% 
 
 *f 
 
 V -RANT SMITH 
 14.O Pacific Av. 
 LONG BEACH
 
 A WIND FLOWER
 
 Hutbor'0 Ulotc 
 
 "A Wind Flower 1 ' was written in the win- 
 ter of 1897, before the outbreak of the present 
 ritualistic controversy in the Church of Eng- 
 land.
 
 Q. & 
 
 ^V ^Zst^tsL* 
 <&O faU LblAsV-uJ 
 
 $aji 
 /
 
 : At a short distance stood Eunice Herendean.'' 
 
 Page VI.
 
 H Wfnb flower 
 
 H Hovel 
 
 BY 
 
 CAROLINE ATWATER MASON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "The Quiet King" "c/f Minister of the World" etc. 
 
 Hrevis est usus 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 a. 3. TCowlanO 
 
 1420 Chestnut Street
 
 Copyright 1899 by the 
 AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY 
 
 from the Society's own (trees
 
 foreword 
 
 FROM the remote time when nymphs figured 
 in society, down to the present day, the white 
 anemone, or windflower, that "tremulous 
 woodland thing," has had some slight part 
 to play in legend and poetry; and whether 
 appearing as nymph or flower, it has always 
 been invested with a contradictory charm no 
 less than with a pathetic grace. 
 
 Various are the legends of the nymph, vari- 
 ous the qualities attributed to the flower ; but 
 whether for love or death, it has ever some 
 subtle relation to the wind, whether seeking it 
 or shunning it ; blossoming only under its in- 
 fluence, or perishing under its bitter breath. 
 
 Botanically, we know the anemone nemorosa 
 for one of the earliest and most fragile of wild 
 flowers, growing in the woods in exposed spots 
 and also in sheltered nooks, "having a simple 
 stem with involucre remote from the blossom, 
 and bearing a single delicate white, or out- 
 wardly pinkish, vernal flower." The flower 
 is starlike, and airily poised on the slender 
 stem, "trembles to the faintest breeze." It 
 v 
 
 2061930
 
 Joreworfc 
 
 is, perhaps, a surprise to find that the juice of 
 this innocent looking little plant is acrid and 
 poisonous. The Romans, indeed, believed it 
 necessary to propitiate the first anemone with 
 spells, to ward off its baleful influence ; and in 
 some parts of Eastern Europe the common 
 people still believe that the wind blowing over 
 the blossoms becomes noxious. 
 
 In mythology, Anemone is a nymph, beloved 
 by Zephyr. She is banished by Flora from her 
 court and transformed into a cold spring flower 
 which blooms even before the return of spring. 
 Her beauty attracts the turbulent Boreas, who 
 woos her stormily after his fashion. She resists 
 him for a time, then yields and is inclined to 
 listen. Her petals open, whereupon he blows 
 upon her with a chilling blast, causing the ten- 
 der flower to fade away, and she, "even in 
 blooming, dies." Thus Ovid sings : 
 
 Still here the fate of lovely forms we see, 
 So sudden fades the sweet Anemone. 
 
 In poetry no one has caught and rendered 
 the spirit of the windflower with a daintier 
 grace than has Elaine Goodale in the follow- 
 ing verses : 
 
 Whence art thou, frailest flower of spring ? 
 
 Did winds of heaven give thee birth ? 
 Too free, too airy-light a thing 
 
 For any child of earth, 
 vi
 
 ^foreword 
 
 O palest of pale blossoms borne 
 
 On timid April's virgin breast, 
 Hast thou no flush of passion worn, 
 
 No mortal bond confessed ? 
 
 Thou didst not spring from common ground, 
 So tremulous on thy slender stem ; 
 
 Thy sisters may not clasp thee round, 
 Who art not one with them. 
 
 Thy subtle charm is strangely given ; 
 
 My fancy will not let thee be, 
 Then poise not thus 'twixt earth and heaven, 
 
 O white anemone. 
 
 VI i
 
 a Mint) flower 
 
 i 
 
 |T was the half-hour before dinner at 
 Whippany Inn, in a remote New 
 Hampshire intervale. Two young 
 ladies were descending the broad, shallow steps 
 of the old oak staircase into the low-ceiled 
 hall. Although low, this hall was wide and 
 lined with polished tables and cabinets, rich in 
 quaint and curious china. Midway the length 
 of it was the great tiled chimney, where a fire 
 of birch logs blazed hospitably, flanked by big 
 blue jars of goldenrod. From the hall opened 
 various rooms of moderate size, furnished with 
 a certain homely comfortableness. Nothing 
 was new or obtrusively handsome ; the first im- 
 pression made upon one coming into the house, 
 was that everything had always been as it was 
 then, and, on the whole, he was apt to wish 
 it always would be. No person was in sight, 
 and no sound of voices could be heard. Out- 
 side a chill mist was rising, blurring the great 
 outline of the mountain ranges, 
 i
 
 B mtno flower 
 
 ' ' Dear ! but what a still place, ' ' commented 
 the taller of the two young ladies, as she 
 reached the floor and advanced with a rustle 
 of crisp silk to the office, a small room at the 
 left of the house door. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked the 
 other languidly, as she followed. 
 
 "Why, we haven't registered yet, Grace. I 
 want to see if there is any one we ever heard 
 of in this singular seclusion. ' ' 
 
 Accordingly, the speaker entered the office 
 
 which, like the hall, was empty, paused at the 
 
 jdesk, and drew to a convenient point of sight 
 
 the heavy, leather-bound register which lay 
 
 open upon it. 
 
 Before investigating the signatures con- 
 tained in the book, the young lady took the 
 pen which lay in readiness and wrote in a pro- 
 nounced, high-shouldered English hand : Mr. 
 and Mrs. Horatio Barringer, Coalport, Pa. ; 
 the Misses Barringer ; Miss Gladys Barringer 
 and nurse. 
 
 During the process of writing the family 
 names, Miss Barringer' s sister, looking over 
 her shoulder, had been closely scanning the 
 open pages. They were handsome girls, with 
 good color, clear, bright eyes, and a generally 
 well-bred and well-groomed effect. Both were 
 tall, with long, slender waists and the broad
 
 S "ttHtnO flower 
 
 shoulders and hips which combine to produce 
 an hour-glass outline in American women of 
 the conventional type. 
 
 They were dressed correctly in fashionable 
 tailor gowns, rough and dark, and becoming to 
 the tints of their fine skin and brown hair. 
 Miss Barringer had a stately bearing and a 
 peculiarly fine pose of the head ; her sister was 
 slighter ; she wore an eyeglass, and carried 
 herself a shade less confidently. 
 
 Just as Miss Barringer' s pen had reached the 
 last aristocratic stroke which recorded the 
 arrival of the Barringer family, her sister, *' 
 Grace, pointed lightly with her forefinger to a 
 name near the foot of the opposite page : Rev. 
 Francis Norman. The color in Miss Barrin- 
 ger' s cheek was heightened a shade, as she re- 
 marked carelessly : 
 
 ' ' Why, yes ; I supposed he would be here 
 by this time. I wonder if any other Coalport 
 people have come ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes," said her sister, after an instant's 
 pause, "there is Miss Archibald ! Isn't that 
 comic? " and they both laughed softly. 
 
 "One can almost foresee certain things," 
 murmured Grace Barringer. 
 
 "Such as Tom Ripley, you mean," said her 
 sister ; ' ' but he won' t be here till to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, Tom, of course," Grace rejoined. 
 3
 
 B TKflinD jflower 
 
 "Turn the leaf, Flo. There's nobody else 
 there." 
 
 "Sister Bertha and Sister Elizabeth are 
 here," was the next announcement made by 
 Miss Barringer, "and, yes Grace, there are 
 some other Coalport people. Who can they 
 be? Isn't it simply archaic ? Moses Heren- 
 dean ! And in that handwriting!" These 
 exclamations were made by Miss Barringer dis- 
 creetly under her breath. 
 
 "Does archaic mean coming out of the 
 ark ? ' ' asked Grace soberly, bending lower 
 over the register. 
 
 "Certainly," said Miss Barringer; "and 
 please to observe that there is a Mary Heren- 
 dean, Grace, and likewise a Eunice Ann," 
 and here she stopped speaking, and lifting her 
 chin contemplatively, passed her forefinger 
 over the collective Herendean names. 
 
 "Why do you do that, my dear?" asked 
 Grace. 
 
 "To see if they sprinkled sand on them 
 after they were written. That queer, quaint, 
 stiff writing always ought to have sand on it, 
 don't you know? It did when I was in the 
 ark. I remember it perfectly." 
 
 "Oh, Florence, how ridiculous!" said her 
 sister with a laugh ; "but truly, did you ever 
 hear of Herendeans in Coalport?" 
 4
 
 a "WflmO jflower 
 
 " Never. We should not be likely to know 
 them, Grace. Fancy writing your name on a 
 hotel register ' Eunice Ann ' ! I can always 
 tell what people are like from their handwrit- 
 ing. I can see her, can' t you ? ' ' and Miss 
 Barringer slipped her hand through her sister's 
 arm, and they went out on the veranda. "She 
 is thirty-five, with freckles and a reddish nose. 
 Mary must be older still, as her name came 
 first." 
 
 " But why should they write their names in 
 that absurd manner, with no Mrs. or Miss?" 
 
 "Grace," said Miss Barringer, after a mo- 
 ment's thought, with a low, little scream, "it 
 is we who are stupid ! Don't you see? They 
 are Quakers, of course ! ' ' 
 
 At that moment, as they reached the corner 
 of the house, they were met suddenly by a 
 girl who turned in some confusion to avoid 
 them, and glanced back at their stately, rus- 
 tling elegance in shy and evident surprise. 
 
 ' ' Dowdy, my dear, ' ' commented Miss Bar- 
 ringer, tightening her hold on the arm of 
 Grace, " undeniably dowdy, but all the same 
 an utter beauty if she did but know it." 
 
 The girl thus described wore a white dress, 
 
 limp from the mist, and untrimmed, save for a 
 
 little fine old needlework at the throat. She 
 
 carried a writing tablet, and a soft snuff-brown 
 
 5
 
 B MinO Slower 
 
 shawl trailed from her shoulder down the skirt 
 of her dress. Her dark hair was damp and 
 disordered by the wet wind, and below the 
 confusion of it shone out dark, innocent eyes 
 with long lashes and a soft pathetic glance. 
 The mouth had a childish, pouting sweetness, 
 with dimples about the corners ; the face was 
 without color, but firm and fine in hue, not 
 pallid. 
 
 The veranda, like the hall, was deserted, 
 save for two people in a sheltered corner. 
 These, as they approached them, the Misses 
 Barringer observed to be probably father and 
 daughter. A tall, spare old man with a keenly 
 chiseled profile, and gray locks below a black 
 velvet skull cap, sat in a steamer chair closely 
 enveloped in a gray rug. A crutch lay on the 
 floor beside his chair. The long, blue-veined 
 fingers held some sheets of manuscript which 
 he lowered as the new-comers passed, and 
 turning to a young woman who sat on a low 
 seat close at hand, he asked, quite audibly : 
 " Did thee send Eunice to put on warmer gar- 
 ments ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, father," was the reply. 
 
 Miss Barringer and her sister passed on. 
 
 "Moses and Mary without doubt," said 
 Miss Barringer, as they turned the next cor- 
 ner. 
 
 6
 
 B TJCUnD Slower 
 
 "Not only so, my dear," returned Grace, 
 ' ' but your innocent beauty in the limp gown 
 was palpably Eunice Ann ! And you profess 
 to read character in handwriting ! ' ' 
 
 "It's pretty bad, I know," Miss Barringer 
 admitted ; ' ' but Moses wrote all the names 
 himself. I could see that at a glance. That 
 girl never calls herself Eunice Ann, you can 
 depend."
 
 II 
 
 fOSES HERENDEAN, who was at 
 the head of the steadily declining 
 Friends' Meeting of the great com- 
 mercial city of Coalport, was an old habitue of 
 Whippany Inn. In earlier years it had been 
 a favorite gathering place for Friends, but lat- 
 terly this old circle had diminished, and this 
 year the old man found that he and his daugh- 
 ters were the only ' ' members of society ' ' in the 
 house. 
 
 It was a small and quiet house, the valley 
 about it of exquisite charm, the mountain 
 range in the distance, impressive. Moses 
 Herendean liked the place. The rocks and 
 waterfalls and solemn fir forest walks were all 
 associated with his strong and sunny days. 
 Hannah, his wife, had come here with him un- 
 til her death, and here they had enjoyed many 
 "favored seasons" in the company of those 
 like-minded with themselves. 
 
 To be sure there had been changes. Whip- 
 pany had been discovered long since by 
 'world's people," but Moses Herendean 
 found many of congenial spirit among these. 
 8
 
 flower 
 
 and gradually he came to look with indulgent 
 kindliness even upon the decorous games and 
 piano music which became the dissipations of 
 the evenings. Through all the changes the 
 old man had continued to hold a certain silent 
 headship in the house ; the proprietor regarded 
 him with profound reverence, and strangers 
 coming to Whippany fell almost unconsciously 
 into the habit of paying especial respect to the 
 patriarchal dignity of the venerable Quaker. 
 His kindly tolerance, his striking garb, and the 
 quaintness of his speech made him a pictur- 
 esque and pleasing figure in the exclusive little 
 inn ; and there had been many Who would 
 have felt Whippany without Moses Herendean 
 to be comparatively characterless. 
 
 It was early in August when the Barringer 
 family arrived ; Moses Herendean and his 
 daughters had been at Whippany for a month, 
 but they had had the house almost to them- 
 selves, as the season had been cold and back- 
 ward, and dull enough the younger daughter, 
 Eunice, was beginning to find it. Her father 
 was preparing to publish a memoir of Isaac 
 Foster, an ancestor of the Herendean family 
 and a Friend whom Eunice privately consid- 
 ered exceedingly tiresome in this generation, 
 however useful he might have been in his own. 
 Her sister Mary copied manuscript, and read 
 9
 
 21 THUinD flower 
 
 marked passages to her father from morning 
 till night, except for a walk, or a game of ten- 
 nis once a day, and an occasional excursion 
 to South Whippany to look after poor folk 
 there who were special wards of the Herendean 
 family. Eunice found none of these occupa- 
 tions amusing. She was only twenty and had 
 just discovered that she was pretty an impor- 
 tant epoch in a girl's life. Furthermore, she had 
 only this summer finished a four years' course in 
 a Philadelphia Friends' school of the straitest 
 order, and she was eager for something new and 
 interesting. With the arrival of the Barringers 
 and a set of people who came at about the same 
 time, a new order of things began at the Inn ; 
 the world ' ' came up as a flood, ' ' Moses Heren- 
 dean thought, and withdrew to more secluded 
 places, elbowed out of his favorite haunts it 
 seemed to Mary, his daughter, by these new 
 people, to whom Eunice however was far from 
 indifferent. 
 
 It was the second day of the Barringers' so- 
 journ at the Inn and a morning of surpassing 
 beauty, with shimmering sunshine in the green 
 valley, and opal mists hanging over the 
 shoulders of the mountains. On the veranda 
 the position of prominence was held by a gay 
 and animated company of ladies, while at a 
 little distance sat a group of gentlemen be- 
 10
 
 flower 
 
 longing to their party, who were smoking and 
 playing cards. Two Protestant nuns in their 
 distinctive garb, bearing enormous crosses on 
 their breasts, were walking up and down, stop- 
 ping occasionally to speak to the ladies in the 
 central group. 
 
 Moses Herendean had come to the open 
 house door, and stood leaning on his crutch 
 which he used to support an injured limb, and 
 looking out upon the con.pany on the veranda. 
 It had been a part of the etiquette of the house 
 that smoking should be indulged in apart from 
 public view, and Moses Herendean had never 
 seen card playing in the morning at Whippany 
 before, nor upon the open veranda. The 
 whole scene smote upon his sense like a vulgar 
 insult to the immaculate morning. He turned 
 silently back into the dark hall, and meeting 
 his daughter Mary at the foot of the stairs, he 
 said sadly : 
 
 " Thy mother would not recognize this place 
 to-day, Mary. It looks like some haunt of sin- 
 ful pleasure, or a resort of misguided Papists, 
 instead of the place of peace and order which 
 it used to be. Let us go out through the pines 
 where we can be alone." 
 
 So saying, the old man passed out by 
 another way, and Mary, with her arm full of 
 books, turned as she followed him to catch, if
 
 H ICUnfc jflowet 
 
 possible, a sight of Eunice whom she had not 
 seen since breakfast. This she failed to do. 
 
 The center of the group of ladies on the 
 veranda was Mrs. Barringer, a dignified woman 
 of fine manner and distinguished bearing. 
 Around her were gathered her daughters, a 
 young and pretty Boston woman, Mrs. Mather, 
 a fresh arrival, and a little maiden lady called 
 Miss Archibald, with gray hair rolled back into 
 a kind of crest from her forehead, giving her 
 a singular resemblance to a paroquet ; Miss 
 Archibald wore at her waist a surprising assort- 
 ment of small, clinking, silver-mounted articles, 
 among them a smelling-bottle, a set of tablets, 
 a tiny prayer book, and a lorgnette. 
 
 Mrs. Mather was occupied closely with a 
 large piece of embroidery on gleaming white 
 satin, which had been ardently admired by the 
 little group. The black-robed sisters had 
 stopped before her, and were leaning over ex- 
 amining the work reverently. 
 
 Against the rail, at a short distance, stood 
 Eunice Herendean, watching with great won- 
 dering eyes the sweet, impassive faces of Sister 
 Bertha and Sister Elizabeth under the harsh 
 outline of their black bonnets. No one ap- 
 peared to be aware of the young girl's presence, 
 or to perceive the startled interest with which 
 she looked on and listened. 
 12
 
 Slower 
 
 A little child in dainty frills of fresh dimity 
 plunged against her in its romping up and 
 down the veranda, looked up, and seeming to 
 know instinctively that this was not the right 
 sort of person, broke sharply away from the 
 caressing hand she had extended. Eunice 
 watched the child as it ran away with a peculiar 
 flicker of her eyelids. It was Gladys Barringer. 
 
 The sisters had passed on. With a sudden 
 impulse Eunice pushed her hair back from her 
 forehead where it was continually falling, and 
 stepping nearer Mrs. Mather, bent over her 
 embroidery and asked timidly, with a strange 
 beating of her heart at her own daring : 
 
 "Excuse me, please. Your work is so 
 beautiful. Is it a table cover ? ' ' 
 
 Miss Archibald raised her lorgnette and 
 glanced across curiously at Eunice ; .Miss Bar- 
 ringer leaning back in her chair looked civilly 
 amused. Mrs. Mather lifted her pretty head, 
 and met the girl's eyes with reserve in her 
 own, not unkindly, but distant. 
 
 "No, my dear," she said with clear-cut 
 emphasis ; ' ' this is an altar-cloth which I am 
 making for use in our church in Boston. I 
 should be glad to unfold it again if you care 
 particularly to see it," and Mrs. Mather held 
 up the work in a half-reluctant hand. Eunice 
 had chosen an inopportune moment. 
 13
 
 flower 
 
 "Oh, no indeed, please don't. I saw it 
 before, you know," she murmured confusedly ; 
 and then, standing her ground with courage, 
 she added : " I did not know about altar-cloths 
 that is, I supposed they were only used in 
 Catholic churches. ' ' 
 
 It was plain from the inflection of Eunice's 
 voice that it had thus far never occurred to her 
 that people of ordinary intelligence could be 
 "Catholics." 
 
 Mrs. Mather did not reply at once, but as 
 Eunice did not retreat she remarked, bending 
 again over her work : 
 
 "Ours is a catholic church, but probably 
 not in the sense you mean. I suppose you 
 are thinking of Romanist churches ; altar-cloths 
 are certainly not confined to them. ' ' 
 
 "Are there two kinds of Catholics?" fal- 
 tered Eunice in increasing bewilderment. 
 
 "My dear," returned Mrs. Mather with a 
 certain finality in her tone, " I think we shall 
 have to turn you over to Father Norman for 
 instruction don't you, Mrs. Barringer?" and 
 the expression of mock despair which she con- 
 trived to direct to that lady put poor Eunice 
 to rout effectively. She withdrew to the sup- 
 port of the veranda rail and the shield of 
 " Waverley," while the others pursued the con- 
 versation.
 
 B 1DUn& Jflower 
 
 "You have never seen Father Norman, I 
 think you said, Mrs. Mather?" asked Grace 
 Barringer. 
 
 " No, he seems to shun the common eye." 
 
 " I believe he went over to Torridge yester- 
 day, before you came, to make arrangements 
 for holding service next Sunday. You know 
 there is a lovely little church over there, and 
 they are without a rector now." It was Miss 
 Archibald who tendered this information with 
 cheerful alacrity. 
 
 "You will admire Father Norman very 
 much," remarked Mrs. Barringer. 
 
 "Ah, indeed you will," murmured Miss 
 Archibald. 
 
 "Mrs. Mather," interposed Grace Bar- 
 ringer mischievously, "you mustn't quite be- 
 lieve everything that you will hear Miss Archi- 
 bald say. You see she is inclined to think 
 that Father Norman is a reincarnation of St. 
 Francis. It is a little singular that his name 
 should be Francis, I allow." 
 
 Miss Archibald's bright, beadlike eyes 
 glanced in good-humored perplexity from 
 Grace to Mrs. Mather, who was laughing 
 merrily. 
 
 At this point Mr. Barringer, a stout, pros- 
 perous-looking man, joined the ladies, drawing 
 a chair to Mrs. Mather's side, while a slender 
 15
 
 B TJClin& flower 
 
 youth, with a fair mustache, attached himself 
 to the Barringer girls. 
 
 " I notice the conversation has come around 
 to Father Norman," remarked Mr. Barringer ; 
 ' ' it generally does. For the life of me I can' t 
 understand why these clergymen have such a 
 fascination for you ladies. Now I observe 
 that you never talk about me when you get to- 
 gether with your fancy work, and no one ever 
 calls me a saint. ' ' 
 
 "Never, my dear," said his wife, shaking 
 her head laughingly at him. 
 
 "One could hardly fancy a stout, bald- 
 headed iron manufacturer in the light of a 
 medieval saint, you know, papa," said Miss 
 Barringer quietly. 
 
 " In short, you are not picturesque, father," 
 added his younger daughter. 
 
 "Yes, I see," Mr. Barringer said; "and 
 that is exactly what Norman is. You haven't 
 seen him, Mrs. Mather? Heard of him, of 
 course the rector of St. Cuthbert's? He is 
 a good fellow ; I like him immensely, though 
 to tell you the truth, I don't go in for all this 
 ritual business myself. Life's too short, don't 
 you see, and I was brought up a Methodist, 
 and it doesn't come natural. But it just ex- 
 actly suits Mrs. Barringer and the girls, and I 
 guess you're a good deal their kind." 
 16
 
 H TUOUnJ) jflowet 
 
 Mrs. Mather smiled responsively, while 
 Mrs. Barringer looked extremely annoyed. 
 
 "But speaking of Norman. Did you ever 
 hear about how he lives and all that ? It is 
 rather strange. He inherited from his father 
 a fine old mansion right there in Minster 
 Street in our place ; has a library well I 
 don't believe there's another equal to it in 
 Coalport ; fine pictures too everything of the 
 kind. And there that fellow lives, all alone, 
 isn't married, nor likely to be ; some think he 
 is pledged not to marry, but as to that I can' t 
 say. But in that fine house he takes for his 
 own room a place hardly bigger than a closet, 
 furnishes it with an iron bed and a crucifix, 
 you know, that kind of thing and has every- 
 thing the poorest and plainest. Just like a 
 monk, for all the world. Strange, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, but I can quite understand it, after 
 all, Mr. Barringer," replied Mrs. Mather, 
 plainly interested. They were interrupted just 
 then by a sudden movement toward a game of 
 tennis, made by the Barringer girls and the 
 blonde young man, whom they called. Tom 
 Ripley-. Mrs. Mather was strongly urged to 
 make up the game ; the court was declared 
 fairly good, the morning perfect. 
 
 Eunice Herendean had not turned a leaf in 
 ' ' Waverley ' ' since she took it up. She listened 
 B 17
 
 a IdinO fflower 
 
 now with strained attention. Perhaps they 
 would ask her to make the fourth, for Mrs. 
 Mather positively declined to play. There 
 were few young people in the house none 
 who played tennis. If they did but know that 
 she had played in that court every summer 
 since she was a child ! If they could see Mary 
 play once ! At least they might ask her. It 
 almost seemed as if the court were their own, 
 and as if these people had no right to appro- 
 priate it without referring to her in some way. 
 The color burned in her cheeks and a tingling 
 expectation ran through her. In a moment 
 more there was a sudden silence behind her, 
 and she saw the Barringer girls crossing the 
 lawn toward the tennis court. A little later 
 Tom Ripley followed with the rackets, and Mr. 
 Mather, a Harvard instructor of studious habit, 
 went slowly after, putting away the book he- 
 had been reading, with undisguised reluctance. 
 
 18
 
 Ill 
 
 flUNICE HERENDEAN left the ve- 
 randa and strolled out into the pine 
 woods near the house in search of 
 her father and sister. 
 
 She was stung in the very inner core of her 
 young nature by the cool ignoring and patron- 
 izing indifference which she had met. It was 
 a new sensation to her to be set aside entirely 
 in the small number of guests at Whippany, as 
 if she were too insignificant to be even ob- 
 served. She resented the manner of the new 
 set hotly ; but beneath all her resentment lay 
 a wistful admiration which was in itself the se- 
 cret of her pain. Something within her con- 
 fessed that she would not have craved their 
 notice and interest as she did, if they had 
 lacked the peculiar exclusiveness, the confi- 
 dent authority with which they had set up 
 their dominion in Whippany. 
 
 Eunice felt, but could not define, the convin- 
 cing ascendency which fascinated while it an- 
 gered her. ' ' To be sure that you are the best 
 of anybody, that must be what can make 
 people like that," she said to herself as she
 
 B lUinD fflowcv 
 
 walked on, " and we have always been taught 
 to think others better and wiser than we. I 
 like their way far better. I wish I had been 
 brought up like those girls. I hate feeling 
 meek and inferior and bashful. It is dreadful 
 to be a Friend, anyway ! How those people 
 must laugh at us if they ever think of us at all. " 
 
 By this time Eunice had reached the ham- 
 mock in the deep shade of the pines, where 
 her father was taking a quiet nap. Mary 
 Herendean held up a warning finger as Eunice 
 approached. 
 
 "Where has thee been all this time, dar- 
 ling ? ' ' she asked fondly, as her sister slipped 
 into a comfortable reclining position on the 
 smooth pine needles at her side. 
 
 " I have been on the veranda hearing those 
 Barringer people talk, ' ' was the reply. 
 
 A shade crossed Mary's face. She had fair 
 hair and gray, luminous eyes, possessed of a 
 direct and thoughtful gaze ; her face and her 
 whole bearing had the characteristic quiet and 
 repose which is often seen in women of her 
 sect. She was not pretty like Eunice, but 
 there was a deeper harmony in her face. They 
 were step-sisters, and Mary was the elder by 
 five years. 
 
 " Did they seem to want to know thee and 
 talk with thee ? " she asked. 
 20
 
 H 1linO fflowet 
 
 Eunice flushed deeply. 
 
 " No, not at all," she said briefly. 
 
 "I should not care to hover about a com- 
 pany of people like that, who felt no interest in 
 me," Mary said ; "it hurts one's self-respect. 
 It is a better place for thee, child, here 
 with us." 
 
 Eunice dug the toe of her boot into the pine 
 needles impatiently. 
 
 " I should think thee might feel, Mary, that 
 a girl of my age would sometimes like a little 
 enjoyment something besides hearing the 
 ' Memoirs of Isaac Foster ' and ' his valuable 
 daughter Lydia, ' and how he had a ' concern ' 
 to visit one meeting, and had ' business of 
 great weight ' in another, and ' solemn religious 
 opportunities ' everywhere. I know it all by 
 heart already, and I am so tired, Mary, of 
 never having any fun. ' ' And there was a little 
 trembling of Eunice's pretty mouth, and her 
 eyes darkened with tears. 
 
 Mary put her arm around her and kissed her 
 with motherly gentleness. 
 
 "So sorry for my little girl," she said; 
 "let's go and have some tennis while father 
 takes his nap." 
 
 "We can't," said Eunice, her tears flowing 
 freely under Mary's petting. "Those horrid 
 people have got the court. They have taken 
 21
 
 B WinD Jflower 
 
 possession of everything. I wish we could go 
 away from Whippany. I almost hate the place 
 now. We don' t belong anywhere, and it used 
 to be all ours. ' ' 
 
 Mary's face was grave, and she made no 
 reply. 
 
 " What are those people, anyway? " Eunice 
 asked petulantly. "Are those nuns Catholics? 
 I don' t understand anything about it. ' ' 
 
 " They all belong to the Episcopal commun- 
 ion, I am sure. Sister Bertha and Sister Eliza- 
 beth came from a Coalport Episcopal sister- 
 hood. I have seen women of their order 
 often among the tenement house people down 
 in the lower part of town." 
 
 "What do they do?" 
 
 " Oh, they help the women with their sewing 
 and their children, and take care of the sick 
 and all that. ' ' 
 
 " Why aren" t they good then ? ' ' 
 
 " They are good and devoted and they do 
 a great deal of good ; but I should like it better 
 if they did not wear that costume. There 
 seems a certain assumption and self-conscious- 
 ness in it. ' ' 
 
 "Why any more than in Friends' costume? 
 
 I don't see that it is any worse to wear black 
 
 gowns and black scoop bonnets as they do 
 
 than to wear drab and brown ones as Huldah 
 
 22
 
 a TJCUnD Slower 
 
 Mott and Deborah Longstreth do ! They are 
 all ugly enough." 
 
 " I don't think it is really different, essen- 
 tially," answered Mary musingly. "I almost 
 wonder if our society may not have missed the 
 great truth of inner simplicity by clinging so 
 hard to outward plainness." 
 
 ' ' Then isn' t thee a Friend, really, in thy 
 heart, Mary ? ' ' asked Eunice, sitting up with 
 sudden energy, and clasping her knees. 
 
 Mary shook her head with a smile which 
 gave a peculiar radiance to her face. 
 
 "I am not anything else, at least. Of 
 course, all Christians are agreed on the essen- 
 tial truths, but I do not know if I could find 
 anywhere, in all the different Confessions and 
 communions, the spirit I most long for." 
 
 "What spirit, Mary?" 
 
 " It is clear to me," Mary answered slowly, 
 ' ' but I hardly know how to describe it. But 
 above all it must mean fellowship, I think ; 
 sympathy, brotherhood, oneness with all man- 
 kind, high or low ; and something yet beyond 
 that, something which makes these artificial 
 distinctions impossible. Oh, Eunice, I can't 
 tell thee all I mean in this. It goes far and 
 away beyond what one sees on the surface of 
 it," and as she spoke Mary's face kindled with 
 the sense of things too great for words. 
 23
 
 S TOUnD flower 
 
 Then after a little pause she added under 
 her breath : 
 
 " It is after all, only trying to be as He was, 
 in the world." 
 
 " And then what else ? " asked Eunice, her 
 dark eyes fixed on her sister's face. 
 
 It was an unusual occurrence for Eunice to 
 show interest in subjects like this, and Mary 
 smiled a little, as she replied : 
 
 "Freedom next. That is another neces- 
 sity to me. That is one thing which makes 
 me not quite a Friend, and not quite a good 
 many other things which people run into 
 so hard just now. I spoke of simplicity to 
 begin with. Those are my cardinal points 
 little sister. Does thee agree with them ? 
 Thee quite makes me think of Elizabeth Fry, 
 this morning, writing in her journal when she 
 was a girl, ' I do not know if I shall not soon 
 be rather religious. ' ' ' 
 
 The sisters laughed together, and Eunice 
 said : 
 
 " It might really come to pass. But, Mary, 
 I fancy then that even if we weren't Friends, 
 thee wouldn't go in for altar-cloths and a lot 
 of things I heard those people talking about. 
 They said this ' Father Norman ' as they call 
 him, was going to hold mass over in Torridge 
 next First Day. I knew our maids at home 
 24
 
 flower 
 
 went to mass, but I never supposed people 
 like the Barringers did." 
 
 "It sounds strangely enough for Protestants, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 "Oh, Mary," exclaimed Eunice with a sud- 
 den thought, ' ' why can' t we go over to Tor- 
 ridge on First Day to church, and see what 
 their ' mass ' is like ? Father wouldn' t mind, 
 would he? just for once. It would be so new, 
 and I am so curious about it. ' ' 
 
 "I am sorry Eunice, but we really can't 
 possibly. It would not do to leave father 
 alone so long ; he is very feeble lately, and I 
 have promised to go and be with the Lewises. ' ' 
 Mary's face had grown suddenly grave, and she 
 continued: "The doctor is to come over 
 that morning from Concord for the operation. 
 It is such a heavy anxiety for them, thee 
 knows, dear ; poor Mrs. Lewis is quite likely 
 not to live through it. ' ' 
 
 Eunice's face clouded. 
 
 "I don't see why thee should have to go 
 through such dreadful scenes. Those poor 
 creatures in South Whippany always seem to 
 fancy thee has nothing to do but just shoulder 
 all their burdens. I think father and I ought 
 to have a little consideration," and Eunice 
 pouted. 
 
 Mary looked at her as if puzzled. 
 25
 
 S TJOUnD fflower 
 
 ' ' Don' t ever talk in that fashion to people 
 who don't know thee, dear. They would 
 think thee selfish and heartless. ' ' 
 
 ''And perhaps I am," said Eunice carelessly, 
 and rising as she spoke. ' ' How long father 
 sleeps. I am going back to the house now," 
 and turning she passed slowly between the 
 straight and stately tree trunks, stooping now 
 and then as she went to gather a wild straw- 
 berry still left upon its tiny, swaying stem. 
 
 The wood was dim and dusky, even at this 
 hour, and the slender figure in its straight 
 white gown gliding noiselessly from tree to tree 
 over the smooth ground, might well have 
 seemed to fit a fancy of woodland nymph or 
 spirit. Down, far below, for the wood was on 
 the crest of a hill, ran the main high road. A 
 man had left it just before, to strike by a 
 straight line to the inn, for the sun was high 
 and the heat growing oppressive. 
 
 The path which this man was taking and the 
 irregular line of Eunice's progress, converged, 
 but it was not until they were a few feet apart 
 that the young girl was aware that she was not 
 alone. Lifting her eyes she saw a figure in the 
 dress of an Anglican priest ; an austere face, 
 clear cut and refined, though somewhat worn, 
 and with eyes haunted by a singular brooding 
 
 melancholy. 
 
 26
 
 a TlHlinO fflower 
 
 Surprised and confused, Eunice stopped, 
 and with clasped hands dropped before her 
 glanced up shyly, a faint color rising to her 
 cheeks. The man's eyes met hers with a swift, 
 serious glance, and removing his hat with a 
 gesture of almost reverent courtesy he bowed, 
 and passed on through the wood. It was 
 Father Norman. 
 
 Eunice stood a little space where he had left 
 her, her heart beating incredibly loud, and a 
 strange, exultant thrill running through all her 
 blood. Young as she was she was woman 
 enough to perceive that he had done homage 
 in his salutation not alone to her womanhood 
 but to her beauty. 
 
 27
 
 IV 
 
 |T was Saturday night. Some friends 
 of the Barringers had come to the 
 inn from a neighboring hotel, and 
 there was dancing in the wide hall and in the 
 rooms adjoining. 
 
 On the veranda the rector of St. Cuthbert's 
 paced back and forth alone, apparently deep 
 in thought. In his round of the veranda, 
 which enclosed the house on three sides, he 
 passed and repassed at intervals a lonely little 
 figure sitting close to an open casement win- 
 dow, with head thrown back against the window 
 frame. The bright light within struck full upon 
 the profile, bringing out the soft curve of the 
 uplifted chin and slender white throat. There 
 was an unconscious, wistful pensiveness in the 
 mouth and in the great dark eyes as they 
 watched the gayety within which were not 
 wholly lost upon Father Norman, scant notice 
 as he seemed to take of the girlish figure. 
 
 Eunice Herendean's nature was full of tu- 
 multuous restlessness just now, and her inner 
 life was undergoing a deep unheaval. But her 
 Quaker habit and breeding held all this out- 
 28
 
 B Wind flower 
 
 wardly under command, and her attitudes and 
 expressions still possessed the charm of a child- 
 like repose. 
 
 A statue could hardly have been stiller, 
 thought Father Norman, than that lovely 
 shape, thrown in its white purity of face and 
 dress against the outer darkness. Her hands 
 lay motionless in her lap ; nothing moved 
 about her, save the soft, dark hair, which the 
 wind now and then stirred above her forehead. 
 A fancy strayed through Father Norman's 
 mind that the dancers in the rooms beyond, 
 flushed and heated and gayly dressed, were 
 like a motley bed of common garden flowers, 
 beside a dainty wild flower he had seen apart 
 in shady woods sometimes, pure and white 
 after a spring rain. 
 
 The fancy did not altogether please the 
 rector, or possibly it pleased him too well ; in 
 any case he disappeared, turning the next cor- 
 ner, and returned that way no more. 
 
 Presently Miss Barringer came out from the 
 hall with young Ripley. Eunice listened idly 
 to their words as they passed her. It was so 
 warm inside ; those rooms were never made 
 for dancing ; a quaint old place, though Miss 
 Barringer really liked it, for once, in a way ; 
 they should go to the Profile next year. 
 
 On the next round they were speaking of 
 29
 
 B TIDUnO Jflower 
 
 the expedition to Torridge to the church serv- 
 ice next morning. Miss Barringer was deter- 
 mined to walk. Torridge was only five miles 
 distant, but all the others would drive over, 
 except Father Norman and Tom Ripley, who 
 would go early ; of course she could not go 
 with them. When they had passed Eunice, 
 Tom Ripley exclaimed on a sudden impulse : 
 
 "Why don't you ask that little Quaker girl 
 to walk over with you ? She would do it in a 
 minute, I'll venture to say. You ought to see 
 her and her sister play tennis. They are great 
 at all such things, and a little matter of five 
 miles wouldn't bother her a bit." 
 
 The result of this suggestion appeared in the 
 fact that on the return Miss Barringer stopped 
 by Eunice's window, and remarked casually: 
 
 " I have not seen your father in the dining 
 room for a day or two, I think. He is not ill, is 
 he, Miss Herendean ? " 
 
 Eunice looked up in great surprise. It was 
 the first time since their arrival that one of 
 ' ' the new people ' ' had voluntarily addressed 
 her. She replied with a certain dignity which 
 became her, that her father had not been so 
 well as usual for several days. 
 
 ' ' How perfectly devoted youi sister is to 
 him, ' ' was Miss Barringer' s next remark. ' ' We 
 all think she is just fine." 
 3
 
 B TUainO fflower 
 
 This observation gave Eunice a curious little 
 pain, but she responded with suitable acquies- 
 cence. 
 
 There was further talk, somewhat aimless and 
 unimportant, and then Miss Barringer quite 
 incidentally mentioned that there was to be a 
 little service in the village church at Torridge 
 in the morning, and she had wondered if Miss 
 Eunice Herendean would not perhaps like to 
 walk over with her. The service, she was sure, 
 would be very lovely, quite simple of course, 
 being in a country church, but Father Nor- 
 man always gave such a beautiful quality to 
 every service, and the walk would be charming 
 if one were a good walker. 
 
 For an instant Eunice had a swimming sen- 
 sation before her eyes as excitement and sur- 
 prise grew great within her. 
 
 " It would be a lovely walk," she said with 
 hesitancy, the thought striking coldly through 
 her exaltation, of her father's helplessness and 
 of Mary's promise to be with Mrs. Lewis in 
 her time of need. 
 
 "Oh, you must really go, Miss Eunice," 
 said Tom Ripley with cordial encouragement ; 
 11 1 know you will like the service immensely ; 
 there's going to be a lovely Gloria." 
 
 The very fact that she understood but 
 vaguely what he meant by the Gloria, com-
 
 H TKflinD flower 
 
 pleted the conquest with Eunice. She felt this 
 to be her opportunity. Now at last her time 
 was come to associate with "the Barringers " 
 on equal terms, and to penetrate into the 
 mystery of their religious practices, a subject 
 which had become day by day more fascinat- 
 ing to her by the quality of exclusiveness and 
 distinction investing it. Having won her con- 
 sent, Miss Barringer and Tom Ripley passed 
 on. 
 
 "Poor little thing," and Miss Barringer 
 laughed; "I suppose 'Moses Herendean,' 
 as he wishes to be called, and that calm sister 
 Mary, will frown upon her, but really, it is only 
 common kindness to take some notice of the 
 child. Have you seen how pitiful and forlorn 
 she looks all the while ? ' ' 
 
 Tom Ripley started to say that he had no- 
 ticed to-night how very lovely she looked, but 
 being versed in the wisdom of good society he 
 forebore. 
 
 3 2
 
 ]N alcove at the end of the upper hall, 
 with casement windows opening upon 
 a balcony, was a favorite nook for 
 letter-writing at Whippany Inn, and here Mary 
 Herendean was sitting alone, bending over her 
 portfolio, when Eunice ran upstairs breathless 
 and excited from her interview with Miss Bar- 
 ringer. 
 
 "Oh, Mary," she exclaimed, seeking to 
 hide an undercurrent of apprehension beneath 
 a manner of confident gladness, "such a won- 
 derful thing has happened ! " 
 
 "What is it, love?" asked Mary smilingly. 
 
 "I am going with Miss Barringer to the 
 service at Torridge to-morrow. She has asked 
 me to walk over with her. I am sorry if it 
 should be a little inconvenient, but I really 
 could not refuse." 
 
 Mary Herendean' s face changed. " No, 
 Eunice," she said in a very low voice, "thee 
 cannot mean that thee has promised to go to 
 that service to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes," replied Eunice, with a certain in- 
 ward quaking, " I have promised." 
 c 33
 
 B THUmfc fflower 
 
 "But thee must have forgotten what we 
 were speaking of a few days ago. ' ' 
 
 1 ' I did not forget, but I consider myself old 
 enough to judge what is right in such matters, 
 and decide for myself. I am sorry if thee is 
 displeased, Mary, but I am really going." 
 
 Mary rose and looked at Eunice, deeply 
 stirred with pain and indignation. The young 
 girl had learned from past experiences to be- 
 ware the fury of one so patient under ordinary 
 testing, and her eyelids drooped, though her 
 mouth was firmly set. 
 
 "I am so angry, Eunice, that I do not feel 
 as if I could talk about it with thee. ' ' Mary 
 spoke quickly, not raising her voice, but with 
 a vibration of feeling in it, startling in one 
 usually so self-contained. "It is thoroughly 
 wrong, what thee is doing unworthy, disloyal 
 to thyself, to all of us. ' ' 
 
 Neither of the sisters in the strained excite- 
 ment of the moment had observed that Father 
 Norman had entered the room from the bal- 
 cony, where he had been sitting alone, un- 
 known to Mary, and they both turned in 
 surprise at the sound of his voice. 
 
 "Pardon me, Miss Herendean," he said, 
 bowing with gentle courtesy; " I have unwill- 
 ingly heard your conversation, and even 
 though I may run the risk of drawing your 
 34
 
 B trains jflower 
 
 displeasure upon myself, formidable as that 
 would be," and he smiled slightly, " I am 
 going to be bold enough to say a word on 
 your sister's behalf." 
 
 Mary Herendean, confused and startled, 
 stood before Father Norman, dispossessed for 
 the moment of her wonted serenity and poise, 
 while Eunice, with tears on her long lashes, 
 and grieved, piteous mouth, looked up to the 
 new-comer like an innocent chidden child ap- 
 pealing for defense. 
 
 "It is only this. Her desire to attend 
 Holy Communion to-morrow morning would 
 seem an innocent and pardonable one. Surely 
 it can contain no element of wrong so great as 
 the indulgence of anger." 
 
 Father Norman spoke with a tone and gesture 
 in which a touch of priestly authority could be 
 distinctly felt, and Mary Herendean found her- 
 self strangely moved by his rebuke. 
 
 Father Norman had crossed to the entrance 
 of the writing room, but stood a moment 
 longer, adding with kindly but distinct em- 
 phasis : 
 
 " Even though our forms of worship may be 
 widely different from yours, we have learned to 
 look for the sweetness of tolerance and Chris- 
 tian charity from Friends," and his direct, 
 searching eyes rested full upon Mary's. 
 35
 
 H Tiratno fflowet 
 
 A sudden color rushed to her cheeks. His 
 misapprehension of the cause of her anger was 
 palpable ; her sense of justice rebelled against 
 the imputation of sectarian prejudice, and yet 
 she could not speak. To justify herself would 
 be to accuse the child she loved. But Eunice 
 she could not fail to see what was so obvious ; 
 she could not fail to say out what they both 
 knew perfectly to be the actual ground of this 
 disagreement. 
 
 It was only an instant, perhaps there was 
 not time ; Mary tried to think so afterward. 
 Then Father Norman had left the room, and 
 Eunice had not spoken. 
 
 " Perhaps thee will learn now to control thy 
 temper better," said Eunice softly, as she 
 turned to go to her own room. 
 
 Mary did not speak ; but she looked at her 
 sister as she walked lightly down the long hall 
 as one who comprehended her not. 
 
 Left alone, Mary had no time to taste the 
 bitterness of mortification and wounded feel- 
 ing, for the practical consideration of what was 
 to be done in the premises engaged her of ne- 
 cessity. It was ten o'clock already, and she 
 had promised to go to the Lewises in the early 
 morning. After a little consideration she 
 wrote a hurried note to a good friend of her 
 father's, Joseph Willitts, a small farmer of 
 36
 
 B WinO fflower 
 
 South Whippany, begging him to come and 
 remain with her father during her necessary 
 absence. This note she dispatched by a special 
 messenger, a matter of no small difficulty at 
 this hour. 
 
 37
 
 VI 
 
 |N hour later, at the close of the even- 
 ing, Father Norman encountered 
 Miss Barringer at the foot of the 
 staircase. He had just come in from a late 
 walk, for the night was fine and the mountains 
 majestic under the stars. Miss Barringer re- 
 turned his greeting with a brilliant smile, and 
 looked, in her delicately tinted evening dress, 
 on nearer view, not at all like a common flower, 
 Father Norman reflected, recalling an earlier 
 fancy. 
 
 "You have enjoyed the evening, Miss Bar- 
 ringer? " he asked. 
 
 ' ' Oh, yes. You know I dearly love to 
 dance, Father Norman," she replied. "You 
 never do those things, of course ? ' ' she added, 
 with a certain hesitancy not usual to her. 
 
 " I do not happen to, myself," he answered ; 
 "but it is one of the signs of the church's 
 greatness that it so expressly recognizes the 
 whole round of our human need, for gay as 
 well as for grave. ' ' 
 
 "Yes," responded Miss Barringer quickly, 
 " how different it is from the doubtful and un- 
 38
 
 B THIUn& fflower 
 
 easy attitude of the sects on all these matters. 
 Formally, you know, they feel called upon to 
 condemn and renounce 'the world,' as they 
 call the gayety of life, but practically they fol- 
 low it just as far as they dare." 
 
 Father Norman listened to the clear, assured 
 conviction of these utterances with unmistak- 
 able interest, and for the moment the austere 
 melancholy of his face gave way. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, "they are placed in a 
 peculiarly equivocal position, most deplorable 
 to witness. This very thing, it appears to me, 
 is one sign of their decay. The original im- 
 pulse which impelled them away from mother 
 church has lost its power, exists only as a dead 
 letter." 
 
 "Then, do you not think, Father Norman, 
 that as they have really lost their raison d'etre 
 as separate bodies, they will gradually drift 
 back into the unity of the truth ? " 
 
 One would hardly have anticipated the ec- 
 clesiastical fervor with which these words were 
 spoken in a girl of Miss Barringer's type. 
 
 " Oh, I look for it," Father Norman replied 
 with subdued fire, clasping his hands behind, 
 him and dropping his head in an attitude 
 habitual with him when thinking; "but it will 
 not be in our time, Miss Barringer, I fear, un- 
 less the whole church can be aroused to a sense 
 39
 
 21 "QQinD fflower 
 
 of its opportunity, the opportunity which is be- 
 fore us at this very hour, I sometimes believe, 
 to restore all Christendom to catholicity. ' ' 
 
 " What a glorious thought !" Miss Barrin- 
 ger said, her fine eyes kindling, and her whole 
 face lighted with responsive enthusiasm. 
 
 But even as she spoke, Father Norman 
 lifted his head, and looking in his face Miss 
 Barringer perceived with wonder, that its habit- 
 ual melancholy had returned and all the light 
 of enthusiasm had departed. Something like a 
 sigh escaped his lips. 
 
 "This human nature of ours is a strange 
 thing," he said with a faint smile. "It will 
 bear watching," he added whimsically. 
 
 Although puzzled, Miss Barringer was quick 
 to meet his altered mood. 
 
 "I see how you mean," she said gently, 
 although she did not in fact gain even the 
 faintest perception of what was going on in his 
 mind, and then, skillfully turning to another 
 subject, she said : 
 
 "Speaking of the various sects, do you 
 know, Father Norman, that I am really rather 
 interested in this Quaker family who are here 
 at the inn. Did you know that they are Coal- 
 port people ? I never heard of them at home, 
 but they strike me as quite unusual. You 
 know there is nothing in the world so aristo- 
 40
 
 a TUJlinD fflower 
 
 cratic, in its way, as one of those old Quaker 
 families, and Moses Herendean impresses me 
 as a perfect specimen of that type. ' ' 
 
 Father Norman had looked up quickly at 
 the first mention of the Herendeans. 
 
 "Yes, a fine old man," he said, nodding 
 gravely. 
 
 "Now their conception of life is different 
 again from all the other sects," Miss Barringer 
 remarked ; she was evidently not unwilling to 
 prolong the interview. Father Norman was 
 not often available for social purposes. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; "there is a body in 
 which, theoretically, every man and woman is 
 called to the religious vocation. They too 
 have declined from their initial conceptions, 
 but with minor differences the entire sect 
 might be fitly described as a sisterhood and a 
 brotherhood, living apart from the world, dis- 
 tinguished by dress and speech and occupation, 
 in short, they have really, in a degree, the 
 notion of dedicated lives." 
 
 "Why, Father Norman," exclaimed Miss 
 Barringer, "I have always thought of Friends 
 as being at the very antipodes from us, but as 
 you describe them, they almost seem to come 
 nearer to the ideals of the Church than any of 
 the other denominations." 
 
 " In a partial sense that is true. For in- 
 4*
 
 TttflinO fflower 
 
 stance, there can be such a thing as a ritual of 
 silence," Father Norman said briefly, with his 
 rare smile. ' ' But, good-night, Miss Barringer ; 
 I fear I have detained you inconsiderately," 
 and he was about turning to leave her, when 
 he paused, and with a shade of embarrassment 
 on his face, said : 
 
 ' ' By the way, if Miss Herendean, the 
 younger sister, should go with you to the cele- 
 bration in the morning, let me suggest that 
 you try to help her a little in understanding 
 the meaning of the service. I fancy it may be 
 altogether new to her, and possibly a little 
 confusing at the first. ' ' 
 
 Miss Barringer readily acquiesced in this sug- 
 gestion, and pursued her way up to her room 
 with an expression of peculiar satisfaction on 
 her face. 
 
 In his own room that night Father Norman 
 sat long by the open window, musing. 
 
 ' ' I did not know those people were from 
 Coalport, ' ' his thoughts ran on ; "I wonder 
 that it did not occur to me at once. It all 
 comes back to me now clearly. Years ago my 
 mother was something like an intimate friend, 
 if I remember correctly, of Moses Herendean' s 
 wife. Let me see. Mrs. Herendean died 
 when I was a little fellow, not ten years old, I 
 should think, but I remember it because her 
 4 2
 
 B Wind fflower 
 
 death was tragic, and affected my mother so 
 deeply. She was burned in trying to save her 
 baby from a fire which was caused by the ex- 
 plosion of a lamp in her bedroom. I know 
 the house where they lived perfectly, the old 
 brick mansion down in Willow Street. I 
 wonder if they live there still. I have heard 
 nothing of any of them in years. 
 
 "Now, let me see, that child might be the 
 older of these two girls ; doubtless there was 
 a second marriage, but of that I never heard 
 that I remember. That would account for the 
 striking difference between the two sisters. 
 The elder has some fine points ; evidently she 
 has the capacity for a high devotion to duty 
 along narrow lines, but what an embodiment 
 of suppressed wrath she was to-night. A pity 
 for such a woman to be so controlled by preju- 
 dice. Her anger would have been positively 
 majestic if it had been for a righteous cause. 
 Plainly she is a Quaker through and through, 
 of the most primitive stamp. The sister is 
 distinctly of another strain. A lovely crea- 
 ture ! ' ' and Father Norman smiled slightly as 
 he recalled the slender figure of Eunice as she 
 stood before him looking up as if for protec- 
 tion from her sister's wrath. 
 
 " Poor little thing ! " his thoughts ran on, 
 "what solemn, innocent eyes she has, like 
 43
 
 21 TlfiUnD fflower 
 
 those of a sweet child. The Quaker atmos- 
 phere produces a very different temperament 
 from that of the restless, modern world-spirit. 
 What could be more striking, in a way more 
 suggestive than the juxtaposition of that girl 
 and Florence Barringer ? Each is interesting 
 in her way. Miss Barringer spoke of the aris- 
 tocratic quality of such a family as the Heren- 
 deans. I suppose that would rather impress 
 her. I used to know something of their 
 ancestry ; I remember hearing my mother say 
 that the Herendeans were English gentlefolk in 
 Oliver's time. Yes, yes, and it was only the 
 last Barringer who kept a small market in 
 Lower Coalport. A good Methodist lay- 
 preacher he was, bill ignorant and especially 
 bitter against everything which he called ' Po- 
 pistical.' 
 
 "Possibly the Barringers prefer to forget the 
 old man, but they ought not to be sensitive in 
 that regard ; their family history is precisely 
 according to the American genius, and by no 
 means one to be ashamed of. But I wonder if 
 that little girl will carry her point and go to 
 the service to-morrow," and with this thought 
 of the morrow Father Norman's face grew 
 graver, and rising he took down from a shelf a 
 volume of John Henry Newman's sermons, 
 and was soon deeply immersed in devotional 
 44
 
 a TflJltn& fftower 
 
 thought and contemplation. Above his nar- 
 row desk hung a small, finely carved crucifix 
 of old ivory, to which he raised his eyes at in- 
 tervals, crossing himself devoutly. 
 
 But once, in the midst of his meditation, 
 came the sudden darkening of his face as once 
 before that night, his head sank upon the desk 
 before him, and he wrung his hands until the 
 veins knotted hard upon them. Something 
 like a groan was upon his lips, and with it an 
 audible cry : 
 
 ' ' O my God, remove this temptation far 
 from me." 
 
 45
 
 VII 
 
 |ETWEEN lovely meadows, dew-span- 
 gled and fragrant, Eunice Herendean 
 had tripped, light of foot and heart, 
 by the side of the stately Miss Barringer to 
 Torridge old town. 
 
 Why should she not be light of heart ? 
 Mary was already on duty in the Lewis cot- 
 tage. Joseph Willitts had responded promptly 
 to the summons, and their father, accepting 
 the services of a fresh attendant submissively, 
 and well satisfied with a new hearer for certain 
 chapters of the Memoir, had treated his dear 
 little daughter with tender indulgence. Mary 
 plainly, to the mind of Eunice, stood convicted 
 of having made an uncalled-for scene, and the 
 younger sister had decidedly the advantage of 
 the situation. As to the moral quality of her 
 action, no scruple regarding it came to disturb 
 the equanimity of Eunice's young spirit. Was 
 not all well if it ended well ? Serene in this 
 mildly Machiavellian philosophy, Eunice went 
 on her way rejoicing. 
 
 Their talk on the way to Torridge was largely 
 of Father Norman, his ascetic life, his wonder- 
 46
 
 H WinD flower 
 
 ful devotion to his work, the marked advance 
 along the line of ritualism which he had in- 
 augurated as rector of St. Cuthbert's, the 
 complete confidence with which his people 
 followed him, above all, the profoundly mov- 
 ing fact that it was almost certain that he 
 would never marry. This Miss Barringer felt 
 to be the final and most affecting touch in the 
 picture she drew for the wondering Quaker 
 girl, of Father Norman as a medieval saint 
 fallen upon this present evil time. 
 
 "Our only fear at St. Cuthbert's," she re- 
 marked as they approached the church down 
 the village street, "is that he will never be 
 satisfied until he joins some brotherhood, 
 where he may carry out fully his ideal of the 
 Christian saint in a monastic life." Miss 
 Barringer' s tone imparted a touch of exalted 
 sadness to this suggestion, and Eunice found 
 herself sensibly affected, although at first 
 thought it had struck her as rather droll to 
 think of a Protestant Coalport gentleman be- 
 coming a monk. 
 
 The church, a memorial to some wealthy 
 lover of the little mountain town, built of stone 
 and approached through a grassy and shaded 
 churchyard, was almost tiny in its proportions 
 and built on the model of some of the ancient 
 English country churches, low and long, with 
 47
 
 a TJCUnD fflowet 
 
 the square Norman tower, and narrow, deep- 
 set windows. The bell was ringing, but it was 
 still early, and the two girls were among the 
 first to enter the door. 
 
 Coming in from the clear radiance of the 
 morning, Eunice could at first scarcely discern 
 the interior of the church ; the light was dim, 
 passing through the small stained windows, but 
 in the distance against a deep red background 
 gleamed out sharply a cross of burnished brass, 
 with candles burning on either side. This 
 only had Eunice taken cognizance of, when 
 she saw with amazement and confusion that 
 Miss Barringer had sunk upon her knees, and 
 with eyes fixed upon the cross was in act of 
 profound and adoring reverence. Eunice won- 
 dered if she would take it ill that she did not 
 do the same, and was hesitating awkwardly as 
 to what behooved her in the matter, when Miss 
 Barringer, making the sign of the cross upon 
 her person, rose from her knees and advanced 
 down the aisle to seats not far from the chancel 
 rail. Eunice sat very straight and very ill at 
 ease while her companion again kneeling at 
 her side seemed lost for a long space in devout 
 prayer. The shy, undemonstrative girl, trained 
 in the high restraint and severe self- repression 
 of her father's faith, wondered greatly that one 
 could "engage in prayer," as she phrased it, 
 '48
 
 H THHinD Slower 
 
 so evidently private and personal, in a public 
 place ; nevertheless she felt keenly a sense of 
 cold and heavy discomfort in her aloofness 
 from what seemed proper to the place. 
 
 She was relieved by a little stir behind her. 
 The delegation from Whippany was coming in, 
 and Eunice looked on with childish curiosity 
 as the two sisters in their black robes came rev- 
 erently down the aisle followed by Mrs. Mather 
 and Miss Archibald. The latter wore a rather 
 giddy bonnet, and fluttered along behind the 
 others in an important and enthusiastic man- 
 ner. She was followed by the Barringers 
 Mr. Barringer, grave and impressive, Mrs. Bar- 
 ringer, stately and sumptuous in silk and lace 
 with Grace behind her, quiet but distingue. 
 
 After this the church filled fast with summer 
 people in fine raiment, dignified men and 
 delicate women. Then Eunice lifting her 
 head, was aware of strains of singing, voices 
 clear, high, and flutelike, in the distance, 
 coming ever nearer ; and with a strange thrill 
 of surprise, for she was wholly unfamiliar with 
 the practices of the Episcopal Church, she saw, 
 following a crucifix borne aloft, a procession of 
 boys in white garments, like, she thought, to 
 angels, pass, singing louder and more loud 
 up the aisle. So close at last they came that 
 she could have touched the white linen of their 
 D 49
 
 Jflowet 
 
 vestments with her hand. After the boys came 
 youths and men, and with startled surprise she 
 recognized Mr. Mather, book in hand, with 
 look detached and uplifted. Following him, in 
 crimson cassock and white tunic, walked alone 
 a young man with fair hair and color like a 
 girl, upon whose face rested a peculiar solem- 
 nity, and in whom she recognized with wonder 
 Tom Ripley, the gay, fashionable fellow whom 
 she had associated hitherto with cards and 
 dancing and tennis. Last of all, in his priestly 
 robes, alone, with head slightly bowed, came 
 Father Norman. His hands were held palm 
 to palm against his breast, and his eyes were 
 fixed straight before him ; his face wore the 
 mask of impenetrable reserve and impassive- 
 ness which is peculiar to those accustomed to 
 be the chief actors in highly emotional scenes 
 enacted before the public eye. 
 
 The procession passed on, the notes of the 
 hymn died away, and Eunice heard a voice, 
 marvelously sweet and controlling, intoning 
 familiar words of Scripture. It was Father 
 Norman's voice, but Eunice had not heard it 
 before in that fashion. He had always seemed 
 to her apart from other men, unapproachable, 
 perhaps ; but seeing him now in his priestly 
 dress and function august, remote from 
 common things, her quick sensibility received 
 5
 
 jflowet 
 
 an overmastering impression of authority, 
 power, and exaltation under which she trem- 
 bled physically. 
 
 As the service went on, Miss Barringer 
 found the places attentively in the prayer 
 book for Eunice, and tried to guide her unac- 
 customed steps in the right path ; but Eunice 
 made little attempt to follow in thought. 
 Keenly impressible to new influences, deli- 
 cately sensuous in her temperament, and in- 
 stinctively romantic, her emotional nature was 
 powerfully swept by the onward flow of the 
 stately and brilliant ceremonial. What it 
 meant she was at no pains just then to learn. 
 
 She had no idea, however remote, of the 
 significance of the faint, sweet odor and the 
 dim light which pervaded the church ; of 
 young Ripley's shadowlike attendance upon 
 Father Norman ; of the sudden and apparently 
 inconsequent changes of posture among the 
 worshipers. 
 
 She saw Father Norman bend and kiss the 
 altar ; she saw him prostrate himself before 
 something placed upon it with an apparent 
 rapture of worship transcending anything she 
 could have imagined ; she saw him lift a shin- 
 ing chalice in the sight of all the people ; but 
 what this holy thing was and why he worshiped 
 it she had no conception or conjecture, being
 
 B Wind Jflower 
 
 unversed in even the simplest forms of sacra- 
 mental observance. 
 
 Once or twice in the -midst of her dreamy 
 absorption the Quaker blood in the girl made 
 itself felt in a quick protest against the whole 
 spectacle as an appeal to something lower than 
 the spirit, and when, at the end, she involun- 
 tarily knelt with the rest, a sudden sense of 
 compunction rose within her that she, Moses 
 Herendean's daughter, had had part in a scene 
 like this. In a vivid flash of memory she 
 seemed to hear her father's voice at that 
 moment, speaking in sonorous, rhythmic ca- 
 dence, as she had often heard it in Friends' 
 meeting : " Ephraim is joined to idols ; let 
 him alone." 
 
 As they came out of the church, Eunice, 
 dazed and abashed, following in Miss Bar- 
 ringer's wake, heard a lady say to her : 
 
 " Your rector is very high, isn't he ? What 
 a perfect assistant Mr. Ripley makes. The 
 whole service was simply lovely, Miss Bar- 
 ringer."
 
 VIII 
 
 JRS. LEWIS survived the operation, 
 but lay for days between life and 
 death. At such a crisis the patient 
 could not be left to the accidental, neighborly 
 order of nursing common to South Whippany, 
 and Mary Herendean remained in the poor 
 tenement house most of the time through the 
 early part of the week. 
 
 Eunice now became her father's attendant 
 of necessity, and she filled the position in a 
 manner sufficiently sweet and engaging. 
 Moses Herendean, to be sure, missed sundry 
 small attentions and he did not find that the 
 memoir of Isaac Foster was moving on at 
 quite the rate of progress which it attained 
 under Mary's care. But the people on the 
 veranda, to which the old gentleman had now 
 returned, observed that these two never failed 
 to make a charming tableau. They were re- 
 minded of John Milton and his daughters, of 
 CEdipus and Antigone, and of various other 
 classic groups, as they watched the fine old 
 man with his younger daughter. 
 
 " Everything that girl does is picturesque," 
 53
 
 B Win& fflower 
 
 commented Mrs. Mather to a Boston school 
 teacher, Miss Arnold, who had been at Whip- 
 pany for several summers. The hotel was 
 quite deserted that morning, a large party 
 having left for an all-day excursion down the 
 valley. 
 
 "Yes, and she knows it too," rejoined Miss 
 Arnold, who was given to sharp and incisive 
 rejoinder. " Her sister devotes every hour of 
 her life to that old man or to some other 
 needy being, and none of you goes into rap- 
 tures over her. This girl will do very well for 
 dress parade, but when it comes to the real 
 tug of war you will find that Mary Herendean 
 will be called for. ' ' 
 
 "That is quite natural of course," replied 
 Mrs. Mather; "she is older, and has had 
 more responsibility. I am sure she is a very 
 fine girl ; but there is something so pettable, 
 don't you know? so cunning about this 
 younger one, with her great eyes and her 
 demure little ways, that you can't help enjoy- 
 ing her." 
 
 "Give me Mary," quoth Miss Arnold 
 briefly. 
 
 Eunice Herendean had become suddenly 
 
 popular with what Miss Arnold called the 
 
 "extreme right," since Sunday. Miss Arnold 
 
 was a low-church woman, and had her opinion 
 
 54
 
 B lUinJ) flower 
 
 of the high ritualists. It was the accident of 
 knowing each other in Boston, rather than any 
 inner congeniality, which brought her and Mrs. 
 Mather together. 
 
 It was Wednesday morning when these com- 
 ments were made. Eunice was reading aloud 
 to her father with all gravity, but with languid 
 interest, certain passages from "Barclay's 
 Apology." Lifting her eyes, she saw Father 
 Norman approaching. She had not spoken 
 with him since Sunday. 
 
 He addressed Moses Herendean in kindly 
 greeting, and the old man held his hand a 
 moment in his cold, delicate fingers, looking 
 up with kindly, musing scrutiny. 
 
 "Let me see," he said, "thy name is 
 
 "Francis Norman," was the quick response, 
 and Eunice noted the bright, unconstrained 
 smile which lighted up the clergyman's face. 
 ' ' I am almost a neighbor of yours, Mr. Her- 
 endean ; that is, I am from Coalport, and I 
 have known of your family for years." 
 
 "Not Mr. Herendean, if thee pleases," 
 said the old man gently ; ' ' simply Moses 
 Herendean is what I wish to be called." 
 
 " Pardon me, I should have remembered," 
 replied the other. 
 
 "Eunice has been telling me something of 
 55
 
 a TOUnD flower 
 
 thee, Francis Norman," continued the Frierid, 
 bowing a quiet acknowledgment. "I under- 
 stand that thee preaches in the stone meeting- 
 house on Minster Street ; was thy father Ed- 
 ward Norman, the lawyer?" 
 
 It was to be noticed that while his daughters 
 used the "plain language " only in their own 
 family, Moses Herendean used it to all alike. 
 
 After a reply in the affirmative, Francis 
 Norman proposed that they should take a 
 short walk together and discuss the points of 
 family history which were of common interest. 
 Moses Herendean rose with a word of apology 
 for his halting gait, evidently gratified with the 
 attentive courtesy of his new acquaintance. 
 
 Eunice, with a long breath of relief, dropped 
 the dull, black-bound book, and watched the 
 two as they moved slowly across the lawn. 
 
 A singular resemblance between them, real 
 or fanciful, struck her eye, and brought a slight 
 smile to her lips. Both were tall, slenderly 
 built men of a certain elegance and grace of 
 mold ; both wore a noticeable garb, the coat 
 of peculiar cut, the broad brimmed hat, and 
 the faces bore a subtle likeness in the peculiar 
 stamp which a life of contemplation and self- 
 denial never fails to give ; in both men alike 
 was the quality of distinction, that of the outer 
 man and that of the inner spirit. 
 56
 
 Eunice was not the only one to observe this 
 resemblance. 
 
 "What a sight!" exclaimed Miss Arnold. 
 "The conjunction of an orthodox Friend and 
 a High Church priest ! And the intensely 
 funny thing about it is that, in spite of the dif- 
 ference of age and all, they are so much alike ! 
 Den' t you see, Mrs. Mather ? ' ' 
 
 " Perhaps so," replied that lady reluctantly, 
 ' ' although the resemblance seems to me en- 
 tirely superficial. ' ' 
 
 ' I am not sure but the two views require 
 the same habit of mind. Those who leave 
 Friends almost always run straight to ritualism. 
 Both are ritualists, when you come to think of 
 it," proceeded Miss Arnold, nothing daunted 
 by Mrs. Mather's slightly defensive air, "only 
 with one it is a negative, with the other a posi- 
 tive formalism." 
 
 " I suppose you would naturally prefer the 
 negative variety," remarked Mrs. Mather 
 dryly. 
 
 " Yes, of the two," was the frank response. 
 ' ' Still, it is always the positive side which pre- 
 vails in the world." 
 
 57
 
 IX 
 
 JN driving southward from Whippany, 
 down the lovely valley through which 
 the little river ripples musically, one 
 comes with sudden surprise upon a group of 
 shabby houses around a small paper mill, built 
 upon the bank of the stream. This is South 
 Whippany. The valley is still fair, the moun- 
 tains are still in sight, but just here the purity 
 and beauty of both seem tarnished by the 
 squalid little settlement. There are untidy 
 women in the windows, untidy children play- 
 ing in the dust of the road, untidy washings 
 hung in the yards. A small wooden building 
 with a cross at its gable indicates the presence 
 of the Roman Catholic church, and the town 
 is not large enough to tempt a second religious 
 body to seek a foothold. 
 
 It is a place to drive through quickly and to 
 forget at once, the summer tourist thinks, a 
 blot on the idyllic loveliness of the valley. 
 
 Eunice Herendean was approaching this 
 uninviting scene, along the highroad from 
 Whippany late in the afternoon, with a small 
 bundle of linen for Mary's use. 
 58
 
 H "WHinD Slower 
 
 There was a quaint and moss-grown stone 
 bridge over the river just before one entered 
 South Whippany, and as Eunice advanced 
 toward it she noticed that Father Norman was 
 seated on a low wall, separated from the road 
 by a tangle of blossoming weeds, sketching 
 this bridge in water colors. 
 
 He looked up as she came in sight, and 
 closed his sketch book hastily. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Eunice," he said, rising and 
 putting up his colors, "will you wait an 
 instant? I want to ask you something par- 
 ticularly. ' ' 
 
 Surprised, but not ill pleased, Eunice waited 
 until, with a few long strides, Francis Norman 
 reached her side and quietly, as a matter of 
 course, took her bundle, heedless of her pro- 
 tests, and together they walked on toward the 
 village. 
 
 "I knew from your father that you would 
 be coming this way," he began; "and while 
 I was out on a little sketching ramble, I kept 
 thinking of that poor woman he told me about, 
 with whom your sister is staying, and I felt 
 that I ought to offer to go to her. Do you 
 think she would care to see me ? ' ' 
 
 Eunice looked up at him in unconcealed 
 surprise. Why should poor Mrs. Lewis care 
 to see Father Norman ? She could think of 
 59
 
 a 1din& JFlowet 
 
 no reason. The woman was quite too ill to 
 see any one. 
 
 Francis Norman hastened to explain further. 
 
 " I mean, you see, whether she would desire 
 any service I could render as a clergyman. I 
 would be glad to offer prayers, if it would be 
 acceptable to her and her family. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, I see," said Eunice, smiling a little 
 with unsophisticated candor ; "of course, how 
 very dull I was. That is very kind of you, 
 Mr. Norman," here she hesitated, finding it 
 impossible to address him as Miss Barringer 
 did ; " but really there would not be any need 
 of it. You see, sister Mary prays with her all 
 the time, and reads the Bible, and all that." 
 
 Francis Norman smiled slightly. Plainly 
 Eunice had no conception of the priestly office. 
 It was hard for him to enlighten her, and yet 
 he felt a distinct responsibility in this matter. 
 Perhaps her sister would understand better. 
 
 They walked on in silence, entering the 
 squalid street. 
 
 " Mrs. Lewis lives a little out of the village 
 on beyond," Eunice explained. 
 
 Two dirty, bare-footed Irish boys were play- 
 ing marbles in a yard. 
 
 " Look at the priest!" cried one of them 
 with reckless derision, as Francis Norman and 
 Eunice reached them. 
 
 60
 
 tflowet 
 
 "Yes, look at them, Jim," chimed in the 
 other "a priest takin' a gyurl out a walkin' ! 
 Did ye iver see the loike ? ' ' 
 
 The two had passed on now, but not too far 
 for the parting shot. 
 
 44 Hould yer whist, Larry, ye bloomin' idjit ! 
 Don't ye see yon ain't no priest at all? Him- 
 silf's one o' them high-toned imitations that 
 comes up here summers," and the rest was 
 lost, to the unspeakable relief of Eunice, whose 
 cheeks had become as red as the geraniums in 
 the cottage window near by. 
 
 Francis Norman smiled in his own despite ; 
 these young barbarians had contrived in their 
 coarse wit to cover two points of prime im- 
 portance just now in ecclesiastical thought. 
 
 Nothing was said until, as they passed the 
 shabby little church, he put the question : 
 
 44 Mrs. Lewis is not a Romanist? " 
 
 "No, I think she is a Methodist, but there 
 is no Methodist church here. She lives there, ' ' 
 pointing to a low white house in a small garden, 
 absolutely unshaded, and seeming to stare at 
 the sun as with bare, lidless eyes. 
 
 4 ' And your sister has been here every day 
 since Sunday ? ' ' Francis Norman exclaimed, as 
 he passed through the low gate after Eunice. 
 
 4< I don't see how she can endure the heat," 
 murmured Eunice. 
 
 61
 
 ICUno flower 
 
 Morning glories grew over the front windows 
 of the cottage, trained to climb on cords, but 
 the blossoms at this hour hung limp and 
 withered. The scarlet bean flowers and motley 
 portulaccas bordering the path seemed to scin- 
 tillate in the heat. A small child in a clean 
 pinafore sat on the step, eating a piece of 
 bread. 
 
 "I don't think I will go in," said Eunice, 
 who began to find some little embarrassment 
 in the situation. "Geraldine, dear, you run 
 in and ask my sister to come to the door a 
 minute." 
 
 The child stared at her steadily for a moment 
 and then obeyed. In a moment more Mary 
 Herendean came to the door, the small Geral- 
 dine running after her. She wore a brown and 
 white cotton dress, without the becoming 
 touches of the nurse's linen adjuncts, but 
 there was beauty in the exquisite neatness of 
 her dress and person. Her eyes seemed to 
 have grown large and dark, and Francis Nor- 
 man was touched by the unconscious weariness 
 in them. Her manner, however, was cheerful, 
 and she concealed her keen surprise at seeing 
 the rector of St. Cuthbert's in her sister's com- 
 pany. 
 
 As soon as he could do so he made haste to 
 approach Mary. 
 
 62
 
 a TlEUn& flower 
 
 'Possibly, Miss Herendean, you do not 
 understand my presence here," he said in a 
 low voice. "I have come in my Master's 
 name. Your sister could hardly tell me 
 whether this poor woman, in her critical state, 
 would care for the consolations of the Church. 
 For prayer and for the blessed sacrament, I 
 mean," he added succinctly. 
 
 Mary Herendean looked for the second time 
 fully into this man's eyes, and she saw truth 
 and high purpose in them, albeit a world's 
 width lay between his point of view and hers. 
 A spiritual light touched her tired face to sud- 
 den beauty. 
 
 "I thank you," she said very gently and 
 with the utmost simplicity, "our Lord himself 
 is with her. Is not that enough ? " 
 
 Francis Norman stepped down upon the 
 narrow path between the giddy portulaccas, 
 lifting his hat as he did so. He had done his 
 duty, but the world's width lay between them 
 still. 
 
 "It was kind of you to come," Mary Heren- 
 dean said ; "when she is better I think Mrs. 
 Lewis would be glad to see you." 
 
 This was all. They came away after a brief, 
 
 but affectionate good-bye between the sisters, 
 
 Francis Norman reflecting with a little inner 
 
 heat that Mary Herendean was not just the 
 
 63
 
 "WflinD fflowcr 
 
 sort of woman one would choose to rebuke for 
 ill temper ; even if, from the churchman's point 
 of view, her religion were composed of all false 
 doctrine, heresy, and schism, it seemed to have 
 produced in her a type of womanhood little 
 lower than the angels singularly like a tired 
 angel she looked, he fancied, as they left her 
 standing under the limp morning glories. 
 
 They crossed the bridge together and here 
 Francis Norman asked if Eunice would allow 
 him the privilege of walking back to the Inn 
 with her. She assented with shy pleasure, and 
 a sense of being notably honored, although 
 how unique and how envied such an honor 
 might be she had thus far but the faintest 
 notion. 
 
 It was nearly sunset now, and the shadows 
 were long across the little valley, while the 
 mountains before them loomed large and mys- 
 terious in deepest tints of violet. The air grew 
 cool and sweet, and a sense of peace fell upon 
 the scene and upon the hearts of these two, 
 so strange and unknown to one another by 
 reason of external distinctions, and yet beneath 
 the surface simply man and woman, as from 
 the beginning, with the primal powers and 
 passions of their kind. 
 
 They walked on for a time in silence. 
 There was a stirring within him which Francis 
 64
 
 B TffiUnJ) Slower 
 
 Norman knew to be out of harmony with the 
 Counsels of Perfection which he had been con- 
 templating of late. Eunice felt his look resting 
 upon her and bent to pick a belated wild rose 
 near the path, to hide the conscious color 
 which she knew was rising to her cheek. 
 
 ' ' Oh, I wish I was wise and clever, ' ' she 
 said with a plaintive sigh, catching at the first 
 thought which strayed through her vague con- 
 fusion, " because then I could understand 
 about so many things. ' ' 
 
 'What would you like to understand?" 
 asked Norman. 
 
 Greatly to his surprise, she turned toward 
 him, and raising her beautiful eyes fully to his 
 face, asked with profound seriousness : 
 
 ' ' Are you a priest ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, truly, that is my privilege." 
 
 "Oh, dear," she said naively, "you really 
 are ! I should think you would so much 
 rather be just a man." And she glanced up 
 at him, half frightened at her impulsive utter- 
 ance. 
 
 " But would you not think it a blessed thing, 
 weak and unworthy though I am of myself, to 
 be made by the grace of God the very best and 
 highest thing that a man can be, the nearest 
 to God?" and Francis Norman's voice had 
 the peculiar quality as he said these words 
 K 65
 
 a IGUnD fflowet 
 
 which had awed Eunice so sensibly in the 
 church service. 
 
 " Does it bring you nearer to God?" she 
 asked solemnly. 
 
 "If it does not a woe is upon me," was the 
 answer. And profound feeling darkened his 
 face. After a pause, he asked : 
 
 "Does it seem nothing to you, my little 
 Friend, to be in the direct line of descent from 
 the holy apostles, who received their glorious 
 commission from the very breath of our divine 
 Lord?" 
 
 Eunice shook her head humbly. 
 
 ' ' I am afraid that I am very ignorant. We 
 have only been taught the things which Friends 
 believe. We have no priests and no sacraments, 
 nor altars, nor anything," she added dejectedly, 
 and with an irresistible little moue, as if she had 
 been abused and neglected. Then with sudden 
 earnestness she exclaimed : "I wish you would 
 tell me all about your church. I liked the service 
 very well on Sunday, but I didn't know what 
 much of it meant, and it all seemed very 
 strange. ' ' 
 
 Scarcely could a more congenial task have 
 been thrust upon a clergyman still young and 
 not absolutely proof against the charm of 
 womankind, than was given Francis Norman 
 in this challenge from the little Quaker maiden, 
 66
 
 B tUinO Slower 
 
 walking at his side and looking up at him with 
 innocent awe and yet with the artless fearless- 
 ness of a child. He addressed himself to the 
 effort with all seriousness, finding a receptive 
 and docile pupil. 
 
 Walking on, deeply absorbed in this highly 
 important and interesting consideration, the 
 two were suddenly aware of a sound of wheels 
 close behind them, and turned to see the 
 mountain wagon bringing back the excursion 
 party which had left Whippany in the morning. 
 As the company was composed almost exclu- 
 sively of " the extreme right," the whole wing 
 was in a flutter of excitement and curiosity as 
 the wagon drove on with a passing greeting, 
 leaving Father Norman and Eunice, not in the 
 least disturbed or conscious, to continue their 
 conversation. 
 
 "Our little dovelike Quakeress is making 
 rapid advances, isn' t she ? ' ' asked Mrs. Bar- 
 ringer. 
 
 "How dreadfully un-Franciscan ! " mur- 
 mured Grace mischievously, glancing at her 
 sister, who had been out of spirits all day. 
 
 "Without doubt, Mrs. Barringer," called 
 Miss Archibald, lifting her crest and speaking 
 in her shrill voice from the back seat which she 
 occupied with the sisters, ' ' dear Father Norman 
 
 is trying to instruct the poor, neglected little 
 67
 
 B TKflino fflower 
 
 thing in the right way. I am sure it would be 
 a labor of love ! ' ' 
 
 "Oh! oh! oh! Miss Archibald !" cried 
 Mr. Mather, bursting into a merry peal of 
 laughter. 
 
 Miss Archibald looked her perplexity. 
 
 "What have I said now?" she exclaimed. 
 " It would be, wouldn't it, Sister Elizabeth ? " 
 to which the little woman in black nodded 
 kindly, but with an irrepressible smile, under 
 the shadow of her bonnet. 
 
 "I won't stand any joking about Father 
 Norman," said Tom Ripley stoutly ; " he is a 
 saint, if he did disappoint us to-day." 
 
 "Stand up for your idol, Tom," said Grace 
 Barringer. Her sister had not spoken. 
 
 68
 
 NORMAN, unlike many 
 extreme ritualists, was born and 
 bred in the communion of the Epis- 
 copal Church. He had, however, no leaning 
 toward the ministry through his youth, and at 
 the time of leaving Harvard was deeply inter- 
 ested in the study of art, and, having sufficient 
 leisure and means to try experiments, went 
 abroad for a time with the intention of learn- 
 ing to paint. His temperament was that 
 of the artist, combined with the mystic ; 
 dreamy, introverted, highly susceptible to 
 beauty ; his intellect was subtle, his imagina- 
 tion quick and delicate, his spiritual nature 
 capable of much exaltation. 
 
 Up to this time, however, Norman had ac- 
 cepted his inherited faith somewhat as he 
 accepted the habits of speech and dress com- 
 mon to gentlemen, as a matter of course. He 
 was inclined through his college days and 
 for a time after them, to distinctly broad 
 church views, where he had formulated views 
 of any sort. 
 
 Finding himself strongly drawn by taste and 
 69
 
 B TUHinO flower 
 
 certain influences which surrounded him in 
 Germany to the study of medieval art, he 
 soon developed a sympathy with the English 
 preraphaelite awakening of a preceding gen- 
 eration, and returned to England to throw 
 himself with ardor into the study of the mysti- 
 cal symbolism and romanticism of Rossetti 
 and his followers. Going to Oxford for a few 
 months of study, he fell beneath the spell of 
 its potent charm, and lived for a season apart 
 from the bustle and clash of the modern 
 world, sunk in poetic, meditative inactivity, 
 despising the present, adoring the past. 
 
 In this mood he was met, and out of it he was 
 called in a partial sense, by the spirit of a man 
 whose name, though it belonged to an earlier 
 time, could never lose its power in Oxford 
 that of John Henry Newman. 
 
 Francis Norman's instinct for religion, dor- 
 mant through many years, sprang into life 
 under the touch of that genius of whom it will 
 be ever said, that " his mind was a miracle of 
 intellectual delicacy, and his presence that of 
 a spiritual apparition." It would have mat- 
 tered little to the young man just then, 
 whether the spirit of Newman had led his 
 own all the way, even into the church of 
 Rome ; but this, through some inherited re- 
 serve, chanced not to follow. Norman simply 
 70
 
 H IKttino fflowet 
 
 accepted the English cardinal as his ideal of 
 the Christian saint and hero, and passed from 
 his dreams of medieval art to a dream of 
 medieval religion. Into this new cult of the 
 Catholic revival, he threw himself with sincere 
 enthusiasm ; but, little as he realized it, his 
 point of view was what it had been before, 
 that of the artist, the poet, and the dreamer, 
 taken captive by the manifestation of a more 
 exalted and more mystic symbolism. 
 
 After a period in Oxford, he returned to his 
 native land and received the successive rites 
 of ordination in his inherited communion. 
 
 His earlier freedom and breadth of view and 
 opinion he put voluntarily away, and bent his 
 intellect by force to the yoke of a high sacra- 
 mental and sacerdotal theory of the church. 
 If the yoke were sometimes too heavy to be 
 borne ; if the foundation of faith settled now 
 and again under the weight of the superstruc- 
 ture ; if the pure flame of a spiritual love and 
 life were well-nigh smothered under the 
 material fuel heaped upon it, which it could 
 not kindle into flame ; there was always the 
 refuge of more rigorous self-discipline, of the 
 Church's authority, not absolute, as in the 
 papacy, but sufficient, and of Newman's sen- 
 tence, "Ten thousand difficulties do not 
 make one doubt."
 
 21 TIDltnO fflowet 
 
 In process of time the stamp of the free- 
 dom and self-direction of his younger manhood 
 had left his face, and its habitual expression 
 had come to be the guarded watchfulness of 
 the priest, deeply tinged with melancholy 
 abstraction. 
 
 For Francis Norman had not fought all his 
 way through yet, and he was realizing by inner 
 and strenuous processes that 
 
 Where we look for crowns to fall 
 We find the tug's to come. 
 
 When he reached his room at the Inn that 
 night he was aware that an hour of decision 
 was upon him. His conception of his priestly 
 office, while not absolutely involving the notion 
 of celibacy, still clung to this as its ideal. ' ' He 
 that warreth entangleth himself not in the af- 
 fairs of this life," he would have said; his 
 ideal priest was the soldier-saint, stern to him- 
 self, gentle to others ; ascetic, lifted above per- 
 sonal and domestic concerns, leading a dedi- 
 cated life, apart from other men. The broad 
 fleer of the street urchin, "a priest walking 
 out with a girl," remained unforgotten in his 
 mind, and showed him that beneath all the 
 outward justification of his action there had 
 lain a violation of his ideal. 
 
 It was not that for a moment his thought 
 72
 
 H TUatnO fflowet 
 
 had leaped to the extreme of desiring Eunice 
 Herendean as his wife, but that, for the first 
 time in these years since he had taken holy 
 orders, a woman's eyes and voice had had 
 power to disturb him. There lay an unreason- 
 able but dangerous enchantment to him in this 
 child, with her quiet ways and nunlike purity ; 
 she seemed to him so simple, so other-worldly, 
 so altogether endearing in her naive wonder 
 and desire for what lay beyond her ken. Who 
 could tell what might befall him if he lingered 
 over-long, as he was tempted to do, where he 
 could teach and train her aroused intelligence, 
 and open to her the glories and mysteries of the 
 Church ? 
 
 Did he dare take the risk? Should he go 
 and escape, or ''stay and be beaten" ? he 
 debated with himself all night, recalling idly the 
 old Winchester college motto. Doubtless the 
 bravest and best thing would be to stand his 
 ground and conquer ; but a certain misgiving 
 that, even if he were able to do this, he might 
 run a chance of seeming to take advantage of 
 the situation for proselyting purposes, turned 
 the scale. Before morning his decision was 
 formed, and it was carried out with a prompt- 
 ness characteristic of Francis Norman. 
 
 A few moments sufficed for his preparation 
 for immediate departure ; he left with Tom 
 73
 
 21 MlnO fflower 
 
 Ripley his adieux to the little circle of friends, 
 his explanation of pressing work, and, further, 
 a small package of church tracts, which were 
 to be handed to Eunice Herendean, with the 
 suggestion that she should seek her father's 
 sanction before reading them. 
 
 At five oclock in the morning he was ready 
 to leave, as by walking down the valley to the 
 nearest railway junction he could connect with 
 an express train and reach Coalport that night. 
 
 It was a breathless, sultry morning, the val- 
 ley lying muffled in white, wool-like mist. 
 Coming out on the veranda, Norman passed a 
 chair on which lay a big, black book, and a 
 little, soft, brown shawl, the one which Eunice 
 Herendean often wore and which she had left 
 there, evidently, the night before. Well as 
 he held himself in control, Francis Norman's 
 hand involuntarily was laid for a moment upon 
 the soft brown folds with a lingering gesture, 
 endlessly expressive. It was the only good-bye 
 he would allow himself, but it was a lover's 
 touch. A woman was coming up the steps, out 
 of the mist, who saw the gesture and grew a 
 shade paler as she saw it, while a startled ques- 
 tion leaped for the first time into her mind. 
 It was Mary Herendean, wan and spent with 
 watching, groping her lonely way home to 
 rest. 
 
 74
 
 a "Mink Slower 
 
 Francis Norman greeted her with kindly 
 sympathy and asked for her patient. 
 
 " She is better. She will do well now, thank 
 you," Mary answered and went her way into 
 the house. He did not detain her to say 
 good-bye. 
 
 A few hours later Eunice sat alone on the 
 veranda, reading a letter which had just been 
 handed her ; the envelope in her lap was 
 postmarked New York, and was addressed in 
 strongly marked masculine handwriting. Be- 
 side it, on her knee, lay a little package of tracts 
 which Tom Ripley had given her half an hour 
 before. Eunice read on with quickened color 
 and eager eyes. Then, folding the letter, she 
 paused a moment to note with a smile the 
 contrast between the style of its address and 
 that of her name written on the tracts in 
 Father Norman's fine, firm hand. 
 
 "It is as well," she reflected as she slipped 
 both letter and tracts into her work bag, " that 
 father and Mary should not see either of these 
 just now. It would only make bother. Poor 
 Mary, it would be a sin to worry her about 
 this letter when she is so tired, and if I don' t 
 answer it there will be no harm done. Those 
 tracts I don't believe I shall ever read, anyway ; 
 they look as stupid as ' Barclay' s Apology, ' 
 and have such long words. I can get Sister 
 75
 
 H "OCUnO flower 
 
 Elizabeth to tell me all about the church. She 
 knows what every last fringe and wrinkle mean. 
 She is a dear old thing too, when you get over 
 being afraid of her. ' '
 
 XI 
 
 JOALPORT, the great, roaring, smok- 
 ing, commercial city, black and grim 
 in its center, and ghastly in the 
 squalor of some of its outlying mining settle- 
 ments, has yet its broad modern avenues with 
 smooth lawns and fine houses, where the noise 
 of the city dies away, and where the soot-laden 
 srnoke ceases to defile. 
 
 Such an avenue is intersected by a quiet 
 street much older than itself at a distance of two 
 miles from the heart of the city, called Willow 
 Street, notable for neither beauty nor elegance 
 in its dwellings nor social prestige among its 
 indwellers, an old street relative to Coalport's 
 rapid growth, a country road not so very long 
 ago. 
 
 Here at the corner of a lane, which would be 
 a green lane in summer, but is a white one now, 
 for winter is well advanced and snow is on the 
 ground, stands and has stood for fifty years, the 
 dwelling of Moses Herendean, a square, brick 
 house in a square, terraced garden. The gar- 
 den is enclosed by a broad, brick wall, sur- 
 mounted by an iron railing ; the wall, low in 
 77
 
 Slower 
 
 front, rises in successive stages of gradation as 
 it extends up the lane, until as you lose sight 
 of it, it has become higher than a man's head, 
 and a narrow green door in the brick wall, tightly 
 closed at this season, gives access to the with- 
 ered rose garden. 
 
 The house in front has a tall, white-pillared 
 portico, on either side of which it swells slightly 
 and presents a shining array of windows. The 
 roof is battlemented, and across the front 
 stretches a white railing, interrupted over the 
 portico by a dormer window. The red un- 
 painted brick, of which the house is built, is 
 weatherworn to a dull but not unpleasant hue, 
 and the whole aspect of the place, particularly 
 at this frozen season, is of well-ordered, com- 
 fortable stiffness, offering at no nook or corner 
 the slightest challenge to attention or remark 
 save for its all-pervading, shining cleanliness. 
 
 Within, the house comported not less with 
 Quaker traditions, being severely simple, but 
 unostentatiously aristocratic. There was hand- 
 some, solid woodwork, but there were no hang- 
 ings ; costly India mattings, and a few rugs but 
 rare ones, massive mahogany furniture and 
 gleaming brasses, carpets of cold, low tones, and 
 bygone patterns. Steel engravings of George 
 Fox and William Penn hung above a long hair- 
 cloth sofa in the hall, but there were few other 
 78
 
 TOflinD flower 
 
 pictures. The great sideboard in the dining 
 room was almost large enough for a modern 
 summer cottage, and bore a brave array of old 
 silver ; there was much exquisite china also, 
 and both had been handed down through gen- 
 erations of wealthy Friends. In the long parlor 
 were tables and chairs of teak-wood and ebony, 
 curiously carved, delicate Chinese ivories and 
 rare porcelains, for Mary Herendean's mother 
 belonged to a New Bedford family of ship- 
 owners, who brought their treasures from afar. 
 
 There was a cozy morning room beyond 
 the parlor, opening by a casement window 
 upon a broad back veranda, and here were 
 Mary Herendean's busy desk and little wom- 
 anish rocking-chairs and work tables. The 
 library was a somewhat sombre room, with a 
 faded carpet in large parallelograms of brown 
 and green, and dark, ponderous bookcases. 
 Here, on a Sunday morning, early in Janu- 
 ary, Moses Herendean was sitting in a great 
 leather chair before a red cannel-coal fire, 
 reading the "Friends' Review," and looking 
 much as when we saw him last at the Whip- 
 pany Inn. 
 
 Upstairs, from the broad hall with its fan- 
 window above the front door, opened quiet, 
 orderly chambers, innocent of superfluous 
 decoration and ornament, but producing a 
 79
 
 a 1ainJ> Slower 
 
 peculiar sensation of rest and soothing in their 
 spacious proportions and spotless daintiness. 
 In one such room was Mary Herendean mov- 
 ing about, preparing for meeting, for it was 
 half-past ten by her little mantel clock, and she 
 could see from her side window that Simeon, a 
 Friend of low degree and the venerable man- 
 servant of the house, was leading out the old 
 family horse. On the gravel before the stable 
 stood a closed carriage of antique mold, bear- 
 ing a singular semblance to a black beetle in 
 its outline, and furnished with faded green silk 
 curtains at the windows. 
 
 Mary Herendean crossed to her dressing 
 table and shook down her long, fair hair, wh ; ch 
 fell over her white neglige like a mantle. She 
 had a figure of Juno-like queenliness, and as 
 she stood brushing and gathering up her hair 
 the mass of it coiled around one bare uplifted 
 arm and glinted in the winter sunshine like a 
 sheath of gold. A door at that moment open- 
 ing into the adjoining bedroom, Eunice Her- 
 endean was heard to exclaim : 
 
 "Oh, Mary, if thee would only go to parties 
 and wear evening dress ! It is a shame to hide 
 such a neck and arms ; they ought to win an 
 English lord for thee at the very least ! " 
 
 Mary's cheeks flushed, but she made no di- 
 rect reply to her sister's outbreak, but seeing 
 So
 
 B WinO Slower 
 
 her fully equipped for the street, said with ill- 
 concealed anxiety : 
 
 " Thee is ready in good season, Eunice. Do 
 I need to hurry ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all," returned the younger 
 girl, fastening her glove with nervous haste ; " 1 
 am not going to meeting this morning. Don't 
 make a fuss about it, Mary ; it is enough to 
 have father looking at me as he does. Now 
 be a dear, and tell me if I look nice in my new 
 gown. ' ' 
 
 Eunice wore a street costume of soft gray 
 cloth of finest texture, which bore the unmis- 
 takable stamp of an accomplished and fashion- 
 able dressmaker. It was a color which threw 
 into striking relief the clear, pale tint of her 
 skin. The severity of outline which, despite 
 her inexperience of fine clothes, Eunice had 
 insisted upon with a perception little short of 
 genius, served to enhance her pliant grace and 
 virginal slenderness, and to preserve in her the 
 quaint charm of the Quaker maiden. None 
 the less, the soft fur at the throat, the plumes 
 resting on the dark waves of her hair, the long- 
 coveted rustle of silken linings, invisible, save 
 for a suspicion of faint pink around the dainty 
 ankles as she turned and twisted before her 
 sister, must have told unmistakably of luxury 
 and careful design to the initiated. Both the 
 F 81
 
 B TlCUno flower 
 
 sisters knew perfectly that Eunice had spent 
 on her present costume more money than 
 either of them had ever used in dress in any 
 year of her life hitherto. 
 
 "Thee looks very lovely, dear," Mary said 
 with a yearning tenderness of appeal in her 
 eyes which Eunice made haste to evade by 
 turning back to her room for a handkerchief, 
 and murmuring that she would have to hurry 
 now. She ran lightly downstairs hoping to 
 escape an encounter with her father ; but 
 Moses Herendean had laid aside his review 
 and come out into the hall where he was in 
 the act of taking down his broad-brimmed hat 
 from its peg on the tall rack. Holding it out 
 to Eunice, he asked, smiling : 
 
 "Tell me, child, is that my First-day hat or 
 not? In this light it looks much like the 
 other." 
 
 "Yes, that is right, father," Eunice said, 
 patting his arm fondly, and moving on toward 
 the door. 
 
 "The carriage is not here yet," her father 
 said. "Thee need not hasten. What a nice 
 gray gown my little girl has on. Did thee 
 make it thyself, Eunice ? It seems to fit very 
 smoothly and makes thee look very nice. ' ' 
 
 "Not exactly, father," Eunice said, biting 
 
 her lip to conceal a smile. 
 82
 
 B WinO flower 
 
 "Well, whoever made it, plain things are 
 best, my child, and most becoming to the eye 
 which looks from a single mind. Simplicity is 
 the greatest charm of a young woman like thee, 
 and I am glad to see that thee has a disposition 
 to preserve it." 
 
 Eunice had her hand on the great brass 
 knob of the front door, and was fluttering un- 
 easily in her impatience to be gone. Her 
 father's brow clouded suddenly as he watched 
 her, and he asked in an altered tone : 
 
 "Thee is not going to have part in those 
 foolish Popish practices in Minster Street again 
 to-day, my child ? not going to leave thy old 
 father when he wants thee most, in the secret 
 place of the sanctuary, under the covering of 
 the Divine Presence ? ' ' 
 
 "I think I will go to St. Cuthbert's this 
 morning, father, please," said Eunice gently. 
 
 The old man's lips trembled visibly, but he 
 remained gravely silent, his head slightly bent. 
 Eunice came back, stood up on her tiptoes 
 and lifting her pretty mouth, kissed him coax- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Never mind, father dear," she whispered 
 with soft persistence, as if she were soothing 
 him for the delinquencies of some other per- 
 son, "all the young Friends are going to Epis- 
 copal churches lately. Thee mustn't mind. 
 83
 
 a Idtnfc fflowet 
 
 The Longstreth girls have joined St. Peter's, 
 and the Motts are going to. Please don't 
 worry," and without waiting for further argu- 
 ment, she left him with another kiss, stepped 
 lightly to the door, and once outside, she closed 
 it noiselessly but firmly behind her, and sped 
 down the gravel walk to the street. 
 
 When in the preceding September Moses 
 Herendean returned with his daughters to 
 their home in Coalport, Eunice had looked 
 about her upon familiar names and things 
 with newly awakened eyes. 
 
 She had been keenly impressed with the dis- 
 tinction and elegance of the Barringers and 
 their kind, and with the dominating personality 
 of Father Norman, as she had seen them at 
 Whippany, detached from their proper setting 
 and standing simply upon their evident claims. 
 When she reached home she discovered for 
 the first time what these people really stood 
 for, for their world had hitherto lain far from 
 her own ; Mrs. Barringer and her daughters, 
 she found, were leaders of the most exclusive 
 "set" of fashionable people in Coalport; St. 
 Cuthbert's was a highly aristocratic church, 
 and Father Norman was the object of a species 
 of hero-worship which ruled the hour in fash- 
 ionable circles, in part probably because he 
 persistently avoided society. 
 84 '
 
 B mind flower 
 
 The slight attention which Eunice had re- 
 ceived from the Barringer party, and the dis- 
 tinct interest which Father Norman had mani- 
 fested in her at Whippany, now took on a new 
 significance and value in her own mind. 
 
 The exclusiveness which repelled Mary Her- 
 endean as the sign of a narrow, selfish, and 
 anti-Christian conception of life, was to Eunice 
 the very hall-mark of intrinsic value. It com- 
 mended itself to her very inmost desires, and 
 a species of ambition now took possession of 
 her, into which were woven her long smothered 
 resentment at the dull and obscure plan of life 
 which had been laid down for her, her longing 
 for admiration, for beauty, and for joy, and her 
 envy of the life of fashionable society. 
 
 This Sunday morning interview with her 
 father was not the first of its kind, although 
 Eunice had gone on her way so quietly as to 
 arouse as little opposition as possible ; but her 
 attendance on the services at St. Cuthbert's 
 was fast becoming a regular thing. 
 
 Inexpressibly wearied and chilled by the 
 colorless, negative coldness of her father's re- 
 ligious system, into whose lofty but strenuous 
 conceptions she found it impossible to enter, 
 Eunice was fully ready to embrace whatever 
 was in most distinct contrast to its silence, its 
 severity, and its unaided upward struggle. 
 85
 
 Slower 
 
 Having overcome her first recoil from the 
 elaborate external symbolism of the service as 
 presented by the rector of St. Cuthbert's, she 
 had found a peculiar luxury of enjoyment in 
 its sumptuous color and music and ceremonial, 
 and her quick perceptions had enabled her to 
 adapt herself readily to its varied demands. 
 
 Furthermore, in a quiet way Eunice watched 
 and studied the fashionable folk who went in 
 and out before her at St. Cuthbert's, and 
 learned with an almost preternatural intelli- 
 gence to bring herself "up to the style and 
 manners ' ' of their kind. Thus far she had 
 herself remained apparently unnoticed. 
 
 86
 
 XII 
 
 IS Eunice Herendean walked on down 
 the broad avenue, her small prayer- 
 book held correctly in one delicately 
 gloved hand, enjoying with the ardor of inex- 
 perience a faint, elusive perfume about her 
 gown and its luxurious rustle, she was enabled by 
 reason of these alleviating circumstances and 
 of a natural aptitude, to throw off the painful 
 impression of her father's face and voice. It 
 had been simply dreadful to have his mouth so 
 sad and tremulous when she kissed it, and it 
 gave one a horrid thought of King Lear, and 
 all that kind of thing ; but still, though it was 
 hard, one had to go through a great deal for 
 the sake of one's religious convictions, that 
 she had always been taught, and without any 
 manner of doubt she was convinced, if of noth- 
 ing more, that she was no longer a Friend. 
 
 She passed a fine house on the avenue. A 
 fashionable brougham stood before the gate, 
 the footman at the door of it ; a lady and gen- 
 tleman crossed the sidewalk in front of her to 
 enter the carriage. They were St. Cuthbert's 
 people, the Knights she had often seen them. 
 8?
 
 8 TlDltn& fflower 
 
 They both eyed her keenly, with a look which 
 seemed to her to say, "You are plainly some- 
 body, but who ? We ought to be able to rec- 
 ognize a girl who looks like that. " In fact she 
 heard Mrs. Knight say behind her as she 
 passed : 
 
 " Who can that lovely creature be ? " After 
 that Eunice walked with renewed confidence, 
 and the nervous anxiety with which she had 
 worn her new array, despite her pleasure in it, 
 fell away completely. 
 
 " Give me time ! " she said to herself in a 
 kind of demure exultation, remembering the 
 unvarying blindness with which the Barringers 
 had always been smitten when they had looked 
 in her direction in going out or coming in at 
 St. Cuthbert's. 
 
 A block or two more brought Eunice to a 
 fashionable club-house, where a big bay win- 
 dow commanded the whole stretch of the ave- 
 nue, up and down. Her heart beat faster as 
 she neared this house, and although she passed 
 it with averted face, she was not wholly sur- 
 prised when she heard a step at her side and a 
 man's voice saying good-morning. 
 
 "Why, Ralph," she murmured, a delicate 
 flush rising in her cheek, "how do you hap- 
 pen to be in town to-day ? ' ' 
 
 The young .man thus addressed was some- 
 88
 
 fflower 
 
 what below medium height, with broad 
 shoulders and an extraordinarily deep chest. 
 He had a smoothly shaven face, indifferent 
 features, a cold eye, and a passionate mouth 
 with thin, flexible lips, but when he smiled as 
 he did in answer to the girl's greeting, his face 
 suddenly took on a peculiar and even capti- 
 vating charm. He had a free, untrammeled 
 gait, firm white hands upon which he was 
 drawing a pair of loose gloves, and a certain 
 air of poise and self-possession which might 
 on occasion become too emphatic. 
 
 " How could I happen to be anywhere else 
 when I could be here, little cousin ? " he 
 asked gayly, in a finely resonant voice, bending 
 a little to see her face. 
 
 " I suppose you know how stunning you 
 are, is it not so ? Is this a grand coup ? ' ' and 
 he glanced at her pretty gown with half-mock- 
 ing admiration. " Where are you carrying so 
 much of chastened splendor ? Not to Quaker 
 meeting, I'll be bound ! " 
 
 "You shouldn't speak so, Ralph," said 
 Eunice softly, but looking up roguishly from the 
 corner of her eye. 
 
 " What is in the little lady's hand? " was 
 
 Ralph Kidder's next remark, suddenly enclos- 
 
 ing the tiny hand and book together in the 
 
 large, warm clasp of his own. "Yes, let me 
 
 89
 
 H 1UmC> if lower 
 
 have it, ' ' he said imperatively ; "I shall, any- 
 way, you know," and he quietly possessed 
 himself of Eunice's prayer book. 
 
 "Well, well," he said musingly, fluttering 
 the leaves as they walked on side by side in a 
 good comrade, familiar fashion, "if she hasn't 
 set up a prayer book ! seal leather too, I swear, 
 initials in gold 'crest and mane' all of the 
 most advanced style. Getting on swimmingly, 
 aren' t you, child ? What does Moses Heren- 
 dean say, and our sweet sister ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' You shall not talk so, Ralph, about my 
 prayer book," pouted Eunice. "You're a 
 horrid, irreverent person." 
 
 " You continue to enjoy St. Cuthbert's, I 
 conclude," rejoined Ralph, smiling carelessly as 
 he handed back the little book. "That's right. 
 It is the correct thing. You have surprisingly 
 sure instincts, Eunice, in certain directions, 
 considering your heredity." 
 
 Eunice looked half puzzled, half pleased. 
 
 " Is their music as good as it used to be, I 
 wonder," her cousin continued ; "it used to 
 be simply out of sight. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, it is lovely !" 
 
 " And Father Norman, I suppose the women 
 
 all adore him just the same as ever, don't they? 
 
 He's an odd chap, a cross between a saint and 
 
 an actor, it always struck me ; and I have an 
 
 90
 
 a TKatnD jflowet 
 
 idea he doesn' t know himself which he is the 
 more of. He's deep though, I can tell you." 
 
 "What do you mean, Ralph?" protested 
 Eunice, offended by his tone. 
 
 "You don't suppose, you lovely little sim- 
 pleton, that Norman actually believes in all 
 those high solemnities and ceremonies he goes 
 through with, requiem masses and the rest of it ? 
 Not he ! He simply is clever enough to know 
 the value of the spectacular in religion, and that 
 shows his sense. There's one thing, though, 
 you'll notice, if you go there often, that's rather 
 curious. That kind of a high ritualistic church 
 never gets hold of the steady-going middle class 
 of people." 
 
 "Why doesn't it?" 
 
 Ralph Kidder gave a shrug of his shoulders 
 and answered : 
 
 " Perhaps it's because they have too much 
 hard sense, perhaps because they have too 
 little imagination. At any rate, it's so. You'll 
 find plenty of the high and mighty society peo- 
 ple, the fashionable sort, whose luxurious tastes 
 must be gratified in religion as in everything 
 else ; and there is another stripe that come with 
 them as a matter of necessity, just as u follows 
 q in spelling." 
 
 ' ' Whom do you mean ? ' ' 
 
 "Their imitators," and Ralph smiled dryly,
 
 ^Flower 
 
 looking down into Eunice's face. " But from 
 that point, my young hearer," he con- 
 tinued laughing, " they have to drop to the 
 poor folks who like to see the shows, and also 
 are not averse to the loaves and the fishes 
 which are apt to be somewhat freely distributed 
 among that ilk. You'll have to go in for 
 double distilled fashion and no mistake, Eunice, 
 if you try to stand for anything at St. Cuth- 
 bert's." 
 
 "I don't care," Eunice said impatiently, 
 vaguely resenting her cousin's advice; "and 
 I never thought of trying to 'stand for any- 
 thing,' as you say, at St. Cuthbert's. I sup- 
 posed one went to church to worship. " 
 
 " Incidentally." 
 
 "And what you say about Father Norman 
 is simply wicked," Eunice went on with spirit, 
 "I think you like to sneer at people who are 
 better than you. He is not like what you say. 
 He seeks nothing for himself, but lives like a 
 poor man, and just gives himself up to fasting 
 and prayer. I know he is sincere, Ralph, and 
 you needn't try to make me believe he is not. 
 Anyway, I want you to go away now ; I don' t 
 like to walk on the street with you," she added 
 impetuously. " If father saw that, it would be 
 a great deal worse than my going to church, 
 and you know it perfectly well." 
 92
 
 a 1Clin& flower 
 
 ' ' I don' t deny it. ' ' 
 
 "Truly, Ralph, I think we ought to give each 
 other up, and not write any more, or anything. ' ' 
 Eunice had grown paler than usual as she said 
 this, and she was walking on with downcast eyes. 
 "It can't be done, sweetheart," Ralph 
 Kidder said in an undertone, through which 
 vibrated a strong sense of power and passion. 
 " Don't you know," he went on in the same 
 lone which thrilled the girl by his side so that 
 hot tears pricked her eyes, "that you and I 
 are bound together absolutely forever ? Noth- 
 ing can part us, Eunice, in heaven or earth. 
 You may try as you will to escape me, and 
 flutter in my hands, but they are strong hands 
 and they will hold my little gray dove fast for- 
 ever. " 
 
 "Don't, Ralph, don't," cried the girl with 
 something like a sob under her breath. ' ' Your 
 eyes are cruel and you frighten me." 
 
 " Certainly I frighten you," he said seriously 
 but unmoved. "You are a weak nature ; I am 
 a strong one. I have a power over you which 
 you cannot resist, and which will draw you back 
 to me listen, Eunice however far you may 
 seek to fly beyond my reach." 
 
 "You would not talk to me like that if you 
 really loved me," the girl said, lifting reproach- 
 ful eyes full of a strange conflict of dread and 
 93
 
 a TKlinD fflower 
 
 love to his face. His own eyes were drawn 
 narrowly, and under the level lids shone a 
 steely, blue light, like a spark. 
 
 " Knowest thou what that means I love 
 thee?" he whispered with passionate, scorn- 
 ful emphasis. Then in a different tone, "I 
 go back to New York in the morning, Eunice. 
 You will take your walk this afternoon in the 
 usual place ? ' ' 
 
 The question was more like a command than 
 a request, but Eunice bent her head in assent, 
 and with a brief good-morning the young man 
 turned and left her at the crossing to Minster 
 Street. 
 
 He was her cousin, twice removed, for many 
 years an inmate of Moses Herendean's house- 
 hold until, over a year before, he had cut him- 
 self off from it by a base action, unpardonable 
 in the eyes of the old man, because unrepented 
 of. Perhaps Eunice scarcely understood the 
 nature of his offense ; in any case she felt that 
 he had been too severely dealt with, and their 
 boy and girl attachment had ripened by clan- 
 destine interviews into a secret understanding 
 and a vague promise of marriage on her part. 
 He was now studying medicine in New York, 
 and merely visited Coalport at longer or shorter 
 intervals. 
 
 Minster Street was separated at this end 
 94
 
 S TKflinO flower 
 
 only by a small square from the business part 
 of the town, and the general blackness of 
 Coalport proper was intensified on a morning 
 like this by the covering of snow on roofs and 
 walls. On the pavement the trampled snow 
 served simply to make the blackness fluid, 
 while in the square at the end of the street it 
 lay sodden and cinder-flecked beneath the 
 yellow fog and spectral trees. The sculptured 
 facade of the Church of St. Cuthbert, al- 
 though not in reality of great age, had been 
 blackened by the sooty air to an aspect of 
 hoary antiquity, and the statue of the venera- 
 ble bishop between the doors rose portentous 
 in coal black robes and mitre. 
 
 Eunice gathered her dainty skirts in one 
 slender hand and stepped on across the 
 muddy pavement, approaching the church with 
 an air of circumspect gravity. Just as she 
 reached the foot of the steps she was aware 
 that the carriage drawn up at the curb was 
 that of the Barringers, and that a face to face 
 meeting with the family on the church steps 
 could hardly be avoided. It was not an en- 
 counter which Eunice coveted, for she had 
 perceived plainly before this that her summer 
 acquaintances did not care to know her in 
 Coalport ; but her spirit rose to the occasion, 
 and she went slowly and with self-possession 
 95
 
 "CdinD fflower 
 
 up the steps, almost by Florence Barringer's 
 side, and so, without word or token of recog- 
 nition, passed into the cold vestibule before 
 her. 
 
 "That was the little Herendean girl we met 
 at Whippany, Flo," said Grace Barringer, as 
 the two lingered for a little space behind 
 Eunice. "What possessed you not to speak to 
 her?" 
 
 "The instinct of self-defense, I believe," 
 replied Miss Barringer carelessly. ' ' You know 
 I never keep up acquaintance with those acci- 
 dental summer people if I can help it. Fancy 
 what a bore it would be after a while." 
 
 "Somebody has taught her how to dress 
 herself," whispered Grace in her sister's ear. 
 ' ' Who do you suppose it can be ? That gray 
 effect is positively an inspiration. ' ' 
 
 " Herself," murmured Miss Barringer, push- 
 ing open the heavy inner door, while a fine 
 seriousness seemed to settle visibly upon her 
 handsome features; "she is an extremely 
 clever little person in her way." 
 
 The interior of St. Cuthbert's possessed in 
 full measure that impressiveness, half aesthetic, 
 half religious, which Gothic architecture alone 
 can produce. Furthermore, every art and 
 device by which this effect can be augmented 
 had been employed. Subdued richness of 
 96
 
 B TOUnJ) flower 
 
 color ; the subtle mingling and heightening 
 by contrast of simplicity and elaboration ; the 
 presence on every hand of symbolic suggestion ; 
 the white beauty of the sculptured reredos, and 
 the soft lights of the altar glimmering through 
 the dim choir ; the strains of solemn, mystical 
 music all things which could smite sense and 
 spirit at once and fuse them into a mysterious 
 and bewildering identity, surrounded the wor- 
 shipers as they entered. 
 
 Eunice, passing down a side aisle alone, was 
 ushered into an empty pew, and although her 
 manner was devout and her private devotions 
 were performed with faultless propriety, her 
 mind, for the moment, was absorbed in the 
 cut direct which she had just received, and 
 responded but mechanically to the influences 
 of the place. 
 
 She was not angry, certainly not in any 
 heated and unbecoming manner. That was 
 not her way. It had not been pleasant to 
 receive this cold ignoring, the rather that she 
 had been favored to present herself this first 
 time fully before the Barringers at the very 
 utmost she could compass at present of ex- 
 ternal advantage. Nevertheless, she rathe": 
 admired than resented Miss Barringer's un- 
 hesitating canceling of the slight and casual 
 relation which had existed between them. 
 G 97
 
 fflower 
 
 She would have liked to do exactly the same 
 thing herself to some superfluous people she 
 knew, and whom she had always held herself 
 bound to treat with tiresome consideration. 
 In fine, the sum of her reflections which ended 
 with the outburst of the processional as the 
 choir entered the nave, was this : 
 
 "Why should they care to know me as long 
 as I am a nobody? If I can ever make it 
 worth their while to know me for any reason, 
 very well. That will be another story. ' ' 
 
 Just at that point somebody fluttered nerv.- 
 ously into the seat beside her, out of breath 
 and panting. The head which was presently 
 bowed in prayer before Eunice's eyes struck 
 her instantly as having a crest like that of some 
 foreign bird. When the lady arose from her 
 knees, Eunice found she was not mistaken. It 
 was Miss Archibald. 
 
 98
 
 XIII 
 
 JHE two-o'clock dinner that day was a 
 silent and subdued one in the Willow 
 Street mansion. Moses Herendean 
 looked like a man who had received a blow ; 
 his face had grown old and stern and sad. 
 Eunice could find little in common to discuss 
 with her father and sister, since any question 
 as to the conduct and nature of their meeting 
 seemed but to emphasize the fact that she had 
 not participated in it ; and Mary who struggled 
 all through the dinner hour for some safe and 
 comfortable topic, could not venture to make 
 inquiries regarding the nature of the service in 
 which her sister had engaged, and yet these 
 seemed the only subjects present to their 
 minds. 
 
 After dinner, Moses Herendean withdrew to 
 the library for his usual nap, and the sisters 
 went into the morning room. 
 
 "Dear me, Mary," Eunice broke out im- 
 patiently, "what is the matter with everybody 
 to-day? Father looks as if there had been a 
 death in the family at least, and nobody seems 
 able to speak a word. ' ' 
 99
 
 Mary Herendean was seated at her desk, 
 upon which she leaned one elbow, and turning 
 toward Eunice, rested her head on her hand 
 and looked at her wistfully for a moment. 
 
 "I think father is very unhappy, Eunice," 
 she said slowly, as if fearing to give her sister 
 pain ; ' ' and perhaps we ought now to talk the 
 matter over a little more plainly." 
 
 "What matter?" 
 
 Eunice had thrown herself upon a small 
 sofa opposite the desk, and with both hands 
 clasped under her cheek looked over at Mary 
 with a challenge in her eyes. 
 
 ' ' Father said I would better tell thee, dear, 
 the thing which makes him so cast down. He 
 will not say a word to interfere, though, and I 
 
 do not quite see how he can, unless " 
 
 Here Mary broke off as if she found the sub- 
 ject difficult to approach. 
 
 ' ' Well ? ' ' said Eunice calmly. 
 
 ' ' Phoebe Anthony had a long talk with him 
 after meeting to-day. She has a concern on 
 her mind, Eunice, about thy seeming 'drawn 
 away,' she puts it, from Society." 
 
 "She needn't trouble herself," said Eunice 
 hastily. 
 
 "The fact is," Mary continued, "I am sorry 
 about it as I can be, and I think they are mis- 
 taken in judgment, but she and another woman 
 100
 
 fftower 
 
 Friend I am not sure, but I think it is to be 
 Deborah Longstreth are to be appointed a 
 committee to talk with thee about thy duty in 
 adhering to Friends' principles, and all that. ' ' 
 
 Eunice remained perfectly still, not chang- 
 ing her attitude in any degree, and the only 
 changes in her face were a slight flush and in 
 the eyes the look of concentrated thought. 
 
 "Deborah Longstreth is just the one to 
 labor with me," she said after a period of si- 
 lence ; "she has experience, and she has been 
 so successful with her own girls. ' ' 
 
 Mary paid no attention to the sarcasm of 
 this remark. 
 
 "Friends feel, naturally," she began again, 
 "a peculiar degree of interest in thee, Eunice, 
 father being at the head of the meeting, and 
 his influence and position so conspicuous. It 
 is very hard for him, dear, we must remember 
 that, and he is so good, and so very fond of 
 thee." 
 
 " I know it," said Eunice softly. 
 
 " If thee could be willing to remain among 
 Friends while he is with us," proceeded Mary 
 with a little tremor in her voice, "it would be 
 such a joy to him. Can't thee make up thy 
 mind to give up St. Cuthbert's for a while yet? 
 and then I could just send a line to Phcebe 
 Anthony and tell her that the committee need 
 101
 
 flower 
 
 not come, and we would all be happy again, ' ' 
 and Mary's face grew bright with eager hope. 
 
 Eunice lay silent for a little space and then 
 asked : 
 
 "When am I to be labored with, please in- 
 form me, by this committee?" 
 
 "Next Fourth-day, I think, after monthly 
 meeting," said Mary in a low, reluctant tone. 
 
 "I wish they would mind their own business 
 and stay at home," remarked Eunice slowly, 
 in a passionless, thoughtful way assorting curi- 
 ously with her words. 
 
 " So do I," said Mary heartily ; "but thee is 
 the only one now who can stop their coming, 
 and oh, Eunice, it will hurt father so to have 
 them !" 
 
 ' ' I know it, Mary, ' ' said Eunice, springing 
 to her feet, and speaking with sudden fire, 
 "and it almost breaks my heart to hurt him, 
 but if thee only knew how I hate, yes hate ' 
 hate ! .' hate .' ! ! that Friends' meeting, how it 
 chills and withers me, and makes me wicked 
 and ungrateful and rebellious, thee wouldn't 
 ask me to go back to it now ! ' ' 
 
 "But, Eunice, if thee must leave Friends, 
 why not choose some body of Christians where 
 there is simplicity in worship, where the em- 
 phasis is not all on the external, and not this 
 exaggerated, pompous ritualism of St. Cuth- 
 102
 
 B TUflinD Slower 
 
 bert's? I think that is the most painful part 
 of it with father. He feels as if thee were going 
 straight into Roman Catholicism. ' ' 
 
 "But I am not," replied Eunice; "and if 
 he would only go and hear Father Norman 
 preach, Mary, he would feel differently. Oh, 
 he is simply glorious when he preaches, and he 
 makes the service so beautiful, so full of mean- 
 ing ! Mary, I cannot give it up It would 
 only be to go through with the agony at some 
 other time. The committee may as well come 
 and get it over with. " And Eunice hurried 
 from the room and ran upstairs, where alone, 
 she studied the situation and formed her plan 
 for herself. 
 
 The startling fact that her movements and 
 opinions weie taken cognizance of by the 
 monthly meeting, and were to be made sub- 
 jects of an official and, indirectly, of a dis- 
 ciplinary interview, suddenly crystallized her 
 vague, indefinite ideas and desires into fixed 
 intentions. She had, to be sure, received scant 
 encouragement at St. Cuthbert's, and her way 
 was not clear and plain before her, but she had 
 one person to whom she believed she could 
 turn with the certainty of sympathy and wel- 
 come. This was Miss Archibald. The little 
 lady had given her a most cordial recognition 
 after service that morning, had praised her 
 103
 
 21 TJClinJ) fflowet 
 
 pretty looks with artless flattery, and had asked 
 her to share her pew whenever she chose to 
 come to St. Cuthbert's. Hers would do for 
 a helping hand, but the person upon whom 
 Eunice's thoughts were concentrated, with 
 suddenly awakened purpose, was quite another 
 from Miss Archibald, being in fact Father Nor- 
 man himself. 
 
 When Mary came upstairs late in the after- 
 noon, she found Eunice sitting in her window, 
 her lap scattered over with a number of tracts 
 and leaflets bearing such titles as "The Eu- 
 charistic Sacrifice, " " Anglican Orders, " " Sac- 
 ramental Confession," and the like. 
 
 Eunice had unearthed the small packet of 
 these from her trunk in the garret, where they 
 had lain since she returned in September from 
 Whippany. 
 
 "I must have my reasons ready for that 
 horrid committee, Mary," she said, glancing 
 up at her sister with a smile. But this was not 
 the only or the ruling motive which led Eunice 
 to the study of Father Norman's tracts. 
 
 104
 
 XIV 
 
 |T was the fourth day of the week, and 
 the day of the regular mid-week 
 meeting, and also of the monthly 
 meeting of Friends in their plain brick meet- 
 ing-house on Barclay Street. 
 
 Mary Herendean had been spending a busy 
 morning, first at home in ordering the monthly 
 meeting dinner, always a notable feast, and 
 afterward at a free kindergarten in lower Coal- 
 port, where she was a constant aide. She, 
 reached the meeting-house a few minutes late, 
 and with cheeks like pink roses from the haste 
 with which she had walked. It was a mild day 
 with an air like spring, " a January thaw," and 
 the old black sexton with grizzled hair and 
 beard stood out on the steps bareheaded, as if 
 watching for a few more straggling sheep to find 
 the fold. 
 
 He welcomed Mary with a silent grin, and 
 with noiseless motions she opened the inner 
 door, entered the house, and slipped quietly 
 into her wonted place. 
 
 The large, high interior was divided midway 
 by a low partition, on the right of which was the 
 105
 
 B IDKnfc Slower 
 
 women's side, on the left the men's. Three 
 rows of elevated forms rising in successive tiers 
 one above the other across the entire length 
 of the room, faced the body of the house, 
 and were reserved for ' ' elders ' ' and ' ' ap- 
 proved ministers ' ' of the society. The walls 
 were devoid of decoration or device, tinted, 
 like the woodwork, a pale gray, and the tall 
 windows were of plain glass, with green blinds 
 closed behind them. A green carpet of a small 
 and obsolete pattern, covered the floor, and 
 there were faded green cushions in the seats. 
 None of the usual adjuncts of Protestant wor- 
 ship, even so much as a Bible or hymnal, were 
 to be seen. Nothing was imposing, beautiful, 
 or suggestive. There were, and this of inten- 
 tion, no features in the meeting-house, either 
 without or within, which could occasion remark 
 or attract the eyes of the worshipers, or even 
 stimulate their devotion. Friends fear external 
 suggestion on the one hand, as an interruption 
 to the pure inward communion of the soul, and 
 on the other, despise its aid, as a concession to 
 the weakness of the flesh. It is to them putting 
 the material in the place of the spiritual. 
 
 In the corner of the men's highest seat 
 
 nearest the women's side of the house sat 
 
 Moses Herendean alone. His head was 
 
 slightly bowed, and the expression of his face 
 
 106
 
 a Mind flower 
 
 was of peaceful but exalted spiritual introspec- 
 tion. 
 
 Only removed from him by the space of a 
 few feet, on the right, sat a somewhat rigid and 
 watchful-eyed woman Friend, in the distinctive 
 gray silk bonnet, the snowy lawn shawl in am- 
 ple folds over the bosom, and the heavier shawl 
 lying loosely upon her shoulders. This was 
 Phoebe Anthony. She also was alone on the 
 "high seat," but several women wearing the 
 plain bonnet sat in the raised portion at inter- 
 vals below her, while a similar sprinkling of 
 men occupied the corresponding seats on the 
 other side. In the body of the house there 
 were gathered twenty or thirty men and a larger 
 number of women. Few of these, however, 
 dressed distinctively as Friends. 
 
 The hush of perfect stillness pervaded the 
 great room, an inner stillness, not merely an 
 outer, it seemed ; into this silence Mary Heren- 
 dean felt her own spirit sink, as into its place 
 of rest. An inarticulate, but no less sensible vol- 
 ume of prayer and praise and adoration seemed 
 to her to rise from the assembly as the people sat 
 with bowed heads, motionless forms, and rapt 
 faces, silent, for the space of half an hour. 
 
 Then, not suddenly, but as naturally as if 
 the silence itself had found voice, Mary heard 
 her father pronounce the words : 
 107
 
 B 1din& jflower 
 
 " How sweet, how awful is the place, 
 
 With Christ within the doors, 
 
 While everlasting love displays 
 
 The choicest of her stores ! " 
 
 Then in few words, not with conscious elo- 
 quence or regard to oratorical effect, Moses 
 Herendean proceeded to interpret the pro- 
 found depths of spiritual meaning in the ' ' silent 
 waiting before God ' ' in which they had been 
 engaged. He admonished Friends to see to i. 
 that such sacred privilege was not by an} 
 means suffered to degenerate into a barren and 
 empty formalism, and to have the patience of 
 love toward those who might exclaim in dis- 
 couragement concerning this worship, "It is 
 high, I cannot attain unto it." 
 
 He took his seat, and again the same hush 
 fell upon the worshipers, intensified perhaps 
 by the direction thus briefly given their 
 thoughts. Outside, the roar of the city and 
 the great waves of the world's life surged on 
 hoarse and harsh, but they entered not into 
 this still seclusion, even if distinct to the bodily 
 ear in the unbroken silence. Then there was 
 a little motion on the second of the raised 
 seats, a woman who had sat until now with down- 
 cast eyes and a face like the face of an angel 
 in its pure repose, quietly removed the stiff 
 gray bonnet from her head, exposing the soft 
 1 08
 
 B lUinD flower 
 
 parted hair under the spotless Quaker cap, 
 handed her bonnet without turning her head 
 to the Friend who sat by her side, and thus 
 uncovered knelt in prayer. 
 
 Immediately the scattered company arose, 
 each in his own place, and stood with heads 
 devoutly bent, while the tremulous voice in its 
 peculiar chanting cadence rose through the 
 silence. The thought expressed was simple 
 and sincere, though vague ; the language 
 strikingly biblical ; and at its close the prayer 
 suddenly soared upward in a burst of aspira- 
 tion singularly moving. The company was 
 again seated, and after a few moments more of 
 silence Moses Herendean, turning toward 
 Phoebe Anthony with grave greeting, shook 
 hands formally with her and the meeting for 
 worship was closed. There was a little stir and 
 murmur, but most of the worshipers kept their 
 seats. The grizzled sexton now appeared and, 
 with some little rattle which smote sharply on 
 ears accustomed to the silence, drew up from 
 the dividing line a movable partition not unlike 
 a broad Venetian blind, which effectually sepa- 
 rated the men's meeting from the women's, 
 and which was the signal for both bodies to go 
 into the business session which distinguished 
 the monthly or quarterly meeting. 
 
 It was one o'clock when the business session 
 109
 
 flower 
 
 closed, and Moses Herendean having gathered 
 up a little company of country visitors for din- 
 ner, after the old-fashioned Quaker habit of 
 hospitality, put them into his carriage which 
 had waited long in the yard, and himself 
 started to walk home with his daughter. 
 
 " The Ensigns," he explained to Mary, when 
 he had closed the carriage door with his stately 
 old-time courtesy, " wish to pay a visit over on 
 the west side before dinner, as they leave town 
 shortly after. I have given Simeon directions 
 where to drive them." 
 
 Moses Herendean had recovered from his 
 lameness, save for a slight weakness in the in- 
 jured leg, and walked firmly, though slowly, 
 with the aid of a heavy cane. As he and 
 Mary passed down the busy street many eyes 
 followed them the fine, erect old man, with 
 the striking nobility of his clean, clear face, 
 and with his broad-brimmed hat and long, 
 quaintly fashioned coat ; the girl beside him 
 in the fullness of her youth and womanly 
 beauty, with her grave, sweet harmony of look. 
 Mary Herendean' s dress was quiet but taste- 
 ful, and the little dark velvet bonnet tied 
 closely over her bright hair gave a fine natural 
 contour to her head, strikingly unlike the pa- 
 goda effect of the fashionable headgear preva- 
 lent. 
 
 no
 
 a TKfltnD fflower 
 
 "We had a good meeting, Mary," said the 
 Friend, as they walked on. "I have seldom 
 experienced more sensibly the Divine presence, 
 even in the old days when the strength of num- 
 bers was ours. There was a sweet covering 
 over us, even from the first. ' ' 
 
 "I felt it, father." 
 
 As she spoke, Mary was suddenly aware, 
 with a strangely perturbed sensation, that the 
 man approaching them in pronounced clerical 
 garb was Father Norman. She had not seen 
 him since he left Whippany in the summer. 
 In another moment they had met face to face, 
 and Norman had removed his hat and stood 
 aside with an expression of profound respect as 
 the two passed him gravely returning his salu- 
 tation. But the old man's hand trembled 
 upon his stick, and Mary felt her own inner 
 excitement augmented by a swift, startled con- 
 sciousness which she had noted in Francis 
 Norman's face when he first caught sight of 
 them. 
 
 "There is the man who is robbing me of 
 my child, the child of my old age," said Moses 
 Herendean quietly, but with evident feeling, 
 as they walked on. 
 
 ' ' Father, ' ' said Mary timidly, ' ' I almost 
 fancy thee is mistaken in thinking that. Eunice 
 told me yesterday that she had never spoken to 
 in
 
 jflower 
 
 Francis Norman since we saw him in Whippany. 
 She does not think he even knows that she 
 attends his church." 
 
 "Is it so? " asked the gentle old man in a 
 milder tone ; " then some other influence is at 
 work. ' ' 
 
 "The same, I think, that is at work every- 
 where." said Mary thoughtfully, "the time- 
 spirit. Friends are not in accord with it ; but 
 whether they are strong enough to stand against 
 
 it It is a noisy spirit, father dear, and 
 
 silence it will none of," and Mary smiled. 
 
 " I have had great searchings of heart since 
 First Day," her father answered; " thee 
 knows I was under a deep exercise of spirit 
 that day, and could not find it in my heart to 
 submit to the turning away from us of the 
 child," and his voice trembled slightly. "But 
 I have been led out into a larger place, Mary, 
 in heart, and thy words are in accord with the 
 views which have been given me." 
 
 Mary looked up quickly, and with swift, un- 
 speakable sympathy into the beautiful old face 
 of her father. 
 
 "I have been led to see," Moses Heren- 
 dean continued, in a firmer tone, while his look 
 was yet profoundly sad, "that there is a cer- 
 tain rhythmic ebb and flow in the great spirit- 
 ual movements among men. There is a wave 
 112
 
 a Timing flower 
 
 of doubt, it may chance, then a wave of ex- 
 cessive and evil formalism, then a sudden high 
 tide of religious sensitiveness and an abasement 
 and abnegation of self before God perhaps 
 sweeping through a nation even ; then this too 
 passes, and for a time, it may be, men will see 
 only the sullen sea of materialism and spiritual 
 deadness. Often too, the same cycle of 
 changes comes in the individual life as in hu- 
 manity at large, and who can let or hinder ? ' ' 
 
 Mary listened reverently. 
 
 "But let us not doubt, Mary," Moses 
 Herendean continued, with a sudden light in 
 his eyes, and a new elevation in his look, "or 
 dream that our God has forgotten to be 
 gracious ! What has been, shall return as 
 before. Our system may ' have its day and 
 cease to be,' but what then? There is a spirit 
 in man and the Almighty giveth it understand- 
 ing. There may be other manifestations, and 
 the self-same spirit. What are we, to cling to 
 our place and name ? If we pass, and our 
 message is again needed, God, who aforetime 
 spake by the mouth of his prophets, can raise 
 up new prophets who shall cry aloud and spare 
 not, until the foolish and disobedient turn 
 again from folly and purge themselves from 
 dead works to serve the living God. He 
 will not leave himself without a witness. The 
 H 113
 
 B "GCUnO Jflower 
 
 Inner Light shall lighten every man that com- 
 eth into the world. ' ' 
 
 He paused, and they walked on in silence 
 a little space, when, turning to his daughter 
 with a smile exquisitely benign, the old man 
 added : 
 
 ' ' Therefore will we not fear. ' ' 
 
 Then Mary knew that there would be no 
 further heart-burnings as regarded the lapse of 
 Eunice from their inherited faith, and she 
 knew the way by which her father had reached 
 the large-minded patience and sweetness with 
 which he was thereafter to treat his child. 
 
 114
 
 XV 
 
 on that Wednesday 
 morning, Eunice Herendean had 
 betaken herself with a fixed purpose 
 to the service at St. Cuthbert's, which was 
 held at the same hour as the Friends' meeting 
 in Barclay Street. 
 
 She was not without some hesitation in fol- 
 lowing out the course she had prescribed for 
 herself, which, in her quiet and uneventful 
 life seemed little less than revolutionary ; and 
 the old words, " Be bold, Be bold, and every- 
 where Be bold," seemed to beat in her ears 
 like blows on a drum, all the way as she 
 walked down to Minster Street. Arrived in 
 the church she stood irresolute in its still, 
 echoing spaces, for not more than a score of 
 persons were gathered at this hour, and 
 scanned the number of these narrowly. 
 
 She soon discovered Miss Archibald in her 
 distant pew, and walked with some diffidence 
 down the long aisle alone, and presented her- 
 self with a timid, questioning smile at the little 
 lady' s left elbow. Miss Archibald quickly and 
 cordially made space for her at her side, and 
 "5
 
 B TldinD fflower 
 
 patted her cold hand with many reassuring 
 smiles. 
 
 "You're almost getting to be one of us, 
 aren' t you ? ' ' she whispered very loud, and 
 greatly to Eunice's discomfiture; "that's 
 right. Just come right along. ' ' 
 
 At the conclusion of the service which some 
 way affected Eunice strangely, given in the 
 nearly empty church, without music and with 
 the strange hollow echoes following Father 
 Norman's voice, she walked out with Miss 
 Archibald in silence, although with now and 
 then the beginning of a question on her lips 
 which died away unspoken by reason of her 
 timidity. Finally, when they had passed out 
 into the vestibule she took heart of grace and 
 seeing her last chance to carry out her intent 
 for that day about to close, for Miss Archibald 
 had begun to cock her head for an affable 
 good-morning, she said hastily, though with 
 hesitation : 
 
 "Do you think, Miss Archibald could I 
 do you suppose see Mr. Norman just for a 
 moment ? ' ' 
 
 Miss Archibald's bright eyes twinkled in 
 keen surprise, but she smiled almost affection- 
 ately as she replied : 
 
 "Why, bless me, yes, child! Of course 
 you can see Father Norman, if you can catch 
 116
 
 B 1idtn& fflower 
 
 him when he isn't busy. It is hard to do that 
 sometimes." 
 
 Eunice waited with a beating heart as Miss 
 Archibald consulted her watch and said : 
 
 " It is not twelve yet, and if you will go 
 with me right off now into the school next 
 door, you know, I shouldn't wonder if we 
 would find him there. He gives a lecture to 
 the scholars I know at twelve, and he may be 
 able to spare you a few minutes," and without 
 waiting for further discussion, Miss Archibald 
 led the way out to the street, and past the 
 church to the parish house, a long row of brick 
 buildings adjoining. 
 
 They entered a bare and somewhat cheer- 
 less corridor, at the left of which wide folding 
 doors stood open into a reception room of a 
 stiff and official character. Motioning Eunice 
 to enter this room, which she did with a physi- 
 cal trembling, as if it had been an operating 
 room in a hospital, Miss Archibald fluttered 
 nervously upon the threshold turning her head 
 with swift motions to look now up and then 
 down the corridor in search of some one who 
 looked willing to be interrupted by a commis- 
 sion. 
 
 " I guess maybe I'd better go out and ring 
 that bell," she began to say, when a middle- 
 aged woman, in the black garb of the sister- 
 117
 
 B "WHtnO jflowet 
 
 hood attached to St. Cuthbert's approached 
 her, and asked with a somewhat severe civility 
 if she wanted anything. 
 
 "Oh, if you please, Sister Agatha " said 
 Miss Archibald, "this is Sister Agatha, isn't 
 it? I know you, if you don't know me Miss 
 Archibald," whereupon Sister Agatha bowed, 
 but did not relax the formidable seriousness of 
 her countenance, "Would you, could you, 
 don't you know, if it isn't putting you out too 
 much see if Father Norman could come 
 down and let me speak with him a moment? " 
 
 " I do not know whether he has come in 
 yet," replied the other briefly ; "I will see," 
 and she turned and went slowly up the stairs ; 
 Miss Archibald thereupon rejoined Eunice, 
 who now most devoutly repented her of her 
 undertaking, the motives for which seemed sud- 
 denly to have been frozen to death by the atmos- 
 phere around her. So the girl sat, frightened 
 and sick at heart, with drooping eyes and nerv- 
 ous hands, when suddenly the tall figure of 
 Francis Norman stood in the doorway, and, 
 not seeing Eunice, advanced to meet Miss 
 Archibald, who had risen with all her little fur- 
 belows in a flutter, a book held in his hand 
 his place marked by one finger his look grave 
 and preoccupied, his step hasty. 
 
 The manner in which Father Norman re- 
 118
 
 flower 
 
 ceived Miss Archibald, while very courteous, 
 seemed to Eunice to say distinctly that he 
 hoped she would make her errand as brief as 
 possible, when suddenly, caught unawares, his 
 eyes lighting upon her own chilled and un- 
 happy little person, an extraordinary change 
 came into his face, and to the girl' s amazement 
 he approached and spoke to her with a face 
 fairly transformed by sudden and irrepressible 
 pleasure ; his eyes for a moment seemed to flood 
 her own with their light. 
 
 It passed and his face regained its impassive 
 listening expression, but Eunice had received a 
 new thought into her heart, which was destined 
 to have its working. She had long since fallen 
 into the ranks of Father Norman's adorers. 
 
 "It is I who wanted to speak with you," 
 she said rising with a sudden influx of warmth 
 and confidence, and holding out her hand, 
 which Father Norman clasped cordially ; ' ' Miss 
 Archibald was so very kind as to come here 
 with me, for I should not have known at all 
 how to find you, or anything," she added in 
 her childish, unstudied fashion, "if she had 
 not helped me." 
 
 Father Norman bowed his appreciation of 
 
 Miss Archibald's amiable intervention, and the 
 
 little lady, hardly knowing whether her cue 
 
 was to withdraw or remain, began a series of 
 
 119
 
 fflowcr 
 
 indefinite, birdlike movements which resulted 
 in a gradual approach to the open door, and 
 rinding that this tendency to depart met with 
 no opposition from either Eunice or Father 
 Norman, she presently bowed herself out, and 
 went on her way, leaving the proprieties to be 
 cared for by a typewriter who was at work in 
 the room hard by. 
 
 Father Norman meanwhile had looked into 
 Eunice's still colorless face with a question 
 unspoken on his lips, when she asked, ' ' Am I 
 taking you away from what you have to do ? 
 Please send me away if I am troublesome." 
 
 "You are not troublesome," he said gently, 
 and laying a small, curiously chased watch on 
 the palm of his hand he added, "I have just 
 ten minutes before my lecture. Now tell me 
 if there is anything I can do for you, Eunice 
 Herendean," and he smiled as he spoke her 
 name thus, and said : "Your family at Whip- 
 pany infected me with your own beautiful 
 habit of speech, and it seems impossible to 
 use the term in speaking of you that I should 
 of others. ' ' 
 
 The emphasis on the last word seemed to 
 place Eunice and her kin on an indefinitely 
 higher plane than the rest of society, and re- 
 newed her courage sensibly. Perhaps, then, 
 she was somebody, after all. 
 120
 
 a "QCiinfc flower 
 
 " Is there anyway," she began, lifting hex 
 dark, serious eyes to his, ' ' that any one like me, 
 who is not really a Friend any more at heart, 
 and they know it, Friends do, and are not nice 
 about it," she went on confusedly, but still 
 making her meaning clear, " any way that a 
 person like that can stop being a Friend and 
 become one of your church?" and Eunice's 
 voice sank lower, as if she almost feared to hear 
 herself pronounce the last words. 
 
 " There is away," Father Norman answered 
 steadily. There was a strange conflict of feel- 
 ing going on within him, by no means betrayed 
 by his quiet words. At first, as soon as he had 
 perceived the nature of Eunice's errand, a deep 
 reluctance to conform to it had risen within 
 him. 
 
 Ever since he had left her at Whippany, 
 moved by motives which she was farthest from 
 suspecting, Francis Norman had held in his 
 heart as a possession unspeakably precious, the 
 image of the young Quaker girl in her Puritan 
 simplicity and quaint unworldliness. He had, 
 or thought he had, won such mastery over him- 
 self as to hold this thought of Eunice, not as 
 of a woman of flesh and blood and alluring 
 earthly sweetness, but as an ideal, a poetic 
 image, passion-pure, holy, and high. All the 
 poet in him was stirred into quickened life, and
 
 Zl TWUnD Slower 
 
 she became to his idealizing fancy as Beatrice 
 to Dante a being remote, detached from the 
 common desires of men. He found the Flor- 
 entine's words as if written of this nineteenth 
 century maiden and wondered : 
 
 How chanceth it 
 That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure ? 
 
 Again, she was "the lily maid," the shy, 
 white wild flower of his earlier fancy, but 
 always, in his thought, she was distinct from 
 all other women he knew, aloof and apart, 
 essentially by reason of the peculiar separa- 
 tion of her father's faith and her own. 
 Doctrinally, Maurice in hand, he could have 
 demolished Quakerism to his own satisfaction 
 at any time in half an hour as totally untena- 
 ble ; but to the artist and poet in him the em- 
 bodiment of Quakerism in Eunice Herendean 
 appealed convincingly. 
 
 Hence it was that, seeing the girl herself thus 
 unexpectedly before him, to his overmastering 
 joy, on the instant all the official proselyting 
 zeal of the priest was neutralized, and the first 
 instinctive response to the desire of Eunice on 
 Father Norman's part was a pang that by any 
 means she could become other than he had 
 known her. The thought which succeeded 
 this in his mind was not less natural but possi- 
 122
 
 Zl "WflinD jflower 
 
 bly it was even less in harmony with his priestly 
 character, for it set all his pulses into swifter 
 motion, and awoke a vague sweet dread in his 
 heart. It was the thought that if Eunice 
 should carry out her new desire into actual ful- 
 fillment, he should inevitably, in a way beyond 
 his own power to prevent, be brought fre- 
 quently into a personal and intimate relation 
 with her, that of the pastor to one of the chil- 
 dren of his charge. 
 
 "There is a way," he repeated, adding 
 slowly, "if you are quite sure, my child, that 
 such a course is along the line of your true and 
 earnest conviction. ' ' 
 
 "It is," Eunice answered with characteristic 
 brevity, being bred to the maxim, "Let your 
 yea be yea, and your nay, nay. ' ' 
 
 "There were some tracts," Father Norman 
 said, looking now with grave, untroubled di- 
 rectness into Eunice's eyes; "I asked some 
 one to give them to you when I left Whippany. 
 Have you been reading them ? " 
 
 "Yes. I think they are very strong," 
 Ennice replied naively. 
 
 " Very good. You have not a prayer book, 
 perhaps? " and he produced a small copy. 
 
 "Yes ; I have one, and I know it very well, 
 now, thank you. I have been coming to St. 
 
 Cuthbert's to church all the fall." 
 123
 
 ICUnfc fflower 
 
 Father Norman was greatly surprised. " If 
 you carry out such a plan as you have sug- 
 gested, Eunice Herendean," he said with a 
 touch of authority almost cold, "I must insist 
 that it shall be with the full consent of your 
 father, for whom I have the deepest rever- 
 ence." 
 
 ''I think my father will consent," said 
 Eunice with a little faltering in her voice. 
 
 Father Norman slipped his watch back into 
 its pocket and rose. 
 
 "There is not time now for us to give the 
 attention to this matter that it deserves. I will 
 send you by post certain papers suited to one 
 considering a step like this. If, after due thought 
 and prayer, you are fully convinced that ours 
 is the church of your choice, I shall of course 
 be glad to receive you into my confirmation 
 class. ' ' 
 
 "Thank you," said Eunice humbly, as she 
 walked toward the door. 
 
 Father Norman paused, and stood for a 
 moment, with bent head, considering. 
 
 "In that case," he began again thought- 
 fully, "I should wish to see you once before 
 you came in with the others, to examine more 
 particularly the grounds of your personal faith 
 and the reasons for your taking this step." 
 
 Eunice felt a renewed trembling, as she 
 124
 
 TSIlinO Slower 
 
 listened to these words, spoken with a search- 
 ing impressiveness which seemed to wither the 
 sudden growth of her motives and desires to 
 rubbish before her eyes. Father Norman 
 watched her steadily. 
 
 "You may, perhaps," he added, "need a 
 little more instruction in certain directions 
 than those do who have grown up in the 
 church. We will arrange it, then, if it is con- 
 venient to you," he proceeded, "that I will 
 receive you here in this room, which is at my 
 disposal for these purposes, a week from to- 
 day, at four o'clock. And I must ask you, 
 Eunice Herendean, to bring your sister with 
 you, or some other member of your family." 
 
 Eunice looked up quickly in surprise, doubt- 
 ing if she dared ask this of Mary. Father 
 Norman smiled slightly. 
 
 "I think Mary Herendean will come," he 
 said ; "I am sure she will if you convince her 
 that this is a matter of your conscience and 
 conviction," and with that he bade Eunice 
 good-morning, and hastened back to his recita- 
 tion room for the half-hour lecture he was to 
 give at noon. 
 
 At two o'clock, in her own home, Eunice 
 
 met her sister at the head of the stairs, as they 
 
 were going down to dinner. The hall below 
 
 appeared quite full of the monthly meeting 
 
 125
 
 a THHlno flower 
 
 guests, among whom Moses Herendean was 
 moving about with gracious hospitality. 
 
 Eunice had changed her walking clothes for 
 a house dress of shining white stuff, fashioned 
 with a plainness not exceeded by that of the 
 sedate Friends who had just passed down the 
 staircase, but which had about it an indefinable 
 elegance and grace of outline. 
 
 "Ah, love !" cried Mary, stopping to look 
 at Eunice with fond eyes, "I have not seen 
 her once since breakfast ! She has put on the 
 gown that makes her look like my little white 
 Una," and Mary lifted her sister's face be- 
 tween both her hands and kissed her forehead 
 lightly. "I used to call thee that before thee 
 went away to school. Does thee remember ? ' ' 
 
 Eunice remembered, and so, with their arms 
 around each other, the two hastened down to 
 greet their guests, Mary saying in an under- 
 tone on the way : "We met Francis Norman 
 on our way home from meeting. I cannot 
 think why he looked at us so oddly. ' ' 
 
 Eunice did not reply. 
 
 It was five o'clock, and the guests had all 
 departed, when Eunice was summoned to the 
 drawing room to receive Phoebe Anthony and 
 Deborah Longstreth, who had come in due 
 form as a committee, in pursuance of the 
 "mind of the monthly meeting." 
 126
 
 fflower 
 
 Mary Herendean was very anxious, and a 
 tremulous sigh escaped her lips as she followed 
 Eunice into the room where the two women 
 waited for them ; but Eunice's manner and 
 bearing were quiet and confident. She re- 
 ceived her visitors with demure self-possession, 
 modest, but unabashed, and Mary marveled at 
 the courage of the child. 
 
 Phoebe Anthony bore herself with a certain 
 military stiffness and solemnity ; Deborah 
 Longstreth, who was a woman of a different 
 strain and knew the motherless girls better, 
 was affectionate and kept up a kind of apolo- 
 getic purring which evidently displeased her 
 senior. 
 
 After a few remarks of a wide and general 
 nature, Phoebe Anthony said pointedly : 
 
 ' ' It has come to the knowledge of Friends, 
 Eunice, that thee has been in attendance 
 considerably of late, at a certain place of 
 worship in Minster Street, known as the Church 
 of St. Cuthbert," a name which the good 
 woman pronounced with marked distaste. 
 
 Eunice had moved forward a little in her 
 chair, and looked with cheerful assent into the 
 face of the elderly Friend. 
 
 "Yes, Phcebe Anthony," she replied re- 
 spectfully; "and I have been anxious to 
 signify to Friends as quickly as possible the 
 127
 
 B TDdinO Jflower 
 
 change in my views. I have given in my re- 
 quest to unite with St. Cuthbert's, and may I 
 ask thee to present my application to Friends 
 to drop my name ? ' ' 
 
 For a moment the two women sat aghast, 
 staring at the young girl who had so summarily 
 taken the matter out of their hands into her 
 own. There was nothing of impudence or 
 bravado in her speech or bearing ; she was 
 serious and gentle, but she held her own easily 
 before the somewhat emasculated arguments 
 which Phoebe Anthony still essayed to sum- 
 mon. The visitors rose and made the best of 
 their retreat, but Deborah Longstreth stopped 
 at the door and purred over Eunice a little 
 more and, kissing her after a motherly fashion, 
 whispered with confidential indulgence, "that 
 perhaps it would have been better if she 
 had gone to St. Peter's ; it was pretty high 
 church at St. Cuthbert's, wasn't it?" and so 
 departed. 
 
 In the hall, Mary stood and looked in silent 
 wonder at Eunice. 
 
 ' ' I did not dream things had gone so far, ' ' 
 she said slowly. 
 
 ' ' They wouldn' t have if those women had 
 
 let me alone, Mary," replied Eunice. "I 
 
 had to settle them some way, thee sees. They 
 
 forced me to bring the whole thing to a de- 
 
 128
 
 a "CCUnD Jflower 
 
 cision. Will father mind very much, does 
 thee think ? ' ' she asked anxiously. 
 
 " He will make no opposition, I know that," 
 Mary answered sadly. 
 
 "Dear, dear father," murmured Eunice 
 softly ; " I thought he wouldn't." 
 
 129
 
 XVI 
 
 INSTER STREET rises gradually from 
 the square near St. Cuthbert's 
 Church, and after a walk of ten 
 minutes one finds the faded but respectable 
 rows of its lower level giving place to digni- 
 fied detached mansions, the notably aristo- 
 cratic houses of Coalport twenty years ago. 
 It was such a house, separated by a massive 
 stone coping and bit of lawn from the street, 
 that Father Norman entered with a latchkey 
 at sunset of that same Wednesday afternoon. 
 
 The interior of the house, silent and dim, 
 had something of magnificence in its stately 
 richness, although its appointments spoke 
 plainly of the taste of an earlier day. But 
 the fine old portraits on the walls, the hand- 
 some tapestries, the stately staircase, the nota- 
 ble carvings of the furniture, possessed the 
 intrinsic quality which neither age nor custom 
 can disparage. 
 
 Father Norman passed through the hall, 
 
 stopping for a moment to tell a man-servant, 
 
 who appeared to have been watching for him, 
 
 that he was to go out to dinner ; ascended the 
 
 130
 
 fflowet 
 
 stairs to the second story, which was silent and 
 empty, as he had found the rooms below. A 
 central gallery gave access to many luxuriously 
 appointed chambers ; but, taking a narrow 
 passage at the extreme end, Norman found 
 his way to a small room with one window 
 overlooking the garden at the rear of the 
 house. 
 
 The floor of this room was bare ; a single 
 light burned upon a desk, above which hung a 
 crucifix, the same which had hung in the room 
 at the Whippany Inn. A porcelain reproduc- 
 tion of Murillo's St. Anthony receiving the 
 infant Christ, was the sole ornament of the 
 room, which had for its furnishings a lining of 
 crowded bookcases around the walls, a narrow 
 iron bed, a Savonarola chair, and a prie-dieu. 
 
 Laying his shovel hat and greatcoat aside, 
 Father Norman seated himself at his desk, laid 
 a memorandum book open before him, and 
 occupied himself for twenty minutes in copy- 
 ing certain notes from it into a larger book of 
 the same nature. His motions were firm, 
 quick, and definite, those of a man of energy 
 and purpose, working clearly and pointedly on 
 familiar ground, but when the process of copy- 
 ing and filling out his parish notes was accom- 
 plished, a certain change came over the man, 
 both in his face and in the expression of his
 
 fftower 
 
 attitude. His head rested upon one hand, 
 and in his eyes a musing, brooding dreaminess 
 became dominant. 
 
 He sat thus, motionless for several moments, 
 with something like a smile on his mouth, and 
 then suddenly he rose and locked his door ; 
 then returning to his desk he opened a low 
 drawer and from it took a sheet of common 
 water-color board which bore a hasty and half- 
 finished sketch. Father Norman placed this 
 sketch upon his desk, beneath the drop-light, 
 then stepping back a pace or two he regarded 
 it steadily, with critical scrutiny in which some 
 emotional element was curiously mingled. 
 The sketch showed a dark-haired girl in a 
 white dress of straight, severe outline, passing 
 through a dusky wood, where the trees were 
 like the tall columns of a cathedral. The girl 
 held her hands clasped and dropped before 
 her, her head was lifted on its slender, stem- 
 like throat, the eyes were startled, large, and 
 dark, like the eyes of a fawn. The foreground 
 had been roughly washed-in, the detail was 
 incomplete, but on the margin below, in Father 
 Norman's handwriting, were the lines : 
 
 " Thou mystic spirit of the wood, 
 
 Why that ethereal grace that seems 
 A vision of our actual good, 
 
 Linked with the land of dreams? " 
 I 3 2
 
 a Wind Slower 
 
 The lonely man hung long over this picture, 
 which, for all its marks of haste and incom- 
 pleteness, bore the signal impress of artistic 
 grace and poetic conception. As he looked, 
 his face relaxed its wonted grave austerity, old 
 lines seemed lost, and new and gentler looks 
 came out as if from some deep, unguessed 
 springs of consciousness. Then, with swift 
 recollection, the half-smile died from his face, 
 the sketch was hastily replaced among old 
 papers in the drawer and locked away again, 
 but the hands that touched it did so with 
 reverent tenderness. 
 
 Seven o'clock found the rector of St. Cuth- 
 bert's one of a dinner company of twelve at 
 the new and splendid residence of Mr. Horatio 
 Barringer. 
 
 This function was of high significance, eccle- 
 siastic as well as social, for the guest of honor 
 was no less a person than the newly elected 
 bishop, who was passing through Coalport on 
 a pastoral visitation to the western part of the 
 diocese, and had been waylaid and captured 
 after no little finessing by Mrs. Barringer, who 
 was distantly related to his wife. 
 
 While Mrs. Barringer had conducted the 
 
 movements resulting in the visible victory of 
 
 the evening's event, it was her elder daughter 
 
 Florence who had seen the opportunity, its 
 
 '33
 
 jflowet 
 
 significance and possibility, and whose initia- 
 tive her mother had readily followed. The re- 
 lation between the late bishop and the rector 
 of St. Cuthbert's had become considerably 
 strained in consequence of the latter' s ritual- 
 istic bent, which was regarded by his superior 
 as excessive and undesirable, and likely to lead 
 to various difficulties and to issues greatly to 
 be deprecated. So pronounced had this feel- 
 ing become that the year before he died the 
 bishop had refused his annual visitation to the 
 church of St. Cuthbert's, and Father Norman's 
 position had been embarrassing in the extreme. 
 It had become a matter of prime importance, 
 as Florence Barringer, who had not a little 
 statesmanship, clearly saw, to capture the new 
 bishop in two senses as speedily as possible, 
 before steps were taken which could not be re- 
 traced. Hence this dinner, where it well be- 
 hooved Father Norman to make the best of 
 his opportunities and establish himself be- 
 times in his bishop's favor. 
 
 The occasion was a brilliant one. The great 
 dining room was a marvel of chaste and har- 
 monious splendor, radiant with softly tinted 
 lights, with exquisite flowers, and sumptuous 
 service fit for a bishop or a palace. The 
 bishop was suave and gracious, a man of beau- 
 tiful, flexible dignity, and a capital raconteur. 
 '34
 
 21 ICltnJ) Jflower 
 
 The host and hostess rejoiced in their high 
 privilege, which reached a series of climaxes 
 when the bishop from time to time would find 
 occasion to say, "You know, Mrs. Barringer, 
 Matilda always says," or Matilda does, or 
 desires, or whatever else of a desirable nature 
 might be found to link the present glory to the 
 somewhat modest past through the person of 
 Matilda, wife of the bishop and third cousin 
 of Mrs. Barringer. 
 
 Grace Barringer, as younger daughter, was 
 modest and sweet in the most recherche version 
 of white muslin and ribbons attainable, but 
 her sister Florence wore a Worth gown of satin 
 and lace, and was as stately and beautiful as 
 some court lady in the splendid days of the 
 Renaissance. Father Norman had never seen 
 her when her beauty and grace were so con- 
 vincing and even dazzling, and when she spoke 
 to him the triumphant brilliancy of her eyes 
 and smile were softened, and she walked beside 
 him into the dining room with a gentle, linger- 
 ing step, and a touch upon his arm which said 
 that to him she was after all "a soft, sweet 
 woman," and not a. grand e dame. 
 
 As for Norman himself, it had apparently 
 
 not entered into his heart to conceive that this 
 
 was his chance to capture the bishop ; but the 
 
 thing which he might have failed to do of set 
 
 135
 
 a TIDUnO Jtowec 
 
 purpose or design, befell as in the very nature 
 of things, simply from the personality of the 
 two men. 
 
 The distinction of Norman's person and 
 manner, the refinement of his mind and 
 speech, the unmistakable spiritual elevation 
 which visibly dwelt in him, united with his 
 highly developed poetic and artistic nature to 
 draw all men like-minded irresistibly to him. 
 The bishop, who had been warned of the rec- 
 tor of St. Cuthbert's as a somewhat dangerous 
 and troublesome factor to be dealt with in the 
 problems of his diocese, was disarmed at once 
 when he met and talked with the man. He 
 compared him instantly with the typical parish 
 priest, with the plodding, mechanical, unillu- 
 minated routine men he had met hitherto, and 
 his perception, keener than that of his prede- 
 cessor, leaped at once to the prestige which a 
 man like Norman conferred upon his diocese. 
 And besides, the ritualists were bound to get 
 the best of it in the next ten years ; they were 
 on the incoming wave which would soon be at 
 its flood in this country, as it was in England. 
 Norman might have the fever a little intensely, 
 but it was not dangerous. Let him hear con- 
 fessions if he liked. 
 
 The bishop excused himself early, but not 
 before, in a few casual words, quite as a matter 
 1*6
 
 B lUinO tf lower 
 
 of course, he had fixed the date of his visita- 
 tion of St. Cuthbert's with Norman. Florence 
 Barringer heard what he said. After this he 
 might go, as far as she was concerned. He 
 had come, had seen, and she had conquered. 
 She turned to Norman with eyes radiant with 
 triumph, the bishop being gone, and held out 
 both her white hands in joyous congratulation. 
 His manner was perfectly quiet, without ex- 
 citement or elation, but he met her enthusi- 
 asm with his rare, cordial smile, which said 
 more than other men's raptures, she fancied. 
 
 "You have won," she said under her 
 breath, ' ' and oh, I cannot tell you how 
 happy I am ! " 
 
 Father Norman bowed a slightly formal ac- 
 knowledgment. There came a faintly per- 
 ceptible anxiety into Miss Barringer' s face. 
 
 ' ' I wanted to bring this about if it were 
 possible, in time, you know." 
 
 "You have been everything that is kind," 
 was Father Norman's reply ; "it is altogether 
 your doing, Miss Barringer," and at her mo- 
 tion he led the way to a window niche where, 
 in the shadow of some tall ferns, they sat down 
 together to discuss the event, and all that hung 
 upon it. 
 
 Tom Ripley meantime had dropped in and 
 was talking with Grace Barringer, not having
 
 B TlHltnD flower 
 
 heard, ne said, of the evening's function, 
 which had been quite impromptu. 
 
 ' ' Ah, you may say so ! " protested Grace, 
 "but I do not believe you. You know by 
 instinct where Father Norman is to be found ; 
 you follow him, just as a bit of steel is drawn 
 to a magnet. ' ' 
 
 "Then here goes," was the laughing an- 
 swer, and the young fellow started to cross the 
 room. 
 
 ' ' Tom, ' ' whispered Grace laughing, and 
 touching his sleeve, "for mercy's sake keep 
 yourself out of Father Norman's sight ! If he 
 sees you he will be given over to all the de- 
 vices and desires of the parish again. Can't 
 you let him alone five minutes ? Look at Flo. 
 Isn' t she in the seventh heaven ? She has 
 him all to herself, and his mood must surely 
 be melting in a degree after all she has done 
 for him. Or do you suppose he doesn't know 
 it ? His head is always so high above all our 
 poor little human considerations. Perhaps 
 he wanted to be made a martyr of, who 
 knows ? ' ' 
 
 "How absurd," returned Ripley ; "the 
 bishop is a brick, and I'm awfully glad, I tell 
 you ; but dear me, Grace, any bishop with half 
 an eye would try to conciliate Father Norman. 
 There is not his equal in this State, if there is 
 138
 
 flower 
 
 in the country, and I'll tell you I believe he is 
 going to revolutionize the church in the United 
 States, if you give him time. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, certainly, that is a very moderate ex- 
 pectation from you, Tom, I should think. 
 But isn't Flo royal to-night ? That gown posi- 
 tively marks an epoch. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Simply stunning. Where from ? ' ' 
 
 "Worth." 
 
 " I thought so. You tell her with my love 
 to continue to patronize him. She is magnifi- 
 cent nothing less. Ah, Mrs. Knight!" as 
 that lady joined Grace, "good-evening. I 
 am an unbidden guest, but Miss Grace has 
 taken pity on me, and lets me stay, since the 
 grand central luminary has set, so to speak. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Certainly, ' ' retorted Grace ; ' ' after sunset 
 the small, little twinkling stars, like Mr. Rip- 
 ley, come out, the satellites, you know, Mrs. 
 Knight, of our great lights," and she glanced 
 significantly across the room at Father Nor- 
 man, who had left his seat now, and was be- 
 ginning to look about vaguely for his hostess. 
 
 " Jupiter has risen, Tom," she added sau- 
 cily ; " begin to revolve. ' ' 
 
 When presently Father Norman joined the 
 group, and stood a little apart listening to 
 their conversation, with Miss Barringer by his 
 side, Mrs. Knight was saying : 
 139
 
 a "Gains Slower 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ripley, you always know people 
 and who their grandfathers were, and whom 
 their second cousins married ; I wonder if you 
 can' t tell me who the fair unknown is, whom 
 Mr. Knight and I have been speculating upon 
 since Sunday." 
 
 Tom Ripley bowed ceremoniously. ' ' I am 
 at your service, madam ; say on," he replied 
 with oracular brevity. 
 
 "Well, this girl, quite young, nineteen per- 
 haps, passed us first on the avenue. The 
 sweetest thing I ever saw" Mrs. Knight was 
 rapid and emphatic and given to enthusiasm 
 ' ' in gray ! ' ' 
 
 Tom Ripley closed one eye and put his head 
 on one side reflectively. "She was beautifully 
 dressed, Mr. Ripley. I know you are a judge, 
 and therefore mention this little fact. Her 
 style was severe, and really rather exquisite, 
 and altogether she had a quite unusual dis- 
 tinction, don't you know?" 
 
 Ripley nodded with an air of profound sagac- 
 ity, and as one whose general informedness 
 would not be found wanting. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I forgot her eyes ! " Mrs. Knight 
 interjected hastily ; "big, dark, pathetic, spiri- 
 tuelle .' Mr. Knight declares they haunt him. 
 I am more interested to know who is her dress- 
 maker. Well, all this wouldn't matter, bul 
 140
 
 H TJCUn& fflower 
 
 you see, afterward when we were at church, 
 in she came and sat with Miss Archibald, not 
 far from us, you know, and acted as if she had 
 always been there ; but I never saw her before. 
 Now who can she be ? " 
 
 "There is no particular mystery about it, 
 Mrs. Knight," remarked Florence Barringer, 
 from her place beside Father Norman. Her 
 tone was peculiarly cold, even slighting. "I 
 am sorry to demolish your little romance, but 
 you must mean a Miss Herendean, who lives 
 out beyond you on Willow Street. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, the little Quaker girl," commented 
 Tom Ripley, with languid surprise and obvious 
 loss of interest ; "I did not recognize your de- 
 scription. " 
 
 "Willow Street!" cried Mrs. Knight with 
 a circumflex accent, evidently disappointed ; 
 ' ' not a stranger in Coalport, then ? ' ' 
 
 " Not at all," said Miss Barringer carelessly ; 
 ' ' and really she is not anybody in particular 
 as far as I have ever heard, is she, Tom ? It 
 is rather odd too, her coming to our church, 
 for they are a Quaker family." 
 
 " Dear, dear," and Mrs. Knight sighed, " to 
 think that I must tell my husband that our 
 beautiful gray inconnue is a nobody after all ! " 
 
 " Nobody, perhaps, to those who do not 
 know her, Mrs. Knight, but not wholly desti- 
 141
 
 B TOatno Slower 
 
 tute of distinction to those who do. Do not 
 be too deeply disappointed." 
 
 It was Father Norman who said these words, 
 with a touch of grave irony. His voice and 
 manner were, as usual, quiet, courteous, re- 
 served, giving the impression of one who was 
 but a spectator in other men's matters; but 
 Florence Barringer, standing at his side, 
 glanced up into his face and noted the un- 
 wonted kindling of his eyes with an intuitive 
 sense of dismay. 
 
 What availed the conquest of a bishop? 
 What the rescue of his own cause ? To what 
 purpose the lustre and brilliancy of to-night's 
 high feast? 
 
 Cold at her heart she knew, although how 
 she could not tell, that her own cause was lost 
 
 142
 
 XVII 
 
 \T was between the hours of four and 
 five on the following Wednesday. 
 Mary and Eunice Herendean were 
 seated with Father Norman beside a table in 
 a reception room at the parish house of St. 
 Cuthbert's, and the doors were shut. The 
 table was covered with books and pamphlets, 
 to which the clergyman occasionally referred 
 as he set forth to his catechumen the tenets 
 and theories of the church. Eunice sat before 
 him, her hands clasped in her lap, looking 
 steadfastly into his face as he spoke. Her sister 
 was seated on the other side of the table, and 
 removed from it a short distance. 
 
 Father Norman as he spoke and questioned 
 looked into the face of Eunice searchingly but 
 kindly, and from time to time his grave face 
 relaxed into a smile of gentleness and en- 
 couragement. Mary he seemed hardly to have 
 observed, after having welcomed her with due 
 courtesy on her coming. Now, however, as 
 he passed on from minor matters to the cardi- 
 nal doctrines of his system, Father Norman's 
 own profound reverence of nature, and his 
 143
 
 21 < Wflin& fflower 
 
 high sense of the mystic sacredness of the su- 
 preme rites into which it was his duty to indoc- 
 trinate his pupil, dominated his manner, his 
 looks, and even the tones of his voice. He 
 spoke in lower tones, with deeper emphasis, 
 and with more authority ; his face was grave, 
 even to solemnity, his manner marked by sup- 
 pressed intensity of feeling. 
 
 Eunice watched and listened with bated 
 breath and childlike awe, and bowed her head 
 meek and acquiescent as he said : " This doc- 
 trine of the Real, objective Presence in the 
 eucharistic sacrifice is the very center and 
 core of our ritual and our faith. Understand 
 me ; under the forms of bread and wine, the 
 priest really offers upon the altar the holy Body 
 and Blood of our Lord in perpetual sacrifice to 
 God. This it is which continues to men the 
 benefits procured upon the cross. So, my 
 child, the sacrifice of the cross and the sacri- 
 fice of the mass are one, and " 
 
 At this moment Father Norman was inter- 
 rupted by a sudden, hasty movement on the 
 part of Mary Herendean. She had risen from 
 her chair ; a glance at her face showed that 
 every vestige of color had left it, while the 
 light in her eyes was concentrated into some- 
 thing like white fire. She did not speak, but 
 passed rapidly behind Eunice toward the door. 
 144
 
 H TiminD Jflowcr 
 
 When she reached the door Father Norman 
 was at her side, confronting her ; the hand 
 which she extended to open the door was 
 touched and turned aside by his hand, which 
 was laid quietly upon the knob. Mary Heren- 
 dean's hand fell by her side, and she trembled 
 as she stood, from head to foot. 
 
 "I wish you to let me go, Francis Nor- 
 man," she said in a low voice, inaudible to 
 Eunice ; " I cannot stay to hear the things you 
 are teaching my little sister. I think you for- 
 get that we have been taught to believe that 
 our God is a Spirit, to be worshiped in spirit, 
 in truth." 
 
 Father Norman only looked very thought- 
 fully at Mary as she said this, without speak- 
 ing, realizing that he had to do with a nature 
 of profound moral earnestness. 
 
 "What you are saying is appalling, incredi- 
 ble. Worse, it is not true." Her voice sank 
 lower in the poignancy of her passionate in- 
 dignation. 
 
 Norman's face changed only by a shade of 
 pallor, its composure was unmoved. The mat- 
 ter in hand for him was not to convince Mary 
 Herendean's intellect, there was no time for 
 that, but to control her will and make it con- 
 form to his own. 
 
 ''Pardon me, I think your place is here, "
 
 a 'QCUn& fflowet 
 
 he said sternly. "Are you not acting under a 
 misapprehension? We are not here on ac- 
 count of your convictions, your belief or dis- 
 belief, Mary Herendean, but your sister's." 
 
 There was a pause in which the two faced 
 each other steadily, while a little color returned 
 to Mary's face, 
 
 "Since you perceive," Father Norman con- 
 tinued slowly, "as I am sure you do, the pur- 
 pose of your presence here more clearly, I am 
 sure you will not refuse to return to your place 
 with your sister," and he bowed with a motion 
 of his right hand toward her former place, 
 which was gentle, conciliatory even, and yet 
 the action of one who instinctively expected 
 obedience. 
 
 The tempest of passion and protest which 
 had swept through the girl's strong nature died 
 away under the steady, quiet mastery of Nor- 
 man's eyes and voice, but her conviction re- 
 mained unchanged. The fire in her eyes was 
 quenched with unshed tears, and her lips 
 trembled as she said : "I must yield, I see it 
 plainly. Yes, I will go back ; but I have told 
 you the truth, and some time the Spirit will 
 make even this clear to you." 
 
 With quiet dignity she returned to her place 
 and so sat without a motion or word through 
 the remainder of the interview, in which Eunice 
 146
 
 B < GCltn& Slower 
 
 acquitted herself with admirable docility and 
 teachableness. 
 
 The doctrine of transubstantiation had no 
 difficulties for her. 
 
 On their way home Eunice broke a long 
 silence, saying to Mary : "I don't know what 
 thee was so stirred up about, but I never saw 
 thee so angry in my life, except once when 
 Ralph beat Beppo. " 
 
 "Thee need except nothing, Eunice," Mary 
 said quickly ; "I never was so angry in my 
 life." 
 
 "Well, I'm afraid Father Norman will think 
 thee has the worst disposition in the world, 
 when thee really has the best, unless thee is 
 terribly provoked. Does thee remember his 
 coming in that night at Whippany, when thee 
 lost thy temper so about my going to the serv- 
 ice at Torridge ? ' ' 
 
 "It makes absolutely no difference, Eunice, 
 what Father Norman thinks of me," Mary re- 
 plied ; " but in fact he never does think of me 
 at all. I have never interested him in the 
 least." 
 
 " Thee has always opposed him, thee sees," 
 rejoined Eunice, "and he has seen thy worst 
 side and has had to make thee give up." 
 
 "No matter, Eunice ; please don't talk 
 about it anymore," said Mary hastily; but her
 
 fflowcr 
 
 cheeks had grown crimson, and there was an 
 expression in her eyes which Eunice did not 
 understand, and which she had never seen in 
 them before. 
 
 As they entered the house on their return, 
 Mary seeing letters lying on a tray on the hall 
 rack, took them up, and handing one to Eunice 
 said casually: "Another letter from Derby, 
 from Cousin Cynthia for thee. She is getting 
 to be a very devoted correspondent, isn't she? 
 I never fancied you two would have so much 
 in common," and Mary went on into the din- 
 ing room to give a housekeeper's glance at the 
 preparations for dinner. 
 
 Eunice, whose color had deepened while 
 Mary spoke, had taken her letter and now ran 
 lightly upstairs to her room, which she entered, 
 locking the door behind her. With quick, 
 eager motion she broke the seal of the envel- 
 ope, and drew out an enclosed letter directed 
 in Ralph Kidder's handwriting to herself. 
 This letter her eyes flew over with devouring 
 haste, while alternating expressions of delight 
 and disturbance passed over her face. 
 
 Ralph supposed, the letter said, that she 
 would shortly hear a new set of anathemas pro- 
 nounced upon his devoted head by her father, 
 if she had not already ; but she must be steady, 
 and let nothing frighten her. He had, it was 
 148
 
 Jflower 
 
 true, unintentionally overdrawn his account at 
 the First National Bank in Coalport, and he 
 found himself sufficiently embarrassed for the 
 moment, but it was a small matter, and would 
 be rectified shortly. 
 
 Possibly he had been a little extravagant, for 
 there never was such a place to spend money 
 without knowing it, as New York. If she had 
 only been there with him he would have 
 smothered her in red roses, no matter what 
 they cost, his beautiful little lady-love, and 
 made her music-mad as he was, with grand opera. 
 And wouldn't he have been quite right to do it? 
 etc., etc., at which turn the cloud passed from 
 Eunice's brow, and the sun came out again. 
 
 There was only time to read the letter once, 
 and that hastily, a letter which was well worth 
 a dozen readings, and then it must be hidden 
 well and wisely, while she donned her white 
 gown and hastened down to dinner with her 
 father and Mary. 
 
 Mary looked worn and dispirited at dinner, 
 and excused herself soon after it was over, and 
 went upstairs. An hour later she came down 
 with slow, quiet steps, and stood for a little 
 space at the open library door, looking in. 
 Her father was sitting in his great arm-chair be"- 
 fore the open fire, his profile sharply outlined 
 by the light of the red coals ; there was little 
 149
 
 B "WfltnO fflowcr 
 
 light besides in the room. At his feet on a low 
 stool sat Eunice, in her lustrous white gown, her 
 head resting against her father's knee in a pen- 
 sive, drooping fashion. The old man's slen- 
 der, delicate hand was laid upon the girl's head. 
 They were not speaking, but they were together 
 in spirit, and a tender peace rested in Moses 
 Herendean's brooding eyes. 
 
 Mary watched them for a moment, and her 
 eyes filled with tears ; then she turned away, a 
 pang unspeakable at her heart. 
 
 How lovely Eunice was ; how her father's 
 heart delighted in her; and yet just now she 
 had betrayed all of spiritual integrity for which 
 he had lived and would gladly have died ; she 
 had sold her birthright without so much as a 
 sigh or word of misgiving, and she could return 
 and sit at his feet in that pure peace, uncon- 
 scious and undisturbed. 
 
 If that had been all ! But it was enough 
 for Mary Herendean that night. 
 
 In his room in the Minster Street mansion, 
 on that same night, Francis Norman kept a 
 long unbroken vigil. The interview of the af- 
 ternoon, with its varying effect upon the sisters, 
 had had a deeper working upon him, stirring 
 within him keen questionings to be met through 
 the long hours of the night on his knees with 
 prayer and penance. 
 
 150
 
 a TJdinJ) fflower 
 
 The words of Mary Herendean, swift and 
 piercing, had aroused again that specter of 
 doubt which crouched ever at his door, ready 
 to spring upon him and close with his soul in 
 fierce encounter. She had stood before him 
 like an accusing angel, or like a stern Nemesis, 
 confronting him with the guilty misgivings of 
 his under consciousness that whisper sternly 
 rejected, yet never quite stilled, even in mo- 
 ments of highest exaltation in the performance 
 of his public duties. 
 
 But beside Mary Herendean, and not to be 
 divided from her in his thought, stood the 
 gentler figure of her young sister, never so en- 
 dearing as in this aspect of devout religious 
 dedication. Not to recall that clear face, with 
 its "paleness of the pearl," the soft, appeal- 
 ing eyes, the childlike mouth, the simple, un- 
 studied words, so far from the conventional 
 phraseology to which his ears were accus- 
 tomed ? to forget all that ? banish it from 
 his memory, cast out from his heart the lovely 
 vision was it in his mortal flesh to do this ? 
 
 The night wore on in its two-fold struggle. 
 When the dawn came Francis Norman, his face 
 gray and haggard, rose from his knees, took 
 from its place the sketch of Eunice Herendean 
 which he had made in the summer, and burned 
 it on his cold, unlighted hearth.
 
 B WinD fflower 
 
 The following afternoon found Father Nor- 
 man in " lower Coalport," going about among 
 the wretched tenements of the miners in pur- 
 suance of his pastoral labors. 
 
 Coming down from the garret abode of Mrs. 
 Ahern, the helpless and thriftless mother of a 
 small boy, Joey, whom he had recently discov- 
 ered as possessed of a wonderful voice, and 
 literally nothing else, Norman reached the 
 outer air of the dreary alley with his face pallid 
 from the odors of the place, and from an in- 
 ward sinking resulting from prolonged fasting 
 and his late vigil. 
 
 As he stood for an instant in the doorway, a 
 man who was passing at a swinging, resolute 
 gait, glanced at him, wheeled around abruptly, 
 and stopped short in front of him on the dirty, 
 broken pavement. 
 
 " Father Norman ! " he exclaimed. " Glad 
 to see you ; but you're looking badly. Going 
 home? All right," and Norman joining him, 
 they walked down the alley together. 
 
 This man, known as the Reverend James 
 Hope, a title to which Father Norman would 
 not, however, have admitted his claim, as he 
 was not of the Church, was a familiar figure in 
 this part of Coalport, having established here 
 a Christian work among the miners' families. 
 In person he was big and muscular, a robust, 
 152
 
 fflower 
 
 virile, thoroughly masculine man, who could 
 hold his own physically with any of the neigh- 
 borhood ruffians, as they very well knew ; but 
 in spirit he was gentle, winning, and devout. 
 Father Norman liked and respected Hope, and 
 the two, although working on widely different 
 lines, and with absolutely divergent ecclesias- 
 tical theories, not infrequently met and took 
 counsel together concerning the sorrows of the 
 very poor. 
 
 James Hope lived half a mile from the 
 Ahcrn tenement, and when the two men had 
 reached the house he said cordially : " Come 
 up and have some tea with me, Norman. It 
 would be a great pleasure to Mrs. Hope ; hon- 
 estly, it would do her all sorts of good. You 
 know she hardly ever sees people now." 
 
 Norman was glad to consent, and followed 
 Hope into a large, well-lighted room on the 
 ground floor, where a company of women and 
 girls were breaking up, evidently at the close of 
 a sewing-school. 
 
 ''It's the girls this afternoon," Hope re- 
 marked ; "boys to-night." 
 
 A pretty and graceful woman who was in 
 charge of the gathering glanced at him across 
 the room with a nod and smile. Hope tele- 
 graphed with signs to her that he was taking 
 Norman upstairs, and would expect her to fol- 
 153
 
 H imtnfc fflower 
 
 low ; she caught the message at once, and 
 nodded again with a slight flush of pleasure. 
 
 A few rooms upstairs were reserved for the 
 present use of the Hopes ; otherwise the house 
 was given up to the purposes of their neigh- 
 borhood work. These rooms were furnished 
 simply, but with refinement and artistic per- 
 ception and cozy comfort. There were excel- 
 lent prints, books in abundance, and a dainty 
 tea service stood ready for the afternoon re- 
 freshment. The difference between this place 
 and his own abode came instantly before Nor- 
 man's mind. Here the grace of a woman's 
 touch was everywhere, a touch which had 
 made a home in these dreary surroundings, 
 in these poor rooms. 
 
 Very soon Mrs. Hope came in and took her 
 place at the tea table, glad to see Father Nor- 
 man, whom she knew slightly, but gladder to 
 see her husband, as her eloquent eyes could 
 not fail to tell him. She made their tea so 
 quietly that Norman, though he was watching 
 her, did not see her do it, and was surprised to 
 find the big, thin blue cup in his hand, how he 
 hardly knew. Refreshed and enlivened by the 
 tea and bit of cake, Norman felt a new com- 
 fort and ease, and a vivid sense of pleasure in 
 the personality of his companions. How per- 
 fectly these two people suited one another 
 154
 
 fflower 
 
 how each could fill up what the other lacked 
 in the practical work of life ; how it kept a 
 man steady in purpose and happy at heart to 
 have such a presence and smile to return to, 
 and a veritable home, if it were only two 
 rooms over a public place ! 
 
 Meanwhile Hope, in his hearty fashion, was 
 talking on about the difficulties and encourage- 
 ments of the work, and proceeded to tell Nor- 
 man plainly that he believed more and more 
 that almsgiving was the wrong line to take with 
 these people. 
 
 "But, my dear fellow," said Norman smil- 
 ing, as he leaned lazily back in a very comfort- 
 able chair, "almsgiving is a Christian grace, 
 and it is absolutely necessary to the develop- 
 ment of our wealthy church-members. They 
 must give or die, don't you see ? " 
 
 " Then let them give to agencies which will 
 make these people self-dependent, give them 
 trades, the ability to work and earn their own 
 living. The helplessness of the girls in these 
 families is the worst factor of the whole prob- 
 lem. I tell you, Father Norman, many of 
 these rescue efforts are rose water to a man 
 mortally sick. We have got to go behind 
 these measures that only mend the results a 
 little and begin at the foundation." 
 
 Father Norman looked thoughtfully at Hope.
 
 a Idinfc jflowcr 
 
 The grace of charity had not come to him in 
 quite this rugged and severe outline. 
 
 " But surely no command is more plainly or 
 more frequently impressed in the New Testa- 
 ment than that of feeding the hungry, clothing 
 the poor, giving alms of such things as we pos- 
 sess," he returned. 
 
 " Very well, but different civilizations de- 
 mand different adjustments of this grace of 
 giving, and these are times that call for not 
 less bounty, but bounty otherwise applied. 
 Father Norman, it is not possible for you, off 
 there in Minster Street, with all the beauty 
 and aristocracy of the city around you, to 
 guess, even by coming down here once in a 
 while, what the temper of these people is, and 
 how real and appalling the dangers that are 
 deepening upon them, and through them upon 
 us." 
 
 " Now, James, Father Norman is tired, and 
 you must stop talking all this tiresome shop," 
 Mrs. Hope broke in gently. " Indeed, I get 
 tired myself of ' problems ' and possibilities, 
 and it would do us good to forget them for a 
 while. Father Norman, what I want to ask is 
 whether you have seen this new life of Pugin 
 that I hear so much about?" 
 
 Yielding to her initiative, the conversation 
 turned to books and art, and at the end of 
 156
 
 B mint) fflowet 
 
 half an hour Father Norman, refreshed in 
 body and spirit, took a half- reluctant leave of 
 James Hope and his wife, and came away. 
 
 Was such a marriage as this to be thought of 
 as a lowering of the religious life ? Ah, but 
 Hope was not a priest, only a ' ' minister. ' ' 
 Still, as Norman walked home in the twilight, 
 he was half minded to wish he had not de- 
 stroyed that sketch in the early morning. 
 
 157
 
 XVIII 
 
 JHE winter had passed. March had 
 come, and it was late in the month. 
 Four o'clock was chiming from St. 
 Cuthbert's belfry tower. 
 
 A girlish figure crossing the square turned 
 into Minster Street and approached the church 
 with light, hasty step. It was Eunice Heren- 
 dean. She was dressed in black, although 
 plainly not in mourning, and wore a veil of 
 black tissue, through which her eyes shone out 
 even darker and more lustrous than their wont, 
 while her face was startlingly pale. 
 
 Notwithstanding a perceptible accession of 
 confidence and self-possession in her general 
 bearing, there was an evident nervous trepida- 
 tion upon Eunice now. When she reached 
 the church steps she tripped in her haste, and 
 the hand with which she pushed open the 
 heavy oak door trembled visibly. Passing 
 through the cold, empty vestibule, Eunice en- 
 tered the church, which was also empty, save 
 for two or three persons kneeling alone and 
 silent in separate pews. 
 
 The afternoon sun passing through the richly 
 158
 
 stained windows lighted the lofty church but 
 dimly. Above the high altar, in a pendent 
 bronze lamp, burned a single blood-red light, 
 indicating the reservation of the sacrament ; 
 and as she saw this light Eunice sank for a 
 moment upon her knees, and bent her head 
 in an attitude of prayer. She had advanced 
 rapidly in the new way in the months since she 
 first went with Miss Barringer to the little 
 church in Torridge. She did not, however, 
 make the sign of the cross as a more perfect 
 pupil of the ritualistic school would have done. 
 Doubtless that would come in time, but the 
 girl's Quaker breeding had not lost all its 
 power over her yet. 
 
 Along the walls of the church, between the 
 painted stations of the cross, were carved and 
 curtained confessionals, consisting each of two 
 alcoves connected only by a grated window in 
 the partition wall In the dusky dimness which 
 filled the place, one light burned brightly above 
 the entrance to one of these. As she rose 
 from her knees in the heavy hush and silence, 
 and moved slowly down the aisle in the direc- 
 tion of this light, a strange faintness came over 
 Eunice. Entering a pew she knelt and buried 
 her face in her hands. Tears trickled through 
 her fingers. She rose hastily, pulled her 
 gloves from her hands, and pushed away her 
 '59
 
 a "CQinO fftower 
 
 veil, then sat, her face like marble, looking 
 fixedly before her. There was not in all the 
 great, dim place a sound or motion. The 
 women who had been kneeling in their places 
 when she entered knelt still, motionless, care- 
 less of who might come or go. Were they 
 praying? Eunice wondered a little, or being 
 sorry for their sins? or only aching in their 
 hearts and glad to be where their hearts could 
 ache with no one to know or question ? 
 
 She had grown quiet, and now she took 
 from her pocket a small leaflet, and kneeling 
 again she began to murmur, quite to herself, 
 the series of brief supplications which it con- 
 tained, as, "Kind Lord Jesus, crowned with 
 thorns for my sins, make me sorry for them." 
 
 Her thoughts gradually took order, and she 
 was able to consider clearly what she was about 
 to do, for she had come to the church this 
 Friday afternoon in penitential guise, for the 
 declared purpose of making confession and 
 seeking priestly absolution. 
 
 Without doubt she would confess that she 
 had sinned exceedingly in being vexed many 
 times of late when Mary had disapproved of 
 the practices of the church, and when Friends 
 had made unpleasant comments upon it. This 
 had been a grievous sin, and for it she was 
 truly penitent. So also for the folly and vanity 
 1 60
 
 B TCUnO fflowet 
 
 of an undue interest in her dress and appear- 
 ance ; and so on through a variety of amiable 
 weaknesses. All this was comparatively simple. 
 As for the self-absorption and self-seeking of 
 her nature, it was too complete and all-enclos- 
 ing to be perceived by herself, and so escaped 
 the analysis. 
 
 But what of the one great burden which lay 
 upon her conscience? Could she lay that 
 bare ? Could she lay it down ? This was the 
 supreme intent with which she had come, but 
 could she in very deed carry out that intent ? 
 Could she even wish to ? and if she did, was 
 it certain to avail her? A man's face seemed 
 again bent above her, and a familiar voice to 
 be saying in her ear, "I have a power over 
 you which you cannot resist, and which will 
 draw you back to me, however far you may 
 seek to fly beyond my reach. ' ' 
 
 Eunice's clasped hands hung over the back 
 of the seat before her ; her forehead was 
 pressed hard against the cold, polished wood. 
 For the time, in the intensity of her thought, 
 she had lost the sense of her surroundings, of 
 her bodily presence and being. Through the 
 silence, from some unseen space, there came a 
 sound just then of music, a child's voice, 
 sweet and pure, chanting the Magnificat. 
 Eunice knew the voice. It was that of the 
 L 161
 
 fflower 
 
 forlorn little prodigy from the iron mines, 
 whom Father Norman had discovered in his 
 ministrations among the poor. They were 
 training him now for the choir. 
 
 As she listened Eunice trembled, for a sense 
 of something incredible and against the nature 
 of things in her purposed action smote upon 
 her with the familiar strains, high and noble in 
 their suggestion. To lay bare her heart, and 
 the darkest recesses of it, before another, and 
 that other Father Norman, in his austere, spir- 
 itual elevation ; to seek through his explicit 
 forgiveness that of the Most High ; to place 
 herself before him, so high above her, in a 
 manner so intensely personal how could such 
 a thing be ? 
 
 Could she forget that he was he, and she, 
 herself, Eunice Herendean, and speak to him 
 only as to the priest, not as to the man who 
 had walked beside her, who had talked with 
 her gently and looked into her face with that 
 delicate kindness which belonged to all his 
 people, and yet with an indescribable some- 
 thing superadded which had thrilled her with a 
 mysterious sense of possibilities? And yet, 
 others had done just this thing, and in a way 
 she longed to do it too. There was a certain 
 picturesque element in such a situation which 
 
 strongly appealed to her. But, far beyond 
 162
 
 fflower 
 
 that, she honestly desired peace and rest for 
 the small torments of her soul ; she craved the 
 moral sedative of a human voice pronouncing 
 her worst not too bad to be forgiven the 
 refuge of weak natures through all time se- 
 cretly, underlying all, she was willing for Father 
 Norman to know what she was about to re- 
 nounce. For Eunice's constancy to her lover 
 had faltered and failed, blighted by the reck- 
 lessness and dishonor which had lately been 
 laid to his charge. There were fitful, fluctuat- 
 ing moods when her heart still yearned passion- 
 ately after him, but she felt, none the less, that 
 his day for her was over ; another figure, nobler 
 than his, was rising, though in dim outline and 
 remote, on her horizon. 
 
 But now the thought came suddenly, What 
 if Father Norman should not come himself? 
 Eunice knew that his assistant often heard 
 confessions. Very likely he would send Mr. 
 Parke this afternoon, knowing that she was com- 
 ing. He often seemed to avoid her of late, 
 she thought, and even in the confirmation 
 class to speak coldly and sternly to her. 
 
 "Oh, dear," she sighed to herself, in her 
 childish, grieving fashion, "it will be so dread- 
 ful if he does not come himself ! And yet, if 
 he does, I think I shall die." 
 
 There was a step on the floor of the aisle. 
 163
 
 fflower 
 
 A tall figure was approaching from the chancel 
 in the long black cassock, wearing the beretta. 
 It was Father Norman. Through the door 
 which had opened behind him came a fresh 
 burst of the music, again the sweet, high voice 
 chanting the words : 
 
 " He hath put down the mighty from their seats, 
 And exalted them of low degree." 
 
 A sudden calmness fell upon Eunice, and 
 her inner trembling ceased. She knew that 
 Father Norman had come very near ; she 
 knew that he had entered the confessional 
 close at hand ; one of the kneeling figures had 
 arisen and followed him, entering the adjoin- 
 ing alcove ; the others had left the church. 
 She was alone. That Father Norman had 
 seen her was certain, and not less so that he 
 held her name as having desired the opportu- 
 nity for confession at this hour. To retreat 
 was impossible. To hold herself steady was 
 all that was left. 
 
 One of the clairvoyant moments which 
 comes in hours of intense excitement to per- 
 sons of acute susceptibility came to Eunice 
 just then. She knew exactly what would take 
 place in the next half-hour, and she knew that 
 in the purpose to which she would commit her- 
 self the very issues of life for her might be in- 
 164
 
 jflower 
 
 volved, but she was no longer afraid. She 
 still knelt, mechanically repeating the little 
 litany in the book by her side. When, pres- 
 ently, the door was opened, and some one 
 left the confessional and withdrew, she rose 
 quietly, entered, and shut the door. 
 
 165
 
 XIX 
 
 IT was five o'clock when the door of 
 the confessional opened and Eunice 
 stepped again into the aisle. She 
 was pale as before, and her breath came quick 
 and fluttering. Returning to the seat which 
 she had left, she knelt, according to the pre- 
 scribed form, to return thanks for the grace 
 which had been vouchsafed her. While she 
 was thus kneeling, Father Norman came from 
 the opposite side of the confessional, and 
 walked down the long, dusky aisle, disappear- 
 ing into the unknown regions behind the 
 choir. 
 
 Eunice distinctly heard his retreating foot- 
 steps, but she heard nothing more. Even as 
 she knelt, the spaces around her grew into a 
 whirling blackness, and her prayers were lost 
 in a close and unavailing struggle to retain her 
 consciousness. The struggle ceased abruptly 
 and she sank fainting upon the floor of the 
 pew, unseen and unnoticed. The strain to 
 which she had subjected herself had proved 
 over-great. 
 
 Meanwhile, the hour for closing the church 
 166
 
 B TldinD flower 
 
 having come and the building being to all 
 appearance empty, the great doors of entrance 
 were securely locked, all lights save the red 
 spark over the altar were extinguished, and 
 the church was closed for the night. 
 
 When Eunice recovered consciousness and 
 a sense of what had befallen her, her first 
 effort was to rise, and after a few moments in 
 which she rallied her spent forces, with all the 
 strength of will of which she was possessed, 
 she moved with slow and faltering steps to the 
 vestibule, and sought access to the street, but 
 in vain. Every door was securely fastened. 
 
 Frightened and trembling, she made her 
 way back into the church and down the cen- 
 tral aisle to the chancel, hoping to see there 
 some lingering attendant, but the place was 
 empty and deserted, and the dead Christ on 
 the marble reredos behind the altar showed 
 ghastly and awful in the gloom, for the brief 
 winter twilight was merging into dark. 
 
 Something like terror overmastered Eunice, 
 as she felt her way along the cold, polished 
 pavement of the aisle to the right of the choir. 
 Beyond were chapels, she knew, and the sac- 
 risty. Her only chance to escape a night of 
 untold dread was to grope her way to some 
 door of entrance into one of these small rooms, 
 and from there find means of exit. 
 167
 
 fflower 
 
 More by feeling than by sight she came at 
 last to a door and clasped the knob in both 
 her hands. It turned, but the door was 
 locked. A great sob rose up in her throat, 
 and although she did not know it, tears fell 
 hot and fast down her cheeks. Her limbs 
 shook under her, and the former faintness 
 seemed sweeping toward her like a great 
 surge of darkness, overflowing darkness. She 
 had taken a few steps blindly forward, when 
 her hand struck against another door knob. 
 In despair, rather than in hope, she turned it, 
 pushing with the last remnant of her strength 
 against the panels. The door opened at once 
 into a small, high, and brightly lighted room. 
 This room, strictly ecclesiastical in all its ap- 
 pointments, was furnished with shelves of 
 books and with a great polished table, before 
 which stood a chair of carved oak with a tall 
 Gothic frame. 
 
 In this chair Father Norman was seated, 
 writing. A young choir boy was engaged 
 behind him in arranging piles of pamphlets 
 on some shelves. 
 
 With a low cry of joy and release, Eunice 
 held out her hands; her face was ghastly white, 
 and her eyes were fixed upon Father Nor- 
 man's face with the piteous imploring of a 
 
 frightened child. 
 
 168
 
 S TSUinD jflower 
 
 Dazzled by the light and the sharp surprise, 
 and scarcely conscious of what occurred, Eu- 
 nice could never recall how it came to pass 
 that an instant later she found herself seated 
 in Father Norman's Gothic chair, her head 
 resting against its carved panels, and her hands, 
 which were icy cold, held firmly in a warm, 
 invigorating clasp. The small boy presently 
 ran up and held out in a rough, red little 
 hand, a glass of water which dropped plen- 
 teously down the folds of her dress as he lifted 
 it to her lips. 
 
 Eunice drank a little, and the color came 
 back to her face. 
 
 " I was faint in the church," she said, look- 
 ing up into Father Norman's face, which was 
 bent above her, full of serious concern. ' ' I 
 do not know how long it lasted, but when I 
 could move they had locked the doors. O 
 Father Norman, I was so frightened," and 
 she cried a little with the thought of it. 
 
 " I should have taken better care of you," 
 he said ; "I ought to have foreseen that what 
 would be simple to others would be to you an 
 
 intense ordeal. A nature like yours " 
 
 and he broke off abruptly. "You had been 
 fasting too, I have no doubt ? ' ' and he looked 
 down with 'a. kind of severe gentleness into 
 
 her face. 
 
 169
 
 a IdinO Slower 
 
 "Yes, all day," she answered simply. 
 
 "You must not do it, my child." Father 
 Norman spoke with the authority which seemed 
 instinctive rather than acquired in him. "It 
 is not for such as you," and he smiled as he 
 released her hands, and apparently, uncon- 
 sciously to himself, brushed back with a swift, 
 gentle motion the hair which had fallen down 
 her face, retreating at once, when he had done 
 so, to the end of the table. 
 
 " Be a good child, and let your sins go for 
 a while. You are not so very bad," a whim 
 sical amusement added to his usual gravity. 
 
 ' ' Oh, I thought I was more wicked than 
 any one ! " murmured Eunice, the tears start- 
 ing again. " I have been so distressed." 
 
 He shook his head gravely. ' ' We must 
 think about this some day, but just now I am 
 going to send you home as soon as possible. 
 Joey," and Father Norman turned to the 
 small boy who had been kneeling at the oppo- 
 site side of the table with his chin resting on 
 his hands, regarding Eunice with round, won- 
 dering eyes, "Joey, my boy, you are to stay 
 here and watch this young lady while I go out 
 and bring back a cab and one of the sisters 
 to take her out to Willow Street, for you and I 
 know that it would not do the least in the 
 world to send her alone. ' ' 
 170
 
 fflower 
 
 Joey, who was Father Norman's new pro- 
 tege, sprang to his feet in instant alarm. 
 
 "No, Father Norman," he exclaimed, 
 speaking with a slight but unmistakable Irish 
 accent, "I'll run for the hack or anythin' ye 
 please, but don't ye be leavin' me here alone 
 in the church with the young lady. Sure, 
 she'd be like to take sick agin, an' if she was 
 for faintin', honest, Father Norman, I wouldn't 
 dare stay a minute, I'd be that frightened." 
 
 "I'll promise not to faint again, Joey," 
 said Eunice ; but Joey shook his head, uncon- 
 vinced. 
 
 "Well," said Father Norman, "here is a 
 situation equal to the fable of the fox and the 
 goose and the bag of corn ! What shall I do ? 
 The proprieties will not permit me to let Joey 
 do the errand ; Joey's fears will not permit 
 me to do it - " 
 
 At this point Eunice sprang to her feet with 
 sudden energy. 
 
 " Don't get up," said Father Norman ; " I 
 like to see you there," and his eyes said more 
 than his words. 
 
 "I feel as if I was on your throne," said 
 Eunice, coloring, "and I don't belong there, 
 you know." His look and the way he spoke 
 to her had the stimulating effect upon her of 
 
 wine. ' ' I am going home now, and I am 
 171
 
 a TKHtn& flower 
 
 going to walk home. I don't want any sisters 
 nor any cabs nor any one to go home with 
 me," and with a few touches to her hat and 
 dress, she stepped toward the door, which she 
 rightly guessed led into a cross street. 
 
 "Very well," said Father Norman. "Pos- 
 sibly the walk will do you good. Put on your 
 coat, Joey," and he disappeared for a mo- 
 ment into another room. 
 
 Eunice waited perforce, unable to open the 
 door, and in another moment the two were at 
 her side, dressed for the street. Eunice tried 
 to protest, but Father Norman simply drew 
 her hand through his arm and walked on 
 through the dark, slippery street as if it were 
 altogether a matter of course. 
 
 "But what will people say?" she mur- 
 mured, as they entered a better-lighted thor- 
 oughfare, knowing well the extreme importance 
 attached to every movement of the rector of 
 St. Cuthbert's, and the scrupulous care with 
 which he habitually held himself aloof from 
 women. 
 
 " That I am an excessively fortunate man," 
 rejoined Norman quickly. "Joey, stick close 
 to my heels. Follow me like a shadow, my 
 boy. Miss Eunice feels the need of a chap- 
 eron. ' ' 
 
 Eunice laughed in spite of herself. But 
 172
 
 H TOltno fflower 
 
 what change was this which had come over 
 Father Norman ? She hardly knew him for 
 himself in this gay, ironical, masterful mood. 
 
 In a moment Norman stopped before a 
 small, brightly lighted shop, a dairy, with 
 gleaming, white-tiled walls. Without com- 
 ment he drew Eunice in and stood before the 
 spotless marble counter. Joey, with eyes 
 wide with wonder, guarded the door. 
 
 "A glass of milk, if you please," Norman 
 said quickly to the trim damsel who presided 
 over the place. 
 
 Eunice watched the proceedings as if she 
 were without power of action or volition. In- 
 deed, the whole scene had to her conscious- 
 ness the aspect of a dream : this small, daz- 
 zling white place, like some fabulous cavern ; 
 she, faint and dizzy, standing with all the lights 
 converging on her, and Father Norman, the 
 remote, august priest, with whom all the small 
 concerns of life had hitherto seemed impossi- 
 ble, holding out to her a glass of milk, and 
 bidding her drink it with that kind, almost 
 caressing voice, and the new, strange smile in 
 his eyes. Surely, all things were changed. 
 
 As for Norman, the change in him was far 
 
 greater than the girl dreamed or could have 
 
 compassed in her imagination. Something 
 
 which he had been building up for years with 
 
 173
 
 UlinC> flower 
 
 prayer and discipline and aspiration, had in 
 that little hour in the room they had left but 
 now, crumbled to ashes, falling before the 
 flame of a passion smothered for months by 
 all the strength of his will, but bursting out at 
 last, if not beyond his power, at least beyond 
 his wish to control. And in that hour, at 
 least, he saw the ruins of his ideal without 
 regret, rather with exultation. A sense of 
 freedom and release had taken possession of 
 him. He was, after all, a man like other men, 
 with the right of other men to seek the joy 
 and crown of life ! No vows or bonds held 
 him back. That youthful ideal had had its 
 day and its uses, but its day was over. "The 
 King is dead. Long live the King ! " 
 
 Such were the hidden motions of Norman's 
 spirit as he stood and watched Eunice while 
 she obediently drank the milk, looking up to 
 him now and then with eyes full of childlike 
 wonder. 
 
 As they passed on down the Coalport street, 
 through the alternating glare and gloom of the 
 electric lights, past common, sordid trading 
 places, graceless and forlorn, Francis Norman 
 seemed to himself to be walking on air, to be 
 "wrapt in blaze ... by a minute's birth 
 through the love in a girl !" a little meek, 
 white thing whom he could make faint bv a 
 174
 
 B Mind Slower 
 
 word or look of severity and yet imperious and 
 formidable in the invisible power which she 
 held over him. 
 
 The day of his destiny had come and he 
 hurried to meet it, no hand holding him back. 
 
 That night Eunice Herendean, in her still 
 chamber at home, wrote to Ralph, her cousin, 
 that she had come to look upon their past 
 relation as deceitfulness and sin ; that she was 
 about to take upon herself solemn vows of 
 dedication, and she wished to renounce every 
 evil way and enter upon her new life with a 
 clear conscience and an honest heart. She 
 therefore begged him to release her, as she 
 did him, from every promise and pledge which 
 held them, and, always praying for his good 
 and for his return to a better life, she must con- 
 sider herself from this time forth as no more 
 than his good friend and cousin. 
 
 To this decorous and succinct epistle Eunice 
 shortly received the following reply : 
 
 MY PRECIOUS SIMPLETON : 
 
 The religious business is very nice and becoming, 
 but transparent. I can't release you on that score. 
 If you care for another man, why that is a different 
 story. I shall never let you go until you tell me with 
 your own lips that you love another man better than 
 you love me. I can' t come to Coalport just now for 
 obvious reasons, but I shall have my difficulties smoothed 
 out before long, and in May I shall see you, wh*.her 
 175
 
 fflower 
 
 you will or no, and let you tell me the truth. These 
 pious platitudes, Eunice, may deceive the elect, but 
 the non-elect can see through them. 
 
 Yours, RALPH. 
 
 It was but a fortnight later that "society," 
 which is not always indifferent to the records 
 of its own doings, was busied with the follow- 
 ing paragraph in a Coalport journal : 
 
 It is perhaps months or even years since our inner 
 circle of society has been stirred with a sensation equal 
 to that awakened by the engagement of the Rev. 
 Francis Norman, rector of St. Cuthbert's Church, to 
 Miss Eunice, second daughter of our venerable Quaker 
 citizen, Moses Herendean. It is very well known that 
 Father Norman has been the center of an ardently 
 admiring circle of fashionable and charming women ; 
 but it has been further reported at least that he was 
 not only averse to marriage, but would probably sooner 
 or later embrace the vows of one of the Episcopal celi- 
 bate orders. The young lady who has been able to 
 rival Coalport's society belles and to conquer the dis- 
 tinguished rector's ascetic tendencies is described as 
 possessed of beauty and charm in a high degree. She 
 has hitherto lived a life of strictest retirement in the old 
 family mansion in Willow Street, but she will undoubt- 
 edly, as the fiancee of the rector of St. Cuthbert's, find 
 the arms of our best society opened wide to receive 
 her. 
 
 This paragraph received its share of ani- 
 mated discussion at the Barringers' breakfast 
 table. Miss Barringer alone was silent, join- 
 176
 
 a TClfno fflower 
 
 ing neither in sarcasm nor incredulous amaze- 
 ment. Her sole comment as she rose from 
 the table was, 
 
 " Isn't Rebecca a Quaker name ? It seems 
 to me it would have suited our young friend 
 better than Eunice. ' ' 
 
 '77
 
 XX 
 
 |N May, in the early evening, Francis 
 Norman was walking up and down 
 his narrow room. 
 
 His aspect was not that of a happy and 
 complacent lover or of a satisfied man. A 
 noticeable change had taken place in him, for 
 his characteristic melancholy had deepened to 
 profound gloom, his face was gaunt and hollow- 
 eyed, and the hands, clasped hard behind him 
 as he walked, showed a thinness approaching 
 emaciation. 
 
 There was upon him, at this hour, in his 
 solitude, the impress of a mental struggle des- 
 perate in its reality. There was.no resort to 
 postures, or pictures, or even to prayer. The 
 principalities and powers against which he 
 wrestled seemed to be beyond the reach of 
 weapons like these ; this, or the man had 
 thrown down his arms in act to surrender. 
 
 Upon the desk which he passed and re- 
 passed in his steady pacing to and fro stood 
 the porcelain of Murillo's Saint Anthony re- 
 ceiving the Infant Christ. As he walked, a 
 nervous haste seemed to grow upon Norman. 
 If*
 
 B TldinD fflower 
 
 and with a sudden gesture he threw both arms 
 wide as one who would put away from him 
 with power the advance of something supremely 
 dreaded. 
 
 There was a shivering crash on the bare 
 floor, and Norman turned on his heel to see 
 that in his hasty movement he had struck and 
 thrown from the desk the picture of the saint. 
 His first impulse was to stoop with quick con- 
 cern to gather the broken pieces, but he drew 
 back, lifting his head with a wan smile of in- 
 expressible sadness. 
 
 "To what use?" he murmured to himself. 
 ' ' ' The gone thing was to go. ' Let it go. All 
 that it stood for has gone already." 
 
 He turned again and touched the broken 
 porcelain with his foot, with bitter musing in 
 his eyes. 
 
 "There it lies as my life thus far a pic- 
 ture, an image, a vision, a dream, not a reality ! 
 And even that broken. So be it. God ! 
 what is next? " 
 
 Rallying himself with a strong effort, Nor- 
 man left the room. Half an hour later he 
 was on his way to Willow Street to call upon 
 Eunice and accompany her to a reception at 
 Mrs. Knight's on the avenue. It was a quiet 
 evening, full of scents and suggestions of the 
 season's loveliness, and the street at the side 
 179
 
 B Trains Slower 
 
 of the Herendean estate was almost like a 
 country lane, and under the budding trees 
 and with the sweet, indefinable softness of the 
 spring it looked a pretty place for lovers to 
 walk. Norman saw a man sauntering idly 
 under the trees in the shadow of the wall and 
 thought it would be good to be free like that, 
 waiting perhaps for your sweetheart to join 
 you and go out under the stars in the stillness, 
 instead of to the lights and music and the 
 whirl of men and women. But, Eunice, he 
 knew, was full of eager and delighted anticipa- 
 tion of the brilliant occasion awaiting them, 
 where, she rightly guessed, she would herself 
 be the object of most vivid interest. 
 
 The hour was early, but Norman found the 
 somber old library irradiated by a vision in 
 glistening silk and gauze, standing under the 
 gaslight and seeming to flood the room with 
 her lustre. 
 
 Eunice greeted her lover with a smile of 
 childish coquetry, and held out her hand to 
 him in a playfully imperious gesture. Her 
 eyes were dancing with excitement, and a 
 bright color in her cheeks made her beauty 
 fairly dazzling. Norman stood and watched 
 her in silence. Mary, in quiet home dress, 
 was adjusting some ribbons at her waist. 
 
 "Oh, do hurry, Mary dear!" Eunice ex- 
 180'
 
 a *uatnD fflower 
 
 claimed, moving restlessly; "I feel as if I 
 could not stand another minute." 
 
 "Why, dear, thee is not tired already?" 
 said Mary, with quick solicitude, for Eunice's 
 delicate health was always her anxiety. 
 
 "No, no," was the impatient reply, "but 
 I want to be all by myself and keep still a 
 little while before I go. I did not expect you, 
 sir, for a long time yet. The carriage will not 
 be here for half an hour, and I am not ready 
 to see anybody. My poor little heart beats 
 itself almost to pieces when I think of all those 
 people who will stare at me to-night. I am 
 going into the morning room. Please don't 
 come after me any one. Good-bye ! ' ' and 
 with a flashing smile at Norman as she passed, 
 Eunice ran from the room, closing the door 
 after her. Father Norman and Mary faced 
 each other alone. 
 
 Two months before, Mary, coming in from 
 the street, had found Father Norman, much 
 to her surprise, sitting alone in their library. 
 He was waiting to see Moses Herendean, who 
 was expected in a few moments. It was the 
 first time that Mary had seen Norman since 
 their stormy passage in the parlor at the parish 
 house. What had brought him here now she 
 dimly, intuitively guessed the key had been 
 in her hand ever since a certain misty morning 
 181
 
 jflower 
 
 in Whippany. Certainly she did not pause to 
 conjecture or question, but with firm, unhesi- 
 tating step, walked straightway up to Father 
 Norman, who rose quickly from his place, and 
 holding out her still gloved hand said, quite 
 without self-consciousness : 
 
 "I have wanted to see you, and I am glad 
 you are here. I have your pardon to ask for 
 my anger that day when I was with Eunice. 
 Whatever I felt I should have kept to myself. 
 I have seen it since, and I am very sorry, ' ' 
 and she looked humbly but without faltering 
 into his eyes. 
 
 "I have more need than you for peni- 
 tence," Norman said gently, smiling. "It 
 was not easy for either of us, and I hated my- 
 self afterward for what must have seemed 
 unpardonable harshness. Then can we agree, 
 Mary Herendean, to be friends?" and Mary 
 gave him her hand once more in token of 
 peace and understanding. 
 
 In the weeks following, in which it came to 
 pass that Father Norman appeared very often 
 in the Herendean home, and soon in the 
 character of Eunice's suitor, he and Mary had 
 met always in friendly fashion and found many 
 common interests ; but until to-night, whether 
 by accident or by Mary's intention, they had 
 never been left alone together. 
 182
 
 B TJCUnS Slower 
 
 Norman threw himself now into a leather 
 study chair and exclaimed with a long breath : 
 
 "The child is very lovely ! " 
 
 Mary had betaken herself to a basket of 
 sewing under the lamplight, seeing no way to 
 escape, as she gladly would have done, a 
 somewhat prolonged interview. She noted the 
 tone in which he spoke to her. It was as he 
 would have spoken to Eunice's mother, had 
 she been alive. 
 
 "Very lovely, but not a child any more, 
 Francis Norman," was her quiet response. 
 
 After a moment's pause she continued : 
 ' ' Eunice used to seem to me like a little wild 
 wood-anemone, the windflower, you know, 
 shy and white, with old, dry leaves rustling 
 stiffly about her feet from the time gone by," 
 and Mary smiled at her own fancy. ' ' I have 
 seen the flower often in the woods, growing 
 almost at the edge of a snow drift, with its 
 few, single petals as cold and white as the 
 snow." 
 
 "Yes, I see it all so far," replied Norman, 
 his head sunk in his hands, studying the par- 
 allelograms of the old-fashioned carpet me- 
 chanically ; " go on, please. Let me know the 
 havoc I have wrought." he added grimly. 
 ' ' I believe the botanists say that the flower 
 you speak of suffers from having the earth 
 183
 
 a THHtnO fflower 
 
 loosened around it, and that it should be left 
 as far as possible untouched. I suppose the 
 likeness holds." 
 
 Mary ignored the last remark. 
 
 "Now she seems to me like a rose, rich 
 and brilliant, full of color and perfume, and 
 with many folds upon folds of desire and feel- 
 ing, complex, mysterious not the child any 
 more. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Well, ' ' he said, waiting to see if she had 
 more to say, "men welcome the windflower, 
 but they worship the rose." 
 
 " Only the change has come so suddenly 
 and it is so unexpected. I did not know," 
 she concluded with a little laugh, ' ' that one 
 could turn a windflower into a rose even by the 
 development process." 
 
 "Oh, yes," he said wearily, throwing his 
 head back against the chair, "you can. Par- 
 ticularly if the windflower happens to be a 
 rosebud. ' ' 
 
 Mary looked up. His tone and manner 
 were unlike himself. She was startled at the 
 haggard wretchedness of his face, which she 
 had not noticed until then. 
 
 "You are not well," she exclaimed with 
 sincere concern ; ' ' please tell me if I can do 
 anything for you," and she looked steadily 
 
 into his face. 
 
 184
 
 Slower 
 
 For answer he only said inconsequently : 
 
 " How firm and steady your hands are. I 
 like to see you sew. I fancy they are cool 
 too, and I know your pulse is strong and even. 
 Touch my wrist a moment. ' ' 
 
 Mary laid her hand, with a nurse's instinct, 
 on his pulse. It was galloping after a reckless 
 fashion and his hand was hot and tremulous. 
 She laid it back quietly upon the leather arm 
 of the chair. 
 
 "Will you tell me what it is?" she asked 
 directly. " Something is quite wrong with you 
 to-night." 
 
 Francis Norman looked at her with a solemn 
 question in his eyes. 
 
 ' ' Could anything shake your faith in God ? ' ' 
 he asked. 
 
 Mary knew that such a question from such a 
 man must be asked with grave purpose. She 
 paused a little space, her face grown as thought- 
 ful as his own. Then lifting her eyes and 
 shedding the luminous radiance which dwelt 
 in them upon the face of Norman, so harried 
 and worn with conflict, she said simply : 
 
 ' ' I believe nothing could ; by his grace. ' '
 
 XXI 
 
 JJATHER NORMAN looked at Mary, 
 gravely musing, holding his hands 
 before him, the finger tips pressed 
 hard together. 
 
 "That is as I thought," he said; "then I 
 have almost a mind to answer your question. 
 It would be an ease to me to speak ; I have 
 been weak enough to long for that kind of 
 relief, as a sedative, perhaps ; but the trouble 
 was to meet any one whose faith was proof 
 against contagion, and also one who per- 
 sonally would not suffer by learning this ex- 
 perience of mine. You can see how impossible 
 it is for me to speak of this to Eunice." 
 
 Mary bent her head slightly in acquiescence, 
 but the hand which held her work tightened 
 hard its grasp and she did not raise her eyes. 
 
 "You gave me a little parable just now," 
 he said, smiling faintly, " of a flower. Let 
 me give you one. Imagine a man who has 
 been most solemnly pledged to guard and also 
 to beautify and adorn a magical veil or curtain, 
 which hung, he was told, before a sublime 
 mystery, the highest conceivable. The man 
 186
 
 fflower 
 
 accepts the mystery the Awful Presence thus 
 veiled implicitly, and sets about adorning 
 this mystic veil with every beautiful thing 
 which could find place in its texture. He 
 weaves into it, we will say, the beauty of art 
 and music, of color and fragrance, of flowers 
 and fair children, of saints and angels, and the 
 sacrifice of a whole soul's devotion poor 
 enough that, surely," Norman added, with 
 abrupt self-scorn; "but even so, the man's 
 best, and given as counting nothing too dear 
 to give do you see ? " he asked suddenly, 
 looking at Mary with piercing earnestness. 
 
 "I think I understand," she said. 
 
 "Very well. But then all this is not so 
 simple as it seems, for, do you know?" and 
 Norman's face darkened and his voice sank to 
 an impassioned undertone, "every now and 
 then as the man I describe worked on and 
 guarded the veil, a horrible breath would come 
 to him, whispering that behind it was nothing 
 emptiness, no holy thing, no glorious mys- 
 tery, no life-giving, boundless power and love 
 but bare space, as in the Holiest when the 
 Roman soldiers penetrated to its recesses. 
 When this whisper came the man only labored 
 more unceasingly to perfect the beauty of the 
 veil. Poor fool, to dream that the outer rich- 
 ness could fill the inner emptiness ! " 
 187
 
 fflowet 
 
 There was a brief silence between them and 
 then Norman went on with less passion than 
 before : 
 
 "One day something happened to this man, 
 whose life was being almost drained by the 
 struggle against this whisper, for do you know 
 it is easier to fight almost anything than a 
 whisper ? This thing which happened was that 
 the poor fellow said : ' I will not give all my 
 heart's best to the veil ; something I will keep, 
 as other men do, for myself; I will have my 
 own life and love and joy under the sun.' So 
 he grasped the most beautiful thing which he 
 had ever known grasped it, not to make the 
 veil beautiful, but for himself. It has an ugly 
 sound, but it is the bare truth. Can you 
 fancy what followed or what seemed to this 
 man to follow ? ' ' 
 
 " The veil grew dim ? ' ' 
 
 "Not that alone ; it shriveled, it shrank, it 
 crumbled and fell to the earth before him, and 
 behind was nothing. Only mocking voices 
 seemed to cry in laughter what he had only 
 heard in sad whispers before." 
 
 There was again a little silence. The faces 
 of both were white and awed. Then Norman 
 said hoarsely : 
 
 " If you want to know what agony is, under- 
 
 stand that this parable has been made true in 
 188
 
 fflower 
 
 my life and pity me if you like. ' ' He buried 
 his face in his hands and his whole frame 
 shook with a fierce trembling. 
 
 "You have prayed, Francis Norman?" 
 Mary asked. 
 
 "There is nothing which I have not done. 
 With prayer and penance, with fasting and 
 mortification, nay with strong crying and with 
 tears, I have sought continually, night and day, 
 to be delivered from this death. I have read 
 a library of evidences, but they touch me no- 
 where. Mary Herendean, I declare to you 
 that, enormous as it is, it is true that I have 
 lost the sense of God. If he is, I know it 
 not ; he is not for me." 
 
 Tears dropped slowly from Mary's eyes. 
 
 4 ' If you mean, ' ' she said, ' ' that you grasped 
 this love with selfish desire, as something apart 
 from your religion, is not that the very reason 
 that it destroyed your faith ? ' ' 
 
 "It is not quite that," he replied; "you 
 miss a link. It destroyed my ideal. This 
 veil means my conception of the fabric of 
 the Catholic Church, with its priesthood, its 
 vows, its sacraments, the power of the keys, 
 the dedicated life, the splendor and glory of 
 its liturgy ; all this was to me the sacred veil 
 hanging before the inscrutable mystery. But 
 I grant it is not easy to explain it. The pro- 
 189
 
 UCUno flower 
 
 cesses of spiritual death are strange and obscure 
 to me. Only so much is sure, that since the 
 hour I confessed my love, and gave over the 
 struggle to conquer it, the whole conception of 
 my life as a priest of God seems to lie like a 
 thing broken at my feet, like the picture of 
 Saint Anthony I broke to-night before I left 
 the house. ' ' 
 
 "Suppose," said Mary, smiling a little, "I 
 should tell you that it almost seems, if your 
 love is true and righteous, that your mystic 
 veil was not a divine thing ; else could it have 
 been destroyed by an honest love ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Ah, ' ' he said quickly, ' ' of course you 
 would say that. You are a Friend." 
 
 " No," she rejoined, "I am not altogether 
 or of my own impulse a Friend. For my 
 father's sake I preserve the old ties, and my 
 sympathies are in many ways with Friends. I 
 should not, however, to-day voluntarily unite 
 with them." 
 
 ' ' Truly ? And why not ? " 
 
 "Because, while I sincerely think their 
 attempt the very bravest and loftiest one that 
 man ever made to get straight to God without 
 intermediary of any sort, your veil and its 
 broideries they would none of, and I think 
 their conception the higher, still, there seems 
 to me one great flaw in their attempt." 
 190
 
 B TJdtnO fflower 
 
 "What then? You amaze me. I sup- 
 posed you a thorough-going Friend." 
 
 " They reckoned not at all with flesh and 
 blood. Their system is all right on the upper 
 side, but it has little or nothing to say to the 
 lower, the human side. They would have 
 nothing intervene between the soul and God. 
 Christ was more merciful. He knew what was 
 in man better than George Fox did. But you 
 said to me just now that you do not know 
 God. Forgive me, but have you ever known 
 him? Were you ever sure of him ?" Mary's 
 voice was very gentle. 
 
 Norman groaned, as with overmastering pain. 
 
 1 ' In the beginning I suppose so. I took 
 everything for granted. I was thinking more 
 of the veil though, I believe, than of what lay 
 behind. It was the beauty and poetry of it 
 which had sway over me. ' ' 
 
 "It seems to me," said Mary, "that your 
 veil almost fell by its own weight, being fash- 
 ioned of earthly and outward elements. Where 
 our people think little of the visible church, 
 too little, laying all stress on the Inner Light, 
 the Indwelling God, may it not be that your 
 mistake has been in exalting overmuch the 
 church and its rites and letting go the firm 
 hold of the spirit on the Invisible God ? 
 Even so, a mistake like that can be retrieved, 
 191
 
 a "CCltnO fflowcr 
 
 " For wheresoe'er I stray and range, 
 Whate'er I do, thou dost not change." 
 
 "While I listen to you," answered Norman, 
 "everything seems possible, and yet the old 
 doubt lies at the door. Do you see the awful 
 position in which I stand ? To go on, if faith 
 is gone, would be impossible, incredible ; but to 
 confess unfaith would be like the betrayal of a 
 trust. Can you think what must be the fight 
 I have fought through these weeks ? But I 
 could not, I cannot now, believe that this is 
 the end, that faith is dead. Every thinking 
 man must pass through some such phase of 
 experience, more or less transient," and Nor- 
 man spoke as if musing and to himself. 
 " Every day I dream that the struggle is over 
 and peace dawning, but each night it all comes 
 back. I have even longed to fling myself to 
 the other alternative, which waits for men like 
 me. Do you remember Manning's dictum, 
 ' It is Rome, or license of thought and will ' ? 
 Either the Roman system, which stops at 
 nothing, which welcomes without wincing the 
 whole logic of supernaturalism, and which 
 gives these aching brains the pillow of an 
 infallible authority on which to rest that or 
 complete negation, I have sometimes felt, were 
 the only stopping-places for a man who has 
 192
 
 fflower 
 
 traveled the way I have come and at last opens 
 his eyes. ' ' 
 
 " But you could not lay such bondage upon 
 your spirit as to accept Romanism, Francis 
 Norman ? " 
 
 He smiled. "Then you prefer the agnos- 
 tic's position? " 
 
 " I prefer honesty," Mary Herendean made 
 answer, looking with endless sympathy into his 
 face. Then falling on her knees, quite simply 
 and as if it were the only thing to do, she 
 prayed aloud : 
 
 " O Father of our spirits, who knowest the 
 way that we take and who dost love thy children 
 with love everlasting, make thyself known 
 to thy servant. Give him the witness of thy 
 Spirit and lead him in a plain path." 
 
 When she rose two hands were held out and 
 hers were clasped and pressed against Francis 
 Norman's breast. "You are my sister, my 
 blessed sister," he said. With reverent ten- 
 derness he touched her hand with his lips and 
 then turned from her to leave the room, hardly 
 knowing whither he would go. 
 
 193
 
 XXII 
 
 BHE sound of wheels outside and the 
 opening of the hall door brought 
 back both to Norman and to Mary 
 a sense of the present and its demands. Eu- 
 nice came in, holding up a ruffle of her dress, 
 and remarking excitedly rather than gayly : 
 
 "You two are getting on famously, aren't 
 you ? So glad ! I have been trying my best 
 to train Mary to look upon you as a brother, 
 Francis Norman ; but you seem to have suc- 
 ceeded better than I," she went on carelessly, 
 apparently failing to see the stress and strain 
 which the conversation had left visibly stamped 
 upon their faces. 
 
 " What is the matter with thy gown, Eu- 
 nice ? ' ' asked Mary, approaching her. 
 
 " I caught the ruffle and tore it. Can you 
 fasten it, Mary? It is too vexatious ! " Eu- 
 nice was fast unlearning the use of the Friends' 
 forms of speech. 
 
 Mary brought her needle and thread and 
 knelt down at Eunice's feet. Norman had 
 gone into the hall. 
 
 " How strange ! " said Mary in a low voice 
 194
 
 a IdtnD fflower 
 
 to her sister ; " here is a thorn caught in the 
 ruffle and thy dress is quite damp, Eunice. 
 Where has thee been, dear? I can't under- 
 stand," and a troubled perplexity, dispropor- 
 tionate, it would seem, to the occasion, showed 
 itself in Mary's face. 
 
 " I stepped out on the veranda a minute," 
 replied Eunice coldly. "I should think there 
 was no great difficulty in comprehending that." 
 
 Mary made no reply. She knew that only 
 in the rose garden down by the gate could a 
 thorn like that have been found. 
 
 Francis Norman came in, bringing a long 
 white cape for Eunice. His face and manner 
 had recovered their ordinary calmness. 
 
 "Isn't my new cape lovely?" exclaimed 
 Eunice with a certain forced gayety. 
 
 ' ' Yes, but I know a little brown shawl that 
 I like a thousand times better. Wear that, 
 dear, when you want to please me." 
 
 Mary had risen now, the mischief to the 
 gown having been repaired, and watched the 
 two as they passed out to the hall door, turn- 
 ing to say good -night to her as they went. 
 
 Father Norman stepped back from the 
 threshold and said softly : 
 
 "A man cannot despair while he has the 
 love of such a girl, Mary. Did you ever see 
 her so beautiful ? " and he hastened after Eu- 
 195
 
 21 MinO flower 
 
 nice, watching her steps with a lover's wor- 
 shiping care. 
 
 And Eunice ? She took his homage rather 
 as a matter of course, and was, indeed, a little 
 tired and distraite on the way to Mrs. Knight's. 
 The past half-hour had brought its agitation to 
 her as well as to Norman and Mary. When 
 she left them in the library she had, it was 
 true, gone to the morning room, but she had 
 not lingered there. By the casement she had 
 hurried out to the veranda, and thence with 
 fleet, noiseless steps through the flower-bor- 
 dered garden paths. 
 
 Down to the green lane gate at the end of 
 the rose garden she had gone to meet Ralph 
 Kidder, not daring to fail of being there, for 
 this was the hour and the place which he had 
 named in a bitter, hasty note. Worse things 
 might come upon her if, in his reckless bold- 
 ness, he should make his way into the house 
 and into Norman's presence. 
 
 It had been a tempestuous meeting. Ralph, 
 consumed with a passion of jealousy and resent- 
 ment, had poured out upon her a storm of 
 bitter reproaches and cynical scornings, under 
 which her head had drooped low, like a flower 
 under the blast of the storm-wind. Then he 
 had veered to another point and had wooed 
 her to come back to him, to give up the lover 
 196
 
 flower 
 
 who was neither priest nor man, but a self- 
 deluded Jesuit, and give herself again to his 
 strong heart and the protection of his arms. 
 Eunice trembled more under this attack than 
 she had under the first ; her eyes grew moist 
 and her breath came quick and hard. 
 
 Ralph saw these tokens of the old tender- 
 ness in her and pressed his advantage hard. 
 
 "Come, dearest," he exclaimed in a pas- 
 sionate whisper, " come just as you are, in all 
 this loveliness, though I hate it because you 
 have dressed yourself for his eyes, not for 
 mine. Let this be your bridal gear, sweet- 
 heart ; cheat them all ! They are only a pack 
 of priests and women. I swear to you this 
 night, Eunice, you love me the same as you 
 ever did ! See, you cannot deny it. ' ' 
 
 His arms were around her now and he was 
 raining light kisses upon her forehead and eyes 
 in spite of her helpless resistance. 
 
 ' ' Come ! " he whispered, ' ' what can you fear 
 with me to defend you and keep you from all 
 their reproaches ? In five minutes I can have 
 a closed carriage here at the foot of the lane. 
 I will put you into it, darling ; I will take you 
 to some clergyman. Ah ! how he will open 
 his eyes at my bonny bride ! And then and 
 then, Eunice, you will have nothing more to 
 fear or dread. I shall be your husband." 
 197
 
 H Tiding fflowet 
 
 The last words were spoken low and with 
 intense emphasis in the girl's ear. Her head 
 rested now on his shoulder. Suddenly she 
 sprang away as if awakening from a dream. 
 
 "Ralph, you are mad!" she cried under 
 her breath. "What are we dreaming of? 
 Good-bye, dear. This is the end." 
 
 Ralph Kidder had grown suddenly still and 
 cold. He made no motion to hinder her, but 
 stood, looking fixedly in her face under the 
 pale starlight. 
 
 "It is not the end, Eunice," he said slowly, 
 " not the end. But you will kiss me once for 
 good-bye?" 
 
 ' ' Once, Ralph, only once, and then I will 
 pray and pray to be forgiven," and so she 
 kissed him and fled back through the rose 
 bushes to the house. 
 
 The drive to Mrs. Knight's was not too 
 long for Eunice that night, but it sufficed, and 
 she held up her head with as light a grace 
 when she entered the dazzling drawing room 
 as if it had not been beaten down within the 
 hour by a storm-wind of passion. 
 
 Left alone, Mary Herendean went slowly 
 upstairs and turned mechanically into Eunice's 
 deserted and disordered bedroom. The dress- 
 ing table was strewn with the customary lit- 
 198
 
 B tdtno fflowet 
 
 ter of discarded flowers and ribbons, and out 
 of the incongruity of this debris looked the 
 face of Francis Norman from its place on a 
 carved easel. 
 
 The eyes seemed to meet Mary's with star- 
 tling directness, and she saw lurking in their 
 depths what she had never seen before, the 
 soul's tragedy which was going on behind that 
 quiet, thoughtful face. Filled with unspoken 
 yearning, Mary lifted her hand and pressed 
 her lips fervently upon the place where he had 
 kissed it, a storm of color dyeing her cheeks 
 and her eyes blind with tears. In her right 
 hand she still held unconsciously the long, 
 sharp rose-thorn which she had just drawn 
 from Eunice's dress. 
 
 With an impulse as sudden and spontaneous 
 as that which went before, finding the thorn 
 in her possession still, Mary deliberately drew 
 its sharp point twice across the delicate skin 
 which her lips had just pressed, inflicting two 
 smarting incisions from which the red blood 
 made its way. 
 
 " There," she said, "I will be a ritualist 
 too to-night ! There is my penance for that 
 sin." 
 
 Then throwing herself at the foot of Eunice's 
 bed, her self-control and calmness scattered to 
 the winds, Mary Herendean gave herself up 
 199
 
 a "CGltnD fflower 
 
 to a flood of hot tears which those who knew 
 her best would have thought impossible. 
 
 " Oh, the shame of it," she moaned, " and 
 the sin and the hurt of it ! How can I help 
 him or any one in conflict, when every day I 
 lose my own battle or win only by the cowardly 
 trick of running away ? If he knew what is in 
 my heart how he would despise me ! No, not 
 that, but worse, how he would pity me ! How 
 cold as ice his kiss, even his voice was, and 
 yet how kind ! And he could speak plainly 
 to me because I do not care and would not 
 suffer ! O God, have pity on me, for my 
 heart will break ! Not care ? when I tremble 
 just to hear his voice in the room below me, 
 and when I would give my very life if so he 
 might find rest ! ' ' 
 
 When Eunice returned in the depth of the 
 night she found Mary quietly waiting to re- 
 ceive her. She wore a trailing dressing gown 
 of soft blue wool and her fair hair hung in a 
 single heavy braid down her back. Eunice 
 came in with airy step and in gay spirits. 
 
 "How sweet you look in that gown, you 
 dear thing, only your eyes are heavy. It was 
 too bad to keep you up so late." By this 
 time she had reached the mirror and was 
 studying the general effect of her reflection. 
 
 "You ought to have gone too. Positively, 
 200
 
 flower 
 
 Mary, I believe you would be prettier than I if 
 you had on these things," and Eunice ran off 
 in a merry ripple of laughter at her own con- 
 ceit. "On the whole, perhaps not prettier, 
 and you have no notion how to use your eyes, 
 but rather magnificent, stately, don't you 
 know ? and all that. Ah, when I am Mrs. 
 St. Cuthbert's you shall walk in silk attire 
 with the best of them ! There don't say 
 anything. I understand that you prefer the 
 society of coal heavers and the dissipation of 
 free kindergarten shows. You will have to be 
 giddy though, once in a while, then. But, 
 Mary, I can tell you it was fine to-night," and 
 Eunice stepped out of the great disc of silk 
 and gauze which had fallen around her with a 
 gay little caper; "you should have seen the 
 court your small sister held among the great 
 ones of earth ! I was a success, Mary. I 
 was, upon my honor ! I am simply intoxicated 
 with being flattered like that. I never enjoyed 
 anything so much. Of course it was mostly 
 on Francis Norman's account, but some of it 
 wasn't. Tom Ripley was in a state over my 
 eyes," and Eunice in her pretty petticoats 
 tipped her head back and made eyes at herself 
 in the glass with na'ive delight. ' ' I like a lot 
 of men on the whole better than one, even if 
 that one is the incomparable Francis ! But, 
 201
 
 a Wino fflower 
 
 Mary, his manner is simply perfect. I fairly 
 floated on it all the evening ; can you under- 
 stand ? Perfect reserve, and yet that delicate 
 insinuation of being charmed to plunge out of 
 a fifth story window if it would be any object 
 to you. It was sport to have Florence Bar- 
 ringer there to see it. Poor thing ! She had 
 her heart encased in patent duplex armor to- 
 night, and she walked right up and took me 
 without flinching, as if I had been a battery. It 
 was really fine." 
 
 Glancing around, she found that she was 
 alone. Mary had left the room, closing the 
 door noiselessly behind her. 
 
 202
 
 XXIII 
 
 JRANCIS NORMAN was by nature 
 neither cautious nor hesitating. The 
 ' ' mean and measuring eye ' ' of the 
 man who schemes for his own advantage was 
 not his. It may have belonged to the accident 
 of a life of external ease and success, that con- 
 siderations of his own position, and of what he 
 had to gain or lose in the present crisis, did not 
 present themselves to him. His place of power 
 and influence was not to him for a moment a 
 thing to be clung to or grasped at for its own 
 sake, and to abandon this was personally the 
 least of his trials. 
 
 The ground of his perplexity was solely 
 whether at heart, in spite of many fears, he 
 could still accept the system to which he stood 
 committed, or whether it had become a dead 
 and empty thing. If dead, it was still dear to 
 him, and he clung, as other men have clung 
 before him, in such crises, in an agony of de- 
 sire, to the hope of finding life still left. 
 Nevertheless, the instinctive, indubitable mas- 
 ter-note of the man's nature was sincerity. 
 
 And now in all his concentrated anguish and
 
 a IBllno fflower 
 
 struggle, the palpitating quick of it was the old, 
 awful truth : " None of us liveth unto himself, 
 and no man dieth unto himself." What if in 
 his loss of faith he should drag down with him 
 those whose thoughts he had himself trained 
 and molded? What if his death of hope meant 
 that death to many others ? And what if, after 
 all, his fears and doubts were a hideous mis- 
 take, were what he had always held them in 
 the earlier days, a messenger of Satan to buffet 
 him? Oh, for a voice of God, unmistakable 
 and clear ! Oh, for the open vision and the 
 answer to Mary's prayer, "Lead him in a plain 
 path"! 
 
 The path was not plain, and his feet trod 
 thorns at every step. Through the remaining 
 days of that week he hardly left his room, and 
 saw no one. 
 
 Sunday came. It was the hour of the cele- 
 bration of solemn high mass at St. Cuthbert's, 
 and the supreme moment had come in the im- 
 posing ritual. The crowds of worshipers were 
 on their knees ; the clouds of incense rose and 
 floated high as the dim roof ; voices of thrilling 
 sweetness swept upward as the clouds of incense 
 in the words, " Hosanna ! Hosanna ! Blessed 
 is he that cometh in the name of the Lord ! " 
 
 Then, in the silence following, a bell, deep- 
 toned yet faint, was heard, and the white-robed 
 204
 
 H TKatn& flower 
 
 acolytes who crowded the choir, prostrated 
 themselves anew at the sound which bade them 
 believe that the Awful Presence, invoked by 
 the priest, had become real in the mystic Host. 
 
 But what of the celebrant priest, who, hav- 
 ing consecrated the host should now elevate it 
 before the eyes of the people, and offer it as a 
 sacrifice to the Most High God ? 
 
 Instead of kneeling he had sunk prostrate 
 on the altar steps. Was this the very ecstasy 
 of devotion ? Or was it, perchance, the ex- 
 haustion of the long fasts and vigils by which 
 Father Norman sought to attain to the purity 
 of the saints of God ? 
 
 In another moment the priest had risen to 
 his feet, but his face was like one smitten with 
 death itself, white and appalling. Turning 
 from the altar he stepped rapidly forward to 
 the chancel rail while the ranks of choir boys 
 and attendants stared with frightened faces, 
 and the people held their breath. 
 
 For a little space, like Zacharias, he beckoned 
 to them and remained speechless, but after the 
 space of some seconds he spoke, and his voice 
 was hoarse and strained and other than his own. 
 
 "The hour has come," he said, "of my 
 defeat utter final. I have fought with wild 
 beasts, but it has availed me nothing. I be- 
 lieved, even against belief, that in this awf.il 
 205
 
 B TIBlinD Slower 
 
 hour God would reveal himself, but it is not 
 so. He hideth himself; he is as one afar off. 
 Not again can I approach his altar, for what 
 saith he unto me ? ' To what purpose is the 
 multitude of your sacrifices? Bring no more 
 vain oblations ; incense is an abomination unto 
 me ; your new moons and your appointed 
 feasts my soul hateth ; they ^are a trouble unto 
 me ; I am weary to bear them. And when ye 
 spread forth your hands I will hide mine eyes 
 from you ; yea, when ye make many prayers I 
 will not hear. ' ' ' 
 
 A hush, profound and tense, had settled 
 upon the congregation, and in awe and con- 
 sternation they listened as, after a pause, he 
 said with something like a dying man's last 
 shadow of a smile : 
 
 " Beloved, I would very gladly have died to 
 save you from this hour, but death for me 
 would have been the coward's refuge. I must 
 speak plainly and for the last time. No fur- 
 ther portion have I in this sanctuary ; I have 
 no power to summon the Divinity to rest upon 
 this altar ; my priesthood is at an end. But I 
 here protest before you that though my hold 
 on God is lost to my own undoing, I have not 
 handled the things of God deceitfully. Fare- 
 well. You who pray, pray for me." And 
 with outspread hands he dismissed the people. 
 206
 
 XXIV 
 
 |N Monday morning little Miss Archi- 
 bald might have been seen tripping 
 hurriedly up Minster Street in the 
 direction of Francis Norman's house, the small 
 silverwares of her chatelaine tinkling musically 
 as she went. In her hands she held very 
 carefully a bowl covered with a white napkin. 
 Just in front of St. Cuthbert's she encountered 
 Sister Bertha and Sister Elizabeth, who stopped 
 her with outstretched hands. 
 
 ' ' A tower has fallen ! ' ' groaned Sister Ber- 
 tha, while with tears Sister Elizabeth added : 
 
 ' ' A star has set ! What is to become of 
 us? Oh, dear, what can it mean ? " 
 
 ' ' Mean ? ' ' cried Miss Archibald briskly, 
 "mean? What should it mean but that the 
 poor, dear man has brought himself to the 
 verge of desperation with being too religious 
 for any use ! I tell you you can have too 
 much of a good thing even praying." 
 
 The sisters murmured a faint protest. 
 
 " But to think, Miss Archibald," exclaimed 
 Sister Elizabeth, ' ' how quickly his best friends, 
 as one would suppose, can turn against him. 
 207
 
 IBlinD fflower 
 
 The Barringers, I understand, think it was 
 time he left St. Cuthbert's, anyway, and are 
 not at all surprised that he has turned out just 
 as he has. ' ' 
 
 "Even young Ripley, who fairly adored 
 him, said last night that he 'had no further 
 use for Father Norman,' " put in Sister Bertha. 
 
 " Fancy it ! the popinjay," said Miss Archi- 
 bald viciously ; " he would have no use for the 
 angel Gabriel if he appeared without his 
 wings," and Miss Archibald's irritation in- 
 creased her likeness to a paroquet noticeably. 
 
 "The trouble began," she went on, "when 
 Father Norman became engaged. The Bar- 
 ringers can never get over it. Of course it 
 was not what many of us looked for or would 
 have wished. But I say it's none of our 
 business, anyway, and if one thing is plainer 
 than another it is that the man needs a wife 
 to tend to him properly and keep him from 
 fasting himself to death. I am convinced of 
 one thing the celibacy of the clergy is all a 
 mistake ! But I can't stop to talk about it. 
 Father Norman has got to be fed up the first 
 thing ! I'm taking him some cream of celery 
 now just what he needs. Celery is splendid 
 for the nerves, you know, and I must hurry 
 along," and Miss Archibald hastened down 
 the street with nodding crest 
 208
 
 a mind fflower 
 
 "She wouldn't talk like that if she knew of 
 his letter to the bishop," said Sister Elizabeth, 
 wiping her reddened eyelids, and the two 
 faithful souls went their way into the church to 
 spend an hour in prayer for Father Norman. 
 
 In the morning room of Moses Herendean's 
 house at the same hour Eunice sat in trembling 
 dread, waiting for Norman to enter. She had 
 seen him coming down the garden walk, and 
 she held in her hand a note which he had sent 
 her the day before to forewarn her of what she 
 must now learn more fully. She had been ill 
 since the night of Mrs. Knight's reception and 
 in the morning light she looked languid and 
 wan, while her weariness was increased by a 
 harassing cough. 
 
 There was a step in the hall and Norman 
 entered. Eunice was surprised to see his calm- 
 ness and quiet in spite of the traces of a severe 
 ordeal. In greeting her his voice was firm and 
 his manner freed from a certain unrest which 
 had characterized it of late. 
 
 "This is not true," she said, her lips quiv- 
 ering, lifting the note in her hand ; " tell me 
 that it is all a terrible mistake. I cannot be- 
 lieve it. You could not look like this if you 
 had done such a thing." 
 
 "Dear," he said, touching her hand with 
 o 209
 
 flower 
 
 soothing gentleness, "it is true that I have 
 done this thing of which I wrote. It is true 
 that I am no longer the rector of the church, 
 no longer the priest. My letter to the bishop 
 can leave him no alternative but to release 
 me. But, love, I am still a man," and there 
 was a new touch of hope and power in his 
 voice, "perhaps I am more of a man to-day 
 than I ever was before," and he looked ear- 
 nestly into Eunice's face as if in appeal for 
 sympathy and response to his thought. But 
 her eyes were cast down and she drew her 
 hand away from his nervously. 
 
 " Poor little girl," he said, with even greater 
 tenderness than before ; ' ' this is horribly sud- 
 den for you. I ought perhaps to have talked 
 with you, but I could not, Eunice. I would 
 rather spare you from ever knowing what I 
 have been through. It would do you no good 
 to know it," and for a moment the darkness 
 swept over his face, altering its look painfully. 
 
 ''But at least you ought to let me know 
 what it is all about," cried Eunice with sud- 
 den spirit, casting aside the awe with which 
 she had never ceased to regard her distin- 
 guished lover. "It is not fair to destroy all 
 my happiness, all my life, and never tell me 
 why." 
 
 Norman looked at her with surprise.
 
 B TJCUnO fflowet 
 
 " Not your happiness, not your life, Eu- 
 nice," he said. " Do not let us exaggerate our 
 trouble ; it is hard enough without that. While 
 we have each other let us take courage and 
 face the future without losing heart. The 
 world is all before us, we are young, and at 
 least we are free," and a thrill of suppressed 
 feeling was in his voice. 
 
 For the first time Eunice lifted her eyes 
 and looked fully into Norman's face. "Did 
 you do this thing because you were tired of 
 being a clergyman ? ' ' she asked with a cer- 
 tain coldness. 
 
 He looked at her in silence. 
 
 " Why did you do it? " she persisted, as he 
 made no reply to her former question. "I 
 really feel that I have a right to know." 
 
 Norman hesitated. She was still so much 
 of a child he feared to touch her with the chill 
 of his bitter experience. 
 
 "Oh, my child," he almost groaned, "it is 
 hard to tell you such a thing. Eunice, my 
 faith is gone ; the worst thing which can be- 
 fall a man has overtaken me," and his face 
 seemed to grow gray and old with the words. 
 
 Eunice looked at him curiously. " Do you 
 mean that you do not believe the creed and 
 all that?" she asked. 
 
 "I could not repeat the Apostles' Creed 
 
 211
 
 B MinD fflower 
 
 to-day if my life, nay, if your life, love, de- 
 pended," he said under his breath. 
 
 Eunice rose from the chair by his side and 
 took another at a little distance, something 
 almost like impatience in her movements. 
 
 " But don't you fancy a great many men in 
 the church, clergymen, I mean, do not be- 
 lieve any more than you do, but still they do 
 not give up their office on that account? I 
 can't quite see why you need to have given up 
 everything in this way which is so dreadful to 
 me if that is the only trouble. ' ' 
 
 Again Norman was silent, but he studied 
 her face with a rising perplexity and trouble in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " I almost wonder that you did not think of 
 me and my feelings a little," Eunice con- 
 tinued, irritated by his steady glance, her 
 courage rising. "Just picture the position I 
 am placed in, and how the church people will 
 talk. Very likely they will think it is all my 
 doing, that I have undermined your faith." 
 and Eunice was crying a little now with the 
 acute sense of the injury which had been done 
 her. 
 
 "Forgive me, Eunice," said Norman rising 
 and approaching her with a gesture of protect- 
 ing tenderness ; "it breaks my heart to see 
 that I have made you suffer. I have been so 
 212
 
 & IdinD fflower 
 
 selfish, so buried in my own sorrow and 
 struggle, I do not think I have realized that it 
 would make so much difference to you. The 
 cause of it all is supremely hard for us both, 
 but I thought, you know, I was foolish 
 enough to fancy, that while we belonged to 
 each other, and could bear everything to- 
 gether the other things would not make so 
 much difference to you." 
 
 "Not make a difference to me," she ex- 
 claimed, looking up passionately through her 
 tears, "whether I am engaged to a man 
 whom everybody honors yes, worships or 
 to a minister who has deserted the church, 
 who has no standing anywhere ? You cer- 
 tainly could not think of living in Coalport 
 after this ! " she added pointedly, her excite- 
 ment overriding all her reverence for him and 
 her natural delicacy of feeling. 
 
 "Eunice," Norman said, drawing back from 
 her and clenching his hands hard together, 
 "I do not know you. I do not understand," 
 and an unspeakable weariness came over his 
 face. Involuntarily his thought turned to Mary 
 Herendean, with the wish that she would come 
 to his relief and take this strange, perplexing 
 tangle into her steady hands. 
 
 "I think you are right," said Eunice, dry- 
 ing her eyes and rising ; " I do not think you 
 213
 
 a TlClin& fflowet 
 
 do understand me, nor I you. I feel that I 
 have been very strangely treated. You seem to 
 have left me out of consideration altogether." 
 
 "But, Eunice," cried Norman, goaded to 
 indignation at last, and asserting himself with 
 something like severity, ' ' stop and think what 
 you are saying ! Could I have crowded down 
 my conviction, denied what I knew to be true, 
 and forced myself to a deceitful and dissembling 
 course of action, in order that you might marry 
 me as a man of influence, instead of, as you 
 delicately suggest, a discredited minister? " 
 
 " You put it, Francis Norman, in the worst 
 possible way," she exclaimed ; " but, even so, 
 I say yes ! If you really loved me I think you 
 would have put me first ; you would have gone 
 on as you were rather than involve me in this 
 frightful humiliation." 
 
 Norman had grown white to the lips and 
 the light in his eyes was stern and terrible. 
 
 "Then I do not love you," he said in a 
 low voice, in contrast to hers, which was high 
 with excitement, "if that is your conception 
 of love." 
 
 Eunice's eyes fell before his. She looked 
 white and spent ; her frame shook with re- 
 newed coughing and her tears began to flow 
 again, but there was no softening in Norman's 
 
 face. 
 
 214
 
 H IdinD JFlower 
 
 ' ' If love means the sacrifice of honor and 
 truth, I do not love you, Eunice, and I will go 
 my way without you," he said sadly. 
 
 " It is not too late," she murmured, over- 
 awed by Norman's personal power as she had 
 never been before, so that she trembled before 
 him, and yet clinging with soft obstinacy to her 
 own will and way; "you could make it all 
 right yet, if you would." 
 
 " How so ?" he asked briefly. 
 
 " By writing to the bishop again and saying 
 you were willing to reconsider, and all that. 
 You could at least go on for a time and hope 
 for better things, and they might come, you 
 know," she added timidly. 
 
 "You ask what is impossible, Eunice. I 
 have hoped long and it has been in vain," 
 and he looked at her with the great and sore 
 amazement which had taken possession of him 
 early in the interview. "There is only one 
 straight course for a man in my place, if he will 
 not lose the last thing left to him, his man- 
 hood. I supposed that was so plain you could 
 not fail to see it." 
 
 " You are going ? " she asked weakly, long- 
 ing to throw herself into his arms and be 
 forgiven. 
 
 "Yes I must," he said. "I will come 
 again when we are both calmer and we will 
 "5
 
 & TKHtnD fflower 
 
 hope there may be better cheer. Good-bye, ' ' 
 and Norman left the room and the house. 
 
 When he reached his own door, walking 
 rapidly and almost like one dazed through 
 streets in which he saw nothing, an impish - 
 faced newsboy ran up the steps after him and 
 with a cunning feint of innocence said : 
 
 ' ' Say, mister, buy a paper, won' t yer ? 
 Last edition to-night," and he held out a 
 sheet, smelling of fresh printer's ink, before 
 Norman's eyes, as he stood with his key in 
 the door. 
 
 Norman shook his head, but his glance me- 
 chanically, unavoidably, took in a heavily- 
 printed headline held uppermost: "Apostate 
 from the Faith! An Unfrocked Priest! 
 Coalporf s Latest Sensation ! ' ' 
 
 For a moment the man grew dizzy and 
 leaned against the door for support, but the 
 gesture with which he dismissed the boy was 
 convincing, and he entered the house with a 
 steady step, albeit in his face was something 
 like the bitterness of death. 
 
 When the newsboy reached the sidewalk he 
 encountered, drawn up in line of battle, an- 
 other urchin of his own social station, who 
 stood before him with fists squared and breath 
 hot with rage. He had evidently been a wit- 
 ness of the small scene just enacted. 
 2 16
 
 B IClino jflower 
 
 " Lay down them papers now and come 
 on ! " he cried between his set teeth, " Yer've 
 got to fight me ! " 
 
 It was Joey Ahern. 
 
 217
 
 XXV 
 
 |UNICE, white and trembling, had 
 sunk into an arm-chair, and it was 
 thus that Mary, entering the room 
 a little later, found her. 
 
 Mary had met Francis Norman in the hall. 
 He had gone past her without speaking, and 
 she had seen his face. 
 
 ' ' Eunice ! ' ' she cried, ' ' what is it that has 
 happened ? ' ' 
 
 "I am not quite sure," replied Eunice 
 coldly; "I rather think though that I have 
 broken my engagement." 
 
 Mary sat down beside her sister and took 
 her little, trembling hands into her own. Her 
 face was very grave. 
 
 "Tell me, dear, what thee means," she 
 said, with motherlike gentleness. 
 
 In rapid, broken, incomplete sentences, Eu- 
 nice poured forth her story of Norman's action 
 on Sunday, and of her interview with him just 
 now concluded. Her sense of wounded feel- 
 ing and resentment grew with every word. 
 Shame, disappointment, chagrin, were the dom- 
 inant notes in her recital ; vehement regret, 
 218
 
 a TOUnD flower 
 
 not for her lover's loss of faith, but for his loss 
 of prestige. 
 
 As she listened, a slow wonder at the naive 
 worldliness of Eunice arose in Mary's mind as 
 it had in Norman's, only with this difference : 
 the sister knew better than the lover what to 
 expect. 
 
 "Eunice," she asked, "does thee realize the 
 terrible suffering which Francis Norman has 
 undergone before he could take a step like 
 this ? ' ' 
 
 "I suppose it has been hard for him," re- 
 plied Eunice half reluctantly. 
 
 " Hard ! Oh, my dear, while thee was rest- 
 ing in the morning room that evening before 
 you went to Mrs. Knight's, he talked with me 
 about the doubts which he was fighting, and 
 my heart never ached so for any man in my 
 life." 
 
 "He has talked with thee then about 
 this?" asked Eunice with a look of keen in- 
 quiry in her sister's face. " He was careful to 
 deceive me to the last possible moment." 
 
 "Do not say 'deceive,' Eunice ; thee knows 
 it is no word to use of Francis Norman. He 
 told me that he could not bear to let the blight 
 of his great trouble come upon thee. It was 
 because we were so little to each other that 
 
 he could talk to me." 
 
 219
 
 21 1Bltn& fflower 
 
 Eunice's eyes fell again with weary indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 "Dear little sister," Mary continued, com- 
 manding her voice which trembled somewhat 
 in spite of her will, "I almost wonder if, being 
 so near him and all that, thee can see, as an 
 outsider, a stranger almost, can, the real great- 
 ness of Francis Norman' s spirit. ' ' 
 
 Eunice raised her eyes in languid wonder, 
 and looked at Mary. 
 
 " I supposed thee and father thought he was 
 an utterly deluded man. Thee has certainly 
 shown plainly enough what thee thought of his 
 opinions." 
 
 "Yes," Mary said, blushing deeply with the 
 remembrance of her plainness of speech on one 
 occasion, "I know I have. But, Eunice, even 
 if we cannot feel that he thinks rightly in every 
 respect, we must not fail to see how nobly, how 
 manfully, how self-denyingly, he has stood for 
 what he thought right." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," said Eunice; "his 
 views are rather fashionable just at present." 
 
 "But he has sought no gain or good or 
 prominence, Una, from that fact. Have we 
 not known of his solitary, devoted life, how 
 he who is through and through the artist and 
 the poet, has put from him all that ministered 
 to these tastes? how he has given himself with- 
 220
 
 a IGUnD fflower 
 
 out reserve to the service of the poorest and 
 humblest?" 
 
 "I never expected, Mary," said Eunice 
 half impatiently, "to hear thee defending 
 Francis Norman for those monkish ideas. I 
 thought Friends held all such things to be 
 popish vanities." 
 
 "And if I do think him mistaken, as I do, 
 even as I think Friends mistaken, in putting 
 away all the beauty of music and art and joy- 
 ousness still it was a mistake high and pure in 
 its source, and nobler than other men's com- 
 placent conformities. ' ' 
 
 Eunice looked at her sister steadily. 
 
 "Dear, it seems strange I know, for me to 
 be saying all this to thee, for thee knows him 
 so much more truly and inwardly, and yet I 
 cannot help it. His looks to-day, and thine, 
 frighten me. I fear thee has in some way 
 failed of grasping the greatness that belongs to 
 him even in his downfall." 
 
 Eunice's lip trembled. 
 
 "Think, dear," Mary continued, her face 
 full of a fine and self-forgetting ardor, ' ' of how, 
 if he had been a smaller man, he would have 
 been influenced at a crisis like this by a thou- 
 sand small personal motives to compromise 
 and go on with some perilous shift and avoid 
 this humiliation for thy sake and for his own." 
 221
 
 B TldinD Slower 
 
 "I don't think he ever thought of me at 
 all," murmured Eunice crying softly; "he is 
 away off from me. I don't understand such 
 great people, and I'm sure they're very un- 
 comfortable. Just think what the Barringers 
 will say, and how everything is spoiled just 
 when I thought it would be so lovely. I am 
 sure if I had known that this was the way he 
 
 was coming out, I would never have ' ' the 
 
 word "sacrificed" was on Eunice's lips, but 
 she bethought herself just in time and stopped 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Eunice!" Mary's voice had a startling 
 ring. 
 
 Eunice looked up, with a sob under her 
 breath. 
 
 "Thee cannot mean to let me think that 
 thee has been dealing untruly with a man like 
 Francis Norman ! ' ' 
 
 Eunice turned away her head, and answered 
 nothing. 
 
 "Child," said Mary, low and urgently, 
 "does thee know what it is a strong man's 
 strong nature with all its heights and depths ? 
 Has it entered into thy heart to conceive what 
 love means to such a man, pure and great and 
 high-minded ; loving not with fitful, frivolous 
 self-seeking, but as men love God, sternly and 
 simply ? O Eunice, the greatest gift a woman
 
 a TICUnD fflowet 
 
 can have has been put into thy hands," and 
 all the lofty earnestness of Mary Herendean's 
 nature looked from her sweet eyes. 
 
 "Oh, dear me," Eunice sighed plaintively, 
 "everybody is in such a state ! I don't see 
 why thee should take it to heart so. ' ' 
 
 "Forgive me, Una," Mary said gently, "I 
 am afraid I said more than I ought ; but there 
 is one thing that thee must not forget, dear ; 
 Francis Norman has had the greatest loss a 
 man can have if he has lost his faith in God." 
 
 " Oh, what a dreadful thing to talk about ! " 
 said Eunice shivering. 
 
 "Yes, but if thee can help him to win back 
 his faith think what thee has to give thee 
 courage and make thee glad. ' ' 
 
 Eunice shook her head slowly. 
 
 "Yes, little sister, I know what I said just 
 now was not true. Thee does love Francis 
 Norman and will keep thy plighted faith to 
 him loyally and righteously." 
 
 There was a little tremor of Eunice's eye- 
 lids. 
 
 "And now I do believe that, very slowly 
 perhaps but certainly, thee can lead him back 
 to his lost faith, and so through thy love he 
 can become a far greater man than he ever 
 could have been without this fearful awakening. 
 He is in a sharp struggle now. He is casting 
 223
 
 a TffilinD fflowet 
 
 off the superfluous and useless weights with 
 which his faith was encumbered," Mary went 
 on thoughtfully, "and he is not yet at the 
 end. What if for the time all should seem to 
 go down in the wreck? there will come a day 
 of clearness and calm after the tempest and 
 the earthquake when I believe his spirit will 
 awaken to hear the still small voice, to see that 
 which is Invisible, and he will be led into the 
 light again." 
 
 Mary's face grew radiant with the uplift of 
 her thought. 
 
 "And thy part in it, love," she cried ten- 
 derly, bending to kiss Eunice on her forehead, 
 "is to wait quietly thy time and then to help 
 him to see. Pure in heart is my little sister, 
 and blessed are the pure in heart, for they 
 shall see God, and, seeing, they may make 
 others see. Look. Una, is it not happiness 
 to have this to do for him ? ' ' and there was a 
 pathos in Mary's voice as she spoke which 
 touched her sister strangely. Nevertheless, 
 Eunice could not measure up to Mary's mood. 
 
 "That sounds very lovely, Mary," she re- 
 plied with chilling unresponsiveness, "and I 
 am sure thee could do it thyself and I wish 
 thee had the chance. It would suit thee much 
 better than it does me. I never supposed I 
 should have to try to convert a minister. I 
 224
 
 B lUmD jf lower 
 
 should think it was their business to stay con- 
 verted themselves and convert other people. ' ' 
 
 Mary smiled a little. 
 
 "If Francis Norman had just kept his 
 doubts to himself he would have forgotten all 
 about them after a while as the rest of us do. 
 Oh, dear, I am so tired of everything ! I 
 wish I had never seen or heard of St. Cuth- 
 bert's and all that belongs to it. Why couldn't 
 they have let me alone ? ' ' and with this out- 
 burst of childish, petulant resentment Eunice 
 rose from her chair and went upstairs, look- 
 ing thoroughly dejected and miserable. 
 
 Mary sat still in her place looking after Eu- 
 nice as she departed, lost in thought. 
 
 "Of what can any woman be made," she 
 mused, ' ' who can hold Francis Norman' s love 
 in her listless hands, as uncertain whether it is 
 a thing to be kept or to be thrown away ? Is 
 she more or less than human ? How is it that 
 she can think and speak of herself, that she 
 can coldly upbraid him in a day like this ? that 
 she can let him go back to his desolate house 
 uncomforted ? ' ' And with this thought a great 
 wave of compassion overbore every other 
 thought in Mary's breast and her whole soul 
 melted in pity of the lonely man, fighting his 
 mortal combat single-handed and alone, no 
 man and no woman regarding. 
 p 225
 
 B TlCiino fflower 
 
 "And I could go to him myself," her heart 
 cried, "and I would, for I have the right; he 
 called me his sister, and I would stand by his 
 side this very hour and tell him that, whatever 
 men say, I know that he is true and upright 
 in heart ; that he would not have betrayed the 
 trust men placed in him save that the highest 
 honor bade him ; that I know the meaning of 
 his deep anguish, and that God knows and 
 pities ! Ah, would I not do this ? But I 
 cannot, for oh, Father pity me, I love him 
 I who have no right with this unmerciful, 
 aching love, and this is my punishment, that I 
 may not trust myself to speak. O God, make 
 Eunice Herendean a woman." And Mary 
 spoke these last words aloud in her stress, 
 rising and stretching out her clasped hands 
 with a strong gesture of appeal. 
 
 226
 
 XXVI 
 
 |T was past ten o'clock of that same 
 evening, and Mary Herendean left 
 Eunice's bedroom and started to go 
 to her own, with a clouded face. She had 
 made her sister comfortable for the night and 
 Eunice had declared that she was going di- 
 rectly to sleep and wanted nothing but to be 
 left alone, but she had seemed weak and fever- 
 ish and Mary felt ill at ease on her account. 
 
 It would have been impossible to Mary 
 Herendean to regard Eunice without tender- 
 ness. Even now, seeing her slight, fleeting 
 nature breaking down utterly under the pres- 
 ent sharp testing, she still believed that a better 
 womanhood was latent in the child, to be shown 
 forth when touched by the right influence. 
 
 " Oh, to be wise," she cried to herself, " to 
 see the way to call her out of this littleness, to 
 find the reality of her nature, instead of its 
 surface ! ' ' 
 
 Moses Herendean stood at the door of his 
 room as Mary came through the hall. He had 
 seen the evening paper, and had thrown it into 
 the fire. 
 
 227
 
 21 TIClinO fflower 
 
 "This is true, daughter, that we hear of 
 Francis Norman?" he asked, detaining her. 
 
 Mary nodded her head, too faint at heart to 
 speak. 
 
 "This is a day of close proving for him," 
 said the old man quietly, "a day of clouds 
 and thick darkness ; but it is a day which must 
 needs come if I have rightly read the man." 
 
 Mary looked at her father with a sudden 
 dawning of light in her eyes. He had the 
 clear vision ; he would understand. 
 
 " Francis Norman has interested me exceed- 
 ingly," he continued ; "I have seen that he 
 was in a false position from which a break, sud- 
 den or gradual, must inevitably come. Some 
 men can live forever on the husks of things, 
 but he cannot. He has a nature dreamy and 
 poetic perhaps, and so peculiarly open to a cer- 
 tain form of delusion, but I believe him to be 
 absolutely sincere." 
 
 " I am sure that is true," Mary murmured. 
 
 "Some men have a kind of external sin- 
 cerity, something like a garment which they 
 can put off and on, but in him it is the tissue 
 and fibre of his will. He is of the truth. ' Every 
 one that is of the truth heareth my voice. ' We 
 must all stand by him earnestly now, Mary. I 
 trust that Eunice may bring him good comfort 
 and be to him as a light in a dark place." 
 228
 
 fflower 
 
 Mary did not reply, but in silence kissed her 
 father good-night. 
 
 Alone in her room, meanwhile, Eunice lay 
 with wide-open eyes, struggling with the cough 
 which would call Mary back to her if she heard 
 it, struggling harder with a sudden impulse 
 which had arisen within her. At last she sat 
 up restlessly in bed, turned on the light just 
 above her head, and for a moment seemed lost 
 in thought, her face white and piteous, clouded 
 with perplexity. 
 
 Then suddenly, as if a definite conclusion 
 had been reached, she sprang to the floor with 
 nervous quickness, ran barefooted to her desk, 
 gathered writing materials from it, and then 
 returned, chilled from head to foot. For a 
 moment she lay huddled in a little shivering 
 heap, but soon she was warm and relieved, 
 and drawing around her shoulders a little 
 brown shawl which lay on the bed, with a 
 curiously cold smile, she began to write with 
 eager, tremulous haste. 
 
 The letter written, sealed, and ready, Eunice 
 sat meditating on some plan for its immediate 
 posting. Glancing at her clock she found it 
 half-past ten already ; with eleven all chance 
 for to-night would be over. Plainly there was 
 no one in the house to whom she could entrust 
 the care of mailing this letter, for Mary must 
 229
 
 fflower 
 
 never know that it had been written. It must 
 go to-night, and it was only to step down to 
 the corner of the lane ; the night was fine ; 
 she really was not sick at all, just tired with all 
 this worry, and of course she did take a little 
 cold down in the rose garden that night ; yes, 
 her mind was made up. 
 
 With noiseless motions Eunice rose and 
 dressed, wrapped herself in a heavy cloak, 
 turned down her light, and softly made her way 
 to the stairs in the rear of the house, avoiding 
 that part of the hall into which Mary's room 
 opened. A moment later she had opened the 
 servants' door into the garden, and with light, 
 winged steps, she sped down the path between 
 the flower beds, faint with sweet odors of May 
 lilies, to the green lane gate among the rose 
 bushes. There was a big round moon in a 
 white sky above her, with a weak halo rimming 
 it ; the moon seemed to stare at Eunice un- 
 comfortably. When she pushed open the gate 
 and stepped through, the lane looked dark and 
 fearsome, and her hands shook so that she 
 nearly dropped her letter, but with nerve, 
 rather than with courage, she kept on, and ran 
 all the way to the corner, where she slipped 
 the letter into the lamp-post box. Some men 
 strolling by singing, stared at her rudely, and 
 she grew faint with fear, but they did not 
 230
 
 B "CUinO flower 
 
 speak, and she ran back safely to the house by 
 the way she had come, crept up the stairs, and 
 found with unspeakable relief that her absence 
 had not been discovered. 
 
 "A bad quarter of an hour, to be sure," 
 she said to herself, as she turned out her light 
 and laid her head again upon the pillow, all 
 her pulses beating it seemed like great engines ; 
 ' ' but it may be worth it all. There is one per- 
 son left yet, I guess, to pity this poor little girl, 
 if only he can forgive me. ' ' 
 
 231
 
 XXVII 
 
 |WO days later, in a drenching spring 
 rain, Francis Norman entered the 
 low iron front gate at the Willow 
 Street house once more and hurried down the 
 walk strewn with wet leaves between the rows 
 of drowned tulips. A doctor's carriage was 
 being driven out by the side entrance at the 
 same moment, and while he waited on the 
 porch longer than usual the postman came 
 down the path behind him and with a word of 
 apology handed him a letter to be delivered 
 within. The letter was addressed to Eunice 
 in a man's hand and was postmarked New 
 York. These points, however, Francis Nor- 
 man did not note, and handed the letter to 
 the housemaid as' he went in, saying casually 
 he believed it was for Miss Eunice and would 
 she ask her if he might see her for a short time 
 at once. 
 
 The maid ran upstairs and Norman entered 
 the library, where he found Moses Herendean 
 reading alone. 
 
 " Eunice is not ill, I trust? " he asked anx- 
 iously after he had greeted the old man. 
 232
 
 H "OdinO flower 
 
 "Yes, I regret to say," replied Moses Her- 
 endean, " that she is seized with what threatens 
 to prove a severe illness. The doctor this 
 morning speaks of pneumonia," and the father's 
 face was troubled in spite of its serious com- 
 posure. 
 
 While they were discussing her condition 
 Eunice in her room upstairs lay with lustreless 
 eyes and pale, parted lips, through which her 
 hot breath came over-fast. Mary was absent 
 from the room preparing remedies which the 
 doctor had directed. 
 
 <% Mr. Norman has come, Miss Eunice," 
 said the maid, coming to the bedside with the 
 letter in her hand ; " he wants to see you most 
 especial, if he can, and he sends you this letter, 
 miss, though perhaps it was the postman gave 
 it to him." 
 
 Eunice took the letter with eager haste from 
 the maid's hand. 
 
 " How very obliging of him," she said in a 
 weak, hoarse voice and with a faintly ironical 
 smile as she saw the handwriting, while a rosy 
 flush covered her face and neck, which had 
 been unnaturally white before. 
 
 The maid stood waiting, but Eunice, tearing 
 
 open the envelope, which fell on the carpet, 
 
 opened the letter and glanced at the first words. 
 
 At sight of them a sudden brightness came 
 
 233
 
 a TKfltno fflower 
 
 into her eyes and seemed to transform her face. 
 She leaned back upon the pillow, under which 
 she thrust the letter. 
 
 " Maybe it ain't good for you, Miss Eunice, 
 to get that excited like," murmured the maid. 
 
 "That's all right, Betty," she said weakly. 
 "Tell my sister to come here as soon as she 
 can." 
 
 In a moment Mary was at the bedside, but 
 even as she approached she stooped and picked 
 up the torn envelope which had fallen from 
 Eunice's hand. A glance at it sent a vivid 
 flush to Mary's cheeks. 
 
 "Why, Eunice," she cried, "this is Ralph's 
 writing ! How can he dare to write to thee 
 after father has forbidden him ever to do so 
 again ? ' ' 
 
 " No matter, Mary; don't worry me about 
 it now when you see how sick I am. Francis 
 Norman is downstairs and you will have to 
 see him. I certainly can't." 
 
 There was a brief but earnest argument be- 
 tween the sisters, in which Eunice held her 
 ground, and then Mary hastened down to the 
 hall below. Norman, who had been intently 
 listening for a step, met her at the foot of the 
 stairs. 
 
 "What does she say ? " he asked with pierc- 
 ing anxiety in his eyes. 
 234
 
 B TIClin& flower 
 
 "She cannot see you," was Mary's answer. 
 
 " No. I was sure it would not be best after 
 your father told me of her condition. Is it all 
 my doing, Mary ? I feel almost as if I had 
 killed the sweet child with my own hand. I 
 did not dream she was ill at all when I was 
 here. It accounts for so much, and I must 
 have been a savage to speak as I did to her. ' ' 
 
 Mary looked down, sorely troubled. " Do 
 not feel so," she said gently. "I cannot 
 think it is what you did altogether, but yester- 
 day she grew worse very suddenly and we 
 cannot comprehend the cause. She certainly 
 did not seem really ill the day you saw her. I 
 do not understand, ' ' and Mary shook her head 
 sadly ; ' ' but I cannot leave her a moment. ' ' 
 
 " Did she send me any message ? " Norman 
 asked almost pleadingly. 
 
 ' ' Yes, that is the hardest of all, ' ' said Mary. 
 Tears were in her eyes and she did not lift 
 them to Norman's face. "She says you must 
 not expect to see her. She feels that the en- 
 gagement has been a mistake and she wants 
 you to release her. She will return your let- 
 ters. ' ' Mary repeated the brief sentences with 
 a manner cold through the severity of the re- 
 straint she was laying upon herself, and with 
 the last words she held out her hand and gave 
 something into his. 
 
 235
 
 a TWltnC> fflower 
 
 "What is this?" he cried sharply, his face 
 grim and stern with pain. It was the ring he 
 had given Eunice. 
 
 ' ' Please spare me that, ' ' he said with forced 
 calmness, replacing it in her hand ; " throw it 
 away, if you will, for me. The letters would 
 better be burned, ' ' he added deliberately. ' ' I 
 shall not be in Coalport to receive them." 
 
 ' ' Where are you going when ? ' ' faltered 
 Mary. 
 
 "This week, somewhere, I hardly know 
 where, but I will send an address. I shall 
 wait until you let me know that she is better, 
 and then, when there is no chance that I could 
 be needed, I shall go as far forth as I can, the 
 farther the better ; the world is wide. I want 
 to drop out of sight completely. Why should 
 I not ? Will you say good-bye ? Can you 
 forgive me ? " 
 
 Mary could not speak, but she held out her 
 hand. He clasped it for an instant and hur- 
 ried from the house. 
 
 236
 
 XXVIII 
 
 RANCIS Norman spent the two suc- 
 ceeding days in writing all letters and 
 making all preparations necessary to 
 a prolonged and indefinite absence. The care 
 of church and parish could be left in his as- 
 sistant's hands, and from no point of view 
 was it desirable for the sake of the church 
 that he should linger in Coalport. His house- 
 keeper and servants he dismissed out of hand 
 and saw them depart, amazed but well pleased 
 with a liberal advance of wages. 
 
 The hardest thing he had to do, and yet a 
 task which he would not spare himself, was to 
 pay a few visits to those who had stood nearest 
 to him in the church and to whom he was 
 under the obligation of this personal attention. 
 It was an experience even harder than he had 
 anticipated ; but he was inured to self-disci- 
 pline, and he went through it without faltering. 
 
 Miss Archibald, though plainly extremely 
 shocked at his course, was still loyal and sym- 
 pathetic, and at pains to smooth his pathway 
 so far as lay in her power. She was confident 
 that he would get all over this little episode 
 237
 
 H WinD fflowet 
 
 and come back to them by and by just as dear 
 and good as ever. They could never have a 
 rector who could take his place, and do among 
 them such a work as he had done. 
 
 "Your only fault, Father Norman," she 
 assured him, amid plentiful tears, as she said 
 good-bye, "is that you're too good, too spirit- 
 ual, and take things harder than you need to." 
 
 In the various visits which followed, Nor- 
 man met sometimes the coldness that he ex- 
 pected, sometimes the reproaches, and hardest 
 of all, the pity of those accustomed to revere 
 and honor him. 
 
 His last call was at Mrs. Barringer's. Miss 
 Barringer alone of the family was at home. 
 When Norman's card was brought to her in 
 her room she looked at it with a sharp com- 
 pression of the lips and told the maid to say 
 that she was engaged. Then, with a sudden 
 impulse, she ran and caught the maid at the 
 head of the stairs, and bade her tell Mr. Nor- 
 man that she would see him. Then she 
 paused a little space, looking at herself atten- 
 tively in the glass. She was dressed for a din- 
 ner and looked, as she always looked, her 
 best in sumptuous attire. There was un- 
 troubled repose in her face, and the quietness 
 of assurance undisturbed in the very way she 
 held herself. She knew this and she guessed 
 238
 
 TJCUnD Jflower 
 
 what its effect might be upon the tossed and 
 troubled spirit of Francis Norman. Very 
 well, let it have its effect. This man had com- 
 mitted the crime of walking with unseeing 
 eyes past his highest opportunity. Failing to 
 see that the royal flower had swung to the 
 reach of his hand, he had stooped to gather 
 and lay on his heart instead an insignificant, 
 pale wild flower. The man was bent, it 
 seemed, on his own humiliation. Let him see 
 then, once more, the height from which he 
 had fallen. 
 
 It was thus in all her stately beauty, with a 
 manner perfect to her conception of the oc- 
 casion, cold and quiet, yet not ungracious, 
 that Florence Barringer presented herself be- 
 fore Norman to receive his final adieu. 
 
 He had always admired her, had always 
 been impressed and interested by the quality 
 and poise of her character, and a faint smile 
 of pleasure passed over his face as he advanced 
 to greet her now, with his unchanged, high- 
 bred grace. 
 
 Florence Barringer had keen perceptions. 
 She might have resisted the influence of his 
 personal regard, but she saw that in his face 
 which mastered her womanhood and laid low 
 the defenses of pride and coldness behind 
 which she had thought to meet him. For 
 239
 
 IDlinD Slower 
 
 Norman bore in his face the stamp of the de- 
 cisive conflict he was waging, which, while it 
 seamed and marred his visage with deep and 
 painful lines, yet produced in it a power which 
 Florence Barringer had never seen there be- 
 fore, the greatness of a real contest, with real 
 and not imagined forces. On the instant she 
 felt that she had come to him as a child might 
 bring its pettiness to the notice of a mighty 
 man absorbed in mighty things. When they 
 were seated and she lifted her eyes to meet his 
 look, Francis Norman saw in them an awe 
 which he never had dreamed of meeting there, 
 and she spoke and moved in his presence with 
 a humility and hesitation foreign to herself. 
 
 There was little, however, that could be put 
 into speech between them. Besides the after- 
 noon was far advanced and Norman's time 
 was short. He was to leave Coalport in a few 
 hours. He rose to go. At the moment, Mr. 
 Barringer had come into the hall, and now 
 presented himself at the door. 
 
 "Ah ! Norman," he said coolly, "how do 
 you do? Just going, eh? Well, I suppose 
 we shall have to say good-bye to you ? 
 Understand you're off for Europe for a long 
 tour?" 
 
 Norman assented. 
 
 "That's a good scheme. You look tired 
 240
 
 S 1KUn& fflower 
 
 out, and you have stuck pretty close to busi- 
 ness, I guess. A man gets morbid if he 
 doesn't have a let-up now and then." 
 
 Norman bent his head slightly and stood 
 thus without reply. 
 
 "You strained things just a little too hard, 
 I guess, down there, and the bow snapped at 
 last. Well, you' re a lucky fellow to be able to 
 take yourself off when you please. I can't 
 leave my business in that way." 
 
 Florence Barringer attempted to speak, but 
 her father did not notice her and continued to 
 address Norman. 
 
 "You'll turn your attention to art now, 
 won't you?" he asked carelessly. " I always 
 thought your tastes were in that direction. 
 Well, that's all right. All I say is that if you'd 
 been a poor man, with a wife and children, 
 you'd have had to swallow down your scruples 
 and stick to your work. It isn't every man 
 who can afford to indulge his speculations 
 quite to this extent." 
 
 Norman bowed with fine, forbearing courtesy 
 and moved toward the door. 
 
 "By the way, you may be interested," Mr. 
 Barringer added. " I met the bishop in New 
 York this morning, and he told me he had just 
 the man for St. Cuthbert's could put his 
 hand right on him." 
 
 Q 241
 
 fflower 
 
 "I am exceedingly relieved to hear this, 
 Mr. Barringer," said Norman gently. "It is 
 what I most desired," and with a few words 
 he parted from father and daughter. 
 
 It had been a week of bad weather, and the 
 rain had set in again, Norman found, when 
 he came out again into the street, and a gusty 
 wind was blowing. At the street corner he 
 met Tom Ripley, who passed him with civil 
 but brief salutation. Tom knew that he was 
 about leaving town, for Norman had written 
 him to that effect and suggested his coming 
 to see him at his house. Ripley had not, 
 however, acted upon the suggestion. 
 
 "Tom is tenacious of his theology," Nor- 
 man said to himself, smiling a little cynically, 
 hurt unreasonably by the young fellow's de- 
 fection. "I should be loth, indeed, to com- 
 promise his orthodoxy, and I suppose I am 
 rather a dangerous person now. ' ' 
 
 As he went on, buffeted by the wind, the 
 rain beating against his unprotected face, he 
 walked in bitterness of spirit to the rhythm of 
 a haunting verse which would not leave him : 
 
 I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 
 A rope cuts both my wrists behind ; 
 
 And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 
 For they fling, whoever has a mind, 
 
 Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 
 242
 
 H TKflinD flower 
 
 In the empty, echoing house in Minster 
 Street, Norman did not betake himself as 
 formerly to his narrow, cell-like apartment up- 
 stairs. It was closely locked and left. He 
 went into the great library beyond the drawing 
 room. The room was chilly and close and 
 dark already. The fires had gone out in the 
 house, and there was no one within its walls to 
 minister to his needs. Wet and shivering, 
 with such fuel as he could lay his hands on, for 
 he had lived in total ignorance of the domestic 
 matters of his house, he tried to light a fire in 
 the empty grate. The gloomy silence of the 
 place, with its heavy furnishings and stiff un- 
 usedness, was overpowering. The fire flickered 
 up for a moment, then smoked and died out. 
 
 "No fire on my hearth to-night," thought 
 Norman, and went to the upper regions to 
 make ready for his journey. 
 
 243
 
 XXIX 
 
 |T was seven o'clock and growing dark 
 when Francis Norman, clad in an 
 ordinary rough tweed traveling suit, 
 stood on his doorstep and looked out into the 
 storm which had increased in violence. 
 
 "Life is over," he said to himself. " Now 
 for existence ! It is perhaps a trifle grim to 
 have no one to see me off, but it is all of a 
 color." 
 
 He set his small, leather bag on the tiled 
 floor of the vestibule, and with some deliber- 
 ation locked and double locked the heavy front 
 door, dropping the key into his pocket. 
 
 "Who shall unlock this door again?" he 
 asked himself, ' ' and when ? ' ' 
 
 He turned to descend the steps, and was 
 aware for the first time of the small figure of a 
 boy in rain-sodden garments, clinging to the 
 rail, on the lower step. A second glance and 
 he recognized Joey Ahern. 
 
 "Why, Joey," he said, holding out his 
 hand with a smile to the little fellow ; "what 
 are you doing here in the rain ? Hurry home 
 to your mother. " 
 
 244
 
 flower 
 
 "No, sir, Father Norman, I ain't goin' 
 home ; I'm goin' along with you," and a 
 moisture of a different species from the rain 
 which dripped from his cap appeared in Joey's 
 light, round eyes. 
 
 By this time Norman was walking rapidly 
 down the street, Joey following hard after him. 
 
 " I'll keep close to yer heels, Father Nor- 
 man, jes' like ye told me to that night when 
 ye went home with the lady." 
 
 There was no reply. On they went, Nor- 
 man a step or two in advance. 
 
 " Please, sir, may I carry yer bag ? " 
 
 "No, Joey. Here's a quarter, my boy. 
 Now run home, as I tell you. ' ' 
 
 "I don't want no quarter," said Joey 
 hotly; "that ain't wat I'm after. You'd 
 ought ter know that wa'n't it." 
 
 "You came simply as a friend, didn't you, 
 Joey, to see me off?" asked Norman gravely. 
 " Now that was kind. But how did you know 
 I was going away ? ' ' 
 
 "The cook told me mother, sir. Sure, 
 she's second cousin to me uncle's wife, and 
 she said as how yer was fer shuttin' up the 
 house, and I thought mebbe yer was kinder 
 down on yer luck, and I'd like to have yer 
 know I feel awful bad," and Joey sniffled vio- 
 lently. 
 
 245
 
 a Idinfc fflower 
 
 "Walk by my side, Joey," said Norman, 
 waiting a moment. "It is only when I am 
 escorting young ladies that I wish you to keep 
 at my heels. And so you feel sorry that I am 
 going away ? I rather like that notion, Joey. 
 It seems to suit me particularly well to have 
 you care about it. We always were pretty 
 good friends, don't you think so? But now 
 here is the car I'm going to take, and I'll give 
 you five cents to take the other car yonder 
 down to your house. You must not try to 
 walk to the mines to-night ; you would be car- 
 ried off in the torrents." Then looking at 
 the miserable, water-soaked and tearful little 
 fellow, he added whimsically: "The flood- 
 gates have been loosed already sufficiently, 
 haven' t they ? I almost feel like tears myself. 
 However, Joey, listen to what I have to say. 
 Miss Mary Herendean, whom you have seen 
 sometimes down at the settlement Miss Mary, 
 remember, will have some money which I shall 
 arrange to leave with her for your mother, for 
 coal and rent and things, you know. I will 
 see that she understands that it is to be paid the 
 first of every month. You will go for it your- 
 self, Joey, will you ? And she will perhaps 
 look after you a little. Good-bye ! ' ' and Nor- 
 man swung himself on the passing car. 
 
 As he approached the station, he was sur- 
 246
 
 S "WninS flower 
 
 prised to see Moses Herendean's family chariot, 
 with its peculiar black-beetle outline and its 
 staid old horse, driven up by the venerable 
 Simeon with something approaching rapidity. 
 As he drew near, Mary Herendean alighted 
 from the carriage and met Norman face to 
 face just as he stopped under the dripping 
 station roof. 
 
 "Oh, I have met you!" she exclaimed, 
 with joyful surprise, and held out both hands, 
 too full of her thought of him to remember 
 that she loved him to remember herself at 
 all. There was a rich glow in her cheeks, her 
 fair hair was flurried by the wind into a soft 
 cloud on her forehead, and her face was eager 
 and beautiful. "I came, thinking you might 
 be leaving by the express," she went on, 
 speaking rapidly. 
 
 They both remained standing in the shadow 
 of the carriage, while the ancient Simeon 
 watched his dripping horse with a gravely:' 
 reproachful countenance. 
 
 ' ' Well ? ' ' Norman asked, looking earnestly 
 into her face. 
 
 ' ' There are two things you ought to know, 
 Francis Norman," Mary began, "before you 
 leave Coalport. One is, that Eunice is un- 
 doubtedly better, and we think will escape the 
 worst we feared ; and the other " here a shade 
 247
 
 B TIJCltno flower 
 
 of embarrassment crossed Mary's face, "the 
 other is this : that you must never blame your- 
 self for this illness. It is not you who have 
 caused it. I know now that it has come from 
 a wholly different cause, from Eunice's own 
 imprudence. She has told me what makes 
 many things clear. It is not right that you 
 should bear too heavy a load," and her eyes 
 darkened with indignant protest and a superb 
 sternness was on her lips, which carried Nor- 
 man's thought back with a flash to one certain 
 hour in the parish house of St. Cuthbert's. 
 
 "You are kind, Mary," he replied thought- 
 fully. "It is bitter to feel that I have done 
 wrong to many who have trusted me, but most 
 bitter to have hurt her. But I know by this 
 that you forgive me ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you will carry out a little work I 
 want to leave with you ? " he asked. ' ' I ex- 
 pected to send you back a note," and he pro- 
 ceeded to place the Ahern family in her charge. 
 When this was arranged, it was time for him to 
 
 go- 
 
 "We shall not hear from you?" Mary 
 asked, as he helped her into the carriage. 
 
 " No, I cannot look forward now to writing 
 to any one. But will you promise me one 
 thing? When it is the tenth of May again, 
 248
 
 B lUtnO Slower 
 
 will you send me a letter, and tell me all 
 you can of her of you all ? I will wait till 
 then. I will call for the letter at this address, 
 wherever I maybe between now and then," 
 and Norman wrote on his card a street and 
 number in London and placed it in her hand. 
 Mary bent her head in agreement ; he 
 closed the carriage door ; for one instant their 
 eyes said good-bye, and then he was gone, 
 and Simeon turned his horse's head in the 
 direction of Willow Street. 
 
 249
 
 XXX 
 
 [T was midsummer, a year, and months 
 besides, from the time of Francis 
 Norman's departure from Coalport, 
 when the first letter from him was received in 
 the house on Willow Street and read by Mary 
 Herendean, to whom it was addressed, as she 
 sat alone in the quiet library with her father. 
 Eunice was no longer with them. 
 
 The letter was dated in a little village on the 
 coast of North Devon, in England, and it said : 
 
 More than once I have been almost ready to write to 
 you, but one thing has held me back I had nothing 
 good to tell you. To-day it is different ; something has 
 been given me off here in these wild moors which I did 
 not find though I searched for it half the world over. 
 
 A week ago I struck off on foot and quite alone into 
 the very heart of this Devonshire wilderness. The day 
 was not more beautiful than other days, I think the 
 sky was rather frowning when I started. It was noon 
 when I found myself, I knew not where, but in a valley 
 with great hills covered by pathless stretches of purple 
 moor rising about me in every direction. No human 
 being was in sight, nor trace nor sign of any. There 
 were no trees, no varied, suggestive landscape, but as I 
 climbed one hill and looked about in every direction, 
 still there stretched the wild, unbroken moor. 
 250
 
 Slower 
 
 How can I tell you what followed ? There was noth- 
 ing to intervene, nothing to suggest, no elements any- 
 where but the simplest the naked earth, the sober 
 gray sky, and my soul, free and unfettered. It was 
 then, in that moment, that looking up, and looking 
 within, and looking around me, by an intuition mighty, 
 convincing, never to be gainsaid, I knew God, even the 
 Father. I looked up, and it was as if I looked into the 
 face of God, and as if the earth beneath me were an 
 almighty arm. Tears rained from my eyes. I called 
 as if in answer to an audible voice, "/ believe in God 
 the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth." 
 
 Can you ever dream what that stupendous fact meant 
 to me, starved, homeless, godless, through this year of 
 wandering, haunted in my best estate by those malig- 
 nant whispers of which you know ? 
 
 I said those words again and again, and to you, fed 
 long on "boundless hopes " and faith unclouded, they 
 cannot come with the supreme joy which they meant to 
 me. I believe, Mary Herendean thank God in God, 
 and not so only, but in God the Father, the same who 
 made earth and heaven ! love and power absolute. 
 
 Am I poor? Am I a wanderer, a man without a 
 country, despised, forgotten ? Am I the man who lost a 
 believing heart, a woman's love, the confidence and 
 honor of his fellow-men ? Am I that wretched, hapless 
 creature ? I know it not. I feel it not. Though I lost 
 everything, something has now been given to me which 
 was never mine before, / know God. 
 
 I work in freedom wild, 
 But work as plays a little child, 
 Sure of the Father, Self, and Love alone. 
 
 For me I ask no more ; but I know what you will 
 say ; can I not go on and repeat the clause which fol- 
 
 251
 
 B lUinD jf loxvcr 
 
 lows this mighty assertion ? No, not yet. That may 
 follow for me, but my time for it has not yet fully come. 
 For the present I am satisfied. 
 
 Do not think I have not longed for this. I sought 
 Him in the land of his birth, in the garden of his agony, 
 on the mount of his death, but I found him not. I 
 sought him in the wonderful paintings of the south, the 
 kingly child in his mother's arms, but I saw a human 
 child. With yearning unutterable I sought him in that 
 profoundest and most pathetic picture ever painted of 
 him, Rembrandt's "Supper at Emmaus." For hours 
 I have stood before it. I would have copied it, line 
 by line, I loved it so, but I dared not, because I did not 
 believe. I felt that here was the innermost conception 
 and showing forth of the man Christ Jesus who had 
 tasted death, and tasted it for every man ; I was moved, 
 but only as I have been moved too often by a beautiful 
 symbol. I could not accept it as bare truth. 
 
 I have dealt in symbols too long, Mary. My spir- 
 itual sense is benumbed by them. The iteration of 
 them had become terrible. You were too wise, I 
 remember, to wonder greatly that I lost the sight of 
 God in the heavy folds of the veil men have fashioned to 
 hang before his face. Why do men ? why did I ? 
 seek to make a mystery of what God would have as 
 clear as his sunshine, his air, his crystal sea ? 
 
 Never have I reacted as now from the modern sac- 
 erdotal scheme of Christendom. If God indeed has 
 sent his son, a sacrificial altar and a sacrificing, in- 
 termediating priesthood to-day are an anachronism, 
 an incredible confusion of thought not medievalism 
 merely, but dead Judaism, which men seek to graft on 
 a living tree. And when I consider the theory of an 
 extrinsic, transmitted claim which I once heedlessly 
 252
 
 H 'UatnD fflower 
 
 accepted, I feel with Arnold that I can hardly treat it 
 gravely ; " there is something so monstrously profane," 
 as he says, "in making our heavenly inheritance like 
 an earthly estate, to which our pedigree is our title." 
 And the appalling thought of all is that underlying all 
 these modern ecclesiastical pretensions and rites is the 
 old, dark persistence of the human soul toward idolatry, 
 the magnifying of the symbol, the fatal emphasis on the 
 external. Priesthood bars the way to the direct ap- 
 proach to God. You Friends, at least, are not afraid 
 to be left alone with God and your own souls. There- 
 by you have escaped divers lusts which war against us. 
 
 No, whatever comes in the future, and I am not in 
 haste, believing that "my own shall come to me," 
 my plan of life can never take the old shape. That 
 sought distinction from my kind, separateness, ex- 
 clusiveness. To-day my most ardent desire is to be, 
 not the priest, but fully and as far as God shall give me 
 grace, to be a man, a man sent of God to serve his 
 fellows. 
 
 My passion is for complete oneness with my fellow- 
 men ; to bear their burdens with them as one of them, 
 not as belonging to a different class. Distinctions aild 
 barriers of dress and name and speech I will none of. 
 If we ritualists were wrong, forgive me, you Friends 
 are wrong here also. There is a higher simplicity, 
 a more interior humility. You alone, of all men and 
 women I have known, possess it. The perfect mani- 
 festation of it is embodied in the conception of the 
 incarnation, the Christ, coming not as a priest nor as a 
 prince, but as a Man of Sorrows, the friend of publicans 
 and sinners. 
 
 But I fear to weary you with the new hopes and 
 purposes which are stirring within me. 
 
 253
 
 B TKHinJ) JPtower 
 
 Your letter reached me in May. I cannot say that 
 Eunice's secret marriage and hasty departure were an 
 absolute surprise to me. I confess I had thought of this 
 marriage as being among the possibilities. I cannot 
 help hoping that your own and your father's estimate of 
 the young man's character may be mistaken, at least 
 that his future may redeem his past. I believe that he 
 was not only Eunice's first love, but that in spite of all 
 that has occurred she has really never loved but once. 
 I had hoped and fully believed otherwise, but I think 
 now that her own heart was deceived, and that in 
 trying to give this man up she attempted what was 
 beyond her strength to perform. 
 
 In a way you will see that there is reconcilement to 
 me in this belief, for it shows me that I should not have 
 made her happy and there is less for me to regret. 
 
 Let us be of good hope. It is love that never faileth 
 that is greater than evil. 
 
 254
 
 XXXI 
 
 |N Christmas Eve an express train was 
 approaching Coalport. The Rev- 
 erend James Hope was a passenger 
 on this train and sat deeply absorbed in a 
 magazine article in his place in the car when 
 he became aware that some one was standing 
 just before him, regarding him closely. 
 
 Looking up, he saw a tall figure of rather 
 sturdy and muscular build, with the dress and 
 outline in general of a traveled Englishman. 
 The bearded face which bent over him with a 
 frank, eager smile, was deeply bronzed and 
 full of alert vigor. Hope was puzzled and 
 scanned the stranger's face closely for a litfle 
 space, while neither spoke. Then on a sudden 
 he sprang to his feet, exclaiming : 
 
 "Father Norman! Is it possible?" and 
 grasped the traveler's hands in unfeigned sin- 
 cerity of welcome. 
 
 "Not 'Father' Norman, if you please, 
 Hope," responded the other, smiling uncon- 
 strainedly ; " I have no claim, you know, now, 
 to that title," and he made room for himself 
 at Hope's side. 
 
 255
 
 a TKlinD fflowet 
 
 The change in Norman's appearance might 
 well puzzle an old acquaintance, for it was not 
 merely the accident of dress and beard by 
 which he was transformed ; the essential change 
 was from within. The melancholy reserve, the 
 guarded watchfulness, the dreamy mysticism 
 which had haunted this face in other days, had 
 given way to the inherent power and freedom 
 of the man's nature which had at last asserted 
 themselves. It was still a serious and a gentle 
 face, and it bore deep lines of sorrow and 
 mental conflict, but these served only to deepen 
 the impression of courage and strength and 
 purpose which none could miss who met the 
 man. 
 
 " Of all men I know, Hope," Norman re- 
 marked, as he took the seat by his friend's side, 
 ' ' you are the one I want most to see. You 
 have been in my mind continually of late and 
 I have much to talk over with you." 
 
 " Your letter three months ago gave me 
 profoundest satisfaction, my dear fellow," re- 
 plied Hope earnestly. 
 
 "Well," returned Norman, "all that I 
 vaguely suggested at that time is crystallizing 
 fast in these last weeks. Do you remember 
 what you used to say to me about almsgiving 
 and charities ? ' ' 
 
 "Vaguely, I think." 
 256
 
 fflower 
 
 "Well, my conception of all that kind of 
 thing has been revolutionized. In my old 
 system I looked at it subjectively almost alto- 
 gether. It belonged to my theory of a de- 
 voted life to give even to the point of sacrifice, 
 no matter how deep ; but I cannot remember 
 that I ever looked at the question from the 
 other man's point of view. I was strangely 
 ignorant of social conditions. There were 
 'the poor' and 'the rich,' and 'the rich' 
 must help ' the poor ' as a Christian grace and 
 duty. That was about as far as I had thought 
 it out." 
 
 ' ' You had the disadvantage of being a rich 
 man's son," said Hope. 
 
 Norman smiled and went on speaking : 
 
 ' ' You know I have spent the last six 
 months simply in studying Barnardo's work 
 in and out of London, and I tell you, Hope, 
 I am no longer a spectator in other men's 
 matters. I am going to work if God will 
 show me anything I am fit for." 
 
 "You will preach, Norman ? " 
 
 "No," replied the other, with a painful 
 shadow on his face, "I fear never again. I 
 feel that I have proved myself so blind a guide 
 in divine things that I cannot again seek a 
 place of spiritual leadership. If others trusted 
 me, I still could not trust myself ; and, besides, 
 K 257
 
 21 TimtnD fflower 
 
 the few and simple verities to which I cling 
 would give me place in no existing system, I 
 fear; and certainly, Hope," and Norman 
 smiled again, " I am not minded to start a new 
 religious departure." 
 
 ' ' You will see your way plainer by and by. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I think so. But, meanwhile, I want 
 you to know that you can count upon me in 
 your work at the settlement, if you can use a 
 discredited man such as I fear I still am in 
 Coalport. I have come home as men did in 
 war time simply to bear arms. The social 
 struggle which is upon the country seems to 
 me to demand imperatively that every loyal 
 man shall do his duty. We shall have to fight 
 in clouds of dust and smoke, too thick, I sup- 
 pose, to see through, for a long time to come, 
 but not too thick to fight in." 
 
 Hope looked with intense interest into Nor- 
 man's kindling face. 
 
 " One thing at least is clear to me," he con- 
 tinued ; ' ' that is, that no man has a right 
 to lead the life of a solitary recluse, to devote 
 himself to his own development even in spirit- 
 ual things, after he is sufficiently equipped for 
 duty, when other men are going down all 
 around him in the struggle with bare material 
 poverty and physical distress. I am a Socialist, 
 at least as far as concerns a man's use of his 
 258
 
 a TKUnD Slower 
 
 mental and moral forces, and it may be a good 
 deal farther. 
 
 "That old house of my father's in Minster 
 Street, Hope, I made it a kind of shell for my 
 one poor soul to grow in, and it grew small, I 
 am afraid, all the time turned it into a kind 
 of cloister, you know, fruitless and barren of 
 results. I propose now to redeem it to some 
 practical use. I think it has a good many 
 possibilities. It is full of pictures, very good 
 ones too ; my father was a collector, and an 
 excellent judge. The library is very fair too. ' ' 
 
 Hope's eyes brightened at the significance 
 of this suggestion. 
 
 "What do you think? Can we turn it to 
 account ? It is big enough, you know, for al- 
 most anything." 
 
 Hope nodded emphatically. 
 
 " I could put it to a dozen uses to-morrow, 
 if I had the chance," he replied. 
 
 "Good ! You see, then, there is much to 
 discuss, and I shall see you shortly ; but here 
 we are, slowing into the station already," and 
 Norman, with a hurried hand-clasp, left his 
 friend and made ready to leave the train. 
 
 A few minutes later Norman started off 
 alone, as he wished to be, over the crisp, new- 
 fallen snow at a rapid gait. He had sent his 
 luggage to a hotel, but he had no mind for a 
 2 59
 
 fflower 
 
 hotel himself just yet ; he was eager for a 
 glimpse of the old familiar streets, and his 
 heart within him was deeply stirred. 
 
 But the streets were gay to-night with 
 Christmas greens and Christmas cheer and 
 Christmas shoppers, and an infectious gayety 
 seemed to pervade the air. 
 
 "Hurrah for me!" muttered Norman, 
 under his breath. " On the spot at last, after 
 nearly two years, and not a whimper of longing 
 for the ' dear old days ' yet. I shall do finely 
 at this rate. I believe I even dare to walk 
 down Minster Street," and he turned in that 
 direction and soon came in sight of the sculp- 
 tured front of St. Cuthbert's. "The good 
 bishop will have a clean mantle of snow to- 
 night to cover the blackness of his robes," he 
 thought; "but what is that canopy from the 
 door to the street? Doubtless a wedding 
 later," and Norman hastened on to the spot. 
 
 A broad carpet covered the church steps 
 and pavement, but the doors were all locked. 
 Turning, he stood irresolute for a moment on 
 the steps, when suddenly the bells high above 
 his head began chiming loud and lustily the 
 glad old Christmas hymn : 
 
 With hearts truly grateful, 
 Come, all ye faithful, 
 To Jesus, to Jesus, in Bethlehem ! 
 260
 
 H Wtnfc fflower 
 
 It was a melody which Norman could never 
 hear without an inner excitement, and it 
 thrilled him now as no other sound on earth 
 could have done. 
 
 In a deep voice, low and muffled, he struck 
 into the second stave, and sang with the 
 chimes : 
 
 See Christ our Saviour, 
 Heaven's greatest favor ; 
 Let us hasten to adore him, 
 Let us hasten to adore him, 
 Our God and King ! 
 
 The door behind him was opened from 
 within, the old sexton, whom he remembered 
 perfectly, appeared, anxiously sweeping a few 
 snowflakes from the steps. 
 
 Norman turned slightly and spoke to the 
 old man, who plainly did not recognize him 
 and who vouchsafed the information that there 
 was going to be a great wedding in the church 
 at eight o'clock. 
 
 " I should like to go in a moment and see 
 the church," Norman remarked. "I used to 
 know it pretty well. ' ' 
 
 "No, sir, very sorry, sir, but no strangers 
 will be admitted to-night only them having 
 cards. You haven't got a card, have you?" 
 
 "Oh, no ; I do not even know who is to be 
 
 married." 
 
 261
 
 H TUUinO fflowet 
 
 ' ' Why you must be a stranger in Coalport 
 then, sure enough. There hasn't much else 
 been talked about here lately. It's Mr. Ho- 
 ratio Barringer's daughter, the younger one, 
 and she's to marry young Ripley. Heard of 
 the parties, perhaps?" 
 
 Yes, Norman had heard of the parties, in 
 fact had known them well, long ago. 
 
 The old sexton relented a little. Some 
 touch of distinction in Norman's manner of 
 speech, some latent association recalled uncon- 
 sciously by his voice, affected him. 
 
 "Well, mebbe as you know the parties, or 
 used to, and nobody being about, it won't do 
 any harm if I let you step into the church just 
 a minute." 
 
 Accordingly, an instant later Norman found 
 himself standing with head uncovered and 
 humbly bent, in the broad aisle of St. Cuth- 
 bert's, beside the sexton, who did not know 
 him. 
 
 The chancel was full of tall white lilies and 
 glossy-leaved palms, mingled with the Christ- 
 mas greens which hung heavily everywhere. 
 
 "It'll be a great wedding, I can tell you 
 that," whispered the old man beside him, 
 breaking into Norman's brooding reverie. 
 "The bishop himself has come to perform the 
 ceremony, and the choir has been practising 
 262
 
 B TUfltnD fflower 
 
 them special pieces, ' The Voice that breathed 
 o'er Eden,' and such like, for a month back." 
 
 " Have there been many changes for a year 
 or two in the choir ? ' ' asked Norman, turning 
 to leave the church. 
 
 "Oh, a pretty good number. But they've 
 lost one of their best for to-morrow ; the choir- 
 master was nearly wild when he heard it. ' ' 
 
 "Who was that?" 
 
 "A little fellow the man who used to be 
 here before this one Father Norman, I mean 
 picked up, somehow or another. Joey 
 Ahern his name is. He's got a rare voice, I 
 can tell you, and him such a little chap too." 
 
 "What has happened to him?" asked Nor- 
 man quickly. They had reached the vestibule 
 now. 
 
 "Got hurt at the works yesterday, pretty 
 well crushed, I guess, ' ' said the sexton ; ' ' they 
 don't know as he'll pull through. Shouldn't 
 wonder if he didn't live the night out." 
 
 263
 
 XXXII 
 
 IORMAN had not waited for the last 
 words, but was down the steps and 
 down the street leaving the old man 
 to wonder who he could have been. In the 
 square he found a cab and was driven rapidly 
 through the lower town to "the settlement," 
 where, in the neighborhood of the mines and 
 smelting works the families of the miners were 
 mainly congregated. On they drove, with coal- 
 black furnaces belching out their flames and 
 smoke on every hand, past the squalid, mis- 
 erable dwellings with the clang of the iron 
 works rilling the air with discordant sound. 
 
 Norman dismissed the cab at the head of 
 one well-remembered alley, and plunged down 
 into the darkness alone. Lights in these re- 
 gions were at long intervals, and it was with 
 difficulty he could keep his footing on the slip- 
 pery walk, or discern one house from another. 
 Deep down the lane, before a tall, narrow ten- 
 ement, was the outline, against the blackened 
 snow, of a carriage standing. When he reached 
 it Norman was sure of the house and went in, 
 and up two flights of stairs. 
 264
 
 H THUmO jflower 
 
 The door into the front room where he had 
 often visited Joey stood open ; it was dark in- 
 side and there seemed a hush upon the place 
 which he hesitated to break by knocking. 
 
 He listened a moment. A woman's voice 
 was praying. He waited no longer, but push- 
 ing the door open without noise, he stepped 
 softly into the dark and empty room. The 
 door was open into a room beyond, which was 
 lighted. As his eyes became accustomed to 
 the light he could see clearly several figures 
 about a bed. A tall old man stood erect in 
 the full light of the oil lamp, his head bent, his 
 profile outlined against the wall beyond, a 
 strangely majestic figure in that low place. 
 Norman knew it well. The figure of a black- 
 robed sister could also be seen beyond the bed 
 and two other women were kneeling by its 
 side. One was Joey's mother ; one was pray- 
 ing. It was Mary Herendean. Her voice 
 rose sweet and clear and steady above the 
 sobbing of the poor mother, witli the slight 
 rhythmical swing of her Quaker inheritance 
 and the powerful "gift in prayer" occasionally 
 possessed by women of her sect. 
 
 "Our Lord Christ," she prayed, " thou who didst 
 
 become a child, thou who didst know pain and sorrow 
 
 and even death, for us in our sore need, come to us now 
 
 to-night in this place. Our Saviour, we could not know 
 
 265
 
 H TJCUnD fflower 
 
 the Father's love except he had sent thee to die for us, 
 but we know it and we beg thee, because thou dost 
 love us, to help us now. Comfort this mother and 
 bless our dear boy and pity his pain. Thou dids: 
 touch our human frames when thou wast here on earth 
 and healed them of all their suffering ; O Saviour, lay 
 thy loving hand on this poor child even now. We love 
 thee, we trust thee. Come thou to us, Lord. Amen." 
 
 Every one in the room joined in the ' 'amen, ' ' 
 and the man who stood with bowed head in 
 the doorway added a deep voice to the rest. 
 Then, as the others turning saw and did not 
 speak for wonder and amazement, he stepped 
 through the door and stood by the bedside. 
 Joey lay with eyes partially closed, his face 
 drawn with pain, but hardly conscious. Fran- 
 cis Norman bent and took into his own the 
 limp, battered little hand which lay upon the 
 coverlet. For an instant his head was bowed 
 and his broad chest heaved with strong emo- 
 tion. Then he lifted his head, and looking 
 up, still holding Joey's hand in his, he spoke 
 the words distinctly, as if to rouse the child by 
 the power of association : 
 
 "/ believe in God the Father Almighty, 
 Maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, 
 his Son, our Lord. ' ' 
 
 There was no mistaking who he was when 
 they thus heard his voice. 
 266
 
 a TldinO fflower 
 
 "Yes, sir, Father Norman," cried Joey's 
 mother through her tears; "it was yersilf 
 taught me poor boy the creed, and he niver 
 forgot it. He could say it now, poor lad, if 
 he had but got his sinses wid the pain." 
 
 " Let us go on together," said Francis Nor- 
 man. There was a quiet command in his 
 manner which awed them all and restrained 
 even their surprise at his appearing thus among 
 them. The voluble, tearful Irish Romanist, 
 crossing herself devoutly, the grave and silent 
 Friend and his fair daughter, the black-robed 
 churchwoman, and the strong man who had 
 come but now from the regions of blank unbe- 
 lief, standing thus around the poor little bed, 
 repeated reverently and unitedly the solemn 
 utterances of the Apostles' Creed. And as it 
 went on Joey's face relaxed its tension, he 
 opened his eyes and fixed them on Norman, 
 and with the words ' ' the forgiveness of sins, ' ' 
 a weak little voice was added to the rest, going 
 on through " the resurrection of the body and 
 the life everlasting'" to the amen. 
 
 Then two arms were stretched out, and, 
 Norman kneeling by the bed, Joey's hands 
 were clasped around his neck and he mur- 
 mured faintly : 
 
 " Yer come back jest in time." 
 
 "Yes, Joey," Norman whispered, while hot 
 267
 
 flower 
 
 tears blinded his eyes, " I am through wan- 
 dering now. I have come back to take care 
 of you and help you to get well. You know I 
 am going to stay with you all night. In the 
 morning you will be much better," and hold- 
 ing up his hand, he motioned that they all 
 should leave the room. The little arms sank 
 back upon the bed. With a child's movement 
 of the head when it is ready for sleep Joey 
 turned on the pillow and closed his eyes. 
 
 Norman joined Mary Herendean for a mo- 
 ment in the dark outer room and took her 
 hand. 
 
 " The Christ is born," he said low, but 
 with profound meaning. "To-night for the 
 first time I could pronounce the creed. It is 
 you who have led me to his feet in your 
 prayer. ' ' 
 
 That was all. Even with the words Norman 
 had returned to his post at Joey's bedside and 
 Mary went on down the dark, narrow stairs with 
 her father, her heart singing with men and 
 angels the Christmas hymn which the church 
 bells still rang joyously out into the night : 
 
 Let us hasten to adore him, 
 Let us hasten to adore him, 
 Our God and King ! 
 
 268
 
 XXXIII 
 
 LL night as Francis Norman watched 
 beside Joey's bed, while the poor 
 mother, worn out, slept, and the 
 child slept too, a presence well-nigh angelic 
 to his thought seemed to linger in the room 
 beside him, and he still saw Mary Herendean 
 praying by that bedside, with her pure face 
 and voice a saint, without distinction of name 
 or garb, marked but by the consecration of her 
 noble womanhood, bearing the cross on her 
 heart, not on her garment, pledged to the 
 service of all who suffered or were in need. 
 
 It was a night of wonder and glory to Fran- 
 cis Norman. The Christ whom he had sought 
 had suddenly come to him in fullness and in 
 truth. But with the revelation of Love incar- 
 nate and divine had come another revelation 
 of high and thrilling power. With awe and 
 delight his heart yielded to the mastery of 
 another love, potent, exalted, hardly less than 
 divine, a love of which he could say, " Ich 
 lie be dich in Go ft und Gott in dir. ' ' 
 
 He wondered, looking back over the past, 
 how to name his love for Eunice ; it had been 
 269
 
 B Wins fflower 
 
 a passion of tenderness and ardent idealizing 
 of a nature weak and shallow. Such a love 
 could not in its very nature exalt or ennoble a 
 man, could not find its place in his religious 
 life. There seemed a singular significance 
 almost inevitable in the issue, that his ideal 
 of sainthood broke down when he yielded 
 himself to the love of a girl like Eunice. He 
 had not dreamed it was so at the time, but he 
 could understand now. He had dwelt alto- 
 gether then, it seemed, in a world of sem- 
 blances and symbols ; now he had awakened 
 to the divine realities, profoundly greater, as 
 they were profoundly simpler, than his dreams. 
 
 With the morning Joey opened his eyes ; 
 his face was clear and his look relieved. 
 
 "Guess yer have made me better, Father 
 Norman," he said in his broken little voice ; 
 "you and Miss Mary. I tell yer she's the 
 saint on earth ! ' ' 
 
 "I believe she is, Joey." 
 
 "She's took awful good care of me mother 
 and me iver sinst yer went away. If I was you 
 I'd be fer gittin' married to her," and Joey 
 turned up his eyes in solemn emphasis of his 
 sincerity. 
 
 "I'll do my best, Joey," replied Norman 
 with his grave smile, "but you must give me 
 time, you know." 
 
 270
 
 TJClino flower 
 
 " That's so too," murmured Joey. "What 
 are yer goin' ter be now, Father Norman ? I 
 s'pose yer can't be boss at St. Cuthbert's enny 
 more, ' cause ther' s another man got yer place. ' ' 
 
 Norman smiled. 
 
 "No, I don't exactly want to be a 'boss' 
 anywhere, Joey, but a servant. I shall try 
 to help Mr. Hope at the settlement, and per- 
 haps make a place for little fellows like you 
 who get hurt at the mines to stay in and get 
 well, if it please God to let me. Is that all 
 right ? I want to do Christ' s work, you know. ' ' 
 
 "Yes, only yer ain't goin' away from Coal- 
 port ag'in sure?' 1 and Joey's anxiety was 
 pitiful to see. 
 
 "No, Joey, I shall stay in Coalport to do 
 my work. But your mother is coming now, 
 and I will go and leave you for a while. You 
 see, I really haven't exactly landed yet," and 
 with a look of strong encouragement and a 
 hand gentle as a woman's laid on the boy's 
 forehead, Francis Norman left the place. 
 
 It was only an hour later that he stood upon 
 the porch of Moses Herendean's home. 
 Simeon, the elderly Friend, was cleaning the 
 snow from the path, and the house door stood 
 open. Norman waited a moment for the ap- 
 pearance of the maid, whose occupation was 
 indicated by a broom and duster. She came 
 271
 
 B TKUnD flower 
 
 presently, a mat in her hands to shake, and 
 stared at Norman in unfeigned surprise. 
 Simeon was still halting between two opinions 
 as to his identity. It was still not eight o'clock. 
 
 "Has Miss Herendean come downstairs 
 yet?" Norman asked composedly, stepping 
 inside, not caring to wait for Simeon to reach 
 a conclusion. 
 
 The maid answered no, but it was about 
 time for her now, if he would come in. Bid- 
 ding her make no announcement of his pres- 
 ence, Norman went into the hall, laid aside 
 his coat and hat in the familiar place and 
 walked up and down the hall below the old 
 portraits of William Penn and George Fox, 
 until at last, the maid withdrawn and the place 
 quite still, he heard a step on the landing 
 above and the sweep of a woman's dress. 
 
 Norman stood at the foot of the stairs as 
 Mary came down. Her surprise showed in 
 the brilliant color which rose to her cheeks, 
 but not in words. She had been awake all 
 night for joy and for love of him, but her eyes 
 were as clear as a child's. 
 
 " I was a bold man to steal into your house 
 like this," he said as he took her hand. 
 "Merry Christmas ! Has any one said it to 
 you before ? I want to be the first to give you 
 the greeting to-day," and his eyes rested full
 
 H Wind fflower 
 
 upon hers with such a splendor of love, the 
 power and the passion of it, and its great be- 
 stowing, that her own eyes fell before them. 
 
 They passed together into the library. 
 
 "Yes, you are the first," she murmured, 
 and asked a question about Joey, putting off, 
 as women will, the crisis they most yearn for 
 and most dread. 
 
 "Joey is better, and bound to get well," 
 Norman answered with a ring of hope and 
 confidence in his voice which warmed her 
 heart ; ' ' Joey has issued his orders to me for 
 the day, and I am here in obedience to them. 
 I shall tell you later what they are. ' ' 
 
 "You will stay to see my father and take 
 breakfast with us ? " Mary asked, turning a 
 little from his look which made her heart beat 
 hard. 
 
 "That depends. You remind me that I 
 must make haste. You know what I have 
 come for, Mary, the one, only thing which 
 could bring me here, where I had thought 
 never to come again. You know that I love 
 you, not because you are a saint and an angel, 
 which may very well be, but because you are a 
 woman, the sweetest and bravest and truest 
 woman in the world, and the one only who will 
 ever be my wife." 
 
 For a little space, the color all gone from her 
 s 273
 
 a TRttinO fflowet 
 
 face, Mary stood, her eyes drooping, her hands 
 clasped behind her. 
 
 "How can it be," she faltered, "if you 
 truly loved her?" 
 
 "Mary," Francis Norman said, with some- 
 thing imperious in his tone, "you know what 
 I loved in her something that did not exist. 
 Am I to be held true to a semblance, a 
 dream ? ' ' 
 
 "No, my love, you are not!" she cried, 
 with sudden, great surrender; "you are to be 
 held true to me and to me only as long as we 
 live," and she gave herself to his arms and to 
 his kiss. 
 
 Afterward it befell that Mary would wear 
 no engagement ring ; and holding her firm, 
 shapely hand later on that same Christmas 
 Day, Norman asked concerning a tiny scar, 
 crimson and cruciform, which he found on its 
 surface. 
 
 "That is my sign of betrothal," she an- 
 swered, the smile in her eyes mingled with 
 tears, "that is the signet of our love set as long 
 as I live on my hand. ' ' 
 
 But whence the scar and how it won that 
 significance, she did not tell him then nor ever 
 would. 
 
 274
 
 XXXIV 
 
 |T was late in March. Francis Norman 
 had run down just before noon one 
 day to the Herendeans' to seek 
 Mary' s advice about certain details of his plans 
 for "Norman House. " For the Minster Street 
 mansion, to be thus styled in his father's mem- 
 ory, was being refitted and fashioned for a home 
 for the crippled and invalid children of miners. 
 The upper stories would suffice at present for 
 this purpose. The great rooms below were to 
 retain their stately elegance and artistic ap- 
 pointments, and were to serve the purpose of 
 a library, reading room, and picture gallery for 
 the clientele of James Hope's settlement, and 
 for all who could be reached through them. 
 
 A new trade-school at the settlement was 
 also full of absorbing interest to Norman, who 
 had found work developing rapidly under his 
 hands since his return. It was new work to 
 him, but all the native manhood and force of 
 his character rose to its demands ; a hand to 
 hand work among men and women and little 
 children crushed by hard conditions ; a throw- 
 ing of himself, heart and soul and energy, not 
 275
 
 B THHtn& Slower 
 
 as a priest, but as a Christian man, into the 
 struggles of the very poor and very hopeless. 
 There was, moreover, in him an effective and 
 availing power of sympathy and comprehension 
 which enabled him to fulfill the Christ-ideal as 
 he never had done when as rector of St. Cuth- 
 bert's he had sought to carry out a dream of 
 medieval sainthood. 
 
 " He knows our sorrows," men and women 
 said ; "he must have seen trouble himself." 
 
 Into every new purpose of love and benefi- 
 cence, Mary Herendean entered with Norman, 
 not only with full heart, but with wise and dis- 
 cerning judgment. 
 
 Hurrying into the hall now, without the 
 ceremony of ringing the bell, he was about to 
 enter the library with a familiar word of greet- 
 ing, when he was checked by the sight of 
 Mary, who was standing by the library table 
 alone, with a pale, stricken face which told of 
 some sudden shock of sorrow. 
 
 "Dearest," he cried, coming to her side, 
 ' ' what is it ? your father ? ' ' 
 
 " No," she said, and held out to him a tel- 
 egram. It was dated in a mountain town of 
 North Carolina, a health resort, where Nor- 
 man knew Ralph Kidder had gone with the 
 intention of practising medicine ; the words 
 
 were these : 
 
 276
 
 B WtnO fflowet 
 
 Your sister is alone and very ill. Come at once or 
 you will be too late. EDWARD SLATER, M. D. 
 
 Hastily they discussed together the plan for 
 Mary's immediate journey. She had already 
 decided to leave by an evening train that night, 
 the details were yet undecided. Her father 
 knew and had gone to his own room to be 
 alone with his grief. 
 
 " It will be a weary journey," said Norman 
 as he studied a time-table which Mary had 
 placed in his hand ; ' ' there are many changes 
 and poor connections. You cannot get to 
 Rockfall until the day after to-morrow, Mary." 
 
 " Oh, is it so long? How can I go through 
 the long uncertainty? How can I keep my 
 darling girl waiting alone so long ? ' ' and Mary' s 
 tears flowed fast as she thought of Eunice's ex- 
 tremity. 
 
 " You cannot endure it alone, Mary," Fran- 
 cis Norman said earnestly ; " you must let me 
 go with you. You will need me for the jour- 
 ney, and afterward. I shall go, dear." 
 
 ' ' Oh, that would be the only comfort pos- 
 sible now," exclaimed Mary looking at him 
 through her tears ; "but can you ? Is it quite 
 right for us? You know my meaning." 
 
 ' ' It will be quite right for you to travel with 
 your husband," was the steady answer, and 
 277
 
 H TOlina jflowet 
 
 Norman's eyes looked into Mary's with fathom- 
 less love. "I think it would be better, easier, 
 for us to be married first. You must agree 
 with me." 
 
 There had been no thought or word hith- 
 erto that their marriage would take place until 
 the autumn. Mary Herendean looked with 
 startled wonder into her lover's face, but after 
 a moment's reflection, with a sorrowful smile 
 she placed her hand in his and said very 
 quietly : 
 
 "Yes, dear, I see it is the right way, the 
 best." 
 
 " And you will be ready ? ' ' 
 
 "At four o'clock." 
 
 ' ' That will do very well. The train leaves 
 at six. ' ' 
 
 And so it came about that at four o'clock 
 that day, in the presence of Moses Herendean 
 and the servants of the house and his own 
 wife, whom he had brought at Norman's re- 
 quest, James Hope united in marriage these 
 two, whose sorrow was thus made to consecrate 
 their joy. 
 
 When on the third day they reached Rock- 
 fall in a great storm of wind and rain, Mary 
 Norman found that Eunice's peril was even 
 more imminent than she had feared. 
 
 The nurse and the doctor made the way 
 278
 
 H "WUino fflower 
 
 ready for her, led her to the room, and when 
 she had entered closed the door. White and 
 spent Eunice lay on the pillows, the great 
 change plainly shadowed in her face. Her 
 joy in seeing Mary was heartrending. Of 
 Francis Norman's presence she never knew. 
 
 When they could talk a little Eunice said in 
 her faint, fluttering whisper, for her breath 
 failed fast : 
 
 "That picture, Mary, on the chimney, 
 won't thee burn it in the fire quick? I did 
 not dare to ask the nurse, and I cannot see it 
 there any longer. ' ' 
 
 Mary rose and crossed the room quickly. 
 On the bare pine mantelpiece for the house 
 was an ill-finished, crudely built, temporary 
 structure stood in a gilt frame a small picture 
 of an actress, a woman in man's stage attire, 
 with a voluptuous figure and a smile of chal- 
 lenge on the bold, handsome face. Without 
 a word Mary threw it into the fire and it was 
 burned. 
 
 ' ' A company of people like that has been 
 here until two weeks ago," Eunice whispered. 
 ' ' Ralph liked it and he was always with them. 
 That woman he used to talk about continually. 
 He said she had temperament, vetve, all that 
 I lacked Then that night, the last, thee knows, 
 before they left, there was a great supper down- 
 279
 
 B TJClinO fflower 
 
 stairs and Ralph made me go. Mary, I could 
 not stay there. I did not know about such 
 things before. I was selfish and dreadful, but 
 I was an innocent girl, Mary, wasn' t I ? " 
 
 ' ' Yes, darling ; yes, Una, yes. ' ' 
 
 "So I came out and up here. Ralph fol- 
 lowed me with this picture in his hand. She 
 had given it to him and he put it there and said 
 ' there it should stay ! ' How angry he was ! ' ' 
 
 "Forget it, dearest. Where is he now?" 
 
 " I do not know and I do not want thee to 
 try to send him any word. He broke my 
 heart, Mary, that night. And when he had 
 said all he went away when the others did. 
 His anger was not hot and fiery, but cold as 
 death, Mary cold as death. It chilled me 
 here," and Eunice put her thin hand over her 
 heart, "and all the days since I could never, 
 never get warm again. Is it always so, I won- 
 der ? Is that death ? ' ' 
 
 The great dark eyes, more beautiful than 
 ever, looked up with piteous appeal once more 
 into Mary's face, and Mary, for all her strong 
 control, fell on her knees in an agony of sob- 
 bing and tears and prayer beside the bed. 
 
 They talked no more that night. The doc- 
 tor forbade it. Mary sat in perfect stillness 
 by the bed through the long hours, the nurse 
 and Francis Norman within call. 
 280
 
 TlEltno Slower 
 
 It was dawn when Eunice opened her eyes 
 after an hour of restless slumber and said so 
 low that Mary could scarcely catch the words : 
 
 "I dreamed that I was in Friends' meeting 
 again it was, oh so still and I thought maybe 
 it was heaven." 
 
 Then after a pause : " I have done so many 
 wrong things, I know now. Once thee said I 
 was pure in heart, sister." 
 
 "Yes, Una." 
 
 ' ' Can our Saviour, whom I trust, make that 
 true now, since I am so very sorry? " 
 
 " Yes, precious child ; oh, my darling, yes." 
 
 "Mary," the solemn eyes were dark with 
 death, "shall I see God ? " 
 
 "Yes, my blessed child shall see God. 
 Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall 
 see God." 
 
 "And father?" 
 
 ' ' Loves forgives blesses. ' ' 
 
 Eunice smiled, put her hand in Mary's, and 
 so quietly breathed away her life. 
 
 Early in the morning Francis Norman came 
 into the room with a handful of white wind- 
 flowers which he had searched for and gath- 
 ered in all the storm on the mountain side, the 
 thought in his heart, "Thou shalt not lack the 
 flower that's like thy face." He stood and 
 looked long at Eunice the white brow under 
 281
 
 S TJdino fflowet 
 
 the soft cloud of dark hair ; the sweet, cold 
 face. He laid the flowers upon her breast, 
 between the small hands, and so, with starting 
 tears and an anguish of tenderness, came away. 
 
 That night, while the storm which swept the 
 Atlantic States beat against the window panes 
 and moaned mournfully about his house, Moses 
 Herendean sat alone by his fireside in the 
 silent room. Mary's message had reached 
 him and there was little more to wait for now. 
 
 But as the storm outside laid low alike the 
 tender spring flowers and the strong, stately 
 trees at its will, so the bitter blast which had 
 scattered the flower of Eunice's frail life bowed 
 the old man's head and shook his very being ; 
 and once more, as from the first, the ancient, 
 primal throe of fatherhood went up in the cry : 
 " Would God I had died for thee ! " 
 
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