mrs. Salter, 
 resentfully. '' Ef it'd been me, I'd 'a' seen t' 
 that b'fore I put th' letter in my pocket. But 
 Obed, he said he was figgerin' on lookin' at it keer- 
 ful after he'd got out o' sight o' th' house. Ain't 
 that jes' like a man? " 
 
 '' Eggs-ac'Iy! " agreed Miss Bennett, warmly. 
 '' Well, ef she was to ask me t' mail a letter, I'd
 
 178 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 pr'tend I'd lost it, afore I'd give it up. I dunno 
 why but I always feel like takin' tli' part o' th' 
 young folks. Mebbe it's because I feel young 
 inside, fer all I lost m' teeth an' most o' m' 
 hair. ' ' 
 
 '' You might mention casual you'd pass the 
 post-office on th' way home," suggested Mrs. Sal- 
 ter. '' But don't, fer mercy' sake, let on I told 
 you. She might lay it t' me an' stop orderin' off 
 Obed." 
 
 '^ You don't hev to worry none. I guess I'd 
 ought t' know how t' manage all kin's o' folks b' 
 now. Seems 's 'o' men an' women ain't no differ- 
 'nt from hooks 'n' eyes; often an' often I've 
 thought about it, settin' here alone in m' shop. 
 You got t' know how t' match 'em up right, fer one 
 thing, — 'n' it doos seem 's 'o' th' Lord made mis- 
 takes that-a-Avay; puttin' two hooks op 'site 'at 
 won't gibe, n' matter what you do; 'r else sewin' 
 on an eye two sizes too big fer the hook, er " 
 
 ■Mrs. Salter tossed her head, \^ith matronly 
 arrogance. 
 
 " I s'pose an unmarried female does git queer 
 notions, a-livin' alone s' constant," she said, as 
 she opened the door. " But th' can't nobody un- 
 derstand men-folks, 'nless they're married t' one 
 of 'em." 
 
 '' I thank th' Lord I ain't, every night o' my life, 
 on bended knee ! " retaliated the little dressmaker, 
 with spirit. *' When I look 'round this 'ere town
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 179 
 
 an' see the poor, speritless critters, some of 'em 
 actn'ly drove t' drink b' their wives, an' others of 
 'em not earnin' th' vittles they put in their 
 months " 
 
 But Mrs. Salter was already halfway to the 
 gate, her rasped nose uplifted to an outraged 
 heaven. 
 
 Miss Bennett stood on her door-step with a 
 pleasing sense of victory, her faded eyes roving 
 up and down the quiet street. It was pleasant out 
 of doors. For an instant she considered the 
 project of bringing her sewing down to the front 
 stoop for the afternoon, only to abandon it with 
 a sigh. There was her neuralgia for one thing, so 
 inalienable a possession that Miss Bennett was 
 wont to speak of it with pride, as if she had 
 bought and paid for it. She did things on accoimt 
 of her neuralgia, and omitted others, for the same 
 cogent reason. The warm breeze, which shook 
 faint fragrance from the old-fashioned white roses 
 in Miss Bennett's front yard, lifted wisps of the 
 second-best false front from off her wrinkled fore- 
 head with terrifying boldness. 
 
 '' If I was t' set in this breeze," she cogitated, 
 ** m' neuralgia 'd git right up on its year; 'n' I 
 wouldn't sleep a wink with it t '-night. Th' closter 
 I keep it, th' better 'tis." 
 
 As she reached this sacrificial conclusion her 
 eyes lighted upon her erstwhile neighbour, Philura 
 Pettibone, walking swiftly down the street. Miss
 
 180 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Bennett remarked the ' ' set " of her blue foulard 
 with professional interest. 
 
 *' I never done a better job," she told herself. 
 " But it's out o' style, somethin' scandalous." 
 
 The minister's wife unlatched the gate, smiling 
 a greeting over its top at the dressmaker. Her 
 cheeks were pinker than the faded rose in her hat 
 and her blue eyes had a sort of glorified shine. 
 
 "I'm late, I know," she said, as she mounted 
 the steps, *' but Mrs. Puffer and Mrs. Beels came 
 to see me this afternoon and brought all the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 " Fer th' land sake! — not th' Puffer twins 'n* 
 all, I sh'd hope? Was it Mis' Undertaker Beels 
 or her- 'twas- Jane Bascom? Both of 'em's got 
 plenty o' childern." 
 
 ** It was Jane Bascom," said Mrs. Pettibone. 
 " Oh, Malvina ! have you seen her littlest baby? " 
 
 ''Me? No. I ain't," sniffed Miss Bennett. 
 *' Jane bought her last dress ready-made. She 
 hed th' nerve t' stop me right in th' street — her 
 a-wearin' th' dress — an' tell me she didn't hev no 
 time fer gittin' a dress made. She said Sam Beels 
 bought it for her in th' city, b'fore she was up 'n* 
 around. * It looks like it,' I sez, — jes' like that, I 
 sez — castin' my eye down at the hang o' th' skirt. 
 * Well, if you're satisfied,' I sez . . . " 
 
 *' The baby's a girl," murmured Mrs. Petti- 
 bone, softly. 
 
 ' ' Huh ! ' ' commented Miss Bennett. " So 's all
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 181 
 
 her others, ain't they? How many's she got 
 now? " 
 
 " Five; they're all pretty children. — You re- 
 member how pretty Jane used to be, Malvina? 
 But the littlest baby . . . She let me hold 
 it. ..." 
 
 Miss Bennett surveyed her pastor's wife with 
 puzzled interest. 
 
 '^ I didn't know you was s' fond of childern, 
 Philura, ' ' she said, wonderingly. ' ' There ! I went 
 an' f ergot ag'in. Now 'at you're Miss Rev'ren' 
 Pettibone I'd ought t' r 'member t' call you b' that 
 name. The ' ain 't no tellin ' how long you '11 hev it. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone looked startled, and the pink 
 faded a little in her thin cheeks. 
 
 * ' Why what — what do you mean, Malvina ? ' ' 
 
 Miss Bennett turned and began the ascent of the 
 narrow stair. 
 
 " I can't stan' out here no longer in this wind, 
 with m' neuralgia," she said, over her shoulder. 
 '' Come right on up; your waist's all basted an' 
 ready t' try on." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone did not repeat her question ; but 
 her face still wore a troubled look as she obedi- 
 ently surveyed her small figure in Miss Bennett's 
 mirror. 
 
 ** Now don't you go t' worryin' 'bout what I 
 said," advised Miss Bennett, as she pinned in a 
 sleeve. ' ' I dunno what p 'sessed me ; but you kind
 
 182 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 o' put me in mind o' your lius 'ban's first wife, jes* 
 f er a minute. ' ' 
 
 ** I — ^put you in mind " 
 
 ** Oh, you don't look none like th' first Mis* 
 Pettibone — no more'n I do. 'N' I guess I'd 
 oughtn't t' name her to you, anyhow." 
 
 < ' Why not ? ' ' asked the second Mrs. Pettibone, 
 in a small, weak voice. " Why shouldn't you 
 speak of her — to me? " 
 
 '* Oh, I dunno. Some folks don't like t' think 
 the' was anybody b'fore 'em; like an ostridge 
 stickin' their heads in the sand, I say. I r 'mem- 
 ber Mis' Gus Bogert, she-'twas-Emiline Post. 
 Em 'line was his third. When she was first mar- 
 ried she went 'round the house sly, huntin' up 
 all the photos of th' other two, an' fas' 's she 
 found 'em she burnt 'em up in th' kitchen stove. 
 Gus, he'd had a big crayon portrait of his first 
 wife made an' hung up in th' parlour; an' the 
 secon' Mis' Bogert — she-'twas-Minnie Fisher — 
 left it hangin' right over the sofy all durin' her 
 time. But Em 'line took it down when Gus was off 
 on one o' his trips. She didn't das t' burn it; but 
 she put it up in th' attic, way in under th' eaves, 
 an' hung up in place of it a real nice premium 
 pictur' she'd got fer soap-wrappers. It was of a 
 lady, I r 'member, drest in red, low-neck-an '-short- 
 sleeves, lookin' roguish t' one side of a big black 
 fan. 'Twas real han'some, 'n' a sight cheerfuller 
 'n' th' crayon pictur' o' th' first Mis' Bogert.
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 183 
 
 Well, purty soon, back comes Gus f'om Ms trip 
 an' marches in tli' parlour, with Em 'line taggin' 
 b'hind, s' nervous she didn't know which f'om 
 tother. Gus looks 'round casual an' takes out his 
 pipe an' fills it — Em 'line watchin' him like a cat 
 would a mouse. ' Seem good t' git home, Gus? ' 
 sez she, innercent. ' You bet,' sez he; an' sets 
 down in th' patent rocker an' begins smokin' his 
 pipe. Bimeby, he sez, soft, like he was speakin' 
 t' hisself, ' I never knowed what I lost when I 
 buried th' first Mis' Bogert;' an' he sighs heavy, 
 lookin' up at th' pictur' o' th' lady in th' red 
 dress. ' She certainly was the han'somest o' th' 
 three! ' he sez, thoughtful; 'an' th' wa'n't a 
 selfish hair in her head.' . . . Now, Mis' Petti- 
 bone, ef you'll take this waist off an' put a shawl 
 'round you fer jest a minute, I'll stitch up the 
 seams an' give it another try-on, then you won't 
 hev t' come ag'in. . . . Well, Em 'line, she stood 
 it fer jes' three days. Every time Gus come in th' 
 house he'd go an' stan' mournful in front o' th' 
 pictur' of the lady in th' red low-neck-an '-short- 
 sleeve dress. She hed beaut 'ful neck an' arms, 
 white an' round, an' a little more ^howin' than 
 ought t' b' rights, while Em'line was dark com- 
 plected an' hed all her dress- waists padded out t' 
 make 'em look anyhow. . . . Good land! did I 
 stick you with a pin ? I 'd ought t ' be more keerf ul. 
 Now you set right down, Philura, an' look at the 
 fashions. I won't be a minute."
 
 184 THE HEAET OF PPIILURA 
 
 The sound of the sewing-machine driven at 
 furious speed filled the silence while Mrs. Petti- 
 bone gazed unseeingly at the picture of a very 
 tall, pink and white lady in a low-necked gown. 
 She was seeing, instead, an old-fashioned photo- 
 graph of a woman, with sweet, wistful eyes, and a 
 full curl of dark hair lying softly across her round 
 white neck. 
 
 " There! " said Miss Bennett, snapping off the 
 threads. *' Now I'll slip this on an' see how 'tis. 
 . . . You don 't seem t ' gain much flesh. Mis ' Pet- 
 tibone, 'n' ef you don't mind I'm goin' V slip in 
 jest a mite o' cotton under the linin'. . . . You'd 
 ruther not ? Oh, all right, I c'n loosen up th' goods 
 an' put a draped fichu across th' front. They're 
 wearin' 'em this season, 'n' they're a real god- 
 send t' thin folks, like you an' Em 'line Bogert. 
 . . . An' that puts me in mind; I didn't tell you 
 what Em 'line done about th' pictur' ; did If Well, 
 as I was sayin', she stood it fer three long days; 
 then one mornin' when Gus was t' th' store she 
 took down th' pictur' o' th' beautiful lady with th' 
 black fan — she'd come t' hate it b' now — an' took 
 it up t' th' attic and shoved it way back in under 
 th ' eaves. But the crayon portrait o ' th ' first Mis ' 
 Bogert she carried downstairs 'n' washed its glass 
 keerful and hung it up over th' sofy. She told 
 me afterwards — when I was there makin' up her 
 mournin' for Gus, it looked real good t' see it 
 there. Sez she, earnest, ' I never knowed th' first
 
 MALVINA POINTS A MORAL 185 
 
 Mis' Bogert; but I felt like she was a sister.' 'N' 
 come t' look, the pictur' wa'n't s' differ 'nt f'om 
 Em 'line herself, bein' dark complected an' flat- 
 chested, 'n' like that, with her hair done up on top 
 an' hairpin frizzes. Em 'line never took it down 
 no more, 'xcept at house-cleanin' time. 'N' at 
 Gus' funeral some of us noticed she'd put a wreath 
 o' white everlastin's on th' frame." . . . 
 
 The minister's wife had already reached the 
 gate when she paused, aware of the patter of Miss 
 Bennett's slippered feet in swift pursuit. 
 
 '' Land! ef I didn't ferget t' ask you 'bout them 
 folks up t' th' Eggleston place," said the little 
 dressmaker, '' 'n' I hed it in mind, special; but 
 speakin' of the third Mis' Bogert sort o' shoved 
 it back, like you will a paper pattern when you're 
 lookin' fer somethin' else in the bureau drawer! " 
 
 But Mrs. Pettibone appeared unable to add to 
 Miss Bennett's meagre store of information. 
 
 " D' you mean t' tell me, Philura Eice, 'at you 
 don't know 't all what kind o' folks they be? " 
 cross-questioned Miss Bennett, sternly, "an' you 
 a-goin' there twict, a 'ready*? You must 'a' 
 noticed somethin'; ef they're real dressy folks — 
 them that has silk linin's to their every-day 
 clo'es, an' like that; or ef they're the sort that 
 wears ready-mades fer best. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone considered gravely, her hand on 
 the gate. 
 
 *' Mrs. Hill impressed me as being a person of
 
 186 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 means, and — yes, education, ' ' slie said, with digni- 
 fied reserve. 
 
 *' Well? " prompted Miss Bennett, easting her 
 apron over her head in tardy recognition of her 
 neuralgia. *' Shall I wear m' best hair-front an' 
 m' black Henrietta for 'em, er put on m' ol' 
 brown? " 
 
 ' ' They 're not — very social , people, I should 
 say," hesitated Mrs. Pettibone, at a loss to inter- 
 pret Miss Bennett's question. 
 
 " Huh ! stuck up an' proud," inferred the dress- 
 maker. ^' Jes' th' same, I shall wear m' Sunday- 
 go-t'-meetin's. Let 'em know first off I'm full 
 es good es they be, ef I do sew fer a livin'. I c'n 
 pertect m' Henrietta with an apron; 'n' I don't 
 keer ef it takes a week t' pick th' threads off." 
 
 And with that she turned and marched into the 
 house.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA? 
 
 MiLLY Orne opened the front door of the old Eg- 
 gieston house to Miss Bennett's ring early the 
 next morning. The girl looked very fresh and 
 rosy as she smiled a discreet welcome. 
 
 " You are to come right upstairs," she said, 
 interrupting Miss Bennett's conlQdent progress 
 toward the living-room. " Everything's ready 
 for you up there. ' ' 
 
 Miss Bennett bristled slightly. 
 
 *' I always ust t' sew fer Miss Minerva in th* 
 settin'-room," she observed, as she followed Milly 
 up the stair. '' The' sewin' m 'chine was there, 
 'n' every thin' handy. I r 'member I made her 
 weddin' dress. . . . What's the matter? " she 
 interrupted herself in a loud buzzing whisper. 
 '' Anybody sick? " 
 
 Milly shook her head. 
 
 '^ They don't like any noise about the house,'* 
 she explained, as she ushered the dressmaker into 
 a small room at the back of the house. 
 
 ** Noise? " repeated Miss Bennett, adjusting 
 her church toilet with little pulls and pats. 
 '' Noise! Well, I d'clare; I didn't realise 'at I 
 was so t' say, noisy. Where's Mis' Hill? " 
 
 187
 
 188 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 Milly explained that Mrs. Hill had not yet 
 breakfasted, and would Miss Bennett have some 
 coffee before beginning work? 
 
 '' Might be's good a way 's any t' git ac- 
 quainted," mused the little dressmaker. " I can't 
 sew ha'f s' well fer strangers 's fer folks I know; 
 s' I don't mind ef I do." 
 
 A bright pink overspread Milly 's young face. 
 She laid a coaxing hand upon Miss Bennett's arm. 
 
 '' I — I'll bring it to you up here," she said, '' on 
 — on a tray. That would be pleasanter; wouldn't 
 it? " 
 
 ^' Well; I want t' know! " piped Miss Bennett. 
 *' That stylish idee never came out o' your head, 
 Milly Orne. . . .An' that's th' kind Mis' Hill 
 is, huh? "Well, I dunno 's I keer; forewarned 's 
 forearmed; 'n' I c'n be full es sarcastic 'n' like 
 that es th' next one. But I don't want no coffee. 
 You c'n tell Mis' Hill, when you go downstairs. 
 Tell her I et m' breakfas' t' home, same es usual, 
 'n' you c'n say Miss Malvina Bennett's perfec'ly 
 able t' walk downstairs soon es it comes dinner- 
 time." 
 
 When Mrs. Hill finally appeared at the door of 
 the back bedroom which she had ordered Milly 
 to make ready for the sewing, it was to find Miss 
 Malvina Bennett rocking her best frizzed front 
 and her black Henrietta back and forth in front 
 of the window with well-simulated ease. 
 
 *' You are the seamstress," inferred Mrs. Hill,
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA! 189 
 
 briskly; '' Miss — er — Bennett. Our grocer told 
 me of yon. You can make a plain morning-gown, 
 I suppose? " 
 
 Miss Bennett gazed searchingly at the strange 
 woman's tall, stout figure over tlie top of her spec- 
 tacles. She saw at a glance that she was wearing 
 a real linen, hand-embroidered dress. 
 
 " Made up f 'om a imported robe-pattern," she 
 told herself. " Cost fifteen, ninety-eight, I 
 shouldn't wonder." 
 
 Aloud she said dryly. 
 
 '' I guess I c'd make out, ef I was t' try. I 
 sewed fer th' best people since I was fifteen : Mis' 
 Deaconess Buckthorn, Mis' Rev'ren' Pettibone 
 an' " 
 
 " I have a pattern," interrupted Mrs. Hill, 
 " which may serve to guide you." 
 
 Miss Bennett negligently indicated a pile of 
 gaudily illustrated fashion-books. 
 
 " I brought 'em along thinkin' likely you 
 wouldn't 'a' seen 'em," she said, loftily. 
 '^ They're the latest f'om Noo York an' Paris: all 
 you got 't do is t' pick an' choose the pictur' you 
 like th' looks of. I don't need no patterns. I got 
 m' own system." 
 
 ** The dress is for my son's wife, Mrs. Walter 
 Hill. You — I suppose Mrs. Pettibone has spoken 
 toyouof— Mrs. Hill? " 
 
 Miss Bennett shook her head, her lips com- 
 pressed to a thin line.
 
 190 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 " I don't never gossip," she said, decidedly. 
 " In m' shop, or when I go out — which ain't often, 
 an' only t' accomydate special, like of course t' 
 you. I ain't no news-getherer. Anybody 'at 
 knows me '11 tell you that." 
 
 Mrs. Hill turned abruptly from the bureau- 
 drawer whose contents she was laying out upon a 
 small table. 
 
 ^' That is a very good rule for a seamstress to 
 make for herself, ' ' she said, coldly. 
 
 " 'Tain't a bad one fer other folks, when it 
 comes t' that," cackled Miss Bennett. '' But I 
 ain't what you'd call a seamstress. I'm a reg'lar 
 dressmaker. Now, ef you'll jes' bring the young 
 lady here till I c'n git her measures, I c'n be 
 draughtin' a pattern. I don't like t' let m' time 
 run t' waste." 
 
 Miss Bennett's head was tilted slightly to one 
 side ; she gazed aggressively at the woman in the 
 hand-embroidered linen gown. 
 
 '' Fer two cents," she told herself, "I'd walk 
 down them stairs 'n' out th' front door. She don't 
 like m' looks, 'n' she hates like p'ison t' fetch the 
 young woman where I c'n talk t' her. Like enough 
 she's got somethin' hid, an' she's tryin' desp'rit' 
 hard t' pertend she ain't. She's a hard, selfish 
 woman, er I lose my guess. But mebbe I b'en 
 sent, who knows? " 
 
 Aloud she said, briskly: 
 
 *' I can't do nothin' till I take them measures."
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA? 191 
 
 Mrs. Hill moved toward the door. 
 
 '' I'll call my daughter," she said, her full dark 
 eyes sweeping the little dressmaker with cold dis- 
 taste. 
 
 Left to herself, Miss Bennett took a leisurely 
 survey of the materials laid out upon the bed and 
 bureau, and her spirits rose. 
 
 '' Anyhow, she ain't no ways stingy," she said, 
 aloud, as she measured off breadths of thin blue 
 stuff, lengths of embroidery, and noted approv- 
 ingly the number of spools of silk, bolts of ribbon, 
 and cards of buttons. " That goods '11 make up 
 reel pretty an' dressy, once I git m' sheers int' 
 it." 
 
 Ten minutes more passed happily in a search 
 through the fashion-books in pursuit of what Miss 
 Bennett called ' '■ negii-gees. ' ' These were numer- 
 ous and attractive ; but the study of them palled 
 after a while. 
 
 '' My stars alive! " exclaimed the little dress- 
 maker, indignantly. '' That woman mus' think 
 I*m workin' b' th' piece. Well, she'll find she's 
 good an' mistaken; when I go out special t' ac- 
 commydate, it's b' th' day, whether I set sewin' 
 er idle." 
 
 She tiptoed cautiously to the door and applied 
 her ear to the keyhole. No sound came from the 
 passage without. Then she boldly opened the 
 door. 
 
 *' I didn't make no contrac' t' stay in this one
 
 192 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 room constant, 't I know of," she muttered, as she 
 stepped out. '* Land ! I guess they clean f ergot I 
 was here." 
 
 Open doors to the right and left revealed bed- 
 rooms, into which breeze and sun streamed cheer- 
 fully. Miss Bennett's bird-like glance took swift 
 note of snowy bed-linen and the glisten of silver 
 and ivory toilet articles as she stole hesitatingly 
 toward the stair. She was thinking she would find 
 Milly ; Milly would know ; when, suddenly, a voice 
 from the hall below broke the silence. It was low 
 and tense. 
 
 '' Walter — Walter! What are you doing? " 
 
 " What am I doing? What d' you suppose? — 
 Reading a dreary novel, as usual," came the reply, 
 in a man's drawling voice. 
 
 *' Where is Sylvia? I left her here with you. 
 I can't find her anywhere." 
 
 '' You left her Poor old girl; isn't she to 
 
 stroll in the garden, even, if she feels like it? " 
 
 ''No! Not alone. You know I never " 
 
 *' Yes; I know. And, see here. Mother; let me 
 tell you, you're making a big mistake " 
 
 '' You say she went out? When? " 
 
 '' Not ten minutes ago. Good Lord! Mother, 
 one would think " 
 
 " Go look for her, quick — quick, I say! Take 
 your horse." 
 
 Miss Bennett beat a noiseless retreat at sound 
 of a hurried foot on the stair. She sat turning
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA? 193 
 
 over the leaves of a fashion-book by the window 
 when Mrs. Hill appeared. The woman's large 
 face wore a determined smile. 
 
 " Has — have you seen anything of young Mrs. 
 Hill? " she asked, her eyes searching the room. 
 *' I thought perhaps " 
 
 "No; she ain't b'en here," replied Miss Ben- 
 nett. '' Mebbe she's gone t' walk. I seen some- 
 body in a pink dress, a spell ago, cuttin' across th* 
 back lot. It's nice an' cool in under the trees a 
 day like this." 
 
 Mrs. Hill's plump hand sought her heart, with 
 an uncertain gesture. She sank down in a chair, 
 while a flood of dull purple swept over her pallid 
 face. 
 
 " It's — it's very warm," she stammered, 
 thickly. • ' I— feel the heat. ' ' 
 
 '' I guess you b'en dashin' 'round consid'able, 
 lookin' fer young Mis' Hill," hazarded Miss Ben- 
 nett, kindly. " Why not let me an' Milly go look 
 fer her? We're both of us light on our feet. 
 Fleshy folks 'at wears their clo'es too tight " 
 
 The woman was staring at her dully. 
 
 '' Yes; go — go, quick! You saw her — she had 
 on a pink dress; I — can't " 
 
 Milly Orne dropped the spoon with which she 
 was stirring some fragrant compound, at Miss 
 Bennett's first explanatory word. The dress- 
 maker stood staring in amazement at the girl's 
 swift flight in the direction she had indicated.
 
 194 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 '' I want t' know! " cogitated Miss Bennett, 
 as slie followed at a more leisurely pace. 
 
 " What in under the canopy c'n be the matter 
 with young Mis' Hill t' set everybody b' th' years 
 like that? She mus' be crazy, er somethin'." 
 
 With due regard to the black Henrietta cloth 
 in which she was attired, Miss Malvina avoided 
 the fence at the rear of the old pasture. There 
 was a gate, she knew, farther on ; and beyond the 
 gate a path leading through a daisied meadow. 
 
 '^ Well, I d'clare," she murmured. " Ef I was 
 free 'n' idle t' walk right out in th' flowers like 
 this, seems 's 'o' I'd be happy. I dunno when I've 
 b'en out in th' reel country like this, a-walkin'." 
 
 There were wild strawberries ripening in the 
 meadow; Miss Malvina could smell them, as shei 
 hurried along the path, her black skirts swishing 
 the tall grass on either side. 
 
 " What 'd I giv' t' hev on an ol' calico dress 'n* 
 wade right int' th' grass a-strawb'ryin'! " she 
 said to herself. " I ain't hed a chanct t' do 
 nothin' like that since I c'n r 'member . . . 'n' 
 wild strawb'ry shortcake, with cream — m-m-m! " 
 
 There was a glint of pink showing beside a big 
 grey rock a dozen rods ahead. Miss Malvina 
 strained her faded eyes hopefully. But it was 
 only a wild rose in a glory of evanescent bloom. 
 Around the shoulder of the hill was the placid 
 pool, known as Eggleston's Pond. 
 
 " I wonder ef she could 'a' gone there? " pon-
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA? 195 
 
 dered Miss Malvina, and all unconsciously quick- 
 ened her steps. " The water-lilies 'ud be in blow. 
 Mebbe — mebbe. . . . " 
 
 And now Miss Malvina caught the glint of blue 
 water amid the soft green of willows, crowding 
 like eager children to the water's edge among the 
 sturdy trunks of oaks and beeches. And, yes, 
 she saw a motionless blur of warm rose, on the 
 brink of the pond. There was a big rock there, 
 shouldering boldly out into the pool, and beneath 
 its shadow the water lay deep and dark. The lit- 
 tle dressmaker stooped to gather a spray of wild 
 roses, her heart beating in her throat. 
 
 '' I got to be kind o' keerless, es if I was out 
 fer pleasure 'n' jes' run acrost her casual," she 
 told herself. " The' ain't no tellin' what's in 
 that poor young creeter's mind — a-settin' there 
 lonesome on the edge o' that water. But f'om 
 what I seen an' heard a 'ready, I sh'd say she 
 didn't hev it none too pleasant t' home, what with 
 a husban' like that Walter, an' a ma-in- 
 law. ..." 
 
 At Miss Bennett's approach the girl lifted dull, 
 abstracted eyes from her fixed contemplation of 
 the pool. But she did not speak. 
 
 "Good land!" cried Miss Malvina, briskly. 
 " You cert'nly hev found a nice cool place t' set 
 down an' rest, ain't you? It's real warm in the 
 sun. ... I s'pose you're young Mis' Hill. My 
 name's Bennett — Miss Malvina Bennett. 'N' I
 
 196 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 come up f om the village this mornin' a-purpose 
 t' make a dress fer you. But come t' take your 
 measures, we couldn't find you nowhere; an' your 
 ma-in-law, she sez. . . . " 
 
 The girl hunched a sullen shoulder toward the 
 loquacious little dressmaker, her dark eyes again 
 seeking the silent, mysterious depths on whose 
 brink she was crouching. 
 
 " You won't mind ef I set down a minute t' 
 git cooled off, will you? " continued Miss Malvina, 
 rather breathlessly. " I sez t' your ma-in-law, 
 ' I'll step out an' cast m' eye around,' I sez. She 
 was all het up an' excited. I s'pose she kind o* 
 hated to see me a-settin' there idle, b' th' day at 
 that. But o' course I couldn't put m' shears t' 
 th' goods without I took your measures. Thinks 
 I, I bet that young lady's gone after water- 
 lilies. Ain't they han'some though? Makes me 
 think of a night-bloomin' cactus 'at Mis' Dea- 
 coness Scrimger lied one time. Ever see one? 
 They call it Serious 'cause it don't never open 
 'xcept at night. But I think I like the day- 
 bloomin' flowers best. They're cheerful. The's 
 a reg'lar little sun-burst in every one o' them 
 lilies; did y' ever take notice? Land! I wish I 
 hed a scow. We'd git some of 'em t' take home. 
 The' ust t' be a fishin'-boat tied t' th' willows on 
 th' other side; but I see it's sunk t' th' bottom." 
 
 The girl sighed uncertainly. It was a piteous 
 sound, suggesting a spent sob. Miss Malvina put
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA? 197 
 
 out her worn little hand and touched the girl 
 gently. 
 
 '* Now, you come on home with me, Mis' Hill," 
 she said, coaxingly. '' 'N' we'll make up that 
 han'some goods int' th' purtiest dress we c'n find 
 in th' pictur's. Th's a lady in colours on th' out- 
 side cover 'at looks a lot like you " 
 
 '' I — I don't want any dress," said the girl, in 
 a low, smothered voice. '' Go away, please; and 
 — and don't tell Mother where I am." 
 
 Miss Malvina pushed back her best frizzed 
 front from a forehead on which beads of perspira- 
 tion were beginning to glisten. 
 
 '' Ef I do," she said, desperately, " like es not 
 you'd git dizzy an' fall in that there water. It's 
 awful deep, right b' that stone. I know, 'cause a 
 boy, he got drownded there, when I was a girl. 
 Land! ef I was Philura Rice — her- 'twas; she's 
 Mis' Rev'ren' Pettibone, now — she'd know what 
 t' say. She'd tell you cheerful 'bout th' All-En- 
 circlin' Good, with everythin' you want in it, 
 ready t' your han'. Ef it's folks you want special, 
 er clo'es 'n' like that. Philura found her husban' 
 that way; he was right there all the time, being 
 th' pastor. But he'd no more 'a' thought o' mar- 
 rying Philura Rice; an' I'll stick t' that t' m' 
 dyin' day. But b'lie\an', the way she done, sort 
 o' drawed him right to her. He couldn't no more 
 'a' helped bein' drawed 'an a tack c'n help stickin' 
 to one o' these 'ere magnums. . . . You know;
 
 198 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 they're shaped like a horse-shoe, an' painted red. 
 I got one t' my house, with nails a-hangin' to it 
 like they was glued." 
 
 The girl had turned and was staring, wide- 
 eyed. 
 
 " You say she found — her husband? "Was he 
 lost? When — where was he? " 
 
 Miss Malvina drew a deep breath. 
 
 " We c'n be talkin' whilst we walk along," she 
 suggested, cheerfully. '^ Mebbe somebody er 
 other '11 come on us sudden, ef we set here any 
 longer. ' ' 
 
 The girl rose obediently. She seemed to have 
 forgotten the dark lure of the water. 
 
 " You'll hev t' go an' see Mis' Pettibone fer 
 yourself," went on Malvina Bennett. " Ask her 
 t' tell you. I don't rightly understan' all th' is 
 to it. But es nigh es I c'd make out, th' Eev'ren' 
 Pettibone, he was in the Encirclin' Good — every- 
 body's in it; you an' me, 'n' your hus'ban', 'n' 
 even your ma-in-law — though like enough she 
 don't sense it. Most folks don't. He was in it; 
 'n' Philura, bein', so t' say, alone in the world 
 an' kind of Ion 'some, jus' drawed him t' her b' 
 her thoughts. ' It's 'nough t' scare a body t' 
 think what they c'n do jest b' thinkin' keerless,' I 
 sez t' Philura. ' I wouldn't das t' advertise fer 
 no man that-a-way,' sez I, ' fer fear he'd show 
 Tip, 'n' I wouldn't like him when he come.' . . . 
 Look there! Ef there ain't your ma-in-law. She
 
 WHERE IS SYLVIA? 199 
 
 sees us. Now, you want t' chirk right up. Don't 
 go off no more b' yourself. When you git that 
 new dress, all made up stylish, come down t' the 
 village an' see Mis' Eev'ren' Pettibone. She's 
 an awful interestin' woman an' she'll tell you how 
 t' git anythin' out th' atmosphere you want. 
 . . . 'N' say, I pass th' i^ost-office on m' way 
 home. I thought I'd mention it, in case you was 
 writin' t' any o' your frien's " 
 
 The older Mrs. Hill was close upon them. 
 
 '' Sylvia! " she cried, her breath coming in 
 great gasps. " Sylvia! " 
 
 The girl looked at her from under mutinous 
 brows. 
 
 " Good land. Mis' Hill, th' wasn't no need of 
 your gittin' all het up! " expostulated Miss Ben- 
 nett. " I ain't going t' charge ye a cent fer th' 
 time I spent walkin' out. Me an' young Mis' Hill 
 enjoyed every minute of it; didn't we. Mis' Hill? 
 a-lookin' at th' water-lilies an' all. . . . " 
 
 It was dusk, with a glimmer of fire-flies in the 
 dark trees, when Miss Malvina, carrying a flat 
 paper parcel, hurried along the narrow road 
 leading to the village. She had done a good day's 
 work, she knew; and in the pocket of her dress 
 reposed a letter, slipped unseen into her hand as 
 she draped the runaway of the morning with be- 
 coming folds of the dark blue stuff. 
 
 "I c'n finish this 'ere dress to home in m' 
 shop," she had explained to her new patron.
 
 200 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 ^' 'N' I'd a siglit rutlier do it, not relisliin' m' 
 vittles et solitary off a tray, like I was sick a-bed, 
 wMch thank tli' Lord I'm well, 'n' expect t' be, 
 D. V. — es Miss Deaconess Buckthorn always says 
 pious. I 'spose it stan's for ' don't ventilate;' 
 'n' I will say, too many draughts ain't good fer m' 
 neuralgia." 
 
 Arrived at last under the glaring arc-light 
 which the enterprising citizens of Innisfield had 
 placed directly in front of the post-office, Miss 
 Malvina slowly drew the letter from her pocket. 
 
 " Ef I was t' giv' one look at th' writin'," she 
 reflected, '' I couldn't no more help speakin' of 
 it, 'an a sparrer c'n help chirpin'. So I guess I'll 
 jus' shet my eyes, whilst I " 
 
 A depressing sense of the irreparable swept 
 over Miss Malvina, as she turned slowly away, 
 after hearing the letter flop smartly against the 
 bottom of the official box. 
 
 '' 'Tain't human not t' wonder who it's to," 
 she breathed. " 'N' I don't s'pose she'd 'a' 
 cared a mite, neither — me takin' an int'rest 'n' 
 like that. Anyway, that ma-in-law o' hern '11 
 never git her ban's onto it. It's U. S. Mail, f 'om 
 now on. 'N' I done m' best."
 
 CHAPTER XVni 
 
 WINGS OF THE MORNING 
 
 There are nights in summer wMcli are not meant 
 to be wasted in sleep, for a magical veil, woven 
 from moonlight and dew and the fragrance of a 
 million flowers, transfigures the prosaic world of 
 labour and sorrow into a place of wondrous de- 
 light. On nights like this, one who foregoes his 
 sleep to wander forth into the enchanted land of 
 faerie may see and hear much that is hid from the 
 wise and prudent, who tarry bed-fast till day- 
 break. Under the roof of the old Eggleston 
 house, Milly Orne lay wide-eyed in her narrow 
 bed; outside her window in the topmost branches 
 of a blossoming catalpa a bird sang drowsily 
 sweet snatches of matin song. A pair of cat- 
 birds were nesting there, and the little bro^\Ti 
 father of the fledglings safely folded under the 
 mother's breast waked and slept on his s\\dnging 
 bough, and waked again in the broad light of the 
 moon to ease his heart of its dream of love. 
 
 " It must be near morning," thought Milly, who 
 also had slept fitfully, being dimly aware of the 
 moonlight flooding her dingy little room and of 
 the bird-song and fragrance beneath her window. 
 
 She arose, after a little, and bound her long 
 
 201
 
 202 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 hair about her head. If at night-fall she had felt 
 weariness and the leaden desire to sleep, both 
 had vanished, leaving her wondrous strong and 
 light of heart. She thought with sudden longing 
 of the garden Grandfather Orne had pridefully 
 laid out for Grandmother back in the fifties. It 
 had been sadly neglected in Milly 's absence, lusty 
 weeds flaunting their coarse leaves in the queer 
 old-fashioned rounds and squares sacred to the 
 delicate blossoms of bluebells, lilies, and sweet- 
 williams. It would .soon be daylight (thought 
 Milly), but surely the night was her own to do 
 with as she willed. — And so, almost before she 
 :was aware of her resolution, she had passed 
 softly through the sleeping house and out into the 
 magical night. 
 
 High in the bridal white of his chamber the bird 
 trilled softly, while half-hid in the unshorn grass 
 dew-drenched sprays of honeysuckle and roses 
 yielded their perfume as the girl's light garments 
 brushed past them. Like a spirit she flitted down 
 the long avenue of trees, unaware of following 
 eyes as wakeful as her own. 
 
 The two old people lay heavily asleep in their 
 bedroom next the kitchen. Milly paused under 
 their window, propped open a hand's breadth, 
 and listened, smiling, to the raucous concert of 
 their breathing. The old dog had roused from 
 his mat on the doorstep with a smothered bark, 
 only to whine and fondle the hand held out to him.
 
 WINGS OF THE MOENING 203 
 
 Perhaps he was well used to seeing a sweet young 
 ghost flitting among the flowers of a moonlight 
 night, for he retreated to his place and lay down, 
 his wise old head on his paws, his eyes, which 
 saw things not to be uttered or understood, fol- 
 lowing the movements of the girl. 
 
 It was no easy task to distinguish between the 
 coarse-textured leaves of encroaching weeds and 
 the rightful denizens of the garden-beds. The 
 moon, swinging halfway between zenith and hori- 
 zon, shed only a mystic half-light over the sleeping 
 garden. To her vexation Milly perceived that she 
 had rooted up more than one of the thrifty four- 
 '-clocks and petunias, their velvet cups close 
 shut against the dew. After all, toil belonged to 
 the day, and in this old garden, asleep and breath- 
 ing perfume, there were no weeds ; the magic of 
 the moonlight had touched them all with beauty. 
 
 So Milly trod the worn paths, her feet making 
 no sound on the soft earth, her hands caressing the 
 nodding blossoms, her fresh lips brushing the dew 
 from their petals, — while the moon swung lower in 
 the west, and along the eastern horizon a faint 
 glow, dim and mystical as the heart of a sleeping 
 rose, betrayed the dawn. Then all at once the 
 birds awoke, with soft twitters and half-uttered 
 trills; nestlings began to cry weakly for food, 
 thrusting callow heads against the shielding 
 breasts that brooded them. The old dog rose 
 from his mat, yawned, turned thrice around and
 
 204 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 lay down again, his wise head on Ms paws, his 
 yellow eyes following the girl's light figure. (Or 
 was it merely the familiar ghost which always 
 vanished at daybreak f) 
 
 Milly had gained the road, her hands filled to 
 overflowing with flowers, her thoughts as wild and 
 free as the birds flitting overhead in the blended 
 light of dawn and dying moon. She felt no fear 
 and but little wonder when at the turn of the road 
 she met him. 
 
 ** What a night," he sighed. '' And you — yon 
 are not a mortal woman, I swear — but a spirit. I 
 think I am — afraid." 
 
 Milly looked at him, gravely. 
 
 *' What is a mortal? " she asked. " And what 
 is a spirit? And why should one be afraid, as 
 you say, of either? " 
 
 ** Hard questions, those," he made answer. 
 *' Yet it comes to me that I also am a spirit; and 
 meeting thus, neither should be afraid of the 
 other." 
 
 And whether it was the magic of the hour, or 
 the pleading in his dark eyes seeking hers, Milly 
 felt neither fear of him, nor shame which is more 
 cruel than fear. 
 
 *' If in truth," he went on, *' you and I were not 
 mortals, but spirits, I might say many things to 
 you; and you — would listen." 
 
 '' I will listen," said Milly, eager as a moth at 
 the lip of a flower.
 
 WINGS OF THE MOEKLNG 205 
 
 " Well, then, I have been unhappy, being bonnd 
 with a hateful chain — which, after all, is not a 
 chain but a silken web, spun in secret out of fear 
 and pride. I was asleep when the chain was laid 
 upon me; but now I am awake, and I see that I 
 must break it — for your sake and my own." 
 
 The girl turned her glorified face toward him, 
 the rose of dawn upon it. 
 
 " K I should pretend that I do not understand 
 you," she said, slowly, " it would not be truth." 
 
 " Milly! " he cried. '' You know that I love 
 you! " 
 
 ' ' Yes, ' ' she breathed. ' ' I know. And I — love 
 you." 
 
 But when (being mortal and a man) he would 
 have clasped and kissed her, she drew away, 
 regarding him over the mass of flowers she 
 held against her breast, her face in the light 
 of the living dawn gravely sweet as that of an 
 angel. 
 
 " There is the chain," she said. " It lies be- 
 twixt us. ' ' 
 
 " Have I not said it is not a chain," he cried, 
 *' but a web of lies? It shall not separate us. 
 ... I am not " 
 
 But she halted the words on his lips with a 
 look. 
 
 " There are others to be thought of," she re- 
 minded him. 
 
 He groaned aloud.
 
 206 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 *' But not for always," he said. '' Not forever, 
 Milly— Milly! " 
 
 And now the moon had altogether vanished 
 from behind them, and its magic light lost in the 
 flood of honest day which streamed full in their 
 young faces. The girl looked at him steadfastly. 
 
 *' We have both forgotten many things," she 
 said, sadly. " It is not possible to unsay words, 
 once they are spoken-^I would to God it were ! ' ' 
 
 '' It is not possible," he echoed. '' Thank God, 
 it is not possible! " and with that name upon his 
 lips, took her hand in both his own, and stooping 
 Jdssed it with all reverence. 
 
 ' ' Milly, ' ' he said, ' ' whether you believe me, or 
 not, I have done you no wrong." 
 
 *' To me," she breathed, '' you have done no 
 wrong; but to another " 
 
 ^' To another, I have done no wrong, I swear 
 it! I will tell you everything and you shall 
 judge " 
 
 But at that she cried out. 
 
 ** Tell me nothing," she entreated. ^' Let me 
 go!" 
 
 She was only a woman, trembling and terror- 
 smitten, now that the hour of her exaltation was 
 past. 
 
 ' ' Let me go ! " she wailed. ' ' Oh, why did you 
 come out to meet me? " 
 
 As before, he did not attempt to follow; but 
 stood watching her with troubled eyes, till the last
 
 WINGS OF THE MORNING 207 
 
 light flutter of her garments vanished on the 
 green hillside. 
 
 * ' I am a fool ! " he said, aloud. And smote his 
 clenched fist in his palm. 
 
 For a long time thereafter he lay prone upon 
 his face among the fern, thinking the long, long 
 thoughts of youth, which in truth take wings of 
 the morning from deeps of black despair to 
 heights dreamed of but never quite attained. Yet 
 it is good to fly.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 GEAISTDMA ORjSTE SPEAKS HER MINT? 
 
 Grandma Orne sat under the shelter of her small 
 porch, looking out with patient, faded eyes over 
 the old garden, where long spikes of hollyhock 
 and foxglove swayed gently in the light breeze. 
 It was nearing the hour of sunset and a warm 
 yellow light brooded the garden and touched the 
 tops of the apple-trees with gold. Outside the 
 palings, lost in vines and luxuriant garlands of 
 honeysuckle, the road thick with dust wound away 
 toward the hills. The old woman had been sewing 
 carpet-rags and a big basket filled with the parti- 
 coloured balls stood at her side. In the rocking- 
 chair beside her. Grandfather had fallen asleep, 
 his head thinly covered with wisps of white hair 
 bent sidewise ; from his half-closed lips the breath 
 escaped in little puffs, varied by an occasional 
 snorting whistle. 
 
 Grandmother glanced at him indulgently, al- 
 most condescendingly. She never slept in the 
 day-time. Presently, she got up from her chair 
 and walked slowly to the gate, her lips moving 
 soundlessly. She was tliinking of Milly and of 
 the fact that for more than a week the girl had 
 not visited the cottage. 
 
 208
 
 GRANDMA OENE SPEAKS HER MIND 209 
 
 "I'd like t' know what she's a-doin'," she said, 
 to herself. ^' Ef she don't come t '-night, I guess 
 I'll hev t' g' up there an' see." 
 
 Her thoughts reverted to the Hills' evening 
 dinners with rising indignation. 
 , " It's all them hearty vittles t' git ready," 
 she muttered. " Meat 'n' p'tatoes 'n' sich at 
 night ain't good fer nobody. Makes 'em frac- 
 tious, like too much oats would a horse. Ef she'd 
 a-said in the th' b'ginnin' she wasn't ust t' no 
 sech nonsense, I guess that woman 'd 'a' giv' in." 
 
 The lad's-love, petunias, and mignonette grow- 
 ing luxuriantly in their humble beds gave out 
 sweet odours as the old woman's skirt brushed 
 past. She came to the gate presently and, leaning 
 upon it, looked up and down the dusty road with 
 the submissive eyes of age, no longer eagerly ex- 
 pectant of anything. The sun was about to disap- 
 pear behind a bank of purple cloud massed solidly 
 upon the horizon like distant mountains. Mrs. 
 Orne gazed at it with silent disapproval. Then 
 her eyes travelled slowly to the roof of the old 
 house. Part of the blackened shingles had al- 
 ready been replaced with new; but there was a 
 large patch where the stripped rafters lay open to 
 the sky. 
 
 " Didn't I warn Gran 'pa over 'n' over not t' 
 let them boys rip off one more shingle 'an they 
 was ready t' lay? " she muttered, wrathfully. 
 '^ An' Gran 'pa, he sez t' me, ' You g' in 'n' ten' t'
 
 210 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 yer Imittin', Mother,' he sez. Let s'm' other 
 men-folks come 'round th' place, it's wonderful 
 how smart an' knowin' Gran 'pa doos git all of a 
 sudden. Seems like they kin' o' 'ncourage each 
 other in foolishness. Well; ef it sets in fer a 
 good stidy rain, come t '-morrow, mebbe Gran 'pa 
 '11 wish he'd listened t' me." 
 
 She turned her back on the threatening sunset 
 to gaze once more toward the bend in the road, 
 where her grand-daughter's slim figure had so 
 often appeared on its way to the cottage. There 
 were two figures there now, vaguely outlined 
 against the parched growths of midsummer. The 
 old woman strained her dim eyes upon them. 
 
 " Looks like Milly; but the's somebody else. 
 Might be Will Craddock; he gits down this way 
 sometimes. ... No; 'tain't Will. He ain't s' 
 tall, ner . . . Who c'n it be? She's talkin' t' 
 him, turnin' her face up t' him, like a flower. 
 . . . She's got that same pretty way o' lookin' 
 out o' her eyes our Milly had. Awful sweet an' 
 ■ — an' innercent. . . . She don' know no more'n 
 a baby — I never told her; mebbe I'd ought t' 'a' 
 told her. . . .No; that ain't anybody I ever 
 
 see b'fore, unless My grief! it's that fellow 
 
 'at rides a-past here on a brown horse, — him that 
 lives there! But he's married. ..." 
 
 The two were close at hand now, walking 
 slowly. — Mrs. Orne, her small bent figure half- 
 concealed in the shadow of a lilac bush, peered
 
 GRANDMA ORNE SPEAKS HER MIND 211 
 
 out at them fearfully. She saw that Milly was 
 looking down, her face pale in the yellow light 
 that flared up from behind the sullen cloud-bank 
 in the west, and that the man's tall head was 
 bent ; he was talking to her in low urgent tones. 
 
 '^ You believe me, don't you, Milly? " the old 
 woman heard him say. 
 
 The girl looking up suddenly caught sight of 
 the pale, watchful face behind the gate. She 
 waved her hand in greeting. 
 
 '' It's Gran 'mother," she said, hurriedly. 
 *' No; don't wait, please. I " 
 
 But Mrs. Orne had stepped outside; her old 
 eyes flaming. 
 
 '' You seem t' 'a' got pretty well acquainted 
 with my gran '-darter? " she said, staring fixedly 
 at the tall young man. 
 
 He stopped short, hat in hand. 
 
 ^' How could I help it? " he said, smiling. 
 *' You don't mind, I hope — Mrs. Orne." 
 
 '' Yes; I do mind. You got th' same nice way 
 with you. I see that b'fore now. But bein' a 
 married man, I didn't think t' warn Milly against 
 ye." 
 
 " Gran 'mother! " protested the girl. 
 
 The old woman turned fiercely upon her. 
 *' G' in th' house," she commanded. " I got a 
 word t' say t' him; I know his nice, smooth- 
 spoken kind. Go in, I say! " 
 
 The girl cast a proud glance at the man, as she
 
 212 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 passed in at the gate. He smiled reassuringly at 
 her. 
 
 Mrs. Orne watched her grand-daughter as she 
 trod lightly between the borders of sweet-smelling 
 flowers. Then she faced the young man, who 
 stood regarding her perplexedly. 
 
 " You was try in' t' make her b'lieve some- 
 thin V' she said, sharply. " What was it? " 
 
 ** Why — really, Mrs. Orne," he protested. 
 
 i I T J > 
 
 " Hev' you b'en makin' love t' Milly? Answer 
 me, straight ! ' ' 
 
 He stared at her, his dark brows gathered over 
 troubled eyes. 
 
 '^ I haven't said anything I'm not willing to 
 stand by, ' ' he broke out, after a prolonged pause. 
 ''I'll tell you that much." 
 
 " Huh! I'd ought t' be 'bleeged t' ye, fer your 
 kindness, I s'pose," sneered the old woman. 
 " Mebbe your wife c'd tell me what sort of a man 
 you are." 
 
 He moved away a few steps. 
 
 " I — Permit me to say good-night," he 
 murmured. 
 
 " Come back here! " cried Mrs. Orne, stamping 
 her foot. 
 
 Her usually mild, good-tempered face was dis- 
 torted with fury. She seized him by the wrist. 
 
 ''I'm a-goin' t' tell ye somethin' 'bout Milly," 
 she hissed in his ear. " She don't know it no 
 
 I
 
 GEANDMA OKNE SPEAKS HEE MIND 213 
 
 more 'n a baby. I never meant she should. She 's 
 growed up here along of us, jes' like one o' them 
 posies, sweet an' innercent an' good. I wanted 
 she sh'd stay so. I wanted she sh'd marry a good, 
 honest man, 'at 'd take keer of her when we was 
 dead 'n' gone. . . . Lord! Lord! " 
 
 Tears rushed into the fierce old eyes ; she raised 
 her apron to wipe them away. 
 
 " Mrs. Orne," he began, slowly, '^ I wish you 
 would believe me, when I say " 
 
 ' ' B 'lieve you ! ' ' she cried, shrilly. ' ' B 'lieve 
 you? I wouldn't b 'lieve a fellow like you, with 
 yer hand on th' Bible! Her mother was fooled 
 int' b'lievin' a nice, good-lookin,' smooth-spoken 
 chap like you ; an ' what 'd she git f er it ? A heart 
 broke in two, shame an' black looks, an' — a grave. 
 I c'n show it to ye; over there in the cem'tary. 
 That's what she got fer b'lievin'. 'N' d' you 
 s'pose I'm a-goin' t' let little Milly — all we got 
 left in the world — d' you think fer a minute I'm 
 a-goin' t' stan' back, p'lite an' fearful o' m' bet- 
 ters — th' way you'd expect an old woman like me 
 — and leave you t' tromp her down in the mud? 
 You got t' go a-past me, first." 
 
 He drew a hard breath and squared his young 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Look here," he said, under his breath. 
 " You've had your say, now I'll have mine. This 
 is a devilish world, I'm beginning to think. But 
 I "
 
 214 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 He stopped short, his teeth set hard on his 
 nether lip. 
 
 ''I'm waitin' t' hear," scoffed the old woman. 
 
 "I wish you'd take a good look at me," he 
 broke out desperately. " You've taken a lot for 
 granted that isn't true. You aren't — fair! " 
 
 Something in his boyish voice touched her. 
 She took him by both arms and turned him toward 
 the waning sunset-light. 
 
 ^' Mebbe I've said too much," she mumbled. 
 " Mebbe I " 
 
 She peered up at him, straining to her tiptoes, 
 her withered hands gripping the lapels of his coat. 
 He submitted to her inspection ; his angry, honest 
 eyes staring down at her. 
 
 ' ' Don 't tell her what you told me, ' ' he begged. 
 " God! it's too— brutal! " 
 
 His voice broke. 
 
 The old woman suddenly released him. 
 
 *' Mebbe I said too much," she repeated, 
 humbly. " But I — I'm awful feared o' strangers. 
 I'm awful — feared." 
 
 " You needn't be afraid of me," he said, 
 roughly. '' You won't — tell her? " 
 
 She shook her head, mumbling wordlessly to 
 herself. 
 
 '' 'Twould hurt her — you think? Yes, yes; 
 you're right, she's like one o' them tall posies in 
 the garden. Say — you wouldn't tromp a white 
 flower in th' mud, would you? "
 
 GRANDMA ORNE SPEAKS HER MIND 215 
 
 She heard his sharp-drawn breath; saw the 
 blood leave his dark face. 
 
 ' ' You wouldn 't ? " she begged, all the fury gone 
 out of her tremulous old voice. " Me 'n' 
 Gran 'pa set an awful store b' Milly. She's all we 
 got left. 'N' you wouldn't do nothin' t' hurt 
 her " 
 
 ''Don't!" he groaned. "For God's sake — 
 don't!" 
 
 He turned and strode away, his feet making no 
 sound in the thick dust of the road. From behind 
 the solid rampart of cloud the last gleam of yel- 
 low light shot upward, flickered and faded. . . . 
 
 Milly bent a troubled, questioning gaze on her 
 grandmother, as the old woman hobbled slowly 
 into view around the corner of the house. Mrs. 
 Orne made pretence of gathering some fallen bits 
 •of cloth from the floor of the porch. 
 
 " It's a-goin' t' rain, Gran 'pa," she said, rais- 
 ing her voice. " I tol' ye 't would this mornin', 
 an 'all them shingles ripped off." 
 
 " Rain! " scoffed Gran 'pa. '' 'Tain't a-goin' 
 t' rain, jes' t' spite me. Th' Lord don't care a 
 cotton hat what you tol' me this mornin'." 
 
 '' Gran 'pa Orne, you'd better be keerful th' 
 way you talk. We ain't no mor'n 'n chaff in th' 
 mill-race, ready t ' be swep ' away. Lord ! Lord ! ' ' 
 
 Her voice rang out in a shrill crescendo. 
 
 ^' Don't holler so, Ma," protested the old man. 
 *' Me 'n' Milly ain't deef ; be we, Milly? "
 
 216 THE HEAKT OF PHILUEA 
 
 The girl was looking up anxiously at the sky 
 and the dismantled roof. 
 
 *' I'm afraid it is going to rain," she said. 
 ' ' And the roof — Oh ! it 's open right over your 
 bedroom. You'll have to move to the other side. 
 I'll help you, Gran 'ma ; then I must go back before 
 it's dark." 
 
 *' I ain't goin' t' let you go back no more, Milly. 
 You b'en gone long 'nough. Me 'n' Gran 'pa 
 needs you." 
 
 The girl had risen from her seat on the door- 
 step. 
 
 *' We'll move the bed into the kitchen," she 
 said. ** Then I must go." 
 
 Her face with its clear, pure outlines shone like 
 a pearl in the dusk of the little bedroom, as she 
 began to strip off quilts and pillows. 
 
 '' Did you hear what I said t' you? " asked 
 Mrs. Orne, almost timidly. " Or was you 
 thinkin' 'bout — 'bout somethin' else? " 
 
 '' I heard you, Gran 'mother! But I can't leave 
 them now, without warning. It wouldn't be 
 right. ' ' 
 
 Both women were silent, taking refuge from 
 each other's questioning eyes in the task of taking 
 down the old bedstead and carrying it to the 
 kitchen. 
 
 " If Gran 'pa hadn't b'en s' brash," muttered 
 Mrs. Orne. " T warned him not t' let them 
 boys rip off shingles reckless, th' way they 
 
 I
 
 GEANDMA ORNE SPEAKS HER MIND 217 
 
 done. But he's so set in his own way, Gran 'pa 
 is." 
 
 Milly smiled absent-mindedly, as she spread 
 the coarse sheets over the straw mattress. 
 
 '' Poor Gran 'father," she murmured, 
 
 " Poor Gran 'father! " echoed Mrs. Orne, 
 sharply. " Whatever makes you say that? A 
 body 'd think I was crazy, er — er — I guess I got 
 some sense. I c'n see through a millstone with a 
 hole in it s' good 's the next one. I don't want 
 you should go back there. You b'en there too 
 long a 'ready." 
 
 Milly 's lids drooped. 
 
 ' ' Why did you — speak to Mr. Hill the way you 
 did? " she asked, rather breathlessly. 
 
 " Why sh'd he be talkin' t' you? That's what 
 I want t' know. An' why sh'd he be a-walkin' 
 long side o' you, bendin' his head down like he 
 was — like you was — an' him a married man? " 
 
 The girl stooped and laid her cool, fresh cheek 
 against the withered one. There was mute ap- 
 peal, mute confession in the fleeting caress; but 
 the old woman, all her fears once more aroused 
 and clamouring, perceived nothing. 
 
 " You got t' be— awful keerful — o' strange 
 men, honey," she stammered. '^ He — he looks 
 nice, I know; but you don't want t' b'lieve nothin' 
 he says t' ye. I ain't never liked t' — t' tell you 
 how dretful wicked some folks is. Seems too bad 
 t' spile — all yer pretty white thoughts. But —
 
 218 THE HEART OF PHILHRA 
 
 honey — sometimes — nice, smooth-spoken folks '11 
 tell th' blackest o' lies. — May God r'ward 'em, 
 'corclin' t' their works ! " 
 
 '' But, Gran 'mother " 
 
 '' Yes, honey; yes! You're a-goin' t' tell me 
 you know a heap better 'n I do. Young folks 
 al'ays thinks that. . . . An oP woman like 
 Gran 'ma, what c'n she know? That's what comes 
 int' yer min'. You can't help it. . . . It's 
 natur', I guess, t' b'lieve the world's made over 
 new fer every generation. But 'tain 't. Lord, no! 
 Things goes on 'bout th' same. You — you won't 
 b'lieve nothin' he tells you; will you, Milly? " 
 
 The girl made no answer. Through the open 
 window came the distant mutter of thunder, and 
 Gran 'father's grumbling monotone, as he gathered 
 up his garden tools : 
 
 ''Drat th' rain! It's a-comin' sure, an' me 
 a-thinkin' b' th' feelin' in m' bones 't was set 
 fair fer another two weeks. Looks like Gran 'ma 
 'd scared it up jes' t' spite me." 
 
 Milly dropped a light kiss on top of the old 
 woman's cap. 
 
 " Don't worry about me, Gran 'ma," she mur- 
 mured. "I'm not so foolish and ignorant as you 
 seem to think. I — I'll be careful." 
 
 She was gone the next instant. Mrs. Orne heard 
 the gate slam shut behind her, and her husband's 
 voice upraised in shrill warning of the approach- 
 ing storm.
 
 GRANDMA OENE SPEAIvS HER MIND 219 
 
 " Oh, Lord! " she quavered. " I can't see an 
 inch in front o' m' face. Mebbe you know 'bout 
 that fellow, I don't. ... It does look like the' 
 wa'n't no use o' prayin'. You know you didn't 
 lift a finger t' save our Milly — 'nless lettin' her die 
 was savin' her. . . , We don't know nothin' 
 'bout what comes after; 'n' even ef it's all pearls 
 'n' gold up there; 'n' folks a-flyin' 'round with 
 wings, a-wearin' crowns, 'n' a-playin' on harps, it 
 don't seem t' do us much good. . . . Ef you 
 don't take keer o' little Milly, I — I don't keer fer 
 no harp, ner no wings. . . . They wouldn't 
 comfort me none. . . . Don't lay it up ag 'in her, 
 Lord, that I ain't prayed fer s' long. . . . 
 Mebbe you wouldn't blame me none, ef you was t' 
 re 'lise what I b 'en through. . . . Lord — Lord!" 
 
 A broad flash of lightning illumined the dark- 
 ened room and the bent old figure rocking back 
 and forth distractedly on the edge of the bed. 
 
 " Why in creation don't y' light th' lamp. Ma? " 
 demanded Grandfather's wrathful voice, from the 
 door. " Here I be, a-knockin' m' shins up against 
 them plaguey cheers. 'N' I tipped over somethin' 
 out there. Dunno what 'twas ; but I kind o ' sensed 
 things a-rollin' off ont' the' ground." 
 
 " My balls o' carpet-rags! " exclaimed Grand- 
 mother, brought suddenly back to earth. ' ' Land, 
 ef ever I see sech a man! " 
 
 In the dim light of the kerosene lamp, the two 
 old people gazed anxiously at each other.
 
 220 THE HEART OF PHH^UEA 
 
 '' Some folks is a-goin' t' git ketclied in this 
 'ere shower," quoth Grandfather. " Hope 'twon't 
 be Milly." 
 
 '^ Oh, she e'n run like a streak. She'll git ther' 
 b'fore " 
 
 A crash of thunder dro^^^led the words. Then 
 followed rain — rain beating upon the new shingles 
 overhead, and dripping through the stark rafters 
 above the empty bedroom. 
 
 Mrs. Orne moved slowly across the floor. 
 
 " 'Twon't hurt her none t' git wet," she said, 
 musingly. '' 'Tain't that 'at's worritin' me." 
 
 '' Th' lightnin' 's 'nough t' fright' anybody,'* 
 quavered Grandfather. ''I'm 'fraid the little 
 girl'll git skeered o' th' thunder." 
 
 '' It's good fer girls t' git skeered, onct in a 
 while," muttered Grandmother, darkly. " Ef 
 that's all I was 'fraid of. . . . Lord — Lord! "
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 AT THE PARSONAGE 
 
 The solemn rush of the wind in the evergreens 
 came soothingly through the open windows of the 
 minister's study, where Mrs. Pettibone, arrayed 
 in dust-cap and apron, was once more guiltily 
 busy in a surreptitious, but no less searching and 
 drastic eradication of dust and debris. Mr. Petti- 
 bone had denied himself excursions to Boston of 
 late that he might cultivate the parsonage vege- 
 table garden, and in his visitations to the sick and 
 sinful of his parish he had quite properly insisted 
 upon his wife's company. 
 
 '' You are looking tired, my dear," he said, 
 kindly; " you need the fresh air and quiet of these 
 country drives." 
 
 But on this particular Saturday morning, when 
 he had been unexpectedly called to leave his un- 
 finished sermon for a funeral some miles distant, 
 she had declined to accompany him. Mrs. Wes- 
 sels, she explained, had asked leave to wash of a 
 Saturday this week. 
 
 The minister frowned. 
 
 ** That woman is always in the way," he said, 
 with entire injustice. '' Why not let her wash if 
 she wants to, and you come with me. It's a lovely 
 
 321
 
 222 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 day. We'll take our luncli, eat it on the way, and 
 be home in time for supper." 
 
 She shook her head, with the gentle stubborn- 
 ness he was beginning to know. The prospect of 
 a combined picnic and funeral, unique though it 
 was, did not blind her to the advantage of a long 
 day in which to work her will upon the parsonage 
 unhampered by his presence. 
 
 He kissed her good-bye hastily at last; then 
 spoke words of strong encouragement and ex- 
 hortation to the protesting old horse, who was, 
 it appeared, perfectly aware of the day of the 
 week and the illegal nature of a proceeding which 
 removed him from a leisurely rumination of hay 
 and equine thoughts during a morning sacred to 
 leisure. At the moment of his departure the gate 
 clicked to admit the figure of Mrs, Wessels, un- 
 naturally bulky in her wash-day attire concealed 
 from the public eye by a voluminous skirt of rusty 
 black. 
 
 Mrs. Wessels was found to be overflowing with 
 explanations and apologies, as she removed the 
 outside layers of her costume. 
 
 '' Es I sez t' Wessels, ' Mis' Pettibone won't 
 care,' I sez. ' It's all one to her whether I come 
 a-Sat'day er a-Monday. The's al'ays dirty clo'es 
 t' til' pars'nage t' be washed,' I sez. Not 'at 
 your wash is any dirtier 'an other folkses. But 
 go where you will in this 'ere world, you're sure 
 to find dirt t' be swep' an' clo'es t' be washed.
 
 AT THE PARSONAGE 223 
 
 Now, ain't that so! An' tli' Metli'dist picnic 
 comes a-Tuesday this jea.v, so I promised tlie cMl- 
 dern I'd wash their clo'es on a-Monday, so's 't 
 they c'n go. Yes, Mis' Pettibone, the childern 
 go t' your Sunday-school mornins at nine-thirty 
 an' the Meth'dist Sunday-school at twelve o'clock 
 an', when I c'n git 'em started, t' the Baptist 
 Sunday-school at four p.m. Yes'm; I want 'em 
 t' be able t' jedge fair an' square 's t' which 
 r'ligion 's best. Georgie he likes the Meth'dists; 
 th's somethin' kind o' hearty an' free- 'n '-easy t' 
 the Meth'dist Church, Georgie sez; an' M'ree Is'- 
 bell likes your church best, so I guess M'ree '11 
 be a Presb'terian all right. She sez she ain't got 
 no speshul reason; 'n' I guess 't would be hard t^ 
 find one, es I tell her pa. But he sez ' let her be, 
 Ma; we won't stan' in her way,' he sez. Wessels 
 is reel int 'rested in r'ligion, fer all he ain't dark- 
 ened the door of a church in fifteen years. Wes- 
 sels favors th' Babtists; he sez it stan's t' rea- 
 son a body 'at 'd lived wicked ought t' be put 
 right in under th' water, when it comes t' bab- 
 tisin' 'em. But th' childern 's all b'en sprinkled 
 a 'ready; that ought t' do some good, I sez, spe- 
 cial when they're little an' ain't got much hair. 
 But M 'randy, she took a notion all by herself, when 
 she was 'bout twelve, t' be a 'Piscopal. I thought 
 I sh'd die. ' M 'randy Wessels,' I sez, ' the ain't 
 none of our folks nor your pa's neither, ever b'en 
 'Piscopals. 'N' what in under the canopy yoit
 
 224 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 want off them.' I sez. ' The 'Piscopals is s' sty- 
 lish, Ma,' she sez ; ' an' they pernounce their words 
 s' nice, an' the prayers is all wrote out,' she sez, 
 * so you know b'forehan' jest how long they're 
 goin' t' be.' So M 'randy, she's a 'Piscopal. 'N' 
 I dunno's th's anything reelly wrong in it. But 
 I'm goin' to' do up her white dress so 't she c'n 
 go t' the Meth'dist picnic a-Tuesday, along o' 
 th' other childern. Georgie, he sez he's lottin' 
 t' save M 'randy yit, like a brand plucked f 'om th' 
 burnin'. He learned that t' th' Meth'dist Sunday- 
 school; an' th' way he gits it off — with M 'randy 
 a-turnin' up her nose at him — makes me think 
 he'd ought t' be a preacher b' rights. Wessels, 
 he sez Georgie c'n be a local jus' 's well 's not; 
 'n' ef he starts in when he 's ten he c'n be a 
 progidy. He's eight now, my Georgie is, an' ef he 
 ain't cut out t' be a progidy I dunno who is. Well, 
 I guess I'd better knock on wood along o' that! 
 It 's a lot safer when you've gone 'n' bragged 
 that-a-way 'bout yer childern. It might save 'em 
 f'om goodness knows what! " 
 
 It was when Mrs. Pettibone had succeeded at 
 length in stemming the tide of this Jordan that 
 she found the rush of the wind in the evergreens 
 so exquisitely soothing. Other sounds reached her 
 from afar: an intermittent rattle and creak of 
 wagon-wheels; the shouts of children at play; a 
 soulless performance on the patent piano-player 
 across the street; the discordant quarrelling of
 
 AT THE PAESONAGE 225 
 
 sparrows about the eaves, and from tlie kitchen, 
 happily distant, the voice of Mrs. Wessels up- 
 raised in tuneful exhortation, timed to a delib- 
 erate rubbing of the minister's wristbands on 
 the corrugated surface of the washboard: 
 
 *' Pull fer th' shore, sailor: pull fer th' shore! " 
 
 Philura Pettibone endeavoured conscientiously 
 to keep her thoughts from hovering about the 
 photograph, hidden from view between the leaves 
 of the inky blotter on her husband's writingi- 
 table. But as she dusted the minister's commen- 
 taries and theologies in due sequence of their 
 picturesque but no less disturbing disorder, her 
 blue eyes wandered thither at lessening intervals. 
 She wondered vaguely why he had not chosen to 
 protect it by a frame and set it atop his table in 
 plain view. She would have liked (she hoped) to 
 see it there. She might even have ventured to 
 speak of it to him. But its concealment suggested 
 a secret, unassuaged grief, not to be shared with 
 another, not even — nay, rather, more particularly 
 not — with herself. She pictured his face as it 
 must have looked when he placed the photograph 
 in its secure (as he no doubt supposed) hiding- 
 place. For another to have seen it, even by acci- 
 dent, was like pushing aside, without sanctifying 
 unction of sacred oil, the shielding veil from be- 
 fore the Holy of Holies.
 
 226 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 After a little she ventured to dust the blotter, 
 her fingers light and hesitating, as one might touch 
 the dead. His half-written sermon lay open to 
 her view. She stooped and read : 
 
 <' Then, too, the memory of those who have 
 
 outstripped us in the race, passing into the life 
 more abundant, cheers us in our unending strug- 
 gle after goodness and purity and truth. We 
 could not, indeed, bear to think often of those 
 * lost angel faces,' were we not faithful to the 
 vision which is vouchsafed us at intervals, like 
 spaces of sunlit blue glimpsed through riven 
 cloud." 
 
 She thought he must have looked at the pic- 
 ture before writing those words. Perhaps his 
 lips (which had kissed hers so carelessly at the 
 moment of parting) had pressed that exquisite 
 pictured mouth, with its half-smiling, wholly 
 wistful curve. 
 
 The minister had shut himself into his study 
 for more than an hour that morning before start- 
 ing for his distant appointment. She fancied him 
 pale and graver than his wont when he finally 
 emerged in answer to her summons. Then a sud- 
 den distressful wonder fell upon her. Was the 
 picture still there? or had he taken it away with 
 him, folded close against his heart in the breast- 
 pocket of his best preaching-coat? Her fingers 
 trembled in their swift search. She drew a deep 
 breath of relief: the picture was in its place. She.
 
 AT THE PARSONAGE 227 
 
 wished passionately that he would have it copied 
 large and hung upon the wall, like the crayon 
 portrait of the first Mrs. Gus Bogert. But, how 
 could she bear the searching gaze of those dark 
 eyes, more particularly when engaged as at pres- 
 ent, in an overt act of disobedience. She felt sure 
 that the first Mrs. Pettibone would never sweep 
 and dust the study in defiance of his wishes — 
 nor, indeed, any room in the parsonage. Mary 
 Pettibone was not (she reminded herself) that 
 kind of a woman. Somebody — she thought it was 
 Mrs. Deacon Scrimger — had once said in her hear- 
 ing that the minister's wife was a slack house- 
 keeper. There had been a hired girl in the par- 
 sonage in those days, who even (it was whispered) 
 made the bed the minister's wife slept in till 
 ten o'clock of a morning. 
 
 She took the picture from its hiding place, and 
 stared at it hungrily. Then, quite deliberately, 
 as one who has cast silly scruples to the wind, 
 she crossed the room to the little mirror, with its 
 cheap mockery of sconce and candles. The mirror 
 was a wedding gift from her Sunday-school class. 
 She had put it there herself, so that the minister 
 might set his necktie straight and push back the 
 unruly lock from his forehead the last thing of 
 a Sunday morning. The mirror told no com- 
 forting lies. It gave back to the second Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone a small, pale face, its forehead faintly lined 
 beneath silvered waves of abundant hair, blue
 
 228 THE HEABT OF PHILUEA 
 
 eyes under vaguely marked brows, and a mouth 
 with Uttle beauty of curve or sensuous color. 
 Feature by feature she compared it with the faded 
 loveliness of the photograph. 
 
 " You have no right to expect much," she told 
 herself, relentlessly. '' You are only to piece out 
 with. Didn't you know that? You did know it. 
 You ought to be thankful for the chance to work 
 for him — to cook his food and mend his clothes — 
 yes, and clean his study so that he won't know 
 it has been cleaned." 
 
 So absorbed was the second Mrs. Pettibone in 
 these bitter-sweet reflections that she did not 
 hear Mrs. Wessels' trampling footsteps in the 
 passage. But she started violently at sound of 
 that philosophical lady's voice at the door: 
 
 '' Well, I d'clare; you must be gittin' deef ! I 
 heerd th' door-bell ring a couple o' times, 'n' 
 thinks s'l, whatever c'n Mis' Pettibone be doin' 
 not t' hear that bell! At last I come m 'self. It's 
 a lady t' see you, 'm; I put her in th' parlour. . . . 
 My! ain't this room a sight, — with th' books an' 
 all! I'll whirl in an' finish puttin' it t' rights, ef 
 you say so! . . . You don't want I should? All 
 right. But the' ain't nobody knows how t' do 
 fer him any better 'n' I do, havin' worked here 
 constant sence his first wife died. . . . Yes ; I put 
 th' comp'ny in th' parlour." 
 
 Mrs. Wessels came quite inside and closed 
 the door behind her.
 
 AT THE PARSONAGE 229 
 
 ** It's tlie young lady f'om the old Eggleston 
 place," she said, confidentially. " I washed up 
 there a couple o' times b'fore Milly Orne come 
 t' work fer 'em. Land ! You never see secli clo'es, 
 all lace an' 'mbroid'ry, fussed up t' beat th' band. 
 My, yes; I knowed her th' minute I opened th' 
 door. She's in th' parlour a-settin' in th' plush 
 cheer b' th' window." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone slipped the photograph inside 
 her blouse as she crossed the hall. Mrs. Wes- 
 sels still lingered, her lean head craned forward 
 on its long neck, with the obvious intent of wit- 
 nessing the meeting between the two women. 
 
 The girl was sitting very straight and still on 
 the edge of her chair. Mrs. Pettibone, in the 
 act of closing the door quietly but firmly behind 
 her, was startled by the look, at once eager and 
 despairing, on her young face. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't remember me? " the girl 
 said, as she rose. ''I am — you saw me " 
 
 '' Yes, I remember you very well," the minis- 
 ter's wife hastened to reassure her visitor. " You 
 are Mrs. Walter Hill, from the farm. I am very 
 glad " 
 
 " You are mistaken. I am not Mrs. Walter 
 Hill," the girl said, in a low, hard voice. 
 
 She had thrown back her head with its heavy 
 braids; her eyes were defiant. 
 
 '' You are not " faltered Mrs. Pettibone, 
 
 overcome by a sudden recollection of the older
 
 230 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 woman's words : ' ' She has a delusion. She thinks 
 another man is her husband." 
 
 "I see what you are thinking. I suppose 
 Mother told you I am insane. She has treated me 
 as if she thought I was, all along. I don't see 
 why I'm not." 
 
 " Won't you — sit do^vn," Mrs. Pettibone sug- 
 gested, nervously. "We can talk better that 
 way. ' ' 
 
 Already she had forgotten the picture hidden 
 in her blouse. 
 
 " You will let me talk to you? The sewing- 
 woman — I don't know her name — said you would. 
 She said you could help me." 
 
 ' ' Oh ! " murmured the minister 's wife, moving 
 her fingers uncertainly. " You must mean Mal- 
 vina Bennett. She told me she was going to work 
 for you." 
 
 " I meant to drown myself that day," the girl 
 said, quite simply, and with as little concern as 
 though she had mentioned a trip to the city. She 
 did not appear to notice the other woman's start 
 of fear and amazement. 
 
 '' I had been to the edge of that pool often 
 and often and — tried," she went on; " but some- 
 how I — couldn't. I suppose I kept hoping some- 
 thing would happen. But that morning I just 
 knew nothing would. Life would go on, getting 
 
 more and more unbearable, till So I ran all 
 
 the way, meaning to jump in and have it over
 
 AT THE PAESONAGE 231 
 
 witli before Mother found out I was gone. She 
 has watched me for months, night and day. But 
 Walter didn't notice. I don't suppose he cared. 
 I shouldn't, in his place." 
 
 " But — my dear; your — your husband " 
 
 '' I told you Walter wasn't my husband. He 
 is my brother." 
 
 She drew a deep, half-suffocated breath, like 
 that of an exhausted swimmer. 
 
 ''There!" she sighed, "I've told. Yon 
 wouldn't have guessed: would you? Mother said 
 no one would guess, if Walter and I — played our 
 parts. We couldn't — play our parts — so very 
 
 well; but Mother You see, she didn't believe 
 
 me when I told her I was married, and so " 
 
 " My dear," interrupted Mrs. Pettibone, trem- 
 bling violently against the back of the haircloth 
 sofa, " do you think you ought to tell me all this? 
 Wouldn't your Mother " 
 
 She felt suddenly weak and ill, and her voice 
 trailed off faintly into silence under the girl's 
 black gaze. 
 
 " Then, it isn't true! " the girl broke out, 
 sharply. " The woman told me a lie, because she 
 was afraid. Everybody has told me lies ! Oh-h ! ' ' 
 
 The inarticulate despair in her young voice 
 struck hard against the older woman's pitiful 
 cowardice. 
 
 " What did Malvina Bennett tell you — about 
 me! " faltered Mrs. Pettibone.
 
 232 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 " She said you knew how to find people who 
 were lost. She said you found your husband that 
 way. In the — the All-Encircling Good. But it 
 was a lie. And I've told you for nothing. 
 Well " 
 
 She looked down quietly at the floor, thinking, 
 perhaj^s, of the dark peace of the pool by the 
 rock. 
 
 Philura Pettibone felt the sharp corner of the 
 photograph prick her thin breast. It seemed to 
 rouse her to a faint realisation of the tragedy 
 under that still face. 
 
 '^ It was not a lie," she said, weakly. ''It is 
 — true. But one forgets, sometimes. I did — only 
 this morning." 
 
 After a little she added, with an effort: 
 
 " I — I will do all I can to help you." 
 
 The girl looked at her searehingly. 
 
 " Do you mean that it's true about the — the 
 All-Encircling — Good? I don't know what that 
 means; but I've said it over and over to myself, 
 and somehow it made me feel — I wanted to see 
 you. ' ' 
 
 Her voice was choked. 
 
 ' ' None of us can know what the All-Encircling 
 Good really is," Mrs. Pettibone said, in a low, 
 hesitating voice. " It means — God, everywhere 
 present, knowing all things " 
 
 "I'm not religious," the girl said, coldly. " I 
 never liked church."
 
 AT THE PAESONAGE 233 
 
 She arose, and drew her scarf about her 
 shoulders. 
 
 " I might have known it was only that. I wish 
 I hadn't Oh, put it down to my insanity ! " 
 
 She laughed aloud as she walked toward the 
 door. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone stared at the girl aghast, her 
 back rigid against the haircloth sofa, her hands 
 seeking her heart instinctively. Again she felt 
 the slight prick of the hidden picture. 
 
 The girl, still smiling drearily to herself, was 
 about to pass out. Mrs. Pettibone watched her 
 fingers close upon the door-knob, like one in a 
 painful dream. Then all at once she sprang up, 
 alert, alive. 
 
 '' You are not going," she cried, " until I have 
 told you. . . . What is it you want? " 
 
 The girl turned with a queer, jerky movement 
 of her head. 
 
 " What do I want? " she repeated. '' What 
 do I want? Why should I tell you? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone took the girl's limp hand and 
 held it tightly, as if she feared to let go. 
 
 '' You must come back and sit by me on the 
 sofa. I shall not let you go away without telling 
 me." 
 
 The girl sat down with the sullen acquiescence 
 of a child accustomed to yield to a superior 
 will. 
 
 '' You will tell me? " urged Mrs. Pettibone.
 
 234 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 The girl made no answer. Her eyes were set 
 drearily upon the opposite wall, where hung a 
 cheap copy of the Huguenot lovers. 
 
 " If you want anything — anything," the gentle 
 voice went on, ^' it is yours already. It will come 
 to you — whatever it is. Because you wouldn't 
 want it — you couldn't, if God didn't want you to 
 have it. God is good. He loves you. He — knows 
 everything. ' ' 
 
 She felt the girl's hand tremble violently within 
 her own. 
 
 " I want — Stephen," she whispered. " I — want 
 him!" 
 
 She burst into hard, racking sobs. 
 
 ^' Oh, Stephen — Stephen! " she moaned. '' You 
 didn't mean to leave me without a word! You 
 couldn't! " 
 
 All at once she dried her eyes and sat up. 
 
 ** I'm going to tell you everything," she said. 
 *' I must. You will believe me." 
 
 But she lapsed into silence, staring before her 
 at the picture of the tall lover and the girl within 
 his clasp. 
 
 " Stephen looked something like that man in 
 the picture," she said, after a long minute. ^' He 
 was that much taller than me." 
 
 Her lips fell apart like a child's. 
 
 " He did look something like that," she re- 
 peated, wonderingly. 
 
 After a pause she added:
 
 AT THE PAESOXAGE 235 
 
 * ' I had a photograph of him, but Mother found 
 it and took it away. She said I ought to be 
 ashamed She said he was poor and com- 
 mon-looking, and that I might have known " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone sat very still. Within her blouse 
 she was conscious of the picture. She felt very 
 much ashamed of herself, and the realisation 
 forced hot blood upward into her face. 
 
 The girl glanced at her uncertainly. 
 
 ** We were married," she said, " by a regular 
 minister. But I didn't know the minister's name. 
 And he didn't give me any paper. He said he 
 would send it to Stephen, afterward. But he 
 went away. So " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone sighed. She didn't know how 
 to ask questions skilfully; but she felt that the 
 girl needed help in telling her story. 
 
 *' You mean the minister went away! " she 
 suggested, timidly, " and without giving you a 
 certificate. That was very careless of him. But 
 there should have been other papers — the license 
 and the Bureau of Vital Statistics; surely " 
 
 The girl shook her head. 
 
 '' The minister didn't go away — not that I know 
 of. I meant Stephen. He went West two weeks 
 after we were married. He had an opening. And 
 as soon as he ' made good ' — that's what he 
 called it — he was going to send for me. But he 
 didn't — I never heard from him. I'm afraid some- 
 thing — something happened ' '
 
 236 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Two big tears escaped from lier eyes and rolled 
 swiftly down her haggard young face. 
 
 '' Sometimes I wisli I was sure — he is dead." 
 
 '' Oh, my dear! " protested Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 All the alertness and aliveness of which she had 
 been so vividly conscious but a moment before 
 seemed to have deserted her. 
 
 '^ I'm sure I hope not," she added, gazing at 
 the girl in a flutter of sympathy and alarm. 
 
 *' If he was dead," the girl went on, gloomily, 
 ** I shouldn't be afraid of that other — of what 
 Mother thinks. That is too horrible! " 
 
 Her voice had sunken almost to a whisper. 
 
 ''What— what does Mrs. Hill " Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone attempted to ask. The words seemed 
 caught in her throat. 
 
 The girl laughed harshly, 
 
 " That's a part of the play," she said: " our 
 name isn't Hill. But it makes no ditference." 
 
 " I — I'm afraid I don't understand," mur- 
 mured the minister's wife. 
 
 She was not, indeed, an astute woman. Per- 
 haps the girl was insane. A little fear crept 
 into her mind as she reflected that she was alone 
 with this big, strong young woman. 
 
 The girl stared at her from under gathered 
 brows. Her eyes were hard once more. 
 
 " If he's — dead, I shall never hear from him. 
 Perhaps Mother is right, after all. I oughtn't 
 to have told."
 
 AT THE PAESONAGE 237 
 
 ^* He isn't dead," said Mrs. Pettibone, with- 
 out premeditation. 
 
 She could have given no reason for the sud- 
 den strong conviction which surged up within 
 her. 
 
 '^ He isn't dead," she repeated. 
 
 The girl drew a deep breath. 
 
 '' Then, why — why doesn't he write to me? 
 Why didn't he — at first? You can see how ter- 
 rible it was for me, when I — I found — I didn't 
 know when he went away. He didn't know. But 
 
 when Mother Oh, it was awful ! She said I 
 
 must take her to the minister's house. But I 
 couldn't find it. We went one night to be mar- 
 ried, quite suddenly; it was somewhere a good 
 
 ways from our house. I didn't notice Then 
 
 Mother said I had been deceived. She said 
 Stephen was a bad man. There are — ^bad men 
 like that, she said. She wondered why he left 
 me at home. I told her it was only till he 
 ' made good.' Then she — laughed. . . . She — 
 laughed. ..." 
 
 *' Have you written to him? " asked the min- 
 ister's wife. 
 
 " Only twice. Mother watched me — watched 
 the mails. She said she would save me in sj^ite 
 of myself. She means to take me to Europe, 
 afterwards. She thinks no one will know, and 
 that I will forget. She says I shall have my 
 coming-out party, just the same."
 
 238 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 The girl sprang to her feet, as if the small, low- 
 ceiled room stiffled her. 
 
 " I must go," she said. *' If he is alive, you 
 think " 
 
 '< Pray for him to come back to you," whis- 
 pered Mrs. Pettibone, her small childish face up- 
 turned to the girl's stately young height. " Pray 
 and believe that he will come. Believe! It will 
 bring him back to you from the uttermost — the 
 uttermost parts of the earth! " 
 
 '' He went West," the girl said, vaguely. 
 
 She was looking at the picture of the Hugue- 
 not lovers. 
 
 ^' He couldn't be bad, and look like that," she 
 said, in a low, meditative voice. " He was good. 
 I know he was good. I couldn 't have loved him ; 
 could I? if he was what Mother said." 
 
 She walked slowly to the door. 
 
 "Walter brought me," she said. "I asked 
 Mother if I might go out to drive with Walter, 
 and she was pleased. She wanted me to go be- 
 fore; but I wouldn't. She thought people ought 
 to see us together. But we both hated it. Now, 
 Walter is — kinder than at first. He said I might 
 come in and talk to you — tell you, if it would 
 make me feel any better." 
 
 She opened the door. 
 
 "I'm going to try," she said, looking back over 
 her shoulder with a faint smile. " I think I shall 
 pray — every minute."
 
 AT THE PAESONAGE 239 
 
 '' And believe," added Mrs. Pettibone. "■ You 
 must expect him — soon." 
 
 " Is that wliat you did? " asked the girl, pite- 
 ously. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone nodded. She seemed unable 
 to speak. 
 
 " I shall try," the girl repeated, humbly. 
 ^' Pray and believe. Pray and believe. Oh, I 
 did believe; but it's hard, now! " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone watched her as she went slowly 
 away. In front of the house was a low carriage. 
 She saw the young man she had known as Wal- 
 ter Hill step out and help the girl to a seat within. 
 Then the carriage rolled away down the street. 
 
 When she turned to go in, she found Mrs. Wes- 
 sels standing behind her in the hall, her thin red 
 arms akimbo; her eyes fixed upon the rapidly 
 receding vehicle. 
 
 " Well, now, I never! " murmured that astute 
 lady. '' He handed her in reel nice; didn't he! 
 Per all I mistrusted he wa'n't no great shakes 
 of a hus'ban', when I was there t" wash. He was 
 out a careenin' 'round on that horse o' hisn most 
 all day, an' she a-walkin' out in th' yard all by 
 her lonesome, her ma-in-law watchin' her out the 
 window like a cat would a mouse. But I've seed 
 men that-a-way b'fore. They're queer critters, 
 the best on 'em. Now ain't that so? ... I s'pose 
 you ain't re'lised it's past one o'clock. Mis' Pet- 
 tibone. When the whistles blowed fer the third
 
 240 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 time, I come in th' hall; but you was both busy 
 with yer talk; so I jes' helped m'self t' whatever 
 I c'd find, bein' kin' o' worn out rubbin'? The 
 tea-pot's on th' stove; an' I left a piece o' pie 
 fer you." 
 
 But Mrs. Pettibone did not at once avail her- 
 self of Mrs. Wessels' kindness. Instead, she 
 went back into the minister's study and closed 
 the door behind her. 
 
 '' I ought to be ashamed of myself," she said 
 aloud to the silence, which seemed all at once 
 tolerant of her weakness and kind, to the point 
 of forbearance. 
 
 " I am ashamed." 
 
 Having made her small confession, thus, she 
 took the picture from her blouse and slipped it 
 back between the leaves of the blotter. 
 
 '^ If you're alive," she whispered, " and can 
 see, — perhaps you'll understand."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE CONFESSION 
 
 The minister came home from the funeral that 
 afternoon rather earlier than he expected. 
 Rufus, he stated (referring to the sorrel horse), 
 had travelled well on the way home. Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone recalled that it was the habit of Rufus 
 to travel well when headed toward his manger. 
 
 " I hope," said the minister, looking narrowly 
 at her, *' you haven't been working too hard dur- 
 ing my absence." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " denied Mrs. Pettibone, casting down 
 her eyes. '' There wasn't much to do." 
 
 From his ignorant masculine viewpoint there 
 never was much to do in the parsonage. How 
 could there be, with only the two of themf Nev- 
 ertheless, he continued to gaze at her, a puzzled 
 look in his kindly eyes? 
 
 " Has anyone been here? " he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone appeared to reflect, her eyes still 
 avoiding his. 
 
 *' Yes," she said, with visible reluctance, " that 
 young woman from the Eggleston house." 
 
 " Indeed! " cried the minister. '' That is en- 
 couraging. I was hoping we might get some hold 
 
 241
 
 242 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 upon them. Tliey seem — er — rather unusual 
 people." 
 
 " Yes," murmured Mrs. Pettibone, " thej^ are." 
 
 She moved away from him, her thoughts cen- 
 tred determinedly upon the kitchen. 
 
 " You must be hungry," she said. " I will 
 have supper early." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear; I believe I am, now 
 that you speak of it." 
 
 He turned abruptly toward his study. 
 
 *' I shall work on my sermon till you're ready." 
 And he rumpled up his hair in the way she knew 
 so well. 
 
 She perceived that already he had forgotten the 
 half-formed questions in his mind. 
 
 But seated at their modest supper-table, he 
 again referred to the matter. 
 
 ' ' Did you — er — have a pleasant visit with that 
 young person — Mrs. Hill! " he inquired, as he 
 sprinkled his second baked potato with salt and 
 inserted a small — a very small — lump of butter 
 in its steaming interior. 
 
 His wife did not answer; and after a pause he 
 spoke again. 
 
 " I recall the fact that we found the younger 
 Mrs. Hill's personality rather uninteresting; 
 didn't we? She seemed very young, and — er — 
 rather sullen. That, at least, is the impression 
 she made upon me." 
 
 He glanced inquiringly across the table at Mrs.
 
 THE CONFESSION 243 
 
 Pettibone, who was nervously crumbling a slice 
 of bread beside her plate. She was not the sort 
 of woman to crumble bread in so aimless and 
 wasteful a manner. He continued to eye her with 
 growing astonishment. 
 
 " Did the young woman ask for me? " he in- 
 quired. ' ' I am apt to be at home of a Saturday ; 
 but I don't recall mentioning the fact to the 
 Hills." 
 
 '' Ought I— to tell you? " 
 
 The spot of colour in her cheek had deepened 
 to scarlet. 
 
 '' Ought you to tell me? You are referring 
 
 to Am I to understand that something of an 
 
 unusual nature took place during my absence? I 
 can think of no reason why you should not tell 
 me — everything. ' ' 
 
 " I've been wondering," she said, humbly, 
 '' whether I said the right thing. I didn't know, 
 at first. And one who has thought small, mean 
 thoughts for so many years — I did, you know. I 
 used to think God was a large, severe person sit- 
 ting up in the clouds somewhere and watching me, 
 always displeased with what I did; and, yes — try- 
 ing to think of some new way to make me un- 
 happy. Of course, I knew I deserved it." 
 
 " You didn't tell her all that, my dear? " de- 
 manded the minister, who had forgotten to eat 
 his potato. " Surely, you didn't " 
 
 " No — no, indeed! I said she must pray and
 
 244 THE HEAKT OF PHILURA 
 
 believe, and that everytliing would come right. 
 I said he was in the All-Encircling Good. I felt 
 sure he was alive. I don't know why; but I did. 
 And I told her so. But afterward — it came over 
 me all of a sudden — if he should be dead ; or if 
 he was bad, as Mrs. Hill seemed to suppose. And 
 one can't help thinking " 
 
 '' Really, my dear," interrupted the minister, 
 *' I shall have to ask you to explain. I can make 
 neither head nor tail of what you are 
 telling me. Unless you explicitly promised the 
 young person to say nothing to me, I conceive 
 that I should be told, at once, of all that took 
 place." 
 
 Thus encouraged, she told him the substance 
 of what had passed between her and the young 
 woman from the old Eggleston farm. 
 
 He listened in silence, his forehead knit in 
 troubled thought. 
 
 " If I told her what wasn't true," she said, 
 ' ' how terrible it would be ! Perhaps I ought ' ' 
 
 He looked across at her, a smile dawning in 
 his eyes. 
 
 '' My dear," he said, in a slow, deep voice, 
 *' could any facts, however disastrous, alter the 
 nature of God? " 
 
 She drew a half-sobbing breath. 
 
 " I — I suppose not," she murmured. '' But I 
 told her — I led her to expect " 
 
 <' ' For Thou wilt light my candle,' " he quoted,
 
 THE CONFESSION 245 
 
 *' ^ The Lord my God will enlighten my dark- 
 ness.' We must believe that, my dear, if we 
 let everything else go by the board." 
 
 " Do you mean ? " 
 
 She looked at him humbly. 
 
 ' ' If our own candle is alight, and another comes 
 to us in the dark " 
 
 Her face became suddenly illumined. 
 
 '' I see," she said. " It is like lighting a candle 
 blown out in the wind, and one ought " 
 
 " Obviously," he said; " one can do no less." 
 
 He lingered, his hands thrust deep in his pock-i 
 ets, a musing look upon his face; while she began 
 removing the remnants of their meal. 
 
 " That explains something," he said, after a 
 brief silence, " something which — er — disturbed 
 me unreasonably. I had not intended speaking 
 of it to you." 
 
 She looked at him inquiringly. 
 
 ' ' I drove home to-night by way of the old Eg- 
 gleston road ; and as I rounded the corner by the 
 big oak tree — you know the i^lace — I came upon 
 young Hill and Milly. They were talking ear- 
 nestly. And as I passed I couldn't help noticing 
 their faces." 
 
 She uttered a slight exclamation of dismay. 
 
 '' The young fellow was Jflushed and eager — he's 
 a handsome chap, by the way — and Milly — Milly 
 had been crying, I think." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not! " breathed Mrs. Pettibone.
 
 246 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Her face had once more taken on a look of 
 poignant distress. 
 
 '' Tut-tut! " said the minister, smiling down at 
 her. '' How about the All-Encircling Good? 
 Doesn't it embrace those two? " 
 
 " You didn't think so, till you knew," she re- 
 taliated. 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 '' True," he acknowledged. '' Oh, the body of 
 this death, and its cowardly carnal mind! Well, 
 my dear, I'm not fit to write sermons; but it ap- 
 pears to be my job. If it wasn't for you, and your 
 occasional clear seeing — you see, I'm not making 
 you too perfect — but if it wasn't for you. Miss 
 Philura, I'm afraid I should oftener miss the 
 truth of things, altogether." 
 
 Unwisely, perhaps, she turned to face him, a 
 wan little smile curving her tremulous lips. 
 
 '' You oughtn't to say that," she murmured, 
 her voice shaken with the hard beating of her 
 heart. '' You wouldn't, if you knew — everything 
 about me." 
 
 She tried to meet his gaze unflinchingly. But, 
 alas! Miss Philura had never quite mastered the 
 gentle art of dissembling. Her voice broke pite- 
 ously over the last word. 
 
 He gazed at her in silence, while she made blind 
 pretence of brushing imaginary crumbs from a 
 spotless tablecloth. 
 
 '^ I'm afraid you've been working too hard to-
 
 THE CONFESSION 247 
 
 day," he said, gently drawing her toward him. 
 " Come into the study, dear, and give an account 
 of yourself." 
 
 But at the threshold she drew back. 
 
 " Not there," she begged, rather wildly. '' I 
 — oh, Silas, I've been deceiving you — all these 
 months." 
 
 His face whitened slowly. "Well, he had been 
 afraid of it — had, all along, been conscious of 
 something not well hidden in that transparent 
 breast of hers. He led her, all shaken with sobs, 
 to the shabby old sofa, and sat down at her side 
 — but not touching her. God helping him, he 
 would play the man. 
 
 '' Now," he said, masterfully, " you will tell 
 me what tliis means. Don't be afraid, dear," he 
 added, with a gentleness in which there was no 
 touch of compulsion, but only a great weariness, 
 " I shall — understand." 
 
 Already he had passed in swift review the 
 months of their brief engagement — of their mar- 
 riage. Too long she had lived the life of a clois- 
 tered nun (he was thinking) to bear his rude 
 transplanting. He should have been satisfied with 
 her friendship, which she would have poured out 
 for him, drop by drop, with delicate frugality. 
 But now 
 
 '' I — cleaned — your study," she began, her head 
 hanging, all the colour gone out of her face. 
 
 " You— cleaned ? "
 
 248 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 ^' Your study — yes. You asked me not to — - 
 you forbade me. But I did. I've done it — oh, 
 ever so many times, and always when you were 
 away. And I pretended — I was careful to ar- 
 range everything — so you wouldn't know." 
 
 He glanced about him with slow bewilderment. 
 Nothing had been changed: the Simpkin's Com- 
 mentary on the Pauline Epistles lay just where 
 he had left it the day before; on the writing- 
 table were the loose sheets of his unfinished ser- 
 mon ; and on the floor 
 
 " You — cleaned " he repeated, dazedly. 
 
 '' Oh, hang the study! I don't care if you turn 
 it inside out every day — from now on. What I 
 want to know is — why did you cry when I said I 
 couldn't write sermons without youf " 
 
 There was another matter, as he soon found 
 out. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, it is true, wiped her eyes and 
 tried to smile her appreciation of the splendid 
 generosity of his surrender on the question of the 
 study. She assured him, with touching earnest- 
 ness, that she wouldn't turn the room inside out 
 every day; but only at stated intervals, and with 
 the same care and attention with which she had 
 guiltily deceived him in the past. 
 
 ^' But you haven't answered my question," he 
 persisted, turning her small face up to his and 
 looking deep into her eyes. "■ There's something 
 else; you must tell me what it is."
 
 THE CONFESSION 249 
 
 She was mute under his inquisitorial gaze, trem- 
 bling a little, but not attempting to look away. 
 
 '' Tell me," he begged, " — as you hope for our 
 happiness! " 
 
 Thus adjured, she began, in a small, faint voice. 
 
 '' One day, a long time ago, I took everything 
 — off your — writing-table. ' ' 
 
 " Yes," he said, a smile creeping about the 
 corners of his lips. " You have already con- 
 fessed to that enormity." 
 
 " I — I dusted your — blotting-pad." 
 
 '' Well? " he encouraged her. 
 
 She drew a quick breath, gazing at him in- 
 credulously. 
 
 " You didn't mean that I — should see. I had 
 no right " 
 
 ^' To dust my blotting-pad? Well, possibly 
 
 not. But I hereby grant you the inclusive and ex- 
 clusive right to " 
 
 The look in her eyes stopped him. 
 
 " Why, what ? " he began. 
 
 She arose and walked steadily to the writing- 
 table. He followed her, in perplexed silence. 
 
 " You didn't mean that I — should see — this," 
 she said. 
 
 And gave him the picture. 
 
 A slight exclamation escaped him at sight of 
 it. Then he stood quite still, looking at the pic- 
 tured face. 
 
 She was seeing it, too — the wistful mouth, with
 
 250 THE HEART OF PHHLURA 
 
 its lialf-smiling, half-sad look of expectancy; the 
 loose dark curl, lying softly upon the whiteness 
 of the graceful neck ; the deep, questioning eyes. 
 
 Presently he sighed. 
 
 '' You — found this? " he said, looking up at 
 last. 
 
 ' ' It fell out — ^when I I put it back. I knew 
 
 I had no — right." 
 
 Her voice trailed off in a minor key, infinitely 
 touching in its hopeless appeal. Her shamed eyes 
 begged his forgiveness. 
 
 '' No — right? " he repeated, gently. 
 
 He put out his hand and led her back to the 
 sofa. 
 
 '' My dear," he said, after a silence, which 
 somehow soothed and comforted her, *' I loved 
 — Mary. She was beautiful, as you know; and I 
 — I was hardly more than a boy when we were 
 married. We were — happy." 
 
 He sighed, his eyes not now upon the joicture, 
 but — as it seemed to her, breathing stilly at his 
 side — afar off, intent upon some distant scene 
 of a poignantly regretted past. 
 
 He roused himself after a little and looked down 
 at her questioningly. 
 
 '' Did you suppose I had hidden it? " he asked, 
 with entire unexpectedness. *' And that all this 
 time I had been brooding over it — quite in secret? 
 No, dear; I shall have to confess I didn't know 
 it was there. Somebody — Mrs. Wessels, no doubt
 
 THE CONFESSION 251 
 
 — must have slipped it under the blotter — long 
 ago. ' ' 
 
 A quaint, almost humorous smile touched his 
 grave lips at sight of her awakening face. 
 
 She stirred, ever so little, the colour stealing 
 back to cheeks and lips. 
 
 " If you had," she murmured, " I should not 
 have wondered — nor blamed you. She was so 
 beautiful; and I " 
 
 He took her in his arms. 
 
 " You are very dear," he whispered, " and I — 
 I love you." 
 
 Quite unnoticed, the photograph slipped to the 
 floor and lay there, its dimmed loveliness face 
 down upon the carpet.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A RAINY DAWN 
 
 *' You must keep this door shut." 
 
 Milly looked up inquiringly; then she lowered 
 her eyes, glancing sidewise at the small, motion- 
 less bundle on the cot. 
 
 ^' If the child cries," Mrs. Hill went on, in a 
 slow, harsh voice, ' ' the mother must not hear it. 
 She is too ill at present." 
 
 The two women were standing in a small room 
 off the kitchen, the light of a rainy dawn upon 
 their faces. 
 
 '^ Shall I — would you like me to go for a doc- 
 tor? " stammered the girl. 
 
 She stood twisting her fingers nervously, trem- 
 bling a little after hours of dumb terror passed 
 alone in the big kitchen. 
 
 '' I should have told you in the beginning that 
 I was able to care for the case," Mrs. Hill said, 
 coldly. ^' If you were frightened, I am sorry. 
 The child is healthy. It will sleep." 
 
 Milly stole a swift glance at her mistress : years 
 appeared to have passed over her head during 
 the night; the full, pale cheeks had fallen into 
 longitudinal folds and wrinkles; there were pur- 
 
 253
 
 A EAINY DAWN 253 
 
 pie pouches under the blood-shot eyes ; streaks of 
 white in the smoothly brushed hair. 
 
 '' There was no time to call a physician," Mrs. 
 Hill went on, slowly; " you know that." Her eyes 
 cajoled; then threatened. " The event — was un- 
 expected. But, fortunately, I have had — experi- 
 ence. My daughter is perfectly safe. She will — ■ 
 recover. You need feel no alarm." 
 
 The girl's troubled glance again sought the cot, 
 in the midst of which, with a singular effect of 
 lonely isolation, lay the motionless little mound 
 of blankets. 
 
 *' Would you — like to see the child! " asked 
 Mrs. Hill, her mouth twisting in a difficult 
 smile. 
 
 Milly's breast heaved. 
 
 '* If — you please," she said, huskily. 
 
 Mrs. Hill moved toward the cot and stood for 
 an instant gazing somberly down at it. A lump 
 in her broad, bare throat seemed to move a lit- 
 tle. She bent down, drawing the blankets aside. 
 
 *' It is a fine, healthy child," she said, dryly. 
 " A boy." 
 
 The girl gazed at the little head covered with 
 dark down; at the tiny i^ink face, with its closed 
 lids ; at the minute fists upheaved on either side. 
 Something within her trembled; the breath came 
 from her parted lips in light, quick gasps. 
 
 Mrs. Hill replaced the blankets, her large hands 
 moving swiftly.
 
 254 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 i( 
 
 I am going upstairs," she said. " I shall 
 come down presently for the gruel. Don't burn 
 it." 
 
 Milly moved obediently toward the stove, still 
 dazed and trembling before the unveiled mystery. 
 
 " You must keep this door shut? " the woman 
 repeated, sharply. " And all the doors between 
 — keep them closed. Do you hear? " 
 
 Milly raised her eyes from a blind contempla- 
 tion of the bubbling stuff in the saucepan. 
 
 " If — the baby cries," she murmured, " shall 
 I ? " 
 
 '' It will not cry. I shall attend to its wants 
 myself. Do not come upstairs. Do not permit 
 anyone to enter. Do not speak to anyone. The 
 house must be kept quiet." 
 
 Milly 's lips parted. She seemed about to ask 
 another question. 
 
 Mrs. Hill, darted a quick, impatient glance at 
 her. Why am I forced to explain to you? it 
 seemed to say. 
 
 " My son left this morning early," the tone- 
 less voice went on. " He will not return. We 
 shall join him as soon as Mrs. Hill is able to 
 travel." 
 
 The door closed; and Milly, left to herself, stood 
 for a long minute quite motionless in the middle 
 of the large kitchen. A heavy silence seemed to 
 have settled upon the house. Outside in the wet 
 grass a cricket chirped disconsolately; a stealthy
 
 A RAINY DAWN 255 
 
 little wind crept about the eaves, whined eerily 
 in the chimney, then loassed with a deep murmur- 
 ous rustle into the dripping hemlocks which 
 fringed the ruined garden. The girl pressed the 
 backs of both hands against her eyes, like a child 
 in pain.
 
 CHAPTER XXin 
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 
 
 Philuea Pettibone walked slowly between shorn 
 meadows, where red clover was beginning to bloom 
 as in early summer. She carried a basket on her 
 arm filled with fresh eggs; the basket and the 
 eggs furnishing a legitimate excuse for thus walk- 
 ing idly along the country road where there had 
 been no dust these many days. Heavy rains had 
 washed the landscape clean, and it now presented 
 a shining morning face to the sky where capri- 
 cious winds drove the clouds in opposite directions. 
 In the rare upper air small, round, white fleeces, 
 like a flock of lambs, moved slowly westward; 
 while beneath them detached masses of denser 
 vapour sailed majestically out to sea, their shad- 
 ows flitting over meadow and hill like the drag- 
 ropes of gigantic balloons. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone's face, under the brim of her 
 shady hat, shone like the newly washed earth. 
 She was as happy as a woman may be who feels 
 herself beloved. And this, be it said, she needs 
 must know afresh, to-day, as well as yesterday, 
 and likewise to-morrow, till winter comes and with 
 it night. 
 
 But winter and night seemed very far away on 
 
 256
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 257 
 
 this day when summer forgot that it was August. 
 The woman, whose hair was already a little gray, 
 sang under her breath as she walked along — a 
 little chirping song about a robin in a tree. Then, 
 all at once, she saw the children. 
 
 There were ten of them, perhaps, or even fif- 
 teen. They were so small and merry in their pink 
 and blue frocks, and they ran about so fast, she 
 found them hard to count as butterflies about a 
 puddle. The largest child — a girl — spied the 
 woman looking at them across the fence, her face 
 rosy and wistful under the shady hat. 
 
 '^ We can play in this meadow now," the girl 
 said, confidentially. " The hay has been cut and 
 there are no cows here. And to-day there is no 
 school, because our teacher has gone to a funeral." 
 
 The girl's face shone with pure joy; she gazed 
 at Mrs. Pettibone, her eyes sparkling under wind- 
 blown hair. 
 
 '' That is very nice," the minister's wife as- 
 sented, understandingly. 
 
 " It was her Gran 'mother," piped another child, 
 as she danced up to the fence. '' She was old; 
 but now she's gone to heaven, and we can play 
 all day. I'm glad; aren't you? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone nodded, her eyes very blue and 
 bright, her cheeks pink with sudden longing. 
 
 " If I might come in for a little while! " she 
 murmured. 
 
 The biggest girl regarded her doubtfully.
 
 258 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 '' You are grown-up," she objected. 
 
 ** But I can play." 
 
 The girl glanced over her shoulder at the pink 
 and blue frocks tumbling over one another in 
 the grass. 
 
 " Can you play mother? " she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone blushed up to the margin of her 
 silvered curls. 
 
 '^ Yes," she said, eagerly, '* if you will let me." 
 
 " You'll have to climb over. We climbed over. 
 We were going home. Our teacher said we must 
 go home. But it is a plea'sant day. Our moth- 
 ers don't expect us for a long time yet, and the 
 hay is all cut. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone climbed over; it was not a diffi- 
 cult feat. But first she pushed her basket through 
 the rails. 
 
 " What is in your basket? " 
 
 " Eggs, but they are not cooked." 
 
 The big girl turned her head ; a number of the 
 children had scampered to the fence, and were 
 staring at the intruder with sudden gravity, al- 
 most displeasure on their round faces. 
 
 '' She has eggs in her basket, but they are not 
 cooked," explained the girl. " I said she might 
 climb over. She can play mother." 
 
 The big girl spoke with a kindly but coercive 
 authority. 
 
 ' ' I shall be one mother ; you will be the other 
 mother. My p'tend-name is Mis-sis Alphonso
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 259 
 
 Smith. . . . Alplionso is a beautiful name; don't 
 you think so? . . . Now, what will your name 
 be? " 
 
 '' Mrs. Silas Pettibone," submitted the woman 
 in the blue gown. She was no taller than the big 
 girl. " Do you thin.k that is a good name for 
 a mother? " 
 
 '' It will do," pronounced the girl. '' But Silas 
 is not so beautiful as Alphonso. Now I shall have 
 six children, 'n' you can have five. I think I'd 
 better have the largest family, 'cause I'm more ex- 
 perienced. I spank my children when they're 
 naughty. Do you? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone considered. Then she shook her 
 head. 
 
 " No," she said. '' No; I could never do that. 
 I sing to my children, and hold them in my 
 lap." 
 
 The girl cast a look of smiling scorn at her. 
 
 " If that's the kind of mother you're going to 
 be, I'll give you the littlest ones. I'll take the big 
 ones. My mother says all children need spanking, 
 once in a while. "We spank our dolls an' our kit- 
 ten, regularly; don't we, Myra? " 
 
 '' Uh-huh," assented a small child in a pink 
 frock. '' But I guess I'd rather be her little girl. 
 I like to sit in laps an' be singed to." 
 
 " All right, now I'll divide the children. Your 
 
 name is Myra Pet What'd you say your 
 
 name was goin' t' be? "
 
 260 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 *' Pettibone," supplied the minister's wife. 
 
 " Your name is Myra Pettibone, an' your name 
 is Hattie Smith, an' yours is Jennie Pettibone, 
 
 'n' yours Come here, Georgie. Do you want 
 
 to be her little boy ? You don 't ? Well, then, yours 
 is Georgie Smith. I gaiess you'll have to have all 
 girls. Mis' Pettibone! You don't care! " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone shook her head. 
 
 " I don't care," she said, surveying her rapidly 
 growing family with entire satisfaction. 
 
 The two little girls had huddled close against 
 her skirts, and were staring truculently at the 
 Smith family. 
 
 " Ma," whined the newly christened Myra, who 
 was evidently acquainted with the rules of the 
 game, " Georgie Smith is puttin' out his tongue 
 to me! " 
 
 The big girl gazed sternly at the accused. 
 
 ''Georgie Smith," she exclaimed, "do that 
 again, 'n' see what you'll get! I'll tell your pa, 
 sir, when he comes home t '-night! That's what 
 I'll do. . . . Now, M'rie, you're Mis' Pettibone 's 
 next-to-the-youngest. She's a nice child, Mis^ 
 Pettibone; an' I'm going to give you Baby. I'd 
 like to have Baby myself, she's so cunnin'. She 
 doesn't go to school all the time; but her mother 
 was canning ras'b'rries to-day so I brought her. 
 Her real name is Louise Gwendolen; but every- 
 body calls her Baby." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone held out her arms with a smile,
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 261 
 
 and Mrs. Alplionso Smith gently propelled a 
 chubby child of three into them. 
 
 '^ Now, le' me see; you've got Myra an' Jennie 
 an' M'rie an' Baby. Do you want another? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone thought four would do. She 
 was gazing rapturously at Louise Gwendolen, who 
 had tucked her thumb into her rosy mouth with 
 an air of drowsy content. 
 
 '' Well, if it ain't, you can have another, jus* 
 as well as not," promised Mrs. Alphonso Smith, 
 generously. " That makes me seven." 
 
 She gazed with severe benevolence at the newly 
 christened Smiths, who were cavorting joyously 
 amid the clover. 
 
 ' ' I shall cut me a good strong switch, first thing 
 I do," murmured Mrs. Smith, darkly. '' Seven's 
 a big fam'ly for a little woman like me, Mis' Pet- 
 tibone; more especial when their pa has gone 
 to Boston for all day. . . . Now you must tell 
 what your hus 'ban's doing." 
 
 '' My husband is — I think he is writing a ser- 
 mon," submitted Mrs. Pettibone, realistically 
 cuddling her youngest. 
 
 " A sermon f Is he a preacher-man? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone nodded. 
 
 Mrs. Alphonso Smith looked doubtful. 
 
 " That's really an' truly, isn't it? "We're hard- 
 shell Baptists. That's the best kind, my father 
 says." 
 
 She tossed her head carelessly.
 
 262 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 " I don't know as I care. You can be a p'tend- 
 Pres'pterian, if you want to. Now your house 
 is under that tree, an' your yard conies to here." 
 
 She marked off an imaginary Hne with her toe. 
 
 * ' My house is under this big tree, and my yard 
 is all that place over there. I'm going to take 
 my children home and put them straight to bed. 
 And you'd better, too. Then to-morrow morning 
 — ^we don't have night last long, 'cause they won't 
 lie still — we'll give 'em breakfast. You can have 
 three lunch-baskets. I'll send one of my children 
 over with them. You can p'tend he's a grocery- 
 man, if you want to. You pick the money off the 
 bushes — nice green leaves ; roll 'em up, so ! Looks 
 exac'ly like money. We can have all we want. 
 It takes lots of money, Mis' Pettibone, to bring 
 up seven hearty children." 
 
 Mrs. Alphonso Smith achieved a grown-up sigh. 
 
 *' I tell my hus'ban' every day of my life I 
 don't see how I can make out; the children do 
 wear their shoes out so. . . . Now, you go in your 
 house, an' to-morrow first thing I'll come and call 
 an' bring my two youngest children; an' then in 
 
 the afternoon Georgie Smith ! come here this 
 
 minute ! I see I'll have to spank you good, before 
 your pa comes home. Then what do you think 
 he'll say? " 
 
 Georgie Smith hung his head before the terrific 
 possibilities he had doubtless realised in the not 
 distant past.
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 263 
 
 Experience tauglit him to say : 
 
 " I wasn't doin' notliin', Ma; Marg'ry, she 
 pinched me ! ' ' 
 
 ^' Marg'ry Smith, did you pinch your little 
 brother? You can come in the house an' go 
 straight to bed. You'll get no cake nor pie for 
 your supper, Miss! " 
 
 Amid realistic howls of grief she turned to the 
 less experienced matron : 
 
 ^' You'd better take your children right 
 home. Mis' Pettibone. P'rhaps you didn't 
 'know it, but th's 'ho op in '-cough ' round this 
 neighbourhood; I thought I'd ought to tell 
 you. My children have all had it ; but yours 
 haven't." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone hastily withdrew with her flock 
 to the spot kindly pointed out by Mrs. Alphonso 
 Smith. 
 
 *' Up in a tree, Eobin I see, pecking them one 
 by one," she crooned. 
 
 Baby was really and truly sleepy; she crept 
 into her p'tend-mother's lap and pillowed her 
 curly head comfortably upon her breast. Her lit- 
 tle body was soft and warm; one could hear her 
 sucking her thumb. Gentle thrills of rapture crept 
 over the p'tend-mother. 
 
 ' ' Cherries are ripe ; cherries are ripe ; oh, give 
 the baby one! " she sang, and Myra and Jennie 
 and M 'rie resting their heads upon her skirt shut 
 their eyes, squeezing them tight against the bright
 
 264 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 sunrays that darted through the clustered oak 
 leaves. 
 
 '' It's night," whispered Myra, ^' an' we're in 
 our cribs, covered up snug an' warm. I said my 
 prayers; did you, M'rie! " 
 
 " But you have to say prayers to your mother,'* 
 retorted M'rie, indignantly. 
 
 " Not when you're p 'tending. You can p'tend 
 you've said 'em to your mother. Let's hurry an* 
 go to sleep; so 't'll be morning quicker." 
 
 '^ We haven't had any supper. I want my sup- 
 per b'fore I go to sleep. Mother, I'm hungry. 
 I want my supper! " 
 
 '' Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber! " sang 
 the p'tend-mother, tenderly. " Holy angels guard 
 thy bed! " 
 
 '' You lie still, M'rie Pettibone," counselled 
 Myra, energetically. " Don't you see she's play- 
 ing we've had our supper? 'N', anyway, the 
 grocery-man didn't come yet. Maybe Georgie's 
 got int' the baskets. He'd really an' truly eat up 
 all the cake if he did." 
 
 At this awful suggestion the three little girls 
 sat up straight, winking the sun from their 
 eyes. 
 
 '' It's morning, mother. It's morning. Don't 
 you see how bright the sun shines? 'N' we're 
 hungry. Can we have our breakfast? " 
 
 '' You'll have to go to the grocery, children," 
 Mrs. Pettibone smiled over the top of Baby's curly
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 265 
 
 head. " Here's the money; buy anything you 
 want. ' ' 
 
 ' ' H 'm-m ! Jus ' see all the money our mother 's 
 got! I'm the oldest. I shall carry the money and 
 buy the things." 
 
 ^' You are not the oldest, I shall buy the break- 
 fast. I was seven last May." 
 
 <' 'N' I was seven jus' las' week. I am so the 
 oldest. So there! " 
 
 The sound of a slap vigorously dealt, followed 
 by really and truly crying, brought Mrs. Alphonso 
 Smith to the scene. 
 
 She separated the combatants with a practised 
 hand. 
 
 '' That's what you get from being too good to 
 your children," she explained to the perturbed 
 Mrs. Pettibone. '' You want to take 'em right in 
 the beginnin' an' give 'em somethin' to cry for. 
 What are you quarrelling about, children? If 
 your own mother can't manage you, the neigh- 
 bours '11 have to come in an' help. . . . You're 
 both seven! Course you are! You're twins; 
 didn't you know that? I forgot to tell you. But 
 you are. You can both carry the money, and 
 you can both bring home the groceries; and if 
 I hear you cry again, Jennie an' Myra — unless 
 it's p'tend-cryin' — you'll find your name changed 
 to Smith, all of a sudden. I got a good switch 
 to my house, an' seven or nine, makes no differ- 
 ence to me. I'll take 'em any time you say. Mis'
 
 266 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 Pettibone, an' trade you Hattie for 'em. She's 
 a good girl an' minds her mother." 
 
 The hastily matched twins, amicably holding 
 hands, trotted away nnder convoy of Mrs. Al- 
 phonso Smith. The third child, with a shrewd 
 glance at the absorbed face of the p 'tend-mother, 
 followed. 
 
 '' She don't care, as long's she's got Baby," 
 she told the biggest girl. " She's huggin' an' 
 kissin' Baby soft, like she was her really-truly 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 " Oh, well," assented the resourceful Mrs. Al- 
 phonso Smith. " You can be my next-t '-the '- 
 youngest little girl, if you'd rather. I'll take the 
 twins, too. She can p'tend she's got an only 
 child. I'd jus' s' soon have ten." 
 
 The p 'tend-mother under the oak-tree was re- 
 velling in her dream. The delicious feel of 
 the round, soft limbs; the silken mass of curls 
 against her cheek; the warm breath coming and 
 going between parted lips which resembled the 
 half-closed bud of a pink rose, filled her with 
 rapture. 
 
 " My little baby," she whispered. '' Mother's 
 own precious little baby! " 
 
 The starved breast under the baby's warm cheek 
 throbbed with the passionate beating of the heart 
 beneath. There was no other woman near to re- 
 gard her with half-contemptuous eyes of wonder 
 and pity. They were alone — these two — in the
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 267 
 
 wide, sweet-smelling world, with bees in the red 
 clover and the voices of meadow-larks calling and 
 answering under the drifting clouds. 
 
 How long she sat thus, folded in the warm hap- 
 piness of that dream of motherhood, Philura Pet- 
 tibone never knew. She was roused at last by a 
 man's voice. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am; I asked the chil- 
 dren playing in the road, and they couldn't tell 
 me " 
 
 She looked up, her eyes from which the vision 
 had not yet fled blue as corn-flowers under the 
 brim of her shady hat. 
 
 ''I'm afraid I've waked your baby," he apolo- 
 gised, with a smile. 
 
 He seemed of a commanding height viewed 
 from her lowly seat under the tree ; and now that 
 the smile had faded from his young face, she 
 saw that it was pale and anxious. 
 
 ** Can you tell me where a family called Hill 
 — I believe they are strangers in the neighbour- 
 hood — are living? '^ 
 
 The child slipped from her arms and, looking 
 around the empty field with wide, startled eyes, 
 began to cry piteously. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he repeated; " I seem to have 
 frightened your baby. But you can tell her I will 
 go at once." 
 
 His face was oddly familiar, now that she looked 
 at it more narrowly. Where had she seen those
 
 268 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 strongly marked brows, and the stern curve of the 
 young lips? 
 
 He went away, when at length she had satisfied 
 him with minute directions of a turn to the right, 
 two to the left, a bridge to be crossed, and stone 
 gate-posts, opposite a red barn. Her puzzled eyes 
 followed him as he strode to the fence. He was 
 in haste, whatever his name or business. . . . 
 
 She walked home under the noonday sun, with 
 a guilty sense of furniture undusted, a pudding, 
 which was to be and was not, and of a basket filled 
 with mending, which ought on this particular day 
 of the week to be empty. At the door she was 
 met by her husband, his hair rumpled pictur- 
 esquely upon his forehead in a way which signified 
 that work in the study had gone smoothly that 
 morning. 
 
 " How very nice you look, dear," he said, tilt- 
 ing her face all luminous with afterglow up to his. 
 And he stooped to kiss her, though such was not 
 his sober habit. 
 
 '* Oh! Silas," she murmured, blushing, " I 
 should have been home long ago; but I — came 
 upon some children in a meadow." 
 
 " Some children in a meadow," he repeated, 
 when she showed no inclination to explain further. 
 *' That sounds pleasant. And you ? " 
 
 " I climbed over the fence and — and — played 
 with them," she confessed, her eyes downcast 
 before the quizzical smile in his.
 
 PLAYING MOTHER 269 
 
 That afternoon, as with furtive dustcloth she 
 was hurriedly attempting to make good the omis- 
 sions of the morning, she beheld the majestic fig- 
 ure of Mrs. Buckthorn moving up the walk. 
 
 " I just stopped in on my way t' see poor Mis' 
 Pratt," began that lady, with a searching glance 
 about the room. . . . '' What! You haven't heard 
 she 'd had another of her spells ? Yes, I know she 
 was 'bout-as-usual yesterday; but in the after- 
 noon My, yes1 I thought of course you^d 
 
 heard, and Mr. Pettibone. . . . They didn't send 
 for him? I s'pose they was too busy doin' fer 
 her. But they'll expect him to call. It's a pas- 
 ter's dooty an' priv'lege; an' he'd ought t' know, 
 without being sent for, where he's wanted." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn drew a sibilant breath from 
 the interior of her being, accompanied by a sol- 
 emn creaking of her stays. 
 
 " I don't know as you re'lise, Philura, that if 
 you ain't careful an' prayerful you might actooaly 
 hender the work that's bein' carried on in our 
 midst, 'stead of helpin' it — as you'd ought to do. 
 Did you ever think of that? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone stole a guilty look at the spot 
 where she had concealed the dustcloth behind a 
 sofa-pillow. Mrs. Blackthorn found her mur- 
 mured reply far from satisfying, 
 
 " I see you ain't," she observed,inhollowtones. 
 *' I was afraid of it. I sez t' the Deacon this 
 mornin'. * It's borne in upon me,' I sez, ' that,
 
 270 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 however painful, I'd ought t' have a heart-t'- 
 heart-talk with Philura Pettibone. No,' I sez, 
 * don't try to hold me back. Philura was a scholar 
 in my Sunday-school class fer many, many years,' 
 I sez, ' an' little I thought in them days, when his 
 first wife was livin', that I sh'd ever see her in 
 the pars'nage.' " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's eyes, uplifted from a depressed 
 contemplation of the dusty round of a chair, fell 
 upon the picture of the Huguenot Lovers on the 
 opposite wall. A wandering sun-ray, piercing the 
 leafy mazes of a lilac bush just outside the win- 
 dow, flickered tremulously over the two young 
 faces, forever rapt in the sweet pain of that tragic 
 parting. 
 
 " Oh ! " she murmured, indistinctly, her 
 thoughts bearing her far from Mrs. Buckthorn's 
 massive presence and the droning sound of her 
 intolerant voice. Had the stranger of the morn- 
 ing's encounter found the Eggleston farm? she 
 wondered; and could it be ? 
 
 " Faithful are the wounds of a friend," her 
 visitor was reminding her acidly. " I s'pose 
 likely you'd ruther not think much about her, 
 more especial 's you can't hold a candle t' her in 
 looks. That's perfec'ly natural, I'm sure. We 
 can't all be han'some, Philura; but we can all 
 strive t' do our dooty."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 
 
 Morning of the next day, marked by no evasion 
 of housewifely duty, found Mrs. Pettibone busy 
 in the compounding of a certain cake, which her 
 lord had once approved, and which called for the 
 frugal outlay of but a single egg and a solitary 
 sjooonful of butter. As the egg-whisk struck the 
 bottom of the bowl in a brisk patter of sound she 
 became aware of a shufSing step outside, and 
 glancing up beheld Grandfather Orne apologeti- 
 cally wiping his feet upon the door-mat. 
 
 " Dunno's I'm so t' say muddy, ner yet dusty," 
 he began. '' But Gran'ma, she's got me trained, 
 so 't I don't das' t' walk in on no floor 'ithout 
 wipin'. ' I wonder if th's door-mats in heav'n,' 
 I sez. But Gran'ma, she sez, ' No. Them Golden 
 Streets is kep' clean 'nough t' eat off of,' she 
 sez, . . . Tes'm, I'll set down a minute, if you 
 don't mind." 
 
 The old man disposed himself in the wooden 
 chair the minister's wife set for him, with con- 
 siderable ceremony and a vast deal of clearing 
 his throat. He had come to tell her something, 
 she knew; but familiar with the ways of the 
 countryside she went on compounding the cake, 
 
 271
 
 272 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 her rapid spoon beating its staccato rhythm 
 against the sides and bottom of the bowl. 
 
 " Milly come down f om th' farm this momin','' 
 chirped Grandfather, clutching his old straw hat 
 with both heavy hands, as if he feared it would 
 escape him. 
 
 ''Did she? " 
 
 " Yes'm; she come down, bare-headed 'n' all 
 out o' breath." 
 
 The old man stared unwinkingly at the cake- 
 tin, into which the minister's wife was carefully 
 pouring the yellow mixture. 
 
 " Her Gran 'ma was some s 'prised t' see her." 
 
 " She must have been." 
 
 " Seems th' young lady's lit out, unexpected." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone hastily set down her bowl. 
 
 " The young lady? Do you mean " 
 
 " Her 'at was young Mis' Hill. Milly come 
 down t' ask us, did we see her a-goin' by? I guess 
 the's b'en some cur 'us doin's up t' th' farm. The 
 young man, he went off a week ago. 'N' Milly 's 
 b'en there alone with 'em. We thought mebbe 
 you didn't know. Somebody 'd ought t' go up 
 there. Gran 'ma she sez t' me, ' Go down an' tell 
 th' minister's wife. Gran 'pa? ' she seiz. So I 
 dropped m' hoe an' come, jus' 's I was. Beats 
 all, how anybody c'd git right up out o' bed an' 
 clear out, so 't nobody c'd trace 'em." 
 
 " Out of bed? " repeated the minister's wife, 
 dazedly.
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 273 
 
 She walked across tlie floor and quite without 
 knowledge of what she did opened the oven door 
 and set her cake inside. 
 
 " Mebbe she was settin' up. Milly, she wa'n't 
 allowed t' do nothin' outside th' kitchen; so she 
 couldn't say 's t' what was goin' on upstairs. 
 But the ol' lady; she was down in th' back room 
 fer quite a spell this mornin' doin' fer th' baby; 
 'n' it must 'a' b'en while she was gone 'at th' 
 young lady " 
 
 " What! — Did you say there was a baby? " in- 
 quired Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 The face she turned upon the old man was pink 
 with excitement ; her hands gripped her apron. 
 
 " Why, yes'm, 'n' she was washin' 'n' dressin' 
 it, mebbe. Milly sez it's an' awful cute baby; 
 it's 'bout a week old, I sh'd say. . . . You hadn't 
 heerd of it. Ma'am? Well, I guess nobody had. 
 'Twas kep' kin' o' quiet. Even Gran 'ma, she 
 didn't know, till she went up t' see what'd be- 
 come o' Milly. Gran 'ma, she's a great han' t' 
 fret an' worry, 'n' them folks up there " 
 
 Grandfather Orne moved uneasily in his chair. 
 
 " 1 heerd Milly a-tellin' her Gran 'ma th' baby 
 'd never b'en took upstairs." 
 
 He shuffled to his feet, and gazed frowningly 
 into the crown of his hat. 
 
 '' Ef I was you, Ma'am, I dunno but what I'd 
 go up there 'n' kind o' look th' sitoation over — 
 bein' 's you're the minister's wife. Milly, she
 
 274 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 don't seem t' feel reel easy in lier mind, an' her 
 Gran 'ma — wall, Ma'am, you know what kind of 
 a critter Gran 'ma is, always a-worritin' an' 
 champin' o' her bit. An' 'tis queer fer a sick 
 lady t' " 
 
 But the mistress of the kitchen had disappeared. 
 He heard the quick tread of her feet in the room 
 beyond, a door opening and shutting, and the 
 sound of voices. 
 
 ^' Seems kind of 'xcited," mused Mr. Orne. 
 '' Wall, let a man say the word ' baby ' t' most 
 any woman, 'n' she'll fly 'round like a turkey on 
 a hot rock." 
 
 He moved slowly toward the door, his mouth 
 twisted in a dubious smile. 
 
 ^' Cur 'us critters — women-folks," he muttered. 
 '' Th' older I git, th' more they seem that-a-way 
 t' me. Onreas'n'ble, es a rule, 'n' — 'n' brash.'* 
 
 And, with this, his errand having been accom- 
 plished, Grandfather Orne returned to the culti- 
 vation of his late vegetables, which had been so 
 suddenly interrupted by the unlooked-for appari- 
 tion of his grand-daughter. Late vegetables, such 
 as cabbages and beets, set in solid, respectable 
 phalanxes, soothed his aged nerves. One could 
 depend upon them in a world of chance and change, 
 wherein women-folks abounded, and where unex- 
 pected and, for the most part, disagreeable things 
 were always happening. A cabbage, he reflected 
 vaguely, was always a cabbage, round, green — or
 
 SYLVLl'S CHILD 275 
 
 purple, as the case might be — imperturbable. One 
 might say anything to a cabbage — and one fre- 
 quently did — without a resultant tremor of a cool, 
 crisp leaf. . . . 
 
 The Eeverend Silas Pettibone, having listened 
 attentively to his wife's agitated interpretation 
 of Grandfather Orne's message, laid down his pen 
 without a iDrotest. But he was far from following 
 the rapid flight of her imagination. 
 
 " You tell me a man asked you yesterday to 
 direct him to the old Eggleston place ; has it oc- 
 curred to you that he might have been a sewing- 
 machine agent and, therefore, not at all connected 
 with the disappearance of " 
 
 ** Silas! " protested his wife. " A sewing- 
 machine agent! He was young, tall, and very 
 good-looking. ' ' 
 
 The minister smiled and rumpled his hair 
 controversially. 
 
 '' I will harness the horse," he said; " but I 
 cannot forbear reminding you, my dear, that sew- 
 ing-machine agents are quite as likely to be young, 
 tall, and good-looking as other men. More so, in 
 fact; the occupation it would seem appeals to 
 youth; and youth " 
 
 But she had already hurried away to put on 
 her hat. 
 
 As he urged the indignant sorrel horse along 
 the road as rapidlj^ as the animal's outraged feel- 
 ings would permit, Mr. Pettibone was inwardly
 
 276 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 perturbed by the look on his wife's face. He had 
 seen it there before; but being, despite his call- 
 ing, imperfectly acquainted with the heart of 
 woman he did not recognise it for what it was. 
 
 '' You shouldn't worry too much about the 
 young woman," he offered. " She might, you 
 know, have wandered out into the woods for an 
 airing, and — er — turned up long ago, quite safe 
 and — er — none the worse for " 
 
 She shot him a pitying look. 
 
 ''I'm not thinking about her/' she said. 
 
 "What, then! " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone's hands in their much-mended 
 lisle-thread gloves closed tightly upon each other. 
 
 " If there is — a baby," she murmured, tremu- 
 lously. 
 
 " That appears to be an incontrovertible prem- 
 ise," he admitted. 
 
 " And if — she didn't know " 
 
 " My dear Philura," he smiled, " what an ex- 
 traordinary imagination you are developing of 
 late." 
 
 He patted the tense little hand nearest him, very 
 kindly but firmly, as if in his judgment the proc- 
 ess of which he had spoken would better cease. 
 
 " If she has gone — without knowing " per- 
 sisted Mrs. Pettibone, not appearing to notice 
 the veiled protest. 
 
 He spoke sharply to the horse, who had 
 taken advantage of the conversation to relax into
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 277 
 
 a shambling- gait, expressive of his sentiments 
 toward his master and the world at large, which 
 he appeared to view with equine displeasure. . . . 
 
 " Do you want me to go in? " he asked, as he 
 presently assisted her to alight before the old Eg- 
 gleston house, " or do you prefer ? " 
 
 She was silent for a moment, looking timidly 
 up at the shuttered windows. 
 
 *' I — don't know," she said, at last. " Perhaps, 
 she — perhaps I " 
 
 '' Precisely," assented the minister, with an 
 air of relief. " Go in at once; Milly will admit 
 you. I have a book with me. If you should want 
 me " 
 
 She took two steps toward the sombre old 
 house; then suddenly turned, her face luminous 
 but strangely pale. 
 
 " Please kiss me," she said. 
 
 " My dear! " he protested, ^' if anyone should 
 be looking " 
 
 But he stooped and his lips touched hers. 
 
 " There is nothing to be afraid of," he said, 
 with a touch of masculine impatience. " I will 
 go in, if you prefer." 
 
 But already she had moved away from him, a 
 little sob in her throat. Overhead the wind passed 
 through the evergreens with a solemn murmur. 
 
 No one answered her light rap at the side en- 
 trance, and after a moment of indecision the min- 
 ister's wife passed around to the kitchen. The
 
 278 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 door stood open; but Milly was not there. On 
 the shelf over the well-polished cooking-range the 
 loud-voiced clock buzzingly told the hour of four. 
 There were flowers in a glass on the table, and 
 a small rocking-chair stood near the window. 
 Something white hung over the back of the chair. 
 Her eyes fastened upon it. Then she stepped in- 
 side, her feet making no sound on the painted 
 floor, where the sun lay in wai*m pools of yellow 
 light. Slowly she moved across the space which 
 separated her from the chair. To the left of the 
 stove a second door stood part way open. She 
 reached out a timid hand to touch the little gar- 
 ment on the back of the chair. It was made of 
 flannel and there was lace about the scalloped 
 hem. It was very quiet in the kitchen; the loud 
 ticking of the clock beat hard against the silence. 
 Somewhere, a great way off, a cock crew thrice, 
 and the distant hoot of a locomotive whistle echoed 
 lonesomely among the hills. Mrs. Pettibone held 
 the little garment in both hands, pressing it 
 against her cheek. The sun had rested upon it 
 and it was warm and soft; the faint sweet smell 
 of the wool was in her nostrils. Then all at once 
 a sound broke the clock-ridden silence ; some young 
 creature was awake and stiring in the next room. 
 
 Philura Pettibone boldly pushed the door open 
 and looked in. It was a small room, used per- 
 haps as a servant's bedroom, in the days when the 
 Egglestons were a large and prosperous family.
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 279 
 
 The walls, hung with defaced and dingy paper of 
 a greenish hue, showed great splotches where the 
 damp and mould had crept through the plaster. 
 There was a single window, covered with a flimsy 
 shade; in one corner stood a chest of drawers 
 topped by a cracked mirror, and against the 
 further wall a cot, its cheap blue and white striped 
 mattress imperfectly concealed by a folded blan- 
 ket. In the midst of the blanket a little mound of 
 something white stirred feebly with a half-smoth- 
 ered cry. 
 
 It was perhaps half an hour later — Philura Pet- 
 tibone never knew, since happiness takes no note 
 of time. She was sitting in the rocking-chair 
 swaying gently back and forth, her arms closed 
 about the baby, her down-dropped eyes intent 
 upon the downy head against her breast. The 
 woman, who had noiselessly opened a door from 
 behind, stood motionless, staring at her contem- 
 platively from under gathered brows. Then, as 
 if resolved upon a course of action, she came 
 briskly forward, a determined smile upon her 
 lips. 
 
 ' ' Mrs. Pettibone ! ' ' she said, ' ^ 1 didn 't know 
 you were here." 
 
 The minister's wife looked up. 
 
 " Perhaps," she said, doubtfully, " I oughtn't 
 to have taken it up." 
 
 The bleak smile on the other woman's lips 
 faded.
 
 280 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 " It doesn't matter," slie said, looking at the 
 child with a strange, intent expression. '' It 
 doesn't matter," she repeated, with a touch of im- 
 patience. 
 
 She sat down, her back to the window. 
 
 "I'm glad, on the whole, that you came," she 
 said, after a heavy pause. " I had made up my 
 mind to send for you. I am obliged at last to ask 
 counsel of someone. You — or your husband — 
 will do as well as another." 
 
 " Mr. Pettibone is outside," recollected Mrs. 
 Pettibone. " Shall I — would you prefer " 
 
 ''No; sit still." 
 
 She moistened her lips furtively. 
 
 " I sent Milly to the village with a telegram. 
 It — seemed necessary to recall my son, much as 
 I dislike doing so." 
 
 The child in Mrs. Pettibone 's arms stirred and 
 began sucking its fists with little whimpering 
 cries. 
 
 '' Do you think Is it hungry! " she asked, 
 
 timidly. " I — of course I know very little about 
 babies; but " 
 
 " The child — is a boy," Mrs. Hill said, harshly. 
 '' He is not hungry. Give him to me. I'll put 
 him back on the cot. If he cries, it will not harm 
 him." 
 
 She took the baby and walked quickly to the 
 ugly little room. Mrs. Pettibone stood gazing 
 at her broad stooped back and the jerky move-
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 281 
 
 ment of her elbows as she rearranged the blan- 
 kets on the cot. The baby continued to cry feebly. 
 Mrs. Hill, turning suddenly, surprised a look 
 of poignant distress, almost of anger, on the 
 watchful face. She shut the door firmly behind 
 her. 
 
 " I think we will go in the other room," she 
 said. " We shall not be disturbed there," 
 
 She held the door to the dining-room wide, mo- 
 tioning the other woman to pass in before her. 
 But Mrs. Pettibone drew back protestingly. 
 
 " He might cry," she murmured, " and — we 
 couldn't hear him." 
 
 Mrs. Hill's lips curled impatiently. 
 
 " Please go in," she said, peremptorily. " I 
 have several things to tell you. You must pay 
 attention, or you will be of no use to me. It will 
 do the child no harm to cry for a while." 
 
 She closed the second door with decision and 
 motioned her visitor to a chair. 
 
 " My daughter " 
 
 Her face quivered for an instant, then settled 
 into iron composure. 
 
 " The child was born ten days ago. My daugh- 
 ter made a good recovery. Yesterday she was 
 fully dressed for the first time. We expected 
 to leave this place next week. But " 
 
 The minister's wife appeared to be listening, 
 as if intent upon a distant sound. She spoke with- 
 out premeditation.
 
 282 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 *' Don't you think she may have gone with her 
 husband 1 " she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Hill started violently. 
 
 " With her husband? " she repeated, sharply. 
 " Why should she go with her husband — with- 
 out my knowledge? We expected Haven't I 
 
 already told you that my son " 
 
 She paused to look piercingly at Mrs. Petti- 
 bone. 
 
 " What have you heard? " she asked, sharply. 
 
 " She came to see me." 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 " She told me — about her marriage. She was 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " I don't — understand how " 
 
 " Your son brought her to the parsonage? " 
 said Mrs. Pettibone, speaking slowly and dis- 
 tinctly. ^' They came in a carriage about two 
 weeks ago. You didn't know it? " 
 
 The woman's dry lips formed the word No. 
 
 After a moment she shrugged her shoulders, 
 her dull eyes moving slowly upward to the ceil- 
 ing, where they appeared to fasten upon the move- 
 ments of a fly crawling slowly about some ornate 
 excrescence of discoloured plaster. '' There was 
 no use — I might have known. She was always 
 stubborn and disobedient. I — tried to save her. 
 God knows I tried ! ' ' 
 
 " I think you were trying to save yourself," 
 said the minister's wife, with one of those sud-
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 283 
 
 den flashes of insight which occasionally visit the 
 least discerning of women. 
 
 Mrs. Hill looked at her visitor, a dull flush ris- 
 ing in her sallow cheeks. 
 
 '' You think ? What do you know about me 
 
 — about any of us! How dare you say such a 
 thing! " 
 
 " Because you are hard and cruel. You didn't 
 believe anything she said. You thought your own 
 child lied to you. You believed she was wicked, 
 when she was only " 
 
 Mrs. Hill flung up her hand in a sudden reck- 
 less gesture. 
 
 " Stop! " she ordered. *' You have heard Syl- 
 via's version of the matter. Now listen to mine." 
 
 But she was silent for a long minute, during 
 which Mrs. Pettibone appeared to listen intently 
 for some distant sound, her hands gripped in her 
 lap. 
 
 " I don't know why I should tell you anything,'* 
 Mrs. Hill resumed, in a bitter tone. " You ap- 
 pear to have mixed yourself up in our affairs from 
 the beginning. Doubtless you assume that your 
 position as the wife of a clergyman entitles you 
 to — meddle." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone rose trembling to her feet. 
 
 " The baby is crying," she said. '' I can- 
 not listen to you while the poor little thing 
 is left alone in that room. It is cruel — abomin- 
 able! "
 
 284 THE HEAKT OF PHILUEA 
 
 Her voice shook. There was in her face at the 
 moment all the blind, unreasoning fury of 
 thwarted motherhood. 
 
 Mrs. Hill watched her visitor without apparent 
 emotion as she hurried from the room. When, 
 presently, she returned, the small flannel bundle 
 hugged awkwardly to her breast, a faint flicker 
 of amusement passed over her rigid face. 
 
 ^' You seem fond of infants," she commented, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Pettibone, gazing defiantly 
 at her from behind the rampart of flannel, * ' I am. 
 I love them ! ' ' 
 
 She patted the baby's back, as women will, 
 crooning over the downy little head. 
 
 " Fond," pronounced Mrs. Hill, curtly, '' in 
 the silly, ignorant way common to animals and 
 some women. Sit down, if you will, and listen 
 to what I have to say to you." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone obeyed. The child had ceased 
 its feeble wailing and lay quiet in her arms. 
 
 '' I can look back from this point and see that 
 I ruined Sylvia's disposition with over-indul- 
 gence," pursued Mrs. Hill, with iron composure. 
 " All this " — she appeared to include the shabby 
 room, Mrs. Pettibone, and the child in a gesture 
 of disparagement — " is doubtless the result of 
 my own mistaken kindness to a child of a singu- 
 larly passionate and — uncontrolled nature. I 
 should have been more severe — I should have in-
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 285 
 
 sisted upon more implicit obedience. Realising 
 this, I have — tried " 
 
 Her voice, cold and monotonous, suddenly 
 choked. Mrs. Pettibone looked up from her rapt 
 contemplation of the baby's unconscious face. 
 
 " You — tried? " she repeated, wonderingiy. 
 
 Mrs. Hill's solid, erect figure appeared to grow 
 larger, more substantial still. She shot a glance 
 of impatient contempt at the minister's wife. 
 
 ^' My husband died when both of my children 
 were young," she resumed, '^ leaving me with a 
 considerable fortune. Our position in the world 
 
 was unquestioned; our social prominence 
 
 But why speak of this to you! It is impossible 
 for a woman like you to understand in any degree 
 
 the problem that faced me, when Sylvia My 
 
 God! What a frightful discovery! " 
 
 The woman's large hands, of a yellowish- white 
 colour, gripped the arms of her chair. 
 
 '' She told you she was — married? " faltered 
 Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 ' ' Married f . . . She had no proof — not even 
 a ring. And the wretch had disappeared." 
 
 ' ' Did you — you knew him ? ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hill was staring at the child, who had 
 again commenced its feeble wailing. 
 
 " Sylvia was a mere child — a schoolgirl," she 
 said, harshly. '' I employed a governess to in- 
 struct her in French and music. The woman 
 connived at the acquaintance — kept it a secret
 
 286 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 from me. The — the man was a poor clerk, or 
 something of the sort. I knew nothing of him — 
 never saw him. He was not of our world. I 
 was, of course, much occupied with social and 
 charitable work. It never occurred to me that 
 
 Sylvia I had intended taking her to Europe 
 
 this summer. We were only waiting for my son's 
 graduation, when I — learned — the facts." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone shifted the child's position in 
 her arms with anxious tenderness. 
 
 ^' But when you — when she told you, why didn't 
 you try ? " 
 
 " Not being totally devoid of common sense — 
 as you appear to think — I did all that could be 
 done without making an open scandal. I had 
 my son to think of, the honour of the family 
 name. There was no existing proof of the mar- 
 riage. Sylvia's account of it was utterly unbe- 
 lievable. What could I do? What would you 
 have done? " 
 
 Her tone was bitterly sarcastic. 
 
 " I — should have loved her — all the time," 
 breathed the minister's wife. " You might have 
 done that. You might " 
 
 *' I am not," Mrs. Hill said, coldly, " a senti- 
 mentalist. I have always detested that sort of 
 thing." 
 
 " Yet you have children." 
 
 The eyes of the two women met, like the blades 
 of unsheathed rapiers.
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 287 
 
 For an instant neither spoke. 
 
 " You ought," said Philura Pettibone, slowly, 
 '^ to have loved your daughter, before she was 
 born ; and afterwards — every minute ! ' ' 
 
 Mrs. Hill's large shoulders moved slightly. 
 
 " Eeally," she said, " I think we have quite 
 lost sight of the matter in hand. I had no in- 
 tention of asking your opinion of my character 
 or conduct. I wished merely to inquire if you can 
 give me the name and address of a trustworthy 
 woman to care for the child. My daughter has 
 left me of her own free will. I shall not — trouble 
 myself further concerning her future." 
 
 '' How could she leave her baby? " murmured 
 Mrs. Pettibone. "It is that I don't under- 
 stand." 
 
 The woman's face changed subtly. 
 
 *' She supposed it was dead." 
 
 '' You told her so? " 
 
 ^' I — allowed her to think so. It seemed — best."' 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone looked at the large, pale face, 
 in which the events of the summer had graven 
 ineradicable lines, and a great pity took possession 
 of her. 
 
 " Forgive me," she stammered. " I— didn't 
 understand." 
 
 " You didn't understand? " repeated Mrs. Hill, 
 dully. ''No." 
 
 She stared at the wall, as if she saw written 
 there words of judgment and of doom.
 
 288 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 '' If I — " the minister's wife half whispered 
 the words — ^' if you could trust me " 
 
 The opaque eyes came slowly back, with a look 
 of weary incredulity. 
 
 '' You want the child? Impossible! " 
 
 " Why — impossible? I would take good care 
 of him. Oh, I would love him! " 
 
 '' But — your husband's position — he would not 
 consent. I should not, were I in his place. Think 
 of the — scandal. No. I will take the child away 
 with me. It has been ailing and will, perhajos, 
 not survive. . . . Better so." 
 
 A low cry of protest broke from Philura Petti- 
 bone's lips. She spoke wildly, eagerly, scarce 
 knowing what she said. Mrs. Hill listened, her 
 fingers picking at the folds of her dress in pain- 
 ful bewilderment. 
 
 * ' You tell me — a man came to take Sylvia away ? 
 Stop ! I do not follow you. What is this about 
 a picture and — someone who spoke to you — of 
 us? " 
 
 " It was her husband — I am sure of it! He 
 looked like the picture. She wrote to him, and 
 he must have come. And if she thought her baby 
 was dead, there was nothing — forgive me for say- 
 ing it — but can't you see she must have feared 
 and dreaded you, after all that had happened? " 
 
 Mrs. Hill drew a deep breath; a faint colour 
 stole into her face. 
 
 '' If, as you say, her — the father of her child
 
 SYLVIA'S CHILD 289 
 
 found out where she was, and But why did 
 
 he not come to mel If he could show me proof 
 
 of the marriage No ; I cannot believe it. She 
 
 may be — dead." 
 
 Ghastly fear peered for an instant out of her 
 distended eyes. 
 
 " I — after I missed her, I went to the little 
 pool back in the woods. ... I thought — but she 
 was not strong enough to walk so far." 
 
 '' The man," said Mrs. Pettibone, positively, 
 *' was driving a fast horse. I noticed it, par- 
 ticularly. ' ' 
 
 It was at this moment that both women became 
 conscious of a discreet knock on the outside door.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 " UNTO US A SON IS BORN " 
 
 The minister glanced doubtfully from one to the 
 other of the two women, whose faces had instantly 
 resumed the masks habitually worn before men. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone smiled faintly at her husband. 
 
 ^' I — was holding the baby," she explained. " I 
 didn't realise how — late it was." 
 
 '' Your wife," Mrs. Hill said, dryly, " appears 
 fond of children." 
 
 " H'm-m," murmured Mr. Pettibone, passing 
 his hand over his chin. 
 
 For a moment all three were silent. The in- 
 fant struggled feebly in its wrappings with half- 
 strangled cries. 
 
 " You had better give it to me," Mrs. Hill said, 
 impassively. 
 
 She rose from her chair and crossed the room. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone gazed at her imploringly, shel- 
 tering the baby with her arms. 
 
 The minister, who had been consulting his 
 watch, snapped its old-fashioned hunting-case shut 
 with suggestive emphasis. 
 
 '' Come, my dear," he said, with attempted 
 jocularity, ^' you mustn't try to keep a baby from 
 its grandmother, you know." 
 
 290
 
 '' UNTO US A SON IS BORN " 291 
 
 Mrs. Hill straightened herself with a jerk, her 
 angry eyes denying his words. 
 
 " Silas! " 
 
 He turned at the sound of his wife's voice, 
 doubtfully interpreting its passion of entreaty. 
 
 '^ We really oughtn't to stay longer," he said. 
 " Mrs. Hill is perhaps " 
 
 " Come and look at the baby," she urged. 
 
 He obeyed, gazing down at the small, pink, 
 twisting face with a quasi-professional air of 
 interest. 
 
 " Ah! " he murmured, " a — er — fine child. 
 Boy or girl? " 
 
 " He is a boy, Silas," Mrs. Pettibone replied, 
 looking up at him piteously. " Will you let 
 
 me ? Oh, Silas, Mrs. Hill is obliged to go 
 
 away at once to — to search for her daughter. 
 
 She wants to leave the baby — and I Oh, 
 
 Silas!" 
 
 "Impossible!" broke in Mrs. Hill's harsh 
 monotone. " I — have changed my mind. I shall 
 take the child with me." 
 
 " You don't want it! You don't love it! You 
 are wishing it would die! " 
 
 Philura Pettibone 's voice rang out in a shrill 
 crescendo. She stared accusingly at the other 
 woman. 
 
 " You would soon kill it — with hatred and 
 neglect! " 
 
 "My dear Philura!" expostulated the min-
 
 292 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 ister, shocked and incredulous, "surely you do 
 not mean " 
 
 He gazed attentively at his wife, the tardy reali- 
 sation that he had never known her, slowly taking 
 possession of him. 
 
 Mrs. Hill laughed mirthlessly. 
 
 " You make me little better than a murderer! " 
 she exclaimed, contemptuously. " I assure you 
 I couldn't have taken better care of the child if 
 it had been " 
 
 She bit her lip sharply. 
 
 " You will let me have the baby," begged the 
 minister's wife, suddenly abandoning her threat- 
 ening tone. " I — must have it — I must! You 
 know it will only be a hindrance to you. How can 
 you travel? And your son — you must think of 
 him, you know." 
 
 Mrs. Hill glanced stealthily at the minister, who 
 had moved toward the door, his grave face per- 
 plexed and frowning. 
 
 " How do you like the idea of adding a misbe- 
 gotten child to your family? " she asked, jeer- 
 ingly. " Clergymen are always preaching char- 
 ity and good-will. But I have never known one 
 who practised it. It is true that I do not want 
 the child; God knows I have small cause for lov- 
 ing it. But I should not kill it with either kind- 
 ness or neglect." 
 
 " Then I shall have him! " 
 
 Philura Pettibone rose from her chair, her face
 
 '^ UNTO US A SON IS BOEN " 293 
 
 pale and luminous like that of a woman newly 
 emerged from the valley of the shadow into which 
 every mother must needs descend. Without 
 further word she passed slowly out of the room 
 bearing the child in her arms. The two who were 
 left behind heard the light sound of her feet 
 upon the gravel, and the cries of the child, grow- 
 ing fainter with distance. 
 
 '' I will pay liberally for its keep, of course, 
 should you consent to the arrangement," Mrs. 
 Hill said, haughtily. '' I must explain further 
 that I requested your wife to recommend to me 
 some honest farmer's wife. I did intend to leave 
 the child. It is nothing to me." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone gazed at her with stern rebuke. 
 
 '' You are a sinful woman," he pronounced, 
 slowlj^. " Without love, a child is also without 
 hope in the world. We will take him and en- 
 deavour to bring him up in the nurture and 
 admonition of the Lord." 
 
 '' But I must insist upon paying you. I am 
 rich " 
 
 The minister repelled her with a gesture of 
 dignified authority. 
 
 '' Your money perish with you! " he exclaimed, 
 with a severity before which the woman shrank 
 as from the sharp cut of a whip. 
 
 Milly Orne, returning from the village with 
 an5;ious haste, met the minister's carriage at the
 
 294 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 bend of the road. At sight of its occupants she 
 stopped short, her eyes fastened upon the baby in 
 Mrs. Pettibone's arms. 
 
 " Oh! " she cried, sharply, " You have been 
 there. You " 
 
 The minister pulled up the impatient horse. 
 
 '' Yes," he began, doubtfully; " perhaps we 
 have acted unwisely; but " 
 
 He glanced at his wife's pale face. 
 
 " I have taken him for my own," she said, 
 simply. 
 
 Her smile was sublime. 
 
 Milly shook her head compassionately. 
 
 *' He has cried almost constantly for several 
 days," she said. '' I am afraid " 
 
 '' And you were there? ' murmured Mrs. Petti- 
 bone, accusingly. 
 
 '' She locked the door," returned Milly, her 
 blue eyes filling with tears. ' ' I — indeed, I could 
 do nothing. But I am glad you are taking him 
 away." 
 
 Left to herself, the girl's feet moved more and 
 more slowly along the road. She appeared to be 
 debating some doubtful question with herself. 
 Arrived at length before the stately gate-posts, 
 which marked a former pride of ownership, she 
 paused to look half fearfully at the clustered chim- 
 neys of the old house, gravely withdrawn behind 
 its ancient trees. The woman whom she had 
 grown to fear and distrust — almost to hate, in
 
 '' UNTO US A SON IS BORN " 295 
 
 these, the last days of her service — was there 
 alone, she knew. Already she had decided that 
 she could not pass another night under that roof. 
 But there was something she must say to Mrs. 
 Hill before they parted as mistress and maid. 
 
 She found the woman in the little room off 
 the kitchen engaged in packing the small belong- 
 ings of the baby in a flat parceL She glanced up 
 sharply at sound of Milly's step. 
 
 ^' Did you send the message? " she asked. 
 
 Milly nodded, her eyes following the swift 
 movements of the large, pale hands. 
 
 " I am packing these things," explained Mrs. 
 Hill; " to-morrow you are to take them to the 
 village. I have arranged with the clerg^Tnan's 
 wife to care for the child. She is one of those 
 silly creatures who pretend to adore children." 
 
 The girl stood silent, her hands hanging at her 
 side. 
 
 Mrs. Hill noted her attitude with one of her 
 darting glances. 
 
 *' Why do you stand there like that? " she de- 
 manded. " Take off your hat and get me some 
 tea at once. It is late." 
 
 Milly lifted her eyes to the clock which was on 
 the stroke of six. 
 
 " I — am going now," she said, in a low, half- 
 frightened voice. " You will not need me " 
 
 " Going? " echoed Mrs. Hill, sharply. " In- 
 deed, you are not. I shall need you for several
 
 296 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 days, yet. Do you think I shall have nothing to 
 do? There is the packing " 
 
 " I am going — now," repeated Milly, doggedly. 
 " I shall not stay here any longer." 
 
 The woman stared at her angrily. 
 
 " Take off your hat at once! " she ordered, 
 stamping her foot. 
 
 " There is something I must tell you, before I 
 go. You may like to hear it," Milly said, in her 
 determined voice. 
 
 She paused, perhaps to choose her words with 
 care, but when she finally spoke it was as though 
 she had loaded a gun with hard, merciless phrases 
 and fired them at a target with swift precision. 
 
 " I know what became of your daughter. She 
 went away with a man. I saw him." 
 
 " You — saw "What do you mean? " 
 
 Mrs. Hill sank limply into a chair, as if the 
 words had actually penetrated her large breast, 
 inflicting mortal injury. She stared up at the 
 girl with something like entreaty in her dull eyes. 
 
 ' ' I was at the front of the house, sweeping the 
 passage," Milly went on. '' You were dressing 
 the baby. All the doors were shut between, as 
 you told me." 
 
 ' ' Yes — yes ! Go on ! " 
 
 " A man, driving a light buggy, came up the 
 road. He spoke to me — asked me if a family 
 named Hill lived in the house. I told him yes, and 
 asked if I should call you. Just then a shut- 
 
 i
 
 ** UNTO US A SON IS BOEN " 297 
 
 ter in the room above was thrown open ; the man 
 looked np. Your daughter was leaning across 
 the sill. She didn't speak at first — just looked. 
 He held out his arms to her. ' I have found you, 
 at last,' he said." 
 
 " Well? " commented the woman, hoarsely. 
 ''What then? " 
 
 " I suppose she must have gone away with 
 him," Milly said, lowering her eyes. 
 
 " You suppose? — Don't you know? " 
 
 '' I — came in directly. I — didn't like to — look, 
 after that." 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me? " 
 
 Milly looked at her mistress defiantly. She did 
 not answer. 
 
 " If you had told me, perhaps " 
 
 Milly moved toward the kitchen door. On the 
 threshold she paused to glance back. The woman 
 was sitting motionless, a small folded garment in 
 her lap, her eyes staring straight before her into 
 vacancy.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE PARISH HEARS THE NEWS 
 
 In the damp basement room of the Presbyterian 
 church, used indifferently for Sunday-school, 
 prayer-meetings, and the more secular activities of 
 " The Ladies' Aid and Missionary Society," Mrs. 
 Buckthorn, as president of the latter organisation, 
 was assisting Miss Electa Pratt (chairman of the 
 Sewing Committee) to lay out the work for the 
 afternoon. 
 
 '' We'd really ought t' get that home-mission 'ry 
 barrel ready to go to the Mountain-Whites this 
 week," said Mrs. Buckthorn, with a deep sigh, ex- 
 pressive of the burden which rested upon her 
 ample shoulders. " I hope we'll have a good at- 
 tendance t'-day." 
 
 Miss Pratt sniffed, as she held up to view a limp 
 and faded muslin dress of a fashion long since 
 decadent. 
 
 " The buttons is tore right out o* this waist," 
 she observed, with a malicious smile. " Do you 
 think it would pay t' fix? — An' jus' look at the 
 hem! Must 'a' been awful muddy 'n' never got 
 washed clean." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn compressed her lips. 
 
 " I donated that dress myself," she said, 
 
 298
 
 THE PARISH HEARS THE NEWS 299 
 
 *' after careful an' prayerful consideration. Some 
 Mountain- White mother will be glad an' thankful 
 for the opportunity of making over that dress 
 for her child. . . . No, Electa, we will not take 
 the ladies' time to repair it. Let them go on with 
 the rompers for the missionary's twins. Then 
 there's the ribbons t' cut an' sew for th' mile of 
 pennies we're b'ginnin' for r 'pairs on the church 
 edifice. How much did you have t' pay a yard 
 for that ribbon, Electa? " 
 
 ^' Ten cents," replied Miss Pratt. " An' it 
 ain't all silk." 
 
 She rolled her greenish eyes toward the door. 
 
 " There comes Mis' Puffer, an' do look! If she 
 ain 't bringing her two youngest ! Much work we '11 
 get accomplished t '-day. I s 'pose she remembered 
 it was tea-an'-cake day. . . . Good afternoon, 
 Mis' Puffer. . . . Oh, th' dear little tots! So 
 glad you brought 'em right along. ' ' 
 
 *' I had to," replied the matron, plaintively, 
 " or stay at home. The baby's teething an' kind 
 o' fretty, an' the twins can't do nothing with 
 Georgie. He's so ambitious an' high-spirited. He 
 takes right after his pa, Georgie does," 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn gazed over the top of her 
 spectacles at the little boy, who stood with his 
 hands judicially folded behind his fat person, 
 staring imperturbably about the sacred precinct. 
 
 '* Little boy," she said, in a deep, hollow tone, 
 " do you love Jesus! "
 
 300 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 Young Master Puffer appeared to be consider- 
 ing the question with some doubt, when his mother 
 hastily interposed in his behalf. 
 
 '' Course he does, Mis' Buckthorn. He says his 
 prayers just as cunning ev'ry night; an' he'd 'a' 
 b'en in Sunday-school all summer if he hadn't had 
 whooping-cough this spring, an' gone from that 
 right into measles, an' from that int' chicken- 
 pox. ' ' 
 
 '' There's some children that seem 'lected t' be 
 saved from their earliest infancy," stated Mrs. 
 Buckthorn, sonorously. '' My oldest girl, Martha 
 Ellen, was that kind. She died when she was six — 
 of water on the brain. She could repeat correctly 
 twenty-one hymns and a hundred an' eight verses 
 from the Bible. I've often wondered what she'd 
 'a' growed up t' be, had she been spared. But 
 there's others that seem born fer perdition. They 
 don't appear t' have no reel comprehension of 
 spiritooal things, es I tell th' deacon." 
 
 Her spectacled glance dwelt darkly on the two 
 small Puffers, who had taken refuge in their moth- 
 er's skirts. 
 
 ''I'd rather my children would live an' be 
 healthy," murmured Mrs. Puffer, rebelliously. 
 " I'd be scared stiff if they was too r'ligious, an' 
 like that." 
 
 A number of ladies had strayed in by twos and 
 threes, and Mrs. Buckthorn's attention, happily 
 diverted from the subject of infant salvation to
 
 THE PAEISH HEARS THE NEWS 301 
 
 the more urgent demands of her official position, 
 passed them in review one by one. 
 
 '' I don't see our pastor's wife in the room," 
 she observed. " Has ani/one seen Mrs. Petti- 
 bone? I requested her to lead the d'votional ex- 
 ercises this afternoon, and we are already five 
 minutes past the hour." 
 
 No one replied at first; then a thin voice up- 
 rose from the back of the room: 
 
 *' I don't think she's comin'." 
 
 *' You don't think — Mrs. Salter, did I un- 
 derstand you to say that our pastor's wife wasn't 
 coming? " 
 
 The lady addressed, now the target for every 
 eye, moved her angular shoulders slightly. It 
 was evident that she was labouring under strong 
 though suppressed excitement. 
 
 " I s 'posed 3^ou'd heard. Mis' Buckthorn," she 
 said. " But if you ain't " 
 
 "Heard? Heard what? " 
 
 " Why, that the minister's wife's got a 
 baby." 
 
 A gasp of incredulity exhaled sharply from 
 every matron's breast. • Miss Electa Pratt 
 achieved a virginal blush, which, unluckily, centred 
 upon the end of her nose. 
 
 " You must be mistaken," said Mrs. Puffer, 
 authoritatively. "I'm sure I ought to know, 
 if " 
 
 " Sarah Jane Salter, you are mistaken," de-
 
 302 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 clared Mrs. Buckthorn. '' Do you suppose for a 
 moment that I " 
 
 " It's adopted," conceded Mrs. Salter, negli- 
 gently. " I thought I said so." 
 
 "Adopted! " 
 
 The word uprose in vehement chorus. After 
 which every lady looked searchingly at every 
 other lady, and finally at Mrs. Buckthorn. 
 
 That lady had taken up her Bible, with an air 
 of rigid self-control — the kind and variety of 
 that sterling quality which appears to put off for 
 future consideration a subject too large for un- 
 premeditated speech. 
 
 '^ We will read together the Twenty-eighth 
 Psa'm," she said, in her deepest prayer-meeting 
 voice, '^ and afterward be led in prayer by Mis' 
 Deaconess Scrimger." 
 
 These pious preliminaries having been duly car- 
 ried out, needles, thread, and a number of in- 
 choate garments were distributed by Miss Electa 
 Pratt, who stated confidentially to Mrs. Puffer 
 that she 'd had such a shock a person could knock 
 her down with a feather. Other ladies confessed 
 to a " trembly feeling " induced, it may be 
 believed, by the dramatic suddenness of Mrs. 
 Salter's communication. 
 
 That lady, raised to a sudden eminence of social 
 importance, was the object of a brisk fire of ques- 
 tions. But it was soon learned that she knew 
 very little of the actual circumstances.
 
 THE PARISH HEARS THE NEWS 303 
 
 *' No," she said, '' I ain't been t' th' pars'nage, 
 m'self. I had one o' my spells last night, an' I 
 could sea 'cely crawl over here t ' the meeting. But 
 I felt 's 'o' it was my duty t' come. All I know 
 is, they come home f om somewhere yest'd'y aft'- 
 noon, with a baby. Obed, he telephoned t' me 
 'bout five o'clock that Rev. Pettibone was t' th' 
 store asking for a nursing-bottle. Course, Obed 
 he don't keep 'em in stock, so he told him t' go t' 
 th' drug-store. I heerd they called in th' doctor 
 this mornin'." 
 
 '' It's a ver-ry se-rious thing to adopt a ba-by," 
 stated Mrs. Buckthorn, strongly. And it was 
 felt that she had voiced the sentiment of the 
 meeting. 
 
 '' Course, if you have children of your own, 
 that's one thing," she went on, didactically. 
 *' The Lord sends 'em, an' you got t' do th' best 
 you can with what comes. But to take some- 
 body else's child t' raise is a terrible r'sponsi- 
 bility. I don't think Philura Rice 'd ought t' 
 attempt it, more especial as she has assumed 
 other duties an' r'ponsibilities as the wife of 
 our pastor. If she'd seen fit t' consult me be- 
 fore taking such a step, I sh'd have advised her 
 different." 
 
 '' What I want t' know is, where did she get 
 it? " put in Miss Pratt. 
 
 Then she giggled, in her usual high-pitched girl- 
 ish manner.
 
 304 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 '' To think of Philura with a hahy! " she cried. 
 *' The i-dee-a! " 
 
 '' Obed asked Mr. Pettibone where they got it," 
 said Mrs. Salter, '' — an' he sort o' hummed an' 
 hawed, an' sez he, ' I haven't consulted with Mrs. 
 Pettibone, es t' whether it will be altogether best 
 t' divulge the child's parentage,' he sez." 
 
 " Did you ever! " murmured Mrs. Scrimger. 
 *' Seem's 'o' we'd got a right t' know." 
 
 '' I agree with you," said Mrs. Buckthorn, 
 sonorously. 
 
 She folded the red and white gingham legs, 
 upon which she had been at work, with deliberate 
 motions of her large, fat hands. 
 
 ''I'm obliged t' leave early t'-day," she told 
 her satellites. " But I do hope you'll all remain 
 while the light is good, because the barrel for the 
 Mountain-Whites really must be got off in time t' 
 put in our report for the annual church-meeting. ' ' 
 
 A resentful silence, broken only by the voices 
 of the infant Puffers upraised in united protest, 
 settled upon the gathering. 
 
 " The children," observed Mrs. Puffer, mildly, 
 " seem t' be getting fretty. I think I'd better 
 take 'em home." 
 
 " Aren't you going t' wait for the tea and 
 cake? " asked Mrs. Scrimger. 
 
 But Mrs. Puffer had already gathered her be- 
 longings and was moving toward the door, the 
 baby's fat face bobbing over her shoulder and
 
 THE PARISH HEAES THE NEWS 305 
 
 Master Georgie trailing a long strip of red and 
 white checked gingham which somebody had tied 
 to an empty spool. 
 
 ^' It's so kind of damp in this room, I feel it 
 all through my bones," complained Mrs. Salter. 
 *' The doctor told me only yest'd'y I was t' avoid 
 dampness. An' Obed sez t' me at dinner t'-day 
 when I told him I meant t' make an effort an' 
 get over t' the meeting, ' Don't you stay long,' 
 he sez. Mr. Salter's awful pertic'lar about my 
 health. ' Mind what I tell you,' he sez, ' or I'll 
 have you down again on the flat o' your back.' So 
 I guess " 
 
 Her tall, angular figure disappeared through the 
 door to the gentle patter of her speech. 
 
 '' Well, it's funny, but I can't stay, either," 
 simpered Miss Pratt. '^ I come early a-purpose 
 so I c'd be excused at four. I have an important 
 engagement. ' ' 
 
 With which Miss Pratt also departed. 
 
 The ladies who were left cast furtive glances 
 at one another, while they set dutiful stitches in 
 the red and white gingham rompers destined for 
 the home-missionary's twins. 
 
 '' It seems t' be clouding up," sighed one. 
 
 ** No; but we don't get the light we'd ought to 
 for sewing," opined another. 
 
 '' If you ladies don't object," said Mrs. Scrim- 
 ger, who was the chairman of the refreshment 
 committee, ''me an' Mis' Bassett '11 serv^e tea
 
 306 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 kind o' early. I got to go home t' see t' some- 
 thin' fer th' deacon." 
 
 The entertainment committee withdrew to the 
 adjoining kitchen, whence a subdued clatter of 
 cups and plates presently issued. 
 
 A lady distinguished by a deep mourning cos- 
 tume arose. 
 
 '' I don't care for tea," she said, gently. *' It 
 upsets my nerves." 
 
 And she went away. 
 
 *' I don't wonder, Mis' Bartlett can't drink the 
 tea Mis' Deaconess Scrimger brews," murmured a 
 pallid person from the twilight shadow of the 
 Sunday-school book-shelf. '' It's strong enough 
 to bear up an egg.''^ 
 
 She whispered something to Mrs. Elder Trim- 
 mer who sat next her; then glided away, with a 
 self-righteous air of superiority. 
 
 ''I'm sure I don't want any strong tea; an' 
 social-tea crackers are all we'll get for cake," 
 said the woman nearest the door. 
 
 And she folded up her red and white gingham 
 legs (meaning, of course, the home-missionary 
 legs) and silently stole away. 
 
 When Mrs. Scrimger and Mrs. Bassett reentered 
 the room, each bearing a tray with cups and other 
 tea paraphernalia, it was to find a room enlivened 
 by neatly folded piles of sanguinary-hued mate- 
 rial, but otherwise empty of occupants. 
 
 *' Well! " gasped Mrs. Bassett, who was short
 
 THE PARISH HEARS THE NEWS 307 
 
 and stout and correspondingly lacking in breath 
 at critical junctures. " Did you ever! " 
 
 Mrs. Deaconess Scrimger never did, in all lier 
 life ; and she said so with great variety and free- 
 dom of speech. 
 
 '' Will you have a cup of tea? " she asked Mrs. 
 Bassett. " It's hot an' strong." 
 
 But Mrs. Bassett, it appeared, never drank 
 tea of an afternoon. Nor did she at the moment 
 feel appetite for the very dry and pale cakes 
 reposing in serried rows in two church 
 plates of green sprigged china. Mrs. Bassett 
 thought she must go home at once — if Mrs. 
 Scrimger didn't mind — and as there were no cups 
 to wash. 
 
 Mrs. Scrimger, left to herself, drank two cups 
 of tea — rather than waste it all. After which she 
 providently restored the pale cakes to their paste- 
 board box. They would do nicely, she thought, 
 for the next tea-an'-cake meeting. 
 
 It should be acknowledged at once that Mrs. 
 Pettibone had — for the first time in years — for- 
 gotten the meeting of the Ladies' Aid and Mis- 
 sionary Society, the completeness of her lapse of 
 memory being further evidenced by a slip of paper 
 tucked the week before into the frame of her 
 mirror and bearing the words, " Dev. Exercises 
 L. A. M. S. Aug.^22" . . . Mrs. Pettibone had 
 actually removed this paper, inscribed upon it 
 words of far different purport, and given it to
 
 308 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 Mr. Pettibone on the morning of that very day, 
 as he stepped forth from the parsonage. 
 
 '' THE BABY," said Mrs. Pettibone, " needs 
 these things, at once." 
 
 And she appeared so very pink and excited, and 
 her hair was rumpled into such careless curls, 
 that the minister, after glancing at her in his 
 usual professional way, looked a second time ; then 
 deliberately reentered the house, closed the street 
 door, and took her in his arms. 
 
 '^ Why — why, Silas!" murmured Mrs. Petti- 
 bone, in unaffected surprise. 
 
 *' You looked so sweet," he excused himself; 
 and kissed her twice. 
 
 This episode having been concluded to the sat- 
 isfaction of both, he again went forth from the 
 ministerial domicile and walked away very fast. 
 He felt like whistling a secular tune, but refrained. 
 It had not been Mr, Pettibone 's custom to whistle 
 tunes of any sort on the streets of Innisfield. 
 Then he glanced at the memorandum his wife had 
 given him. 
 
 '' Dev. Exercises L. A. M. S. Aug. 22," he read. 
 It puzzled him. Why should the baby require — 
 But hold ! — quite as she had meant him to do, he 
 turned the paper over and perceived other words : 
 " 2 cakes, best Castile soap (white), 3 cards 
 safety-pins, small, medium, and large. Two yds. 
 fine white flannel, 1/4 lb. lactose."
 
 THE PAEISH HEARS THE NEWS 309 
 
 The minister had not slept as well as common 
 the night before. There had been various noises 
 of an unfamiliar nature and the ever recurrent 
 vision of a small figure, panoplied in white, pass- 
 ing to and fro. But the sight of his wife^s face 
 across the breakfast-table had caused him to for- 
 get it all. He had not known she could look 
 like that. The thought of it followed him, as he 
 entered the Emporium of Elder George Trimmer, 
 where safety-pins of assorted sizes could doubt- 
 less be found. 
 
 '' Safety-pins? " said Brother Trimmer. ^' Um 
 • — yes, we have them." 
 
 He looked inquiringly across the counter at his 
 pastor. He had heard of men whose wives were 
 so negligent in the matter of buttons that they 
 were compelled to make use of the invention which 
 he now displayed in nickel-plated profusion upon 
 his counter. 
 
 Mr. Pettibone painstakingly selected three 
 cards, small, medium, and large, as per memo- 
 randum. 
 
 '' And fine white flannel," he added. '' You 
 have fine white flannel, I suppose! and — er — Cas- 
 tile soap; the — er — best." 
 
 He glanced stealthily at the scrap of paper con- 
 cealed in the palm of his hand. 
 
 '' Er — white. The soap must be white." 
 
 * ' Well, well ! ' ' said Mr. Trimmer, with a 
 slightly jocular air. *' Hum — yes, yes! "
 
 310 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 Mr. Trimmer was a family man, and proud of 
 the fact. 
 
 " Only tivo yards of this flannel? " he inquired. 
 ' ' Only two ? Now I should say you would require 
 at least eight. Yes; eight wouldn't be any too 
 lavish a pattern, I should say. Some ladies buy 
 ten, or even twelve. A square yard of this flan- 
 nel worked around the edge — yes, worked, scal- 
 loped, as ladies will — makes a tip-top infant's 
 blanket." 
 
 ' ' I think, ' ' said Mr. Pettibone, rubbing his chin 
 dubiously, ^' that it already has a blanket; or, 
 perhaps, two. I noticed Mrs. Pettibone " 
 
 " Hum! Yes, yes! " murmured Mr. Trimmer, 
 fussily. ' ' Er — I may say I am surprised. I had 
 no idea " 
 
 *' Nor had I, till yesterday," said his pastor. 
 * * It would never have occurred to me, I own ; but 
 
 my wife Yes ; you may cut off two yards of 
 
 that flannel. If more is required, Mrs. Petti- 
 bone will come in later. I think the child re- 
 quires it to-day. As far as I know, its wardrobe 
 is somewhat limited." 
 
 Mr. Trimmer's shears, which had shiningly 
 snipped their way well into the blue-white flan- 
 nel, came to a sudden halt. 
 
 " Limited! " he exclaimed, honestly aghast. 
 '' And you didn't know until yesterday? " 
 
 " In the course of our parochial rounds," said 
 Mr. Pettibone, calmly, '* we chanced yesterday
 
 THE PARISH HEARS THE NEWS 311 
 
 to meet — er — amid somewhat distressing circum- 
 stances — a young infant. My wife — er — Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone is a very warm-hearted person, and, being 
 touched by the infant's evident need of mater- 
 nal care, she offered, indeed I may say insisted 
 
 upon " 
 
 " You adopted itf You took a child to — to 
 bring up? " 
 
 " Precisely. We brought it with us to the par- 
 sonage last night. It is a boy, and appears " 
 
 Mr. Trimmer shook his head. 
 "I'm sorry you didn't consult me," he said, 
 *^ before taking such a step." 
 
 " Why? " propounded Mr. Pettibone. " Don't 
 you think me capable of bringing up a son 1 ' ' 
 
 Mr. Trimmer smacked his tongue smartly 
 against the roof of his mouth. 
 • " I wouldn't advise anybody to adopt a child," 
 he said. " It's too great a r'sponsibility." 
 
 '' It would have involved a graver responsibility 
 to leave the child where it was," said Mr. Petti- 
 bone. " And why should I not assume a responsi- 
 bility? I am, I believe, a responsible person." 
 Mr. Trimmer looked pityingly at him. 
 " Have you any idea what sort of man that 
 infant will grow into? " he demanded. 
 
 " Well, no," replied the minister. " Can any- 
 one predict what their children will grow into? 
 Can you, for example? " 
 ** Yes, sir," said Mr. Trimmer, " I can. If my
 
 312 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 boys don't behave, I'll make 'em behave, and they 
 know it. George Trimmer, Junior, will be a man 
 like me. An' Henry's like his Ma." 
 
 " Well? " correlated the minister, tentatively. 
 
 '' The breed's more'n the pastur'," quoted Mr. 
 Trimmer, smartly. " Whose child is it! Where 'd 
 you git him? Tell me that, an' I'll tell you " 
 
 '' Impossible," said Mr. Pettibone. " We have 
 decided to keep all that to ourselves. But let me 
 remind you, Brother Trimmer, that an immortal 
 soul has other attributes than those merely 
 physical : all are children of God, and inherit eter- 
 nal life — eternal possibilities of glory." 
 
 '* In Adam's fall we sinned all," snapped Mr. 
 Trimmer. " You can't get back of that." 
 
 He finished snipping off the flannel and banged 
 his scissors smartly on the counter, as if they 
 had been the shears of fate. 
 
 '^ I hope you won't be sorry ten years from 
 now," he added, in a tone signifying the exact 
 opposite of his words; " ner in twenty. I ain't 
 got no use for other folks' children." 
 
 " In that respect," said his pastor, keenly, 
 " you differ from Jesus of Nazareth." 
 
 With which trenchant saying he departed, leav- 
 ing the two yards of blue-white flannel upon the 
 counter. 
 
 Mr. Trimmer gazed at the small parcel with a 
 singular expression on his rather dry and wiz- 
 ened countenance. 
 
 3
 
 THE PAEISH HEARS THE NEWS 313 
 
 " In that respect I differ, — eh? " he muttered, 
 thoughtfully. " Now what'd he mean b' that? 
 Perhaps I did put it a little strong. . . . An' he 
 fergot his flannel and the safety-pins. Mebbe 
 I'd better send 'em up t' the house. She might 
 want 'em f'r th' baby. . . . Here you, George, 
 g' up t' the pars'nage with this bundle. They're 
 in a hurry f'r it." 
 
 Mr. Trimmer walked to his desk in the rear 
 of the store and opened his day-book, with the 
 intent of entering the items the minister had for- 
 gotten to pay for. 
 
 ''Adopted," he repeated. "Adopted! It'll 
 cost 'em a good bit to bring up a boy. H'm! So 
 it will. . . . Guess I won't charge it." 
 
 He laid down his pen with a pleasant glow 
 about his heart. 
 
 That same afternoon when Mrs. Pettibone had 
 fed the baby, she sat gazing at him with loving 
 intentness. She supposed she ought to put him 
 down in the little bed she had improvised out of 
 two chairs and a pillow, but she excused herself 
 on the ground that she had not yet had a chance 
 to take a good look at the child. He had cried a 
 good deal in the night and refused the bottle she 
 had so urgently pressed into the small, widely 
 opened mouth. In the morning she sent for 
 Doctor North, and he had come at once in response 
 to her summons. 
 
 " Well, Miss Philura, what's the matter with
 
 314 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 you? " he began, as he hurriedly wriggled out 
 of his raincoat. '' Or is it the dominie? Don't 
 know when I've been in this house before." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had always stood very much 
 in awe of the excellent doctor. His large pres- 
 ence and loud authoritative voice affected many 
 women that way. But all of them trusted him. 
 
 " You told me — advised me to adopt a baby," 
 she said, trembling visibly. '^ And I — he's here, 
 and I don't know what to feed him, or — or any- 
 thing. ' ' 
 
 Doctor North stared at Mrs. Pettibone, his griz- 
 zled eyebrows drawn over his bright eyes in an 
 intimidating frown. 
 
 " I told you — I advised you? " he blurted out. 
 *' When did I say anything like that — to you? 
 I have no recollection " 
 
 '' A long time ago," she reminded him. " You 
 were just coming out of Mrs. Salter's. She'd 
 been having a spell; don't you remember? " 
 
 " Bless my soul! if I should tax my memory 
 with everything I'd said coming out of Mrs. Sal- 
 ter's But you say you've actually got a baby 
 
 on the premises? And I didn't even know it? 
 I'll have to look into this. I will, indeed. Can't 
 have that sort of thing going on." 
 
 And he rubbed his big hands together and 
 laughed his big laugh as he followed the small 
 fluttering person of Mrs. Pettibone into the sit- 
 ting-room, where two chairs and a pillow were 
 
 I
 
 THE PARISH HEARS THE NEWS 315 
 
 placed in close juxtaposition to the stove, in 
 which a fire was burning. 
 
 " I thought I ought to keep him warm," she 
 murmured, as the doctor flung up a window, with 
 a muttered exclamation. 
 
 " Yes, but not cook him. Miss Philura. Now, 
 let's look into this." 
 
 He pulled away the flannel from the small, pink 
 face. 
 
 '' Why, bless my soul! " he exploded. " This 
 child can 't be much more than a week old. Where 
 on earth — where 's the mother? " 
 
 ^'^ He's ten days this morning," said Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone, proudly. "I'm his mother." 
 
 The doctor stared at her frowningly. 
 
 ' * You ! ' ' his eyes said, only too plainly, ' ' of all 
 persons! " 
 
 She clasped her hands appealingly. 
 
 " Oh, don't you think I can? " she murmured. 
 " I've wanted one so long, and I — I love him so! 
 I'll do everything you tell me. I'll " 
 
 " I gTiess you'll have to, seeing you've got him, 
 by hook or crook. A boy — eh? Harder to raise 
 than a girl. It's well to begin on a girl. Well, 
 "we'll see — we'll see! " 
 
 And he had seen, thoroughly and in detail, when 
 he finally left the parsonage, after a visit of un- 
 paralleled length. Mrs. Pettibone felt that she 
 had never appreciated sufficiently the vast and 
 profound knowledge locked up in Mrs. Puffer's
 
 316 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 matronly breast. No wonder mothers had that 
 patronising air she had formerly resented. They 
 had a right to be haughty and superior. They had 
 a right, too, to pity ignorant persons who knew 
 nothing of babies. ill 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone pensively regarded the baby's 
 bottle, in which remained a small portion of prop- 
 erly modified milk. She had come a long way since 
 yesterday, and learned many things of which 
 she had no previous knowledge. And the doctor 
 had said he would come again. He would come 
 often ; and she was not to worry about the charge, 
 because an adopted baby was different. Every- 
 body had to take hold with an adopted baby. It 
 was no more than right. 
 
 The door-bell rang. It was Mrs. Buckthorn, 
 and she had come directly from the forgotten 
 meeting of the Ladies' Aid and Missionary 
 Society.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE LADIES AID 
 
 *' My dear Philura," Mrs. Buckthorn began at 
 once, '^ I was never more surprised in all the 
 course of my life! " 
 
 Her large face wore a chastened expression of 
 grief, and she steppd softly as she entered the 
 hall. 
 
 '' I suppose I may see it," she murmured, in 
 precisely the same tone she would have used 
 in a house of mourning. 
 
 " Yes," responded Mrs. Pettibone, also in 
 hushed accents, " he is asleep, now." 
 
 " Dear, dear! ' sighed Mrs. Buckthorn, as she 
 stooped over the unconscious infant. " My, my ! " 
 
 And she clicked her tongue rapidly against the 
 roof of her mouth, as the proper preliminary for 
 a repetition of her initial remark, varied only by 
 a change of emphasis. 
 
 " My dear Philura, I was never more surprised 
 in all the course of my life." 
 
 '* Isn't he dear? " propounded Mrs. Pettibone, 
 boldly. She added with noticeable pride, almost 
 arrogance: " Doctor North says he is an unusu- 
 ally fine child. He weighs nine pounds. And of 
 course he'll gain, on proper food." 
 
 317
 
 318 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn clicked rapidly, as if words 
 were inadequate to express her emotions. Then 
 she shook her head. 
 
 " You shouldn't have done it, Philura," she 
 said, solemnly. 
 
 '' Why not? " asked Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 But it was evident that she did not ask for in- 
 formation. Her question, on the contrary, ex- 
 pressed unqualified defiance. And so, indeed, Mrs. 
 Buckthorn interpreted its meaning. 
 
 ' ' You should have consulted me, before taking 
 such a se-rious step," she said. " You don't know 
 what it is to bring up a ba-by." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone, fortified by her recent confer- 
 ence with Doctor North, elevated her chin slightly. 
 
 " Nobody does, till they try," she said. '' I 
 suppose I can learn, just as — as you did." 
 
 Mrs. Buckthorn transfixed her with an awful 
 look. 
 
 '' Moth-er-liood," she stated, sonorously, " pre- 
 pares a woman for the ard-u-ous duties which 
 await her. You have had no such preparation, 
 Philura; therefore " 
 
 " What about trained nurses? They're not 
 even married, and they learn." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone 's tone, and indeed her manner, 
 was almost flippant. She added : ' ' Doctor North 
 says I shall get along splendidly. He says " 
 
 *' What are you feeding the ba-by? " inten- 
 rupted Mrs. Buckthorn, gazing suspiciously at
 
 THE LADIES AID 319 
 
 the child's sleeping face over the top of her 
 spectacles. 
 
 " Modified milk," replied Mrs. Pettibone, glibly. 
 *' Top milk, boiled water, and — lactose, in 
 proper " 
 
 '' Oh, my! " broke in the older matron. '* That 
 will never do! I don't b'lieve in these new- 
 fangled " 
 
 '' But Doctor North says " 
 
 '^ I have no confidence in doctors, when it comes 
 to ba-bies." 
 
 <'But " 
 
 *' What should a big, rough man know about a 
 tender, delicate infant? " demanded Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn, excitedly. *' What you want t' feed that 
 ba-by is " 
 
 The door-bell rang. 
 
 It was Mrs. Puffer, and she carried an ama- 
 teurish-looking parcel done up in newspaper and 
 tied with a strip of red and white checked 
 gingham. 
 
 * ' I just ran in for a minute to bring these little 
 slips," she said, breathlessly, '* and to see the 
 
 baby. ... Oh! isn't he It is a boy? I 
 
 thought so, the minute I looked at him. What 
 are you feeding him? . . . Oh, yes; I think that's 
 good — only I add barley water, instead of plain 
 water, and if his p'ecious 'ittle tummey gets up- 
 set, leave off the milk entirely. . , . How can you 
 tell! Oh, by "
 
 320 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 The door-bell rang. 
 
 It was Miss Electa Pratt. She came in, her be- 
 frizzled head very much on one side, her angular 
 chin seeking to hide itself coyly amid the ruffles 
 at her throat. 
 
 " I feel so funny! '' she giggled. " I don't know 
 what V say. Philura with a baby! Dear, dear! 
 I couldn't have been more surprised, if you'd 
 really — don't you know? . . . Isn 't he ^w?/.^ How 
 do you dare to touch him? / shouldn't, I know. 
 . . . And what does Mr. Pettibone say? ... He 
 isn't in? Oh, that's too bad! I wanted t' ask 
 him — And, oh, Philura, if you haven't got a 
 crib for the baby, Ma says there's one in our attic 
 you can have just as well as " 
 
 The door-bell rang. 
 
 It was Mrs. Salter, carrying a small square 
 box, of an ancient and fly-specked appearance. 
 
 *' Well, seem 's 'o' our sewing-society " she 
 
 murmured. '' I just ran over to bring you a sam- 
 ple of Dr. Pillwick's Patent Purified Baby Food. 
 An agent left it at the store last winter. Obed 
 doesn't carry it in stock; but he says he can get 
 it for you, if it agrees with the baby. . . . Oh, 
 there it is! What a care! I wonder you dare 
 attempt it. As I was saying t' Obed, if the Lord 
 had seen fit " 
 
 The door-bell rang. 
 
 Mrs. Bartlett, like a shadow of woe in her som- 
 ber garments, glided in. She was a pretty woman
 
 THE LADIES AID 321 
 
 with eyes perpetually reddened by weeping. 
 Everybody in Innisfield knew that she had lost 
 four children one after the other; and the four 
 little mounds in the cemetery never lacked fresh 
 blossoms, summer or winter. 
 
 She kissed Mrs. Pettibone silently; then moved 
 toward the two chairs and the pillow on which 
 reposed the sleeping infant, oblivious to the storm 
 of excitement his small presence in the parsonage 
 had evoked. She gazed at the child long and 
 earnestly. 
 
 '^ He looks," she murmured, in the ear of her 
 pastor's wife, '' like my little Jamie." 
 
 The other women in the room were silent; 
 even Mrs. Buckthorn blew her nose, loudly and 
 sympathetically. Mrs. Pettibone squeezed 
 the bereaved mother's hand. She knew 
 now (she was telling herself) how poor Mrs. 
 Bartlett felt. Before she had not been able to 
 guess. 
 
 " I — I've brought over a few things," mur- 
 mured the lady in black. ''I'd like you to have 
 them for this dear little baby." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone murmured her thanks. 
 
 " The expressman will leave a wicker crib and 
 a perambulator — I suppose you haven't had 
 
 time No; I don't care to keep them any 
 
 longer. My — babies don't need them. And this 
 dear little soul — how strong and well he looks ! ' ' 
 
 The door-bell rang.
 
 322 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 Mrs. Trimmer and Mrs. Bassett arrived to- 
 gether. Both ladies carried parcels. 
 
 *' So this is what became of our Ladies' Aid! '^ 
 crowed Mrs. Bassett, all smiles. " You'd ought 
 t' have seen Mis' Deaconess Scrimger an' me with 
 the cups and a pot of b'ilin' tea an' the cake an' 
 
 all Oh, here's the baby! You certainly did 
 
 give us the s 'prise of our young lives, Mis' Petti- 
 bone. No wonder you f ergot th' d'votional exer- 
 cises. Most anybody would." 
 
 Mrs. Trimmer had already pressed her parcel 
 upon Mrs. Pettibone's acceptance. 
 
 '' A few binders," she murmured, '' just tore 
 off of silk an' wool flannel. Some folks cat-stitch 
 'em; but I never did. Their little stomachs are 
 
 too tender Oh! is-n't he Where did he 
 
 come from? You'll tell us, I know." 
 
 Seven pairs of earnest, determined eyes 
 fastened upon Mrs. Pettibone's flushed and con- 
 scious face. 
 
 " I was just going to ask Philura that ver-ry 
 same question," intoned Mrs. Buckthorn. 
 
 ''Is he an orphan! " twittered Mrs. Puffer, 
 patting the blankets anxiously. 
 
 " I s'pose he come from somewheres around 
 here? " inferred Miss Pratt, astutely. " I heard 
 you brought him in the buggy." 
 
 " We — we've decided not — to tell." 
 
 A slight murmur of surprise arose from seven 
 protesting mouths.
 
 THE LADIES AID 323 
 
 *' Don't be has-ty, Philura," warned Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn. " A secret about a ba-by is bound to come 
 out." 
 
 " Mr. Pettibone and I both think that, on ac- 
 count of the parents " 
 
 " 0-o-oh! " 
 
 *' They are married," stated Mrs. Pettibone, 
 doggedly. ^' But we don't — we don't even know 
 their name — that is, I do know their first names ; 
 and I've named the baby " 
 
 " You've named the baby, already? " cried Mrs. 
 Puffer, in obvious disappointment. " I was just 
 going t' suggest " 
 
 " An' I suppose, of course, Mr. Pettibone — be- 
 ing the adopted father " 
 
 " His name," said Mrs. Pettibone, positively, 
 *^ is Stephen." 
 
 When, just before tea-time, the minister re- 
 turned from a round of parish visiting, he found 
 his wife alone with her new treasure in a room 
 abounding in new and unfamiliar objects. 
 
 '' Why — why, what has happeed? " he inquired, 
 gazing short-sightedly at several elaborate crea- 
 tions of wicker-work, a number of patent nursing 
 bottles, a bath-tub, and a profusion of small gar- 
 ments spread out on the chairs and tables. 
 
 '' Oh, Silas! " cried his wife, " everybody is so 
 interested. You can't think." 
 
 The door-bell rang. 
 
 It was Miss Malvina Bennett. She wore her
 
 324 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 sewing-by-the-day dress, and carried a large roll 
 of fashion-books under her arm. 
 
 " Uh-huh! " murmured Miss Malvina, after she 
 had inspected the baby, who was at the moment 
 engaged in absorbing his allotted portion of top- 
 milk. '' So that's the way it turned out. Well, 
 well! " 
 
 She nodded her head understandingly. 
 
 '' I ain't a-goin' t' ask you where it come 
 f'om; but I c'd.make a pretty good guess, ef I 
 was t' try." 
 
 " We're not going to tell anyone, Malvina." 
 
 Miss Bennett cackled dryly. 
 
 '' I met 'em a-comin' away," she said. '' Land! 
 they was a-canvassin' the subjec'! Electa Pratt, 
 she's a sharp one. ' They brought it home in the 
 buggy,' she sez, pos'tive, so it must 'a' come 
 f'om round here. I didn't let on. But I sez 
 t' myself, 'nless them folks hes gone, I sez, — 'n', 
 even then, there's Milly Orne knows all about it." 
 
 '' Milly won't tell," murmured Mrs. Pettibone. 
 *' It's just on account of " 
 
 Miss Malvina nodded. 
 
 *' Jus' 's well t' keep it clost, ef you kin," she 
 agreed. '* But what's become o' her? Don't she 
 want the baby? " 
 
 " She thinks — she believes it died. She went 
 away, believing " 
 
 Miss Bennett gave vent to a snort of disgust, 
 
 '* Ef that ain't like that stuck-up old woman!
 
 THE LADIES AID 325 
 
 She'd 'a' drove the girl t' her death b' drowndin', 
 ef it hadn't b'en fer me. I told her pint blank 
 'bout th' Encirclin' Good, — not 'at I knowed much 
 'bout it, m'self — but it seemed t' take a holt on 
 that poor, young creetur'. It did, fer a fact." 
 
 She approached her kind, wrinkled face close 
 to Mrs. Pettibone's. 
 
 " I mailed a letter f 'r her," she whispered. *' I 
 kind o' thought " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Pettibone, '^ he must have re- 
 ceived it." 
 
 " D' you mean ? " 
 
 '' He took her away." 
 
 ''Well! I want t' know! " 
 
 Miss Bennett poked the small flannel bundle in 
 Mrs. Pettibone's lap, with an experimental fore- 
 finger. 
 
 "I'd admire t' make some clo'es fer it," she 
 said. " I c'd do 'em evenin's. It's child's play 
 t' sew them little things; 'n' I'd love to, I d'clare 
 I would! 'Twould be a change f'om grown-up 
 sewin'." 
 
 Her faded eyes met those of her pastor's wife 
 with an imploring look. 
 
 " You — you wouldn't mind, Philura? " 
 
 " Of course I wouldn't," Mrs. Pettibone re- 
 turned, promptly. " I can't sew nearly as beau- 
 tifully as you do." 
 
 Her thin arms closed jealously about the tiny 
 form.
 
 326 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 " I — I'm not going to be — selfish witli him,'* she 
 breathed. " You can come in and — hold him, 
 whenever you want to, Malvina ; and — and you can 
 pretend he's part yours." 
 
 '' Can II " cried Miss Bennett, joyously. 
 *' Say! I'll be his Aunt Malvina; that's what I'll 
 be. It's kind o' suitable, too, when you think of 
 it — ^me a-makin' her a dress, an' mailin' a letter t' 
 his pa, 'n' keepin' her out o' the pond, 'n' like 
 that. Don't you think so? "
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 MISS PHILURA'S BABY 
 
 When the'* E ever end Silas Pettibone had yielded 
 to his wife's determined wish in the matter of the 
 baby, he had been veiy far indeed from realising 
 the full significance of his act. He would have 
 been ashamed to i^ut his thoughts into words — 
 would, very likely, have denied that they existed ; 
 but his hospitality had appeared, in the light of 
 his imperfect masculine understanding, to be not 
 unlike that extended to a homeless little animal. 
 Some people, he knew, strenuously objected to 
 sheltering a forlorn, half-starved kitten, driving 
 it from their doors with harsh cries of scorn and 
 contumely. As for a dog, strayed or stolen, they 
 resolutely turned their backs on his pleading eyes 
 and the voiceless eloquence of his persuasive tail. 
 Silas Pettibone was not that sort of a man. Soli- 
 darity was not merely a word to him, he felt to 
 his innermost fibre the mysterious oneness of life. 
 So this little unwelcome, unloved scrap of human- 
 ity should find shelter under his roof, permanent 
 or temporary as the case might be. 
 
 But it was precisely this latter aspect of their 
 quasi-parenthood which continually harassed his 
 wife. 
 
 327
 
 328 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 " If tliey should come to take him away," she 
 was always saying, her eyes shadowed with fear. 
 
 " We should certainly have to give him up," 
 was the minister's unbiased opinion. '' We have, 
 you know, no legal right to the child." 
 
 '' But — she gave him to me," argued his mfe. 
 
 Mr. Pettibone shook his head. 
 
 '* I was present," he would remind her. " You 
 walked calmly away with the child in your arms ; 
 she merely allowed you to take him." 
 
 " She didn't want him." 
 
 '* That is true, but " 
 
 It was this '' but," rooted in unknown condi- 
 tions, which haunted Mrs. Pettibone, and would 
 not down. 
 
 The day after she had triumphantly carried her 
 point with Mrs. Hill, Milly Orne appeared at the 
 parsonage. She was the bearer of a parcel of 
 baby clothes and an envelope which was found to 
 contain bank-notes amounting to a hundred 
 dollars. 
 
 In response to Mrs. Pettibone 's eager questions, 
 Milly said she had left Mrs. Hill the night be- 
 fore. The parcel had been delivered at the Ornes' 
 by the expressman, who had been employed to 
 fetch a wagon-load of trunks from the old Eggle- 
 ston house to the railway station. Milly supposed 
 the woman had left Innisfield. Grandfather had 
 seen her driving past in a carriage.
 
 MISS PHILURA'S BABY 329 
 
 Her blue eyes persistently avoided Mrs. Petti- 
 bone's. 
 
 " What became of the young man? " asked tbe 
 minister's wife. 
 
 A resentful blush sprang into the girl's averted 
 face and mounted swiftly to the roots of her bright 
 hair. 
 
 " How should I know? " she murmured. 
 
 '' Oh! " 
 
 The exclamation was involuntary; but Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone instantly regretted that she had allowed 
 it to escape her lips. 
 
 Milly Ome was looking at her defiantly. 
 
 '' I hope," she said, coldly, " I shall never see 
 any of them again. ' ' 
 
 Then, unexpectedly, she was compelled to deal 
 with several large tears which forced themselves 
 into view on her lashes. 
 
 ''I'm sure you'll think — I know — I'm very fool- 
 ish," stammered Milly, whisking the tears away 
 with a touch of anger. " But I — I wish I hadn't 
 gone there, at all." 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone forebore questions; but she 
 could not help remembering with an uncomfort- 
 able sense of guilt that it was at her suggestion 
 Milly had gone to the Eggleston farm. 
 
 ' ' Anyway, you have earned the new roof, ' ' she 
 reminded the girl, after an awkward silence dur- 
 ing which Milly dried her eyes and successfully 
 subdued her emotion. " And — and the cow.
 
 330 THE HEAKT OF PHILUEA 
 
 That is surely something to be thankful for." 
 
 The girl smiled forlornly. 
 
 '' I did what I started out to do," she assented, 
 staring out of the window. 
 
 Presently she added: 
 
 '' You will keep the baby! " 
 
 '' I certainly shall," said Mrs. Pettibone. 
 *' Unless " 
 
 It has been pointed out to us that the obvious un- 
 certainty of everything in this our earthly experi- 
 ence magnifies our joys, and puts, as it were, 
 a cutting edge upon our powers of appreciation. 
 
 If one could be absolutely assured, argue these 
 wise philosophers, that one's friends would never 
 die, one's house never burn down, one's invest- 
 ments never fail, life would become of a sudden 
 utterly flat, stale, and unprofitable. It is the keen 
 sparkle of the unexpected, the undreamed of, even 
 the apprehended, which makes the draught in any 
 wise palatable. 
 
 Philura Pettibone watched the gradual unfold- 
 ing of her rose of life with a tremor back of the 
 joy. But it was no less a joy, for all that, and 
 after months of peaceful and undisputed posses- 
 sion of the child she almost forgot the tragic face 
 of his young mother. — Almost, but not quite; 
 there was the picture of the Huguenot Lovers 
 still hanging on the parlor wall. 
 
 She had named the baby Stephen after his un- 
 known father, in a sudden passion of sentiment.
 
 MISS PHILURA'S BABY 331 
 
 Afterward slie regretted her haste. There were 
 so many splendid names for men, and Stephen 
 did so put one in mind of the first martyr. She 
 preferred not to think of martyrs when she looked 
 at the baby. And he teas a baby, as Bishop Brooks 
 used to say to the delighted mothers of his con- 
 gregation. Not even the latest Puffer could show 
 such sparkling blue eyes. — She was glad his eyes 
 were blue, and not big and dark and passionate, 
 like his poor mother's. And his hair curled — 
 really curled, you know, not merely stood on end 
 under diligent applications of a wet hair-brush. 
 He was pink — as pink as a healthy baby ought 
 to be, and of exactly the right fatness. In a word, 
 little Stephen Pettibone (as he was actually chris- 
 tened by the minister in church, of a Sunday 
 morning) was a baby any woman might be proud 
 to mother. 
 
 It was wonderful, too, what an all-round dif- 
 ference the baby in the parsonage made. Female 
 parishioners of a critical, even censorious turn 
 of mind, who had heretofore merely scarified the 
 minister's sermons, now stopped him in the street 
 to ask after the baby. The fame of the baby went 
 abroad, as it were, in all the land. Hard-fisted 
 old farmers, driving loads of produce to town, 
 broke into broad smiles at sight of Mrs. Petti- 
 bone wheeling the perambulator. People came 
 to call at the parsonage who had never before 
 darkened the door of the ministerial domicile.
 
 332 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 The baby, in short, was like a cheerful little fire, 
 newly kindled on a cold hearth; people stretched 
 their hands toward him with smiles, tardily 
 realising how cold and frost-bitten they had been. 
 And the baby, basking in the universal approba- 
 tion, thrived and grew like a lusty little tree in 
 the sunshine. 
 
 '* Every single day," Mrs. Pettibone confided 
 to the minister, ''he is sweeter and lovelier than 
 he was yesterday." 
 
 The minister formed the habit of sauntering 
 about till after the baby had had his bath. He 
 found, to his surprise, that he could write bet- 
 ter and more easily than ever before; his asso- 
 ciation with the baby appeared to have opened 
 up entirely new regions of Biblical truth. It was 
 surprising how many trenchant sayings relating to 
 children there were in the Bible. Mr. Pettibone 
 had not noticed them before, being occupied with 
 such themes as total depravity, the state of the 
 unsaved soul after death, and kindred subjects 
 suited to the joyless adult idea of Christianity. 
 
 Love had already done much for the Rever- 
 end Silas Pettibone; but there had remained an 
 unsunned side of his nature of which he himself 
 was only dimly conscious, so the moon may be cog- 
 nisant of the cold sterility of its darkened hemi- 
 sphere. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had loyally believed her husband 
 to be quite perfect as he was; but she was not
 
 MISS PHILURA'S BABY 333 
 
 blind to tlie change in Mm. She spent hours in 
 secret, teaching the baby to say a single word. 
 Then one morning, wonderful to relate, her pupil 
 — prefacing his initial effort at speech with a rav- 
 ishing smile — said " Poppa! " 
 
 It was a proud moment for both of them; and 
 it was on that very morning that, for the first time, 
 Mr. Pettibone put into words his own secret mis- 
 givings. 
 
 ' ' If we 'd never had him, ' ' he observed, thought- 
 fully, " we shouldn't have known what we were 
 missing." 
 
 *' I should have known," said Mrs. Pettibone, 
 with a wise smile. 
 
 She could say it now, without painful blushes. 
 
 He looked at her intently, observing with secret 
 wonder the changes wrought by her quasi-mother- 
 hood. She had certainly grown plumper ; her eyes 
 and cheeks and lips had taken on a look of youth; 
 the lines of her arms and shoulders had changed 
 subtly — as arms and shoulders will under a burden, 
 daily growing heavier, yet always more beloved. 
 
 " But if they should come now, to take him," 
 he went on, "I'm afraid " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone was putting on the baby's cloak 
 preparatory to taking him out for an airing. She 
 successfully extracted one pink fist from the sleeve 
 she had first made into a nest ; then proceeded to 
 rumple up the other in a way Mrs. Puffer had 
 taught her.
 
 334 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 << "VVliy do you say that," she asked, reproach- 
 fully, " just as I was beginning to forget about 
 it? " 
 
 She kissed the baby passionately in the nape 
 of his neck, where fuzzy yellow curls were be- 
 ginning to take advantage of his improved habits 
 in the way of sitting up. 
 
 '' Do you know he's nine months old, Silas? 
 He'll soon be a year; and we haven't heard a 
 word from any of them. . . . Never mind, Pre- 
 cious, he didn't like to have his bonnet tied; 'deed 
 he didn't; but now he's going day-day. . . . 
 There! " 
 
 She achieved a smart bow under the protesting 
 chin. 
 
 " Take him a minute, dear, while I put on my 
 hat and wheel the carriage out. He's sleepy; he'll 
 be sound the minute I take him out." 
 
 She was tucking the baby snugly into his per- 
 ambulator — for, though it was April and the big 
 maples were already brave with scarlet blossoms, 
 the wind still flourished a keen edge which put 
 one in mind of blue-white snows and unmelted 
 ice to the northward. Mrs, Wessels, her head 
 draped in a plaid tea-towel, stood looking on. 
 That worthy woman was armed with a broom and 
 dust-pan, and her face was drawn into myriad 
 puckers and folds of deliberate thought. 
 
 *' My, my! " she exclaimed. '' Who'd 'a*
 
 MISS PHILUEA'S BABY 335 
 
 thought one short year ago I'd be a-standin' here 
 on th' pars'nage stoop a-watchin' Mis' Pettibone 
 all took up with a baby! 'S I was sayin' t' Wes- 
 sels only yest'd'y, ^ She couldn't be no more took 
 up,' I sez, ' ef it was her own child.' 'N' Wes- 
 sels, he sez — it's wonderful how he thinks things 
 out, a-settin' there b' th' stove — ' She mightn't 
 be took up half s' much,' he sez, pos'tive, ' ef 't 
 was her baby.' 'N' I guess that's so, come t' 
 think of it. . . . You'd feel easier, 'n' more in- 
 differ'nt like in your mind, ef " 
 
 " I don't see why you should think so," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Pettibone, grasping the handle of the 
 perambulator firmly. 
 
 She appeared slightly defiant, as if Mrs. Wes- 
 sels had unwittingly touched upon a subject al- 
 ready uppermost in her mind. 
 
 '' The baby is mine," she added, positively, 
 " — just as much mine as if " 
 
 '' But you ain't 'dopted it legal, have you? " 
 inquired Mrs. Wessels, more for the sake of sus- 
 taining her pose of easeful contemplation than 
 for any information she hoped to elicit. 
 
 '' When you sweep the parlour to-day, Mrs. 
 "Wessels, I'd like you to wipe off the windows," 
 said Mrs. Pettibone, pointedly ignoring the 
 question. She added that the windows in ques- 
 tion were very dusty. 
 
 " Yes, I know they be," agreed Mrs. Wessels, 
 with a mournful sigh; " I noticed they looked
 
 336 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 sometliin' terrible 's I come along this mornin'; 
 'n' I sez t' m'self, ' Louisa Wessels/ I sez, ' if 
 you have th' time an' stren'th t'-day you mus' 
 git 'round t' wash off them winders f 'r Mis' Petti- 
 bone. They're a disgrace t' th' pars'nage,' I sez, 
 ' all streaked an' gormed up.' . . . But I dunno; 
 I got an awful gone feelin' t' th' pit o' my stom- 
 iek t'-day. I sez t' Wessels this mornin', ef 'twas 
 anybody but Mis' Pettibone I was goin' to work 
 for, I b'lieve I'd stay t' home an' take care o' 
 m'self.' But I knowed you wa'n't one t' take 
 advantage o' nobody; so I come, an' I'll do m' 
 best. Ef I c'n git 'round t' them winders, I will; 
 ef I can't, jus' you take a little kur'seen on a rag 
 'n' do 'em yourself. 'Twon't take you no time. 
 But I wouldn't leave 'em that-a-way 'nother week, 
 ef I was you. Looks reel slack. . . . Where 'd 
 you say I'd find the tea? Guess I'll make me a 
 cup b'fore I do another lick o' work — ef you don't 
 want I sh'd drop right down in m' tracks. . . . 
 'N ' when I think o ' AVessels an ' all them childern 
 a-hangin' t' m' skirts, an' me a-doin' day's work 
 fer th' vittles they put in their mouths, it doos 
 seem like I'd ought t' take care o' m'self; now, 
 don't it? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had moved slowly toward the 
 gate during this exordium, pushing the peram- 
 bulator before her. She was embarked upon the 
 smooth expanse of sidewalk beyond, when she 
 again heard the pursuing voice of Mrs. Wessels,
 
 MISS PHILURA'S BABY 337 
 
 and glancing back beheld that lady leaning 
 reposefully upon the fence, the checkered 
 towel about her head fluttering gaily in the 
 wind. 
 
 " 'N', oh, say! Mis Pettibone! " she called out, 
 '^ goin' t' th' meat-market? ... I thought mebbe 
 you was. I didn't see nothin' but scraps o' bacon 
 in the ice-chest. I jus' wanted t' tell you, ef you 
 was plannin' f'r my dinner, let it be pork-chops. 
 The' ain't nothin' more tasty ner stren'thnin'. 
 . . . What, 'm'? You don't think so? 'N' you 
 say th' minister don't like 'em t' work on? Wy, 
 land! th' ain't any vittles I know of 'at stan's by 
 you like fresh pork. ... 'N', ef it ain't too much 
 trouble — seein' you got th' baby kerridge 'n' c'n 
 bring it jus' 's well 's not — fetch me ten cents' 
 worth o' cat-meat. . . . Yes'm, cat-meat 's what 
 I said. It makes lovely soup. You didn't know 
 it? . . . Bein' the minister's wife you'll likely 
 git a good bag full. You don't need t' let on it's 
 fer me. Tell Kelly your cat eats reel hearty. 
 He doos, f'r I seen him at th' baby's milk 
 yest'd'y. . . . Oh, didn't you know? I tipped 
 it over gettin' some f'r m' tea. Th' cat licked 
 it up. Yes'm, saved me th' trouble o' gettin' 
 down on m' ban's 'n' knees. A cat's useful that- 
 a-way. ... I'm goin' in now. . . . If th' door- 
 bell rings d' you want I should call th' min- 
 ister? . . . Ef it's a pedlar, I won't? No'm. 
 But 's I tell Wessel.^^ "
 
 338 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had already passed out of hear- 
 ing, trundling the carriage with its hood snugly 
 drawn against the assaults of the wind. She 
 stopped at the post-office, and the postmaster 
 handed her two religious papers, an advertise- 
 ment of a church organ, and a letter, directed in 
 a firm, masculine hand to Mr. Pettibone. She 
 tucked the mail under the baby's blanket for safe- 
 keeping and proceeded on her way. 
 
 Miss Electa Pratt, arrayed bleakly in a new 
 spring suit of black and white check and a hat 
 bristling with ribbon bows and impossible flow- 
 ers, was just issuing from the portals of the 
 Trimmer Emporium. 
 
 " Good morning, Philura," she said. " And 
 hoiv is the baby? — Dear me, I can't get used to 
 seein' you out with it. I sh'd think you'd feel 
 kind o' queer." 
 
 " Queer? " echoed Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 She took advantage of the pause in her prog- 
 ress to peep under the hood. The baby was sleep- 
 ing soundly, his long dark lashes resting lightly 
 on the warm rose of his cheek. Miss Pratt peeped, 
 too. 
 
 '' Isn't he an awful care? " she asked. " I no- 
 tice you don't get time for Ladies' Aid any more, 
 and you're hardly ever at church." 
 
 * ' Once in a while Milly Orne takes care of him 
 for me," Mrs. Pettibone said. '' I wouldn't trust 
 him with anyone else."
 
 MISS PHILUEA'S BABY 339 
 
 Miss Pratt's greenish eyes glittered -unpleas- 
 antly. 
 
 '' Well, I've found out where you got him," 
 she said. ' ' You might 's well 've told in the first 
 place." 
 
 '' You've found out? " echoed Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 Instinctively she braced herself for what might 
 be coming. 
 
 Miss Pratt giggled. 
 
 ' ' 'Tain't so hard t' see through a mill-stone with 
 a hole in it, once you take notice of the hole," 
 she remarked, acidly. " He's the child of that 
 young woman who was up to the Eggleston farm 
 last summer. She ran away and left it, an' the 
 other woman gave it to you." 
 
 There was feline enjoyment in the eyes she fixed 
 upon Phihira Pettibone 's agitated face. 
 
 ' ' That don 't surprise you none, of course ; but 
 mebbe this will: Their name wasn't Hill, at all; 
 but Cruden. The day Al Fisher took the trunks 
 down from the farm I happened t' be at the sta- 
 tion inquiring for a package; so I took a good 
 look at 'em. They was all marked C. and one 
 of 'em had a card tacked on to it 'at had b'en 
 scratched off with a pencil. 'S luck would have 
 it, I had an eraser in my bag, so I rubbed it off 
 an' copied down what I see. It was " 
 
 " Electa! " exclaimed Mrs. Pettibone, weakly. 
 
 '' Oh, you don't think it was reel nice f'r me 
 to find out somethin' about your baby'? Well, I
 
 340 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 tliouglit it was my Clir-r-istian duty. You want I 
 should tell you what I see on that card? " 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone drew a tremulous breath. 
 
 * ' I don 't — know, ' ' she murmured. ' ' I ' ' 
 
 ' ' I guess you do, ' ' said Miss Pratt. ' ' Anyway, 
 I was comin' t' tell th' minister this mornin' — I 
 jus' got th' letter." 
 
 The flowers in the new spring hat rustled like 
 dried cat-tails in the cold wind. 
 
 '' I don't believe I Please don't, Electa." 
 
 "I'd listen, ef I was you," advised Miss Pratt, 
 strongly. '' You'll have t' know, first er last. 
 The name on that card was Mrs. Alexander 
 Cruden, Chilworth Gardens, Ch'cago. . . . They 
 came far enough away from home, anybody 'd 
 s'pose. But as it happens, Ma has a cousin livin' 
 out in Ch'cago, so I wrote t' her an' asked a 
 few questions. She didn't answer for a long 
 while, an' I'd about give up; but, yeste'd'y " 
 
 '' The baby," said Mrs. Pettibone, in a small, 
 weak voice, " is waking up. I — I must be going 
 home. ' ' 
 
 " I'll walk right along with you, Philura," vol- 
 unteered Miss Pratt, amiably. "I'd like t' show 
 Mr. Pettibone the letter I got from my cousin, 
 Matilda Slicer — she's an own cousin o' Ma's on 
 the Smith side. . . . You don't want I should? 
 Well, I mus' say you're grateful! But you can't 
 prevent me from tellin' Mr. Pettibone, even if you 
 did manage t' marry him, with your wonderful
 
 MISS PHILURA'S BABY 341 
 
 neiv thought. Oh, I know how you worked it, 
 Philura; and th's others " 
 
 But Philura Pettibone had fled hastily down 
 a side street, and Miss Pratt forbore to follow. 
 She was anxious to stop at her friend, Mrs. Buck- 
 thorn's, who would, she was confident, appreciate 
 to the full the news of which she was at present 
 sole proprietor and purveyor. . . . 
 
 Mr. Pettibone, as was his invariable custom, 
 permitted his morning mail to lie unopened on 
 the hall-table; this method of procedure tending 
 to a more complete concentration of mind on 
 topics of an other worldly nature. There was not 
 infrequently food for disturbing thought in the 
 parti-coloured envelopes, bearing tradesmen's 
 names in the upper left-hand corner. It was 
 true that his church, after strenuous and con- 
 certed effort, had at the time of his marriage i^aid 
 all arrears of his salary in full. But since that 
 date the brethren had lapsed into an easeful com- 
 placence, in view of the well-known frugality of 
 the second Mrs. Pettibone. Everybody in Innis- 
 field knew that Philura Eice had been as poor as 
 the proverbial church mouse. Ergo : she was well 
 accustomed to strenuous economy; and it would 
 be a pity, indeed, to encourage the sinful extrava- 
 gance which would undoubtedly obtain in the min- 
 isterial domicile under the urge of temptation in 
 the subtle guise of a promptly paid salary. The 
 minister's digestion being slightly im^Daired, the
 
 342 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 letters were frequently allowed a still longer 
 period of neglect, while he played with the baby. 
 The baby, newly awakened from his nap, was in 
 capital form for a frolic, and Mr. Pettibone had 
 acquired the useful and pleasant habit of devot- 
 ing himself to the small, bright-eyed tyrant, while 
 his wife washed the dinner dishes. 
 
 Mrs. Pettibone had not yet spoken to her hus- 
 band of Electa Pratt's officious detective work. 
 He would be indignant, she was sure; and, after 
 all. Electa had discovered nothing of any real im- 
 portance. She recollected, as she polished the 
 glasses, that the young woman had said her name 
 was Sylvia Cruden, on the occasion of their first 
 meeting in the Eggleston woods. Of course, 
 Electa 's discoveries would soon become common 
 property, with such ingenious addenda as Miss 
 Slicer, the Western cousin, chose to write and 
 Electa to invent. It was all very disagreeable; 
 but it could not affect her secure possession of 
 the baby. 
 
 She could hear his chuckles of infantile glee 
 and the forensic voice of Mr. Pettibone, as he re- 
 cited Mother Goose rhymes for the baby's delecta- 
 tion. She smiled happily to herself. Electa 
 Pratt might talk all she liked; so might Mrs. 
 Buckthorn; so might the parish at large. She 
 hoped they would enjoy it. 
 
 Mrs. Wessels had finished the sweeping, in her 
 own peculiar way — a way Philura Pettibone would
 
 MISS PHILUEA'S BABY 343 
 
 not have '' put up with " a few short months ago. 
 But when one had a baby to care for, other things 
 must stand aside. Mrs. Wessels had not, it was 
 plain, sufficient strength to wash the windows 
 in the parlour. It was early — only half-past one, 
 indeed — when Mrs. Pettibone set the last clean 
 dish upon the shelf. She decided that she would 
 wash the windows herself. The baby would be 
 good; he was always good; she would arrange his 
 toys on a thick comfort on the parlour floor and 
 circumscribe his activities with the indispensable 
 " Yard." She would then be free to remove the 
 indubitable traces of small moist fingers from 
 the window-panes. Mrs. Wessels had referred 
 to them as a disgrace to the parsonage. Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone reflected that she would have unqualifiedly 
 agreed with Mrs. Wessels at an earlier stage of 
 her career. She recalled her unspoken, but no less 
 harsh, criticisms of Mrs. Putfer's window-glass. 
 Now, she thought she rather liked it. It looked 
 as if there were children in the house. She said 
 it plainly in the privacy of her own thoughts, and 
 the words brought a delicate kindling of hope to 
 cheeks and eyes. 
 
 She was still looking very pink and pretty when 
 she authoritatively interrupted the frolic in the 
 study. The baby, she explained, must have his 
 dinner at once ; and she hoped Mr. Pettibone had 
 not forgotten the meeting of the C. E. Conven- 
 tion Committee in the prayer-meeting room, at
 
 344 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 three. In reply to a lialf-liearted inquiry, she 
 stated that in her opinion his second-best preach- 
 ing suit would be plenty good enough for the 
 occasion. 
 
 It was at this moment that Mr. Pettibone's 
 divided attention became centred upon his mail, 
 which Mrs. Pettibone kindly deposited upon his 
 writing-table; then she held out her arms for the 
 baby. There was a moment of delicious triumph 
 for the minister, when the small despot turned 
 from the cajoling smile of the lady to hide his 
 curly head against his breast. 
 
 ' ' He likes me ! " cried Mr. Pettibone, with fer- 
 vid conviction, tempered only by an amazed in- 
 credulity. 
 
 *' Of course he does! " chimed in Mrs. Petti- 
 bone, as she captured the baby and bore him away 
 in triumph. 
 
 " He loves his daddy, b'ess him! " he heard her 
 cooing on the other side of the door. . . . 
 
 The religious newspapers received a passing 
 glance, promising an hour of future enjoyment; 
 the alluring advertisement of church organs, a 
 renunciatory sigh as it found lodgment in an over- 
 crowded waste-basket; but upon the letter, ad- 
 dressed to himself in an unknown hand and post- 
 marked with the name of a distant city, he spent 
 a motionless, abstracted half hour.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE LORD GAVE 
 
 It lacked a quarter of three by the gloomy, black 
 marble clock (presented by an admiring i^arish, 
 on the occasion of his first marriage) when Mr. 
 Pettibone, his hair very much rumpled and a wor- 
 ried, almost distracted expression on his kind, 
 grave face, stepped across to the parlour. 
 
 '* My dear Philura "he began; then stopped 
 
 to rumple his hair afresh with a distraught 
 gesture. 
 
 << Why, Silas! " she cried, turning from a com- 
 prehensive polishing of the lower left-hand pane 
 of the front window — which being of a cheap, 
 greenish glass but ill rewarded her labours. 
 '' You are not even dressed; and that meet- 
 ing " 
 
 She paused to remove the handle of the baby's 
 rattle-box from a too close proximity to his wind- 
 pipe. 
 
 " That's the third time! " she announced; '' he 
 seems possessed to ram that celluloid thing down 
 his blessed little throat." 
 
 She surveyed the article in question with se- 
 verely critical eyes. 
 
 *' I should think anybody would know better 
 
 345
 
 346 THE HEAET OF PHILURA 
 
 than to make a toy like that for a baby," she said. 
 '* I sha'n't let him have it any more, Silas, — if 
 Mrs. Buckthorn did give it to him. She says all 
 her children cut their teeth on it. But I don't 
 care if they did. That doesn't make it any 
 better." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone glanced distractedly about the 
 room. 
 
 " I — er — don't you think, my dear, you'd bet- 
 ter leave the — er — windows in this room till an- 
 other day? " he inquired, rather wildly. '' I — 
 I — it seems to me " 
 
 '' Silas, you'll certainly be late at that com- 
 mittee meeting," declared Mrs. Pettibone, look- 
 ing up from a rapturous cuddle of the baby. . . . 
 " Isn't he the sweetest thing? " she added, 
 irrelevantly. 
 
 ' ' Lord — Lord ! ' ' groaned Mr. Pettibone. 
 
 He dropped into a chair, as if spent with 
 emotion. 
 
 " What is the matter, Silas? " demanded 
 Mrs, Pettibone, tardily aware of his perturba- 
 tion. 
 
 She gazed searchingly at him. 
 
 "Is it your stomach? I knew I ought not to 
 have those pork-chops for dinner. . . . Tell me, 
 Silas? " 
 
 '' I — I can't," muttered the minister. '' I 
 might have known — It's my fault. ... If I'd 
 only '*
 
 . THE LOED GAVE 347 
 
 She was standing in the middle of the floor, 
 the baby pressed against her breast. 
 
 " I know," she said, quietly. " You — you've 
 heard something " 
 
 Her steadfast eyes wavered for an instant as 
 her lips sought the crown of the curly little head. 
 
 " Tell me," she begged. 
 
 He drew a deep breath. 
 
 " They — er — just found out," he began, avoid- 
 ing her eyes. '' The letter was from " 
 
 " Yes? " she breathed. '^ And — they are com- 
 ing 1 " 
 
 ' ' To-day, ' ' he said. * ' You must — They may be 
 here at any moment." 
 
 " They sha'n't have him, Silas! " she cried, in 
 a breaking voice. *' I — I can't give him up — I 
 can 't ! I love him so ! " 
 
 '' My dear," he said, gravely. " My dear! " 
 
 Their eyes met in a long look. . . . 
 
 She held out the child to him with a renunciatory 
 gesture. 
 
 " Take him, please. I must put this room to 
 rights before " 
 
 It was all over before the black marble clock 
 on the mantle told the hour of four. Like other 
 dreaded crises in life, it arrived quietly enough 
 — this time in the shabby guise of a depot hack 
 drawn up before the parsonage gate. Mrs. Petti- 
 bone stood in the window, the child in her arms, 
 and watched the two young figures emerge from
 
 348 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 its stuffy interior and hurry up the walk. The 
 girl had been crying, she noticed; she was dressed 
 somberly in black. The man at her side bent his 
 tall head, as if to encourage her with murmured 
 words, as they paused for an instant in the sparse 
 shadow of a budding lilac. The girl looked up at 
 him, a lovely smile breaking over her face. Then 
 the bell jangled noisily. 
 
 As had been agreed upon beforehand, Mr. Pet- 
 tibone opened the door. She heard a brief ques- 
 tion, a briefer answer; then the parlour door 
 closed quietly. . . . 
 
 It seemed a long time that she stood there gaz- 
 ing out of the window, the child held close against 
 her breast. . . . The baby whimpered a little and 
 twisted his rosy face toward hers. '' He wants to 
 go out in his carriage," she thought, with an un- 
 controllable throb of pain. . . . Then at last the 
 door opened, and the minister, very pale and 
 grave, stood gazing at her compassionately from 
 the threshold. 
 
 After a moment of indecision he came in, clos- 
 ing the door behind him. 
 
 " The young woman's mother is dead." 
 
 He uttered the words tentatively — almost 
 humbly. 
 
 She offered no comment. 
 
 " It seems Mrs. Maitland knew nothing of the 
 child's existence," he went on, hurriedly, '' until 
 — her mother sent for her, the day before her
 
 THE LORD GAVE 349 
 
 death. Up to that time Mrs. Cruden had refused 
 to communicate with her daughter. ... I should 
 explain, perhaps, that Hill was a family name, as- 
 sumed merely for convenience." 
 
 The child's impatient whimper changed to a 
 fretful cry. 
 
 " He wants me to take him out," she said, in a 
 clear, colourless voice. " He is used to going 
 out at this time." 
 
 Mr. Pettibone took two steps toward her, his 
 face twitching strangely. 
 
 " My dear! " he murmured, ^' you will be 
 brave ? You won't " 
 
 He stopped abruptly and turned again toward 
 the door. 
 
 " Their name," he said, slowly, "■ is Maitland. 
 — You will come now and — speak to them? " 
 
 She walked steadily across the hall, hushing the 
 child in her arms, mechanically. 
 
 '' He shall go out, pretty soon," she was mur- 
 muring. " So he shall ! Mother will put his coat 
 on, and his little bonnet." 
 
 The young woman was standing by the win- 
 dow, her handkerchief crumpled into a moist lit- 
 tle ball clutched in one hand. She turned swiftly 
 — her eyes fastening upon the child in Mrs. Pet- 
 tibone 's arms. 
 
 ** Is that my baby? " she asked. 
 
 She did not look at Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 *' My wife," said the young man, rather stiffly,
 
 350 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 '^ has been very much upset by the suddenness 
 of her mother's death; perhaps you will — under- 
 stand." 
 
 " I — understand," said Mrs. Pettibone. 
 
 The baby had turned from the stranger in the 
 large black hat and was hiding his face in her 
 neck, with little whimpering cries. 
 
 '* He is afraid," Mrs. Pettibone explained. 
 ^* He doesn't like black." 
 
 " Oh, but he mustn't be afraid of me! He's 
 my baby. Come to mother, darling! . . . Oh, 
 Stephen, isn't he a dear? And he looks like you; 
 his eyes " 
 
 " The baby's name," said Mrs. Pettibone, stead- 
 ily, " is Stephen." 
 
 ' ' How nice of you ! . . . But I could have 
 changed it, you know, if you'd called him any- 
 thing else. Of course he had to be named after 
 his father." 
 
 Her large dark eyes sought her husband's in- 
 quiringly. He had taken his watch from his 
 pocket. 
 
 " We haven't much time," he told her. 
 
 Mrs. Maitland glanced doubtfully at the min- 
 ister's wife. 
 
 " I'll get his things ready," Mrs. Pettibone 
 offered, quietly. '' You — you'll want everything, 
 of course! " 
 
 The young mother shook her head. 
 
 " I don't think we have time," she objected.
 
 THE LORD GAVE 351 
 
 * * We can buy everything, you know ; and we must 
 get the express from Boston to-night. Do let 
 me take him ! He '11 have to get used to his mother 
 — the darling! I'm afraid I don't know much 
 about babies; but we'll hire a nurse for him right 
 away. ' ' 
 
 The child's desolate little cry pursued her as 
 she hurried from the room; she could hear, too, 
 the futile attempts of the young parents to quiet 
 him. His pitiful complainings rang in her ears 
 while she hastily rolled some little garments into 
 an awkward bundle. They could buy everything. 
 And they would hire a nurse for him. . . . 
 
 At the supreme moment of parting young Mrs. 
 Maitland appeared to be visited by a transient 
 gleam of comprehension. 
 
 '' I suppose you'll really miss him," she said, 
 brightly. '' And I haven't even thanked you, dear 
 Mrs. Pettibone. What must you think of me? 
 But I do appreciate — everything, more than I can 
 say. ... If mother had only told me about 
 
 baby Poor mother! She meant to be kind. 
 
 . . . You will let us — pay you for taking care of 
 him all these months? He must have cost a lot; 
 and we are rich, you know, now that poor 
 mother " 
 
 But at this, Mrs. Pettibone, who had preserved 
 her usual tranquil, even smiling, demeanour — to 
 the uneasy wonderment of her husband — drew 
 back.
 
 t 
 
 352 THE HEAET OF PHILUEA 
 
 " Pay me? " slie breathed. '' Pay me — for 
 taking care of — my baby? " 
 
 The minister listened to her movements in the 
 room over his study for quite half an hour after 
 the depot hack had rolled away. It was very quiet 
 in the house, save for those hushed footfalls on 
 the floor above. She had chosen it for the baby's 
 nursery because of the morning sun which 
 streamed in through its three windows. Mr. Pet- 
 tibone sat very still, huddled together in his study- 
 chair, a desolate sense of bereavement deepening 
 within him. Many times he had stood calmly 
 above a little casket, voicing those words of the 
 universal heart-break: " The Lord gave, and the 
 Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the 
 Lord! " 
 
 He tried to repeat them now ; but the words died 
 upon his lips. 
 
 The sounds in the room above had ceased, and 
 the silence beat heavily upon his ears. He com- 
 pelled himself to get to his feet — to ascend the 
 stair. 
 
 '^ The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
 
 away " He must, somehow, manage to convey 
 
 comfort to that sorely stricken heart. . . . 
 
 She sat quite still in the gathering dusk, over 
 against the window looking toward the east. 
 There were small finger-marks upon the pane. He 
 remembered that only that morning she had sat
 
 THE LORD GAVE 353 
 
 there, the baby on her knee, looking out at him 
 as he raked the sodden leaves, and the child had 
 beat npon the glass with its rosy palms. He 
 crossed the room on tiptoe and knelt down at 
 her side, and putting his arms about her pressed 
 his wet cheek to hers. 
 
 " Why, Silas," she said, stirring a little. 
 << Why, my dear " 
 
 She had not been weeping then. He experi- 
 enced a vague sense of bewilderment, not un- 
 mixd with fear. Then all at once he perceived 
 that she was smiling, her face dimly luminous 
 in the dusk of the April evening. 
 
 " I was thinking," she said, slowly, '' about — 
 him. ' ' 
 
 '' Yes, dear," he murmured; his spent breath 
 sounding very like a sob. 
 
 '' From the very first day — you remember, 
 Silas? And — ever since." 
 
 Her empty hands suddenly tightened in her lap. 
 
 ' ' I hope, ' ' she said, ' ' that his nurse — will love 
 him. — She said she would — hire a nurse; rich 
 women do that. She said — they were rich, Silas. 
 You heard her? " 
 
 " My dear Philura," he reminded her, with 
 a touch of his old authority. ' ' She is his mother. 
 We must not forget that." 
 
 " I know," she submitted. 
 
 He rose to his feet presently and looked 
 about him — at the white crib in the corner with
 
 354 
 
 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 its tiny pillow, still bearing the imprint of tlie 
 baby's head; at the cheap little toys, neatly ar- 
 ranged in a basket; at the small toilet appurte- 
 nances set forth upon the bureau. . . . 
 
 " We must give these things away," he said, 
 
 almost harshly, " put them out of sight; I 
 
 cannot allow you " 
 
 She lifted her hand with a pleading ges+ure. 
 
 '' No, Silas; no," she said, softly. '* Let them 
 — stay. ..."
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 MILLY 
 
 Daffodils and crocus spread vivid patches of 
 colour against the stiff brown mould of the Orne 
 garden, and languid bees, plunged deep in their 
 faintly odorous cups, smeared their brown bodies 
 in the plentiful pollen with soft humming of con- 
 tent. Over against the leafless hedge sprays of 
 *' yellow-bush " and flowering almond were be- 
 ginning to show a delicate tracery of gold and 
 rose. 
 
 Grandma Orne standing in the door, her ging- 
 ham apron over her head, looked forth over the 
 garden to the orchard beyond. 
 
 " It doos beat all," she murmured, '' how every- 
 thin' comes 'round, jes' th' same, year after year. 
 Things 'at don't make no differ 'nee, like yellow- 
 bush an' crocus-blows. They don't look no older 
 'an when I was young — an' me 'n' Gran 'pa 
 a-standin' here, both of us straight an' strong 
 an' full o' gumption. ... A body 'd think a bush 
 was more account 'an folks — ef they didn 't know 
 no better." 
 
 " What you mutterin' about, Gran 'ma? " pro- 
 pounded a feeble voice from the bedroom. 
 
 355
 
 356 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 *' Seems 's 'o' your tongue was always a-wag- 
 gin'." 
 
 Mrs. Orne poured the contents of a saucepan 
 into a cup, her lips firmly compressed. 
 
 " You b'en asleep, Gran 'pa, nigh ont' two 
 hours," she told him. ^' Here's yer broth, all 
 nice an' hot. I'll put an extry piller under yer 
 head so 't you c'n drink it." 
 
 The old man groaned protestingly as he yielded 
 to her ministrations. 
 
 '* I ain't b'en asleep," he contradicted, " not 
 fer a minute. Don't ye s'pose I know? " 
 
 '' I heerd ye a-snorin'," said Grandma, con- 
 vincingly. " You cert'nly had a reel nice nap." 
 
 She held the steaming cup to his puckered lips. 
 
 '' I want you should swaller this right down," 
 she exhorted him, anxiously, ' ' so 's t ' git up yer 
 stren'th. The spring 's comin' on reel nice; why, 
 th's crocus 'n' yellow-bush 'n' butter- 'n '-eggs, 
 all in blow, — jes' where you planted 'em out when 
 we was first married. You r 'member, don't you, 
 Gran 'pa? " 
 
 He stared at her uncomprehendingly over the 
 brim of the cup, his eyes under their sparse lashes 
 resembling dull blue glass. 
 
 " Where's Milly? " he demanded, fretfully. 
 ^' I ain't seen her all day. She don't seem t' 
 keer ef her ol' gran 'pa " 
 
 '^ Now, don' you talk that-a-way," interrupted 
 Mrs. Orne, with a brisk show of authority.
 
 MILLY 357 
 
 '' Milly come in t' seg you, first thing this mornin'. 
 She was np in the night a couple o' times, too, 
 t' fix th' fire. I guess you f ergot " 
 
 She bent over the bed and spoke loudly in the 
 old man's ear: 
 
 *' Milly 's a-workin' t' Malvina Bennett's 
 
 shop. She's a-learnin' th' dressmakin' trade, 
 Gran 'pa! " 
 
 " Wall, you don't hev' t' holler at me like 
 that," he rebuked her. '' I ain't no deefer 'n' you 
 be. What'd Milly want t' do that fer, I'd like 
 t' know? I want her t' hum. She c'd make out t* 
 plant th' lettuce an' reddishes, I guess. 'N' you 
 want t' git th' t'matoes started in them tin cans 
 I saved. . . . Seems like, I put a ripe t'mato on 
 a board t' — t' dry — fer seed; but I dunno — I 
 dunno " 
 
 His wrinkled lids fell suddenly over the dull 
 blue of his tired old eyes. He was asleep. 
 
 Mrs. Orne softly withdrew the extra pillow 
 from beneath her husband's head. Then she stood 
 looking down at him, her head, slightly tremulous 
 with age, bent to one side ; her hands touching the 
 bedclothes with little caressing pats. 
 
 " Well, I guess Gran 'pa's better," she mur- 
 mured; " he looked reel bright when he was set- 
 tin' up; 'n' he conterdicted me jest es peart an' 
 sassy. Oh, he'll be 'round, Gran 'pa will. But, 
 land! I mus' git them t'mato seeds started. I'd 
 clean f ergot 'em."
 
 I 
 
 358 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 Milly came home early that night. She was 
 afraid Grandfather wasn't quite so well when she 
 left him in the morning, she explained. The old 
 lady reassured her with little cackling reminis- 
 cences of Grandpa's smart sayings during the day. 
 
 '' An' you'd ought t' 'a' heerd him a-findin' 
 fault," she finished, triumphantly. " Oh, he's 
 pickin' up. Gran 'pa is. 'Twon't be no time b'fore 
 he's out a-putterin' 'round th' garden. But I'm 
 'fraid he'll be hoppin' mad when he fin's we clean 
 f ergot th' t'matoes. They'd ought t' be an inch 
 high b' now. He wants you should plant the red- 
 dishes, Milly; 'n' I guess you'd better do it right 
 off, so's I c'n tell him t '-morrow; mebbe it'll kind 
 o' pacify him." 
 
 The sun was sinking in a soft glow of burning 
 rose as the girl thrust her spade deep in the yield- 
 ing loam. She had changed her neat gown to 
 one of faded gingham, and over it wore an old 
 coat of Grandfather's — a concession to Grand- 
 mother's anxious fears lest she should " take 
 cold "; on her feet were broken shoes — " plenty 
 good fer th' garden," the old lady had declared, 
 providently. Milly had yielded, without protest; 
 but once out of sight of the window where Grand- 
 mother was washing the tea-things she flung aside 
 the hat pressed down over her bright hair. The 
 walls of Miss Malvina's sewing-room had seemed 
 to stifle the girl that day; she welcomed the cool 
 wind which had sprung up at sunset with a sigh
 
 MILLY 359 
 
 of relief. High up in the big chestnut trees across 
 the road robins were singing, and from the reedy 
 margin of the brook uprose the plaintive piping of 
 frogs. Afar off on a neighbouring farm a cow 
 blatantly announced her annual bereavement. 
 The hollow, melancholy note floated lonesomely 
 on the wind — seemed, indeed, to be a part of it, 
 as it swept the budding trees, on its way down 
 the valley. 
 
 The light was fading as she scattered the seed 
 in the shallow drills she had prepared for it. The 
 cow had ceased her complaining by now; but the 
 plaintive frogs piped louder than ever from their 
 reedy marsh. Milly was thinking vaguely of the 
 gentle patter of Miss Malvina's conversation that 
 day. The little dressmaker had indulged in va- 
 rious reminiscences of her own youth, as the two 
 women set neat finishing stitches on a gown in- 
 tended for a \dllage bride. 
 
 " Eeel pretty, ain't it! " said Miss Malvina, 
 surveying her handiwork with honest pride. 
 '' Land! I r 'member, when I first b'giin sewin' 
 stiddy, I ust t' feel kind o' nervous like when- 
 ever I had t' make a wedd'n-dress, er a shroud; 
 seems 's o' th' goods felt kind o' differ 'nt t' th' 
 han'. ... I s'pose I hadn't reely give up bein' 
 married m'self, 'n' I hed kind of a notion in them 
 days 'at I'd die young, ef I wasn't. It seemed like 
 an awful while t' forty, even. Think s' I, I 
 can't never stan' it that long. But, land! I guess
 
 360 THE HEART OF PHILURA 
 
 th's some folks jes' born t' help other folks live 
 an' die. I know I was; for here I be — fifty-one, 
 m' las' birthday, an' still chipper, — a-making up 
 wedd'n-dresses an' shrouds, er anythin' 'at comes 
 t' han'. 'N' I've give up dyin', definite, till my 
 time comes." 
 
 Milly smoothed the earth carefully above the 
 radish seed and pressed it down with a board, as 
 Grandfather had taught her, wondering if after 
 all it would seem so terribly long to thirty; and 
 if, arrived at that distant bourne, she could, at 
 last, forget youth and the poignant ache of lone- 
 liness at her heart. 
 
 She arose from her knees presently and brushed 
 the loose earth from her gown. Grandmother had 
 lighted the lamp and set it on a table near the 
 window. Its long ray of pale light extended into 
 the gathering dusk, like an unyielding finger point- 
 ing down a gray vista of years to be travelled 
 humbly and meekly. 
 
 Then, all at once, she perceived that she was 
 not alone. Absorbed in her thoughts, she had not 
 heard the click of the gate nor his step on the 
 soft earth. He stood, a little way off, gazing at 
 her doubtfully. 
 
 *' I — wasn't sure at first that it was really you," 
 he said. 
 
 She glanced awkwardly at her faded gingham 
 and ragged coat, her heart beating suffocatingly 
 in her throat. Already she had seen that he was
 
 MILLY 361 
 
 older, graver, and that his dress was of a sober 
 elegance. 
 
 " Aren't you going to speak to me, Milly? " 
 
 His voice seemed to come to her from a great 
 way off. 
 
 '* I — You surprised me," she stammered. 
 
 Her hands (she was thinking) were stained with 
 earth. Her feet, in their broken shoes, moved a 
 little. 
 
 Then all at once she felt his arms close about 
 her. 
 
 '' Milly — Milly! " he was murmuring, his lips 
 against her cold cheek. 
 
 She struggled to free herself. 
 
 ' ' No — no ! ' ' she cried out. ' ' You must let me 
 go!" 
 
 '' Why? Don't you love mel Have you — for- 
 gotten, already? " 
 
 He drew away from her, his face pale in the 
 fading light. 
 
 '' But perhaps you are thinking " 
 
 '' I have finished thinking, long ago," she said, 
 her delicate head thrown back, her eyes gazing 
 straight into his. " All these months, when I 
 heard nothing from you " 
 
 " You don't know," he interrupted, eagerly. 
 ^' My mother You will let me explain " 
 
 " It isn't necessary," she said, sadly. " You 
 are not in my world, Walter Hill. You had noth- 
 ing else to do — nothing, even, to amuse yourself
 
 362 THE HEART OF PHILUEA 
 
 with; so — you amused yourself with ^e. Your 
 mother permitted it, because she needed a servant. 
 . . , That is what I am fit for — a servant ! I un- 
 derstand — I know. You needn't explain." 
 
 '' Milly," he said, gravely, '' my mother — is 
 dead." 
 
 His voice broke a little over the hard word. 
 
 " All that she did — strange, even cruel as it 
 may seem to you — must be forgiven, now. Do 
 you think you can forgive her — and me? " 
 
 She gazed at him without speech, her eyes, un- 
 der the fallen masses of her hair, wet with sud- 
 den tears. 
 
 ' ' But I You don 't know — everything, ' ' she 
 
 murmured. " I am not even " 
 
 '' You are the woman I love," he made swift 
 answer. 
 
 And in his voice and eyes was all the boy's pas- 
 sion, deepened and made sacred by the sorrowful 
 realisation of the man who has looked upon death, 
 and from it learned something of the meaning of 
 life.
 
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