o>^lf 
 
ISABEL STIRLING 
 
ISABEL STIRLING 
 
 BY 
 
 EVELYN SCHUYLER SCHAEFFER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1920 
 
Copyright, 1920, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published October, 1920 
 
ISABEL STIRLING 
 
 445808 
 
ISABEL STIRLING 
 
 PART ONE 
 
 At the age of four, Isabel was consumed by a desire to 
 go to church and hear "preaching." What preaching 
 might be, she could not imagine. She only knew that 
 every Sunday her grandmother and her father put on 
 their best clothes and went out of the front door, leaving 
 her to a dull morning with Norah. For her dolls and all 
 her other playthings were put away, owing to a tiresome 
 rule made by a great person called God. Sunday was 
 God's day, she was told. He was a person whom she 
 could not see, although she was taught to talk to Him 
 when she went to bed, and to listen when Father talked 
 to Him in the morning and before each meal. He could 
 see her, it seemed, at all times, and very especially when 
 she was naughty. In fact, there was no getting away 
 from Him. That preaching had something to do with 
 Him, she gathered, for they said they went to His house. 
 In that case, they probably saw Him. Her heart beat 
 faster at the idea, but she was more excited than fright- 
 ened, for she could always hold fast to Grandma's hand. 
 Grandma had told her about beautiful angels, too, and 
 they would probably be there. Moreover, this child was 
 so constituted that, from the beginning to the end of her 
 life, if there were anything to see, she wanted to see it, 
 and if there were anything unusual to do, she wanted to 
 do it. 
 
 She had often begged to be taken with them to church, 
 
 1 
 
2 Isabel Stirling 
 
 and Father, who never took her part, had actually said, 
 on the occasion when he happened to hear her, that she 
 ought to go; but Grandma had said, "Not yet, William." 
 There had been a little more talk about it and Grandma 
 had said, "Wait until she is five, at any rate ;" and Father 
 had not said anything more. 
 
 Isabel now looked forward to her birthday. Hitherto 
 she had been too young to notice that Father stayed in 
 his study all that day, and she did not remember that 
 Grandma had kept her particularly quiet. But Jessie, 
 next door, had a party and presents on birthdays and 
 last year, when she had asked why she too did not have 
 such things, Grandma had hugged her tight without say- 
 ing anything, and then had gone down to the village and 
 bought her a doll. This year there was to be something 
 better than a doll or a party. 
 
 On the Sunday morning after the fifth birthday she 
 was dressed in all the bravery of her best clothes, topped 
 by her adored little pink satin bonnet, out of which, be- 
 tween golden-brown curls, peered a pair of very serious 
 dark-fringed gray eyes. 
 
 "You'll remember," admonished Grandma, "that you 
 must sit perfectly still and not squirm around or make a 
 sound." 
 
 She promised readily and walked sedately by Grand- 
 ma's side, down the hill and along the village street and 
 up the long flight of wooden steps which led to the door 
 of the church. Her breath came quickly as they entered. 
 Heaven knows what strange scene of enchantment she 
 expected to behold. She might well have been disap- 
 pointed, for that old, white-painted Presbyterian church 
 was a bare enough place. No stained glass met her eager 
 gaze, only enormous, many-paned windows with green, 
 shuttered blinds, plain white walls, severe-looking pews, 
 each with its door which fastened with a button and its 
 long, slanting shelf in front, with a narrower shelf un- 
 derneath. On the seats were thin cushions covered with 
 faded red baize and there was a wooden footstool run- 
 ning the whole length of the pew. Isabel liked the pews 
 
Isabel Stirling 3 
 
 and the under shelf, with its fascinating look of secrecy, 
 but the saving touch was in the purple velvet curtains 
 behind the pulpit. They hung in long, straight folds and 
 were decorated with heavy cords and tassels. Back in 
 her baby soul was something which responded to the 
 mystery of those purple velvet folds. Red curtains would 
 have impressed her much less. She pictured to herself 
 vast and dim recesses beyond and knew that Something 
 was there — probably God and the angels. At the proper 
 times those cords would draw the curtains back and let 
 them all come through. Then there would be "preach- 
 ing." Years after that, even when she knew quite well 
 that those purple curtains only covered a blank white 
 wall, Isabel could not divest herself of the idea that there 
 really were mysterious depths beyond — that the white 
 wall would open if one only knew the magic word. 
 
 Presently the organ began to play and, cautiously turn- 
 ing her head, she saw the high gallery at the other end 
 of the church. More mystery was there, for the gallery 
 also had curtains, small ones. It looked inaccessible, like 
 an impossibly big mantelpiece, yet there were people up 
 there, for heads appeared from time to time above the 
 curtains. The music of the organ was enchanting, al- 
 though a little terrifying. There were moments when 
 it sent a quiver through her and made a lump in her 
 throat. She got hold of Grandma's hand and squeezed 
 it tight. Then a whole row of heads appeared above 
 the curtain and sang. Grandma did not prevent her turn- 
 ing around to look at them and it seemed to her that 
 she knew some of them, for there surely was Miss Emma, 
 with her wavy red hair, and fat Mr. Anderson, with his 
 beard sticking out straight. When they stopped singing 
 all the heads dropped down out of sight. Then Father 
 — yes, it certainly was Father, and she had just begun to 
 wonder what had become of him — Father stood up in 
 front of the purple curtains and talked. This was ex- 
 citing at first, but soon grew tiresome, for it went on for 
 such a long, long time. Sometimes, to be sure, he stopped 
 and the music began again, but most of the time it was 
 
4 Isabel Stirling 
 
 just Father, talking grown-up talk that she couldn't even 
 try to understand. When, oh, when would he stop and 
 pull the cords and let God and the angels come through ? 
 Isabel hardly dared look at the gallery again lest she 
 should miss something. 
 
 And then, after all, there was nothing at all! More 
 singing, more talking, and then the people began to go 
 out of the church. She turned her head and looked up 
 once more and had a glimpse of the singers in profile, 
 a row of bodiless heads gliding away to some mysterious 
 exit. Sadly she allowed Grandma to lead her out. Many 
 ladies stopped and spoke to her. All through her child- 
 hood it seemed to Isabel that ladies were stopping her to 
 say unnecessary things. She tugged at Grandma's hand 
 to hurry her up. As for her father, he was nowhere to 
 be seen. 
 
 "You behaved very nicely," said Grandma, when they 
 had finally left all the ladies behind and were walking 
 up the hill together. 
 
 "But where was the preaching?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "Why, your father did preach," replied Grandma. 
 "You heard him." 
 
 "No, he just stood up and talked," persisted Isabel. 
 
 "But that was preaching," said Grandma. "He told 
 them about God, and what they should do to please Him." 
 
 "And is that all that preaching is?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Grandma. "He preached a sermon." 
 
 Isabel was shy about telling of her disappointment and 
 walked soberly home, holding Grandma's hand. It was 
 always a comfort to hold that hand. 
 
 When the pink bonnet was restored to its box and the 
 best frock was exchanged for an every-day one, Isabel 
 cast about for something to do in the interval before 
 dinner. She was very hungry and wished that Norah 
 would hurry up. The sitting-room was bare and unhome- 
 like in its Sunday aspect, with the toys all put away in 
 the closet. The child knelt on a chair by the window 
 and gazed out at the trees with their red and yellow 
 
Isabel Stirling 5 
 
 leaves. Now and then a leaf detached itself from its 
 branch and floated in a leisurely way through the air. 
 The garden beds were almost covered with the leaves 
 which had fallen, and perhaps after dinner, when Father 
 was in his study (which happened to be on the other 
 side of the house) Grandma would let her go out and 
 play about among them. She looked across the garden 
 to the road, and across the road to the creek in its ravine, 
 and to the hills beyond — green, tree-dotted hills, sloping 
 gently upward to meet the sky. Then, with a sudden 
 recollection of the heads in the gallery, an idea came to 
 her and Sunday rules went clean out of her head. Grand- 
 ma was upstairs and there was no one to warn her, so 
 she" got down from her chair and ran to the closet and 
 dragged out her big box of blocks. She would build 
 that church mantelpiece and set up a row of dolls behind 
 it. Sitting flat on the floor, head bent over so that her 
 jcurls covered her intent face, she was putting the last 
 touch on the architectural structure when a terrible voice 
 sounded over her head. Father had come into the room. 
 
 "Isabel !" said the voice. 
 
 She looked up, trembling, the picture of guilt. 
 
 "You know you are doing what you have been told not 
 to do." 
 
 She was too frightened even to plead that she had 
 forgotten. 
 
 "You know what happens to you when you disobey. 
 Come with me !" 
 
 He held out his hand and she gave him her little cold 
 one and was led into the unused room off his study — a 
 room always darkened and cold and associated only with 
 punishments. She wept bitterly, but as much from anger 
 and a sense of injustice as from the pain of punishment. 
 
 "Stop crying !" he ordered, as he left her alone in the 
 room, and she tried to stifle her sobs. 
 
 Presently the dinner-bell rang and he came back and 
 led her into the dining-room and lifted her to her chair. 
 He carved the meat, helped his mother and put a smaller 
 
6 Isabel Stirling 
 
 portion on a plate and, cutting it up with the carving- 
 knife, placed it before the child. Grandma hastened to 
 add the mashed potato and gravy and began to ask Father 
 questions about something or other, but she could not 
 keep him from seeing that Isabel's food remained un- 
 touched. 
 
 "Eat your dinner !" he commanded. 
 
 "I don't want any dinner," quavered Isabel. 
 
 "Eat your dinner !" 
 
 She stuck her fork into a piece of meat and lifted it 
 to her mouth. As her father turned his head away she 
 looked at him with hatred in her glance. 
 
 "Isabel," said Grandma, "I left my handkerchief up- 
 stairs. Won't you go up and look in my top drawer 
 and get me a clean one?" 
 
 As she went upstairs Isabel heard Grandma talking to 
 Father. She took as long as she could to find the hand- 
 kerchief, but when she came down Grandma was still 
 talking and just as she opened the dining-room door she 
 heard her say: 
 
 "The trouble with you, William, is that you are a rebel. 
 You have never forgiven God — and you are taking it out 
 on the child." 
 
 When she got into the room Father was looking very 
 red and angry. He was going to say something, but 
 stopped when he saw her. What did "rebel" mean ? And 
 what was it about God, Father always said that God 
 would not forgive unless one was sorry. Did God have 
 to be sorry, too? She almost forgot her troubles in her 
 curiosity. But Grandma began to talk about the weather. 
 
 As soon as the meal was over Isabel slipped away and 
 ran upstairs to Grandma's room. It seemed to her the 
 safest place. And Grandma's lap, into which she soon 
 cuddled, was a good refuge ; and Bible stories were both 
 soothing and entertaining. There were other stories, how- 
 ever, which she liked better. She put persuasive arms 
 around Grandma's neck. 
 
 "Now tell me," she coaxed, "about my little uncles and 
 
Isabel Stirling 7 
 
 aunts. I haven't forgotten. Little Aunt Lucy was sweet 
 and had light hair. And little Aunt Janey always 
 laughed. And little Uncle Johnny used to hug — just like 
 this. And they all died in a week of scarlet fever. Tell 
 me about them again." 
 
 Grandma held her close. "I don't think I n«©d to, 
 dearie/' 
 
 "And then there was Uncle Dan," went on Isabel, 
 proud to show that she remembered. "He grew up and 
 helped you. Tell me some more about them all." 
 
 "Not now, darling. I can't talk now." 
 
 "Not even about Mother?" 
 
 Grandma was silent and the child, looking up, saw 
 tears in her eyes and was awestruck. So she sat very 
 still and presently dropped asleep, while Grandma held 
 her close and thought of many things. Why, she was 
 wondering, of all her children, should there be left to 
 her only the ones who had inherited from her husband's 
 harsh mother that sombre temper which made them so 
 depressing to live with? And to think that in becoming 
 a minister William had grown to believe that his severity 
 had a religious justification. He ought to have been 
 anything else. As to religion— of course she and their 
 father had brought the children up to believe the very 
 things which now seemed so much less important. When 
 you are young you can bear up against that kind of re- 
 ligion, but not when you are old. Grandma had outlived 
 much of her early creed. She had her doubts about Hell. 
 She was pretty tired of life, and sad to think that all 
 she and her John had to show for their joys and sorrows 
 and struggles was the one little grandchild — and William 
 and Eliza, of course. Poor Eliza ! Happiness would 
 have agreed with her, but William had stopped that; 
 William and her own stern creed. Yes, there were the 
 children in Heaven, but — what would it all be like? The 
 only thing you were really sure of was old Earth. Yet 
 it would be an adventure — dying; and John would be 
 sure to be the same ; and she would gladly go and try it. 
 Only — there was Isabel. 
 
8 Isabel Stirling 
 
 True, William might marry again, even though he had 
 never cared for anyone but poor pretty Bell, and had 
 never forgiven God or the baby for her death. But he 
 was only thirty-five — and all those women running after 
 him. That gave food for thought, too. She must try 
 to live for the child's sake. 
 
II 
 
 From five to six is a long step, when you are the one who 
 takes it. At six, Isabel felt that she was a person of 
 knowledge and experience. Under Grandma's teaching, 
 she could read pretty well, if the words were not too 
 long. Also, although she did not go to school, she 
 went regularly to Sunday-school, where she learned a 
 number of hymns and many texts from the Bible, as well 
 as an amount of Calvinistic doctrine extraordinary for 
 so small a child. Of course, she had known for a long 
 time that there were such places as Heaven and Hell and 
 that one was likely — in fact, certain — to die and go to 
 one or the other of them, according as one obeyed God 
 or the Devil. Not your body, of course. That went into 
 the ground. But your soul, which was You, inside of 
 your body. As to the way in which it got out of your 
 body, Isabel had her own theory. If you had been 
 naughty, the Devil got you, whether you liked him or 
 not. On the other hand, in order to get to Heaven, where 
 the little angels played on harps, it wasn't enough to be 
 good. You must love God besides. To love God — that 
 was such a- difficult thing to do. You loved Grandma — 
 dearly. Of Father and God you were about equally 
 afraid. Isabel thought a great deal about these things 
 as she played with her dolls in her solitary fashion, but 
 she did not talk about them. It was a pity she did not 
 talk to Grandma, but a child's reserve is impenetrable. 
 
 She did not have to play alone quite all the time. Down 
 the steep hill in the back yard was a rickety flight of 
 wooden steps, and at the bottom a level space before you 
 got to the fence. This space was shaded by a big apple- 
 tree, and in the fence was a small gate opening into the 
 Giffords's back yard. Jessie Gifford was allowed to come 
 through the gate and as far as the steps whenever she 
 
 9 
 
io Isabel Stirling 
 
 liked, and there the two had established their playground; 
 too small a place for active sports, but large enough for 
 dolls' housekeeping. Unfortunately, Jessie, who was 
 seven, went to school and was only available at off times 
 and on Saturdays. However, they made the most of 
 those times. 
 
 Just now, their favorite game was "cemetery." On 
 the way home from school Jessie passed a stone-cutter's 
 yard and picked up the most fascinating bits of marble. 
 To be sure, they were not shaped very regularly for 
 tombstones, but here and there one was fairly symmetri- 
 cal and the children made the best of the other bits, plant- 
 ing them in the ground and heaping up little mounds. 
 They had learned how to make folded paper into boxes, 
 into which they put their paper dolls and buried them, 
 digging them up afterwards. Jessie played this game 
 placidly, but Isabel did not more than half enjoy it, be- 
 cause she felt that she was not playing fair. To play 
 fair, she should have cut the paper dolls in two at the 
 waist line, to let their souls out, for that was her theory 
 of the manner of the soul's escape. "You," as she real- 
 ized quite well, were just in the middle of your body, and 
 to let You out your legs must come off. Her idea was 
 that the legs disappeared entirely and were never seen 
 again. She never mentioned this to Jessie or to anyone 
 else, partly because children don't tell their inmost 
 thoughts, partly because she was afraid that if the matter 
 were once squarely brought up, they would have to play 
 fair; and she could not bring herself to sacrifice her 
 dolls. But she was very uncomfortable about it. She 
 felt that she ought to give up playing cemetery, but 
 couldn't make up her mind to that either. On the whole, 
 her self-respect suffered. 
 
 She had been sitting on the lowest step one afternoon, 
 making her little boxes, to be in readiness for Jessie's 
 return. When she had used up all her paper she piled 
 them up under the tree, where she had already laid the 
 collection of marble chips; for they were going to begin 
 fresh that day. She thought she would go up to the gar- 
 
Isabel Stirling II 
 
 den and pick the little flowers that Grandma always let 
 her have. There were some left still, although summer 
 was really over. She climbed the shaky steps and ran 
 up the slope and around to the flower garden on the other 
 side of the house. As she did so, she saw a buggy at 
 the door and Father standing on the steps talking to the 
 doctor. Isabel knew the doctor well and liked him, in 
 spite of his doses. If he had been alone she would have 
 ran up to him, but she always kept out of the way of 
 Father. She changed her mind about the flowers and 
 thought she would go and ask Grandma if the doctor was 
 coming in. She ran around to the back door and was 
 hurrying to the sitting-room when Norah met her. 
 
 "Don't go in," said Norah, not unkindly, and stretched 
 out a detaining hand. "Yer grandma's sick." 
 
 Isabel tried to pull herself away. "I can go in the 
 sitting-room" she said in remonstrance. 
 
 "No, no!" Norah held on to her. "Yer grandma's 
 in there." 
 
 "Then she isn't sick," said Isabel. "Sick people are 
 in their bedroom." 
 
 "She couldn't be took to her bedroom," explained 
 Norah. "She fell downstairs. They're makin' a bed in 
 the sitting-room. I just brought down the things. Come 
 in the kitchen an' be a good child an' I'll let ye make a 
 little pie." 
 
 For a moment Isabel stood transfixed. Grandma fall 
 downstairs ! Only children fell downstairs. Overcome by 
 horror she let herself be drawn into the kitchen. The 
 Giffords's Bridget was there, in the rocking-chair. True 
 to her promise, Norah hurriedly got out flour and other 
 ingredients and prepared a bit of dough for the child, 
 while Isabel stood looking on. 
 
 "They'll be wantin' me," she muttered, "but sure, 'tis 
 herself wud want the child looked after." 
 
 "Will they be thinkin' it's a sthroke the old lady had?" 
 asked Bridget, rocking luxuriously back and forth. 
 
 "Hush!" said Norah. 
 
 "A stroke?" thought Isabel. "What is that? and why 
 
12 Isabel Stirling 
 
 'hush'?" Before Norah could stop her she ran out of 
 the kitchen, through the passage and into the sitting-room. 
 There was a bed there, which was very strange. Mrs. 
 Gifford, Jessie's mother, was standing by it and Father 
 and the doctor had Grandma in their arms and were lay- 
 ing her on it. And Grandma groaned — a terrible sound. 
 Her face was terrible, too. Isabel could not quite believe 
 that it was Grandma at all. She turned and fled out of 
 doors to the remotest part of the garden, where she threw 
 herself, face down, on the grass and broke into wild sobs. 
 
 It was growing dark when Norah found time to look 
 for her. She brought her in and gave her some supper 
 in the bright, warm kitchen, and then put her to bed. 
 Isabel sobbed again at the sight of Grandma's empty bed 
 beside her little one. She cried herself to sleep and woke 
 up later to see a light, and a woman getting into Grand- 
 ma's bed. Her eyes were heavy and, forgetting the after- 
 noon, she thought it was Grandma herself. Hours after 
 that, however, she woke again — wide awake this time — 
 and saw Norah with a candle. Norah was crying. She 
 went to the bed and the woman in it sat up. 
 
 "The old lady's gone," said Norah. 
 
 At that, the woman in the bed got up and stood on 
 the floor, and Isabel saw that it wasn't Grandma at all, 
 but Miss Tully, a tall, thin woman whom she had often 
 seen in church. But what was she doing here in Grand- 
 ma's bed? Miss Tully dressed herself quickly — she did 
 not seem to have been quite undressed — and, lighting 
 another candle, left the room, followed by Norah. 
 
 It was appallingly strange. "Norah, Norah!" cried 
 Isabel, but Norah was out of hearing. Isabel shivered 
 with fear of the unknown and put her head under the 
 bedclothes where she lay quaking until she finally fell 
 asleep again. 
 
 In the morning Norah came and helped her to dress 
 and gave her a good breakfast in the kitchen. After that, 
 she told her that Grandma was dead. 
 
 "And gone to Heaven?" said Isabel. 
 
Isabel Stirling 13 
 
 Norah's heart overcame her theology and she said, 
 "Yes, darlin', sure she's gone to Heaven." 
 
 Isabel, awestruck, did not weep at this announcement, 
 and later, when her father sent for her, she was quite 
 composed in manner. He was in his study, and Aunt 
 Eliza was there too. How had Aunt Eliza got there? 
 She always came and went on the cars and waved a hand- 
 kerchief from the other hill, across the ravine. Isabel 
 submitted dutifully to a kiss from her and then, to her 
 surprise, her father lifted her on his knee and kissed 
 her too. 
 
 "If you feel that you can give up your position and 
 look after her, — " he was saying to Aunt Eliza. 
 
 And Aunt Eliza answered: "Of course, William. It 
 is my duty to do it." 
 
 Father's face was white and he was looking very sorry. 
 When he put his arm around her Isabel glanced, half 
 fearfully, into his face and was conscious that he was 
 different from the father she had known. 
 
 "You know that God has taken your grandmother?" 
 he said to her. 
 
 "Yes, Father." She suddenly wanted to put her arm 
 around his neck and kiss him, but did not dare, and 
 began to cry, instead. 
 
 His arm relaxed its hold. "You will be very good and 
 quiet," he said, kindly enough, "and not give any trouble." 
 
 She looked up at him. wistfully. "Yes, sir," she said 
 meekly, and slipped down from his knee. 
 
 She would have liked to stay in the kitchen with Norah, 
 but there was so much company there, It seemed as 
 if all the Irish servants of the village had come in, and 
 they said things which — half understood as they were 
 — deepened her sense of horror and mystery. She shrank 
 from their caresses and wandered into the empty dining- 
 room. Her father was shut up in his study and Aunt 
 Eliza seemed to be very busy with the people who were 
 coming and going in the parlor. 
 
 Later in the day Norah said to her: "Wouldn't ye like 
 to see yer grandma now? It's beautiful she looks." 
 
14 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Isabel drew back, remembering how Grandma had 
 looked when she saw her being lifted into bed. 
 
 "Come now, don't be afraid," urged Norah. "Ye'll 
 be glad ye've seen her." 
 
 She took the child by the hand and led her to the dark- 
 ened room. Pulling up the blind a little, she turned down 
 the sheet which covered Grandma's face. Then she drew 
 up Isabel's own little chair and made her stand on it. 
 Isabel had been trembling and shivering, but the first 
 sight of Grandma's face quieted her. This was the face 
 she loved, and sweeter than she had ever seen it. Child 
 as she was, she stood spellbound before that look of deep, 
 ineffable peace. Grandma looked as if she had solved 
 all mysteries and had at last obtained her heart's desire. 
 The little child gazed on and on, fixing in her mind an 
 image never to be effaced. But oh, if Grandma would 
 only open her eyes ! Isabel leaned over and gently kissed 
 her cheek. Norah shivered and put an arm around her 
 and Isabel turned and looked at her in wonder. Why 
 shouldn't she kiss Grandma ? Her cheek was cold, to bd 
 sure, but not colder than her own face often got, only 
 — it had always been warm before — and soft. 
 
 Suddenly her eyes traveled down the white-covered 
 figure and rested, fascinated, on the spot where the sheet 
 stood up in a point, quite as if there were feet under it. 
 Isabel put that aside for future questions. Then, after 
 one more look at Grandma's face, she was lifted down 
 from the chair, the sheet was replaced and the blind 
 drawn again, and Norah led her from the room. 
 
 It was when Norah was putting her to bed that night 
 that she put her question. "But what was it," she asked, 
 "that looked like feet on Grandma — under the sheet?" 
 
 "Why, that was her feet, darlin'," said Norah, much 
 puzzled at the question. 
 
 "All fastened on her?" 
 
 "Of course. What is the child thinkin' of?" 
 
 "But how" — it was difficult, but she must find out — 
 "how did her soul get out of her?" 
 
 "Why, out of her mouth, sure," said Norah. 
 
Isabel Stirling 15 
 
 "Does it always get out that way?" 
 
 "Sure — always." 
 
 The idea was not pleasing, but in the midst of all that 
 was so strange and dreadful came one consoling thought. 
 She had played fair after all, and needn't have worried. 
 
 All that followed — the mysterious comings and goings 
 in the darkened house, the funeral, with its droning 
 sounds of praying and preaching and mournful hymns, 
 even the visit, under Aunt Eliza's guidance, to see Grand- 
 ma in her coffin, did not efface the impression of that 
 first visit with Norah. Seated on Norah's lap at an 
 upper window, she watched the funeral procession as it 
 moved slowly away. Father, consulting what he knew 
 would be his mother's wish, had mercifully ordained that 
 she should not accompany it. 
 
Ill 
 
 At first Isabel forgot sometimes and came running into 
 the house, calling for Grandma, and weeping when she 
 did not find her, but in time she learned to remember, 
 and to forget. When she needed comfort it was to Norah 
 that she turned, for except during the daily lesson hour, 
 Aunt Eliza was too busy to be troubled with her. Nor 
 were the lessons inspiring, for her aunt, while a good 
 teacher for older pupils, had no aptitude for small chil- 
 dren. Moreover, Miss Stirling was taking her house- 
 keeping cares very seriously indeed and had no time for 
 foolishness. Isabel must keep herself clean and not tear 
 her clothes, and she must not get in the way while the 
 great household rites of washing and ironing, sweeping 
 and dusting, preserving, pickling and baking, were being 
 observed. There was no intermission between them, al- 
 though they were interrupted by visits from ladies who 
 belonged to Fathers church. Aunt Eliza frowned se- 
 verely on those ladies when they petted Isabel and said 
 how pretty she was. She once overheard her aunt say 
 something about Miss Lydia Baird "setting her cap," but 
 she was quite sure that Miss Lydia didn't wear a cap. 
 However, she was obliged to keep out of the way more 
 than ever when the company came. Also, she must, even 
 while keeping out of the way, be mindful of every rule 
 laid down for her. "I forgot" was never accepted as 
 an excuse. 
 
 Norah soon disappeared from the scene, being weighed 
 and found wanting. Her affections were warm, but her 
 kitchen closets were undeniably untidy. With her de- 
 parture Isabel lost the last person with a lap to climb into. 
 The day of caresses was over, for the stiff good-night 
 kisses of her father and her aunt could hardly be con- 
 
 16 
 
Isabel Stirling 17 
 
 sidered in that light. Under this regime she developed 
 an extraordinary aptitude for naughtiness. Her days 
 were punctuated by punishments and she never had a 
 clear conscience. She knew that she was naughty and 
 sure to go to Hell if she died; and Death was waiting 
 around the corner. It seemed as if nobody ever lost a 
 chance of telling her how imminent it was, even for the 
 smallest children. No criminal, dodging the law, lived 
 a more exciting life than the minister's little daughter. 
 She developed a morbid appetite for excitement and be- 
 came a rebel against authority. 
 
 These excitements and an inordinate love of sweets 
 frequently brought her to grief. Grandma had been mod- 
 erately indulgent in the matter of goodies, but Aunt Eliza 
 considered all sweet stuff bad for children. So Isabel 
 grew sly and helped herself, sticking fingers into sugar- 
 bowls and jam-pots, lying in wait for propitious moments 
 of an unlocked storeroom and helping herself largely to 
 fruit-cake, pound-cake, anything that came first. Hence, 
 headaches; and odious doses; and dreadful dreams at 
 night— dreams of a strange man who lurked in the room 
 of Punishments next the study and, coming out suddenly 
 upon people, seized them by the head and feet and broke 
 them in two. He never caught her, but the floor used 
 to be strewn with the fragments of the rest of the family, 
 and she would awake bathed in perspiration from the 
 mad exertion of running away from him. It was, on 
 the whole, an unhappy life, in which the brightest spots 
 were the hours spent in simple play with Jessie under 
 the apple-tree. But Jessie had other companions nowa- 
 days and only came when she had nothing better to do. 
 
 Even better than Jessie, Isabel loved Jessie's mother. 
 She had a lap, if you please, nice and soft and adapted 
 to cuddling ; and she was always ready to offer that ref- 
 uge to the forlorn child. Her cheeks were soft too, and 
 prettily pink and kissable, and her eyes smiled even when 
 her mouth was serious. With her was happiness and 
 cosy comfort. Jessie's father was nice too, in his quiz- 
 zical way, and one wasn't much afraid of him. But Aunt , 
 
18 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Eliza thought that little girls should stay at home. Isabel 
 had stringent orders not to go through the little gate with- 
 out permission, on pain of having it nailed up; and the 
 path through the Giffords's back yard was only too visible 
 from those quarters of the house where Aunt Eliza was 
 apt to be busying hercelf, as well as from the study win- 
 dows. So the times when Paradise was open were few 
 and far between. 
 
 However, the front gate was down the hill on the other 
 side and well out of sight, since the parsonage was on 
 the summit of an eminence, with the ground sloping down 
 on three sides. Isabel used to stand at that gate, peering 
 through the pickets and waiting for she knew not what 
 adventure, until one September day Adventure came to 
 her. It came in the person of a small girl; an enchant- 
 ing girl with a broad, jolly, freckled face and braids of 
 mud-colored hair looped up in front of each ear and tied 
 with pink ribbons. Isabel adored braids, which she 
 thought far superior to curls. 
 
 "Hello r said Isabel. 
 
 "Hello !" said the girl, smiling cheerfully. 
 
 Immediate friendship. The girl couldn't come in, how- 
 ever. Had to go home. Wouldn't Isabel come too? 
 Isabel looked back at the house. No one in sight and the 
 day stretched out limitless till supper-time. 
 
 "I'll bring you home again," said the girl. 
 
 Isabel opened the gate and went out. They ran down 
 the street and turned a corner in a direction new to Isa- 
 bel. They crossed a bridge and she was on the other 
 side of the creek. Looking upstream she could see the 
 mill on which she looked down from the sitting-room 
 windows. She had always longed to get on the other 
 side of that creek. They went up the hill a short dis- 
 tance and turned into a house standing directly on the 
 street. The two-story verandah with the wooden pillars 
 looked very grand to Isabel as they approached. She 
 did not so much like the looks of the men sitting on the 
 lower verandah, with their feet on the railing, but her 
 new friend, whose name, by the way, was Cassie, hurried 
 
Isabel Stirling 19 
 
 her past them. A stuffy smell of cooking greeted them 
 as they entered the house. A boy came tearing down 
 the stairs with a great clatter of heavy shoes. He was 
 larger than Cassie, but just as freckled and jolly. 
 
 "Where are you going, Dick?" said Cassie. 
 
 "To play ball," he answered, without stopping his 
 headlong course. 
 
 Isabel looked after him. She had never seen such a 
 boy and was glad that he had gone. They went on up 
 the stairs and into a large, bright room, strewn about 
 with playthings. Dolls were everywhere and a dolls' 
 house in one corner ; an enchanting room. Near the win- 
 dow, in the sun, lay an old cat, asleep, with two kittens 
 frisking about her. Isabel sat down on the floor and 
 gathered kittens and dolls in her lap. 
 
 Presently the door opened and a young woman came 
 in. She was a pretty young woman, with a laughing 
 mouth and serious eyes, and glossy brown hair, knotted 
 loosely at the back of her neck. "Why, who is this?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Oh, here's Aunt Mary!" cried Cassie joyfully. 
 "Aunt Mary will play with us. This is Isabel. She's 
 come to see me." 
 
 Aunt Mary proved to be a capital playmate. "I wish 
 you were my Aunt Mary," said Isabel. 
 
 This was when, after a delightful season of dolls' 
 housekeeping, she was sitting on the young woman's lap, 
 her head resting on the friendly shoulder. 
 
 "I wish I were. I'd spoil you well. But you haven't 
 told me your other name, darling, and where you came 
 from. You might have dropped right down from the 
 sky." 
 
 "My name is Isabel Stirling. I live 'way off across 
 the bridge and up the hill." 
 
 Aunt Mary's face changed. "Is your father the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Stirling?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Isabel. "He — he preaches." 
 
 "And do they know where you are?" asked Aunt 
 Mary, her face quite serious now. 
 
20 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "No. I — " shamefacedly — "I ran away. Perhaps I 
 must go home now." 
 
 "Oh, can't she stay to tea?" cried Cassie. 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Aunt Mary. "We'd like to have 
 her, but they don't know where she is. Get her sunbon- 
 net, Cassie. We'll go most of the way with you." 
 
 "I want to come again," said Isabel. 
 
 "And we want to have you. But you mustn't run 
 away, you know." 
 
 Isabel hung her head. "Aunt Eliza don't let me go 
 visiting." 
 
 They started out, down the stairs, through the hall and 
 across the verandah, where the men still sat, smoking 
 and spitting. As they came down the steps, a lady was 
 passing. She looked around at them and then stood 
 stock-still, gazing at the three. Isabel knew her at once. 
 It was Miss Lydia Baird. 
 
 "What are you doing here, Isabel ?" asked Miss Baird, 
 in her honeyed accents. 
 
 Isabel did not answer. 
 
 "We are taking her home," said Aunt Mary. 
 
 "But how did she get here ? What are you doing with 
 her?" Miss Baird's tone was now severe and inquisi- 
 torial. 
 
 "She came in with my little niece and I am taking her 
 home." Aunt Mary spoke with a greater dignity than 
 Miss Baird's. 
 
 "Come with me, Isabel, and I will take you home." 
 Miss Baird held out a hand. 
 
 "No," said Isabel, and did not budge. 
 
 "You must come with me, Isabel." 
 
 "No," repeated the child. "Aunt Mary will take me." 
 
 "Aunt Mary !" Miss Lydia Baird was more than scan- 
 dalized. Since that naughty child would not go with her 
 — what had those dreadful people done to bewitch her 
 so? — the least she could do was to follow at a discreet 
 distance to see that they really did take her home. She 
 saw them leave her at the gate and then she went in her- 
 
Isabel Stirling 21 
 
 self and rang the doorbell. She did not ask for Aunt 
 Eliza, whom she felt to be not altogether her friend, 
 but inquired if Mr. Stirling would see her. Shown into 
 his study, she sat down and turned a shocked, sympa- 
 thetic face toward him. 
 
 "I think it my duty to tell you," she began, "that I 
 met your dear little Isabel just now, coming out of Mai- 
 den's tavern.' ' 
 
 Had the woman gone crazy? Under the least aggra- 
 vating circumstances the mention of Maiden's tavern was 
 to the Reverend William Stirling as a red rag to a bull — 
 a drinking resort of which he had an even lower opinion 
 than it deserved, and which he had vowed to extirpate. 
 He had already crossed swords with its proprietor, but 
 had got the worst of it. He did not love Peter Maiden 
 the better for his ability to prove that he had not violated 
 the law. That his own child should be mentioned in the 
 same breath with Maiden, struck him as equally gro- 
 tesque and insulting. 
 
 "I must ask you to explain yourself," he said stiffly. 
 
 Lydia didn't like his manner, but her tone became 
 sweeter than ever as she replied: "I hardly thought you 
 could know it. I had occasion to pass there — it's a shame 
 that it is right in one's way going up South Street — and 
 I saw little Isabel coming down the steps with a young 
 woman and a little girl. She refused to come with me 
 and clung to the woman, whom she called 'Aunt Mary.' 
 She seemed very fond of her." 
 
 At first the minister felt merely the shock of astonish- 
 ment. Then his anger mounted. "They must have en- 
 ticed her away," he said. His eyes flamed. He clenched 
 his hands and, rising from his chair, strode up and down 
 the room in an effort to control himself. Miss Baird 
 confided to a friend that she had never been so fright- 
 ened in her life. "That man has a temper, my dear, and 
 I expect that naughty child got what she deserved." 
 
 Having learned that the child had been brought home, 
 he made short work of his visitor. "Yes, you did quite 
 right," he said. "I am obliged to you for following them 
 
22 Isabel Stirling 
 
 and letting me know;" and then he bowed her out and 
 shut his study door behind her. 
 
 Left alone, he struggled to obtain control of himself, 
 and did not send for the child until he felt that his wrath 
 had passed into the stage of righteous indignation. Nev- 
 ertheless, it was the Day of Judgment for Isabel. She 
 was terrified, but truthful. No, she had never been there 
 before. She had not been carried away. She had just 
 opened the gate and gone out because Cassie had asked 
 her to go home with her. Yes, she knew it was naughty, 
 but— "please, Father I" 
 
 "Please, Father," did not avail. Even the courage 
 which the terrified child showed in telling the truth when, 
 by his questions, her father had given her an opportunity 
 to cast some of the blame elsewhere, made no impression. 
 All that was taken as a matter of course. She was led 
 to the empty room and treated with a severity which 
 perhaps afforded some relief to the Reverend Mr. Stir- 
 ling's overwrought feelings. 
 
 Later, when she had gone to bed, sobbing and supper- 
 less, Aunt Eliza said to her brother: "I suppose you 
 blame me for letting her out of my sight, but what am I 
 to do? I can't have my eyes on her every minute. She 
 is like a piece of quicksilver. Really, William, you will 
 have to send her to school to keep her out of mischief." 
 
 "I had thought you could teach her," said William. 
 "She seems a child of bad impulses," he added bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, I can teach her her lessons, as far as that 
 goes," answered Eliza with some asperity. "But I can't 
 do everything. Nobody could. Put her in the primary 
 grade of the Academy. She will be looked after for five 
 or six hours, and she'll learn all they teach her. She is 
 bright enough. She and Jessie Gifford can go and come 
 together." 
 
 William yielded and the great adventure of school 
 began for Isabel. 
 
IV 
 
 Isabel skipped like a lamb beside Aunt Eliza on the Mon- 
 day morning when she was on her way to make her first 
 appearance as a pupil in the village Academy ; but there 
 was more than the unthinking joy of the skipping lamb 
 in her ecstasy. She was to see Life ; to have companions. 
 In a world ful of children she had been alone, save for 
 those hours with Jessie. Now she was to have children 
 — and more children ! 
 
 They passed through the girls' playground, a green, 
 shady enclosure, and up the wooden steps into a shabby 
 hallway. On the other side the Academy presented a 
 brave front of red brick, with broad stone steps and a 
 wide doorway, but that entrance was reserved for the 
 boys — lords of creation — and opened on their play- 
 ground, twice as large as that of the girls, but a bare 
 place, where the ballplayers had left not a blade of grass 
 alive. Little cared Isabel for shabbiness. Her heart beat 
 high as she mounted the worn, slippery stairs, with her 
 hand on the banister down which she was so often to 
 slide recklessly. She turned shy when she entered the 
 large, many-windowed room of the Primary Department 
 and hung back a little, but her aunt drew her along. 
 Miss Atkins, a pretty, fresh-faced country girl, new to 
 her work of teaching, met Aunt Eliza with blushes and 
 bade her good-bye with relief. Isabel she regarded with 
 hopeful interest, beguiled by her beauty and by the shy- 
 ness which masked an adventurous spirit. Jessie, seated 
 at a desk, smiled demurely at her as she went past, led 
 by the teacher to a seat by a deskmate who, by chance 
 was also a Sunday-school classmate. She would have 
 preferred Jessie, but Lily Brainard greeted her with a 
 welcoming smile. 
 
24 Isabel Stirling 
 
 What happiness to be joint proprietor of one of those 
 desks in the old Academy! Battered without, but spa- 
 cious within, they held many treasures besides their legiti- 
 mate contents. Lids they had, behind which much im- 
 portant business could be transacted if one were spry; 
 and since each desk, with its two compartments, was 
 meant for two pupils, two heads could meet in conclave 
 behind the raised lid. The perfectly new pupil, however, 
 is always a model of good behavior. It is joy enough, 
 so far, to take account of fresh surroundings. On that 
 first day Isabel used her eyes and kept her mouth closed. 
 She had looked around immediately to see whether her 
 friend Cassie might perhaps be there, but could not find 
 her. Nor was Dick among the boys, seated at their desks 
 on the opposite side of the room, beyond the recitation 
 benches. He would have been too big for the Primary 
 Department and, as a matter of fact, the brother and 
 sister attended the Public School. 
 
 Boys were an unknown quantity to Isabel. To be sure, 
 there was Edmund Gifford, Jessie's brother, who some- 
 times vouchsafed them a word or two, but he was much 
 older — thirteen or fourteen. After a survey of those 
 opposite desks she decided that she did not like boys. 
 They trooped to the long benches nearest their side of 
 the room for recitations, and she had a fresh access of 
 shyness when she found herself brought out with the girls 
 and seated on the corresponding bench on the girls' side. 
 However, Miss Atkins praised her for reading so well, 
 and praise was sweet to her, and new, not being included 
 in Father's and Aunt Eliza's scheme of bringing up a 
 child. 
 
 Recess came, and the small boys disappeared into the 
 mysterious precincts of the boys' playground, while Isa- 
 bel and the other little girls repaired to their own domain, 
 a large enclosure of grass and big old trees. Just now 
 the ground was strewn with the first red and yellow leaves 
 of autumn. They were obliged to keep out of the way 
 of the older girls and their games, but they had room 
 enough. The new scholar was made welcome and re- 
 
Isabel Stirling 25 
 
 entered the schoolroom with arms entwined in those of 
 two bosom friends. 
 
 Good behavior and a good conscience did not last long. 
 True, there was legitimate excitement in spelling down 
 the class and in the applause gained by prowess in mental 
 arithmetic, but there was so much time left over ! Isabel 
 bent her energies to devise ingenious ways of filling those 
 empty half -hours and under her efficient leadership the 
 Primary Department was demoralized. Poor distracted 
 Miss Atkins was sometimes fain to raise her own desk- 
 lid and shed a few tears under its shelter. Sharp little 
 eyes always found her out and an awestruck whisper 
 would go around the room — "Miss Atkins is crying!" 
 Then for perhaps an hour everybody would be preter- 
 naturally good. Once in a while, indeed, Isabel tried the 
 experiment of being good for several days at a time. 
 That in itself was an excitement. Everybody was so 
 astonished and Miss Atkins was so pleased. But when 
 people began to expect her to be quiet and well-behaved 
 the interest was gone and she broke out afresh. The 
 room was filled with whisperings and gigglings; little 
 girls quarrelled more or less dramatically ; little girls were 
 late in coming in after recess ; lessons were neglected. 
 
 Punishments were numerous; not the ferule, which 
 Miss Atkins hated, but everything else which her inge- 
 nuity could devise. Isabel sat in corners, stayed in at 
 recess, studied extra lessons, all with angelic cheerfulness. 
 She was always willing to pay the price of her amuse- 
 ments so long as there was no humiliation in the punish- 
 ment and if only she might not be found out at home. 
 Meantime, Aunt Eliza thought that school was doing 
 wonders for her; so easy it was to be demurely good at 
 home when there was so much fun going on at school. 
 Yet she knew she was naughty, and conscience was al- 
 ways ready to give her a bad quarter of an hour. 
 
 There was one dark winter day which she never for- 
 got. She had a nagging headache and had been not only 
 ill-behaved, but irritable. Lily Brainard, who greatly 
 preferred to have things go smoothly and easily, had been 
 
26 Isabel Stirling 
 
 drawn into her misdoings and both little girls were kept 
 after school. That was a punishment which always wor- 
 ried Isabel, lest a noticeable lateness in getting home 
 should draw down inquiries which she could not parry. 
 Then, she and Lily had promised each other not to cry, 
 and Lily broke the compact and blubbered freely after 
 she herself had kept a stiff upper lip when it would have 
 been a real luxury to weep and repent. For Miss Atkins 
 could, on occasion, talk in a way to melt a stone. When 
 they came out of the schoolhouse it was already dusk. 
 The snow lay thick on the ground, and all along beside 
 the walk it showed where the other girls had lain down 
 to make "impressions." But Isabel could not stop to 
 play and, in fact, did not feel like it. She had lost one 
 mitten and was cold and cross and uncomfortable. 
 
 "You cried !" she said fiercely, as they went down the 
 walk to the gate. "I'll never speak to you again, Lily 
 Brainard!" 
 
 "I don't care," wailed Lily. "I want to be good. Fm 
 tired of being naughty !" 
 
 Isabel felt lonely and deserted. She, too, would have 
 liked to be good, but had stood out on a point of honor. 
 "You broke your word after you said 'hope to die/ " she 
 said doggedly. "If you're going to be good you'd better 
 learn not to tell lies." 
 
 At this, Lily burst into fresh tears and Isabel ran away 
 and left her, a forlorn little figure, plodding along in 
 the dusk. Isabel ran all the way home. Jessie had not 
 waited for her this time. Jessie, in fact, was puzzled and 
 disturbed by Isabel's behavior and, while always loving 
 her, liked her less well at school than at home. 
 
 Isabel got safely in, by good fortune. Aunt Eliza 
 was entertaining Miss Baird in the parlor and Father was 
 out. She took off her things and sat down by the sitting- 
 room fire. Her feelings were bruised and her conscience 
 hurt her more than usual. Moreover, her head was ach- 
 ing rather badly. She was dreadfully afraid she would 
 die before she was grown up. Once grown up, she would 
 be safe, for all grown-up people were good and loved 
 
Isabel Stirling 27 
 
 God, even when they were people you didn't care for, 
 like Miss Lydia. That is, of course, there were thieves 
 and robbers, and the heathen, and the Jews who crucified 
 Christ, but the kind of grown people she knew — the kind 
 she would of course be — tltey all loved God. She herself 
 didn't and couldn't, and she was about the naughtiest 
 child that ever lived; that she knew very well. Every 
 night she kneeled down by her little bed and said her 
 prayers, but her one heartfelt petition, the true cry of her 
 soul, was — "O God, let me live to grow up!" 
 
 It was going to be horribly stupid to be grown up, but 
 safe; and Isabel would stand before the mirror and 
 smooth her curly hair down primly on eac^i side of her 
 face, as Aunt Eliza wore hers, and would sigh as she 
 thought how hideous she was going to be. As to a pos- 
 sible change of fashion in the arrangement of grown-up 
 hair, such an idea never entered her head. As Aunt Eliza 
 wore her hair now, so she herself must wear hers in that 
 distant, dull, but safe future. To-night she felt that she 
 didn't care how dull it might be, or how she would look. 
 She was very tired of the troubles of childhood. When 
 Miss Baird finally left and the tea-bell rang, she went 
 into the dining-room and tried to eat her supper, but 
 had no appetite. Afterward she did her half-hour's task 
 of knitting, and then Aunt Eliza lighted her little pewter 
 lamp and told her it was bedtime. 
 
 Isabel had her own room now, for Aunt Eliza liked 
 hers to herself. Also, she considered the child quite old 
 enough to go to bed hy herself. When Isabel took her 
 little lamp and, leaving the light and warmth of the sit- 
 ting-room, went upstairs alone, she went into a world 
 of mystery and dread. It never occurred to her to ask 
 Aunt Eliza to go with her, as Grandma had always done, 
 and she would not for the world have told her fears. 
 To-night the ascent of the stairs seemed more formidable 
 than ever. She went up slowly, guarding her light from 
 drafts; for as between the fear lest Something should 
 catch her feet from below, and the danger of extinguish- 
 
28 Isabel Stirling 
 
 ing her lamp if she should run, she chose the former 
 alternative. Darkness was worse than anything. 
 
 Once safely in her room, she set down the lamp with 
 a sigh of relief, but was at once confronted with a new 
 danger. For in the tiny closet of her room, a closet to 
 which she went in the daylight without a tremor, lived, 
 after dark, a skeleton. She had never yet seen him, but 
 ever since the time when she had heard Aunt Eliza speak 
 of the "skeleton in the closet," she had known that this 
 was the closet. In some mysterious way the skeleton had 
 imposed certain terms on her. As long as she could suc- 
 ceed in preventing the tiniest bit of her skin from being 
 visible — except, of course, her hands and face — so long 
 the skeleton would refrain from molesting her ; but once 
 expose an atom of arm or leg or foot, then it would jump 
 out of the closet and leap upon her. 
 
 Under these circumstances, undressing was attended 
 with difficulties. First of all, she said her prayers. There 
 was always a quaking feeling of something behind her, 
 but to-night, when her conscience was so unusually tor- 
 menting, her terror was almost unbearable. There 
 seemed to be no refuge from an avenging God in front 
 of her and a ravenous Devil behind her. She omitted no 
 part of the prayers she had been taught, but what a relief 
 it was to get up from her knees and look around the 
 room. Then, however, her nightgown had to be put on 
 before the other clothes were taken off. Stockings and 
 shoes were removed under the shelter of a petticoat 
 thrown over her feet, which were quickly drawn into bed. 
 Then came the horrible moment of blowing out the light. 
 The bedclothes were held up in both hands, in readiness 
 for a plunge, then a puff of breath, darkness, and the 
 curly head and the wildly beating heart were down, down, 
 hidden under a smothering weight of blankets. 
 
In the intervals of school adventures Isabel learned to 
 write, and began the study of a fascinating fat book in 
 a black cover — Peter Parley's Universal History. At 
 home she learned to make her own bed, and had an irk- 
 some nightly task of sewing. On Saturdays and Sun- 
 days she would sit long at a window looking toward the 
 south and wonder what she would find if she could ever 
 get to the top of the opposite hill and look over. The 
 railway train that came and went twice a day along that 
 hill, zigzagging its way up or down, fascinated her and 
 she longed to be a passenger on it. Very often, when 
 Father was out of the house and Aunt Eliza safely busy 
 downstairs, she would steal up to Father's bedroom and 
 look at the portrait of her mother. It was a small por- 
 trait, well painted, of a lovely girl with golden brown hair 
 and deep blue eyes. Those eyes met Isabel's and held 
 them, until it seemed to her as if her mother really must 
 be looking through them. Yet the thought did not alarm 
 her — comforted her, rather. Any slight noise downstairs 
 would make her hurry guiltily away with a palpitating 
 heart. 
 
 Time moves slowly when it is all before one. It was 
 all very well to get to be eight years old, but the grown 
 people were less impressed than one had expected, and 
 it now seemed to Isabel as if she never would be nine. 
 However, the intervening winter wore away, like its 
 predecessors, and with the long, bright days of early 
 summer one became more contented. In those days the 
 children brought flowers for the teacher's desk, lilacs and 
 the little early roses. The strange, red-brown blossoms of 
 "shrub" were crushed in warm little hands to bring out 
 the odor, and bunches of pansies were pinned on little 
 
 29 
 
30 Isabel Stirling 
 
 frocks. With the daily offering of flowers there was a 
 better relation between pupils and teacher ; with the open 
 windows there was better air to breathe. For the mo- 
 ment, peace brooded over the Primary Department. 
 
 Over on the boys' side of the room sat Richard; and 
 if you were a little girl who didn't like boys, he was 
 just the boy you would like, so gentle was he, and so 
 clean. A mother's darling, evidently, was little Richard, 
 with his fair, curly hair, his pale blue eyes and his im- 
 maculate clothes. Very fresh and dainty he looked when 
 he came in of a morning, with his wide white dimity 
 collar tied with a cord and tassels and the corner of a 
 clean handkerchief sticking out of his side-pocket. Nor 
 was he entirely dependent on his clothes for distinction. 
 The other boys may have dubbed him "girl-boy," but not 
 one of them could approach his precocious gift of decla- 
 mation. It was one of the school treats to hear him recite 
 "The boy stood on the burning deck" and other time- 
 worn favorites. 
 
 Richard had always cast friendly looks across the room 
 at Isabel and lately she had returned his glances so kindly 
 that one rainy day when the children had to stay in the 
 house at recess he ventured to approach her as she sat 
 on one of the recitation benches, cutting out strings of 
 paper dolls with her little scissors. He sat down beside 
 her and offered her a transparent slate with a picture 
 fastened underneath and a pencil hanging by a string. 
 Isabel drew the picture on the slate, Richard sitting by 
 her side, and then offered to give him back the slate. 
 
 "It is for you to keep," said he, blushing. 
 
 "Will your mother let you?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "My mother don't care," he replied. 
 
 "Thank you," said Isabel politely, and put it in her 
 desk among her treasures. 
 
 As soon as school had begun again a little note was 
 passed to her. It was short and to the point. — "Dear 
 Isabel. Richard is your beau. Emily." Isabel blushed 
 furiously and scorned to reply. 
 
 Every day after that, Richard used to bring some 
 
Isabel Stirling 31 
 
 offering; frequently one of his cherished toys, at other 
 times a nosegay, or a cluster of cherries, their stems fas- 
 tened together with a blade of grass. Isabel smiled her 
 thanks across the room when she found them on her desk, 
 but there were whole days when they did not exchange 
 a word; only when he was called upon to recite his 
 "pieces" she would sit up very straight and pink-cheeked, 
 feeling a just pride in the performance. 
 
 The affair was a godsend to the writers of notes, who 
 were apt to be hard put to it for something to say; and 
 whatever was done or left undone, the notes must be 
 written. Each desk held a store of small stationery. 
 If you were lucky in the matter of spending-money, you 
 bought it ; pale pink or blue paper, the tops of the sheets 
 and the flaps of the envelopes decorated with some device 
 of flowers; otherwise you made it out of white paper, 
 with homemade paste to fasten the envelopes in place; 
 and that child was poor indeed who had not a box of 
 fanciful seals ready to affix. Isabel made her own sta- 
 tionery, but in compensation she possessed a portfolio 
 which was the pride of her heart and the envy of the 
 other girls. It had been given her by one of the ladies 
 who came so often to see her Father. Every morning 
 she smuggled it out of the house (being well aware that 
 Aunt Eliza would forbid her taking it to school) and 
 smuggled it in again when she went home in the after- 
 noon. Her correspondence now became very voluminous. 
 Not only Emily, but Helen and Katie and even quiet 
 Jessie had their say about her beau, while Lily nudged 
 and whispered her comments. In fact, Lily, more than 
 any of the others, was interested, for she had begun, some 
 time ago, to cast sidelong glances across the room and 
 most of the notes which she wrote were slipped slyly into 
 some little boy's hand. Owing to this preoccupation, she 
 had lost interest in mischief and was so demure that Miss 
 Atkins was relying on her to have a good influence on 
 her seatmate. 
 
 Isabel found this new excitement an agreeable experi- 
 ence until the fatal Friday afternoon when Richard spoke 
 
32 Isabel Stirling 
 
 his piece in the General Meeting-Room. Ordinarily the 
 Primary children were not expected to take part in these 
 weekly performances, which were of a more or less festive 
 character, but sat meekly on the front seats, the little 
 girls' white-stockinged legs hanging down in full view of 
 the assembled school. Isabel, pulling down her frock in 
 a more or less futile attempt to hide the holes which 
 usually appeared by that time of day, thought it would 
 be much better to make the big girls, with their long 
 dresses, sit in front. They however, clung to their privi- 
 leges and were ranged against the wall on the raised seats. 
 The boys and girls' seats were separated by the platform 
 on one side of the room and the Principal's pulpit on 
 the opposite side. 
 
 To the small children these seemed stately functions, 
 with the declamations and "compositions," interlarded 
 with solos and duets on the jingling old piano, and it was 
 a red-letter day for the Primary Department when Rich- 
 ard, whose fame had reached higher quarters, was chosen 
 to speak a piece on that stage. To Isabel it promised to 
 be a proud occasion. When the little boy, dressed in his 
 best, with a particularly broad and white collar, mounted 
 the steps and made his bows to right and left she was 
 palpitating with happy excitement ; but when Lily on one 
 side and Emily on the other, nudged her in the most open 
 manner, pride began to give way to painful embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 "The boy stood on the burning deck," began Richard 
 in his high, childish voice. To the older people he looked 
 a mere baby as he stood there, but to the children of the 
 Primary he was Isabel's beau. Other little girls leaned 
 forward and smiled at her across their neighbors. Even 
 the older girls, as it seemed to her, began to take notice, 
 and Miss Atkins certainly smiled. It seemed to Isabel 
 that the whole room was looking at her. She was all one 
 blaze of agonized shame — and nowhere to hide her face ! 
 Nothing to do but sit with flaming face and downcast 
 eyes and helpless, dangling legs, until the terrible ordeal 
 was over and Richard stepped down from the platform 
 
Isabel Stirling 33 
 
 amid enthusiastic applause. Never, she felt, could she 
 speak to him again. She hated him ! 
 
 As soon as the school was dismissed she ran frantically 
 through the crowd, upstairs to the schoolroom, threw on 
 her hat, seized her treasured portfolio and flew down the 
 stairs. At the outside door she met Richard, looking for 
 sympathy. He had hurried, too, and feeling his dignity 
 as a man ( for had he not won his laurels in fair competi- 
 tion with other men?) he intended to walk home with 
 her. Hitherto he had never gone farther than the corner. 
 She would not look at him. Lily and the other girls 
 rushed after her, trying to detain her, but she broke away 
 from them fiercely and ran. Through the gate she flew, 
 and up the street. Richard ran after her. So did Lily. 
 
 "You've dropped something !" screamed Lily. 
 
 Isabel became aware that her portfolio was shedding 
 its contents. She didn't know what she had lost. She 
 didn't care. She ran as she had never run before in her 
 life. After a while the pursuing cries and footsteps died 
 into silence- She went home alone, slunk into the back 
 door and put her portfolio away. She never carried it 
 to school again, nor did she ever speak to Richard. In 
 after years she could not remember that she even saw 
 him again. Someone told her that he and his mother 
 went away to live. Perhaps they went at once. Possibly, 
 indeed, Richard never came back to the Academy after 
 that Friday afternoon. Her last recollection of him was 
 as he looked when she turned her head — running after 
 her, holding something out to her, calling her name. 
 
VI 
 
 Ten years old and advanced to the big girls' room in the 
 Academy and the dignity of the next-to-the-back seats 
 in the General Meeting-Room — the girls in their teens 
 still held those against the wall. Very proud now, and 
 fairly well-behaved, though with none too much attention 
 to spare for one's studies. For notes took up so much 
 time ; notes and Secrets, and a cipher to make the secrets 
 still more mysterious. There were no very rigid exami- 
 nations at that time, and no reports sent home to parents 
 to betray one's shortcomings. Isabel gave scant attention 
 to her lessons, but she invented a beautiful cipher, which 
 she wrote with perfect ease and even read successfully. 
 Of course, with all this important correspondence, there 
 must be post-offices ; in stone walls, in trees, in the ground 
 itself, with a square of turf neatly lifted and replaced, 
 and a little box fitted in below. 
 
 Perhaps the best of her post-offices was the one under 
 the old steps at the bottom of the garden by the little 
 gate, and the best of the secrets the one which she shared 
 with Jessie. The time was long past when Isabel awaited 
 Jessie's pleasure. She was now the leader and Jessie, 
 although the elder, frankly yielded her the first place. It 
 was under Isabel's direction that the two corresponded 
 voluminously, under the names of Dora Dalrymple and 
 Beatrice Deloraine, and invented the most surprising ad- 
 ventures, first at the boarding school which they attended 
 in imagination, and then as young ladies launched in so- 
 ciety. For by this time they were reading romances 
 whenever they could get hold of them. Jessie had found 
 barrels in the attic stuffed with old magazines and novels 
 which she brought out one by one through the little gate. 
 
 34 
 
Isabel Stirling 35 
 
 They contrived a special hiding-place for them under the 
 steps. Isabel was thus able to vary the mental diet of 
 Hannah More's Repository Tracts, Charlotte Elizabeth's 
 works and the memoirs of saintly children with old num- 
 bers of Littell's Living Age and Harper's New Monthly 
 Magazine. Other girls lent books from time to time. 
 The whole school wept over "The Heir of Redclyffe" and 
 "The Wide, Wide World"; and even the Sunday-school 
 Library frequently supplied a romance, religious in its 
 tone, but thrilling in its adventures. Naturally, Dora and 
 Beatrice were modeled on the various heroines. 
 
 With volumes to write, one couldn't be bothered with 
 a cipher, and the two children did not trouble themselves 
 about the chance of discovery. For her part, Isabel de- 
 stroyed all the letters she received, but one day Jessie 
 burst upon her with the announcement: 
 
 "Edmund found some of our letters and read them !" 
 
 "He hadn't any business to. It was mean!" Isabel 
 flamed with rage. "Did he come here?" 
 
 "No, I left them around," confessed Jessie. "But 
 Isabel, he says " 
 
 "There's no fun in it any more," interrupted Isabel 
 gloomily. 
 
 "But he says," persisted Jessie — "he says, why don't I 
 write him as interesting letters as these? He says they 
 are a great deal better than the ones I do write." Ed- 
 mund was a collegian now, at home for his vacation. 
 "You see," went on Jessie, "he got hold of one of mine 
 that I had just written and several of yours, and he says 
 yours are a great deal the best. Of course I knew that." 
 
 Isabel turned away with an impatient shake of her 
 shoulders. She was pleased, but would not admit it. 
 "I'm tired of that old secret anyway," she said. 
 
 "Oh, Isabel !" cried Jessie, in dismay. "It's the most 
 beautiful secret." 
 
 But Isabel would not relent. It was sweet to be praised, 
 but a secret discovered has lost its savor. Dora and 
 Beatrice had had their day. Perhaps they might have 
 had successors had not the Revival occurred just then. 
 
36 Isabel Stirling 
 
 With its coming the notes assumed a religious character. 
 Little girls wrote them during school hours as freely as 
 ever, in defiance of the rules ; but how could one consider 
 rules when one was expatiating on one's religious emo- 
 tions and asking whether one's friends had experienced 
 the like ! There were some exceptions to the general ex- 
 citement. Jessie, calm and sweet as ever, felt no need of 
 a stimulant for religious emotions; and the Episcopal 
 girls were out of it and went their way quietly, perhaps 
 missing the secrets, in which they had been as enthusiastic 
 as the rest. But there were not many of them in the 
 Academy. Most of them attended Miss Gray's private 
 school ; and the Episcopal church was small in the village 
 of Ptolemy. 
 
 Father and the other ministers had been trying to have 
 a Revival ever since the latter part of the winter, but all 
 the preaching and the extra prayer meetings did not, for 
 a long time, seem to accomplish much. Then in the spring 
 came the comet, with its fiery tail, which many people 
 thought would set the world on fire, and at the same time 
 there were prophecies of a "cholera summer." Father 
 did not trouble himself about the comet, but concerning 
 the cholera he had more to say, warning his people, in 
 church and Sunday-school, that before the leaves turned 
 red in the fall, death would claim many of them. 
 
 Some of the children, intent on their own affairs, did 
 not even hear the awful warning ; some were too dull to 
 be much affected, but some were badly frightened, and 
 of these last was Isabel. Death again assumed the promi- 
 nence in her thoughts which it had lately lost amid the 
 varied interests of her school life. Again she went to 
 bed night after night with a bad headache and had terri- 
 fying dreams. Meantime, the Revival was actually begin- 
 ning. Prayer meetings were held, morning, noon and 
 night, in the various churches. The excitement penetrated 
 to the schoolroom, with the result of the aforesaid notes. 
 Father, who thought that it was high time for Isabel to 
 take religion seriously — how seriously she did take it, he 
 little knew — would have had her accompany Aunt Eliza 
 
Isabel Stirling 37 
 
 to the evening as well as the early morning prayer meet- 
 ings, but the child was so pale and languid that the doctor 
 had been called in by her aunt, and his emphatic command 
 was that she should go to bed early and be kept as far 
 as possible from undue excitement. Her nervous tem- 
 perament, he said, was highly strung and would not bear 
 tampering with. 
 
 But when Lily came to school one morning and said: 
 "You just ought to have been at prayer meeting last night. 
 It was perfectly lovely. I cried three handkerchiefs sop- 
 ping wet," Isabel, who had been disappointed at finding 
 the morning meetings lacking in thrill, felt that she could 
 not stay away from anything so exciting as these evening 
 services. 
 
 In spite of the doctor, her request to be allowed to at- 
 tend the meeting that evening met with an instant consent. 
 She had had the wit to make it in her father's presence. 
 Aunt Eliza might have thought it necessary to obey the 
 doctor, but to the minister the soul was of more moment 
 than the perishing body. He would do his duty by the 
 child, with whose physical condition, when all was said, 
 he never greatly concerned himself. But to the child the 
 experience was disappointing. She did not cry at all — 
 did not have the slightest impulse to do so; and the un- 
 couthness of some of the worthy brethren repelled her 
 fastidiousness just as much in the evening as in the morn- 
 ing. This coldness of hers made her heart very heavy. 
 She feared more than ever that she was not one of the 
 Elect; for she had been instructed in the Presbyterian 
 doctrine, having had to recite the Shorter Catechism to 
 Aunt Eliza of a Sunday afternoon. To be sure, emotions 
 and handkerchiefs cried sopping wet were quite useless if 
 you were predestined to go to Hell anyway, but she would 
 have welcomed the emotions partly on their own account 
 and partly as a possible sign that she was one of the 
 Chosen. For hadn't Father preached a sermon showing 
 how they might know when they were, as the Catechism 
 said, "effectually called" ? She cried into her pillow that 
 night and her sleep was haunted by visions of the ceme- 
 
38 Isabel Stirling 
 
 tery on the hill, with its white tombstones. The skeleton 
 had by this time disappeared from the closet, but terrors 
 equally hard to bear had succeeded him. 
 
 It was only the next day that Lily said to her: "There's 
 an Inquiry meeting after school at the Methodist church. 
 Let's go." 
 
 "What is an Inquiry meeting?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "I don't know," replied Lily, "but let's go anyway." - 
 
 Discipline was relaxed in those days and Aunt Eliza 
 was not always on the watch to see that she came home 
 on the minute, so she consented. Emily was drawn in 
 and the three ran across the Park — as Ptolemy called its 
 village green — to the Methodist church. 
 
 "It's in the Sunday-school room," said Lily, so they 
 went down some steps to the basement door. Once in- 
 side, they would have been glad to slink out again, for 
 the only occupant of the room was the minister. He sat 
 there, waiting for Inquirers, and looked up in some sur- 
 prise as the three children entered. However, it was not 
 altogether outside of his experience that babes should 
 seek salvation. 
 
 "Have you come to see me?" he asked, turning kind 
 eyes on them. 
 
 Isabel and Emily pushed Lily forward. As the leader 
 of the expedition, she was expected to be its spokesman. 
 
 "We've come to the meeting," quavered Lily, turning 
 dove's eyes on him. 
 
 "Will you come and take these seats?" said the min- 
 ister, indicating three chairs in front of him. 
 
 He was a young man with an uncultivated voice, a 
 shaven upper lip and a beard on his chin. He was new 
 to the place and unacquainted as yet, outside of his own 
 flock and the little band of ministers. A plain man of the 
 people, taking his calling with serious enthusiasm, there 
 was nevertheless a half -subdued gleam of humor in his 
 eyes, and in his presence something sympathetic and at- 
 tractive. With him, religion was not an awful and re- 
 mote affair, but something which one could speak of with 
 affectionate familiarity. 
 
Isabel Stirling 39 
 
 "Well now," he said, with a smile, "what can I do for 
 you?" 
 
 "We have come to the meeting," repeated Lily. 
 
 "Well, this is the meeting." 
 
 "Oh!" said Lily, and her two companions squirmed 
 uneasily. 
 
 "I don't believe you quite understand about it," he con- 
 tinued. "I am here to meet those who are anxious to 
 learn to know our Lord, and to help them if I can. Now, 
 perhaps I can help you children a little." 
 
 Much embarrassment on the three chairs. Lily seemed 
 to have nothing more to say. Emily was equally silent. 
 Isabel felt that good manners required some reply. She 
 longed to run away, but instead, she replied politely: 
 
 "We'd be very much obliged." 
 
 Then, a look into his eyes gave her a startling sense 
 of sympathy and understanding. Grown people did not 
 usually look at her like that. She straightened up in her 
 chair. 
 
 "How can you be converted if you want to and can't?" 
 she asked in quite a different tone. 
 
 The young man gazed at her thoughtfully for a mo- 
 ment before he answered. "Don't you think you are 
 thinking too much about the word 'conversion' ?" he said 
 at last. "If you love God — as I'm sure you must — all the 
 rest comes naturally." 
 
 "But that's just it," said Isabel. "But what if you 
 don't love Him? And how can you, if you don't? 
 Doesn't it mean that you're not one of the Elect and 
 nothing's of any use ?" 
 
 "My dear child !" exclaimed the minister. 
 
 But Isabel went on. For the first time in her life she 
 was speaking out her inmost thoughts. Lily and Emily, 
 staring in astonishment, were forgotten, and she was 
 alone with the man who seemed to draw out the secrets 
 of her soul. 
 
 "When I was little," she said, "I thought that all grown 
 people loved God and that if I could only live to grow 
 up I'd be saved, but now, of course, I know better. I 
 
40 Isabel Stirling 
 
 don't love Him now and perhaps I sha n't when I am 
 grown up." 
 
 The minister gazed compassionately at the distressed 
 childish face. "You are too young to understand these 
 things," he said. "They hide God from you. Just think 
 of Him as your Father. Don't be afraid of Him. You 
 have a father, haven't you?" 
 
 "Yes," said Isabel. 
 
 "And a mother?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Then you must love your father all the more," he 
 said gently. 
 
 "Fathers — " began Isabel, and stopped. 
 
 "Well?" said the minister encouragingly. 
 
 "Fathers — " she began again. The tears were coming: 
 now and she struggled against them. 
 
 The minister waited, puzzled, but sympathetic. 
 
 "That doesn't help !" she burst out desperately. "You're 
 afraid of fathers!" 
 
 In vain the minister talked. Isabel cried — all three 
 little girls cried; the other two with a pleasant sense of 
 excitement and the luxury of feelings gently stirred, but 
 Isabel with an agonized, though inarticulate protest 
 against the world and its Maker. When the minister 
 finally dismissed them he had the curiosity to ask the 
 name of this unusual child. 
 
 "Isabel Stirling," she replied from behind the handker- 
 chief with which she was wiping away a few last tears. 
 
 "Her father is the Presbyterian minister," volunteered 
 Emily officiously. 
 
 The young minister gazed thoughtfully after the chil- 
 dren as they filed out of the room. "My reverend 
 brother doesn't know how to bring up a child," he said 
 to himself, and added pitifully — "Poor little soul!" 
 
VII 
 
 At eleven years old one is no longer quite so indifferent 
 to the affairs of the grown-ups. One regards with a 
 more judicial discrimination the various persons who 
 come to the house. One notices, for instance, that Miss 
 Lydia Baird is sickeningly sweet in her manner to Father ; 
 and one has learned what Aunt Eliza meant when she 
 talked about setting a cap. 
 
 One has grown a trifle less afraid of Father — just a 
 trifle, but enough to pluck up courage to say: "Father, 
 why is dancing wicked?" 
 
 Father frowns. He always nas a great deal to say 
 about the wickedness of dancing, but to Isabel, sitting 
 drearily on a bench in the General Meeting-Room at re- 
 cess and watching the other girls as they spin around the 
 room to the music of the old piano, it seems an amusement 
 as harmless as it is enchanting. Only she doesn't know 
 how ; and no one offers to teach her because they all know 
 how Father preaches against dancing. It is autumn now 
 and the Revival is long past; and Father is displeased 
 because it turned out that after all no results followed 
 Isabel's request to be allowed to attend the evening 
 meetings. 
 
 As to the dancing, he could not enter into an exposition 
 of his reasons for condemning it, the chief of them being 
 unfit for a child to hear. In conversation with adults 
 ( he called a spade a spade and told them without circumlo- 
 cution that he considered it destructive to purity of mind. 
 To the Reverend William Stirling there were, to be sure, 
 two sides to every question: his side, which was the 
 Lord's side, and the other side, which was the Devil's. 
 He told Isabel briefly that dancing was of the Devil and 
 that she must take his word for it. 
 
 "But I don't see " she began. 
 
 41 
 
42 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "You don't need to see. You are a child and must 
 accept the wisdom of those older than yourself. I want 
 you to promise me now that you will never dance as long 
 as you live." 
 
 Isabel found the courage to argue. "I don't see why 
 it's wickeder for the girls at school to dance than to play 
 tag." 
 
 But that, Father told her, was the way Satan began. 
 He sternly required the promise of her and she, under 
 the stress of circumstance, gave it; to her lasting regret. 
 For she had a sense of honor which forbade her breaking 
 her word. Yet it had its uses; not, it is true, such as her 
 father imagined. It prevented her from ever binding 
 herself to him again and gave her courage to resist cer- 
 tain demands of his in later years. 
 
 Time still passed slowly. Isabel was now growing rap- 
 idly. Aunt Eliza couldn't let her dresses down fast 
 enough, and her hands and feet seemed several sizes too 
 large for her. As the days grew darker and colder she 
 was often ailing. The headaches, which were more fre- 
 quent than ever, served her one good turn, for the doctor, 
 asking how she spent her time, forbade the hateful daily 
 task of sewing which Aunt Eliza's sense of duty imposed 
 on her. She was to be kept out of doors when the weather 
 permitted, said the doctor, and was to be allowed all pos- 
 sible diversion. So it happened that she spent more time 
 at the Giffords's than had ever before been permitted. 
 Mrs. Gifford made her feel that she was a child of the 
 house, and knew just when to cosset her and when to let 
 her alone. She took many a nap, tucked up on the big 
 sofa in the cheerful sitting-room, waking to see Mrs. 
 Gifford sitting against the light with her sewing, or Jes- 
 sie, returned from school, in the low chair by the fire. 
 It was there that she confided to Jessie her apprehensions 
 with regard to Miss Baird. 
 
 "People do talk," admitted Jessie. Then she giggled. 
 "Father says it's been a suit of duranpe, whatever that 
 may be, but that Lydia is going to win out. They didn't 
 think I heard." 
 
Isabel Stirling 43 
 
 "She comes all the time," said Isabel gloomily. "It's 
 'my sweet little Isabel/ and 'oh, Miss Eliza, what a bee-u- 
 tiful housekeeper you are/ every other minute." 
 
 "In that molasses voice," interpolated Jessie. 
 
 "Molasses and vinegar." 
 
 "Like the stuff they give us when we have colds " 
 
 "And the way she looks at Father — and asks his ad- 
 vice about every little thing ! Father doesn't know about 
 little things anyway." 
 
 "Do you suppose it really will happen?" asked Jessie, 
 in a tone which was almost awestruck. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. How can it? Jessie!" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I wouldn't mind having a stepmother if she was the 
 right kind. It might be — almost — like having a mother. 
 But oh, Miss Lydia!" 
 
 But it very soon became evident that it was going to 
 be no other. Miss Lydia told each of her acquaintances 
 separately, saying that they were not going to make any 
 public announcement of it just yet; and she carried her 
 embroidery with her whenever she went to spend an 
 hour with a friend. William Stirling, as in duty bound, 
 mentioned the matter to his sister. Eliza's disapproval 
 of his choice was scarcely veiled. 
 
 "It's quite right for you to be married," she said. "I've 
 always wondered how you've happened to wait so long. 
 And of course you must suit yourself — though it doesn't 
 always seem to be the case that a man does dispose of 
 himself. I hope you'll be happy." 
 
 William tried to tell her something of his appreciation 
 of her services to him. She was pleased, but cut him 
 short. "Of course I was bound to do what I could," she 
 said. "As the wedding is to be in June I'll go away for 
 a vacation for the summer and get a place to teach in 
 the fall. No — thank you for saying that I needn't be 
 in a hurry, but that will be best. And you know I do 
 prefer teaching to housekeeping." 
 
 All of which was quite in line with Lydia's plans. Dear 
 Eliza was so independent. She thought independence 
 
44 Isabel Stirling 
 
 such a noble thing, so much finer than to be a clinging 
 creature like herself. All she could do in life was just to 
 try to make the people around her a little happier. 
 
 Meantime, Eliza made her arrangements. She was 
 really a good teacher of a certain type, not sympathetic, 
 but efficient in the matter of mathematics. Luckily, her 
 successor in Miss Pryor's school was going to be married 
 in the summer and she was able to get back her old place. 
 It would be like going home. Except that she hated to 
 see William made a fool of, and was a little concerned 
 as to how Lydia and Isabel would get on, she was un- 
 feignedly glad to give up the duties which she had dis- 
 charged so conscientiously and taken so seriously. 
 
 But all this time, no one told Isabel of the changes in 
 store. Aunt Eliza considered that to be Father's affair, 
 and Father, who found himself suffering from a certain 
 shamefacedness when it came to speaking to his child of 
 his approaching marriage, thought that there was time 
 enough and put it off ; for even the godly parson who is 
 ready to go to the stake for a Cause, will defer the small 
 duty which he finds embarrassing. Of course, by this 
 time Isabel knew all about it, but had her own idea of 
 what was due to her. 
 
 "Don't you suppose anyone will ever tell me ?" she said 
 to Jessie. "Do you suppose she'll just come, and that 
 will be all?" 
 
 The winter slipped away, Miss Lydia finished her em- 
 broidery and was closeted with her dressmaker, who spent 
 weeks in an upper room of the house of the sister with 
 whom Lydia lived. Aunt Eliza was putting the parson- 
 age through a radical process of cleaning and renovating, 
 beginning with the attic, which was thoroughly over- 
 hauled. Some of its contents were destroyed, some were 
 given away, and some packed up to accompany Eliza in 
 her flitting. The slender residue was stored away again 
 under the eaves. One day she called Isabel up there and, 
 showing her an old trunk, gave her a key. 
 
 "There are some things of your mother's," she said. 
 
Isabel Stirling 45 
 
 "They belong to you. You had better keep the trunk 
 locked. One never knows." 
 
 Isabel accepted the key with awed excitement and put 
 it away in a corner of her top bureau drawer. She had 
 no wish to open the trunk just then. She was still more 
 excited when, on coming in one day she found her 
 mother's portrait hanging on the wall of her bedroom. 
 She flew to her aunt. 
 
 "The portrait I" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Am I to 
 have the portrait?" 
 
 "Yes," said Aunt Eliza. "I spoke to your father and 
 he consented. It is much more suitable." 
 
 For the first time in her life, Isabel flung her arms 
 about her aunt's neck. "Oh!" she cried. "Thank you!" 
 She rushed away without waiting for an answer, leaving 
 Aunt Eliza with a strange and painful softening of the 
 heart. She found herself wishing that she did not have 
 to leave the child. 
 
 Isabel had one pang of jealous pain that Father should 
 be willing to part with the portrait, but that was obliter- 
 ated by her joy at having it for her own, to live with. 
 She worshiped it, standing before it for long moments, 
 even kneeling before it when she said her prayers. Now 
 when all these preparations were being made for the new 
 wife, the house seemed permeated for Isabel with the 
 presence of the young mother who had never lived there. 
 For William Stirling's married life had been in another 
 town, the place of his first pastorate, before he had been 
 called back to his native place. 
 
 In all this putting in order there was, it seemed, one 
 task for him. One day in March he packed a valise. 
 Isabel overheard Aunt Eliza say to him: 
 
 "You think it is best — now ?" 
 
 "I promised," he replied. "I should have done it long 
 ago, but " 
 
 "I know," replied his sister. "Those things are hard." 
 
 He went away, and no one told Isabel where he was 
 going. She, occupied with the portrait, did not concern 
 herself about the matter. Within two days he was back 
 
46 Isabel Stirling 
 
 again. Isabel had been told by her aunt to go and have 
 tea with Jessie, but for once, came back sooner than she 
 was expected. She dismissed at the gate the maid who 
 had been sent to escort her home and hurried up to the 
 house in the dark. 
 
 There was a wagon in the driveway and the front door 
 stood wide open. The light from the hall streamed out, 
 showing Father standing there, superintending the lifting 
 of a long wooden box from the wagon. Isabel noticed 
 that he had no hat on, though he was holding it in his 
 hand and the air was raw. He was directing the men to 
 handle the box carefully. 
 
 "Why, what — " began Isabel. 
 
 He turned at her voice. "Go into the house!" he 
 ordered, not angrily, but imperatively. 
 
 She went in at once. Aunt Eliza was standing in the 
 sitting-room and her face wore a strangely grave ex- 
 pression, quite different from her usual look of worry or 
 preoccupation. 
 
 "Aunt Eliza, what has come? ,, Isabel was bursting 
 with curiosity. "Father is out there and it is a long box, 
 on a wagon." 
 
 "Don't ask questions, Isabel," said her aunt. In her 
 voice as well as in her face there was that unusual 
 solemnity, almost, Isabel thought, as though she were in 
 church. 
 
 It was oppressive, all this solemnity. What in the 
 world could be the matter ? She ran upstairs and watched 
 from the upper hall, hanging over the banister, unseen 
 by those below. The men carried the box into Father's 
 study, but they didn't stop there. She could hear their 
 heavy footsteps as they went on into the room adjoining ; 
 that room of distressful associations. There they put 
 their burden down, and when they had come out she 
 heard Father shut the door of the other room and lock it. 
 The lock did not work easily. 
 
 Of course, it was useless to ask questions, but a child 
 with eyes and ears sharpened by curiosity can find out 
 much without need of questions. Before she went to bed 
 
Isabel Stirling 47 
 
 that night the mystery was solved for Isabel. Did the 
 men let fall a remark to Ann, the cook, on their way out ? 
 Did Father and Aunt Eliza exchange a few words when 
 they thought she could not hear ? She never remembered 
 how it was that she found out, but she was certain. Her 
 mother's body was in the house. In those days there 
 was no such thing as a mortuary chapel in Ptolemy. 
 
 The awe which held her soul at first was soon swal- 
 lowed up in horror. The children of those days did not 
 lack realistic descriptions of the ravages of death. The 
 more she tried not to think of it, the more the horror 
 grew. She went to her room before her usual bedtime 
 and there, her mother's eyes, looking at her out of the 
 portrait, comforted her a little; but when she had got 
 into bed she put her head under the blankets. . . . 
 
 It was impossible to go to sleep. Finally she heard 
 Aunt Eliza come upstairs and then, after what seemed a 
 long time, Father came up and shut himself in his room. 
 
 It had not occurred to her that Father would come up 
 at all that night. She could remember that when Grandma 
 died some of their friends came and stayed downstairs 
 every night until the funeral; and she knew it to be the 
 custom. Poor Mother ! Here in the house with them all 
 and everybody going to bed as usual. The ghastly visions 
 gave place to a passion of love and pity, mingled with 
 jealous indignation at Father's heartlessness. She threw 
 off the blankets and sat up in bed. Since she was the 
 only one to care. . . . 
 
 She waited until she heard Aunt Eliza's deep breathing. 
 As for Father, she felt safe as long as his door was shut. 
 Feeling for the matches and lighting the candle, she 
 slipped on her little dressing gown and, barefooted lest 
 she make a noise, started down the stairs. Which step 
 was it that always creaked? One must go carefully 
 there. Softly she went, and reached the bottom without 
 mishap. Then to the study, where she closed the door 
 behind her and set her candle on the table. "I will not be 
 afraid!" she said to herself, but she was trembling and 
 shivering. 
 
48 Isabel Stirling 
 
 She stood in the middle of the floor, her face turned 
 toward the door of the other room. She was glad the 
 door was locked and that the key had been taken out. She 
 had come as far as she could. Did Mother know that 
 she was there? She sat down in the easy chair, drawing 
 up her feet and trying to cover them with her dressing 
 gown. Then, quite suddenly, she burst into tears. She 
 struggled with her sobs, lest someone should hear her. 
 She got up and walked up and down the room until she 
 was able to control herself; but then a fresh paroxysm 
 seized her and she threw herself full-length on the floor. 
 After a while her sobs ceased. Sighing and moaning, she 
 fell asleep. 
 
 She awoke just as day was breaking. There was a 
 moment of confusion and then she remembered. She was 
 ashamed and conscience-stricken at having slept at her 
 post, and frightened lest someone should be up early and 
 find her there. It seemed to her that nobody could ever 
 be so cold as she was, and she ached from head to foot. 
 Shivering, she made her way upstairs and got into bed. 
 
 In the morning Father went to the cemetery with the 
 long box, but Isabel was too ill to know anything about it. 
 For many days she knew little of what went on around 
 her. That deadly chill was followed by consuming fever 
 and racking pain and wild fancies. The doctor was 
 there, very kind and cheerful, but when he got out of the 
 room he was serious enough and talked to Aunt Eliza 
 about pneumonia and a nervous shock. Aunt Eliza seemed 
 to be with her nearly all the time, and there was a nice, 
 cheerful old woman called Sally. Isabel liked Sally and 
 would cling to her hand when the pain and terror were 
 worst. But when Father stood by the bed and looked at 
 her she cried and drew herself away from him and 
 called, "Mother! Mother !" So that the doctor forbade 
 him the room. They had been boys together and John 
 Brenton was not afraid of the minister. 
 
 "What you have been doing to the child, I don't know," 
 he said. "But she's afraid of you and you've got to keep 
 away." 
 
Isabel Stirling 49 
 
 So William Stirling went to his study and prayed 
 solemnly for Isabel's immortal soul, that it might not go 
 down to Hell. And Miss Lydia came and inquired for 
 "the dear little sufferer' , and brought what comfort she 
 could to her William. And so the weeks passed, until in 
 the sunny days of April a very thin and pale Isabel was 
 wrapped up and taken out for a few moments at a time, 
 to hear the robins sing and to see the yellow crocuses in 
 bloom along the edge of the flower-beds, just inside the 
 box borders. 
 
VIII 
 
 "And what," asked Miss Lydia, "does our dear little 
 Isabel think of the prospect of having a new mother ?" 
 
 Lydia and the Reverend Mr. Stirling were sitting side 
 by side on the sofa in Mrs. Marvin's front parlor. On the 
 Rev. William's evenings the Marvin family gave that 
 room up to courtship and sat in the back parlor with the 
 folding doors closed between ; an arrangement which was 
 irksome to the girls when they happened to have beaux 
 of their own. But behind his newspaper their father 
 muttered, "It's worth it," and his wife pretended not to 
 hear him. Lydia and Mrs. Marvin, although sisters, were 
 unlike. 
 
 Because we have seen William Stirling only as parson 
 and parent — sternly conscientious in both capacities — it 
 must not be supposed that there was no other side to his 
 nature. He had never ceased to feel a resentful grief at 
 the loss of his young wife ; and had always carried him- 
 self rigidly, partly for that reason, partly from a strong 
 sense of personal and professional dignity and a fear of 
 gossip, besides being, in truth, greatly engrossed in his 
 perpetual conflict with the world, the flesh and the devil. 
 But adulation has its effect on all men and, when the 
 odor of incense is perpetual, the most fastidious taste is 
 likely to become vitiated. When, after withstanding a 
 long siege, William Stirling finally capitulated, the com- 
 pleteness of his surrender was astonishing to himself. 
 In short, he had not the slightest objection to sitting on 
 the sofa beside the fair Lydia and bestowing on her such 
 embraces as the occasion seemed to suggest. For the 
 eternal masculine survives even bereavement and a diet 
 of Calvinism. 
 
 Lydia was now thirty-three years old, ten years his 
 
 50 
 
Isabel Stirling 51 
 
 junior, and did not look her age. Possessing no beauty 
 of face, she was yet pleasing to look at, having a slender, 
 graceful and stylish figure and fairly regular features. 
 In coloring she was fair, with an abundance of light, 
 sandy hair, not pretty in itself, but always arranged with 
 the neatest precision in the latest style, a passable com- 
 plexion, and eyes which were oftener green than gray. 
 Her clothes were really as fashionable as her hair, but 
 they were of tints so carefully subdued to the supposed 
 ministerial standard and were so trimly put on that 
 William would merely have called her "neatly dressed." 
 It was a great surprise to him later to find how many 
 hours of the day were consumed in the adornment of her 
 person. Her voice and manner have already been suffi- 
 ciently characterized by Isabel and Jessie, but it must be 
 added that they never varied. Years after, Isabel said 
 of her: "Of course her sweetness masked something that 
 wasn't at all sweet, but she never — but once — dropped the 
 mask. No matter what happened, her tones were always 
 honeyed and she always looked at you with that same 
 holy expression. ,, 
 
 In fact, Lydia believed in herself and admired her own 
 character immensely. She thought that it was a lovely, 
 meek, unselfish Christian character. In reality, she was 
 consumed with ambition. A marriage with the Reverend 
 William Stirling was the most ambitious alliance she 
 could make, according to her ideas at that time, which 
 were based on the Ptolemy standard of the period. For 
 Ptolemy never had been an aristocratic place, but had 
 grown up from humble beginnings; and if, here and 
 there, a family had some traditions of past honors, not 
 much was said by them about those things, for one must 
 live with one's neighbors, and past honors do not always 
 mean present prosperity. As to that, William Stirling's 
 family had been a good one. As to present standards, 
 Ptolemy was a village of churches, of which the Presby- 
 terian was the largest and richest; and its pastor was 
 indubitably the most eligible unmarried man of a suitable 
 age to be found there. The Episcopal church, which 
 
52 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Lydia afterward grew to value, was the smallest of them 
 all and its parishioners made no great stir. 
 
 Meantime, Lydia' s question is unanswered. For the 
 matter of that, her William had to leave it so. He did 
 not know what Isabel thought because he had not spoken 
 to her o,f her prospects. Of course, however, she would 
 accept the new mother with gratitude and affection. 
 
 "But she won't if she is not properly told of it," replied 
 Lydia, who was nothing if not diplomatic. "Oh, you 
 innocent man!" She drew a caressing hand down his 
 sleeve. "Suppose you let me see her and talk to her. She 
 is surely well enough now to see me." 
 
 Yes, Isabel was well enough and Lydia might call when 
 she would. Eliza should be instructed to let her see the 
 child alone. The following day saw her at the parsonage, 
 much startled at the change in Isabel, who had been a 
 pretty child and would, so Lydia fancied, have been an 
 ornamental adjunct to the wedding, walking up the aisle 
 with a basket of flowers. That idea was promptly 
 abandoned when she looked at the closely cropped hair, 
 the thin, pale face, the little sticks of legs and the bony 
 wrists, with the disproportionate hands and feet of her 
 "dear little daughter." But she overflowed with endear- 
 ments, holding the thin hand in her own gloved fingers, 
 and made her announcement with tender promises of the 
 good times coming when they should all be living so 
 happily together. Nevertheless, the visit was not a great 
 success ; for what could one do with such an utterly un- 
 responsive child ? Isabel was not propitiated, for Father 
 ought to have told her himself. 
 
 When the wedding-day came she was dressed in a 
 brand new frock and drove to the church with Aunt Eliza 
 in a much grander carriage than had ever before been at 
 her disposal. She and her aunt sat in the front pew on 
 one side of the aisle, whence she looked across at the 
 Marvins in the corresponding pew on the other side. 
 Presently Lydia, in all the chaste splendor of her heavy 
 white silk gown, with its long train and the bridal tulle 
 and orange blossoms, came sweeping up the aisle On 
 
Isabel Stirling 53 
 
 Father's arm, William Stirling having refused such com- 
 plexities as bridesmaids and a bride's escort of Brother- 
 in-law Marvin. And then a friend of Father's from a 
 neighboring town stepped forward and married them in 
 a very few words. 
 
 At the reception afterwards, the Marvin girls were very 
 good to Isabel, taking charge of her at supper, piling her 
 plate with all sorts of goodies and giving her more than 
 the one box of wedding cake allotted to her. That was 
 all very well, but she wished that, among all those grown- 
 ups, she could have had just Jessie. She felt shy and out 
 of place, and when she heard the two nieces slyly mak- 
 ing fun of the bride, her cheeks burned. The bride was 
 Father's wife now, strange as it seemed. She listened, 
 dreading lest they should say anything disrespectful about 
 him. It was absurd enough to be sure, for Lydia to be 
 putting on airs of being in love at her age, but if anyone 
 had made fun of Father it would have been too awful 
 to bear. All unknown to herself, the chief compensation 
 for his unapproachableness had been the respect which 
 everyone showed him. One might never have been able 
 to love him very much, but there was some satisfaction 
 in being proud of him. Her alarm was groundless. 
 William Stirling bore himself well in a position which 
 Lydia's airs and graces made a difficult one. No one 
 even cast a disrespectful glance at him. 
 
 The reception was over at last. The bride and groom 
 started off on their wedding journey, and Aunt Eliza took 
 Isabel home and sent her to bed. 
 
IX 
 
 During the interval which elapsed before the return of 
 the wedded pair, Aunt Eliza busied herself with the final 
 polishing of a house which already shone with cleanness, 
 and Isabel spent more time than ever at the Giffords\ She 
 dreaded the return of her father and his wife, and for the 
 first time in her life failed to welcome a new experience. 
 The weeks passed, and presently Aunt Eliza was packing 
 her trunks for departure ; for she did not intend that the 
 bride should find her there. In view of her responsibili- 
 ties, her going was planned with a nicety which left the 
 smallest possible interval between the old and the new 
 regime. As soon as their handkerchiefs should be seen 
 waving from the car window on the opposite hill — the 
 signal which she had requested — she was to step into the 
 waiting carriage which would carry her to the station to 
 take the outgoing train. 
 
 At the appointed time all was in readiness. The table 
 was set for supper, the last directions had been given to 
 Ann, Isabel stood at the front door. 
 
 "Well, good-bye, Isabel,'* she said. "Don't forget to 
 take your tonic and keep out of drafts." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," said Isabel. 
 
 "And remember, I expect you to write to me every 
 week." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," repeated Isabel. 
 
 Aunt Eliza put her hand on the child's shoulder and 
 gave her a dry kiss. It was the touch of the hand and 
 not the kiss which moved Isabel out of her forlorn, shy 
 reserve. She looked up into her aunt's face. 
 
 "I'm sorry you're going away," she said, and suddenly 
 put her arms around Aunt Eliza's neck. 
 
 Aunt Eliza patted her shoulder and gave her another 
 
 54 
 
Isabel Stirling 55 
 
 short kiss. "Be a good girl," she said a little huskily, and 
 hurried into the carriage, winking unaccustomed tears 
 from her eyes. 
 
 Isabel went and sat in the parlor until she heard the 
 wheels of the arriving carriage. Then she ran and opened 
 the door, feeling that to be a duty of hospitality. Lydia 
 ran up the steps first, but at the door hung back, waiting. 
 Apparently she did not see Isabel. 
 
 "Well, why don't you go in?" asked her husband, as, 
 after paying the hackman, he followed her, his hands full 
 of traveling impedimenta. 
 
 "Dearest! You must lead me into our home," said 
 Lydia. 
 
 He glanced down at the bags and wraps and stepped 
 into the house in front of her. "Come !" he said. "It is 
 no strange place to you." 
 
 Finding herself in danger of being left behind, she 
 clutched at his sleeve and was thus drawn inside. Mr. 
 Stirling deposited his burdens on floor and chairs and 
 turning, saw Isabel. 
 
 "How do you do, Isabel," he said, kissing her briefly. 
 
 Lydia, who now seemed to see her for the first time, 
 precipitated herself on her. "My dear little daughter!" 
 she exclaimed. "So you came to the door to welcome 
 your new mother. That was sweet of you." 
 
 On the whole, Isabel preferred Father's and Aunt 
 Eliza's way of kissing. There were more trying things 
 in reserve than being kissed, however. The supper, for 
 which Aunt Eliza had made such careful preparations, 
 passed off very well, Lydia praising everything. After- 
 wards they sat in the parlor until nine o'clock — a new 
 thing for Father, who usually went at once to his study. 
 The striking of the clock was always the signal for Isabel 
 to go to bed, and she rose shyly, on account of the good- 
 night which must be said, but promptly, because she was 
 longing to get away. 
 
 "You haven't called me Mother yet," said Lydia play- 
 fully, as the child turned to her. 
 
 Isabel flushed painfully. She expected to say it. That 
 
56 Isabel Stirling 
 
 was what made the good-night so hard. It was more 
 difficult than ever now. She stood in the doorway, 
 swallowing hard. 
 
 "Isabel!" said her father sternly. 
 
 She straightened herself and held her head high. 
 "Good-night — Mother!" she said. And then to her 
 father, reproachfully — "I was going to !" 
 
 It was the nearest approach to an impertinence that he 
 had ever heard from her. 
 
 The day after her arrival Lydia inspected her new 
 domain from garret to cellar. At dinner she remarked: 
 
 "I find we have one empty room — that room off your 
 study. It will make a delightful little snuggery for me, 
 with my desk and sofa, which I'll bring up from Laura's, 
 and all my books and pictures. And it will be so sweet 
 to be near you when you are in your study." 
 
 William looked up from the joint which he was carv- 
 ing. He was the husband now, and not merely the lover. 
 He was, more than all, the minister, whose privacy must 
 not be invaded. 
 
 "It will be impossible for you to have that room, Lydia. 
 All the rest of the house is yours, but I cannot have any- 
 one passing through my study." 
 
 Lydia smiled sweetly. "Dear William," she said, "as 
 if I should wish to disturb you !" 
 
 Isabel sat with her eyes cast down. She always tried 
 to forget what that room had been used for. 
 
 A day or two later Father drove off in a hired buggy 
 to spend a morning in the country, calling on some out- 
 lying parishioners. Pretty soon Isabel, who was not con- 
 sidered well enough to go to school, and was wandering 
 about, somewhat bored with her leisure, saw a wagon 
 come to the door, piled with the belongings which Lydia 
 had left at her sister's house. She was surprised and a 
 little frightened when they were carried through the 
 study into the empty room. Aunt Eliza had left it quite 
 clean and there was a matting on the floor. The writing 
 desk and sofa, a small bookcase and a couple of chairs 
 were put in place. With the help of the man who had 
 
Isabel Stirling 57 
 
 brought them up, wedding presents were unpacked, pic- 
 tures were hung, all with the greatest dispatch. A rug 
 was laid down, a small table was taken out of one up- 
 stairs room, a couple of chairs out of another, until the 
 "snuggery" was completely furnished. Then Lydia dis- 
 missed the man and sent Isabel into the sitting-room to 
 lie down, while she seated herself gracefully at her writ- 
 ing desk, with the door open between the two rooms. 
 
 Isabel felt that she must know what happened when 
 Father came home. It was the first time in her life that 
 she had known him to be defied. When she heard him 
 drive up, she got up from the sofa and went across the 
 hall to the parlor, which was next to the study. 
 
 "What does this mean ?" she heard him ask, in a tone 
 which recalled the earlier uses of the little room. 
 
 Isabel trembled, but Lydia did not seem to be in the 
 least frightened. "I knew you would like it when you 
 saw how pretty it could be made," she said sweetly. "Of 
 course I had to do it immediately, because the Marvins 
 are already packing up to leave." 
 
 Without a word he turned on his heel and left the 
 room. Isabel heard his determined footsteps going along 
 the hall and out of the front door. 
 
 It was nearly one o'clock, the hour for their dinner. 
 They waited half an hour for him and then he returned 
 and seated himself at the table, with no allusion to any- 
 thing that had happened. Lydia' s manner was unruffled. 
 Isabel was intensely curious and greatly pleased that 
 somebody besides herself should be the culprit. Presently 
 the heavy steps of workmen were heard in the hall, and 
 the sound of tools laid down. 
 
 "What is going on?" asked Lydia, starting up. 
 "Keep your seat!" said her husband. 
 But she did not keep her seat. She went out and found 
 that the men had been ordered to cut a door from the 
 little room into the hall. She was not gone long, for she 
 worked quickly, collecting sheets, with which, the work- 
 men helping her, she covered up her precious belongings. 
 "You must excuse me for going," she said, as she 
 
58 Isabel Stirling 
 
 seated herself at the table again, "but broken plaster does 
 make such a dust. You didn't think of that, did you? 
 But it was lovely of you, dearest, to think of the door. 
 Now it will be quite perfect." 
 
 William Stirling made no reply, nor did he speak again 
 during the meal. As soon as the opening had been made 
 into the hall he locked the door communicating with his 
 study and put the key on the ring which he carried in his 
 pocket. Some days later, when she again arranged the 
 room, Lydia placed her sofa against that door; and if, 
 reclining there, she sometimes overheard confidences made 
 to the minister which were not intended for her ears, 
 clearly that was William's fault, since if he had left 
 things alone, the sofa would have remained against the 
 other wall, and he would always have known whether she 
 was in the room or not. But William, who with all his 
 severity was not suspicious, did not know how easily one 
 could hear through that door. As for Isabel, she stood 
 in the new doorway of the "snuggery" and sighed with 
 thankfulness that it was at last like other rooms. 
 
In these days Isabel did not confide in Jessie. An in- 
 stinct of loyalty forbade her to speak about what went on 
 in the house. Lydia' s coquettish ways with her father 
 excited her derision, and on the rare occasions when she 
 surprised her father in the act of responding to his wife's 
 endearments she was filled with disgust and mortification. 
 Father was too old for such romantic doings. They 
 made him ridiculous. Lydia misunderstood the expres- 
 sion on her candid face. One day she said archly: "Our 
 little daughter mustn't be jealous !" Isabel found that hard 
 to forgive. 
 
 So she and Jessie talked of everything except of what 
 was uppermost in their thoughts; for, naturally, Jessie 
 was curious. Some things, to be sure, she could see for 
 herself, for the new mother had no idea of shutting out 
 visitors. All of Isabel's friends were urged to come to 
 see her. This was a pleasant innovation. In fact, it 
 had to be admitted that many features of the new regime 
 were pleasant, and in the natural rebound of the child's 
 nature toward life and health she was ready to welcome 
 whatever was agreeable. 
 
 In the management of the house there were radical 
 changes. Ann was soon dismissed, but Isabel had never 
 been attached to Ann as she was to Norah, and it was a 
 relief to get rid of her heavy-footed, blundering service 
 at meals. Two servants took her place, for Lydia had a 
 little income of her own with which William Stirling 
 was far too proud to interfere. He never asked how 
 much it was nor for what it was spent, really fancying it 
 to be less than was the case. He observed with satisfac- 
 tion that his wife's name was always put down for con- 
 tributions to missions and other church work. As to 
 
 59 
 
60 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the details of household economy, he had never been 
 observant, having always been made comfortable by 
 his mother and later by Eliza, on the allowance from 
 his salary. He was now made much more comfortable 
 by Lydia, who was a good housekeeper and skilled in the 
 art of getting the utmost possible value from every cent 
 that she spent. His table was better supplied and better 
 served than ever before, and since there was nothing in 
 his Presbyterian creed which forbade his enjoying the 
 good things of the table — except on certain rare and 
 specially appointed days of "prayer and fasting," he 
 profited pleasurably by her housewifely skill. 
 
 Unfortunately for Isabel, however, his conscience was 
 not at rest with regard to her spiritual welfare. It re- 
 proached him when he realized how much he had been 
 absorbed in his own temporal affairs. Here was the 
 child for whose soul he was responsible, barely recovered 
 from a dangerous illness, which ought by all means to 
 have been made a means of grace to her, yet still un- 
 converted. During this time of physical weakness she 
 might easily have been led into the steep and narrow way 
 which a Christian must travel. In the absence of a real 
 love for her, his responsibility loomed large. Woe to 
 him if he did not fulfil the trust ! 
 
 No more time was to be lost, and in pursuance of his 
 duty as he saw it, Isabel was called into his study, not 
 once, but many times. Unfortunately the Reverend Will- 
 iam Stirling lacked the gift of persuasion. He talked 
 to her solemnly, prayed with her fervently, and ques- 
 tioned her unsparingly. To the child this was torture. 
 In addition to the unapproachable shyness of her age 
 with regard to such matters, she had as yet only seen the 
 supreme awfulness of religion. Never, since the day 
 when she had gone to the Inquiry meeting, had she 
 willingly opened her lips on the subject of her own inner 
 experience. Nor was she any nearer now than she had 
 been before to regarding the Deity who was presented to 
 her with the feelings which were required. Not being 
 very strong as yet, she wept copiously, which irritated 
 
Isabel Stirling 61 
 
 her father extremely. She could not, however, pretend 
 to feelings which did not exist. She could only say, 
 through her sobs, that she would like to feel as he wanted 
 her to if she only could. But she couldn't. 
 
 Such obstinacy seemed to him to be of the Devil. He 
 had not yet learned that a child of his, and a girl at that, 
 could be a distinct entity, apart from him, with a mind 
 which was not a mere emanation from his own. More- 
 over, his demon told him that if he could not bring his 
 own child into the fold he could hardly be counted a 
 success in his calling. As to her youth — many children 
 of her age were already members of his church. 
 
 He fancied that he had been persuasive. Now he 
 waxed lurid in his warnings of the punishments reserved 
 for those who refused the means of grace. He was an 
 obstinate man and renewed the struggle day after day. 
 As a natural result, the child, in whose cheeks the rose 
 of health had just begun to bloom again, lost color and 
 strength and crept about the house like a pale little ghost, 
 always in terror of that summons to the study. 
 
 Lydia, who was quite aware of what was going on, 
 was in her secret heart a good deal bored by both father 
 and child. She was still a bride. This, she felt, should 
 be her own special summer and it was being spoiled. It 
 was a case, however, where she was likely to injure her 
 prestige if she undertook to interfere. Only once she 
 said to Isabel: 
 
 "Cannot my little daughter do what Father wishes and 
 unite with the church? It seems very unnecessary to 
 make so much difficulty about it." 
 
 Isabel, who thought that her father had been talking 
 about her, which was not the case, would not make any 
 reply at all, but left the room. 
 
 It was in the hot days of August that her troubles came 
 to a climax with what she called a ball in her throat. A 
 large round lump seemed to have settled there and to be 
 threatening her with suffocation. It was so terribly 
 alarming that she mentioned it to Lydia, who looked into 
 her throat and assured her that there was nothing there. 
 
62 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Nevertheless, it remained. Sometimes, when she was 
 out of doors she would cease to feel it, but as soon as 
 she came into the house and sat down, there it was again. 
 After the Sunday morning when, gathering up all her 
 courage, she walked out of church in the middle of 
 Father's sermon, lest the worse evil befall her of stran- 
 gling to death in full sight of the congregation, Lydia 
 sent for the doctor. 
 
 "A little run down," was his verdict; "and needs a 
 tonic." If he had ventured to mention hysteria there was 
 no knowing what reports might get around. They would 
 call it hysterics, for one thing. 
 
 "You jump into my buggy with me," he said to Isabel, 
 "and I'll take you to my office and get something fixed 
 up. It will do you good to get out of doors." 
 
 He kept her out all the morning, trying diplomatically 
 to find out what was the matter with her. One couldn't 
 ask in so many words whether the cat of a stepmother 
 was abusing her, and the real cause of the trouble did 
 not occur to him. She brightened up a little however, and 
 said that the lump in her throat was better. Then he took 
 her home with him._ 
 
 "Have you ever been inside my house ?" he asked. 
 
 Isabel couldn't remember. The outside of the house 
 was familiar of course, and the little front yard behind 
 the white wooden palings, with the grass plot on each 
 side of the flagged walk that led to the door, and the lilac 
 and syringa bushes near the house, and the two red 
 peonies, one on each side of the walk, just inside the 
 gate. It was a white house with green blinds, a verandah 
 across the front, a fan-light over the door and two 
 windows on each side. 
 
 Isabel followed him in, peeping shyly but curiously in 
 at the parlor on the right before he led her into the room 
 on the left. This was the waiting-room of his office, 
 furnished stiffly with heavy old mahogany pieces ; a book- 
 case with glass doors, a round centre-table, littered with 
 old magazines, a haircloth sofa, a large rocking chair 
 which tipped back alarmingly when you sat down in it, 
 
Isabel Stirling 63 
 
 and half a dozen straight chairs. They went through this 
 room to the office back of it, which was also the doctor's 
 study. This room, too, was furnished with heavy mahog- 
 any, but was far more livable than the other. There were 
 two windows looking out on a big back-yard, shady with 
 trees, and between them was an old secretary, its flap 
 down, showing pigeonholes full of papers, while behind 
 the little pointed panes of the bookcase which surmounted 
 it were all sorts of bottles and boxes. There was a com- 
 fortable sofa in the room, an easy-chair and a large 
 square table covered with books and magazines; and 
 there w r as a fireplace with brass andirons and fender and 
 on the mantel over it was a row of framed photographs. 
 
 "Sit down here,' , said the doctor, "and we'll have an 
 egg-nog." Going to the door, he called: "Norah!" 
 
 The name aroused memories in Isabel and she turned 
 her head. Astonishing to say, it was the Norah of the 
 old days of Grandma who came in response to the sum- 
 mons. She was married now, and she and Michael, her 
 husband, had recently come to live with the doctor. Isabel 
 knew her at once, though she had not seer: her for years. 
 
 "Oh, Norah !" she exclaimed, jumping up. "Don't you 
 know me ?" 
 
 Norah didn't know her, but she wa? delighted and 
 voluble; also shocked, although she refrained from men- 
 tioning it. 
 
 "This little lady needs an egg-nog," said the doctor. 
 "You go and beat the egg, Norah, and I'll bring you just 
 a tiny drop of the crathur to put in it." 
 
 When he went into the kitchen Norah was shaking her 
 head and exclaiming, while she beat her egg. "But what's 
 the matther wid the child ?" she asked. 
 
 "I don't know," said Dr. Brenton slowly. "I'm trying 
 to find out." 
 
 ' 'Tis me own opinion," said Norah, holding her egg- 
 beater suspended in the air, "that they're killin' her wid 
 their religion. Tis a cruel religion intirely." 
 
 She began to beat the liquor in, drop by drop, and the 
 doctor stood by, frowning thoughtfully. He had his clue. 
 
64 Isabel Stirling 
 
 When he came back to his office Isabel was standing 
 by the mantel, looking at the photographs. 
 
 "Who are they?" she asked. 
 
 "My nieces," he told her. "I had a sister who went out 
 to Kansas and these are her children." 
 
 "So many?" 
 
 "Only two — at different ages. This is Anne and this 
 is Mary. And these are Anne and Mary when they were 
 smaller. Here, take this egg-nog and drink it, every 
 drop." 
 
 She took the glass, but still looked at the pictures. 
 "They're grown up now, aren't they? Everybody has 
 relations but me. I wish my mother had had brothers 
 and sisters. I wish these were my cousins — each pic- 
 ture a separate cousin." 
 
 "Well, let's adopt them. I'll tell them when I write 
 that they have a cousin here." 
 
 He kept her with him for another half -hour and made 
 her talk to him. She told him more than she was aware 
 of, with the result that he went to William Stirling and 
 told him that the child must have a complete and long- 
 continued change, unless he were willing to take the risk 
 of having her an invalid for life, or perhaps losing her 
 altogether. 
 
 William demurred. Her place was at home. Yet his 
 confidence in Dr. Brenton as a physician deprived his 
 objections of force. One final argument he had. "There 
 is no place to send her," he said, "so that ends it." 
 
 "How about Eliza?" 
 
 "Eliza is in a boarding school — or will be in a few 
 weeks. She is out of the question." 
 
 "Ask her. It won't hurt the child to go to school — in 
 moderation, and will occupy her mind. Ask Eliza if she 
 can't have her there." 
 
 William could not refuse. He wrote to his sister, not 
 knowing that John Brenton had also written. To his 
 surprise, Eliza replied that she had consulted Miss Pryor 
 and had found the arrangement quite feasible; and that 
 the expense of it would be her affair. William yielded 
 
Isabel Stirling 65 
 
 reluctantly, but insisted on sharing the expense. He had 
 a sense of being baffled, but underneath was a relief 
 which he would on no account have admitted to himself. 
 For the rest, he fancied that he could trust his sister to 
 carry out his ideas. 
 
 Lydia, under sweet and sympathizing speeches, dis- 
 guised her pleasure at getting rid of such a depressing 
 "little daughter." She went to work zealously and effi- 
 ciently. Under her capable supervision a seamstress pre- 
 pared a simple outfit. A trunk was bought and packed, 
 and Aunt Eliza came back to get her niece. In truth, 
 Aunt Eliza was glad to have the child, having lately found 
 out how much she loved her ; and she was besides grimly 
 pleased that Lydia had so soon been found wanting, that 
 being her version of the need for a change. 
 
XI 
 
 Over on the other hill at last! As the train steamed 
 slowly along its lower level, then went backward and in 
 its zigzag course passed higher up, Isabel gazed out 
 eagerly. But even now she had not g^ne high enough 
 to look over the top of the hill. As far as she could see, 
 the ground still rose, not steeply, but in a gentle ascent. 
 It was a country of prosperous, uninteresting farms. She 
 crossed the aisle and looked out of the opposite window, 
 across the ravine, for a last glimpse of the parsonage, and 
 managed to recognize it, small and unfamiliar though it 
 looked. No one waved a handkerchief, but the omission 
 did not sadden her. She turned contentedly to Aunt 
 Eliza. "I like to travel," she said. 
 
 It was a long and tiresome journey before, at nine 
 o'clock in the evening, they arrived in New York, where 
 they spent the night in a quiet hotel which seemed a grand 
 place to Isabel. On the verge of sleep, she murmured 
 happily: "I haven't felt the ball in my throat all day." 
 
 The next day, at the Twenty-seventh Street station, 
 they came into what seemed like an enormous family 
 party. Girls chattering and laughing, greeting and kiss- 
 ing; mothers and elder sisters seeing them off; cries of 
 joy, rapturous embraces, as friends met again after the 
 vacation. Isabel had never imagined so many Marys, 
 Kates and Annies. There was also a Lily, a Laura, a 
 Josie, even a Rebecca, not so dignified as her name. She 
 gazed at them wistfully, feeling out of it all. "Don't 
 you know any of them ?" she asked Aunt Eliza. 
 
 "I've been away from the school for seven years," said 
 her aunt. "None of them last as long as that. We shall 
 know them soon enough." 
 
 They all crowded on the cars, not a train yet, but each 
 
 66 
 
Isabel Stirling 67 
 
 car drawn by two horses through the tunnel. Forty- 
 Second Street, where they were coupled together and an 
 engine put on, was so far uptown that very few persons 
 got on there. 
 
 The train went on its leisurely way, stopping every few 
 miles at some small station. Isabel never forgot the 
 names of those stopping-places, from Mount Vernon, 
 nearest New York, to Milford, next to New Haven. Then 
 the change at New Haven, where the signs — "Beware 
 of pickpockets" — made one look around anxiously and 
 clutch one's pocketbook. Then a train again, slower 
 than ever, with a boy coming through from time to time 
 with his tin water-bucket, and the two glasses in their 
 racks. No one knew anything about germs in those days. 
 And finally the brakeman called — "Mornington !" — and 
 they all got out. 
 
 There were vehicles standing in the road on the other 
 side of the station. Two more miles to go, first along 
 a country road, then over a stone bridge where a little 
 river joins a larger one, then a little way farther and 
 they turn into the village street with its overarching elms 
 and its houses set a little way back in their yards ; colonial 
 houses, many of them somewhat rusty, but unspoiled by 
 alterations. At last they draw up in front of a large brick 
 house, vefy near the street, with a two-story verandah 
 across the front and a big yard on each side. Everybody 
 jumps out and they all run up the two steps to the veran- 
 dah ; but they do not rush into the house pell-mell. For 
 just inside the door stands a small woman; though the 
 girls somehow never think of her as small. A middle- 
 aged woman, with an insignificant figure and a plain 
 rugged face, which is far from insignificant. There is 
 power in that face; kindness too, and a glint of humor. 
 There is no beauty, as the schoolgirl understands beauty, 
 except the fine line of the head from the forehead over 
 to the knot of hair at the back, and the smooth brown 
 hair itself, as yet barely touched with gray. This is 
 Miss Pryor, at fifty, or thereabout. 
 
 The girls have stood back for Aunt Eliza, who enters 
 
68 Isabel Stirling 
 
 first, followed by Isabel. Hanging back timidly, the 
 child is struck by something new to her in her aunt's 
 bearing and expression ; a flush in the cheek, a light in the 
 eye, a deference of manner she has never seen before. 
 Her own greeting over, Miss Stirling draws Isabel for- 
 ward. "This is my niece, Isabel Stirling," she says. 
 
 Miss Pryor takes Isabel by the hand and looks kindly 
 at her before she kisses her. "You will find your old 
 room arranged for you and Isabel," she says to Aunt 
 Eliza. 
 
 Isabel, looking back from the foot of the stairs, sees 
 that each girl, as she enters, is briefly kissed. In the 
 sixties the school is still like a family. They are subdued 
 for an instant, but presently they bubble over again as 
 they throng toward the stairs. 
 
 Isabel follows Aunt Eliza up one flight and along the 
 hall, into a room, not large, furnished with two single 
 beds, a wardrobe, bureau, washstand, table, two straight 
 chairs and a rocking chair. A set of hanging shelves and 
 the waste basket, the latter to be known henceforth as 
 "scrappy," complete the furniture. 
 
1 
 
 XII 
 
 School life is intensely interesting. The first few days 
 are unsettled. Miss Pryor is arranging the classes per- 
 sonally, supervising the list of studies of each one of the 
 seventy girls, seeing that one's Latin recitation doesn't 
 interfere with one's hour for a music or a drawing lesson ; 
 straightening out endless tangles. For there are no 
 grades into which a girl fits. Each one is considered 
 separately. 
 
 Nearly all night Miss Pryor sits at her desk in her own 
 room at the end of the Second Hall. There is a legend 
 among the girls that she never goes to bed at all, at any 
 time; for, when the classes are arranged and everything 
 is in running order, she devotes those midnight hours to 
 reading and writing. 
 
 In two days the confusion is ended and the school 
 under way for the year. Isabel finds herself in a large 
 arithmetic class, taught, not by Aunt Eliza, whose time 
 is filled up by more advanced mathematics, but by Miss 
 Pryor herself, who seems always to take what others 
 have no time for. Isabel likes those arithmetic lessons, 
 in the corner of the big schoolroom, the girls sitting on 
 two benches against the wall, at right angles to each other. 
 Behind one bench is a window, looking out on a grassy 
 space shaded by old trees. Miss Pryor's chair is on a 
 low platform, a table beside her, and on the floor opposite 
 her stands the blackboard. Always Isabel is to remember 
 the tolerant little laugh with which Miss Pryor shifts 
 herself in her chair in order to see the blackboard when 
 a left-handed girl comes to make figures on it. As she 
 is to find out later, Aunt Eliza is less considerate. Under 
 her rule, a girl who can draw perfectly beautiful geometri- 
 
70 Isabel Stirling 
 
 cal figures with her left hand is made to look foolish and 
 feel irritated by being compelled to draw crooked and in- 
 effectual lines with her right-hand, in order to satisfy 
 Miss Stirling's demand for uniformity. 
 
 Isabel also finds herself studying Latin with Miss 
 Pryor — Harkness Arnold's First Latin Book. She has 
 her recitation in the afternoon, during study hour. In 
 the three rooms known as study halls the girls sit around 
 extension tables which have been drawn out for them. 
 She leaves her seat there and goes out into the hall. There 
 is an ell halfway down the hall, lighted by a double glass 
 door giving on the garden. There she and Miss Pryor 
 sit side by side on a large, old-fashioned sofa, while she 
 recites her lesson. She has a certain facility in learning 
 and soon discovers that Miss Pryor overrates her. She 
 really knows far less than her teacher thinks she does. 
 Is she to confess it? Never! It is too wonderful an 
 experience to have Miss Pryor, of whose intellect the 
 whole school stands in awe, think that she is really 
 clever. She does what she can to maintain the illusion. 
 The result is a lack of thoroughness in Latin grammar, 
 but a stimulation of her ambition such as she has never 
 experienced before. She finishes her recitation and goes 
 back to the study hall with her head held high. 
 
 Rules and restrictions hold an unimportant place in 
 Isabel's consciousness. To her, the keynote of the school 
 is freedom. Freedom to think and to talk; freedom to 
 associate with chosen companions. She has to get up at a 
 certain hour, it is true, but so do all the others. Once up 
 and dressed and out of her room, she is in a world of 
 surpassing interest. After prayers there is breakfast, and 
 at the table she can talk as much as she likes, and she 
 likes to talk a great deal. She goes through the morning 
 happily. Lessons are no trouble. Teachers are more or 
 less interesting. She begins the study of French. Madame 
 Boulanger is odd, not too tidy, and a little too affection- 
 ate. The girls dislike her mustache and the way she 
 runs her knitting needle through her thick wavy hair. 
 She calls her favorites "ma minette," and insists on kiss- 
 
Isabel Stirling 71 
 
 ing them. Her beautiful accent is a matter which her 
 pupils appreciate later in life ; also her thoroughness. 
 
 One has to go out walking twice a day; a short walk 
 in the morning after breakfast, a long one in the after- 
 noon; but one goes where one likes; down to the river, 
 up to the bluff, along the road to Diamond Glen, or 
 simply up and down the street. There are no dangers 
 and no supervision is needed; the girls are trusted. 
 Walking engagements are made for Mondays, Tuesdays, 
 Wednesdays, and so on, up to Saturday. Naturally, a 
 new girl, and much the youngest in school, does not at 
 first choose her companions, but waits to be chosen. Isabel 
 is not fortunate in her first walking mate, for she is in- 
 vited to walk on Monday afternoons by Dora Holt, a 
 pale-faced, red-lipped girl of fourteen. Dora is dressed 
 in mourning. 
 
 "I'm in black for my brother," she told Isabel during 
 their first walk. 
 
 "Oh!" said Isabel sympathetically. She wished she 
 could think of something more to say. 
 
 "Yes," Dora went on, "I've lost my father and mother 
 and two sisters and a brother — all of consumption. We 
 all have it in my family. I shall have it some day." 
 She spoke cheerfully, even with a certain complacency, 
 as if feeling the importance of being under a Doom. 
 
 "How dreadful !" said Isabel. There seemed nothing 
 adequate that she could say. Casting her eyes down, she 
 noticed that Dora wore the thinnest of paper-soled kid 
 boots, although the walks were wet and soft after a 
 rain. "Why don't you wear rubbers?" she asked. "You'll 
 bring it on quicker." 
 
 "Oh, no I won't," replied Dora calmly. "Nothing will 
 make any difference." She brought a little paper bag of 
 chocolate creams out of her pocket. "Have one," she 
 invited. 
 
 "Thank you," said Isabel, helping herself. "But who 
 takes care of you ?" she asked. 
 
 "My guardian," said Dora importantly, aware that a 
 guardian sounded very grand and just like a novel. "He 
 
72 Isabel Stirling 
 
 sends me money whenever I ask him." She stopped to 
 put a chocolate cream into her mouth. "Old Bowles 
 doesn't give you many for ten cents, does he ? I think it's 
 rather mean to say we shan't spend but ten cents a week 
 on candy, but then of course we don't keep to it. Last 
 week I spent a dollar." 
 
 "I'm afraid I'll have to keep to it," said Isabel. She 
 declined the offer of another. 
 
 "Did you ever know anyone who died of heart 
 disease?" asked Dora. 
 
 "No, I don't think so." 
 
 "My most intimate friend died of it. She was going to 
 a picnic one day, and when she stooped over to lace her 
 shoes, she just dropped dead. She'd had heart disease 
 for a good while." 
 
 "How awful!" Isabel wondered whether she would 
 ever feel safe when she was lacing her own shoes. 
 
 Dora's conversation was alarming, but had a certain 
 fascination until you got used to it. Isabel herself was 
 less fluent than usual. 
 
 "I hope my blue worsted will come to-night," said 
 Dora. "I shall die if I can't begin my shawl soon. I'm 
 going to knit it for Kate Grey. Light blue — star-stitch." 
 
 "I never could knit a shawl," said Isabel, "and I'd 
 never want to." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you would, if you were in love with a girl. 
 I'm in such a hurry to give it to her. I've just given her 
 a fascinator — did the most of it sitting up in bed after 
 the lights were out. Enough light comes in over the 
 screen from the hall, you know. Have you fallen in 
 love with anybody yet, Isabel?" 
 
 Isabel laughed. "I never heard anything so funny," 
 she said. "No, I don't fall in love. I'm not that kind of 
 person." 
 
 "You wait !" said Dora. She smacked her red lips over 
 the last of the chocolate creams. 
 
 On the whole, Isabel was sorry that she had to walk 
 with Dora every Monday that term. It gave her a stuffy 
 feeling. 
 
Isabel Stirling 73 
 
 On Tuesday she walked with Francie Hale. Francie 
 was an elfish child of about the same age as Dora ; thin 
 and pale, with a mass of long, dry, loosely curled light 
 brown hair, which stood out electrically and made her 
 sharp little face look sharper than ever. Francie was 
 rather serious and somewhat fantastic in her ideas. She 
 took an interest in her lessons and was just now much 
 concerned because her teachers would not answer all her 
 questions. 
 
 "If they would only tell me why," she would say. "I 
 think a teacher always ought to be willing to tell you why. 
 It's only reasonable. But Miss Pryor is the only one 
 who thinks you have a right to ask. But, of course, she's 
 the only one who knows all there is to know about 
 things." 
 
 "I shouldn't think she'd want to teach arithmetic and 
 Harkness Arnold," said Isabel. 
 
 "Oh," said Francie sagely, "I don't believe she finds 
 it any worse than teaching anything else. You see, even 
 the most advanced girls are only beginners compared with 
 her. And I think she cares as much about the girls as she 
 does about the lessons — and so, you see, looking at it 
 that way, we're worth as much as the older ones." 
 
 "Suppose Laura Green and Emma Olney should hear 
 you say that ! My, my !" 
 
 "They wouldn't hear — even if we shouted it in their 
 ears. They don't know we exist — those older girls. They 
 don't care for anything but to be intimate with the 
 younger teachers." 
 
 "I shouldn't think they would," said Isabel. "Miss 
 Carter " She sighed. . . . 
 
 Naturally, you walk with the girls nearest your own 
 age. Great then, was Isabel's surprise and pleasure when 
 Margaret Hartington asked her for one afternoon a 
 week. Margaret was sixteen, and in appearance and 
 mind, mature for her years. She was treated with con- 
 sideration by the teachers, especially by Miss Pryor her- 
 self, and had a circle of warm and admiring friends 
 among the older girls. Yet she had lost her heart to 
 
74 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Isabel, and, subtlest of flattery, treated her as an in- 
 tellectual equal. Isabel talked to her more freely than 
 to anyone else. Before long she even found herself 
 speaking to Margaret of religion, the subject on which, 
 usually, her lips were sealed. 
 
 Margaret belonged to the Episcopal church and was a 
 devout churchwoman, and Isabel's curiosity was aroused 
 by her affection for her church and by her evident lack 
 of fear. It must be nice, she thought, to have a religion 
 that you are not afraid of. She asked questions; and 
 they fell into a discussion of doctrinal points. It was not 
 for nothing that Isabel had been brought up on the 
 Shorter Catechism. 
 
 Fronting on the village street was an old, disused ceme- 
 tery, and over its gate an arch, inscribed: "Memento 
 Mori." Sitting on the steps under the arch, with a paper 
 bag of sweets tucked between them — a concession to 
 Isabel's youth, provided by Margaret — the two discussed 
 Infant Baptism between mouthfuls. 
 
 "In your church," said Isabel seriously, "you believe 
 that baptism really does something to a baby ?" 
 
 "Yes, the child is taken into the church and made a 
 little Christian; and given a start in the right way." 
 
 "And really made different in some way from un- 
 baptized children?" 
 
 "Yes, we believe that." 
 
 "Then," said Isabel, "I can see some sense in infant 
 baptism. In our church I don't see any sense in it." 
 
 They talk of many other things in those walks. Isabel 
 grows to know Margaret's father and mother, sisters 
 and brothers, uncles and aunts and cousins. It seems to 
 be an immense clan. She reposes on Margaret's large- 
 hearted affection with a rest fulness which she has not 
 felt since that long-past time when she clung to Grand- 
 ma's hand. 
 
 There is no Episcopal church in Mornington and the 
 girls who belong to that communion are allowed to drive 
 to a neighbpring town on the first Sunday in the month. 
 
Isabel Stirling 75 
 
 "Wouldn't you like to go with me just once?" Mar- 
 garet asks Isabel. 
 
 It is not difficult to obtain the permission, for Miss 
 Pryor adopts all means to keep Isabel in the open air. 
 She is not yet robust. It is a thrilling adventure. With 
 Margaret's little prayer-book in her hand, she carefully 
 kneels and stands at the proper places and, in a timid 
 whisper, makes the responses. Actually to kneel in 
 church, instead of just leaning over and propping one's 
 head on one's hymn-book, is an exciting experience. The 
 music which, for a country church, is not bad, seems to 
 her angelic. She is carried away by an emotion which 
 is almost religious. 
 
 During the drive home she is silent. Later, she is able 
 to discriminate. 
 
 "Do you love God really, or do you only love your 
 church?" she asks Margaret. 
 
 "Why, Isabel!" exclaims Margaret. Then she falls 
 into thought. "You love this school, don't you?" she 
 says at last. 
 
 "Yes, I love it tremendously." 
 
 "Much more than you love Miss Pryor herself?" 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "But without Miss Pryor there wouldn't be this school. 
 Some day perhaps the school will seem a small thing 
 beside Miss Pryor." 
 
 "I understand. But Margaret — one couldn't exactly 
 love Father's church. There's just the minister — and 
 God. Perhaps you mightn't like the minister. They say 
 you've got to love God. They don't give you anything 
 to begin with." . . . 
 
 In memory of this day Margaret gave Isabel the little 
 prayer-book, on the fly leaf of which was written, in her 
 line, slanting hand, the prayer of Mary, Queen of Scots: 
 Fecisti nos ad te, Domine; et inquietum est cor nostrum 
 donee requiescat in te. 
 
XIII 
 
 One says one is "not that kind of person," and then one 
 falls in love all the same. Isabel fell in love with Miss 
 Carter. 
 
 She and Nelly Joyce recited English history to Miss 
 Carter every afternoon during the last half-hour of study 
 hour. It was an informal sort of recitation, the two girls 
 sitting on a long haircloth sofa placed across the window 
 in the Third Hall (meaning the third story), and the 
 teacher in a low chair opposite. Miss Carter was only 
 twenty, tall and slender, with dark eyes and a handsome, 
 interesting face. She had been brought up in luxury and 
 when, just at the end of her school-days, financial mis- 
 fortune came, Miss Pryor had given her a position. Nelly 
 Joyce was her cousin and called her Cousin Eleanor. 
 Isabel envied Nelly that privilege. 
 
 It seems that the only way you can show your adora- 
 tion of a teacher is to learn your lessons very perfectly. 
 Isabel's knowledge of English history grew by leaps and 
 bounds. Never was the list of kings recited more glibly, 
 never was their genealogy more thoroughly mastered; 
 while as for the great events, she had them all at her 
 tongue's end. Miss Carter's praise was very sweet. 
 
 Occasionally there was time after the recitation for a 
 little conversation.- Isabel hung on every word of the 
 teacher. Miss Carter recognized the adoration with 
 kindly amusement. One day when Nelly had appealed to 
 "Cousin Eleanor" on some matter or other, Isabel sighed 
 out: 
 
 "How nice to have a Cousin Eleanor !" 
 
 Miss Carter laughed. "I'll adopt you if you like," she 
 said. "Would you like to be my little Cousin Isabel and 
 call me Cousin Eleanor?" 
 
 76 
 
Isabel Stirling 77 
 
 A lovely color flooded Isabel's face from brow to chin. 
 "Oh, yes!" she breathed fervently. 
 
 Yet it was hard work for her to get out the words. 
 She was thinking "Cousin Eleanor" all day long, but she 
 could scarcely ever say it. Whenever she met Miss Carter 
 in the course of the day, her heart would begin to palpi- 
 tate and the color would rush to her cheeks. Yet she 
 would pass by with only a sidelong glance. 
 
 One day Miss Carter held out a detaining hand. "Why 
 don't you speak to me ?" she asked. 
 
 "I — I don't know," faltered Isabel. 
 
 "Say, 'Good-morning, Cousin Eleanor/ " commanded 
 Miss Carter. 
 
 Isabel looked up at her and made a great effort. "Good- 
 morning — Cousin Eleanor" — the last words hardly 
 audible. 
 
 "You shy child," laughed Miss Carter, as she passed 
 on. How then was Miss Carter to understand what 
 happened that very afternoon? 
 
 Isabel had been praised by another teacher for her 
 "compositions." She was cultivating her English; and 
 where should she be so careful in the matter of style as 
 in her recitations to Miss Carter? The best must be 
 offered at that shrine. It fell to her to give an account 
 of Magna Charta. It occurred to her that she was re- 
 peating those words too often and that it would be well, 
 in the interest of Style, to make a substitution. So she 
 translated, according to her lights. "This great charter," 
 said she. 
 
 "No," said Miss Carter, interrupting the smooth flow 
 of her narrative. "Magna Charta." 
 
 "Yes," replied Isabel, intent on her version, "this 
 great charter." 
 
 "But you mustn't call it that. Magna Charta !" 
 
 "It is the same thing," insisted Isabel. "I had said 
 that so often. I just translated." The thought crossed 
 her mind that Madame Boulanger would have understood 
 instantly — but what difference did that make? "The 
 great charter," she repeated. 
 
78 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "Charta !" commanded Miss Carter, accenting the hard 
 C with firm determination. 
 
 "But Magna Charta and the great charter are the 
 same/' explained the pupil doggedly. She often won- 
 dered afterwards why it had never occurred to her to 
 yield the point. At the time, it seemed to her absolutely 
 necessary to stick to her version. 
 
 "Not charter — Charta." There was severity and dis- 
 pleasure in the teacher's tone. 
 
 Isabel suddenly lost her temper. "Oh, well then," she 
 exclaimed, "the great Carter!" 
 
 Dead silence for an instant. Isabel was absolutely ap- 
 palled by her pun, which had been entirely unintentional. 
 But it was impossible for her to speak. 
 
 "Go to your room!" said Miss Carter; and she went, 
 heartbroken. 
 
 It was the end. Miss Pryor bade her write a note of 
 apology to Miss Carter for her impertinence. She 
 achieved a very stiff one. If only they — Miss Pryor and 
 Miss Carter — could understand! But it never occurred 
 to her to try to explain to them. Miss Carter did not love 
 her any more; Nelly, too, was cold to her, and she was 
 very fond indeed of Nelly. And she loved Miss Carter 
 still. 
 
XIV 
 
 In the spring came the Civil War. The girls were all 
 excited by it and talked incessantly about it, yet on the 
 whole it had very little effect on the life of the New Eng- 
 land school, where there were no southern girls. True, 
 Miss Pryor was deeply stirred. Every evening, before 
 the other reading, she read the newspapers to the girls 
 and made comments and explanations to which some of 
 them wished afterwards that they had listened more 
 attentively. Some of the girls talked of their brothers 
 and cousins who had gone to the war, and one or two of 
 them were daughters of officers of the regular army. 
 Isabel mourned because she had no one belonging to her 
 who could go, and thought seriously of inventing a cousin 
 or two. She played with the idea. What adventures she 
 could devise for them ! But there was Aunt Eliza, who 
 would inevitably hear of it. She reluctantly admitted the 
 impossibility of the scheme. 
 
 Since she could not send heroes to the war, she made 
 flag penwipers, mounted on penholders. With the other 
 girls she made flannel shirts for the soldiers and came 
 to grief over the buttonholes, which seemed too difficult 
 for mortal fingers. The whole school thrilled when one 
 of the young teachers went away hastily to be married to 
 her soldier lover; and thrilled still more when, a few 
 months later, the gallant young officer fell, mortally 
 wounded. 
 
 Isabel had extraordinarily vivid dreams in those days. 
 It took her some time to get over the feeling of acute 
 mortification which she experienced when, finding her- 
 self in a dream battle, she gave way to terror and, turning 
 to run away, was wounded in the back. She never forgot 
 
 79 
 
80 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the sensation of falling headlong on her face, and remem- 
 bered saying to herself: "Now I know what it is to bite 
 the dust." 
 
 At another time she found herself walking in the 
 funeral procession of freckle-faced Dick Maiden, whom 
 she had never seen since that memorable day when she 
 had gone home with Cassie. A Ptolemy paper which had 
 been sent to Aunt Eliza had mentioned that he had en- 
 tered West Point, but she knew nothing more about him. 
 
 For the rest, the girls learned their lessons, took their 
 walks, quarrelled or fell in love with each other, just as 
 usual. A war which lasted so long seemed a permanent 
 condition. Before it was over, Isabel was one of the 
 older girls. 
 
 Little by little, during these years, she changed her 
 point of view with regard to Aunt Eliza. The Miss Stir- 
 ling of the school seemed a different person from the 
 anxious housekeeper of the parsonage. She actually 
 seemed to grow younger ; in fact, Isabel learned that she 
 was not really as old as she had appeared to a child. It 
 also became evident to eyes which were being educated 
 that Aunt Eliza was handsome in a severe and classic 
 way. More important than all, she was kinder than she 
 had been in the old days; in fact, understanding the 
 young girl far better than she had understood the child. 
 
 Isabel could not at once get over her astonishment 
 when she found that her aunt did not take very seriously 
 a little dust on the furniture of their room, or a few bits 
 of paper falling out of "scrappy" and lying on the floor. 
 
 "You couldn't have stood that at home," she ventured 
 to say. 
 
 "In your father's house," replied Aunt Eliza, "it was 
 my duty to see that everything was in order. Here, it 
 isn't my duty. It is Jane's." 
 
 "And you didn't do all those things about the house 
 because you liked to ?" 
 
 "No, I don't like housekeeping." 
 
 "Poor Aunt Eliza!" exclaimed the girl, filled with a 
 new respect and sympathy for the slave to duty. 
 
Isabel Stirling; 81 
 
 Her life with her father was more and more becoming 
 a thing of the past. She had gone home for the first 
 summer vacation, and had hoped shyly that she might 
 find a baby there, or some prospect of one. But such a 
 thing was not in Lydia's scheme. Isabel did not enjoy 
 her visit and after that Aunt Eliza usually took her to the 
 quiet places where she was fond of spending her own 
 holidays. The adoption of her niece became actual, 
 though not formal. 
 
 At fifteen, that period when the development of a girl's 
 aesthetic and emotional nature inclines her to take kindly 
 to genuflections, physical and spiritual, Isabel's interest 
 in religion, which had for some time been dormant, was 
 reawakened. Margaret had left school and she had no 
 one to talk to, but she was thinking for herself. One 
 day she made a great effort. 
 
 "Aunt Eliza," she said, "I should like to be confirmed 
 in the Episcopal church." 
 
 Aunt Eliza looked at her in dismay. "It is impossible," 
 she replied curtly. Then she added more gently. "I am 
 very glad if you care to unite with the church, but of 
 course, it must be your father's church. He has written 
 me often about it, but I could not push you." 
 
 "But I don't like Father's church," said Isabel. "I 
 don't want to belong to it. I want to belong to the 
 Episcopal church." 
 
 "Your father never would permit it. And it would be 
 scandalous. He a Presbyterian minister, and you going 
 off to another church — and one that he disapproves of ! 
 When you think about it a little more you will see for 
 yourself what you ought to do." 
 
 Isabel set her lips. "No," she said. "I can't do what 
 you won't let me do — but I can't join Father's church." 
 
 Aunt Eliza was shocked and disappointed. That Isabel 
 should now, of her own accord, desire to be (as her aunt 
 expressed it) a Christian, would be intensely gratifying, 
 if only she did not want to go about it in such an im- 
 possible way. In her perplexity, she confided in Miss 
 Pryor and asked her to talk to Isabel. 
 
82 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Miss Pryor, the descendant of a line of Congregational 
 ministers, and herself little inclined to pomps and cere- 
 monies, had no particular sympathy with Episcopal ideas. 
 Narrowness of any sort was foreign to her, but she was 
 inclined to sympathize with the Presbyterian father, 
 whom she had never seen. In her generation children 
 walked in the same path as their parents. She talked 
 earnestly to Isabel, and could not at first understand why 
 the apparent unkindness of her proposed action should 
 leave the girl so unmoved. 
 
 "If you love your father you will not wish to hurt 
 him so," she said; and Isabel, fixing intent eyes on her, 
 said nothing. 
 
 "After all, Isabel," pursued Miss Pryor, "we all wor- 
 ship one God, whatever our form of worship may be." 
 
 "No, Miss Pryor," replied Isabel. "That— that is just 
 the trouble. It isn't the same God at all. Always — 
 since I was little — I have been told that I must love God 
 — and I don't love that one. I think I never shall. In 
 Father's church there's a God I don't love, and there's 
 Father who talks about Him. Nothing else. Honestly, I 
 can't do it. They talk at the Communion service in 
 Father's church about eating and drinking damnation. 
 That's what I should be doing. You and Aunt Eliza 
 have made me see that I can't belong to any other church. 
 I can't honestly belong to Father's — and, besides, I don't 
 want to." 
 
 Her voice was trembling. It had been hard work to 
 say so much. Miss Pryor took her hand and held it 
 closely. Evidently there had been mistakes made with 
 this child; and there had been unhappiness. Her heart 
 yearned over the girl. But it was a matter where one 
 must walk warily. 
 
 "I'm glad you are honest," she said. "That is the first 
 thing. Hold fast to your own integrity, my child. In 
 time you will see how little external matters count. And, 
 Isabel, even while you do not belong to any church, I hope 
 you will always be a good Christian." 
 
Isabel Stirling 83 
 
 "A Christian — without belonging to a church?" said 
 Isabel wonderingly. She had always heard the word 
 used in the narrowest way. 
 
 "Christ was before churches," said Miss Pryor. 
 
XV 
 
 Isabel is seventeen now. The war is over at last. And 
 school goes on as usual. 
 
 Isabel listens more understanding^ than of old when 
 Miss Pryor talks to the girls of a Saturday morning 
 after prayers, and hears things which she remembers all 
 her life. She is one of the older girls now, and feels with 
 pride that she is of those whom Miss Pryor especially 
 trusts. And she is the Beauty of the school. She is tall 
 and slender, and, thanks to Aunt Eliza's unceasing watch- 
 fulness, has a beautiful erect carriage. She holds her 
 head high on a perfectly formed, slim neck. She has well- 
 cut features and her coloring, neither dark nor blonde, is 
 delicately rich. Under golden brown hair and beautifully 
 penciled eyebrows her darkly fringed, deep gray eyes look 
 out with a singular intentness. It is perhaps that look 
 in her eyes which one remembers best of all. But in 
 addition, everything about her has a finished appearance, 
 in refreshing contrast to the blunt noses, unfinished ears 
 and indeterminate mouths and chins which one sees on 
 so many passably pretty girls. 
 
 She is aware of her beauty and glad of it, but is without 
 self-consciousness. In truth, her eager spirit has no time 
 for simper ings. She has her own group of friends, with 
 whom she studies, walks and talks. Among them, no 
 one quite takes the place of Margaret, but they are a gay, 
 clever, attractive group, unconsciously and without seri- 
 ousness exercising a stimulating effect on each other's 
 intellects. Their discussions are endless and they have 
 the most definite opinions on most of the great questions 
 of life. To her amusement and embarrassment Isabel 
 has worshipers among the younger girls. Offerings are 
 laid at her feet, adoring little fourteen-year-olds flush 
 
 84 
 
Isabel Stirling 85 
 
 when she speaks to them and are in the seventh heaven 
 when she graciously gives them a walking period now 
 and then. She has conquered her world. ' 
 
 Of men and boys she knows nothing. Her aunt's 
 vacations are spent in abodes of spinsterhood, uninvaded 
 by man, and schoolgirl flirtations with accidental youths 
 are an insult to her fine instincts as well as to the romance 
 with which her imagination teems. Of the ideal man she 
 has romantic notions, but feels for actual men a fine 
 virginal scorn, only surpassed by the contempt in which 
 she holds those schoolgirls who are always talking about 
 some "He." She seeks her triumphs in the field of in- 
 tellect and finds her satisfaction in classroom triumphs. 
 Suddenly she is fired by a new ambition. 
 
 It has happened one day that Miss Pryor, emerging 
 from her room, has seen Isabel sitting alone on the sofa 
 in the second hall and, after a glance at her, has gone 
 back and come out again with a small volume in her 
 hand. 
 
 "I wonder," said Miss Pryor, handing her. the book, 
 "whether you can turn any of these into English verse." 
 Then she went on downstairs, leaving Isabel breathless. 
 
 It was a book of Latin verse. She looked at it with 
 mingled pride and despair. Well she knew that she was 
 utterly incompetent for the task, but what joy to have 
 Miss Pryor imagine that she could do it ! She tried — and 
 tried in vain. The next day she essayed some verses of 
 her own. She read them fondly at first, but coldly the 
 next day. The third day she destroyed them. Next, she 
 decided to try prose; and what could one write in prose 
 but a love-story? It didn't in the least matter that she 
 knew nothing of love. Naturally, it was a war story ; a 
 girl who found her lover lying wounded in a hospital. 
 Here, at last, she could send someone to the war and give 
 him adventures. She wondered she had never thought 
 of it before. She wrote with burning cheeks and palpitat- 
 ing heart of the lovers' meeting; and now began secretly 
 to cherish shy dreams of a possible real lover — a Prince 
 Charming whom she would one day meet. 
 
86 Isabel Stirling 
 
 She wrote during every spare moment for a week ; then 
 made a careful copy, without any real revision. Reading 
 the story over critically, she decided that it was not good 
 enough for Harper's or the Atlantic, but that it might 
 do for Godey's Lady's Book; so to that magazine she sent 
 it, rolled up tightly. Whether Miss Pryor or any other 
 teacher inspected the addresses of the letters and parcels 
 put into the mail-box she did not know, but the girls were 
 forbidden to go to the post-office, so into the school box 
 she dropped it. If Miss Pryor noticed its going, or the 
 receipt of an answer, she made no sign, though she may 
 have felt some curiosity. But she trusted Isabel ; and her 
 respect for a girl's individuality was always carried far. 
 
 Weeks passed and expectation had grown dull when 
 Isabel received a notification that her story had been ac- 
 cepted. But there was no accompanying check, and she 
 had had golden visions of pecuniary returns. More weeks 
 passed and she wrote a note of inquiry, to which came 
 the reply that young writers were usually entirely satisfied 
 to see their contributions in print without being paid for 
 them. Irritated by a suspicion that the editor was taking 
 advantage of her inexperience, she ordered the manu- 
 script to be returned, to her subsequent lasting regret. For 
 the rest of her time at school she abandoned authorship. 
 
XVI 
 
 One wonders whether the girls of Isabel's generation 
 really differed as much from their daughters as one 
 fancies they did. Certainly they were too little addicted 
 to outdoor sports, yet it was not altogether to their dis- 
 advantage that they sometimes found it possible, even in 
 pleasant weather, to spend a holiday afternoon in reading 
 aloud. They were not being educated with the scientific 
 thoroughness which now prevails, and looked upon read- 
 ing as a treat, quite unconnected with a serious study of 
 Literature. They venerated intellect and talked any 
 amount of nonsense, much interlarded with quotations, 
 but what they sought was amusement, not Culture. At 
 present Dickens was in the ascendant as a quotable author. 
 Quite ignorant of life, and lacking in the admirable 
 aplomb which characterizes their descendants, they had a 
 million artless theories, which they discussed ardently, 
 saying, when worsted in an argument: "I would rather be 
 wrong than insolently right." 
 
 And yet, having lived through a four years' war — 
 impressionable years for them — they knew something of 
 suffering and heroism and devotion to an ideal. Added 
 to this, they were under the influence of a woman of 
 lofty standards, whose assumption that they were some- 
 what better than they knew themselves to be was a con- 
 stant stimulus. In spite of a fair amount of schoolgirl 
 silliness, their faces were turned to the heights, even 
 though an unwary foot might sometimes slip to a humili- 
 ating fall. 
 
 On a certain rainy Saturday afternoon in late Novem- 
 ber, Isabel was sitting with a pair of her chosen friends ; 
 "all compact and comfortable/' said Adelaide, and Helen 
 
 87 
 
88 Isabel Stirling 
 
 finished the quotation for her. The three were busy with 
 the crude "fancy-work" of that period. Adelaide, a 
 raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty, was embroidering a re- 
 markable sofa-cushion in worsted cross-stitch, Helen was 
 crocheting a headgear known as a mariposa, but which 
 certainly bore no resemblance to a butterfly, and Isabel, 
 who impartially hated all manner of handiwork, fancy or 
 other, was drawing to the end of the immense under- 
 taking of a large shawl, knitted of crimson wool in an 
 intricate stitch. She had begun it in October, as a Christ- 
 mas present for Aunt Eliza and had toiled faithfully in 
 all her leisure time, ripping out to rectify mistakes and 
 painfully reknitting, until at last it was a creditably well- 
 made piece of work. 
 
 "Almost done !" she sighed, as she began a fresh row. 
 
 "Poor Isabel!" said Helen laughing. "Aunt Eliza 
 ought to appreciate that shawl." 
 
 "I wish you had something to read aloud to us," said 
 Isabel, her eyes glued to her work. "I can always do a 
 lot while Miss Pryor is reading. When I don't talk I can 
 count these horrid little threes and listen too." 
 
 Helen held her work off at arm's length and gazed at 
 it out of dreamy blue eyes. "I think I'll put the blue in 
 now," she said. "And oh, girls, don't you like to have 
 Miss Pryor tell us what she thinks about a book? It 
 makes you see things. I can see now how George Eliot 
 never gets away from the idea of Nemesis. According 
 to her, every least little thing that you do wrong you have 
 to pay for in full." 
 
 "What about the wicked flourishing like a green bay 
 tree?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "Well," returned Helen, "I suppose they pay sometime. 
 Only George Eliot would make you pay now — without 
 letting you off hereafter." 
 
 "If only there weren't any rules," said Adelaide re- 
 flectively. 
 
 "Then you'd have your own," retorted Isabel. "And 
 they'd very likely be a lot harder to keep. There are 
 
Isabel Stirling 89 
 
 advantages in being a Roman Catholic. Confession and 
 absolution — and you begin all over again." 
 
 This remark met with disapproval, ultra-protestantism 
 being the order of that day. 
 
 "And your father a Presbyterian minister !" cried 
 Helen reproachfully. 
 
 Isabel smiled, and having knitted to the end of her 
 needle, held her work up to survey it to advantage. "I 
 wouldn't knit another for anything in the world," she 
 said wearily. 
 
 There was a horrid cracking sound and a chorus of 
 dismay from the girls. Under the weight of the heavy 
 fabric the wooden needle had broken in two. 
 
 "Quick! Let me take the stitches off for you on the 
 other needle," said Helen, and the work was confided to 
 her skilful hands. 
 
 "I meant to finish it to-night," Isabel said disgustedly. 
 Then she jumped up from her chair. "I'll ask Miss 
 Pryor to let me go to Bowles's for another pair of 
 needles. I got these there." 
 
 "It's almost dark. Hurry, or she won't let you." 
 
 Isabel raced downstairs to Miss Pryor's room and 
 made her request. Miss Pryor glanced out of the 
 window at the darkening sky and the steady rain. 
 
 "No," she said. "It is too late. You must wait until 
 Monday." 
 
 No one ever ventured to reiterate a request. Isabel 
 went away outwardly respectful and inwardly rebellious. 
 She had vowed to finish the shawl that evening. It was 
 perfectly unreasonable to refuse. When the lust of fin- 
 ishing got hold of her she was not to be thwarted. In the 
 heat of indignation she went to her room for her purse, 
 and then downstairs. In the storm-porch there were 
 sure to be a few waterproof cloaks and umbrellas, left 
 there to dry. She helped herself, pulled the hood of the 
 cloak over her head, and ran all the way to Bowles's 
 store. It was not far, and she met no one on the way. 
 Bowles sold her the needles and she ran back, her heart 
 beating fast. When she came in, a maid was lighting the 
 
90 Isabel Stirling 
 
 lamps downstairs, a couple of girls sitting on the hall 
 sofa glanced at her carelessly, and she walked quietly 
 to her room and put the knitting needles in a drawer. 
 
 There was no reading aloud on Saturday evening, so 
 she took her work up into the Third Hall and sat there 
 alone, finishing her shawl. The other girls were down- 
 stairs dancing. Bound by that old promise to her father, 
 Isabel could not dance, and longed for it so much that 
 she hated to look on, so they were accustomed to her 
 absence. While she worked, reflection set in and when, 
 her task finished, she went down to prayers, she was more 
 acutely unhappy than she had ever been since she came, 
 a child of twelve, to the school. She was overwhelmed 
 by the enormity of her sin. Miss Pryor had always 
 trusted her, and she had failed to live up to the trust. 
 
 During the restless hours of a wakeful night she sought 
 for some way of atonexnent. At last she resolved to go 
 to Miss Pryor in the morning and make confession and 
 ask forgiveness. It would be hard, and very likely in the 
 future, instead of Miss Pryor's overestimate, she would 
 have to be content to be rated at even less than her 
 deserts. But she would regain her self-respect, and that 
 was what mattered most. On that she was falling asleep, 
 when a sudden question struck her and she sat up in bed. 
 Did her self-respect matter more than anything else? 
 
 For she remembered the time, last year, when in one 
 of her Saturday morning talks, Miss Pryor had told them 
 of a letter she had received from a former pupil, one of 
 those, she told them, whom she had trusted most. The 
 letter contained a confession of sins of disloyalty and 
 deception, committed while the writer was at school. She 
 could not, she declared, rest any longer with them on her 
 conscience, so she had relieved her mind, at the cost, as 
 it turned out, of the peace of mind of the revered teacher. 
 For Miss Pryor was evidently greatly distressed by the 
 revelation. It made her feel, she told her girls, that she 
 hardly knew whom she could trust; and she ended her 
 brief talk on honor and loyalty with a pathetic — "I wish 
 she had not told me." 
 
Isabel Stirling 91 
 
 "I was bad enough when I did the thing," said Isabel 
 to herself, "but I'd be worse if I went and told Miss 
 Pryor." 
 
 However, expiation in some form there must be, and 
 she spent the rest of the night, first in devising it and 
 then in rebelling at her own device. Pale-cheeked and 
 heavy-eyed, she went to breakfast in the morning. Aunt 
 Eliza was worried and Miss Pryor, who always noticed 
 a girl's looks, was solicitous. Confessing to a perfectly 
 genuine headache, Isabel was excused from church and 
 advised to lie down. She longed to bury her aching head 
 in the pillows, but first she had work to do. 
 
 From the window she watched the girls and teachers 
 on their way to church and then locked the door and took 
 the precious shawl from its hiding-place. She sat down 
 with it in her lap. How pretty was its gay warm crim- 
 son ; just the color to suit Aunt Eliza. And how well she 
 had done it — she who was so stupid at such work. She 
 buried her face in its softness for a moment and then, 
 picking out the thread at the spot where she had fastened 
 it, she raveled it all out, methodically winding the wool 
 in balls. This was her punishment ; this, and the weari- 
 some reknitting. 
 
XVII 
 
 It had seemed to Isabel that schooldays were to go on 
 indefinitely, but on her eighteenth birthday she began to 
 look ahead a little anxiously. Many girls left school at 
 eighteen, and she could hardly expect to stay there longer 
 than another year. Aunt Eliza, more anxious than she, 
 offered suggestions of teaching, a hope of a little place in 
 the school, if Miss Pryor would permit, so that they could 
 stay together. Isabel said impatiently that she didn't 
 want to teach; she wanted to live! Aunt Eliza sighed, 
 said she would think about it, and secretly wondered 
 whether she could afford a year abroad. There the matter 
 rested for the time, and before it could be seriously taken 
 up again a great change came. 
 
 The day before school broke up for the summer Aunt 
 Eliza was taken ill. Their trunks were packed, but she 
 was unable to go. She said she would be able to leave 
 in a day or two, but she did not get better. Isabel, 
 assisted by the housekeeper, took care of her. Every- 
 thing seemed strange and unreal in the big empty house, 
 which had always been so full. Miss Pryor was very 
 kind, taking her to drive when she could be spared and 
 visiting the invalid many times a day. 
 
 Aunt Eliza did not get better. In a day or two Miss 
 Pryor sent to the neighboring city for another doctor and 
 at the end of the week William Stirling was summoned. 
 Before he came, Aunt Eliza had a talk with Isabel. 
 
 "I am going to die," she said, "and I'm sorry. These 
 last years have been my best ones. Always remember 
 that you have made them so." 
 
 Isabel tried to speak, but before she could find her 
 voice her aunt went on: 
 
 "I have always saved something, and my investments 
 have been safe. I have left everything to you — in trust, 
 
Isabel Stirling 93 
 
 until you are older. It's safer. John Brenton will look 
 out for it. There will be about six hundred a year." 
 
 Again Isabel tried to speak. 
 
 "Don't interrupt me!" said Aunt Eliza with some 
 asperity. It was not altogether easy to talk. "I always 
 keep some money on hand, and I've just been paid. Yes- 
 terday I got Miss Pryor to draw out a good sum. There's 
 enough left there for expenses, and I want you to have 
 this." 
 
 She put her hand under the pillow and drew out an 
 envelope. "I'm very tired," she murmured, as if to 
 herself. She lay with her eyes closed for a moment, 
 collecting her strength. Then she opened them again and 
 looked up at Isabel. "There's nothing," she said feebly, 
 "that is quite so comforting as to have money in your 
 pocket. Don't spend this till you have to. Don't tell 
 anyone you have it. Promise me!" She waited, her 
 eyes holding Isabel's. 
 
 "Of course, I promise," said Isabel, holding back her 
 sobs. 
 
 Aunt Eliza closed her eyes again. "I hope William will 
 let you come back here," she murmured. "I'll ask him." 
 
 Once more she opened her eyes. "I suppose I ought to 
 say other things," she said. "But I know you'll be a good 
 girl. As to religion — I don't know much." A smile 
 flickered across her face. "I'm going to find out." 
 
 When William Stirling came she was beyond speech. 
 
 The strange day of preparation for the journey home 
 was mostly spent by Isabel in Miss Pryor's room, sur- 
 rounded by the tenderest care. She divined instinctively 
 that Miss Pryor was herself overwhelmed by the mystery 
 of death and she wondered at it, for she had been used 
 to such certainty of tone among religious people, but it 
 seemed to bring them nearer together than anything else 
 could have done. Miss Pryor was deeply religious, but 
 it seemed that she had to brace herself strongly against 
 the bulwark of faith to confront the unknowableness of 
 what existed on the other side of the wall. 
 
 To Isabel, herself, the horror of death was its awful 
 
94 Isabel Stirling 
 
 finality; its relentlessness, which allows no second chance 
 to show one's love. Her conscience reproached her with 
 sins of thoughtlessness and indifference. In the night 
 her mind went back over every incident of those days of 
 her aunt's illness, every minutest detail of the final scene. 
 And her flesh shuddered. Instead of being dulled by grief 
 and shock, her perceptions seemed sharpened, her brain 
 more alive than ever before. When alone with Miss 
 Pryor, instead of weeping, she talked — talked endlessly 
 and with an extraordinary keenness of thought and com- 
 mand of language. Miss Pryor, guarding and listening, 
 understood the girl as she had never done before. But 
 with her father, Isabel was silent. 
 
 William Stirling conducted himself with admirable 
 dignity and self-control; listened to all that Miss Pryor 
 had to tell him, and thanked her for her care of his sister 
 and his daughter. Only when, in her yearning over the 
 girl, she said she hoped he would let her have Isabel back 
 again, he declined to commit himself. And then, the 
 necessary delays over, the good-byes said, he and Isabel 
 went to bury Aunt Eliza beside Grandma. 
 
PART TWO 
 
 XVIII 
 
 It was to a greatly changed village that Isabel came 
 back. Not only had Ptolemy lived through the Civil War, 
 with its suffering and loss and its compensating enlarge- 
 ment of mind ; it had found within its borders a public- 
 spirited benefactor who had, by his latest enterprise, put 
 it in touch with the world. 
 
 A plain man, Simeon Far r ell by name, an inventor 
 and an idealist, had had a vision of bringing education 
 within reach of the poor man and adapting it to the 
 needs of the plain workingman. And he had decreed that 
 his university should belong to no church or sect. So 
 the sectarians called it a "godless" institution, the heads 
 of older universities scoffed at its methods, and the cul- 
 tivated world in general asked derisively, "Can one take 
 Farrell University seriously ?" The future was to prove 
 them wrong. 
 
 Meantime, little cared the Ptolemites for these attacks. 
 It was an exciting experience to have a university with 
 a number of professors and several hundred students 
 dropped down on the village, as it were, out of the blue. 
 For they had not troubled themselves very much over 
 the preliminaries, scarcely knew, indeed, of the difficulties 
 over the land-grant and the struggle to wring the charter 
 from an unfriendly legislature. The community only 
 woke up when the date of the Opening was actually fixed. 
 On that gala day they flocked to hear the speeches and 
 gaze at the distinguished personages. They filled the hall 
 in the morning and footed it up the hill to the Campus 
 
 95 
 
96 Isabel Stirling 
 
 in the afternoon — a campus which was as yet little more 
 than a corn-field. In the evening they attended the 
 reception in the same hall which had witnessed the cere- 
 monies of the morning. The benches had been removed 
 and the floor swept and the company paraded solemnly 
 around in an unbroken procession, talking of the day's 
 doings and vastly occupied with the celebrities who were 
 present. 
 
 To most of the people the college professor was an 
 unknown species and regarded with deep respect. In 
 addition to his preeminence in learning he was expected 
 — heaven save the mark! — to set a smarter pace in cus- 
 toms and manners. As was to be anticipated, the greatest 
 excitement was among the women. They realized sud- 
 denly that life had been very dull hitherto. Now there 
 would be new people to know, lectures to attend, "culture" 
 to be had for the asking ; and, for the girls, beaux enough 
 to go around. 
 
 The ministers of some of the churches were so far 
 infected with the excitement that they got into the way 
 of preaching sermons abounding in classical quotations 
 and scientific allusions. Not so the Reverend William 
 Stirling. He had from the first been one of the bitterest 
 opponents of the "godless" university, and had done what 
 in him lay, both in public and private, to prevent its 
 existence. People still talked about the sermon which 
 he had preached from the text, "He will not be slack 
 to him that hateth Him, He will repay him to his face" ; 
 in which they thought they could detect personal allusions, 
 though in that they were mistaken, at least so far as the 
 intent went. 
 
 William Stirling had by this time been made a Doctor 
 of Divinity, while his next-door neighboor had been ele- 
 vated to the bench. Judge Gifford was a trustee of the 
 university, and his son Edmund, who was soon to return 
 from two years of European study and travel, had been 
 appointed an assistant professor; a combination of cir- 
 cumstances which proved such a serious strain on the 
 neighborly friendliness which had for many years sub- 
 
Isabel Stirling 97 
 
 sisted between Judge Gifford and his pastor that the 
 former was threatening to go to another church, and 
 was only lingering from force of inertia — a force which 
 mostly kept him at home of a Sunday. 
 
 Surprisingly enough, another charter member of the 
 board of trustees was Dr. Stirling's old enemy, Peter 
 Maiden, formerly of Maiden's tavern. Some years 
 earlier Peter had gone prospecting in the oil fields of 
 Pennsylvania and had "struck oil," so that he came home 
 a rich man. On his return he sold his tavern, bought the 
 old Lansing house, which happened just then to be in the 
 market, and took a pew in the Episcopal church. There 
 he was to be seen every Sunday, clothed in broadcloth 
 and fine linen, with his daughter Cassie (except during 
 the time when she was away at the city boarding-school 
 to which he sent her), and his sister-in-law, the "Aunt 
 Mary" of Isabel's childish recollection. As for his son 
 Dick, the freckled boy of whom Isabel had had a brief 
 glimpse, he had graduated from West Point and was 
 stationed in the Far West. His father and Cassie were 
 very proud of Dick. 
 
 As Mr. Maiden proved himself a generous giver both 
 in the church and out of it, his name was soon in demand 
 to head subscription lists; and as he was an enthusiastic 
 supporter of the dominant political party, it was not long 
 before he was sent to the State legislature, where he did 
 yeoman's service in helping to get the charter for the 
 university. 
 
 Now that, after Dr. Stirling's unsuccessful opposition, 
 the university was actually started and going on under his 
 very nose, he held aloof from it in every way, much to his 
 wife's regret. Indeed, Lydia was half-inclined to wonder 
 whether she had not been a little hasty in yielding to 
 William's wooing. Life seemed to offer more now than 
 it had done at that time. However, the tpo frequent 
 recurrence of her birthday and the recollection of six 
 years of married importance went far to reconcile her 
 to being a little out of things now; that, and the firm 
 determination to be well in the centre of affairs within a 
 
98 Isabel Stirling 
 
 reasonable space of time. Meantime, her sister-in-law's 
 death, just before the first Commencement, would, in 
 any case, have prevented her from participating in the 
 festivities of the occasion. In her pious way, Lydia 
 thought that the Lord had timed things very well. 
 
XIX 
 
 At eighteen, one does not forget, but one rebounds. 
 Isabel still grieved and still regretted, but sooner than 
 she would have believed possible, she found herself thrill- 
 ing with the excitement of a new adventure. For to be 
 "out of school' ' and "a young lady" mattered so im- 
 mensely. One felt quite justified in considering oneself, 
 for the time being, the centre of one's universe. She 
 fancied that life in the parsonage would now be to her 
 an altogether different affair from what it had ever been 
 before. To her thinking, her footing in the family would 
 be that of an equal — ready, of course, to treat her elders 
 with respect, but no longer in a state of tutelage. The 
 knowledge of her financial independence added no little 
 to this feeling, and from the bottom of her heart she 
 thanked Aunt Eliza for it. 
 
 Added to all this was still another interest. For, in 
 the tenderness of her grief and the poignancy of her 
 regret over affectionate and dutiful deeds left undone, 
 she had made many good resolutions, chief among them 
 being the determination to win her father's affection. 
 Not that she knew exactly how to go about it, her father 
 being singularly unresponsive to affectionate advances, 
 but surely she, who without an effort had won school- 
 mates and teachers, was not going to fail with her own 
 father. For a time it was interesting to make the effort. 
 
 As a matter of fact, however, William Stirling was 
 even more unapproachable than in her childhood. Of 
 late years he had found in certain intellectual pursuits 
 a refuge from disappointment in the results of his minis- 
 terial work and from a growing weariness of Lydia's 
 conversation. He was devoting himself to those studies 
 with ever-increasing absorption. He found in the work 
 
 99 
 
ioo Isabel Stirling 
 
 of a student a satisfaction of mind and an assuagement 
 of spirit which nothing else yielded him; and his only 
 regret was that he had begun his scholarly activities so 
 late. While conscientiously endeavoring to leave noth- 
 ing of his pastoral duty undone, he was striving to make 
 up for lost time, rising early and going to bed late. Lydia 
 complained that she saw nothing of him any more. 
 
 Lydia had greeted Isabel with an impressive tenderness 
 which conceded her claim to consideration as a bereaved 
 person; a tenderness which was even more pronounced 
 when the terms of Aunt Eliza's will and the amount of 
 her property became known. For the stepmother had had 
 her own anxieties regarding the advent of a grown-up 
 daughter to claim a share in an income which was now 
 pleasantly apportioned to the needs of two persons and 
 to the charities which, as she knew, William would not 
 allow to be curtailed. With Isabel so well taken care 
 of, Lydia addressed herself to the delightful task of 
 arranging the young girl's wardrobe ; for next to the joy 
 of choosing her own clothes came the pleasure of per- 
 forming the like service for another person — always, be 
 it understood, with that other person's money. And 
 Isabel, who in matters of dress, had great respect for 
 her stepmother, gladly accepted her assistance and, over 
 the details of a simple mourning outfit, was drawn into 
 a fairly cordial relation with her. Meantime, Lydia 
 began to find that the title of "Mother" was not quite 
 to her taste. 
 
 "It does seem ridiculous, doesn't it," she said one day, 
 "for me to pose as having a grown-up daughter. Why, 
 you are more like my dear little sister. Suppose you call 
 me Lydia, dear. Wouldn't you like that?" 
 
 Isabel, who was the taller by several inches, looked 
 down at her out of her intent eyes. In spite of their 
 present amiable relations, her stepmother struck her anew 
 as a very absurd person. But the idea wasn't a bad one. 
 "Yes, I believe I would," she said. 
 
 "Jhat's right," said Lydia, holding on to the note of 
 vivacity, although inexplicably disconcerted by Isabel's 
 
Isabel Stirling iol 
 
 candid gaze. "We'll be just the dearest friends and.ypu!ll 
 tell me all your little secrets." 
 
 Isabel smiled. "But I haven't any." 
 
 "Not yet, not yet," returned Lydia archly. "But the 
 time will come — and I'll always be ready to hear them." 
 
 While awaiting the period of interesting confidences, 
 Lydia encouraged the girl in such diversions as she 
 deemed that her mourning would permit. All the friends 
 of her childhood came to see her. Young girls filled the 
 parsonage parlor or sat on the porch, chattering their 
 nonsense. Young men were scarce in the summer vaca- 
 tion, but sometimes one or another came, brought by 
 the girls. Isabel did not get on particularly well with 
 them. She had very little of the coquette in her com- 
 position and she had had no training in the social 
 amenities. She found the boys uninteresting and wasted 
 no pains on them. And yet, in the depths of her heart, 
 she was longing for romance. 
 
 As of old, Jessie was the friend of her heart; Jessie, 
 with her lovely big brown eyes and her perfectly reliable 
 sympathy. Jessie was calm, a bit lazy perhaps, but she 
 was always ready for you when you wanted her and she 
 always understood. The Giffords' house became, as in 
 the old days, a home to Isabel, a place where she was 
 petted to her heart's content and where she could always 
 be quite herself. 
 
 It was at the Giffords' that she first heard Cassie 
 Maiden mentioned. The name at once aroused her to 
 the liveliest interest. She had never forgotten the esca- 
 pade of her childhood ; and the big room full of toys, with 
 the cat lying in the sun, seemed to her like a far-off, 
 enchanted place. In the reticent atmosphere of the par- 
 sonage she had never, as a child, heard of her father's 
 long warfare with Peter Maiden of the tavern, nor had 
 she yet learned of his stern disapproval of Peter Maiden, 
 capitalist and philanthropist. Jessie, however, was very 
 conscious of these things. 
 
 "Why — haven't you heard of her?" she asked, in reply 
 to Isabel's eager questions. "They lived over on South 
 
102 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Hil! unt'i! Mr. Maiden 'struck oil' and made his fortune. 
 Now they have bought the old Lansing house and fixed 
 it up. Cassie was at boarding school in New York 
 until lately/' 
 
 "Has she got an Aunt Mary ?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "Yes, her Aunt Mary brought her up." 
 
 Isabel's cheeks were pink with excitement. "Oh, I'd 
 so love to see Aunt Mary again !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "But how — " began Jessie, and stopped. 
 
 Judge Gifford laid down his paper and looked inter- 
 ested, and Mrs. Gifford made no feint of concealing her 
 curiosity. 
 
 Isabel laughed. "I never told you half the naughty 
 things I did when I was little, Jessie," she said ; and went 
 on to describe the escapade. "I'd just love to see Cassie 
 and Aunt Mary," she finished. 
 
 Judge Gifford and his wife exchanged glances. It 
 was not likely that Dr. Stirling's daughter would be 
 allowed to see much of the Maidens. However, she was 
 bound to meet them, sooner or later, and it was at the 
 Giffords' house that it happened; and she and Cassie 
 took to each other at once, just as they had done a dozen 
 years before. 
 
 Cassie was not handsome, in spite of the fact that she 
 wore beautiful clothes and knew how to put them on, but 
 her broad merry face was irresistibly attractive. Although 
 her admission to Ptolemy society was due in the first 
 instance to her father's newly acquired position as a 
 man of wealth and public spirit, her popularity was her 
 own affair. In addition, she had gained in her city school 
 more knowledge of the world and more finish of manner 
 than most of the Ptolemy girls could boast. 
 
 "Do come to see me," said Isabel at parting. "You 
 know I paid the last visit — and what a good time I did 
 have! I want so much to see your Aunt Mary." 
 
 Cassie smiled, wondering whether Isabel really didn't 
 know what an unwelcome guest any Maiden would be 
 at the parsonage. "Aunt Mary is going to be married 
 pretty soon," she said. 
 
Isabel Stirling 103 
 
 "Married ?" Isabel always felt surprised when she 
 heard of middle-aged people marrying. 
 
 "Yes. She would have been married years ago if it 
 hadn't been for us. She never told anyone a word about 
 it, but just stayed and took care of us. But he waited 
 for her." Cassie's blue eyes softened as she spoke. They 
 were nice, frank, honest blue eyes. 
 
 "How lovely !" cried Isabel. "I'd know she'd do that. 
 I want to see her more than ever." 
 
 "She'd love to see you," returned Cassie. And there 
 the affair rested for a time. 
 
 Meanwhile, Isabel didn't mention the matter when 
 she got home, partly because of the unpleasant associa- 
 tions of that childish visit, partly because she instinctively 
 felt that the atmosphere of the parsonage would not, even 
 now, be favorable to the Maidens. 
 
XX 
 
 August had come, with its hot, shortening days. The 
 early roses were past, but Grandma's garden was gay 
 with geraniums and verbenas, and sweet with mignonette 
 and heliotrope. Encouraged by Lydia, Isabel went out 
 of a morning and cut flowers to fill the vases, that being 
 the eminently proper task of the young lady of the house. 
 The little gate was much in requisition in these days. 
 From the attic Isabel brought some discarded chairs and 
 a settee and in the old spot of their childish play arranged 
 a retreat sacred to herself and Jessie. Lydia never dis- 
 turbed them there. The rickety steps did not invite her 
 clean muslin gowns and high-heeled slippers, and the out- 
 of-door light was merciless to her complexion. 
 
 The two girls talked endlessly. Each had to relate the 
 experiences of the years of separation ; and, since such is 
 the way of girls, they reverted from time to time to the 
 everlasting theme. To the present generation their ideas 
 would seem incredibly unsophisticated, not to say prig- 
 gish. Isabel now discoursed as gravely and as innocently 
 of possible love and marriage as she had formerly ex- 
 patiated on predestination and infant baptism. She and 
 Jessie were quite agreed as to the sinfulness of mere 
 flirtation, though differing somewhat as to the possibility 
 of controlling all situations. 
 
 "A girl ought never to let a man propose unless she 
 is going to accept him," pronounced Isabel from the 
 depths of her inexperience. "It is always possible to 
 avoid it." 
 
 "I don't know," objected Jessie, with a recollection of 
 a surprisingly sudden avowal to which she had been 
 obliged to listen only a couple of months before. "I 
 
 104 
 
Isabel Stirling 105 
 
 don't think a girl can always help it." She sighed, for 
 in her heart there had been some regret for a too hasty 
 dismissal of young Ralph Everett. Then she laughed. 
 "Lily Brainard says it's good for them to speak out and 
 get it off their minds. And before she goes down to 
 the parlor to see her visitors she always puts cologne on 
 her hands, for she says there's no knowing when they'll 
 grab a hand and kiss it." 
 
 "Oh, Lily Brainard! She's common, don't you think? 
 But I must say, when I used to sit next her at the 
 Academy, I'd never have thought she could grow up so 
 pretty." 
 
 "I think she's pretty because she's so determined to 
 be. She brushes that pale hair of hers until she has made 
 it shine, and she is as white as milk because she never 
 goes out in the sun or wind without being all swathed 
 up. And she dresses beautifully." 
 
 "Even Lydia admires the way she dresses," said Isabel. 
 "And she's critical. But Cassie Maiden dresses just as 
 well and is so much nicer. Jessie, why do you suppose 
 she doesn't come to see me?" 
 
 It was a question which was troubling Isabel and she 
 was inclined to be a little hurt as days passed into weeks 
 and still Cassie did not come. And then one day there 
 came a note, inviting her to a picnic. That was the way 
 in which Cassie had decided to cut the knot. 
 
 Isabel, knowing of no reason for declining the invita- 
 tion, wrote a prompt acceptance. That she should do 
 this on her own responsibility was in accordance with 
 her idea of a young lady, out of school. Moreover, in 
 the Ptolemy of those days, all the young people were 
 allowed a good deal of freedom. It was a consideration 
 of another sort which sent her to consult her stepmother 
 before sending her note. 
 
 "Do you think it would be too soon?" she asked 
 wistfully. 
 
 Lydia gave her a keen glance. Could it be possible 
 that the girl knew of no other reason than her mourning 
 for refusing? However, so much the better. Now that 
 
106 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the Maidens had become important people Lydia found 
 the old feud very tiresome. 
 
 "I don't think Aunt Eliza would have wanted you to 
 give up all pleasures on her account," she said sweetly. 
 "You have accepted it already, haven't you?" She was 
 not unaware of the note in Isabel's hand, but chose not 
 to know that it was still unsent. Thus would she save 
 her credit if William should find out. 
 
 William, however, remained in ignorance, for Isabel 
 found no encouragement to talk to him of her doings 
 and, by good luck, Cassie called for her at an hour when 
 he was out making parochial visits. 
 
 Isabel little suspected the trepidation with which her 
 friend drove up to the parsonage. For Cassie did not 
 think it probable that Dr. Stirling knew of the expedi- 
 tion. It was not in keeping with what the Maidens knew 
 of him that he should accept an olive branch. Peter 
 Maiden had consented cheerfully when she asked him if 
 she might invite the parson's daughter. 
 
 "But she won't come," he said, "unless she does it on 
 the sly. Are you going to pick her up at the Giffbrds'?" 
 
 "I'm not going to do anything on the sly," said Cassie. 
 "If she says she'll come, I'm going right up to the door 
 to get her. I can only hope that her father won't come 
 out and make it unpleasant." 
 
 So up to the door she came, with a brave clatter of 
 horses' hoofs and jingle of smart harness. Lydia, con- 
 sidering discretion to be the better part for herself, kept 
 out of the way. She would have liked to go to the 
 door and show herself friendly, but William must be 
 considered. 
 
 And so Isabel, shy but ecstatic, found herself sitting 
 beside Lansing Fordyce on the middle seat of the 
 Maiden's three-seated "democrat." In front of her was 
 Aunt Mary, self-sacrificingly pairing off with the coach- 
 man, with whom however, she, from time to time, 
 indulged in friendly conversation. On the back seat was 
 Cassie, who had chosen for her companion Joe Glover, 
 one of the beaux of Ptolemy. 
 
Isabel Stirling I07 
 
 It was not altogether from generosity that Cassie put 
 Isabel beside Lansing Fordyce, the young man whose 
 acquaintance she had made while visiting a schoolmate 
 in New York, and who had now come, ostensibly to visit 
 his native village. He was stopping at the hotel, but 
 spent most of his time at her father's house, which had 
 once been his grandfather's. She thought he was inclined 
 to take his welcome too much for granted. 
 
 Fordyce was a descendant of the old Lansing family 
 of Ptolemy ; a family who had gone downhill financially, 
 while still thinking much of themselves socially. He was 
 trying to establish a law practice in New York and 
 intended to restore the family prestige in his own person. 
 He meant to climb and to climb high; and had visions 
 of the Supreme Bench. It was hinted among his friends 
 that he would not be averse to a rich marriage provided 
 he could find a wife who, while well-dowered, would be 
 pleasing. In point of fact, he had always held that a 
 man would climb better unhampered ; but he was tempted 
 by an alliance which indubitably would speed his way 
 up to the heights. Not only was Cassie well-dowered 
 and distinctly pleasing, but Peter Maiden, besides his 
 solid financial standing, happened to be in a position to 
 help an ambitious young lawyer along in his profession. 
 The affair seemed worth pursuing. 
 
 Fordyce had found himself fairly well amused by the 
 diversions of a country town as long as they were en- 
 livened by Cassie's running commentary and was feeling 
 more and more certain that a continuation of Cassie's 
 commentary would make a life with her more amusing 
 than a life lived alone. He was therefore annoyed with 
 her for putting him off with a bread-and-butter miss for 
 a long drive. He felt that he was going to be bored. 
 
 Isabel blushed beautifully when he helped her into the 
 wagon, but her response to the introduction had a certain 
 self-conscious awkwardness. She had moments of being 
 painfully aware of her lack of social experience. It was 
 Aunt Mary who put her at her ease — Aunt Mary, turning 
 around from the front seat to greet her. Isabel leaned 
 
108 Isabel Stirling 
 
 forward eagerly and, on the impulse of the moment, 
 kissed the soft cheek. 
 
 "I've never forgotten you!" she cried. 
 
 The older woman's face flushed with pleasure. "Nor 
 I you. You were a little darling." 
 
 Aunt Mary had a sweet face and childlike eyes, and 
 even Fordyce, who found her speech and accent a little 
 grude, had to admit that she was a dear. 
 
 Isabel leaned back, sighing with satisfaction at the 
 meeting; intensely conscious, too, of the young man beside 
 her. For was he not the outward and visible sign that 
 she had at last emerged from childhood? Did he not 
 represent Life, the World, all those things concerning 
 which she was so vividly interested. She recognized 
 instantly a difference between him and the boys of whom 
 she had been so scornful. When he had alighted from 
 the carriage and stood waiting for her as she came down 
 from the porch, she had taken in his whole appearance; 
 his height, his slenderness, his erect carriage and well- 
 fitting clothes, his thin face with its deep-set dark eyes, 
 his well-shaped mouth and aquiline nose and firm chin — 
 surely this was the stuff out of which a romantic hero 
 might be made. After some moments, during which 
 conversation had been difficult, she wished to reassure 
 herself on that point. Forgetting her embarrassment, 
 she raised her eyes to look at him with a grave, consider- 
 ing gaze, the naive scrutiny of a child. "Now what the 
 deuce does she mean by that?" said Fordyce to himself, 
 as he met her look. He was unused to such unsophis- 
 tication and also unused to just that kind of searching 
 regard. 
 
 Still irritated at Cassie, and feeling now a certain faint 
 curiosity and amusement, he undertook to draw Miss 
 Innocence out, stimulated, it might be, by such fugitive 
 glimpses of smiling lips and shining but mysterious eyes 
 as a broad-brimmed hat permitted him. The hat was 
 provocative. It had a tantalizing way of throwing into 
 sudden eclipse all but the tip of a pink ear, or the curve 
 of a softly rounded chia Under its shadow Isabel was 
 
Isabel Stirling 109 
 
 palpitating delightfully, although vexed at her inability 
 to converse worthily. Gone were the flashes of wit 
 which scintillated in the imaginary conversations of her 
 daydreams, for, as she was learning, real conversations 
 don't run along the lines of imaginary ones. She had 
 yet to learn that mere mortal man is well content to hear 
 his own voice while feasting his eyes on a beauty which 
 beams in more or less intelligent response to that voice. 
 From the back seat Cassie looked on at their absorption 
 with some humor. Cassie was very broad-minded for 
 a mere girl. . . . 
 
 Late that night Aunt Mary went into Cassie's room. 
 The girl was sitting up in bed reading. 
 
 "Why did you do it?" asked the aunt, sitting down 
 on the bed. 
 
 Cassie looked up from her book. "Do what?" 
 
 "Why, put Mr. Fordyce with Isabel and let them flirt 
 like that. Neither of them looked at another person the 
 whole time. And you know he came here on your 
 account." 
 
 Cassie laid the book down. "He has never said a 
 word of the sort, Aunt Mary. And suppose he did ? His 
 motives may have been mixed." 
 
 "Oh, Cassie!" 
 
 "Dear auntie ! Must I marry the first man who comes 
 along? I think Pappy needs me a little — especially now 
 that you are going to leave us. And I do assure you, it's 
 all right. My heart hasn't even got a crack in it. It's 
 as whole as ever." She put her arm around her aunt's 
 neck. "Go to bed, you old dear. You think we must 
 all be in love because you are. Oh, you dear!" She 
 drew Aunt Mary's face down to her own. "It was 
 wicked — wicked — for you to give up all your young years 
 to us — and never to let us know." 
 
 They kissed each other good-night and Aunt Mary left 
 the room, only half satisfied. "Whatever we do," sighed 
 Cassie to herself, "we cannot give her back those years." 
 And then — "I wonder whether I shall ever care for any- 
 body quite as much as Aunt Mary cares for her preacher." 
 
no Isabel Stirling 
 
 Then she picked up her book and tried to be interested 
 in it. 
 
 But Isabel, after the intoxicating experience of several 
 hours spent in the society of an agreeable man who 
 apparently had no eyes or ears but for her — unsophis- 
 ticated Isabel lay for hours with wide-open eyes and 
 burning cheeks. Life, it seemed, was beginning. Life, 
 and perhaps love. How she longed for that adventure ! 
 
XXI 
 
 Fordyce had been somewhat spoiled by women and did 
 not look for difficulties. Cassie's unexpected elusiveness, 
 so different from her former frank comradeship, annoyed 
 and even bored him. He still wished to marry her, but 
 permitted himself to diverge for the moment from the 
 path of his intention into a byway of amusement. Pres- 
 ently the amusement became absorbing. 
 
 Aside from the fact that Isabel was so extraordinarily 
 good to look at, she piqued his curiosity. Was she or 
 was she not as naive as she appeared? There were 
 moments when he thought her only a prudish child, 
 other moments when he thought her a coquette, as when, 
 afraid to meet his eyes, she showed him the beauty of her 
 dark lashes. If she had been stupid he would soon have 
 decided that the puzzle was not worth solving, but she 
 was far from stupid. And then the sheer beauty of her ! 
 It blossomed marvelously from day to day, almost from 
 hour to hour, before his eyes. Within three days he had 
 thrown caution behind him; before a week was over he 
 had effectively barred his way to any further wooing 
 of Cassie Maiden; by the end of a fortnight he found 
 that he must either run away from temptation or succumb 
 to it. 
 
 As for Isabel, she went headlong into the adventure. 
 Her code of honor would have forbidden her to play 
 with affections which were preempted, but she had heard 
 no gossip and had not a qualm. She took it all quite 
 seriously, believed it a case of love at first sight on both 
 sides and gloried in the romance of it. How wonderful 
 it was! She so romantically, delightfully young, and 
 already in love and beloved! How interesting life was 
 
 111 
 
H2 Isabel Stirling 
 
 — how absorbingly interesting was Isabel Stirling to 
 herself ! 
 
 And yet, unsophisticated as she was, she was saved 
 from self -betrayal by the deep instinct of reserve which 
 underlay her superficial frankness. Moreover, in her, 
 while the spirit was awake and alert, the senses were 
 still slumbering. She was enclosed in a prickly hedge 
 of dislike for physical contact; and the greater the com- 
 motion in her soul, the more quickly did she draw back 
 into maiden fastnesses. When Fordyce shook hands with 
 her, she withdrew her hand quickly. She did not like 
 him to come too near to her. Perhaps it was not strange 
 that he failed to see how complete was his conquest. 
 
 Of course Ptolemy talked. There was indeed, quite 
 a buzz of excitement over the affair and much surmise 
 as to how Dr. Stirling would take it if it should really 
 prove to be serious. Lydia, much pleased with Isabel's 
 conquest, as she termed it to herself, made the way of 
 the young people easy. It was only William Stirling 
 who remained unconscious. In fact, one evening he came 
 into the parlor and assumed that the young man's visit 
 was intended for himself. In vain Lydia manoeuvred 
 to get him out of the room. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the two men met in a friendly 
 way. Fordyce rather admired the redoubtable parson 
 as a fine specimen of a certain type ; for William Stirling, 
 when he chose to be friendly, was not without his attrac- 
 tion. On this occasion he did so choose. His mother and 
 the young man's grandmother had been friends in the 
 old days. He accepted the visit as an act of respect to 
 himself and found pleasure in a conversation which, 
 while safely neutral, refreshed a mind grown weary of 
 its groove. 
 
 "I admire your father extremely," said Fordyce to 
 Isabel next day. 
 
 He could not have pleased her better, for stitL as in 
 her childhood, her heart, always a little sore where her 
 father was concerned, took solace in the comfort offered 
 to her pride. 
 
Isabel Stirling 113 
 
 "I like so much to have you say that," she replied, 
 but there was a wistfulness in her smile which gave his 
 heart a curious twist. 
 
 She was sitting on the rustic bench under the apple- 
 tree, while he sat a little apart, on the lowest of the 
 shaky old steps. He got up and came and sat beside 
 her and her quick, unconscious movement to leave a 
 space between them was so characteristic that it amused 
 him. He smiled, looking down at her with the glance 
 which always made her heart beat quicker. 
 
 Neither of them spoke for a moment. Fordyce, after 
 some hours of reflection overnight, had made up his mind 
 to flee from temptation. He had forced himself to con- 
 sider his career, in which the minister's daughter could 
 hardly help him. He told himself that he must climb 
 unhampered, even if he had to climb unhelped. But he 
 was annoyed that it should cost him an effort to announce 
 his approaching departure. At last he said, in a casual 
 tone: 
 
 "My vacation is over. I have to go back to town 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Isabel made a startled exclamation. She flushed 
 and then paled. "Why, I thought — " she began, and 
 stopped. 
 
 "Yes, I hoped to stay another week, but business has 
 come up unexpectedly." 
 
 Isabel sighed, looked at the ground for a moment, 
 then lifted unclouded eyes to his. It was dreadfully sad 
 to nave him go, but he would be coming back. She never 
 dreamed of distrusting him, and that he had as yet said 
 no actual word of love did not make the least difference. 
 She pulled herself together courageously. 
 
 "Well, it isn't to-day," she said, with a little laugh. 
 
 Fordyce was at once relieved and piqued. Certainly, 
 he didn't want her to care too much, yet she might have 
 cared a little — since he was finding it so hard to leave 
 her. However, as it seemed that he had only himself 
 to reckon with, he could enjoy his last day with a clear 
 conscience. 
 
114 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "I'm sorry about that camp-meeting expedition to- 
 night/' he said abruptly. "Rather a bore, I'm afraid." 
 
 But in her own mind Isabel thought it would be a 
 better way of spending the evening than to stay in the 
 parlor at home, with Father coming in and taking the 
 visit to himself — glad as she was to have him appreciated. 
 It was an excursion which had been arranged some days 
 before. They were all to have an early tea at the 
 Giffords', to allow time for the ten-mile drive, and 
 Isabel was to return there for the night. And there 
 would be the long evening in each other's company. No 
 one thought, by this time, of any other arrangement of 
 a party. Oh, there were hours and hours yet — and who 
 could tell? She quaked deliciously, and was willing to 
 put off the superlative moment, never doubting that it 
 would come. 
 
XXII 
 
 It was still daylight when they started on their drive, 
 Fordyce and Isabel side by side on the back seat of the 
 surrey which followed the Maldens's democrat, but it was 
 quite dark when they arrived at their destination. Guided 
 by the fitful light of fires and torches, the laughing, 
 chattering party threaded their way through the trees 
 and past rows of slightly built shanties which had been 
 put up for the accommodation of those persons who were 
 spending the week on the camp-meeting ground. Pres- 
 ently the fires flamed more brightly and they lowered 
 their voices as they came to the edge of the cleared space 
 set apart for the services ; a space filled with long wooden 
 benches and dominated by a high, roughly constructed 
 platform of planks, lighted by blazing torches set at the 
 four corners. i 
 
 By daylight there could have been little that was im- 
 pressive in the scene, but with the coming on of darkness 
 all was changed. Set at intervals among the trees and 
 forming a cordon around the assemblage of worshipers, 
 were large, altar-like tables made of slabs of slate brought 
 from the neighboring quarry and supported on pedestals 
 of irregularly piled stones. On these altars the huge, 
 fantastically twisted roots of giant trees were blazing, 
 thrusting out from the flames tortured, protesting and 
 strangely distorted limbs. Above them the thick foliage 
 of the trees showed strangely white in the bright light. 
 These uncanny fires gave an indescribable wildness to 
 the scene. The stage seemed set for a heathen orgy, 
 rather than for a scene of Christian worship. Overhead, 
 the moon shone fitfully through scurrying clouds, while 
 
 115 
 
n6 Isabel Stirling 
 
 beyond, the wavering firelight gave glimpses of mysteri- 
 ous depths of forest — a forest whose narrow boundaries 
 could not be discerned in the obscurity. 
 
 Within the circle of fire sat the large congregation, 
 row on row, on the hard wooden benches, and on the 
 high platform facing them sat the ministers, visible in 
 the light of the torches. 
 
 Isabel and Fordyce hung back for a moment and were 
 at once separated from their companions. 
 
 "This is tremendous !" exclaimed Fordyce in a low 
 tone. "I didn't suppose they had such a sense of the 
 picturesque — or have they hit it by a happy accident ?" 
 
 He drew her hand in his arm as they advanced a step 
 or two. "The ground is uneven," he said. "Better let 
 me help you. ,, 
 
 "Wait !" she said, drawing her hand away. 
 
 The service had begun and the audience was just rising 
 for the singing of a hymn. In a moment the old, familiar 
 "Rock of Ages" rose in a great volume of sound which 
 stirred the pulses. Isabel and Fordyce stood motionless 
 until the singing had ceased. 
 
 Fordyce drew a long breath. "That was a thrill worth 
 while," he began. "Not music exactly, but fine — that 
 voice of a multitude singing in unison." Then, looking 
 down at her face, with its unreserved and sensitive re- 
 sponse to the emotion of the crowd, his own measured 
 and sophisticated appreciation seemed banal. He forgot 
 to be cautious. 
 
 "Come !" he said, and again taking her hand and laying 
 it on his arm, he led her back into the shadow. 
 
 "But where ?" asked Isabel, bringing herself back with 
 an effort. "I thought " 
 
 "You don't want a sermon, do you? Anything after 
 that hymn would be anticlimax, it seems to me." 
 
 "We have lost the others." She was now clinging to 
 his arm in a way quite unlike herself and was shivering 
 with excitement. 
 
 "Are you cold ?" he asked with surprise. 
 
 "No — oh, no. But the singing and those weird fires — 
 
Isabel Stirling 1 17 
 
 I suppose it's the thrill." She broke off with a wavering 
 little laugh. 
 
 "Come !" he said. "Don't let's look for the others just 
 yet. Let's go and sit down somewhere." 
 
 He found a seat for her in a grassy spot under a tree 
 and sat down beside her. Isabel gave a long, soft sigh 
 of content. The night was warm and still except for an 
 occasional puff of wind. Through the branches of the 
 trees one got glimpses of a troubled sky and a moon that 
 seemed to be flying through clouds. From the other side 
 of the leaping fires came the droning voice of the 
 preacher. A Biblical phrase came back to her memory 
 and unconsciously she spoke half aloud. "In outer dark- 
 ness," she said. Then she smiled to herself. What did 
 darkness or light matter ? And then a silence fell between 
 them — a silence at the same time sweet and alarming; so 
 alarming that she cast about for something to say, fool- 
 ishly trying to put off what she was sure would be the 
 most thrilling moment of her life. 
 
 "I'm afraid Father thought I was going to listen to 
 the preaching," she said. 
 
 Fordyce smiled in the darkness. "You can't expect me 
 to repent having enticed you away from it. Not but what 
 I like to see a woman care for her religion." 
 
 "Oh, but that isn't it," said Isabel, who must be honest 
 whether he approved or not. "The trouble with me has 
 always been that I am not religious. I care, you know — 
 but I can't." 
 
 "You care — but you can't." He spoke in the tender 
 and amused tone which one uses to a child. "Do you 
 know you are a delicious child — the oddest compound of 
 pagan and puritan." 
 
 "I'm not a child," protested Isabel, half wounded. "I'm 
 entirely grown up and nearly as tall as you are. And I 
 can't remember the time when religion hasn't been a 
 serious matter. I've never been able to feel as they say 
 I ought, and all through my childhood I was almost 
 frightened to death. That I'm not frightened now must 
 be because I'm so much wickeder." 
 
n8 Isabel Stirling 
 
 He laughed. "Your childhood doesn't sound exactly 
 happy." 
 
 "No, I wasn't happy. I had no mother and my grand- 
 mother died. I thought nobody cared for me, except to 
 save my soul and see that I didn't tear my clothes. And 
 now lately I find that Aunt Eliza did care. If I had 
 known it I might have been nicer to her, you know." 
 
 This was a side which she had not shown him before 
 and there was something irresistibly pathetic in her artless 
 account of her childhood. For a moment he had a glimpse 
 of her as she did not know herself ; the innocence and the 
 courage; the seeking mind and the adventurous spirit; 
 and the loneliness of a heart turned back on itself. 
 
 After all, he was but a man, and a young man. He 
 did not attempt to reason with himself. She seemed to 
 him just then the one thing in the world worth while and 
 all his cautious, worldly-wise plans but rubbish, fit for 
 the scrap-heap. He wanted her. 
 
 Yet at first he found no words to say. They sat silent 
 and motionless, while in the distance the voice of the 
 preacher droned on, and overhead, all unnoticed, the 
 clouds grew blacker, the moon became invisible, and 
 the wind blew strongly through the branches. Far in 
 the distance, but coming nearer, the thunder rumbled. 
 
 "Isabel !" said Fordyce at last. In the darkness his 
 hand reached for hers and closed over it. Her heart beat 
 wildly — almost audibly. The excitement, the silence, the 
 trembling expectation of what he was about to say, 
 seemed more than she could bear. She felt that her 
 fingers were betraying her, they were so cold and trem- 
 bling, but she could not draw them away. Suddenly a 
 vivid flash of lightning showed them each other's faces, 
 pale, both of them, gazing wide-eyed at each other, off 
 their guard in the darkness ; seen in a flash, blotted out in 
 an instant. Immediately came a tremendous crash of 
 thunder. The very earth seemed to shake. 
 
 The great moment was past. Fordyce grasped her 
 hand more strongly, a businesslike, masterful grip this 
 
Isabel Stirling 119 
 
 time. "Come!" he said, pulling her to her feet. "We 
 must get out of this." 
 
 He hurried her along breathlessly, hardly knowing 
 whither, but intent on getting away from the trees. 
 "There may be a house where we can get shelter," he 
 said. 
 
 The rain was now beginning to fall in big, separate, 
 splashing drops. The lightning, flashing in lurid sheets, 
 gave them glimpses of figures with outstretched hands 
 and of faces with exclamatory mouths; and in the in- 
 stant's flash all of these excited figures seemed to be 
 standing stock-still in attitudes of mad haste. When 
 Fordyce recalled the scene afterwards he thought of pic- 
 tures of the Last Judgment. In the midst of it all, Isabel 
 had a vanishing view of Aunt Mary's face, sweet with a 
 sort of motherly concern. 
 
 There was, at first, a confused noise of shouts and 
 exclamations, and then the rain came down in rushing 
 torrents and no other sound could be heard but that and 
 the crashing thunder. Fordyce hurried Isabel toward the 
 road and, when she stumbled over a stone, he put his 
 arm around her and rushed on with her. On his part the 
 action was absolutely without sentiment, but the girl, who 
 had been dashed from a delicious dream into a wild night- 
 mare, passed now into a new phase of excitement. 
 Thunder, lightning and rain became small matters. In- 
 tensely conscious of his touch, a new sense awoke within 
 her and she thrilled in response to it. She was madly 
 happy. 
 
 In another moment they had gained the shelter of a 
 house by the roadside. Here all was confusion. A throng 
 of bedraggled people huddled in the porch. Inside, the 
 house was crowded with other refugees, their dripping 
 garments leaving puddles on the floor, everybody talking 
 at once — a wet babel. Amid this confusion Fordyce spied 
 Aunt Mary and made his way to her. 
 
 'Will you look after Miss Stirling," he said, "while I 
 go and see if I can find out what has become of the 
 horses." 
 
120 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "We brought our coachman," replied Aunt Mary. 
 "He will have looked out for them." 
 
 But he was gone and she turned to the girl. "Why, 
 you poor child !" she exclaimed. "You are wet through 
 and through." 
 
 "Am I?" said Isabel vaguely. She was quite uncon- 
 scious of the fact as she looked at Aunt Mary with wide, 
 bright eyes. In her face was a rapt, ecstatic look. 
 
 "My dear!" said Aunt Mary. 
 
 It was all like a dream to Isabel ; the jostling, exclaim- 
 ing crowd, the tray of hot coffee which was being carried 
 about, the tall thin man in black who came up to them 
 and reproved "Mary" for not coming in sooner. 
 
 "I had to see what I could do for those frightened 
 people," said Aunt Mary apologetically. 
 
 "You never think of yourself," said the man tenderly. 
 
 Isabel scarcely heard the words, but was sensitive to 
 the tenderness of the tone. Something in his voice roused 
 an old memory. She looked up at him and knit her 
 brow in a startled effort to remember. The old basement 
 room in the Methodist church came back to her and the 
 kind man who told her that God was like a father. Yes, 
 it certainly was he. How strange everything was. . . . 
 
 They started for home at last, a somewhat silent party. 
 Isabel, seated beside Fordyce, was in that state of beati- 
 tude which holds articulate thought in abeyance. Acutely 
 conscious of his nearness, she had no desire that he should 
 speak to her in the presence of others. She hardly heard 
 what anyone said, only rousing herself to answer vaguely 
 when someone chanced to ask her a direct question. 
 Fordyce said little to her, but leaned forward from time 
 to time and made some remark to Jessie and Joe Glover 
 in front of them. For his part, whatever regrets might 
 assail him in the future, his present feelings were divided 
 between wonder at having lost his head so completely and 
 thankfulness that the forces of nature had intervened to 
 keep him from committing an egregious folly. That it 
 would still be easy to commit that folly he fully realized, 
 and resolved to give himself no further opportunity. 
 
Isabel Stirling 121 
 
 What he did not so fully realize was his cruelty. So much 
 Isabel's aloofness had done for her. 
 
 At the Giffords' gate Fordyce helped her and Jessie to 
 alight and went with them up the long walk to the door, 
 calling back to ask Joe Glover to wait for him a moment. 
 The fanlight above the door showed a dim light, but all 
 the front windows were in darkness. In the back sitting- 
 room Mrs. Gilford was waiting before an open fire, to 
 cosset the two girls. Jessie, running ahead of the others, 
 hastily turned the knob of the door, preparing to efface 
 herself as quickly as might be. 
 
 "Good-night/' she said, as she slipped through the half- 
 open door. 
 
 "But it's good-bye," called Fordyce after her. "Aren't 
 you going to tell me good-bye ?" 
 
 "You really go by the early train ?" said Jessie, linger- 
 ing reluctantly. 
 
 "I really must," he replied, adding: "You've all been 
 so good to me — everybody has — and it warms one's heart 
 immensely to come back to the place where one was 
 born." 
 
 Jessie refused to be kept. With a hasty: "Of course 
 we shall see you again often — good-bye," she disappeared 
 into the semi-darkness of the house. 
 
 Fordyce and Isabel faced each other. Her soul was in 
 her eyes. The moment had come, and she was ready for 
 it. But he did not see her eyes. He saw her only as a 
 silhouette against the lesser darkness. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said. "I mustn't keep you out here. 
 It has been so pleasant." Other words came to his lips. 
 He repressed them. He had taken her hand in a light 
 clasp. He dropped it quickly. The temptation was too 
 great to be dallied with. "Good-bye," he said again. 
 
 "Good-bye," she faltered, dazed by the abruptness of 
 his leave-taking and the dryness of his tone. 
 
 He pushed the door open for her, and she found her- 
 self within the hall, listening to his retreating footsteps. 
 
XXIII 
 
 Hard as it was to accept the decree of an unbelievably 
 cruel fate, there was a finality about that chilly leave- 
 taking which forbade illusion. True, there were long 
 hours when Isabel sat dreaming of the letter which she 
 might receive by any mail; of the guest who might be 
 ushered in with any ringing of the doorbell ; of an ecstatic 
 reunion where no explanations would be necessary. But 
 she knew in her heart that there would be no such letter, 
 no such reunion. There were wakeful hours in the night 
 when she lay wondering whether the fault had been her 
 own, and tingled with shame at the thought that she had 
 perhaps made herself too cheap. Or perhaps, in her 
 dread of self -betrayal, she had seemed too indifferent and 
 he had thought she did not care. 
 
 But there was another mood which was of more 
 service to her. Although, as yet, more perplexed by 
 Fordyce than angry with him, she was bitterly angry 
 with Fate, and entirely rebellious that anything so un- 
 toward should have happened to her. "For I am so 
 young," she said to herself. "I haven't even begun yet." 
 
 She had stood, it seemed, at the entrance to a world of 
 wonder and delight and had seen before her a vista of 
 the joyous adventure which is the birthright of youth; 
 and then, when, palpitating with excited anticipation, she 
 had essayed a step forward, she had stumbled and fallen 
 and had hurt herself so grievously that henceforth, as she 
 feared, she must go through life with a sorry limp, her 
 adventure ended before it had begun. "I will not, I will 
 not!" she said. "It's inconceivable that I should have 
 to be unhappy. I won't be made miserable !" 
 
 With intense determination and absolute self-absorp- 
 
 122 
 
Isabel Stirling 123 
 
 tion she set out to rescue herself from unhappiness. At 
 first, indeed, there seemed little that she could do except 
 to laugh and talk. She talked incessantly to Jessie, to 
 Mrs. Gifford, to all the young people of her set, even to 
 Lydia. 
 
 She was the more determined because there was her 
 world to face. Everybody had been so excited over the 
 affair and now people were making sly allusions, taking 
 it for granted that she and Fordyce were engaged. But 
 from that first moment, when cold and dazed, she stum- 
 bled into Mrs. Gifford's sitting-room, trying, even then, 
 to hold up her head and act as if nothing were the matter, 
 she was sure that Jessie and her mother understood. 
 Sometimes she had a momentary longing to throw her 
 arms around Mrs. Gifford's neck and sob her heart out 
 on that motherly breast. Instead, she went on talking 
 and laughing with a determined gayety. 
 
 It was Lydia who was the worst of all — Lydia, with 
 her arch speculations as to when Mr. Fordyce would 
 return, and her watchfulness of the mail. Dr. Stirling 
 usually went to the post-office himself, and his wife was 
 always ready to take the letters from his hand. She re- 
 ceived but few herself, but Isabel's schoolmates wrote to 
 her. 
 
 "Nothing important to-day," she would say, when her 
 husband was out of hearing. "Too bad ! But he'll write 
 soon. Unless our little girl treated him badly." 
 
 "I don't know what you are talking about," Isabel 
 would say, laughing with apparent carelessness. 
 
 "Tut, tut!" with a warning finger upraised. "Don't 
 tell fibs!" 
 
 With all her curiosity, Lydia could not make out 
 whether the girl really cared. As for Isabel, she hardly 
 knew which she dreaded most, the ones who didn't under- 
 stand, or those two dear souls who did. In her extremity 
 she turned to her father, the only person about her who 
 remained absolutely unconscious that there was anything 
 which required understanding. He was not very re- 
 sponsive to her awkward efforts at conversation and 
 
124 Isabel Stirling 
 
 suffered, rather than encouraged her to accompany him 
 on an occasional walk, but on the whole he was not dis- 
 pleased. If he had been less shut up in himself, or per- 
 haps less awkwardly shy, or if Isabel had been less self- 
 absorbed, they might now have come into some sort of 
 normal relation; but William Stirling never did know 
 how to get on with young people, his own daughter least 
 of all, and Isabel was not thinking of her father, but of 
 herself. Nevertheless, his very remoteness, the neutral 
 character of his companionship, helped her somewhat. 
 Unfortunately even this unsatisfactory solace was but 
 short-lived. 
 
 Chancing to pass through the hall one morning, 
 William Stirling came upon his daughter studying a slip 
 of paper which she held in her hand — a cheque, as he 
 immediately saw, noticing it because it was connected 
 with a duty which he had upon his conscience to fulfil. 
 In fact, it represented a quarter's income, with the addi- 
 tion of the trifling sum left over after the expenses con- 
 nected with Aunt Eliza's illness and death had been paid. 
 Dr. Brenton, the trustee of the little estate, had given him- 
 self the pleasure of leaving it with her, stopping at the 
 door in his old buggy, as he passed on his round of morn- 
 ing visits. To John Brenton the mere sight of the girl 
 was a pleasure. 
 
 When her father came upon her she was gazing at 
 the cheque with a tender remembrance of Aunt Eliza and 
 yet with a dimpling pleasure at being the possessor of so 
 considerable a sum. She had been faithful to her promise 
 and the three hundred dollars which her aunt had given 
 into her hand had scarcely been touched, but now she 
 could spend something. Nothing, since Fordyce went 
 away, had so raised her spirits. At the sight of her 
 father she started and involuntarily the hand holding the 
 precious piece of paper dropped to her side. When he 
 desired her to go with him to his study she obeyed un- 
 comfortably, because he had never asked her there except 
 for something unpleasant. What she now dreaded was a 
 religious appeal, for which, she felt, it was about time. 
 
Isabel Stirling 125 
 
 He seated himself in his desk chair and she stood 
 facing him, making, if he would have allowed himself to 
 see it, a lovely picture against the dull background of 
 time worn furniture and shelves of leather-bound theo- 
 logical books. But he was intent on the matter in hand. 
 
 "What is the amount of your yearly income from your 
 aunt?" was his unexpected beginning. 
 
 "About six hundred dollars," she replied readily. 
 
 "That puts it in your power to do a great deal of 
 good." 
 
 "Yes, Father." She was half ashamed that hitherto 
 she had thought only of herself in connection with this 
 money. 
 
 "Have you thought about this and decided what pro- 
 portion of your income you will give away?" 
 
 "Why — no. You see there will be such a lot of things 
 that I want. But of course I don't want to be stingy." 
 
 "I don't think you will need so very much," he replied. 
 "My house is your home. You don't need to save money, 
 for at my death there will be a little for you and your 
 mother. Of course I shall allow you to purchase your 
 own clothes under her guidance, but there must be no 
 foolish display of finery." 
 
 He paused, but Isabel did not at once reply. She was 
 looking at him with an expression which he didn't quite 
 like ; as if he and she were on equal ground. She was, in 
 fact, considering what his interference might mean. 
 
 "I might pay tithes," she said at last, "like the people 
 in the Bible. That would be sixty dollars, and I'll give 
 it to whatever you think best." 
 
 He had meant, in discussing the matter with her, to 
 treat her with kindness and consideration and had ex- 
 pected appreciation and deference. Her independence 
 irritated him. "You must give a great deal more than 
 that," he said sharply. "Do you think that with all the 
 need in the world I shall let you waste money on your- 
 self?" 
 
 "But Father!" she exclaimed in dismay. 
 
 "I might perhaps hope," continued her father, "that in 
 
126 Isabel Stirling 
 
 doing some good your own heart would be turned to 
 those matters of religion toward which you are so 
 strangely indifferent." 
 
 Isabel sighed impatiently. If only he wouldn't preach! 
 
 He looked at her for a moment in vexed perplexity. 
 Why was she so different from the children of his 
 parishioners who were wont, on arriving at the proper 
 age, to come into the fold. Her obduracy seemed to him 
 a personal affront. Truly, his foe was of his own house- 
 hold. All the more need, then, for a strong hand. 
 
 "I see more than ever," he went on, "that you cannot 
 be left to your own devices. I shall allow you twenty- 
 five dollars a quarter for yourself. The rest you will 
 turn over to me. In order that you may have some free- 
 dom of choice I shall give you a list of the objects which 
 I consider most deserving. Among them you may 
 choose. We shall avoid ostentation. When you have in- 
 dicated the sum to be given in any direction I will make 
 the donation in the name of an unknown friend." 
 
 Lydia, listening on the other side of the door, could 
 hardly control her mirth at William's simplicity, even 
 though her laughter was mixed with dismay. Isabel 
 could see nothing but tragedy in the monstrous proposi- 
 tion. 
 
 "I can't possibly manage on a hundred dollars a year," 
 she said breathlessly. "And Aunt Eliza didn't mean me 
 to." 
 
 "Twenty-five dollars a quarter was what I always 
 allowed your aunt for your clothes." 
 
 "But she gave me more. And I was only a little girl 
 when you started it. And you don't know how expensive 
 everything is now." 
 
 "I know that it is possible for you to be neatly and 
 suitably dressed on a small sum. Take a lesson from 
 your mother. She always looks properly dreesed." 
 
 In the midst of her trouble Isabel laughed. To her 
 father it seemed the last touch of insolence. "If you 
 think—-" she began. 
 
 On her sofa on the other side of the door Lydia 
 
Isabel Stirling 127 
 
 trembled. But Isabel checked herself. If Lydia had her 
 secrets it was not for her to betray them. She gazed at 
 her father with an appearance of calmness, although her 
 heart was beating fast. 
 
 "Father, I cannot agree to it." 
 
 William Stirling could hardly believe his ears. "What 
 do I hear you say ?" he said sternly. "Never speak to me 
 in that way again. You have been away from me too 
 long. Now I wish you to endorse that cheque and give 
 it to me." 
 
 Isabel's heart was beating more violently than ever, 
 but she did not lower her eyes and she tightened her 
 clasp of the cheque. "But I must pay for my things," 
 she said. 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "The mourning I wear for Aunt Eliza." 
 
 "Isn't it paid for? How did you get it?" 
 
 "Lydia bought the things for me." She used the 
 name quite unconsciously — it came so much more easily 
 than the other; but it seemed that he had not heard it 
 before. 
 
 "What do you mean?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Why, she offered to lend me the money and said I 
 could pay when mine came." 
 
 "Are you aware that you called your mother by her 
 first name?" 
 
 "Why, she asked me to. She likes it better." 
 
 "It's indecent! You must have misunderstood her. 
 Hereafter you will call her by her proper title." 
 
 "Yes, Father," said Isabel, gaining confidence as the 
 subject of the discussion was shifted. "But I must pay 
 her for my clothes. And I shall not have so very much 
 left, for there was a good deal to get." 
 
 "Very well." He paused. He never interfered with 
 his wife's money matters. It was a matter of pride. 
 "Then this time I shall leave you to settle those affairs — 
 but you are never to incur any more debts, or to impose 
 on your mother's kindness." 
 
 Isabel pursued her advantage. "Besides that," she 
 
128 Isabel Stirling 
 
 said, "I want to get a stone for Aunt Eliza's grave. I 
 don't know how much such things cost, but Grandma's 
 and the others are very simple and this would want to be 
 like them." 
 
 It was impossible to find fault with this pious wish and 
 William Stirling only remonstrated to the extent of say- 
 ing that such a duty would devolve on him. 
 
 "No," persisted Isabel. "Aunt Eliza left me her 
 money. She — adopted me. I want to do it for her, 
 Father." 
 
 Again impossible to find fault with her. "I will see 
 about it," replied her father, somewhat ambiguously. 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Isabel, taking his reply quite 
 simply. "Of course I wanted you to see about it, for I 
 don't know how." 
 
 Again that tone, as of equal to equal. William Stirling 
 resented it, but found nothing to say to it. "Pay your 
 mother for your clothes," he said stiffly. "And here- 
 after you will place your money in my hands, as I have 
 directed you. Now you may go." 
 
 For the moment Isabel was the victor, but she felt 
 no elation; only a bitter sense that no one in the world 
 cared for her and that she must look out for herself. She 
 cashed her cheque and paid her score, finding herself, as 
 she had anticipated, with only a moderate amount left 
 over ; perhaps enough to pay for Aunt Eliza's headstone. 
 Aunt Eliza's private gift was almost all that she would 
 have to depend on if her father carried out his monstrous 
 plan. 
 
 Lydia, who was almost as anxious as Isabel that so 
 much good money should not be diverted to missionaries, 
 ventured to give the girl a word of advice. It might 
 easily be supposed that her husband had mentioned the 
 matter to her. 
 
 "Can't you see, darling," she said, "that if you could 
 only make up your mind to join the church, dear Father 
 would have more confidence in you?" 
 
 "In what way?" asked Isabel, wondering whether 
 
Isabel Stirling 129 
 
 Lydia too, was going to talk to her about religion. That, 
 she felt, would be more than she could bear. 
 
 "Why should it be so impossible?" pursued Lydia. 
 "Surely that dear little head of yours doesn't harbor 
 Doubts?" In those days any questionings of the accepted 
 doctrines of Calvinism were alluded to as Doubts, with 
 a very large D. "You are a little obstinate, Fm afraid. 
 But if you could realize how different your dear father's 
 attitude would be — how much more he would be willing 
 to entrust to you " 
 
 "How much more — what?" 
 
 "Why, he would treat you as a grown-up person. You 
 could take care of your own money. I might help you 
 about that " 
 
 "Oh!" said Isabel. "I can't sell myself." A remark 
 which Lydia did not soon forgive. 
 
 "Sell yourself!" she exclaimed in a tone of horror. 
 "How you misunderstand me. Surely you ought to be 
 able to unite with your father's church without such a 
 thought as that." 
 
 "No, mother, I cannot," replied Isabel sadly enough. 
 
 "Mother!" mimicked Lydia reproachfully. 
 
 "Father doesn't wish me to call you Lydia." 
 
 "The dear father ! He is so anxious that I should have 
 all my dignities. Well, it will just have to be your little 
 name for me when he isn't present to be disturbed by it." 
 
 This was Lydia's second mistake that morning. Isabel 
 looked at her. "No," she said slowly. "If I can't say 
 it in his presence I think I'd better not say it at all." 
 
XXIV 
 
 Isabel was homesick for her school. Since she could 
 not go back there as a pupil, she wondered whether she 
 knew enough to teach anything and even considered writ- 
 ing to Miss Pryor about it. Meantime, as she really did 
 not feel proficient in any branch of knowledge, she 
 thought she would like to study something — it didn't 
 much matter what. 
 
 Most of the intellectually aspiring women of Ptolemy 
 were going up the hill to university lectures. She would 
 go too. Yet she wanted something more personal than 
 lectures, a teacher who would be interested in her. Al- 
 though she didn't quite know it, she wanted a teacher 
 who would appreciate her cleverness. 
 
 Meantime, Mrs. Gifford was saying to herself: "I 
 must find that poor child another beau. It's the only 
 efficacious cure. I do wish she were allowed to dance. 
 It's such good exercise and clears out the mind so." 
 
 With the opening of the fall term of the university and 
 the inrush of students, it seemed that another beau would 
 not be a difficult thing to find. The village was rousing 
 itself to the activities of a university town. The streets 
 were pervaded by young men; shop windows exhibited 
 their newest wares in the way of neckties and other manly 
 vanities — a modest display, for those students of the 
 early days were few of them addicted to fine raiment. 
 The girls of Ptolemy came out in all the glory of new 
 fall hats ; and the middle-aged women were again plod- 
 ding up the hill to the campus with their note-books. For 
 the moment, Isabel put off joining them. 
 
 Edmund Gifford was at home again, engaged in the 
 duties of an assistant professor. Isabel had felt curious 
 to see Edmund, the big brother toward whom she and 
 Jessie had both felt so respectful when they were chil- 
 
 130 
 
Isabel Stirling 131 
 
 dren. Jessie worshiped him still; so did his mother; 
 and his father, although pretending to criticize him from 
 time to time, was almost as transparent in his affection 
 and admiration. 
 
 At first sight, Isabel was disappointed. To a girl of 
 nineteen, the outer man counts immensely. Her ideal 
 was tall and slender. Edmund was a young man of 
 medium height, rather short than tall, with a figure 
 which, in its present plumpness, promised increasing 
 weight. A luminous, straightforward glance and a fine 
 breadth and fullness of brow gave distinction to a face 
 which was not otherwise remarkable. The charm which 
 he was universally conceded to possess lay perhaps in a 
 combination of intellectual power and boyish whim- 
 sicality. He was equally ardent in the pursuit of amuse- 
 ment and the pursuit of knowledge; and as he amused 
 himself in company and studied in solitude he was some- 
 times misjudged by the superficial. He liked people — a 
 great many people, of many different sorts. When how- 
 ever, he happened not to like them, he took no pains to 
 conceal his antipathy. 
 
 Isabel presently felt his charm and envied Jessie. 
 Would that he had been her own brother! She was 
 greatly entertained by him and entirely at her ease with 
 him. She even said to Jessie one day that he was as 
 good as a girl to have around. Jessie had the tact to re- 
 frain from repeating the remark. 
 
 Edmund, for his part, was much impressed by Isabel's 
 beauty. "She is one of the people," he told his mother, 
 "whose business is not to talk, but just to let you look at 
 them." 
 
 "I think she'll have something to say for herself yet," 
 said Mrs. Gifford. 
 
 "Doubtless — when she has lived a little longer. That 
 will be lucky for her, for then she may not be so good 
 to look at." 
 
 Meantime, the Giffords were getting ready for their 
 annual "party." A joyous excitement pervaded the house 
 and extended to the parsonage. In spite of her mourning 
 
132 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Isabel was to attend the party. Mrs. Gifford would not 
 listen to a refusal and Lydia argued that in the case of 
 a parishioner and next-door neighbor, they must put aside 
 their own feelings and show themselves friendly. Even 
 Dr. Stirling always showed himself at these festivities. 
 There was to be no dancing, the crowd being too great, 
 so that there would be nothing to offend his principles. 
 
 "What can I wear?" Isabel asked excitedly of Lydia. 
 She had thought that her stepmother would be interested. 
 
 But Lydia, intent on her own preparations, did not 
 offer any assistance. Her enthusiasm over the girl's 
 clothes had waned since William had imposed such severe 
 restrictions on the spending of money. 
 
 "Your black grenadine will do," she said. 
 
 A black grenadine for one's first party! And an old 
 one at that. 
 
 "Can't I have Miss Ford come and make me a dress?" 
 she asked wistfully. 
 
 "Your father wouldn't wish me to lend you money 
 again," said Lydia. "It's too bad, but if you can't do 
 what your father wishes, you will have to learn to do the 
 best you can with what he allows you." 
 
 Isabel went up to her own room with head up and 
 tightened lips. It seemed now as if she might spend a 
 little of her secret fund, but when she thought it over 
 there were difficulties. She was unwilling to let Lydia 
 know that she had extra money to spend, since she had 
 promised Aunt Eliza to keep the secret, and she could 
 not have a dress made just now without telling Lydia how 
 she had managed it. At any rate, she would first see 
 what she could do. 
 
 Meantime, Jessie displayed her own new frock, a 
 much ruched white tarletan, with its two or three thin 
 under-petticoats. "What are you going to wear?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I think I'll have a white dress too," said Isabel. 
 
 She came home and got out the thin white India mull 
 frock which Aunt Eliza had had made for the June 
 festivities at the school. It did not billow so diaphanously 
 
Isabel Stirling 133 
 
 as Jessie's did, and where hers was cut so as to show 
 her shoulders and arms, this came primly up to the 
 throat and down to the wrists. Isabel held it up and 
 looked at it and then laid it on the bed and searched in 
 her box of treasures for the key of her mother's trunk. 
 She had never yet looked into it, deterred, as a child of 
 twelve, by a sort of awe, and later by f orgetfulness. Now 
 surely the time had come. She looked long at her 
 mother's portrait and then went up into the attic, pulled 
 the little old trunk out from under the eaves, and put the 
 key in the lock. A moment she hesitated before raising 
 the lid. Grandma, she thought, must have packed the 
 things up after her mother died. She wondered whether 
 anyone had touched them since. 
 
 There was not so very much there. Some narrow- 
 skirted gowns of soft, pale tints, a few undergarments 
 delicately trimmed with linen-cambric ruffles edged with 
 fine lace, a half-finished baby's dress with a rusted needle 
 sticking in it. Isabel picked that up and kissed it. At 
 the bottom was a flat pasteboard box on which was 
 written: "Lace which belonged to Bell's mother." How 
 nice of Grandma to let her know that ! She locked the 
 trunk and carried the box down to her room, unopened. 
 
 For a time she held it on her lap and made no move- 
 ment to open it. She could think of nothing but her 
 young mother and the pathetic little trunk. At last, how- 
 ever, she untied the string and raised the cover of the 
 box and then the sight of the fine old lace, yellowed, but 
 clean, stirred her interest and hope. She lifted out the 
 pieces, handling them delicately and reverently. In one 
 corner was a tiny jeweler's box which, when opened, 
 revealed a little old-fashioned pearl brooch; such a de- 
 lightful treasure trove. Without delay she set herself 
 to remodel the white mull gown. 
 
XXV 
 
 The good people of Ptolemy made a point of going late 
 to parties. When invited at eight o'clock they considered 
 that etiquette demanded that they should not appear be- 
 fore ten. The university people, on the other hand, 
 arrived, mostly on foot, at about the hour specified, so 
 that the rooms were well filled when the Stirlings ar- 
 rived, Lydia clinging to her husband's arm, her face 
 wreathed in smiles, her costume a chastened replica of 
 the latest fashion plates. Being in mourning, she wore 
 black, but its somebreness was relieved by a touch of 
 glittering jet and a collar and barbe of point lace. Her 
 sandy hair, somewhat assisted from outside sources, was 
 coiled in massive braids of which not a hair was out of 
 place. Behind her came Isabel in her white mull gown. 
 But what a changed white gown ! She had cut out the 
 neck of the bodice in what is known as a V, and her 
 delicately rounded white throat rose, slim and gracefully 
 long, out of the filmy, creamy folds of a fine old lace fichu, 
 fastened at the breast with the pearl pin. From sleeves, 
 cut off at the elbow, hung wide, soft lace ruffles. Beyond 
 that modest display of her fairness she had not dared to 
 go, lest she draw down her father's wrath. Her head, 
 poised like a flower on its stem, was crowned with the 
 waving masses of her bright chestnut hair. In that day 
 of chignons, an artistic instinct had impelled her to try 
 the experiment of drawing it all up to the top of her 
 head in a soft, glossy mass of puffs, and when she had 
 once seen herself that way, even the desire to look like 
 other girls was not strong enough to induce her to change 
 it. In fact, a greater contrast to the other girls, with 
 their low coiffures and dresses off the shoulders could 
 hardly be imagined. She looked rather like a beautiful 
 portrait of their grandmothers' time. Very self-conscious, 
 
 134 
 
Isabel Stirling 135 
 
 very fearful lest after all, she wasn't "just right," she 
 was yet unaware of her extreme conspicuousness and 
 did not guess the buzz of comment which went around 
 the rooms as she walked through them. 
 
 "Who is that wonderful girl?" asked Mrs. Bellenden, 
 touching her husband on the arm. Mrs. Bellenden was 
 the wife of the army officer detailed to the military 
 professorship. 
 
 Major Bellenden didn't know, but Peter Maiden, hear- 
 ing the question, turned around with a twinkle in his 
 eye. "She's the daughter of the Reverend Dr. Stirling, 
 who hates us all so cordially," he said. 
 
 "Good heavens!" said Mrs. Bellenden. 
 
 Jessie, standing beside her mother and "receiving" 
 with great dignity, had managed to whisper an ecstatic 
 word as Isabel went past. "You look perfectly lovely!" 
 
 "Oh, do I look right?" Isabel whispered back. "Mother 
 said I looked too theatrical and that she wouldn't have 
 let me come this way if she had known." 
 
 "Didn't she know? Didn't she help?" Jessie made 
 great eyes. 
 
 "She thought I'd wear my black grenadine, as she told 
 me to do." 
 
 Isabel passed on, pushed by the crowd. When she 
 stopped to speak to Jessie, her father and Lydia had 
 left her behind and, at a loss what to do, she drew bade a 
 few steps and stood still. She had never before been 
 present at any festivity so big and it seemed to her very 
 grand and very exciting — the large, brilliantly lighted 
 rooms, the crowd of people, all laughing and talking, and 
 beyond the buzz of voices and dominating them, the 
 strains of an unseen orchestra. It was crude music, but 
 to the girl it added the last touch of gayety and enchant- 
 ment. For the first time since Fordyce's departure she 
 forgot that she had to try to be happy. When Edmund 
 Gifford presently came towarS her she greeted him with 
 a radiant smile. 
 
 "Isn't it lovely!" she exclaimed. 
 
 Edmund smiled back at her. They were about the same 
 
136 Isabel Stirling 
 
 height and looked with a level glance into each other's 
 eyes. He wanted to tell her that she was the loveliest 
 thing there, but he refrained. Her apparent unconscious- 
 ness was another charm. 
 
 Before the arrival of the guests his mother had said 
 to him, quite seriously: "There's one thing I particularly 
 want you to do for me to-night. Find the very nicest 
 youth you can for Isabel and if they sit in a corner and 
 seem interested, let them alone. I want that child to 
 have a good time." 
 
 Edmund had already announced that his mission in 
 life that evening would be to break up the tete-a-tetes 
 which it was the Ptolemy fashion to prolong for a whole 
 evening. Jessie had been liberal in the arrangement of 
 what she called "flirtation corners." 
 
 "I've just come," he now said to Isabel, "from making 
 the absurd couples play puss-in-the-corner. They have 
 all changed partners now." 
 
 "Do you suppose they like it?" 
 
 "They may as well learn to like it,"*he replied. 
 
 Isabel laughed. "Does everybody always do what you 
 tell them to ? They'll play puss-in-the-corner back again 
 while your back is turned." 
 
 "I dare say. I'm going to show you our lions now. 
 Have you met any of the university people ?" 
 
 "Not one, and I'm so anxious to." 
 
 "Well, we'll just take a general survey first." They 
 threaded their way through the crowd and he pointed out 
 this and that professor and professor's wife as they went 
 along. "That," he said, directing her glance to a tall and 
 remarkably thin man in a corner, "is Mr. Fielding 
 Browne, the English professor, who has come over to cast 
 in his lot with us. He is a very eminent man, you know." 
 
 The great man was the centre — apparently against his 
 will — of an adoring group of middle-aged women, and 
 every time one of them spoke to him he took an instinc- 
 tive step backward. 
 
 "Would you like to meet him?" asked Edmund. 
 
 She surveyed the group. "Let's wait," she said. 
 
Isabel Stirling 137 
 
 Her attention was attracted by a bright-eyed girl who 
 was talking vivaciously and looking about her with an 
 interested air. "Who is that?" she asked. 
 
 "That's one of the brides. They're as thick as hops. 
 These young professors have most of them been getting 
 married, poor chaps. This one is Mrs. Boyd." 
 
 "She looks so nice. But why 'poor chaps' " ? 
 
 "Oh, well, small salaries and high prices — " He 
 stopped at a gasp of astonishment from Isabel. 
 
 The crowd had parted for a moment, giving them a 
 glimpse of an exquisitely pretty little lady in a white 
 gown, holding over her head a rose-colored sunshade. 
 
 "What — " exclaimed Isabel. 
 
 "That is Mrs. Hallett, another bride. The lights hurt 
 her eyes — and she has the courage of her pink parasol. 
 That very beautiful woman just beyond her is Mrs. 
 Annesley, the wife of the president of the university. 
 And behind her, talking to Mrs. Stirling, is Professor 
 Hyde. He's rather an old dandy, isn't he?" 
 
 Isabel could not have told why she should have been 
 so astonished to see Lydia just then. There came to her 
 an odd recollection of her stepmother as she had known 
 her in the days before she had married Father ; a Lydia 
 with more than a touch of coquetry. The gray-haired 
 professor was evidently responsive to coquetry. His 
 whole attitude and expression showed a sort of formal 
 and heavy gallantry. He looked emphatically "a ladies' 
 man." Isabel experienced the same sensation of disgust 
 which in the days of her childhood overcame her at the 
 sight of Lydia's little ways with her father, and her in- 
 genuous face expressed her feelings so clearly that Ed- 
 mund hurried her in another direction. 
 
 "I see a young man whom I want to introduce-to you," 
 he said. "He's a student and a very nice fellow. You'll 
 let me bring him ?" 
 
 "Why, of course," said Isabel. She thought she would 
 rather have stayed with Edmund, but of course she 
 couldn't keep him. 
 
 The young man was introduced as Mr. Burton. He 
 
138 Isabel Stirling 
 
 was a fair youth, not at all shy, with a winning frankness 
 and an artless belief that all the world would be friendly 
 to him and interested in him. 
 
 "Will you take Miss Stirling out to get some supper/' 
 said Edmund to him as he left them. 
 
 The young man offered her his arm — they offered the 
 arm in those days — and they made their way to the 
 dining-room. It seemed an oddly unfamiliar room to her 
 now, with the crowd of people surrounding the long 
 table set out with dainties of which she and Jessie had 
 already snatched tastes in the kitchen. Ptolemy had no 
 caterers then, and all the parties were homegrown, as one 
 might say. 
 
 Young Burton foraged with the zeal and appetite of 
 youth, bringing a laden plate for her and another for 
 himself. Over the fried oysters and chicken salad he told 
 her what a jolly place he found Ptolemy, and Farrell 
 University. He started to say "bully," but suppressed the 
 word, as being inelegant. He told her, too, what a fine 
 fellow his chum was. "Really, Miss Stirling, you ought 
 to know him. He has had a wonderful experience of 
 life." Then there were the professors to talk about too. 
 They all liked Professor Gifford — he was so nice to a 
 fellow and didn't sit up aloft like some of them. 
 
 They were enjoying their supper immensely and when 
 they had finished their oysters and salad he took her 
 plate away and went in search of the next course. Isabel 
 could have told him exactly what to get. There was an 
 arrangement of sponge-cake and blanched almonds and 
 whipped cream which she longed to taste. It hadn't been 
 finished when she was last in the kitchen and it wouldn't 
 be good the next day, if there were any of it left over, but 
 she was shy about seeming eager in such a matter and 
 made no allusion to it. He returned with large portions 
 of ice-cream and slices of cake of various kinds; and 
 between spoonfuls he entered on the subject of his family. 
 His mother, it seemed, was about as young as her chil- 
 dren — "really doesn't look five years older than Carrie. 
 Carrie's my sister, you know, and she's older than me. 
 
Isabel Stirling 139 
 
 They'll be coming next June to see me graduate. You 
 know I'm a senior. I entered junior." 
 
 To Isabel he seemed immeasurably younger than her- 
 self, although he was, in fact, some years older. She 
 liked him in a condescending way and encouraged his 
 prattle. 
 
 When they left the dining-room they met her father, 
 and she felt a passing wonder as to what he had been 
 doing with himself. Somehow, she could not imagine 
 him enjoying such an occasion. In fact, Dr. Stirling 
 was not enjoying himself. Ordinarily surrounded by 
 persons who deferred to him, and accustomed, even in 
 social intercourse, to feel the familiar platform of the 
 pulpit under his feet, he was half conscious now of an 
 alien, if not an antagonistic atmosphere. To be sure, he 
 had found, scattered about the rooms, many of his parish- 
 ioners, but although greeting him deferentially and per- 
 haps stopping for a brief interchange of remarks, they 
 were too frankly interested -in the new people to linger 
 long. He attributed his discomfort to a distaste for the 
 society of the worldly-minded and wanted to get back 
 to his study. 
 
 "Where is your mother ?" he asked, stopping Isabel. 
 
 "I don't know," she replied. Then, with a sense that 
 the courtesy was required of her, she somewhat timidly 
 presented young Burton, who shook hands with the par- 
 son with unintimidated friendliness, yet with a decent 
 respect. He made a pleasant impression on the older 
 man, who, however, was still intent on' getting away. 
 
 "It is time for us to be going," he said to Isabel. 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, dismayed. To her, the evening 
 was still in its prime. 
 
 "Let me see you home later," put in young Burton 
 eagerly. 
 
 She hesitated, looking at her father. Fortunately, that 
 was a natural arrangement in Ptolemy, and he made no 
 objection, but continued his search for his wife, whose 
 amusement he ruthlessly cut short. Lydia, greatly vexed, 
 would have found an outlet for her irritation by insisting 
 
140 Isabel Stirling 
 
 that Isabel accompany them, but by that time the girl 
 could not be found. She and the boy had ensconced 
 themselves in one of the nooks so carefully arranged by 
 Jessie. 
 
 To tell the truth, when Isabel readily acceded to young 
 Burton's suggestion that they take possession of "that 
 jolly little corner/' she did so with the recollection that 
 Edmund had declared himself a foe to corners and with 
 an agreeable anticipation of his interruption. The boy 
 was all very well for a while, but Edmund was much 
 more amusing. Great was her surprise when he let her 
 alone. The first time he passed she caught his eye and 
 smiled. He smiled back, but walked past, having in mind 
 his mother's injunction; and after that he appeared not 
 to notice her. It seemed to her that everybody came 
 past, but nobody stopped. According to Ptolemy eti- 
 quette, a flirtation corner was sacred from interruption. 
 Isabel began to feel bored and at last, seeing Dr. Brenton 
 standing near, talking to Cassie Maiden, she announced 
 that she must speak to him. 
 
 "I'll introduce you to Miss Maiden," she added. 
 
 Cassie, looking very smart in a pink silk frock, held 
 out her hand as they came up. "I haven't laid eyes on 
 you all the evening," she said to Isabel. "I want to tell 
 you that Aunt Mary was married this morning." 
 
 "Oh, not really !" exclaimed Isabel. "And oh ! to Mr. 
 Bentley?" 
 
 "Of course to Mr. Bentley. Who else ? She wouldn't 
 have a wedding party — only just ourselves. They've 
 gone straight to their parsonage at Borrowville. I shall 
 miss her dreadfully." 
 
 "Of course you will." A shadow came over Isabel's 
 face. Against her will she recalled the night of the camp 
 meeting. She was relieved when Cassie took young 
 Burton in hand and carried him away. With Dr. Brenton 
 she was always at her ease. He seemed like a great 
 pillar, and there were moments when she loved the feeling 
 of support. He smiled down at her with a quizzically 
 affectionate glance. 
 
Isabel Stirling 141 
 
 "You look as if you were playing at being your young 
 great-grandmother to-night," he said. 
 
 She looked down at her dress and back at him. She 
 had never told him her troubles. "Don't you like my 
 looks?" she asked. 
 
 "I always like your looks — only I think that when you 
 put on that dress you ought to say your prayers and try 
 to be particularly good, for you could be so very naughty 
 in it." 
 
 She rose to the compliment. "I wouldn't mind being 
 naughty," she declared. 
 
 He laughed, but gave her a more searching look from 
 under his heavy brows. He was not unaware of the 
 shadow which had haunted her eyes and had noted a 
 slight accentuation of the oval of her perfectly tinted 
 face. "There will be plenty of chances," he said. "The 
 town is running over with them. That was a nice boy 
 you had with you." 
 
 "I don't like little boys," she answered somewhat dis- 
 dainfully. 
 
 "But you ought to like little boys. It's your business 
 to like little boys — at your age. I see I shall have to 
 give you a tonic." 
 
 She looked up at him, half smiling, half wistful. "I 
 like your tonics. Do you remember when you and Norah 
 gave me the egg-nog?" 
 
 "Norah will make you another egg-nog whenever you 
 will come and get it." 
 
 "I'll come." She almost thought she would like to tell 
 him her money troubles. . . . 
 
 Long after the party was over and all the lights were 
 out, she stood before the glass in her own room. "I 
 never looked like this before," she thought. "I wish he 
 could have seen me." 
 
 The face in the glass smiled at her as she remembered 
 what Dr. Brenton had said to her. "I'd love to make him 
 sorry," she said to it. 
 
XXVI 
 
 Between tsabel and her father matters did not improve. 
 He was, she thought, even more silent than he had ever 
 been, more aloof from the life of the house. Never did 
 she find his eyes resting on her with a look of pride or 
 affection. She remembered, with a pang, the way Aunt 
 Eliza had looked at her. Yet there was one moment 
 when it seemed to her that they might come together. It 
 was when he asked her to walk with him to the cemetery 
 to see the stone which had been placed at Aunt Eliza's 
 grave. 
 
 It was a dismal morning in November. There had 
 been a week of rainy weather and, although it was not 
 raining now, the sun was still hidden and the wind blew 
 in chilly gusts. The glory of the autumn was over and 
 the ground was strewn with wet, sodden leaves. They 
 talked but little as they went along. When at last they 
 came to the cemetery wall they did not go in by the 
 principal entrance with its iron gates, but by a stile which 
 took them at once into the older part of the enclosure. 
 Here there were few tall monuments such as bristled on 
 the hillside above them. Here and there, to be sure, a 
 column raised itself above its neighbors, surmounted per- 
 haps with a ball over which hung a marble pall, looking, 
 Isabel thought, like a wet towel. But for the most part 
 the stones were small and old and many of the inscrip- 
 tions were nearly obliterated. The paths were over- 
 grown, the place looked neglected. There were not many 
 left to care for this corner. Seldom a new grave was 
 dug here, although occasionally some wanderer was 
 brought back to lie among his kindred. Old trees waved 
 their branches above these sunken mounds and a few 
 hardy plants still blossomed from season to season — 
 plants which had reverted to their wild estate. 
 
 142 
 
Isabel Stirling 143 
 
 Dr. Stirling led the way to the family lot. Here at 
 least were evidences of care. The grass had been kept 
 cut and the stones all stood straight. How many of them 
 there were! Aunt Eliza's new headstone gleamed out 
 white among the others. Isabel stood before it, reading 
 the simple inscription. Then her eyes turned to another 
 stone, not new, but less old than the rest. "Sacred to 
 the Memory," so the inscription ran, "of Isabel, Wife of 
 William Stirling." And then the dates of birth and 
 death. Only twenty years old, that other Isabel. 
 
 The girl had brought some flowers. She divided them 
 into three portions and placed them on the three graves — 
 Grandma's, Aunt Eliza's, and her mother's. Since enter- 
 ing the cemetery neither she nor her father had spoken. 
 William Stirling stood a little apart, under a great oak- 
 tree. He followed her movements with gloomy eyes. 
 Suddenly he began to speak in a hard monotone. 
 
 "I have never been able to understand the cult of the 
 graveyard," he said. 
 
 Isabel started, but quickly divined that he was speaking 
 to himself, rather than to her. 
 
 "If we believe anything at all," he went on, "we believe 
 that they have put on immortality. And yet we come 
 and hover about this place. We bring our perishing 
 flowers, to add presently their suggestion of decay. For 
 a little while we come, and then we forget — "He sighed 
 deeply and relapsed into silence, forgetting all that he 
 had intended to say. For he had indeed planned to im- 
 prove the occasion. 
 
 Isabel stood still and waited, not daring to appear to 
 have heard what he said, but feeling amazingly comforted 
 by it. For surely, if Father had that feeling about the 
 place it was not wicked for her to hate it too. Her heart 
 turned to him and for the first time in her life she felt 
 that they might understand each other — he and she, the 
 last of their kin. She counted the graves and a shiver 
 seized her. There were so many of them dead, and so 
 few living. She turned a white face to her father and he, 
 recalling himself, seemed at last to realize her presence. 
 
144 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "The stone was put in place a week ago/* he said, in 
 his usual tone, "but the weather has not been fit for you 
 to come here before." 
 
 "Thank you for bringing me," she replied, drawing 
 a little nearer to him. 
 
 "It is our joint memorial," said her father. 
 
 She put out her black-gloved fingers and touched his 
 arm gently. "That is so good of you," she murmured. 
 
 He looked at her with a slight softening of expres- 
 sion. 
 
 "Father !" she said, gathering up her courage. "I have 
 never known anything at all about my mother. Aunt 
 Eliza was always away teaching and knew her so little. 
 I — it isn't always easy to ask you — but here " 
 
 She broke off and gazed at him wistfully. Here — her 
 eyes seemed to say — here there is no question of any third 
 person. You and I are here with our own. 
 
 His face was set in lines of gloom. In her voice, her 
 manner, her glance, she had been suddenly like her 
 mother. Her appeal was natural and he recognized 
 her claim. 
 
 "Yes," he said slowly, "it is right that you should know 
 her as far as may be possible." He paused, not knowing 
 how to continue, gathering himself for the effort. 
 
 Isabel understood that it was as difficult for him to go 
 on as it had been for her to open the subject. With a 
 little more experience, a little more tact, she would have 
 remained silent, but with a thought of helping him, she 
 said softly: "Don't I ever remind you of her?" 
 
 "You are absolutely unlike her," he said harshly, with 
 quick jealousy. 
 
 Then there was silence again. Isabel, wounded by the 
 repulse, was still able to feel sorry for him. She pitied 
 him just then, more than she pitied herself. She waited 
 for him to speak, and waited in vain. He could not 
 bring himself to begin. At last, with a sigh, she said 
 gently: 
 
 "Perhaps you would rather talk to me some other time. 
 See, it is raining now." 
 
Isabel Stirling 145 
 
 Loth to appear to be watching him, she occupied her- 
 self with her umbrella, which she unfurled and put up. 
 
 "It would be better/' he said, and turned to go. He 
 was relieved, but thought scornfully of the volatile tem- 
 perament which could be diverted at such a moment by a 
 few drops of rain. 
 
 And Isabel said to herself: "Poor Father! But surely 
 it wasn't my fault that I was born." 
 
 The next day, when she went to him to pay her share 
 of the expense of Aunt Eliza's headstone, he was as un- 
 approachable as ever. It seemed to Isabel that they were 
 even farther apart than before. It was small wonder 
 that she continued henceforth to omit mentioning to him 
 diversions which he would perhaps have forbidden. 
 
XXVII 
 
 Of diversion Isabel had indeed a fairer share than her 
 father would have thought compatible with her position 
 as daughter of the parsonage. Certain duties she had. 
 She must go to church twice on Sunday and to prayer 
 meeting on the appointed weekday evening. Being con- 
 sidered unfit, in her unconverted state, to be a Sunday- 
 school teacher, she was enrolled in a Bible class. At 
 church sociables she was obliged, with the other young 
 girls, to pass food to the older people ; an office which she 
 hated. And she must always appear promptly at prayers 
 before breakfast. She had never been farther from any 
 religious feeling than she was now. She had not even 
 the interest which terror inspires. True, she said a per- 
 functory prayer at night and read a few verses in her 
 Bible. Everybody did that, she supposed, and the omis- 
 sion really would make one a little uncomfortable. In 
 church she had acquired a serviceable habit of fixing 
 upon the preacher eyes which seemed attentive, while in 
 fact she heard little or nothing of what he said. The 
 prayer meetings she hated, and the Bible class, conducted 
 on primitive lines, scarcely interested her. The exercises 
 of religion, it seemed, must simply be endured in silence. 
 As to the high ideals which grew up in the favoring 
 atmosphere of Miss Pryor's school, they were lapsing into 
 neglect, as far as any conscious cherishing of them was 
 concerned. There remained, it is to be supposed, certain 
 rudimentary instincts and principles. 
 
 Of duties, beyond religious ones, there were none. 
 Lydia wanted no meddling in household matters, and as to 
 the employment of the girl's leisure hours, her curiosity, 
 usually so active, was, for the moment, diminishing, 
 owing to an unusual occupation with affairs of her own. 
 
 William Stirling had never been given to petty curi- 
 
 146 
 
Isabel Stirling 147 
 
 osity. Over-punctilious as to his duty in large matters, 
 he was far from being meddlesome in small, every-day 
 doings. Those were things for women to attend to, and 
 he had given his girl a mother. Even in Isabel's child- 
 hood, while he had punished with awful severity such of 
 her iniquities as came to his knowledge, he had never 
 played the spy. He assumed now that, under his wife's 
 supervision, his daughter was engaged in the normal 
 feminine pursuits of the household. He had no reason to 
 suppose that Lydia would fail to keep in touch with 
 Isabel's outside amusements; that she would actually 
 encourage intimacies of which he could not approve did 
 not enter his head. Certainly he would not have coun- 
 tenanced the girl's frequent visits to Edgewood House. 
 Mrs. Bellenden, nothing daunted by the fact that she was 
 Dr. Stirling's daughter, invited her there repeatedly, and 
 Lydia smiled upon her going. 
 
 Mrs. Bellenden was a revelation to a girl who was 
 used to people who salved their tyrannical consciences by 
 treating their amusements largely as a matter of "Ought." 
 Ptolemy was still in the stage when one did all sorts of 
 pleasant things because it was one's duty to do them. One 
 "ought to invite" so-and-so, or one "owed" so many 
 people an entertainment. The army woman took her 
 amusement as simply as she took her daily bread, and 
 considered it equally necessary. Incidentally, she pro- 
 vided amusement for everybody about her, partly because 
 she was kind-hearted, partly because one couldn't play 
 alone. 
 
 "It's such a pity you don't dance," she said to Isabel, 
 "but you must come up to dinner on Saturday just the 
 same, and it may amuse you to watch them." 
 
 The Saturday afternoon dance at Edgewood House 
 was an institution, and the chosen girls were glad enough 
 to go there and eat a bad midday dinner for the sake of 
 the fun. For the matter of that, everybody dined in the 
 middle of the day in Ptolemy. 
 
 The big building, begun some years before as a hydro- 
 pathic establishment and abandoned, had been bought by 
 
148 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the university and turned into barracks for the housing 
 of students and professors. On the top floor were the 
 students' dormitories, and below them lodged such pro- 
 fessors as could not get quarters elsewhere. The Ptolemy 
 of those days possessed very few houses to let and almost 
 no boarding-houses. 
 
 On the first floor were two large and gloomy dining 
 halls, one for the professors and one for the students, 
 where unspeakably bad food was served to the inmates of 
 the house, and a large room, usually known as the 
 "Edgewood Parlor," which was the scene of most of the 
 university festivities, official and unofficial. 
 
 In appearance this room was not a festal apartment. 
 At one end was a small fireplace, looking infinitesimal in 
 its large surroundings; at the other end, a bay window. 
 In each corner stood a large bronze reproduction of a 
 famous masterpiece of sculpture, while on the walls hung 
 a series of engravings from Kaulbach's pictures; both 
 bronzes and engravings having been lent by the president 
 of the university, with the praiseworthy though futile 
 design of making the room a little less hopelessly barn- 
 like. Wooden benches were ranged around the walls, 
 and on the floor was a red and black ingrain carpet, of 
 the style affected by country churches. On this carpet 
 the young people danced whenever they got a chance, 
 and certain serious young professors, animated by a be- 
 lated desire for frivolity, laboriously studied the Terpsi- 
 chorean art under the direction of a French dancing 
 master, imported from heaven knew where. 
 
 Isabel certainly found it entertaining, even to look on, 
 and would have found it more so if she had not longed so 
 intensely to be dancing with the others. It was not 
 expected of her father's daughter, but she often felt that 
 all that saved her from breaking the promise made so 
 long ago, was the fact that she didn't know how. She 
 never lacked company, for one boy or another always 
 seemed glad to sit out the dances with her, and so, with 
 what philosophy she could muster, she contented herself 
 with the half loaf. Only, she sighed to herself, she had, 
 
Isabel Stirling 149 
 
 after all, little taste for boys. Lansing Fordyce had 
 spoiled her for them. She cast a more interested eye 
 toward the serious young professors, but they were too 
 intent on practising their steps to care for ever so pretty 
 a girl who could not advance their nimbleness. 
 
 Of the boys, young Harry Burton was the most con- 
 stant in his attentions, the most eagerly ready to turn 
 aside from the dancing and sit beside her. By degrees 
 Isabel fell into a friendly liking for him and found her- 
 self not too bored by his prattle about himself, his friends, 
 his studies and amusements, and the family to whom he 
 was ever loyally devoted. 
 
 But with the coming of the New Year she found her 
 most absorbing amusement in what seemed like a serious 
 occupation. Edmund Gifford, who was an affectionate, 
 but autocratic, elder brother, and who really loved to 
 teach, had insisted that, even though "out of school," 
 Jessie ought to be learning something, and that she could 
 not do better than to learn of him ; and he had taken very 
 kindly to her suggestion that she would like Isabel for a 
 companion in her lessons. To Isabel the opportunity 
 seemed heaven-sent. Every Saturday morning she went 
 with Jessie to his study; and she would far rather have 
 missed the afternoon dance than the morning lesson. 
 
 Edmund was pleasing himself by experimenting with 
 certain theories of his own as to the stimulation of the 
 youthful intellect. First of all, he was teaching them 
 English, occasionally, by what seemed to his sister a 
 roundabout way. 
 
 "But it isn't to teach you French," he explained, when 
 he told them to bring him written translations. "It's to 
 enlarge your English vocabulary and teach you precision." 
 
 Jessie translated with conscience and Isabel with en- 
 thusiasm and a certain inspiration. The search for the 
 right word, the exact shade of meaning, seemed to her 
 quite the most fascinating game that could be played. 
 She astonished her teacher, who had found only measured 
 praise for his sister's faithful work. 
 
 "Good — very good — very good indeed," he said to her 
 
150 Isabel Stirling 
 
 after one of her most successful performances. "You Ve 
 got at the spirit of it. Some day, I think " 
 
 "Yes — " she said eagerly, as he paused. "Some 
 day — what?" 
 
 "Some day when you have lived long enough to have 
 something to say, you may be able to write/' he said 
 judicially. 
 
 She turned crimson with delight. "Oh — something to 
 say I" she breathed. 
 
 Edmund regarded her smilingly. It was agreeable to 
 play with her excitement. "When you get old," he said, 
 "you can write your reminiscences of these first days of 
 the university. It will make good reading if someone 
 doesn't edit all the interesting things out of it." 
 
 "But I don't want to wait till I'm old. It's too long 
 even to think of !" 
 
 "You'll have to suppress too much if you do it sooner." 
 
 She laughed. "For instance, the two tall ladies who 
 stood on guard, one on each side of Professor Fielding 
 Browne in the bay window at the Founder's Day recep- 
 tion — and each of them so afraid the other would get him 
 to turn her way." 
 
 "And old Professor Hyde," put in Jessie, "with his 
 dignity and his gray hair and his flirtatiousness and his 
 French receptions where people talk English in corners 
 and he calls them to order in slow French." 
 
 "Don't forget our Founder, who wants every student 
 who fails in his examinations to be given a fresh chance 
 every time," remarked Edmund. 
 
 "It's so nice of him," said Jessie. "And have you 
 thought of Mrs. Bellenden ?" she went on. She can't walk 
 a step, but can dance all night, and in the daytime lies in 
 bed in her best nightgown, pinned with a big coral brooch, 
 and receives calls from her dancing partners. She let 
 you in, didn't she, Edmund?" 
 
 "She did," replied Edmund, "and she was very agree- 
 able. You might write a novel, you know," he con- 
 tinued, turning to Isabel, "and leave the country before 
 it was published." 
 
Isabel Stirling 151 
 
 "Are you going to write one?" 
 
 "I'm sorry to say that I can't do anything half so 
 entertaining. My mind doesn't work that way." 
 
 "He has a North American Review kind of mind," 
 said Jessie with pride, 
 
 "Oh, not so bad as that, I hope," said her brother with 
 a grimace. 
 
 "I think he has any kind of mind he wants to have," 
 said Isabel. 
 
 "Now that," said Edmund, "is the way I like a pupil 
 to speak. I shall give you something very nice and diffi- 
 cult to do for next time — because you will like it, although 
 Jessie won't. Jessie is lazy. As for you, Isabel, you 
 are madly industrious when your industry is going to be 
 appreciated. I don't quite know what you would be on a 
 desert island. Perhaps you would sit on the sand and 
 think what you were going to do the next day." 
 
 Isabel flushed. "I usually do the thing I intend to do," 
 she said with spirit. 
 
 Edmund laughed. "You haven't tried it on the desert 
 island." 
 
XXVIII 
 
 Isabel rushed home from her lesson and flew to shut' 
 herself up in her own room. Her brain was awhirl with 
 the new idea. Of course — why, of course she would 
 write the book — the novel. Naturally, she must do it in 
 dead secrecy. Even Edmund, who had given her the 
 idea, must never know it. She locked her door and sat 
 down to think it over, glad that she need not be hurrying 
 to dress for Edgewood House, although in the morning 
 she had been disappointed and a little aggrieved at re- 
 ceiving a note from Mrs. Bellenden, countermanding the 
 invitation for that afternoon, on account of a violent 
 headache. What business had anyone to have headaches ? 
 But now it was different. Mrs. Bellenden could have all 
 the headaches she liked. 
 
 Her plan was entrancing in the large; details, as she 
 at once realized, might be perplexing. There was plenty 
 of material, delicious material; but a novel could not 
 consist altogether of descriptions of odd or interesting 
 people. She must construct a plot. And of course there 
 must be love — anguish and ecstasy. Well, she thought 
 she knew all about that, and gave a short laugh at the 
 idea of turning her own sad experience to use. She 
 walked up and down the room, clasping and unclasping 
 her hands, her brain filled with chaotic ideas. 
 
 In the midst of her creative ardor she was summoned 
 to dinner. She took her place at the table and ate 
 dreamily, but with a good appetite, quite unobservant that 
 Lydia, who was usually deliberate over the important 
 function of a meal, was in a flutter of haste to get this 
 one over. Dr. Stirling, however, took as much time as 
 usual. When at last he had finished, he went to his study, 
 but not to remain. It was his custom to finish his sermon 
 
 152 " 
 
Isabel Stirling 153 
 
 by noon on Saturday and then, in order to satisfy his 
 conscience by denying himself the pleasure of absorption 
 in his studies during the hours preceding his strenuous 
 Sunday labors, to spend the afternoon in a long walk. 
 To-day he started out early. 
 
 Isabel went again to her room, but presently was seized 
 with a desire to get out of doors. She felt that a walk 
 in the open air would help her to marshal her thronging, 
 but confused, ideas. As she came downstairs in her hat 
 and coat she remembered that Lydia had asked her to do 
 an errand for her, a trifling bit of shopping, and she 
 went into the little sitting-room for the sample which she 
 was to match. Lydia was not there and she looked on 
 the desk, thinking to find what she wanted. What met 
 her eyes was a neat pile of books which, familiar enough 
 in themselves, looked oddly out of place there ; a French 
 grammar and dictionary and a note-book, such as she 
 had always used for her own exercises. Lydia was no 
 student and seldom even read a book. While Isabel stood 
 gazing in surprise and amusement her stepmother came 
 rustling down the stairs and into the room. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" she asked sharply. 
 
 Isabel noticed that she had changed her dress for one 
 which she usually reserved for small festivities. "I came 
 for the sample of ribbon," she said. "You know you 
 wanted me to match it for you." She couldn't refrain 
 from adding: "Are you studying French?" 
 
 "And why not?" asked Lydia, recovering her usual 
 manner. "Did you fancy that one ever gave up learning?" 
 
 Isabel stared. "Why, no— -only " 
 
 "Little schoolgirls mustn't imagine that they are the 
 only persons who ever do any studying. Here is the 
 ribbon, and I want a yard and three-quarters — and it 
 must match exactly." 
 
 Out in the clear cold air Isabel soon forgot her step- 
 mother's vagaries. Down in Main Street she met sev- 
 eral of the university ladies; Saturday afternoon was a 
 great time for them to go out walking or shopping with 
 their husbands. Professor Boyd and his pretty young 
 
154 Isabel Stirling 
 
 wife passed her with a cheerful greeting. She had a 
 pleasant acquaintance with Mrs. Boyd, dating from the 
 first formal call, which she had made under Lydia's 
 escort. Lydia had been quick to take advantage of the 
 opportunity afforded by the young woman's appearance 
 at Dr. Stirling's church one Sunday morning; the only 
 time she ever did go there. Lydia's acquaintance with 
 her never got much forwarder, but Amy Boyd lost her 
 heart to the minister's daughter. In response to a cordial 
 urgency Isabel had been several times to the little house 
 and was already learning something of university life 
 from the point of view of a young pair who had married 
 on the strength of a small salary and large hopes. 
 
 After she had conscientiously matched the ribbon she 
 turned out of Main Street in a direction which led to the 
 outskirts of the village, stepping briskly on the crisp snow 
 with which the sidewalk was covered. Her thoughts 
 went on joyously to the novel, whose problems she con- 
 fronted with confidence. How, in the first place, was she 
 to tell the story so as to bring in as much as possible of 
 the life of the university? She decided that it must be 
 told from the point of view of the newcomers. Might 
 she not write a series of letters from a young professor's 
 wife — or a journal? But no- — there must be a love story, 
 and it was not conceivable to Isabel that a married woman 
 should have love affairs. What about a professor's 
 sister ? Yes, that would exactly do. A young sister who 
 had come to stay with her brother and his wife and who 
 would be in the heart of things and yet quite free to have 
 affairs of her own. Professor Boyd's sister, for instance. 
 She found herself laughing aloud at the thought. How 
 little the Boyds would suspect that they had a shadowy 
 sister beside them — a busy sister, taking notes with ail 
 her might. Oh, what fun ! 
 
 She set to work to plan her first chapter. She would 
 write neither letters nor journal, but would just let the 
 professor's sister tell the story. Her heroine should be 
 named Eleanor Maitland. As Eleanor Maitland she 
 herself would lead a far more amusing life than Isabel 
 
Isabel Stirling 155 
 
 Stirling was living. She was suddenly in a great hurry- 
 to get home. She must begin at once. 
 
 She had now reached a bridge crossing one of the 
 creeks which make their way from the hills above 
 Ptolemy to the lake below, and in spite of her haste, she 
 stopped for a moment to watch the waterfall which comes 
 foaming down over the rocks a little above the bridge. It 
 fell now between banks fringed with enormous and fan- 
 tastic icicles. Would she have to put descriptions of 
 Nature in her novel? What a wonderfully beautiful 
 spectacle this was, with all that ice glittering in the sun- 
 shine ; and how little she had ever really noticed or cared 
 for such things. She wondered why, not realizing how 
 little time she had to spare from her absorption in herself. 
 However, she would now cultivate Nature. Suddenly a 
 voice behind her made her start. 
 
 "Oh, how do you do, Miss Stirling," said the voice, and 
 turning, she confronted young Harry Burton. 
 
 "This is certainly good luck," he said, cheerfully con- 
 fident that it was good luck for both of them. "Isn't 
 that a bully sight — that fall and all ? Oh, I beg your par- 
 don for my slang." 
 
 "No, don't. I like 'bully' ". 
 
 They stood for a moment and then walked on. After 
 all, it was pleasant to have a companion. Besides, Eleanor 
 Maitland must see something of the students. As Eleanor 
 she made herself more agreeable to him than she had 
 ever done in her own person, and he told her over again, 
 more intimately than ever, all about his past, present and 
 future. She listened and questioned with a most delight- 
 ful appearance of sympathy, storing in her memory a 
 choice collection of slang phrases. She was in such a 
 desperate hurry to write them down that when, as the 
 short winter afternoon was drawing to a close, they 
 reached the door of the parsonage, she greatly dis- 
 appointed him by not inviting him to come in. However, 
 when he showed a disposition to keep her lingering out- 
 side she did ask him to come to see her soon, and with that 
 he went away in good spirits. 
 
156 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Isabel, all flushed and tingling with her cold walk, 
 paused a moment in the hall to take off her rubber over- 
 shoes. The parlor door was half closed and from within 
 came voices, Lydia's high tones alternating with deeper 
 ones. Isabel paused, arrested in the act of pushing off 
 one overshoe with the toe of the other foot. She had 
 realized suddenly that Lydia was speaking French — very 
 halting, slow, and incorrect French, to be sure, and 
 spoken with an honest American accent. 
 
 "I never can understand Monsieur Giraud at all," she 
 was saying, "but I understand you perfectly. You speak 
 so well." 
 
 Monsieur Giraud, as Isabel knew, was a young French- 
 man, an instructor in the university. But to whom was 
 this ambiguous compliment addressed ? She felt that she 
 must find out, or perish in the attempt. She tiptoed to 
 the parlor door and, keeping well in the shadow, peeped 
 in. In the light which came through a west window she 
 was able to descry the leonine mane and classical features 
 of old Professor Hyde. Luckily Lydia had her back 
 turned to the door. 
 
 Isabel fled to her room. She was divided between 
 astonishment, mirth and scorn — that illimitable scorn 
 which the young feel for the follies of their elders. As 
 she put away her hat and coat an audacious idea nearly 
 took her breath away. Dare she put Lydia into the 
 book? 
 
XXIX 
 
 Life now became busy and interesting, and one circum- 
 stance which had been a grief — if not a grievance — could 
 be looked upon as a distinct advantage. Isabel had pitied 
 herself because no one in the world seemed to need her ; 
 now she rejoiced in her freedom. The requirements of 
 religion took little time; social duties took less, for al- 
 though Lydia had at first seemed desirous of her com- 
 pany in paying visits and the like, she now encouraged 
 the girl to go about by herself. For the rest, it was 
 understood that she and Jessie were studying regularly. 
 There would be no lack of time to write, no embarrassing 
 questions as to her occupations. She even ceased to 
 lament over what had been to her a sad disappointment ; 
 the fact that Lydia had been distinctly discouraging to 
 her plan of inviting several of her schoolmates to visit 
 her. She addressed herself with enthusiasm to her task. 
 
 Amy Boyd rejoiced at her increasing intimacy, for 
 there were many hours of loneliness for the young wife 
 in her little house, while her husband was busy with his 
 classes or in his study, and Isabel was soon almost as 
 much behind the scenes in the household as if she had 
 really been Eleanor. It gave her the strangest feeling of 
 duality, for sometimes she was quite simply herself, and 
 at other times she was playing with all her might at being 
 Eleanor. 
 
 "She's an odd girl," said Amy Boyd to her husband. 
 "She is so interested in everything and yet at times so 
 detached. One wonders what she is really thinking of." 
 
 "Of Harry Burton, perhaps." 
 
 "No," said Amy slowly, "I don't think she is. I don't 
 think she cares for him at all." 
 
 "Then she isn't behaving prettily." 
 
 The criticism would have astonished her. Eleanor 
 
 157 
 
158 Isabel Stirling 
 
 must of course have some experience with young men and 
 Harry Burton was the first to present himself. He did 
 not seem to her a person to be taken seriously. In fact, 
 her recent experience with Fordyce led her to think that 
 no man need be taken very seriously. Probably none of 
 them meant anything. As to Harry Burton, that he did 
 not weary her was only because she found it so immensely 
 amusing to be playing a part. But serious or not serious, 
 it had not so far occurred to her that, as Isabel, she 
 would be called to account for Eleanor's diversions. 
 
 Meantime, she was getting more and more into the 
 inside of university life and was all the time growing 
 more sympathetic with the difficulties of impecunious 
 professors, or rather, of the poor professors' wives. She 
 met a good many of them at the Boyds', heard much dis- 
 cussion of their problems, and was sometimes startled by 
 their conclusions. 
 
 "It's my opinion," said Mrs. Henderson one day, "that 
 there are just three courses for a college professor to 
 take as to his domestic life — in case, of course, he hasn't 
 any private income of his own." 
 
 "Hardly worth while making the exception," put in 
 little Mrs. Foster, looking up briefly from her sewing. 
 "A professor with a private income is almost as rare as 
 a white crow." 
 
 "There's Professor Hardinge," said Amy Boyd, "and 
 the president." 
 
 "Presidents don't count," replied the other. "And 
 Professor Hardinge is the white crow. Well, Mrs. 
 Henderson, what are the three courses. We want to 
 know what our husbands ought to have done." 
 
 "Either," resumed Mrs. Henderson, "the professor 
 should remain unmarried, or he should marry a woman 
 of independent fortune, or he should marry a person not 
 much above the servant class — or — well, there's a fourth 
 alternative. They shouldn't have any children." 
 
 "I think you're horrid," said Amy. "I have no money, 
 I'm not of the servant class, and I'm sure Henry is as 
 glad he married me as I am that I married him." 
 
Isabel Stirling 159 
 
 "Do you have any more income than you spend?" 
 asked Mrs. Henderson. 
 
 "No, but we hope the income will be larger." 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Henderson, "we have three hundred 
 dollars more than you. We have three children. That 
 isn't many. Yet it means that I have to do the work 
 of a servant — several servants, in fact. I'm well edu- 
 cated. I thought I was going to be a companion to 
 my husband. Also, I liked being pretty — as I used to 
 be. I'm not a companion to my husband ; I'm not pretty 
 any more; and I'm not trained to do the work I'm doing. 
 I'm not even a very good mother. I haven't time to be 
 — or strength. When I'm tired or in a hurry — and I'm 
 always tired and in a hurry, then I'm cross and unjust. 
 As to an increase of salary — don't you believe it. I 
 suppose President Annesley told your husband that it 
 would come almost immediately?". 
 
 "Yes," said Amy. "I suppose that most of the young 
 men came on that understanding." 
 
 "Of course. Well, the president is optimistic and 
 believed in his own promises. But the university is 
 trying to be big, and it hasn't got the money. Presi- 
 dent Annesley would rather make a new department 
 than do anything else in the world. And the professors' 
 salaries will be the last thing he and the trustees will 
 worry about. They say there are lots of young profes- 
 sors wanting jobs. The supply is greater than the 
 demand. And President Annesley is a delightful man, 
 but he hasn't an ounce of practical knowledge of money. 
 He was born with a gold spoon in his mouth — and his 
 fairy godmother denied him the gift of imagination. 
 So there you are." 
 
 "But," persisted Amy, "Henry thinks all the incon- 
 veniences — the simple living and all that — are worth 
 while, if a man can only do his work — the real work 
 for which he was made. Of course the worst is the 
 lack of proper apparatus and all the books one needs — 
 but those will come." 
 
 "Oh, yes," scoffed Mrs. Henderson. "Plain living 
 
160 Isabel Stirling 
 
 and high thinking. We all hear that. Only the trouble 
 is, the high thinking falls to the man, and his wife has 
 such a hard time with the plain living that she can't 
 think at all, much less think highly." 
 
 Isabel listened with all her ears. It was the same 
 story with so many of them. As far as she could make 
 out, drudgery, debt and discouragement seemed to be 
 the lot of the women. Some of the husbands pursued 
 their way indifferent or oblivious to the turmoil of the 
 family life ; others, more sensitive, denied themselves all 
 rest and leisure and even, it was whispered, cheapened 
 themselves in the eyes of the learned, in order to earn a 
 few dollars by writing popular magazine articles or lec- 
 tures. But, as someone commented caustically, the 
 trustees didn't care a hang about the quality of a man's 
 publications. They respected him in proportion to the 
 number of his printed words. Meantime, life was still 
 rose-colored to Amy Boyd, although even she would say 
 sometimes: 
 
 "If only Ptolemy people weren't so hospitable, and if 
 only Ptolemy mud were not so deep! We can't afford 
 a carriage for their parties and it's so hard to walk up 
 and down all these endless hills." 
 
 Isabel put it all into the book. In the book she went 
 to all the parties. She went in overshoes and waterproof 
 cloak, holding up her dress carefully. But what did that 
 matter? In the book she danced like a sylph and was 
 the belle of every ball. 
 
 More and more insistent was the temptation to put 
 Lydia in the book. Not, of course, as a minister's wife, 
 nor as anybody's stepmother. Isabel had her niche all 
 ready for her. A lady of Ptolemy she was to be,* un- 
 married and not too poor; and she was to display all 
 her little coquetries. 
 
 For a long time she resisted temptation, yielding at 
 last as a matter of experiment. "I'll just try it," she 
 said to herself, "and see how it goes." It went so well 
 that she continued. The scenes in which Lydia figured 
 seemed to write themselves. Reading them over, she 
 
Isabel Stirling 161 
 
 hadn't the heart to take them out. Lydia was by far 
 the most real person in the book and so wove herself 
 into the story that at last it seemed that she could not 
 be taken out without disintegrating the whole fabric. 
 But in personal appearance Isabel made her quite differ- 
 ent from the real Lydia. In fact, that was her one 
 precaution with all her characters. She slipped them 
 into different bodies, made the tall short and the short 
 tall, the brunette fair and the blonde dark; often with 
 a feeling that she was thereby lessening their effective- 
 ness. She wondered whether the soul really took the 
 pattern of the body, or whether simply she could not see 
 deeply enough. Lydia couldn't be quite Lydia to her 
 without that elaborate sandy coiffure and those pale 
 greenish eyes. Yet in portraying her stepmother she 
 was too near the truth for safety. On Amy, her happy, 
 make-believe sister, she put her most loving touches. 
 And then one day she discovered her friend in tears. 
 
 "Oh, Amy dear, what is it?" she exclaimed. 
 
 Amy raised her head and wiped her eyes drearily. 
 Her pretty light hair was all ruffled and damp. "I'm 
 going to have a baby," she said. 
 
 "But that will be lovely," said Isabel shyly. The 
 girls of her generation did not talk easily about such 
 matters. 
 
 "No, it won't. It will be perfectly horrid. It's the 
 end of Henry and me — and the beginning of Mrs. 
 Henderson." 
 
 "I thought people always expected to have a baby," 
 said Isabel blushing. 
 
 Amy laughed through her tears. "I suppose they do, 
 in a way," she said. "But you see, when we got here 
 and saw what life was going to be like, I hoped it 
 wouldn't be for a good while yet. Why, we've only 
 just begun to have a good time together, Henry and I." 
 
 Isabel felt sympathetic and embarrassed. She won- 
 dered what Eleanor would say and do. She would be 
 the maiden aunt and a great help, doubtless. 
 
 "Isn't there anything I can do for you?" she asked. 
 
162 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "You dear thing!" said Amy, putting out her hand 
 impulsively to clasp Isabel's. "No, I must dree my 
 weird by myself. I shall be very uninteresting to you 
 — making baby-clothes and looking horrid, and after- 
 wards all taken up with It. If only I could be sure it 
 would be the only It!" 
 
 "I'm sorry for you," said the make-believe sister. 
 "I'll come and help you sew — and do all I can." 
 
 "And be a sort of aunt to It," said Amy. "Well, 
 let's make the best of the time while there's any time 
 left." 
 
 At first Isabel was too sympathetic to think of any- 
 thing but the real Amy and her troubles, but as time 
 went on she wondered whether she could put such busi- 
 ness as that in the book. She saw that it was needed to 
 complete the picture of real life, but it seemed horribly 
 immodest to write about such a thing. She put it off, 
 weighed it in her mind, and then one day locked her 
 door and, blushing immoderately, set herself to write of 
 the trial of a coming baby when one was happy without 
 it and would be too poor with it. Fortunately she wrote 
 as the young maiden aunt-to-be, and the immaturity of 
 her point of view was in character. 
 
XXX 
 
 It really did not occur to Dr. Stirling that a young man's 
 attendance at his Sunday evening service meant anything 
 else than that the young man had been properly brought 
 up and had retained, even amid the distractions and 
 temptations of college life, a proper respect for religion. 
 To Lydia it furnished a strengthening of her argument 
 that, the university once established, it behooved them 
 to gain and keep what influence they could with students 
 and professors, even to the point of joining in their social 
 diversions. Not that Lydia was in the least deceived as 
 to the true cause of Harry Burton's churchgoing. When 
 they happened to meet at the church door — a meeting 
 which seldom failed to take place — she invited him into 
 the minister's pew, and after the service was over, dis- 
 patched the two young people ahead, while she waited 
 for her husband ; and if they loitered by the way so that 
 she and William passed them and reached home before 
 them, no notice was taken of the matter even by the 
 minister, it being very much the custom for a girl to 
 be escorted home by a young man. True, he would 
 not have allowed Isabel to invite an escort to come into 
 the house on a Sunday evening, but as winter yielded to 
 spring, and spring to early summer, the young people 
 could linger on the porch with impunity. Their voices 
 were inaudible in the study, to which Dr. Stirling always 
 betook himself gladly. 
 
 It was on the porch, on a moonlight evening in early 
 June, that young Harry Burton brought home to Isabel 
 the drawbacks of a double personality. As Eleanor, she 
 still found herself amused by her flirtation with him and 
 was altogether taken aback when, as Isabel, she was held 
 to account for the encouragement she had given him. 
 
 163 
 
164 Isabel Stirling 
 
 In point of fact, he had not needed much encouragement, 
 being an optimistic lad. He was so sure of her answer 
 that he didn't even wait for it. He was at some pains, 
 however, to explain his prospects. 
 
 "You are the only girl I have ever cared for," said 
 he, "and you have been so good to me that I know you 
 care too. As soon as I've finished my law course at 
 Columbia my father is going to take me into partner- 
 ship — and then we can be married." He tried to possess 
 himself of her hand. 
 
 "Oh, no!" said Isabel, hastily drawing it away. 
 
 " 'Oh, no !' " he mimicked her. "What do you mean 
 by 'oh, no' ? No one can see." He put his arm around 
 her. 
 
 She jumped quickly from her seat beside him. "I've 
 never thought of such a thing!" she exclaimed. "You 
 mustn't think of it either." 
 
 "Oh, well!" He laughed a little at her. "I like a 
 girl to be a little stand-offish — but not too much. Of 
 course you've thought of it. I've given you every reason 
 to. Sit down again. I won't touch you till you let me, 
 but we've got to talk about it." 
 
 She was half frightened, half angry, at his confident 
 tone. She would not sit down, but leaned against a 
 pillar of the porch. "There's no use talking," she said 
 firmly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, there is," he replied cheerfully. "I want to 
 tell you how I fell in love with you the first time I saw 
 you — and I'm sure I made it plain enough. You've 
 always liked me too — you know you have. It seemed 
 so jolly that we should be falling in love right along 
 together — just coming to meet each other — and no 
 agonies about it." 
 
 "But I wasn't— I didn't!" 
 
 "I suppose you weren't thinking as much about it as 
 I was," he answered, a little more soberly. "But now 
 — now that you know how much I care. I haven't got 
 the words to tell you how much I care — dear, sweet, 
 beautiful Isabel!" 
 
Isabel Stirling 165 
 
 There was a thrill and tremor in his voice, and in 
 the moonlight his young face showed a gravity and an 
 emotion which she had never seen in him before. She 
 had a sudden sick feeling. What had she been doing, 
 playing make-believe with this? Why, this was real! 
 She had to answer, to say something. Her voice faltered 
 over the words which she tried to make clear enough. 
 
 He argued, he was incredulous, it seemed that he 
 would never understand; but when he was at last con- 
 vinced that she was seriously refusing him he was hotly 
 indignant. He told her she was a heartless flirt and her 
 conscience told her that he was speaking the truth. She 
 was very humble, terribly remorseful, begged him to 
 forgive her if she had misled him, said she was sorry. 
 
 "Sorry !" he retorted. "I don't believe it. You've had 
 lots of fun out of me, no doubt." 
 
 And that, too, was true. 
 
 When he had at last taken himself away, sore and 
 angry, she went upstairs, feeling utterly miserable and 
 ashamed. That she, with her ideals, should have behaved 
 so abominably, seemed incredible. It was all the fault 
 of the book and her silly idea that she could play at 
 being an imaginary person. She wished she had never 
 thought of the book. A sly imp told her that she had 
 acquired a valuable chapter, but she repelled the idea. 
 Never, she told herself, could she make copy of such an 
 experience. On that she at last went to sleep. 
 
 As the days passed she found herself taking a more 
 cheerful view of the matter. She was still sorry and 
 ashamed, but Harry Burton's heart would mend. She 
 couldn't imagine him in the role of a despairing hero. 
 Of course she was going to be very careful in the future, 
 but suppose she did use this experience. He would never 
 know it. She went to her desk. As she placed a sheet 
 of paper before her she suddenly laughed aloud. "The 
 female Goethe!" she said jeeringly and dipped her pen 
 into the ink. . . . 
 
 But even when all possible use had been made of this 
 episode, her heroine was not fitted with a lover. Well, 
 
166 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the one safe thing for her to do was to cast Lansing 
 Fordyce for the part. She need not even trouble herself 
 to put him in a different body. Making him a professor 
 would be a sufficient disguise; and a fascinating young 
 professor she proposed him to be. Her industry received 
 a fresh stimulus. 
 
 But after all, the affair went slowly. It was all smooth 
 sailing as long as she occupied herself with descriptions 
 of his personal appearance and certain little tricks of 
 phrase and manner; and with the effect of his personality 
 on her Eleanor. But then came difficulties; and in de- 
 spair she locked up her manuscript and did not look at it 
 for a month. For when she tried to imagine how her 
 hero would behave and what he would say under certain 
 circumstances, she found herself against a blank wall. 
 She didn't in the least know what he would think or do. 
 She knew other people. Harry Burton was an open 
 book to her, and she had a fair conception of Edmund 
 Gifford and even of Henry Boyd, but Lansing Fordyce, 
 the man to whom she had been willing to hand herself 
 over, soul and body, she seemed not to know at all. The 
 thought gave her pause. What was it, then, that she 
 had loved? Was it only his good looks and his charm- 
 ing manner ? She repudiated the thought. Had she then, 
 although so ignorant of detail, really divined the spirit- 
 ual part of him, and was that what she loved? She 
 would fain have thought so, but there was his summary 
 and inexplicable leave-taking. She had never been will- 
 ing to believe that he had been flirting with her, even as 
 she had flirted with Harry Burton — but . . . 
 
 In her crude attempt at creative work she was learning 
 to think, to analyze, to differentiate. 
 
XXXI 
 
 There was one person besides Amy Boyd who had 
 noticed Isabel's odd detachment of mind. Edmund 
 Gifford watched her curiously, wondering what had 
 happened to her. Not but what her lessons were as 
 well prepared as usual. She was as eager as ever to 
 learn, more eager, if possible, but there was a look in 
 her eyes as if she were seeing something beyond the 
 vision of the others; and sometimes an amused little 
 smile hovered on her lips, as if at a joke in which they 
 had no share. 
 
 "What is it?" he said suddenly one day, when the 
 smile was particularly provoking to his curiosity. 
 
 She started and flushed. "What is what?" She 
 looked guilty. 
 
 "Have you eaten the canary?" 
 
 "Do I look like the cat?" 
 
 "You look as if you might have eaten the canarv." 
 
 "Well, I haven't." A fresh smile flashed out. "But 
 perhaps I shall, yet." 
 
 Then, to avoid his inquisitive eyes, she asked what he 
 was doing. She and Jessie had just come into his study 
 for their lesson and he had not yet put away the work 
 which had engaged him at their entrance. 
 
 "But what is it ?" repeated Isabel as, instead of answer- 
 ing her question, he continued to look at her. 
 
 "It is proof," he replied, beginning to roll up the long 
 strips. "Galley proof that I have to correct." 
 
 "Oh, let me see." She wondered excitedly whether 
 she would ever have proof of her own to correct. "It 
 must be awfully difficult." 
 
 167 
 
168 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "No, you can learn it all in the back of the dictionary." 
 He was laying it aside. 
 
 "But mayn't I look at it? I want to see how you do 
 it — and I'd like to see something that is going to be in 
 a book. Is it for the North American?" 
 
 "Sit down over here then, and I'll give you a five 
 minutes' lesson." 
 
 She and Jessie usually placed themselves on the opposite 
 side of the table, but now she went and sat beside him 
 while he made the cabalistic marks of correction. He 
 explained them to her and let her make some of the 
 corrections herself. And then an odd thing happened 
 to him. For when, in her absorption, she leaned so near 
 him that her hair brushed his face, he found that he 
 could not keep his mind fixed on the subject of proof 
 corrections. Instead, he was seized with a perfectly 
 absurd desire to kiss the pink tip of her little ear. He 
 drew back hastily, a little disconcerted and a little amused. 
 He wondered what she would say if he yielded to the 
 impulse. 
 
 "Is this the end?" she asked regretfully, as she fame 
 to the bottom of the long strip. 
 
 "This is the end," he replied, rolling it up. "You make 
 a very successful proof-reader." 
 
 "It's great fun," she said, as she went back to her 
 usual place beside Jessie. She told herself joyfully that 
 it was a good thing to have learned, in case of need. 
 
 They began the lesson, but both teacher and pupil were 
 a little preoccupied. It had just occurred to Isabel that 
 she might, for her hero of fiction, make a composite of 
 Lansing Fordyce and Edmund — put Edmund in For- 
 dyce's body. She had such opportunities to study him 
 and this time she would be absolutely safe. Edmund was 
 almost like a brother. But somehow, she couldn't quite 
 see him in Fordyce's body. She was looking at him with 
 a fixed gaze of which she was unaware. With a self- 
 consciousness which was new to him, he repeated a 
 question impatiently, but she did not hear him. 
 
Isabel Stirling 169 
 
 "Do you think," she asked suddenly, "that people's 
 souls are the same shape as their bodies?" 
 
 Jessie, who had been conscientiously fixing her mind 
 on the lesson, looked up in surprise, and Edmund 
 laughed. 
 
 "I don't quite see the connection," he said. "How- 
 ever — we don't mind digressions. Well, I hope not." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because, personally, it would annoy me. It might 
 do very well for you or Jessie. But bodily, you see, 
 I'm not as tall as I could wish, and more inclined to 
 fatness than I find pleasing. I'd like to think of my soul 
 as more symmetrical than my body." 
 
 "A tall, slender soul?" said Isabel, laughing too, but 
 still looking at him with that odd scrutiny. 
 
 "Tall — yes; slender, if you like — but not meagre. I 
 shouldn't like a meagre soul." 
 
 "An Apollo of a soul," put in Jessie. "And I wonder 
 what mine is like." 
 
 "Yours is like you," said Isabel. "Awfully sweet, 
 but with a nice little tang to it." 
 
 "Shall we say a sort of worldly Madonna?" said 
 Edmund. 
 
 "Yes, just that. And mine? What is mine like?" 
 
 "Yours will do very well if it is like Isabel Stirling." 
 
 She was too intent on following up the subject to 
 notice the swift look he gave her. "Seems to me it 
 might do better than that," she said. "I want a pretty 
 comparison too." 
 
 "She doesn't need it!" cried Jessie. "She's the only 
 one of us that can really afford to have the soul that 
 goes with her body." 
 
 "I wonder — " began Isabel, and stopped. 
 
 "Oh, yes, you can." 
 
 But that was not what she had meant. She had 
 seemed suddenly to get a glimpse of her soul, and she 
 wondered whether it might not be too well housed for 
 its deserts. It was a disconcerting thought and she 
 made haste to put it aside, while she told herself that 
 
170 Isabel Stirling 
 
 at all events she could try the experiment of giving 
 Edmund's soul the tenement he thought suited to it. 
 She only said: 
 
 "Please, Teacher, excuse me for interrupting the 
 lesson." 
 
XXXII 
 
 This summer was very different from the last. Cassie 
 Maiden, who had contributed so much to the gayety last 
 year, had gone abroad with her father ; and Jessie was 
 engaged. Ralph Everett had been faithful. He had come 
 back to finish his course and he had not taken her refusal 
 too seriously. Just before Commencement she had ac- 
 cepted him, but they were not to be married for the 
 present. Isabel had a wistful feeling of being left alone. 
 The book had been coming on spasmodically. There were 
 days and weeks when she was horribly tired of it and 
 wished it had never been begun. The thing which was 
 most apt to send her back to it was the recollection of 
 Edmund's insinuation that her industry needed the spur 
 of appreciation. "I am trying it on the desert island," 
 she would say to herself, "and I'm going to do it !" 
 
 She had long lost sight of any half -cherished notion of 
 taking Lydia out of the book. She was too important 
 an element of comedy. Most comic of all, in her step- 
 daughter's eyes, was her friendship with Professor Hyde. 
 Up to the time of his going away for his vacation he had 
 continued his visits at the parsonage, always, Isabel half 
 unconsciously noted, on the afternoons when her father 
 made his parochial visits or went for his walk. It never 
 occurred to her innocence that married men and married 
 women could do anything out of the way in their friend- 
 ships. Marriage was, to her thinking, a fold within which 
 everyone, or at least, everyone you knew, was secure. 
 But it certainly did strike her as absurd ; and for her own 
 purposes, she made the most of the absurdity. 
 
 When she got warmed up to her work, however, she 
 found that experimenting with Edmund's soul in Lansing 
 Fordyce's body was even more entertaining than the de- 
 
 171 
 
172 Isabel Stirling 
 
 piction of Lydia and her follies; and infinitely more 
 difficult. The intent, unconscious gaze of her gray eyes 
 always piqued Edmund's curiosity and discomfited or 
 attracted him, according to his mood at the time. 
 
 "I'd give more than a penny to know what you are 
 thinking about," he said to her one day when she had sat 
 looking at him for some moments without speaking. 
 
 She blushed up to her hair. "It wouldn't be worth it — 
 to you," she said, laughing. - 
 
 "To whom, then?" 
 
 "Oh, not to anyone." She still laughed. She hoped 
 to make her thoughts worth something to herself. . . . 
 
 In September the book was drawing to its conclusion. 
 Eleanor was to marry the composite hero, but the great 
 love scene obstinately refused to come off. And then 
 came the news that Amy's baby had arrived. 
 
 Duty to a friend required an early visit, but Isabel 
 went with shy reluctance. Eleanor, she reflected, would 
 be living in the house with it, but that did not seem to 
 make it easier for Isabel. 
 
 The servant, looking somewhat flustered and cross, 
 showed her into the sitting-room, from which Amy's 
 bedroom opened. Although it was a warm day there 
 was a fire in the fireplace. A rack, hung with various 
 articles of infant apparel, was standing in front of it and 
 the room was pervaded by a peculiar smell of damp 
 flannel, unlike anything Isabel had ever encountered be- 
 fore. Presently a fat old woman came from the bed- 
 room and spoke to her. Trained nurses were not yet 
 obtainable in country towns and Mrs. Brown was con- 
 sidered a good nurse. 
 
 "You can come right in," she said, and Isabel timidly 
 followed her into the other room. She went up to the 
 bed and kissed the pale and smiling Amy. Her friend 
 seemed to look at her across the gulf of an ennobling, 
 but terrifying experience; and she was incomprehensibly 
 absorbed in her hideous red baby. 
 
 "You must look at his darling little feet," she said; 
 
Isabel Stirling 173 
 
 and made the nurse unswathe them from the flannel 
 coverings. 
 
 Isabel cared nothing for babies' feet. 
 
 On the whole, it was a disillusioning visit and, as a 
 result of it, the idea of marriage nauseated her. Eventu- 
 ally she put the baby into the book, but she found it 
 more difficult than ever to make her heroine fall properly 
 in love with her hero. Since that was necessary (for 
 who ever heard of a novel where the heroine did not fall 
 in love with anybody?) she made a tremendous effort 
 to put herself back into the frame of mind of a year 
 before ; with the result that her Eleanor became a rather 
 pathetic picture of a girl yielding herself to love under 
 protest and in terror of the traps which life was setting 
 for her. 
 
 She was writing with determination now, intent on 
 finishing. But it took more time than she could have 
 imagined. The autumn was well advanced before the 
 final chapter was written. After it she childishly printed 
 "THE END" in large capitals. 
 
 Then she read it all through and gloated over it. It 
 did seem to her so remarkably good. She hoped, how- 
 ever, that her characters would not be so recognizable 
 to others as they appeared to herself. The process of 
 fitting them into their places in the tale had compelled 
 some modification of their personality, and the only con- 
 versations which she had given with an approach to 
 literalness were those in which she herself had taken 
 little part, or concerned such matters as everybody in 
 the university was talking about. Certain persons must 
 be recognized, but they were public characters, of whom 
 anyone might write, such as the president of the univer- 
 sity, and yes — Professor Hyde. She had a well-founded 
 idea that he was unmistakable. But personally she had 
 had little to do with him. Possibly the most searchingly 
 faithful portrait was that of Lydia, but a Lydia with 
 raven hair and olive skin, and unmarried, might well be 
 unrecognizable, at any rate, to herself. 
 
 But the manuscript seemed portentously long, especially 
 
174 Isabel Stirling 
 
 in view of the fact that it must all be copied. It was 
 written far too carelessly to send as it was. She had 
 learned from Edmund such technical details as writing 
 on one side of the paper and leaving fair margins, but of 
 revision she had hardly an idea. What she had written 
 seemed crystallized and unchangeable. She set herself to 
 the copying — a weary task, during which she welcomed 
 every interruption. The irksomeness of it made her 
 desire to cut the manuscript down and brought about a 
 sort of accidental revision. Yet in this she was after all 
 guided by a natural sense of proportion and an instinct 
 for selection. When at last she finished her copy the 
 novel was shorter by some thousands of words and better 
 put together than it had been in its first writing. She 
 was able to see the improvement. 
 
 With its completion came the necessity of considering 
 what was to be done with it. A publisher must be 
 found, but how? It seemed impossible for her to manage 
 the affair alone, if only on account of the danger entailed 
 in receiving letters, not to speak of a possibly returned 
 manuscript. But dare she confide in anybody ? Edmund 
 GifTord was the one person in the world who could be a 
 real help, but he was sure to insist on reading the book, 
 and what impediments would he place in her path ? Worst 
 of all, would he recognize himself ? Really, she thought 
 not. The more loverlike she had made her hero, the less 
 like Edmund he had been; for in no possible guise of 
 body could she picture Edmund as a lover. 
 
 After many hesitations she decided that the only thing 
 to do was to take him partially into her confidence. She 
 did not mean to let him read the manuscript — but if, after 
 all he insisted. . . . 
 
 She flushed with pleasure at the thought of his appre- 
 ciation. He would see how clever she was ! She would 
 speak to him the very next time she saw him alone. 
 
XXXIII 
 
 It seemed that a quite extraordinary opportunity was 
 presenting itself to Isabel the next evening. Her father 
 and Lydia had gone to a tea-party to which she, luckily, 
 was not invited. These parochial functions were not to 
 her taste. It was pleasant, once in a way, to have the 
 house to herself, but a bit lonely. She wished there were 
 something worth while to do, something exciting. She 
 wandered from the sitting-room to the parlor and ex- 
 travagantly lighted several gas burners there. She could 
 put them out before Lydia came back. The air seemed 
 chilly. It was already winter and there was a snow flurry 
 and a howling wind. If she could only put out the fire 
 on the hearth as easily as she could extinguish the gas 
 she would light that too. She opened the register, but 
 she wanted the fire. Why not brave Lydia' s disapproval ? 
 She stood with the match in her fingers when the door- 
 bell rang. While the maid was answering it she struck 
 the match and, stooping, touched it to the kindling. As 
 she stood up and turned around, Edmund Gifford, of all 
 people, came strolling in — Edmund, who was hardly ever 
 known to come to the parsonage. It seemed unnatural 
 and a little awkward to see him there, but she was glad 
 to be seen in a cheerful room. Usually the maid turned 
 up one burner on her way to open the door. He greeted 
 her in his usual debonair manner and then, because she 
 could hardly imagine his coming unless on some errand 
 from Jessie, she asked: 
 
 "Does Jessie want me to come over?" 
 
 "Not as far as I know," he replied. "I dare say she 
 may want you," he added, "but you see you can't go — 
 because I am here." He pulled a low chair forward to 
 
 175 
 
176 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the fire. "Do sit down here," he said, "and then I can 
 sit down too. For I've come to pay you a visit. I knew 
 you were alone." 
 
 Isabel laughed a little confusedly as she obediently sat 
 down. "Do excuse me," she said, "I thought " 
 
 He threw a smile across to her as he helped himself to a 
 chair and pulled it cozily near to the fire and to her. "You 
 thought I'd only come if Jessie sent me? But why 
 shouldn't I come on my own account?" 
 
 "Well, you know, you never do." 
 
 "I believe I don't, very often." He seemed to consider 
 the matter. "It would appear that I have been un- 
 mannerly. You see, I'm apt to think that you belong on 
 my side of the fence." 
 
 "I know I'm there a good deal of the time," laughed 
 Isabel. "But now that you're here " 
 
 And then, just when, having gathered up her courage, 
 she was opening her mouth to speak about the book, he 
 opened his, and forever silenced her. 
 
 "You see," he said, "I almost never see you alone over 
 at our house — and in any case — I have some sense of 
 propriety." 
 
 He paused, encountered her look of ingenuous surprise 
 and curiosity and went on: 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't look quite so surprised," he said. 
 "It isn't encouraging." 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on him with their most intent 
 gaze. It seemed so curious that he should hesitate and 
 get red. It was embarrassing too. She couldn't think 
 of anything to say. 
 
 "I suppose there might be nice ways of leading up," 
 he said at last, recovering his usual whimsical expression. 
 "Indeed, I've thought of several, but — they don't seem 
 to have stayed by me. We'll let preambles go. . . . 
 Don't you know that you have stolen my heart? I've 
 come to ask if you will come altogether to my side of 
 the fence." 
 
 He paused, but she still looked uncomprehending, al- 
 though the color was mounting in her cheeks. 
 
Isabel Stirling 177 
 
 "My dear, will you marry me ?" he said gently. 
 
 For a moment there was dead silence. Isabel con- 
 tinued to stare at him. Her face showed nothing but 
 shocked astonishment. 
 
 "Are you still so surprised?" asked Edmund. "Hasn't 
 it occurred to you that I might love you ?" 
 
 "No," she said, in a husky, unnatural voice. 
 
 "Then I must tell you about it." 
 
 But no matter how clearly or even how ardently he 
 might tell her, it remained incredible. Of course, if he 
 could be in love at all. . . . But she simply could not 
 imagine in him a capacity for the high emotion of love. 
 It seemed so out of keeping with him. Even though he 
 used the words of love and in the manner of love, she 
 could not see him as a lover. The thought did indeed 
 cross her mind that he would be a very friendly and 
 pleasant person to live with, if one didn't have to marry 
 him. If she had been a little older or a little more 
 worldly-wise she might have hesitated and weighed the 
 undoubted advantages of a marriage with Edmund, but 
 when one is young one is very sure. And to marry him ! 
 Against her will Amy Boyd's baby-ridden house flashed 
 to her mind. The thought of marrying Edmund gave 
 her an aversion to him. 
 
 "Oh, why did you change?" she asked, when he at last 
 gave her a chance to speak. "You were so nice. Every- 
 thing was so nice." 
 
 "I haven't changed really. Suppose you take a little 
 time to know me from this point of view. I didn't realize 
 it would be such an entirely new one." 
 
 "Oh, time won't make any difference." She looked at 
 him ruefully. 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "I'm quite sure. I can't do it. I can't care for you 
 that way. And I'd so like to, if I could." 
 
 "I can't believe that I shall not persuade you to care — 
 after a while." 
 
 "No, never," she said decidedly. "It isn't a thing I 
 can explain — but I know." 
 
178 Isabel Stirling 
 
 He studied her face, then rose to his feet. "If you 
 know — I suppose there's no more to be said." 
 
 Upon this acceptance of the situation Isabel found 
 herself overcome with remorse. Did it always have this 
 effect when one innocently studied a man as an imaginary 
 lover ? And how good he was, how different from Harry 
 Burton, with his reproaches. 
 
 "It's all my fault," she said despairingly. "But I never 
 meant to do it." 
 
 "Certainly it's not your fault," said Edmund. "My 
 dear, you couldn't help my falling in love with you. You 
 are made for men to love." He held out his hand. 
 "Good-night." 
 
 At the door he turned back. "I have, after all, a 
 message from Jessie — that is, she will be telling you her- 
 self. She will be busy to-morrow and can't have a 
 lesson. I think we had best give up lessons for a time." 
 
 "Yes," said Isabel sadly. It seemed a just punishment 
 to be banished from her friend's house. "I know — Jessie 
 — none of you will want me any more." 
 
 "They will all want you as much as ever," he said 
 quickly. "Surely no one is to know of this. As to the 
 lessons — you must give me a little time. I'm not exactly 
 up to it now. I shall make my own explanations to 
 Jessie. She is absorbed in her affairs and will be glad 
 enough to be let off. And I — oh, I am writing a book 
 and can't be interrupted — that's all." 
 
 "Oh, thank you," said Isabel. She could hardly keep 
 from crying then and there. 
 
 When he was gone she put out the lights, gave a glance 
 at the fire which, from lack of coaxing, had gone out, and 
 crept up to her room. Everything seemed miserable and 
 desolate. If she could only have cared for Edmund how 
 delightful everything would have been. All the argu- 
 ments came to her now. To have the Giffords for her 
 own family, to be free from her father's authority, to 
 have her own position in the world — and plenty of money. 
 And Edmund himself was so delightfully nice. Why 
 couldn't she? She only knew that if she tried to do it 
 
Isabel Stirling 179 
 
 she would detest him. This, she reflected, was Fordyce 
 Lansing's doing. He didn't want her himself and she 
 had got over wanting him; but somehow he had made 
 it impossible for her to care for anybody else. She 
 thought she would probably never be in love at all any 
 more. 
 
 A little later she half laughed as she thought how 
 utterly unlike Edmund the hero of her novel was; more 
 unlike than ever now that she had actually seen Edmund 
 making love. Then she sighed. Impossible now ever 
 to consult him about the book. She hated the book and 
 thought that she might put it into the fire some day. 
 
XXXIV 
 
 But after all, one doesn't burn the book which one has 
 spent the better part of a year in writing. The manu- 
 script stayed in a drawer while Isabel, in the sackcloth 
 and ashes of repentance, mourned over her follies. Too 
 shamed and embarrassed to go to the Giffords', she stayed 
 away until Jessie came to her, asking plaintively what she 
 had done to be so deserted. Then she resumed her visits 
 and, reassured by the normal behavior of the family, was 
 soon spending almost as much time there as ever. Ed- 
 mund's manner to her was so unchanged that she began 
 to wonder whether she was not taking the matter too 
 seriously. But she saw him less often than before. He 
 spent much time in his study, presumably writing the 
 book which was the excuse for giving up the lessons. She 
 missed the lessons and, as time went on, she missed an 
 intangible something in Mrs. Gifford's manner to her 
 and wondered how much she suspected. In point of fact, 
 Mrs. GifTord had made a shrewd guess. 
 
 The winter was not in any way a repetition of the last. 
 For one thing, the Bellendens were no longer there and 
 there was very little gayety at Edgewood Hall. Major 
 Bellenden had grown tired of conditions at the university 
 and had asked to be ordered back to his regiment where, 
 dropping his brevet rank, he had happily resumed the 
 duties of a captain. They had, however, kept one link 
 with Ptolemy in the person of Lily Brainard, who, after 
 sedulously cultivating an intimacy with Mrs. Bellenden, 
 had now been rewarded by an invitation to spend the 
 winter with her in the heaven of an army post. 
 
 For the rest, Amy Boyd was absorbed in her baby and 
 her domestic economies, and Jessie was absorbed in her 
 engagement. As the edge of Isabel's remorse with regard 
 
 180 
 
Isabel Stirling 181 
 
 to Edmund wore off, her desires turned again to her 
 book. After all, why not try to do something with it? 
 Keeping it in a drawer was not going to undo any of the 
 mischief. 
 
 But the old difficulties came up again. She could not 
 manage the affair without help. She hesitated and de- 
 ferred ; and then, one spring day, went to Dr. Brenton. 
 
 "And what have you been doing with yourself?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Lots of things," she said. And then, all in a breath, 
 she told him that she had been writing something which 
 she was sending to a publisher and that she didn't want 
 her father or Lydia to know anything about it, and might 
 she give his address, so that if the manuscript were re- 
 turned, as it probably would be, it would be in safe hands. 
 
 Dr. Brenton regarded her with amused indulgence. 
 "I'll take care of it for you," he said, and discreetly sup- 
 pressed a chuckle. So the child was trying to write. 
 Well, it would serve to amuse her, though he would 
 rather she were amusing herself with beaux and junket- 
 ings. 
 
 "I've taken a nom de plume," she went on. "It will 
 be directed to Miss Mary Mandeville, in your care." 
 
 An assumed name did not please Dr. Brenton. But 
 after all, since she was confiding in him, where was the 
 harm? He could keep her from getting into real mis- 
 chief, and anyway, it was all child's play. He agreed, 
 and then forgot the matter until one morning the parcel 
 was handed in at his door by the expressman. He cer- 
 tainly was surprised by its size. 
 
 Isabel received it from him with that blank sensation 
 which is not unknown to better writers than she. She 
 carried it home and thrust it disgustedly into its familiar 
 drawer, but pulled it out again when the letter which 
 should have preceded it turned up. Incredible as it may 
 seem, the manuscript was not unconditionally rejected. 
 Selecting the publisher of whom she had heard Edmund 
 speak with respect, she had chanced to send it to a man 
 who was notoriously kind to beginners. Moreover, many 
 
1 82 Isabel Stirling 
 
 a novel was published in those days which in this era of 
 a higher standard of technique would not get past the 
 publisher's reader. That lower standard, combined with 
 a style which, immature as it was, possessed a certain 
 vivacity and cleverness, together with a lifelikeness in 
 some of the characters, carried it along to be passed upon 
 by the great publisher himself. He thought it showed 
 promise and wrote the author a kind letter, suggesting 
 certain alterations, after which he would like to look at 
 it again. 
 
 Had the young writer been more experienced she would 
 have been yet more surprised by this promising opening, 
 but even as it was, she was breathless. She could hardly 
 wait to begin the revision. Always apt at profiting by 
 instruction, she could see the faults now that they were 
 pointed out to her ; could even see farther. She hastened 
 her work, but did not scamp it. She wrote and rewrote, 
 determined not to lose her chance by any carelessness. 
 In the end, she did her revision passably well. 
 
 The manuscript did not return from its second journey. 
 Instead, came a letter of acceptance; and in due time 
 bundles of proof made their appearance. 
 
 Never was the way made easier for an indiscreet 
 author. Dr. Brenton, overworked and worried by one 
 of those epidemics of typhoid which visited the village 
 in the days when people still clung to their old wells, 
 hardly noted the mail which Michael laid on his table, 
 and Isabel helped herself to such of it as belonged to her, 
 excusing herself for not telling him of her success by the 
 plea that he had no time to attend to her. 
 
XXXV 
 
 Isabel sat, ecstatic and a little terrified, before an un- 
 opened package from her publisher. The book, at last ! 
 
 The expressman had left it at Dr. Brenton's house and 
 the doctor was out when Isabel found it there, in his 
 inner office. She gazed at it for a few moments before 
 making any attempt to open it. Then, searching among 
 the papers on the study table for the shears, which always 
 lay there, she sat down on the floor, cut the string and 
 unfolded one layer after another of wrapping paper. At 
 last she came to the contents — six copies of her book in 
 bright red bindings with gilt lettering on the back. Pal- 
 pitating, she took up one of the volumes, turned it over, 
 and finally opened it at the title page. 
 
 BEHIND THE SCENES 
 By Mary Mandeville 
 
 For the first time it occurred to her to wonder whether 
 she would have liked to see her own name there. What 
 an excitement there would be if she could take a copy to 
 Jessie and say — I wrote this ! 
 
 Well, there was Dr. Brenton. But she was afraid of 
 Dr. Brenton. She turned the leaves and found that she 
 did not dare to read a sentence. She was sure that 
 blunders and stupidities would stare her out of coun- 
 tenance now that it was too late to mend them. 
 
 She sat holding the book in her hand, wondering 
 whether she would venture to write Dr. Brenton's name 
 in it. Surely that would not betray her to anyone who 
 might chance to pick it up. In the end she decided not 
 to do it. Rising, she went to the bookcase where he kept 
 
 183 
 
184 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the few novels with which he sometimes beguiled an hour 
 of leisure. She squeezed it in between Vanity Fair and 
 David Copperfield and then stood off to get the effect. 
 It seemed to her that from any corner of the room she 
 could see nothing but that fresh red binding. No fear 
 but what he would find it. Then she went back to the 
 pile of books and paper on the floor, took out another 
 copy to smuggle home to her own room and, tying the 
 pieces of cut string together, made the package up again 
 and, opening the closet door, shoved it into the darkest 
 corner. Of what use to her were those four copies ? Of 
 course, as she still assured herself, there never could be 
 anything in the world so thrilling as to receive your very 
 own book from your very own publisher, but somehow, 
 she had never felt quite so lonely in her life. 
 
 Late that night, locked in her room, she opened her 
 book at the first chapter and forced herself to read ; and 
 after the first few pages was enthralled by the contem- 
 plation of her own achievement. It seemed to her better 
 than she had hoped — and yet worse; more dangerously 
 recognizable. How soon, she wondered, would anyone 
 in Ptolemy see it ? Never, she almost hoped ; and yet was 
 perishing to hear their comments. 
 
 For days she held her breath when she walked past 
 the Corner Bookstore and then, suddenly, to her terror 
 and joy, there it was in the window. And presently it 
 was being talked about on all sides. Ptolemy never had 
 any doubt about it. No other town, no other university, 
 could possibly have been intended ; and as it was the first 
 thing of the kind, the excitement was the greater. Some 
 bought the book, others thriftily borrowed it, and the 
 village library invested in three copies, which were out 
 all the time. 
 
 But who was Mary Mandeville ? Everybody asked 
 everybody else. Opinions varied. There was some in- 
 clination to fix the responsibility on the wife of Professor 
 Hardinge, a young woman who, by virtue of an inde- 
 pendent income and a connection with leading families of 
 New York and Boston, had seemed a little apart from 
 
Isabel Stirling 185 
 
 the general life of the university. Mrs. Hardinge was 
 known to be clever and was suspected of feeling superior. 
 Others, however, suspected Miss Emerson, a keen-witted 
 spinster, who had lived in Ptolemy all her life and knew 
 everybody, old and new. Mrs. Hardinge said she only 
 wished she had written the book; it must have been a 
 great lark for somebody — although if she had, she would 
 perhaps have done it a little differently. Miss Emerson 
 shook her head and said it would have been as much as 
 her life was worth to have written it. But nobody be-, 
 lieved denials. 
 
 Undeniably the characters were done from life, and it 
 was naturally a favorite amusement to fit the portraits to 
 the originals. Most of the originals failed to recognize 
 themselves, while finding much amusement in pointing 
 out likenesses to other people. The few who really did 
 see themselves took it, on the whole, philosophically ; and 
 indeed, the portraits were not all unflattering. And per- 
 sons who were not in the book at all longed to find them- 
 selves there. The president of the university, who was 
 touched off according to the ideas of the faculty women 
 who thought him a man without a heart, was immensely 
 amused. "I'm not so unsympathetic as all that," he said 
 to his wife, who was inclined to be indignant, "but a 
 person who can see only one side may very well think so." 
 
 The author made a mortal enemy of the woman who 
 thought that the portrait of Lydia was intended for her, 
 but no one appeared to see Lydia in the book. For one 
 thing, Professor Hyde's philanderings with her were well 
 kept out of the public eye and the university people, at 
 least, did not know her well; and since she was repre- 
 sented as a lady of Ptolemy, the town was searched for 
 her, but not the parsonage. A few persons, like Miss 
 Emerson, and the Giffords, undoubtedly had their ideas 
 on the subject, but they discreetly kept them to them- 
 selves. Edmund Gifford, Isabel was convinced, saw 
 through the whole affair. It was not for nothing that he 
 had been her teacher in English. Not for nothing had he 
 learned her tricks of thought and manner. He emerged 
 
186 Isabel Stirling 
 
 from his retirement and lay in wait for her with a light 
 in his eye. She tried to avoid seeing him alone, but one 
 day he cornered her. She was spending an afternoon 
 with Jessie when he came into the room. 
 
 "Mother sent me for you," he said to his sister. "She 
 wants to consult you about something." 
 
 As Jessie left the room he sat down by Isabel, picking 
 up, as he passed a table, the red-bound book which figured 
 so prominently just then on many tables. 
 
 "And what do you think of this?" he asked, fixing her 
 with his bright gaze. "I haven't heard you say." 
 
 Isabel thought she had learned to answer that question 
 very composedly. She always told the truth and said she 
 liked it tremendously. Now, however, she found herself 
 for an instant incapable of replying. She blushed vividly 
 and the more she was enraged at herself for doing so, 
 the more agonizingly the color mounted. In mercy, Ed- 
 mund cast his eyes down and began to turn the leaves of 
 the book. But he was not done with her. 
 
 With his gaze removed, she made shift to answer. "I 
 like it very much, indeed," she said, trying for her usual 
 tone. 
 
 He laughed a little. "I suppose you would," he said. 
 
 She turned on him. "Don't you like it?" She had 
 been keenly desirous, all along, to know his real opinion. 
 Her mind had not ceased to appeal to him for guidance. 
 
 "I like it in spots," he said. "It shows cleverness and 
 promise. Of course it's indiscreet, and I think people 
 are generally sorry in the end when they have been too 
 indiscreet. But quite apart from that side of it, judging 
 it from the literary point of view, it has merits and 
 faults." 
 
 He then went on and gave her a rapid analysis of the 
 book, pointing out faults which she was amazed at her- 
 self for not having seen before, praising, too, with judg- 
 ment, but with sympathy. Wherever, forgetting person- 
 alities, she had had a flash of insight into human nature, 
 or had toiled to get the right phrase or, by some happy 
 inspiration, had captured the illuminating word, there he 
 
Isabel Stirling 187 
 
 never failed to understand and to appreciate. When they 
 heard Jessie coming downstairs he rose and laid the book 
 on the table again. 
 
 "I should have liked so much," he said, "to be of use 
 to the author of this book. I think I might have helped 
 in the making of it." 
 
 "I think you might," said Isabel ; and there is no telling 
 what else she would have said, but Jessie was already in 
 the room. 
 
 Anonymity was growing tiresome and Isabel would 
 have been delighted, now that the ice was broken, to have 
 endless talks with Edmund, but he withdrew himself 
 again and did not give her another opportunity. Very 
 different had been her interview with Dr. Brenton, who 
 lost no time, once he had discovered and read the book, 
 in taking her to task. To him it seemed that Lydia 
 leaped from the page. 
 
 "I ought to have been told about this," he said, with a 
 severity which she had never before seen in him. "You 
 ought to have shown it to me." 
 
 "I thought of telling you," she faltered, "but it was 
 when you had all those cases of typhoid and I knew you 
 didn't want to be bothered with me." 
 
 "You ought to have waited till I could attend to you. 
 Oh, I suppose I was too easy-going. I ought to have 
 looked after you from the first of it." His exasperation 
 with her seemed to increase with his self-accusation. 
 "Good Lord I" he exclaimed. "Isn't it enough for a young 
 woman to have your good looks without wanting to be 
 a blue-stocking in the bargain ? How many people know 
 about it?" 
 
 "Nobody but you." This was before her talk with 
 Edmund. 
 
 "What in the world possessed you to put your step- 
 mother into it?" 
 
 "I don't know. I — she — somehow I couldn't get away 
 from her. Whenever I sat down to write it seemed as if 
 she jumped right in. I tried to keep her out at first, and 
 then — well, I couldn't resist it. And I thought probably 
 
188 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the book would never get printed anyway. And I don't 
 think people really suspect. I've heard them say it was 
 other people — or nobody at all. And oh, Dr. Brenton" — 
 tears were near her eyes, but a smile just showed itself 
 at the corners of her mouth — "you can't imagine what 
 a comfort it is to find just the right words for a person 
 who irritates you — and to write them down." 
 
 Dr. Brenton was not in the least mollified. He tried 
 not to see the fascination of her, between tears and smiles. 
 "Now, see here, Isabel," he said with energy, "you must 
 never in your life let anyone know that you wrote this 
 book — and you'll have better luck than you deserve if you 
 don't get found out. Don't you see that it's only as long 
 as people don't know who wrote it that they don't see 
 Lydia in it ? As soon as they suspect you they'll see her 
 — as I did. You see that, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, I see. But I never did want anyone to know 
 that I wrote it." 
 
 "The time is sure to come when you would be very glad 
 to have the credit of writing a clever book. We're all 
 like that — want the credit of our cleverness." 
 
 She smiled outright now. "I'm so glad you think it's 
 clever. It's the first nice thing you've said — and you my 
 only confidant. My feelings have been hurt." 
 
 "Clever! Yes, you haven't any right to be so clever. 
 It's unseemly. And now mind what I say, Isabel. You 
 must never tell. And above all, your father must never 
 know — never !" 
 
 "Oh, I hope not!" cried Isabel with a shudder. 
 
 "I might ask you to promise me — but I won't. You'll 
 do it without. And promises — well. I don't like 'em." 
 
 "Neither do I," said Isabel. 
 
 Dr. Brenton was still unpacified. "What made you 
 think of writing the thing anyway ?" he asked, his brows 
 drawn together in a frown. 
 
 "I've always wanted to write — and meant to. And 
 besides, I hoped I might make some money." 
 
 "Money ! Good Lord ! Isn't your Aunt Eliza's money 
 enough for you ?" 
 
Isabel Stirling 189 
 
 She could not bear the scorn of his tone. "It might be 
 if Father would let me have it !" she exclaimed, her voice 
 shaking. 
 
 Dr. Brenton had been walking about the room. Now 
 he sat down. "Tell me all about it," he said in a differ- 
 ent voice, grave, but no longer stern. 
 
 "And why," he asked, after she had told him, "did 
 you never tell me this before?" 
 
 "I hated to. And what good would it have done?" 
 
 "And did you suppose that your Uncle Brenton 
 wouldn't help you out ? That you must keep it all to your- 
 self ? And write a book with Lydia in it — to damn you ! 
 Oh, good Lord! If you were looking for destruction I 
 should think you'd have put " He stopped in time. 
 
 "You never told me before that you were my Uncle 
 Brenton," said Isabel, half laughing, half crying. "I 
 love you to be my Uncle Brenton, even if you do sc-scold 
 me." The tears got the upper hand. 
 
 He took her hand and patted it. "Well, you know it 
 now, and I've finished my scolding. Poor child, you've 
 had enough trouble. And now — as your uncle — what 
 can I do ? I suppose you're clean out of money. William 
 ought to be ashamed of himself." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mean money," she cried. "I don't want 
 any!" ^ 
 
 "No? Well, I didn't give you a Christmas present, 
 did I ? Or a birthday present? I want to be a real story- 
 book uncle, while I'm about it." 
 
 "Oh, you are, you are ! And you know the book really 
 will give me some money." 
 
 "Confound the book ! It was an evil imp that set you 
 to writing it." He paused and added seriously: "I hope 
 you will never write another — but there's no telling — 
 once you get that bee in your bonnet. And so now let 
 me give you a piece of advice. If ever you want to put 
 any of your acquaintances in print, don't serve 'em up 
 raw. Let them simmer a good long while. Let people 
 recognize boiled mutton if you like, but don't let them 
 know which sheep it was." 
 
XXXVI 
 
 The first cheque from her publisher was an experience 
 which would, Isabel felt, be unmatched by anything else 
 that could ever happen to her. She opened the letter in 
 her usual refuge, the doctor's inner office. The color 
 flew to her face and her heart seemed to double its beats. 
 
 "Look !" she cried, holding it out to him. 
 
 He shook his head over it, started to speak and checked 
 himself. Why not let her have what pleasure she could 
 get? "Wonderful!" he said. 
 
 She came and sat on the arm of his chair. "You're 
 not really pleased. You think — you think it's the wages 
 of sin." 
 
 He laughed. "You put it strongly. But what do you 
 think, yourself?" 
 
 She examined the cheque. "What do I think? I think 
 this is the most perfectly beautiful piece of paper I ever 
 saw in my life. Look! One thousand dollars. And 
 anyway, the sinful part is only a little bit of that. Per- 
 haps a tenth. I'll give a tenth to somebody who needs 
 it dreadfully. But not to missionaries. I tell you what, 
 Uncle Br en ton, you must know some poor people who 
 need money. You can give it for me." 
 
 "Conscience money?" But his tone was gentle. "You 
 can't get rid of responsibility as easily as that." 
 
 "Don't you suppose I know that?" she exclaimed with 
 sudden vehemence. "Don't you suppose I'm sorry I did 
 it? Why, every time Lydia is a little nice to me I feel 
 like a beast. And she does mean to be nice to me some- 
 times—only I hate her way of doing it. But things can 
 never be undone— don't you suppose I realize that ? And 
 so marry times can't even be confessed. I think — I've 
 
 190 
 
Isabel Stirling 191 
 
 thought before — it must be nice to be a Roman Catholic 
 and confess to a priest, who doesn't really care what you 
 do, and then you have it off your mind and it doesn't 
 do him any harm." 
 
 "Do you know, I sometimes think so too." He paused, 
 thinking of the confessions which had been made to him 
 and of his inability to grant an absolution which would 
 satisfy a dying penitent. "But you and I are not Cath- 
 olics, my little Isabel. Now, Mary Mandeville must 
 endorse that draft and I'll see that it gets into Isabel 
 Stirling's bank account." 
 
 "And you'll take the hundred dollars for some of your 
 poor people? And don't call it conscience money. I'd 
 love to give it. I've so hated Father's way of making 
 me give." 
 
 "We'll talk about that later," he answered, and at that 
 she had to leave it. . . . 
 
 After her long time of leanness financial prosperity 
 increased astoundingly that year. Her next surprising 
 experience had also to do with money. Dr. Brenton had 
 told her that when her twenty-first birthday came she 
 ought to claim from her father the right to control her 
 own matters. As it happened, he gave her the quarterly 
 remittance a few days before that time. She put it away 
 and waited. 
 
 On her birthday Dr. Brenton invited her and Jessie 
 to supper and Norah made a beautiful cake, but at home 
 no notice was taken of it. No notice ever had been taken 
 of it there. Dr. Stirling made little of any anniversary 
 and this one in particular was a day of bitterness to him. 
 As for Lydia, as long as Isabel made no mention of it, 
 she quite forgot it. Several days passed, and Isabel won- 
 dered that her father omitted his usual demand for the 
 money. He happened to be particularly absorbed in his 
 studies. He remembered, at last, however, and stopped 
 her after breakfast with the command to come to his 
 study with the cheque. 
 
 She went to his study, but did not carry the cheque 
 with her. "I warit to tell you," she began, breathlessly—' 
 
192 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "I want to tell you/' she said again, and again stopped. 
 She really could not get her breath. 
 
 "Yes?" He turned on her a look of surprised inquiry. 
 
 "I was twenty-one last Tuesday," she said baldly. 
 
 He turned his desk chair around to face her more 
 directly. There was a little more interest in his eyes. 
 He looked as he did when he began those dreadful 
 exhortations about the affairs of her Soul. She hastened 
 to forestall him. 
 
 "It's about my money," she said, awkwardly standing 
 before him. He had not asked her to sit down. "I think 
 I might have control of it now." She had no breath left 
 and her eyes dropped before the severity of his regard. 
 Try as she would to assert herself, she never ceased to 
 be afraid of him. 
 
 He took his time about replying, still fixing her with 
 that gaze. When he spoke his voice was cold and his 
 utterance deliberate. "Your moral claim to indepen- 
 dence," he said, "is no greater than it has been at any 
 time in your life." 
 
 She was glad she had not brought the cheque, for fear 
 tempted her to yield. She gathered up her courage. "But 
 I'm legally of age," she said in a low voice. 
 
 Her father smiled grimly. "In this State you were 
 legally of age when you were eighteen, but I have not 
 considered myself absolved on that account from my 
 guardianship." 
 
 "I didn't think I ought to say anything until I was 
 twenty-one." 
 
 "There is no magic about twenty-one. Until you show 
 fitness to be trusted you should remain under tutelage." 
 
 At this her indignation rose and it was easy to speak. 
 "But I have the right now to take charge of my own 
 money," she said with spirit. 
 
 He looked thunderous, made a quick gesture and 
 seemed on the verge of speech; then turned his chair 
 away from her and gazed frowningly at the table for a 
 moment. Turning back to her, he addressed her with 
 a frigid politeness new to her in her discussions with him. 
 
Isabel Stirling 193 
 
 "Do I understand," he said, "that you stand on your 
 legal rights?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, and wondered at her own 
 courage. 
 
 He opened a drawer of his table and took out a little 
 leatherbound book. "Then I shall give you an account," 
 he said, "of such of your money as has remained in my 
 hands. It is all deposited in your name in the Savings 
 Bank, and this is your pass-book. He held it out to her 
 with an air of dismissal. 
 
 "But I don't understand!" she exclaimed in bewilder- 
 ment. "I didn't suppose you had any money of mine 
 except what you gave to the missionary societies." 
 
 "I requested you to give the money and you refused. 
 As you were legally of age at eighteen I would not use 
 your money without your consent — although I could and 
 do command your obedience in all other matters, as long 
 as you are an inmate of my house." 
 
 "But Father!" If he had only known it, she felt at 
 that moment an immense admiration for him. 
 
 "There is nothing more to say, I think." He still 
 offered her the book, but now with some inquiry in his 
 glance. 
 
 She took the book and his eyes ceased to question her. 
 He turned away. "Will you leave me to my work now," 
 he said coldly. 
 
 "But there is something more to say !" She hoped she 
 wasn't going to cry. "I have been unjust to you," she 
 said in a voice which trembled, in spite of her efforts. 
 
 "That is of no account." He arranged his paper for 
 writing. 
 
 She felt her emotion checked and when she spoke 
 again her voice was steady. "I want you to give this 
 money — all of it — for the things I supposed all along 
 you had spent it for." 
 
 "Keep your money." 
 
 "How can you refuse it — for the missions?" she asked. 
 
 He sat motionless for a moment. "Very well," he 
 then said, "you can give it to them on your own account." 
 
194 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "But that will be just what you didn't want. The 
 giver was to be unknown and the money was to go 
 through you. Do you want my name to appear? I will 
 do just as you wish about it." 
 
 "It's rather late in the day for that." Her submission 
 did not mollify him. He felt baffled and worsted. 
 
 In the end, however, he was compelled by his con- 
 science to accept the charge, feeling that she had eluded 
 him. Isabel sat down at the other side of the table and 
 wrote her cheque. 
 
 "I wish we could understand each other better," she 
 said wistfully, as she handed it to him. 
 
 "I wish we could," he replied. "I am ready to meet 
 any real evidence of filial feeling on your part." 
 
 "But I've tried. I'm trying now." 
 
 "Now that you have gained your point." 
 
 There was the rub. She had come off conqueror. He 
 took up his pen and began to write. 
 
 Isabel stood for a moment irresolute. Then she opened 
 the door and left the room with a sigh of discouragement. 
 
 "I wonder," she said to herself, as she gained her own 
 room, "I really do wonder whether I should have had 
 the strength of mind to be so magnificent with my money 
 if I hadn't already had a lot in the bank?" 
 
XXXVII 
 
 "In the sight of God I may be as good as a soldier," said 
 Edmund in Isabel's ear — he had been placed beside her 
 in the pew and the little old organ was bravely sounding 
 forth Mendelssohn's Wedding March as the procession 
 came slowly up the aisle — "but in the eyes of woman I 
 am as dust beside him." 
 
 "I think they are perfectly beautiful," said Isabel. 
 
 "Well, yes, they are," he said, smiling at the back of 
 her head. "It's only my mean envy which makes me 
 seem to scoff. I'll take it all back. I might even enlist, 
 if one could enlist as an officer — especially if I could be as 
 goodlooking as young Maiden." 
 
 "Which is he?" asked Isabel, interested to see Cassie's 
 brother. 
 
 "The tallest one with the splendid figure, walking with 
 the first bridesmaid. Haven't you ever seen him ?" 
 
 "Once." She recalled the big boy who came running 
 down the steps on that memorable day when she ran 
 away and went home with Cassie. Good gracious ! Who 
 would ever have thought he could grow up like this? 
 
 But they were at the chancel now, and Edmund could 
 make no more comments. 
 
 It was Lily Brainard's wedding. As a result of her 
 winter at an army post she was marrying young Lieu- 
 tenant Hazelton, who, as it happened, was Dick Maiden's 
 dearest friend; and directly after her return home she 
 had taken herself and her good Presbyterian parents into 
 the bosom of the Episcopal church. The gossips main- 
 tained that it was with an eye for a more picturesque 
 setting for a military wedding, but Lily herself said 
 that it was because it was her duty to be of the same 
 religion as Frank. 
 
 During the reception at the Brainards' house, Isabel 
 
 195 
 
196 Isabel Stirling 
 
 had a better chance to look at Dick Maiden. He was far 
 better-looking than Cassie; tall, broad-shouldered and 
 erect, with light brown hair from which the gold had not 
 all disappeared, and the bluest of eyes which looked with 
 a goodnatured twinkle out of a sunburned face. That 
 cheerful expression was the only thing that reminded her 
 of the freckled boy. There were not many freckles left. 
 He was a great contrast to his friend Hazleton, who 
 was shorter, slimmer, with dark hair and eager, bright 
 dark eyes. 
 
 "That boy," commented Edmund, who was still by her 
 side, "looks too sensitive for a girl like Lily. She's a 
 cold-blooded little fish." 
 
 Isabel ceased, after a while, to be amused by Edmund. 
 She felt out of it all and a little dispirited. Lily had 
 asked her to be a bridesmaid, but her father had refused 
 and she had herself felt resentful, on her father's account, 
 of the Brainards' defection from his church. 
 
 She had a passing word with each member of the 
 bridal party, as she went past them in the line of guests, 
 and once or twice she caught Dick Maiden's eyes, with a 
 look of interest in them, but she had none of the good 
 times which they were having with each other. How 
 tiresome it was! 
 
 There was almost a riot on the sidewalk when the 
 bride and groom pushed their way through the group of 
 hilarious young people. Isabel, standing back from the 
 crowd, felt more out of it than ever. 
 
 Very different was Jessie's wedding two days after. 
 Isabel had participated in the joys of the trousseau, hung 
 with rapture over the wedding gown and greedily wel- 
 comed each gift that came for the bride. She herself, 
 with her new riches, had been able to buy a beautiful 
 present, as well as a most satisfactory bridesmaid's cos- 
 tume. In all these preparations she really displayed far 
 more enthusiasm than Jessie, who, while not uninterested 
 in her bridal appurtenances, went about rather silently, 
 with an uplifted look. Isabel liked Ralph well enough, 
 but wondered that he could inspire such an expression. 
 
Isabel Stirling 197 
 
 What lightened her heart more than anything was the 
 disappearance of the slight constraint of which she had 
 been conscious in her relations with Mrs. Gifford. She 
 became again as much the child of the house as ever. She 
 was not without consciousness that Edmund made it easy 
 for her. He did not keep out of the way as he had 
 done at first, and, as far as she could see, his manner 
 was as debonair as ever. She wondered whether he really 
 had cared so very much after all. Perhaps his mother 
 wondered too." 
 
 It was a home wedding, very simple and cheerful. As 
 Isabel looked at Jessie, fair and sweet in her white dress 
 and bridal veil, she wondered, as all girls wonder, when 
 it would be her turn to have orange blossoms and tulle 
 and all the rest of the most fascinating costume in the 
 world, worn only for an hour in a lifetime, but involving 
 so much. She wondered whether she could ever under- 
 take all that it involved. All through the ceremony she 
 was dreaming, wondering. . . . 
 
 But directly after, there were other things to take up 
 one's attention. There was the bride to be kissed, and 
 there were the guests who came up to salute the newly 
 married pair and who had plenty of compliments for the 
 pretty bridesmaids. The big old house was quite full of 
 friends, old and new, to enjoy the lavish, old-fashioned 
 hospitality with which the marriage of the only daughter 
 was celebrated. Among the rest was Dick Maiden, look- 
 ing almost as handsome in his citizen's clothes as he had 
 done in his uniform. Again Isabel had only a passing 
 word with him, although she had seen his eyes fixed on 
 her from across the room. But when he came to speak 
 to her Ralph's tiresome best man interrupted. And this 
 time it was she who must be engrossed with the bridal 
 party. She wished he had been among them. 
 
XXXVIII 
 
 Once more summer had come, after a long and some- 
 what dreary winter. Isabel had thought to write another 
 novel ; something which she could acknowledge. But she 
 could never get beyond the first chapter. The trouble 
 was, she didn't really want to write. What she wanted, 
 whether she knew it or not, was to live ; and life seemed 
 at a standstill. 
 
 But now the town began to stir, in preparation for 
 Commencement. The Maidens' house was opened; Ed- 
 mund Gifford engaged his passage for Europe; and 
 Jessie wrote that she couldn't come home at all this 
 summer, but would her mother come to her in July. 
 Isabel caught her breath at the news. It was pretty 
 serious business getting married. 
 
 It was a vacant morning. Isabel had long ago ceased 
 to offer the assistance in household matters which her 
 stepmother did not desire; yet to Lydia, in spite of her 
 recent progress toward emancipation, there seemed some- 
 thing immoral in a grown-up woman occupying herself 
 with a book during the morning hours. 
 
 "It is such a pity," she remarked for the thousandth 
 time, as she passed through the sitting-room, "that you 
 are not more industrious with your needle. Some day 
 you may be sorry that you have not a store of nicely made 
 underclothes. That is — " she paused at the door — 
 "that is, if you don't spoil your prospects by being too 
 fanciful. Remember that she who goes through the 
 wood may pick up a crooked stick at the last." 
 
 "I've heard so much about that crooked stick," said 
 Isabel, lifting scornful eyes from her book. 
 
 "Even the crooked stick may not wait for you," re- 
 
 198 
 
Isabel Stirling 199 
 
 torted Lydia, shrugging her shoulders and raising her 
 sandy eyebrows as she left the room. 
 
 Isabel threw down the book impatiently. Why must 
 Lydia be so vulgar? She picked up her broad-brimmed 
 hat and put it on as she went out of doors. Through the 
 gate she went and up the hill, and then along the road 
 to the left toward Edgewood House. Passing it, she 
 crossed the bridge over the creek that raced and tumbled 
 far below, between its precipitous banks, stopping for a 
 moment to look down over the rail. Then she went on 
 along the road through the campus, past the professors' 
 houses and the ugly gray stone buildings, and out on the 
 farther side. Here the sound of rushing water warned 
 one of the neighborhood of the larger stream with its 
 foaming waterfalls. A thick growth of trees partially 
 hid it from view as one walked along the road. 
 
 Isabel went on until she came to an open space from 
 which she could see the largest of the seven cataracts 
 sweeping, all white with spray, into the deep gorge below. 
 Here she left the road and went through the narrow belt 
 of trees to the edge of the ravine. There was a grassy 
 spot, quite out of sight of passers-by, where she liked to 
 sit, watching the fall, which seemed, in its rush, to clear 
 her mind of vexing thoughts. Indeed, for a while she 
 was not consciously thinking of anything at all as she 
 sat there, her hands clasped about her knees, gazing down 
 at the white sheet of foam. At last, with a long breath, 
 her body relaxed its tenseness, her hands dropped to her 
 lap and she leaned back, half reclining on the bank. Vague 
 thoughts drifted through her mind, disconnected, flitting. 
 She thought of Jessie. In all Jessie's letters there was 
 such a tone of happiness. Did it really make people so 
 happy to be married? She wondered whether she herself 
 was always to go on just as she was now. . . . 
 
 After a while she realized that the morning had slipped 
 away and that she ought to be getting home. She ro9e to 
 her feet, but, still loth to go, she walked to the very 
 edge of the dirt", and, with one arm around a slender tree, 
 stood for some time looking over into the whirlpool far 
 
200 Isabel Stirling 
 
 below at the foot of the fall. There was nothing to be 
 heard but the rush of the falling water, but suddenly 
 something made her turn her head. Behind her, a little 
 higher up the bank, but so near that by stretching out an 
 arm he could have touched her, stood a man. Instinc- 
 tively she grasped the tree more firmly as she raised her 
 eyes to his face. 
 
 "Oh !" It was an exclamation of surprise and recog- 
 nition. The man was Dick Maiden. 
 
 He called out to her at once, in a quick, imperative 
 tone: "Come up right away! That place isn't safe." 
 
 She smiled at him, but did not move. "How do you 
 do," she said. "I'm not in the least danger." 
 
 "Come up !" he repealed brusquely. "That place where 
 you are hasn't much support. Your weight " 
 
 Her face changed. She grasped the hand which he 
 was holding out and in an instant was well up the bank, 
 far away from the edge. "I thought," she said, rather 
 breathlessly, "that you meant I would get dizzy, and I 
 knew I wasn't going to." 
 
 "I was poking about down below and saw you there. I 
 hurried up and then didn't dare speak for fear I'd startle 
 you. I was so relieved when you turned around." 
 
 "I must have felt you looking at me." 
 
 "I wonder. I've been hoping to see something of you 
 this time, but I certainly didn't want to start out by seeing 
 you slip over a precipice. I never seemed able to do more 
 than catch glimpses of you last time I was here — what 
 with one wedding and another. It seems funny, you 
 know, that I'd never seen you before then." 
 
 "You had — but you'd forgotten me." 
 
 "Oh, come now ! I'd not have forgotten you." 
 
 She smiled at his indignant tone. It was a bit of 
 flattery which was not unpleasing. "Well, at any rate, I 
 saw you — and you seemed to look at me for a moment. 
 I was about six, I think. You were bigger. It made an 
 impression because I had run away and gone home with 
 Cassie. I had the most beautiful time. But you see, 
 you don't remember me." 
 
Isabel Stirling 201 
 
 "I suppose I was at the stupid age — and always up to 
 some mischief or other. That was all I thought of then. 
 But why did you disappear after that?" 
 
 "I was away — years and years. It was only when I 
 came back, grown up, that I knew Cassie again." 
 
 "And then I was away." 
 
 As she looked up and met the frank and merry gaze of 
 his blue eyes they seemed to tell her that the lost time 
 was to be made up. What he said, however, was that he 
 was only to be at home for a week. As they walked 
 down the hill together he told her that he was going for 
 a short trip abroad. That was why he had taken such a 
 short leave last year — to have a little more time now. 
 
 "I'd have saved all last year's leave for it," he said, 
 "only for Frank's wedding. I had to come for that. You 
 see I couldn't get off when the rest of the family went, so 
 I get my turn later." 
 
 She sighed with envy. How splendid to be a man and 
 go off like that, without any fuss. 
 
 "But I wish I were going to be at home longer," he 
 ended. 
 
 She glanced up at him. Those blue eyes had a singular 
 directness of gaze. 
 
 At the parsonage door she invited him in with some 
 trepidation. It was nearly dinner-time. Her father was 
 likely to appear at any minute and she had long ago 
 learned of his aversion to Peter Maiden; an aversion 
 which she was quite aware included his family. That he 
 was fortunately still unaware of her friendship with 
 Cassie was due partly to his inattention to the details of 
 her life and partly to Cassie's protracted absences. She 
 had no wish to hasten the discovery. Still, since she 
 conceived that politeness required that Dick should be 
 asked to come in, she invited him. To her relief, he de- 
 clined. His father and Cassie would be expecting him. 
 
 "But you'll let me come another time?" he said. 
 
 "Oh, yes, do come another time," she answered cor- 
 dially. 
 
 She was turning to go in, not thinking of shaking 
 
202 Isabel Stirling 
 
 hands at such an informal parting, but he held out his 
 hand and, of course, she responded. She rather liked 
 the way he shook hands. His clasp was just firm enough 
 and not too impressive. 
 
 To her vexation, her stepmother met her in the hall. 
 "Wasn't that Dick Maiden?" asked Lydia with an interest 
 that seemed excited. 
 
 "Yes," replied Isabel briefly. 
 
 Lydia had it on the end of her tongue to say that it 
 was lucky "dear Father" had not seen him, but stopped 
 herself. The girl was so contrary that she would be quite 
 apt to show her independence by mentioning the matter at 
 the dinner table. Instead, she only said: "I hear he .is 
 to sail for Europe very soon." 
 
 "So he says," said Isabel. 
 
 "Well," said Lydia, "I hope — " Isabel turned her back 
 on her and started upstairs. "I hope all you young people 
 will have a good time while he is here," finished Lydia. 
 
XXXIX 
 
 Followed a week of junketings, driving parties, lake 
 parties, picnics, lunches and suppers; and in whatever 
 vacant hours were left, visits from Dick. Isabel knew 
 she would have enjoyed it all more if Lydia had not been 
 so transparently intent on keeping her father from seeing 
 young Maiden. Did Dick chance to be in the parlor 
 when the study door opened and the minister's steps 
 were heard coming along the hall, Lydia at once came 
 from her little room, where she seemed always to be 
 lying in wait, and under pretense of a message to be de- 
 livered to someone whom he would be likely to see, or a 
 question as to something which must be attended to in 
 his absence, or perhaps merely a good-bye, steered him 
 out of the house; and as she passed the parlor door, 
 always ahead of him, it would be gently swung to a little, 
 just enough to keep him from seeing who might be 
 within. The idea that Dick might notice these devices 
 made Isabel's cheeks burn and she was sometimes 
 tempted to thwart Lydia by calling out to her father as 
 he passed. But that would be the most unnatural thing 
 she could do; and if he once came in and saw Dick, he 
 was quite capable of making things openly unpleasant. 
 She reflected with exasperation that her father could be, 
 by turns, the politest and the rudest man she had ever 
 seen, depending on which was uppermost, the good breed- 
 ing acquired from his mother, or the resentment, which, 
 when disguised as righteous disapproval, was on occasion 
 allowed free play. Besides, Dick probably saw nothing 
 unusual in Lydia' s attentions to her husband ; and then — 
 she herself enjoyed Dick's visits and would have been 
 sorry to have them ended. 
 
 "Why," said Lydia from time to time, "why have you 
 
 203 
 
204 Isabel Stirling 
 
 given up your favorite little spot down by the gate, under 
 the apple-tree? It is such a pretty spot. You ought to 
 show it to Mr. Maiden." 
 
 The shortest way of meeting this was by apparent 
 acquiescence. "Another time," Isabel would say. 
 
 True, it was a pretty spot, and not only out of sight of 
 her father, but out of reach of Lydia, but it recalled 
 Lansing Fordyce too insistently. Not that it gave her 
 pain any longer to be reminded of Fordyce. Simply, she 
 had a dislike to the idea of receiving Dick's visits there. 
 Without putting it into words, she felt that she could 
 not deliberately place Dick in surroundings which were 
 not primarily his own. Comparing the two men, Fordyce 
 seemed to her artificial. Dick was so natural. He was 
 not particularly intellectual, like the professors; he was 
 not, in fact, as clever as Cassie ; but he was alert, quick- 
 witted, and of a sort of shining cleanness, both of mind 
 and body. In his society Isabel found herself happy and 
 at her ease. She told herself, however, that he was not 
 in the least the kind of man she could fall in love with. 
 She had of late been forming her taste on certain superior 
 young professors, and had built up for herself an ideal 
 lover who should combine their excellences of intellect 
 with the distinction of look and charm of manner with 
 which they were not invariably dowered. But it was 
 nice to be singled out by the man whose advent had caused 
 a flutter among the other girls ; nice to have him devote 
 himself to her so exclusively. She thought she would like 
 to have him as fond of her as he was of Cassie. He 
 was very fond indeed of Cassie. 
 
 "I wish I had a brother," she said to Cassie. "I can't 
 think of any better kind of relation to have." 
 
 "Not even a husband?" asked the sister, who was 
 sufficiently observant of Dick. 
 
 "Far nicer than a husband," said Isabel with convic- 
 tion. "It's all so natural and no complications." 
 
 Still, she had not yet begun to feel that aversion to a 
 man who was not a brother which she had experienced on 
 other occasions. 
 
XL ' 
 
 Dick's steamer was due to sail the next day; and he and 
 his father were smoking together on the verandah after 
 luncheon. 
 
 "I suppose you are taking the night train?" said Peter 
 Maiden. 
 
 Dick flushed and didn't reply for a moment. Then he 
 said abruptly: "What would you say if I gave up my 
 passage and stayed home ?" 
 
 Peter Maiden would have been less surprised if he 
 had paid more attention to the doings of the young people. 
 He was not slow, however, in forming a surmise. He 
 took the cigar out of his mouth and gave his son a long, 
 shrewd look. "Who is it ?" he asked. 
 
 Dick flushed again and laughed. He hesitated a 
 moment, looking off through the thick foliage of the 
 horse-chestnut trees to the street beyond. "You were 
 always on to me," he said, "ever since the time when I 
 ran away from my first school to go swimming." 
 
 "You weren't out of kilts." His father leaned back 
 and stroked his heavy gray mustache, chuckling at the 
 remembrance. 
 
 "And when any other little chap would have been 
 spanked and put to bed, you hired a man to teach me 
 to swim." 
 
 "You would have run away over again — and I didn't 
 want to have you drowned. I was that selfish." 
 
 "And when I ran away to enlist you caught up with 
 me and got me into West Point. I can't thank you 
 enough for that." 
 
 "Well?" The cigar had gone out and Peter Maiden 
 tossed it away. 
 
 "Well — I suppose I've been fighting shy of your 
 question." * 
 
 "Don't tell me if you'd rather not." 
 
 205 
 
206 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "Oh, I don , t mind telling you — want to, in fact. Only 
 there's nothing to it yet. And perhaps there won't be — 
 though I don't believe that. I want to marry Isabel Stir- 
 ling. And so I've got to stay here and see if I can get 
 her." 
 
 "The parson's daughter!" Peter's lips drew up as if 
 to whistle, but he stopped himself. Selecting a cigar from 
 the box on the table beside him, he cut the end off and 
 lighted it. 
 
 "I know. You've no cause to like Dr. Stirling. I dare 
 say it seems to you pure cussedness in me to have fallen 
 in love just there. But Isabel isn't to blame for her 
 father. You'll like her. Don't you know her?" 
 
 "By sight. A pretty girl. No, I don't like the parson 
 and he don't like me. And of the two, I guess I've the 
 most cause for a quarrel. I let him alone, but he wouldn't 
 let me alone." 
 
 There was silence for a few moments while Peter 
 puffed violently at his cigar, sending out clouds of smoke. 
 "I wouldn't have had it happen," he said at last, frown- 
 ingly. 
 
 Again silence. Then — "Have you got it hard?" said 
 Peter. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And for keeps?" 
 
 "For all my life." 
 
 Again a pause. Peter Maiden lifted his tall, heavily 
 built form out of the deep chair in which he had seated 
 himself to take his ease and walked to the verandah rail. 
 He gazed off to the horizon and up to the sky which 
 showed blue through the tree-tops. He sighed once or 
 twice. Then he turned and came back to Dick. 
 
 "Well, son," he said, "you're a man and you are free 
 to make your own choice. If the girl will have you — 
 and I don't see why she shouldn't — and if she can get 
 away from the parson long enough to marry you, we'll 
 give her a welcome." 
 
 Dick got up and took his father's hand in a tight grip. 
 "Thank you, father," he said. 
 
Isabel Stirling 207 
 
 Later, he walked up to the parsonage. . . . 
 
 "I suppose this is good-bye," said Isabel, as he took his 
 leave. 
 
 She was a little piqued by his cheerfulness and made 
 her own manner as gay as possible, although really she 
 found herself very low-spirited. 
 
 "Not at all," said Dick, "I'm not going anywhere." 
 
 "Not going anywhere ? Why — but you sail to-morrow, 
 don't you?" She quite failed to understand. 
 
 Tffl not going to sail at all." 
 
 "But what a dreadful disappointment!" It did not 
 seem possible to her that anyone could voluntarily give 
 up such a trip for any reason whatever. 
 
 "Shall I tell you why I'm staying?" 
 
 "Oh, I didn't mean to ask." But she hoped he would 
 tell her and let her sympathize. 
 
 He looked at her intently. "I don't exactly mind tell- 
 ing you — but — " He hesitated for a moment. "You 
 see — " he began again quickly and with an air of deter- 
 mination. 
 
 Suddenly she understood. She interrupted him with a 
 foolish automatic remark and talked on, her heart beating 
 furiously and her cheeks crimson. 
 
 Not for worlds would she have had him tell her. She 
 ran away from him as actually as though she had bodily 
 turned and fled, instead of standing quietly beside him 
 and talking with nervous rapidity about the first thing 
 that came to her lips. 
 
 He looked at her with a smile in his blue eyes. Yes, 
 he had frightened her. He saw that. And he knew 
 that she was running away. But he was not discouraged. 
 
XLI 
 
 It was always Dick's impression that Isabel was running 
 away. He had no wish to hurry her. The weeks of his 
 leave stretched out long before him. He thought she 
 liked him really, and that when the time should come for 
 him to try, he could overtake her. Meantime, he took 
 her driving, rowing, sailing. He sequestered her in 
 corners of verandahs on moonlight evenings ; he sat next 
 to her at the picnic luncheons; he walked with her over 
 the hills. Encouraged by her, he talked of his army 
 life, but having no inherent inclination to talk about him- 
 self, he said little of his personal experiences. But by 
 degrees, he found himself becoming less articulate and 
 there were pauses in his talk ; pauses which she hastened 
 to fill up. And the weeks slipped by. 
 
 Isabel felt that she was playing an exciting game ; play- 
 ing always for time. In her intervals of solitude she 
 was thinking; questioning herself, doubting herself. 
 Doubting herself the more because she remembered so 
 distinctly how entirely without doubt or_question she had 
 been four years ago, when Lansing Fordyce had made 
 love to her. She didn't for a moment doubt Dick. He 
 inspired her with unquestioning confidence. She was 
 troubled only about herself. She liked him — immensely. 
 She was perfectly satisfied when they were together. Her 
 heart quickened at his coming. And yet — and yet — it 
 was not the headlong rapture of adoration which she had 
 once felt. That Lansing Fordyce should have bereft her 
 of a capacity for the fine ardor with which, as she 
 conceived, one should meet the awakening of true love, 
 was one more count against him. To have to ask oneself 
 if one loved seemed to her a treason against love. And 
 the anxious question perhaps indicated that it was not, 
 after all, true love that one felt. And so the sooner 
 Dick went his ways, the better for them both. But at 
 
 208 
 
Isabel Stirling 209 
 
 the thought, panic seized her. She did not want him to go 
 his ways. And so she greeted him with welcoming 
 smiles and then used all her wits to keep him from bring- 
 ing matters to a crisis. 
 
 But the limits of patience are set by the limits of time ; 
 and time did at last begin to press. When only two 
 weeks of his leave were left, Dick resolved not to be put 
 off any longer. He made up his mind to speak out, no 
 matter how many obstacles she put in his way. He 
 would do it before he slept. Yet it seemed as if his 
 resolution were to be defeated. 
 
 It was already midday when he made this pronounce- 
 ment to himself. In the afternoon there was a long 
 drive, followed by a picnic supper. The party was large 
 and merry and privacy was out of the question. It must 
 be afterwards then, although at that hour one did not 
 usually pay a visit. One usually left a girl at her own 
 door and went on. However, when he helped Isabel out 
 of the carriage at the door of the parsonage he did not 
 leave her. 
 
 "Go on without me," he called to the others. "I'm 
 going to walk home." 
 
 Then, to Isabel: "May I come in?" 
 
 He might have chosen rather to detain her in the 
 porch, but a light in the room above warned him that they 
 might be overheard through the open window. 
 
 If he once came in she felt that she would not be able 
 to prevent him from saying what he wanted to. Besides, 
 by all Ptolemy m standards of propriety, it was not a 
 fitting hour for a visit. 
 
 "It's late," she said, "I don't believe " 
 
 "No, it isn't too late," he replied, holding the door 
 open for her to go in. 
 
 Too embarrassed to know how to meet the situation, 
 her heart beating fast, she entered in silence and stood 
 undecidedly in the hall. It was he who led the way into 
 the parlor. She walked about the room aimlessly. 
 
 "It's going to rain to-morrow," she said. "We shan't 
 be able to go on the lake." 
 
210 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "Won't you sit down?" How could he speak to her 
 when she was half turned away from him and never 
 still? 
 
 She dropped into a chair, but he remained standing. 
 Still she babbled on about the weather, the picnic, any- 
 thing. He stood looking down at her. 
 
 "But you know," he said at last, "I came in to-night 
 to ask you a question. I've been trying all day to get a 
 chance to ask it. I think you know what it is." 
 
 "Oh, no!" 
 
 The exclamation was involuntary and sounded more 
 dreadfully final than she could have wished. "Wait!" 
 she added faintly. She was quite breathless. 
 
 "But I've waited. I knew you wanted to wait. And 
 now there's no time to wait any longer. Isabel " 
 
 A step on the stair stopped him. In the open doorway 
 appeared Dr. Stirling. In his room above, where he was 
 just beginning to undress, he had heard the sound of their 
 voices. Lydia, in bed, had heard them too, and had tried 
 in vain to distract his attention. There were certain rules 
 of propriety that must be observed, and once his attention 
 was called to the infraction, he was ready to enforce 
 them. Nobody must be admitted to the house after ten 
 o'clock; least of all, a masculine visitor. Sternly he 
 put on his coat again. 
 
 "Good evening," said he stiffly, as he entered the room. 
 
 "Good evening," returned Dick politely. 
 
 Dr. Stirling turned to Isabel. "I haven't the pleasure 
 of your friend's acquaintance." 
 
 "It's Mr. Maiden, Father," she said. "Lieutenant 
 Maiden." Oddly enough, she had regained her self- 
 possession and was filled with an excited curiosity to see 
 what would happen. 
 
 Her father looked at Dick, who acknowledged the in- 
 troduction formally. For a moment no one said any- 
 thing. Then stiffening still more, Dr. Stirling spoke: 
 
 "I do not," he said, "allow my daughter to bring in 
 any visitor at this hour of the night. I do not allow her 
 to bring in Lieutenant Maiden at any time." 
 
Isabel Stirling 211 
 
 Except for the flush which mounted to his cheek, Dick 
 appeared perfectly cool. "May I ask, sir, what is your 
 objection to me ?" he said. 
 
 "I need not state my objection. It is sufficient that I 
 do not permit you to visit my daughter." 
 
 Dick had not really thought that the old feud would 
 be carried as far as that, even though he knew that as a 
 son-in-law he would be persona non grata. He glanced 
 at Isabel and surely her eyes signalled encouragement. "I 
 am very sorry you feel that way about me," he said, "for 
 I hope that your daughter will permit me to ask your 
 consent to our marriage." 
 
 Isabel had seen her father turn pale with anger before, 
 but she had never seen him look as he did now. He stood 
 for a moment, visibly struggling for self-control, his face 
 setting in deeper lines. 
 
 "My daughter will not marry you," he said at last, 
 very slowly. 
 
 "She must tell me so herself," said Dick. He was 
 facing the older man with a fine gleam in his blue eyes. 
 Now he turned to the girl. "Isabel, will you marry me ?" 
 
 "Yes, Dick," she answered. There was not a moment's 
 doubt or hesitation. 
 
 "Isabel, go to your room !" said her father. 
 
 "Yes, Father." She was glad to get away while Dick 
 was still there. Not willingly would she have faced her 
 father alone. 
 
 Dick had started toward her. She gave him her hand 
 for an instant. "Good-night," she whispered. 
 
 "Good-night, dearest," he said huskily. 
 
 At the door she looked back. Her father was holding 
 himself rigidly. After all, he was a splendid figure, 
 standing there in his anger. A queer throb of pride in 
 him gave her courage to speak. "Father," she said, "I'm 
 sorry it has to be like this." 
 
 "Go !" he said, in his stern, level voice. 
 
 As soon as she was gone he turned to Dick. "Go !" he 
 said. "And never come into this house again." 
 
 And Dick went, quite willingly and cheerfully. 
 
XLII 
 
 When summoned into her father's study the next morn- 
 ing Isabel was no longer afraid of him. But although the 
 climax of his anger seemed to be past, his resolution was 
 no less fixed. She must give up all acquaintance with 
 every member of the Maiden family. That was his 
 command and he expected unswerving obedience. 
 
 "But I have promised to marry Dick," she replied. 
 
 "I will see to it that you do not," replied her father. 
 "I think," he added, "that you are hardly in your right 
 mind. You will promise to do as I bid you." 
 
 "But I am of age," she returned. 
 
 "You are under my care. It is my duty to protect 
 you from yourself." 
 
 He could not extract the promise from her, but she 
 uttered no more words of defiance. 
 
 "Until you promise," he said finally, "I shall see that 
 you have no opportunity to disobey me." 
 
 There the conversation ended, but it had its results. 
 To Isabel, who had known no petty restrictions, the 
 orders which followed were galling to the last degree. 
 Hardly less irksome were they to Lydia, in whose charge 
 William placed the girl, with directions not to let her go 
 out of the house alone, and not to let the young man in. 
 
 "Surely you managed very stupidly," she complained 
 to Isabel. "You knew how your father would feel about 
 it. Why did you let Dick Maiden come in so late ?" 
 
 "I couldn't help it," said Isabel irritably. "When a 
 person asks to come in it is awkward to tell him he can't. 
 Besides — I hate to be always deceiving. And anyway, 
 Father would have had to know soon." 
 
 "You really mean to marry him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, you are of age." 
 
 212 
 
Isabel Stirling 213 
 
 Isabel made no reply. 
 
 "Of course you know I must obey your dear father," 
 Lydia went on, "and never let you go anywhere without 
 me — though I'm sure I hate to be a jailer, and I'd never 
 have dreamed of doing such a thing. I hope your father 
 will relent in a little while, but now, as your Dick will 
 be going away so soon, I will do all I conscientiously 
 can to help you." She smiled archly. "A little note 
 came this morning." She took it out of her pocket as 
 she spoke. 
 
 Isabel accepted the note eagerly, although she hated 
 that arch smile, hated to take her stepmother into any 
 sort of partnership, hated the deceit of it. She started 
 hastily to go up to her own room. 
 
 "You won't read it here ?" said Lydia. "Well, I know 
 just how you feel about it. And when you get a little 
 answer ready I'll see that it gets to its destination." 
 
 Isabel hesitated at the door. "Underhand things are 
 too horrid," she said. "But I'll have to answer it. Any- 
 body would know that I must write this once. And — 
 thank you." With this she vanished. 
 
 Lydia was distinctly less bored now that she was, as 
 she felt, to have charge of the love-affair. Not only did 
 she naturally love intrigue, but she was firmly resolved 
 that what she considered so good a marriage should not 
 be allowed to fall through. 
 
 Isabel cherished her first love-letter and read it over 
 and over. Dick wrote that of course he must see her. 
 Since he couldn't go to the house — and as he wrote, his 
 mouth set firmly on the thought that he could go to no 
 house whose master had turned him out — would she see 
 him elsewhere — wherever she might choose. 
 
 He said many other things — things that were sweet to 
 read. She sat down at her desk to answer him. She 
 told him what her father had said, and that of course 
 she would make no such promise; for how could she, 
 when she meant to see him as soon as possible. And 
 just here she stopped to wonder at the way all her doubts 
 and hesitations had disappeared, from the moment when 
 
214 Isabel Stirling 
 
 she saw Dick confronting her father with that light in his 
 blue eyes. Then she told him how Lydia had been ap- 
 pointed her warder; and here, as she went on to say, 
 came the difficulty. "I think," she wrote, "that she would 
 let me see you. She has given me your note and will 
 send you mine. But it seems too perfectly horrid to 
 make her break faith with my father. She owes him 
 loyalty, for she has accepted the charge of me. So I 
 don't want to use her as a means of seeing you or corre- 
 sponding with you — and I'd hate to, anyway. If I can 
 escape her genuinely I will do it. Surely you will under- 
 stand how it is. Saturday afternoon Father will be out 
 and I think Lydia has some affairs of her own and very 
 likely will forget all about me. So if you will go up to 
 the place where we first met and you kept me from fall- 
 ing over the cliff (how glad I am that you did keep me 
 from falling) I will come there if I can — and I think 
 I can. . . ." 
 
 She found him waiting for her. She had walked rap- 
 idly up the hill and along the campus, but when, through 
 the trees, she saw him standing there, shyness took pos- 
 session of her and she went toward him with steps that 
 hesitated a little. 
 
 He came to meet her and took her hands. "You look 
 as if you were going to run away," he said, and his eyes 
 smiled at her. "No more running away now, if you 
 please." 
 
 He lifted her hand and kissed her ringers ; then put his 
 arm around her and drew her to him. When he kissed 
 her panic seized her and she pushed him away. 
 
 "But why?" he asked. "Doesn't one kiss one's be- 
 loved?" 
 
 "But I'm not used to you yet — or to kissing." 
 
 He laughed. "Well — of course not. But very soon 
 you'll get used to me — and to kissing. For you're going 
 to marry me now and go away with me, aren't you?" 
 
 "Now?" She gave a little gasp. 
 
 "My dear," he said seriously, "what else is there for 
 us to do? I'll grant you, if your father had consented 
 
Isabel Stirling 215 
 
 to our engagement I'd have let you take your own time 
 and have gone away and come back to get you whenever 
 you said I might. But as it is — he's never going to con- 
 sent — we've neither of us any illusions about that. We 
 couldn't even write to each other openly — and we neither 
 of us like underhand ways. No, believe me, darling, the 
 short way is the best. And I don't get another leave for 
 a year." 
 
 A year ! Why, a year was impossible ! Her face grew 
 graver, more resolute. 
 
 "And you do love me," he said, not as a question, but 
 as stating a fact. 
 
 Her eyes met his frankly and seriously. "Yes, I love 
 you," she answered. "I wasn't sure until you asked me 
 there, before Father, to marry you, but then I knew." 
 
 "Bless your father! And you will consent to marry 
 me now, before I have to go?" 
 
 "Yes. I think you are right. But there are things 
 to do. You'll tell your father and Cassie, won't you? 
 And I — I think I must tell Uncle Brenton." 
 
 They sat down under a tree and talked of their plans 
 — and of themselves, until at last Isabel started up in 
 dismay. 
 
 "It's late!" she exclaimed. "Father will be coming 
 home. And Lydia's visitor will be gone. There will be 
 dreadful times and I may get locked up in my room next 
 time." 
 
 At the edge of the wood she left him, to go home alone. 
 She was fortunate enough to get to the door unseen and 
 slipped softly in, thankful to hear voices from the parlor, 
 showing that Lydia was still occupied. She glided 
 through the dim hallway and just as she reached the 
 foot of the stairs the parlor door opened. The doorway 
 framed a picture of the professor and Lydia standing 
 side by side, illuminated by the rays of the western sun, 
 streaming on them from behind. Lifting Lydia's hand 
 with a gallant gesture, the professor kissed it. 
 
 Isabel never could understand why she did not flee up- 
 stairs quietly, why instead she should have stood trans- 
 
216 Isabel Stirling 
 
 fixed ; why, above all, she should have been guilty of that 
 hysterical giggle. At its sound, Professor Hyde turned 
 sharply and Lydia retreated into the room. Isabel did 
 not wait to see more. She flew up the stairs and to her 
 own room. She did not want to laugh, never had wanted 
 to, in fact. She was horribly shocked and at first had 
 a grotesque idea that she and Dick had been intentionally 
 parodied. Instantly realizing the impossibility of that, 
 she was almost equally shocked by the impropriety of 
 Lydia, her father's wife, permitting such a familiarity. 
 In her provincial eyes a kiss of the hand had the dimen- 
 sion of a very grave indiscretion; that is, for a married 
 woman. 
 
 She walked up and down her room and, at every turn, 
 her indignation increased. More than anything else she 
 resented the spoiling* by this nauseating after-taste, of 
 her own wonderful hour. How disgusting were the phi- 
 lander ings of these two elderly married people — how 
 unworthy a parody of her own unique experience! She 
 wondered how she could ever meet Lydia again; and 
 then began to wonder how Lydia was going to meet her. 
 
 The question was answered immediately. If Lydia 
 had exercised her usual judgment she would have de- 
 ferred the meeting and, in the end, would have ignored 
 the scene. But she, no less than Isabel, artlessly over- 
 estimated the significance of a kiss of the hand. She had 
 for some time been cherishing an estimation of her ad- 
 venture in romantic friendship which would greatly have 
 surprised the professor, who had kissed other hands and 
 thought nothing of it. Lydia was blazing with anger. 
 Isabel's laugh was never to be forgiven. At the same 
 time, Lydia was frightened ; and amid the emotions which 
 agitated her, she lost sight of her usual discretion. The 
 professor gone, she lost little time in coming to Isabel. 
 
 "It seems, then, that I couldn't trust you," she began. 
 "Because I thought you could be trusted and left you for 
 a little while, you took advantage of my confidence and 
 left the house. No wonder your father feels that you 
 must be watched." 
 
Isabel Stirling 217 
 
 Isabel, having no answer ready, simply looked at her 
 in silence. Unconsciously to herself, there was a certain 
 scornful appraisal in her expression which infuriated the 
 older woman. 
 
 "If I should refuse to guard you," said Lydia. "If I 
 should just hand you over to your father " 
 
 The injustice of the attack stung Isabel. "You didn't 
 care what I did," she said. "You wanted me out of the 
 way. You always want me out of the way on Saturday 
 afternoon." 
 
 Lydia trembled with anger, but kept control of her 
 vocabulary. "Your mind is evil," she said. "You im- 
 agine that everyone is like yourself and your lover. He 
 was not brought up as a gentleman, and it is impossible 
 for you to understand the courtly manners of a noble 
 gentleman. And so you insult him and me with your 
 vulgar mirth and your low-minded suspicions. You 
 ought to be overwhelmed with shame." 
 
 "I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I don't know 
 why I did it. I don't know what you mean by suspicions. 
 I only just think it isn't very nice for a married woman 
 to do like that. And I don't think I am treating Father 
 worse than you are. He — he wouldn't like it." 
 
 Lydia drew herself up. It was a disadvantage that in 
 such a situation she should lack so much of Isabel's 
 height. "My dear husband can never accuse me of vio- 
 lating the confidence which he reposes in me," she said, 
 with what she felt was a superb air. Then she reflected 
 for an instant. "This once, I shall not tell him about 
 your escapade," she added, with an appearance of mag- 
 nanimity. 
 
 Isabel was silent and her stepmother regarded her 
 somewhat anxiously. "You ought to be very grateful to 
 me," she added severely. 
 
 That her offer to conceal Isabel's transgression brought 
 no response and left her still uncertain as to what the 
 girl might say or do, increased Lydia's anger. It would 
 have burned even more fiercely if she had suspected that 
 the professor's wounded vanity would lead him to break 
 
218 Isabel Stirling 
 
 off his visits to her. The one thing he could not bear 
 was ridicule; and what more galling to the elderly gal- 
 lant than the ridicule of the young ! In any case, he was 
 growing a little weary of the intimacy, stimulating to 
 constancy as had been Lydia' s flattery and the tea-table 
 with its dainties which she had instituted for his benefit. 
 She never knew how much cause for self-gratulation she 
 had that she took the initiative and could henceforth 
 believe that the visits ceased because she willed them to 
 do so. She resolved to write him a note saying that she 
 would be out of town on the following Saturday and to 
 go at once to make her sister a visit. 
 
 Unavoidably Sunday interposed a delay; but, while 
 attending to all the usual religious exercises of the day, 
 she had time to make her preparations and to broach her 
 plan to her husband, who found it most inopportune. 
 
 "It is very inconvenient for me to have you away just 
 now," he said. 
 
 "But Laura says she needs me extremely just now," 
 fibbed Lydia. "She has been ill and Letty is going to 
 be married. She surely has some claim on me, when one 
 thinks how long I made my home with her." 
 
 She omitted to remember that, while these things were 
 true, Mrs. Marvin had not asked for her presence. "You 
 can't say," she added, "that I have left you often." 
 
 "But I need you for Isabel. She must be kept under 
 surveillance for the present, and you know very well that 
 I cannot be on hand all the time." 
 
 "Yes," said Lydia with an air of melancholy, "I put 
 off speaking about Laura and her affairs, hoping that I 
 could help you with Isabel. In that case it would have 
 been my duty to stay. But really, William, it is impos- 
 sible for me to control her. She needs a stronger hand 
 than mine. After all, she is your own child, and I 
 am only too often reminded that I am merely a step- 
 mother." 
 
 "Do you mean that she is disrespectful to you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, she doesn't often say anything. There are 
 other ways of making me feel it. Indeed, William, I have 
 
Isabel Stirling 219 
 
 done my best to win your child, but it is useless. I'm 
 afraid her misunderstanding of me is wilful. And she 
 is not always truthful. But perhaps if I leave you to- 
 gether — " Lydia quite felt that she was an unappre- 
 ciated stepmother. 
 
 "What has she done since I asked you to watch her?" 
 asked William. 
 
 "She escaped from me," answered Lydia, with an air 
 of reluctance. 
 
 "She went out? To meet that young man?" 
 
 His portentous voice and frown reminded Lydia that 
 she was treading a dangerous path. She wanted to make 
 her own departure feasible, she wanted to discredit Isa- 
 bel, but she did not want to have the girl irritated into 
 retaliation. 
 
 "I don't know that she saw him at all," she said, which 
 was technically true. "I dare say she only took a little 
 walk. You might as well let it pass, since it is over and 
 done with. I only mean to show you that I can't manage 
 her. You will look out for her best. I have always 
 noticed that she pays much more attention to your com- 
 mands than to mine." 
 
 She made it quite clear to him that she intended to go. 
 "I have never," she said, "set up the claims of my own 
 people. I must do it now. Of course I want your con- 
 sent, William. I couldn't go without." 
 
 In the end, he gave it, helplessly feeling that he could 
 not refuse, since her sister needed her. 
 
 Lydia, however, did not know how to leave well enough 
 alone. Before leaving by her early train the next morn- 
 ing, she visited Isabel in her room. "Now that I am 
 going away," she said, "you and I must let bygones be 
 bygones. I have told your dear father that I hoped he 
 and you would learn to understand each other while I 
 am away. And of course, dear Isabel, you will not say 
 anything unkind about me — I have always been kind to 
 you. You won't say anything that would make your dear 
 father and me unhappy?" 
 
220 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Isabel looked her up and down. "You mean you 
 don't want me to tell him about the Saturday after- 
 noons?" 
 
 Lydia quivered under her youthful scorn. "You are 
 — uncouth!" She knew it wasn't the word she wanted, 
 but for once language failed her. ~She waited a moment, 
 but Isabel stood quite still, looking at her. "Very well, 
 then," she said at last, "since you put it that way, I do 
 want you to promise not to make trouble. You could 
 put a perfectly harmless trifle in such a way as to be 
 very untrue, so I want you to say nothing about it. You 
 promise me?" 
 
 Isabel, who felt that she would rather die than men- 
 tion the thing to her father or to anyone else, was out- 
 raged at being asked to promise. She stood silent and 
 unmoved. 
 
 "You won't promise me?" said Lydia. 
 
 "No, I won't promise anything," said Isabel, turning 
 away. 
 
 Lydia went down to breakfast feeling horribly per- 
 turbed. William, as in duty bound, went with her to the 
 train and, in the carriage, she shot her last arrow to dis- 
 credit her stepdaughter. 
 
 "There's one thing I have it on my conscience to tell 
 you," she said. "I think you ought to look after Isabel's 
 expenditures. She has been spending much more money 
 than she could possibly have in her possession and she 
 may have made debts. That would be very unpleasant 
 for you." 
 
 "She has controlled her income since she was twenty- 
 one," he replied. "I don't doubt she has been extrava- 
 gant, but I see no reason why she should be in debt." 
 
 Lydia's pale eyes gleamed with spite. "She couldn't 
 have bought what she has out of her income. Look at 
 the furs she got last winter, and her watch and chain. 
 I know what such things cost better than you do. The 
 watch and chain must have been over a hundred dollars 
 and the furs nearly as much. She gave a good many 
 Christmas presents and she got a great many clothes in 
 
Isabel Stirling 221 
 
 the spring. She spends money all the time. It is a thing 
 that ought to be looked into." 
 
 "I will look into it," said William briefly. 
 
 "And you must remember," was Lydia's parting shot, 
 "that she is not altogether truthful." 
 
XLIII 
 
 William Stirling was not one to defer a duty ; and in 
 the present instance he was impelled by an indignation 
 which he considered altogether righteous. As Lydia's 
 train moved out of the station he snapped his watch shut 
 and put it in his pocket ; then, instead of walking home, 
 got into the hack which had brought them down and told 
 the man to hurry. He had promised to go, that day, to 
 visit a former parishioner who was at present living in 
 a village some twenty miles away and who now, on a 
 sickbed, fancied that his former pastor might be of some 
 comfort to him. The local train which would take him 
 there was due to leave in a little over an hour. On the 
 way up the hill he reflected that some arrangement must 
 be made to guard Isabel during the day, and wondered 
 whether he had better take her with him, which he did 
 not at all want to do. 
 
 Jumping from the carriage and telling the man to wait, 
 he strode into the house and, not finding Isabel there, 
 opened the kitchen door and sent Bridget, the cook, in 
 search of her. Ellen had already set forth on the vaca- 
 tion which Lydia had thriftily arranged for her to take 
 during her own absence. He had a justified confidence 
 that at eight o'clock in the morning Isabel would still be 
 at home, whatever might be her intentions for the rest 
 of the day; intentions which he proposed to thwart. 
 
 She came in from the garden and obeyed his summons 
 with her usual reluctance. Never had a visit to his study 
 been anything but unpleasant, except perhaps on the occa- 
 sion when he had given her the freedom to spend her 
 money in her own way. He was sitting in his writing 
 chair, which he turned toward her as she came in. He 
 did not tell her to sit down and she stood before him, 
 tall and straight. He came to the point abruptly. 
 
Isabel Stirling 223 
 
 "You went out yesterday without your mother's knowl- 
 edge," he said. "Where did you go?" 
 
 "I went for a walk." 
 
 "Alone?" 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 He frowned. "Don't try to deceive me. Were you 
 alone?" 
 
 Her head went a little higher. "I don't intend to de- 
 ceive you. I went to meet Dick. You won't let him 
 come here." 
 
 "I forbade you to see him. I shall take measures to 
 enforce obedience." 
 
 She made no reply, looking past him, out of the win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Do you hear me? Look at me!" 
 
 She turned her eyes to meet his. His face was even 
 more grimly determined than she had ever seen it. Her 
 heart beat fast, but she answered intrepidly: "Yes, 
 Father. But I have promised to marry Dick." 
 
 His ringers closed on a heavy paper knife which was 
 lying on the desk beside him. Then slowly he let it go. 
 "You will not marry him," he said with finality. 
 
 For a moment he said no more. He held himself 
 rigidly, looking her in the eyes. She longed to escape, 
 but while his eyes held her she could not go. 
 
 "You have been spending money extravagantly," he 
 said. 
 
 This was totally unexpected. The color flooded her 
 face and he took it as a sign of guilt. 
 
 "Have you gone in debt?" he asked. 
 
 "No!" she said eagerly. 
 
 "Have you spent more than the income which your 
 aunt left you?" 
 
 Oh, why did he put it in that way? If he had merely 
 asked if she had spent more than her income she could 
 so readily have said that she had not, but the form of 
 his question made a truthful denial impossible. Had he 
 found out anything? She turned from red to white and 
 then to red again. Her hesitation and her changing color 
 
224 Isabel Stirling 
 
 betrayed her. With her father's anger was mingled an 
 overpowering disgust. He regarded her with repugnance. 
 
 "Where did you get the money ?" he asked. 
 
 She turned pale again and her knees trembled so that 
 she put her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. 
 Still she did not answer. Dr. Brenton had said that her 
 father must never know, and well she knew that for 
 herself. 
 
 "You shall tell me!" he said. "Who has been giving 
 you money? If I find that you have taken it " 
 
 "Nobody gave it to me. It's my own money," she 
 interrupted hastily. She felt that she was being hard 
 pushed. 
 
 "If John Brenton has been giving you your capital he 
 is liable to prosecution." 
 
 "But he hasn't." 
 
 "Has he made you a present of money?" 
 
 "No." She took a step back and half turned, as if 
 to go. 
 
 William Stirling got up, walked to the door, locked it, 
 put the key in his pocket and returning, stood rigidly 
 before her. "Before you leave this room," he said, "you 
 will tell me where you got the money you have been 
 spending." 
 
 "I am not going to tell." Her voice was scarcely 
 audible. 
 
 "You will tell." 
 
 Brave as she was, she quailed and was conquered. Her 
 eyes dropped before his. There was silence, while he 
 stood waiting. Then: "I earned the money," she said, 
 in a low tone. 
 
 "Earned it? You expect me to believe you?" 
 
 The taunt in his voice was unbearable. Under its 
 sting she regained courage, but in her anger cast away 
 all thought of consequences. "I wrote a book," she said, 
 "and got money for it." 
 
 He looked at her with absolute unbelief. "Lies are 
 useless." 
 
 "I have never told you a lie. Not even when it would 
 
Isabel Stirling 225 
 
 have made things easier. I wrote a book — and got it 
 published — and got money for it." 
 
 Her father's face appalled her. Never even in her 
 childhood had she been more afraid of him than she was 
 now. She trembled lest he take a step toward her. But 
 he held himself still. 
 
 "I think you are mad," he said. "You have harbored 
 devils so long that they have made you mad. You have 
 denied your God until He will have no more of you. I 
 have done my best and it has been of no avail !" 
 
 Something deep down in Isabel rose up and conquered 
 fright. She faced him without a tremor. "Your best 
 was not well done," she said. "You never loved me, you 
 were never kind to me, and you made me feel that God 
 was just like you. You — and other people — always said 
 He was a father — and then you showed me that a father 
 did not love his child — did not care for her really, only 
 cared to make her do his way. Did you expect me to 
 love a God like that? It never has seemed to me that 
 you yourself loved Him, or anyone else." 
 
 She stopped, astonished at herself. As her father came 
 toward her, terror revived. He did not touch her, nor 
 did he speak a word. He unlocked the door, opened it, 
 and motioned her to leave the room in front of him. 
 Again he motioned her toward the stairs and followed 
 her up. The sense of being driven was overwhelming in 
 its humiliation. She went of her own accord to her room, 
 horribly apprehensive lest he should follow her inside. 
 
 He only came in far enough to take the key out of the 
 lock. Then he closed the door and locked it from the 
 outside, taking the key out after he had done so. Di- 
 rectly after that she heard him go downstairs. A moment 
 later the front door opened and closed again and she 
 heard him drive away. 
 
XLIV 
 
 For some moments Isabel stood motionless. It had been 
 a tremendous relief to have her father shut the door be- 
 tween them. If he had laid his hand on her she felt that 
 she could hardly have lived through the humiliation and 
 she had feared it, seeing his anger and remembering her 
 childhood. 
 
 With the shutting of the house-door the tension re- 
 laxed. She glanced quickly at the door of the closet. 
 Yes, the key was still in it, and by a good chance that key 
 also fitted the other lock. She could get out whenever 
 she chose and her father would be away all day. Her 
 knees were shaking and she dropped into the little old 
 rocking chair by the window. She was glad to take time 
 to think. 
 
 Her father would return in the evening and then he 
 would ask more questions. He didn't believe now about 
 the book, but he would believe in the end. "I must go 
 away now," she said to herself. "It is the only thing." 
 
 There was but one place to go. Mrs. Gifford was with 
 Jessie, but even if she had been at home, Dr. Brenton was 
 the one person. He would understand. And she could 
 send word to Dick to come to her there. 
 
 She listened intently. The house was very quiet. 
 Looking out of the window, she saw Bridget, in her best 
 clothes, walk away, down the path from the kitchen, treat- 
 ing herself to an unsanctioned outing in the absence of 
 the master and mistress. It was a good thing. Now she 
 would have the house to herself. 
 
 She opened her door and, just to make sure, tiptoed 
 into all the rooms on that floor; then downstairs and 
 tremblingly through the lower rooms. At the door of 
 Lydia's sitting-room she paused. In this moment of 
 
 226 
 
Isabel Stirling 227 
 
 departure, memories of her childhood came back to her 
 — bitter memories. She saw the room as it had been — 
 dismantled, gloomy ; shut off from all the cheerful world, 
 with only the one door leading into her father's study. 
 She remembered with a sick feeling how she had been 
 led through the study to humiliating punishments and 
 how, each time, she had hated her father with a fresh 
 hatred — a passionate, futile hatred. 
 
 Then came back to her the night of awe and mystery 
 and terror when she — she alone of all the house, had kept 
 vigil near the mother she had never known and for whose 
 sake her father had never forgiven her existence ; yet for 
 whose sake he could not keep watch for one night. He 
 was already going to marry Lydia! A sob caught her 
 by the throat. . . . 
 
 There was no time to lose. She went back to her room 
 and put some things into a traveling bag; then dragged 
 her empty trunk from the garret and packed it. 
 
 She took the little portrait of her mother down from 
 the wall of her room, wrapped it carefully in soft things 
 and put it into the trunk. Then she went again into the 
 attic and, opening the little old trunk which held her 
 mother's things, gathered them together, and made room 
 for them in her own. Their bulk was not great, but 
 she had to leave out some of her own things. She 
 locked and strapped the trunk and left it standing in her 
 room. She knew that although her father might have 
 used force to detain herself, he would let her property 
 go. Just before noon she left the house, carrying her 
 handbag. 
 
 At Dr. Brenton's house welcome and sympathy greeted 
 her. "Of course you did just the right thing when you 
 came to me," the doctor assured her. "It's sheer good 
 luck," he added, "that your father didn't believe you 
 about the book — but when Lydia gets hold of it — " he 
 shook his head. 
 
 "I don't feel sure he'll tell her," replied Isabel. "He 
 doesn't always tell her things." 
 
 Dr. Brenton did not answer. He was wrinkling his 
 
228 Isabel Stirling 
 
 brow and reflecting anxiously. As far as he was con- 
 cerned, he had no objection to standing up to William 
 Stirling and telling him a home truth or two, but as long 
 as the father and daughter were in different houses in 
 the same town the girl's position could not but be a try- 
 ing one. . . . Yes, her own plan was best, hasty as it 
 seemed. 
 
 "And about Dick," Isabel was saying, "Father is all 
 wrong." 
 
 "Yes — about Dick." The doctor took her hand, as she 
 sat beside him, and patted it. "You haven't known him 
 very long — but I have. He's a fine fellow and it's all 
 right if you love each other enough. You love him, my 
 dear? It isn't just because that father of yours won't 
 let you have him?" 
 
 "Yes," said Isabel gravely. "I love him." 
 
 Looking into her eyes he saw something which had 
 never been there before. Isabel was a child no longer. 
 
 "Won't you send for him now — right away?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Surely I'll send. He's the person to send for." 
 
XLV 
 
 "We'll be married to-day," said Dick. He spoke with 
 decision, the blood mounting to his brow, his eyes 
 shining. 
 
 It was what she had expected, what she felt to be best, 
 but a quiver went through her. They were standing 
 before the fireplace in the doctor's parlor, gazing straight 
 into each other's eyes, both her hands in his. For a 
 moment now she looked away from him and out of the 
 open window. It was a day of intense stillness. Be- 
 tween motionless leafy branches showed a bit of intensely 
 blue sky. Then a little branch stirred as a bird alighted 
 on it. The bird stopped but an instant before it rose 
 against the blue. As her eyes followed it her spirit, too, 
 rose. She turned again to her lover. 
 
 "Yes, Dick," she said. In her eyes was the new look 
 and in her voice the new tone which revealed the unfold- 
 ing of her soul. . . . 
 
 Through all the hurry which followed, Isabel never 
 lost that impression of stillness. Yet hurry there must 
 be, though not for her. Dr. Stirling was to return at 
 six o'clock and Dr. Brenton, no less than Dick, was 
 anxious to get the affair finished before that. There 
 was much to do. Licenses were not necessary in those 
 days, but a parson must be secured. Isabel's trunk must 
 be retrieved, Dick must tell his father and prepare for 
 a journey. While Norah, all excitement when she was 
 told what was going forward, flew to work to prepare 
 such a wedding feast as the time allowed. 
 
 Dick found his father in the library, busy over ac- 
 counts. Peter Maiden took the news philosophically. 
 
 "It seems the only way," he said, "if you mean to make 
 sure of your girl." Then he puffed hard for a moment 
 
 229 
 
230 Isabel Stirling 
 
 at his cigar and reached out his hand for his ever-ready 
 cheque-book. "You'll want money/ ' he said. 
 
 "One never has to ask you," said Dick. 
 
 "I've known the want of it," replied his father, begin- 
 ning to write. "How much do you need?" 
 
 "If you could let me have five hundred " 
 
 "Unpractical young fool," growled Peter Maiden. 
 
 He finished the cheque and shoved it across the table. 
 It was for five thousand dollars. 
 
 Cassie was as excited and pleased as her brother could 
 wish. She liked the romance of it, liked Isabel, and 
 loved Dick so dearly that she would have appeared de- 
 lighted even if she had not been so. She gratified him 
 and herself by going at once to see Isabel and give her 
 a sisterly welcome and then hurried back to look after 
 his clothes and pack his trunk. 
 
 At four o'clock the little company was gathered in Dr. 
 Brenton's parlor; Dick and his father and Cassie, and 
 the Reverend Dr. Harrison, rector of St. James's. The 
 clergyman was feeling a trifle dubious, even though, after 
 an explanation of the circumstances, he had agreed to 
 perform the ceremony for the son of a most valued 
 parishioner. As for the others, there was a tense atmos- 
 phere surrounding them, a feeling of flurry and an 
 anxiety to get the affair safely over. 
 
 Dr. Brenton went upstairs to the door of the room 
 where Isabel, with scarcely a fleeting regret for the bridal 
 paraphernalia dear to the heart of a girl, had been urged 
 by Norah into her prettiest white summer gown. 
 
 "There'll be plenty of time to change," Norah had 
 said, "and ye must be lookin' yer prettiest. 'Tis the one 
 time in yer life." 
 
 And then Isabel had sent Norah away and had waited 
 alone. She was still very calm, not thinking at all, simply 
 waiting, in a strange hush of heart and mind. 
 
 "We are all ready," said Dr. Brenton, a note of emo- 
 tion in his voice. He kissed her on the forehead as she 
 came out of the room, and then turned and preceded her 
 down the stairs. 
 
Isabel Stirling 231 
 
 As she stood for a moment in the doorway, tall and 
 slender and lovely, the atmosphere of the room suddenly 
 and subtly changed: excitement ceased, her own calm 
 enveloped them all. And they all felt — these people who 
 had known her from her childhood — as if they had never 
 really seen her before. 
 
 She gave them no greeting, but stood looking at them 
 with a serious, yet softly radiant expression. For just 
 an instant no one moved. Then Dick, with a catch of the 
 breath, stepped forward and, taking her by the hand, led 
 her to the old clergyman. 
 
 She went through the service reverently and without 
 a tremor. Dr. Brenton's voice failed him utterly and he 
 could only give her away in dumb show, and Peter Mai- 
 den felt his eyes growing moist and found himself saying 
 under his breath: "No wonder — no wonder!" Cassie 
 smiled her tears away, not to cast a gloom on the wed- 
 ding, and Norah, in the background, wept unrestrainedly. 
 As for Dr. Harrison, who had large experience in brides 
 and bride psychology, he regarded this one with an un- 
 usual stirring of the heart, made up of admiration for 
 her beauty, pity for her trustful ignorance, and indigna- 
 tion at her incredibly stupid father. 
 
 The train which carried the newly married pair away 
 was already switching back and forth on the opposite 
 hill when William Stirling, who had come in on the little 
 railroad known as the Shoo Fly, drove up to his house. 
 It had been a day of very unusual heart-searching with 
 him. Fiercely dogmatic as he was, he yet had a con- 
 science which was capable of making itself heard, a 
 warped and twisted conscience, obedient to a creed of 
 gloom, yet none the less, a monitor. And Isabel's daring 
 shaft had reached the secret places. At first, to be sure, 
 ^he angrily repelled the idea that he did not love the God 
 to whose service he had devoted his life. It seemed to 
 him, indeed, almost as blasphemous to doubt him as to 
 doubt God Himself. He had, from time to time, been 
 accused of many things, but never of that disloyalty. 
 It rankled. 
 
232 Isabel Stirling 
 
 But presently, out of those fundamentally honest 
 depths of his soul which had been overgrown by dogma 
 and by the belief in his own infallibility — a belief nour- 
 ished by that absence of contradiction which, in a min- 
 ister's life fosters much self-ignorance — out of those 
 depths, so seldom sounded, rose an insistent, teasing ques- 
 tion. Was there truth in her accusation? The question, 
 once admitted, opened the way astonishingly for some 
 measure of self-criticism. Could it be, that by his own 
 example he had shown himself a false and misleading 
 interpreter of his religion ? It seemed that he had made 
 the idea of fatherhood hateful to his child. There had 
 been too poignant a sincerity in Isabel's accusation for 
 him to doubt that. He remembered that he had loved 
 his own father, who had died while he was but a young 
 lad. His mother seemed to stand before him, with her 
 trenchant admonitions. He remembered her saying once 
 that he had a grudge against God. Because of Bell. He 
 thought of Bell. . . . 
 
 The William Stirling who came back to the parsonage 
 was a humbler man than the William Stirling who had 
 gone away in the morning. He had made some good 
 resolutions. He felt compunction at the thought of Isa- 
 bel, locked in her room all day ; but he was not thinking 
 at all about Dick Maiden. That matter had been dis- 
 missed. He was in such haste to get home that he did 
 not walk, as usual, but took the station cab. 
 
 As he came toward the house he was not overpleased 
 to see John Brenton standing in the porch. Any out- 
 sider was an interruption now. His business was inside 
 with his daughter and all other affairs must wait. He 
 tried to excuse himself after a hurried greeting, but the 
 visitor vexatiously held his ground. 
 
 "What I have to say is of importance," he said. 
 
 "Very well, then," said William ungraciously, his hand 
 on the doorknob. 
 
 Dr. Brenton spoke deliberately. "Isabel was married 
 two hours ago to Dick Maiden. The ceremony took place 
 in my house." 
 
Isabel Stirling 233 
 
 William Stirling stood motionless, his hand still on the 
 doorknob. The silence lasted so long that the other man 
 was moved to an unreasonable sympathy. "If the man 
 could only swear !" he said to himself. 
 
 At last William's hand dropped to his side, the ringers 
 clenched. "As she has made her bed, so she can lie on 
 it !" he said in a voice shaking with rage. "I am through 
 with her. The God in whom she does not believe will 
 curse such a marriage. I leave her to Him." 
 
 John Brenton's wrath burst out at that. "Your curses 
 may come back to you !" he said hotly. "It would be no 
 more than you deserve. Why couldn't you treat her 
 better when you had her?" 
 
 "Go !" said the minister furiously. "Why do you stay 
 here?" 
 
 John Brenton shook his head and compressed his lips. 
 Why, indeed, stay an instant with this madman ? As he 
 walked away he reflected that, for a man who couldn't 
 swear, William was not without resources. 
 
PART THREE 
 
 XLVT 
 
 Isabel went high-heartedly and somewhat ignorantly 
 into the adventure of marriage. Afterward she had re- 
 volts. Dick was very sweet with her and patient over 
 things he couldn't quite understand, and she was more 
 in love with him than ever before, but as to marriage 
 
 At least, until you had been married ten years or so 
 and got used to it. 
 
 And yet her soul went out to him; and would he be 
 so adorably her lover after ten years? He said, of course 
 he would — and she was reassured. 
 
 They spent a short honeymoon in New York and she 
 bought her pretty things and loved them. Then they 
 took a week's journey across the continent to the post 
 where Dick was stationed — and little she realized at the 
 time, how lucky she was in that first post. For it was 
 a land of flowers and sunshine; of pleasant people and 
 good things to eat, and a good Chinese cook. 
 
 How she looked back all her life to that first station! 
 From reveille to taps, from guard mounting to dress 
 parade, she loved it all. Her heart quickened at the 
 sound of the morning gun, awakening her from sleep, 
 and her eyes grew moist when the evening gun boomed 
 out and the great flag was lowered. Not since the war- 
 time schooldays had she felt such a thrill of emotional 
 patriotism. 
 
 For the rest, a second lieutenant's quarters are small, 
 but Isabel had never been in the way of concerning her- 
 self much about her domestic surroundings. At home, 
 Lydia had emphatically possessed the house, and before 
 that it was boarding school. She had been singularly 
 
 234 
 
Isabel Stirling 235 
 
 detached from the paraphernalia of domestic life and had 
 remained singularly ignorant of the woman's usual lore 
 of housekeeping and sewing. It had seemed that such 
 things as chairs and tables, sheets and towels, cups and 
 saucers, pots and pans, simply existed, like other natural 
 objects. To be sure, she had paused for a moment in 
 the choosing of clothes, to ask Dick whether she ought 
 not to be buying things for housekeeping; but Dick had 
 answered that he had asked Cassie to send them a lot of 
 things, and she gave the matter no further thought. So 
 that presently she surprised herself and amused Dick by 
 the rapturous affection which she developed for her house- 
 hold belongings. 
 
 "It's more fun !" she said, as she arranged their quar- 
 ters; and "more fun" it continued to be. 
 
 She sighed happily when Dick spoke deprecatingly of 
 the small quarters. "Oh," she said, "it seems boundless. 
 There's no corner where we are not free to be ourselves !" 
 
 Nevertheless, the thought frequently recurred to her 
 that this intimate life would be unbearably horrible if one 
 had by mistake married anyone but the one and only man 
 whom one could love. 
 
 As to housekeeping, the Chinaman was a treasure and 
 one really didn't need to know how to do things. More- 
 over, they need not worry overmuch if living was expen- 
 sive. Dick's father had made him a handsome wedding 
 present of well invested securities, and her own little in- 
 come was a great comfort. Again she did not quite know 
 what a lucky second lieutenant's wife she was. Nor did 
 she suspect that an exaggerated report of their financial 
 prosperity had been spread abroad before their arrival. 
 Lily Hazleton had not failed to expatiate on Peter Mai- 
 den's wealth. 
 
 Lily and Frank were, naturally, the first persons to 
 greet them on their arrival. Full of endearments was 
 Lily, and all eagerness to do something to make the novice 
 feel at home. She was quite the young army woman 
 now, perfectly au fait in army customs and talk. It 
 seemed a great joke to Isabel that Lily should patronize 
 
236 Isabel Stirling 
 
 her, but after all, it was pleasant to see someone whom 
 she had known all her life. 
 
 "You just come and ask me if there is anything you 
 want to know," Lily reiterated as she was taking her 
 leave. She laid a caressing finger-tip on Isabel's hand. 
 It was her new substitute for a kiss and there was no 
 fault to find with it. "Sweet thing !" she said. But her 
 parting smile was for Dick. "Frank is so happy to have 
 you back. We expect to see a lot of you." 
 
 "Lily is just the same," said Isabel after she was gone, 
 "only with a few new tricks." 
 
 "She's a nice little woman," said Dick. He was very 
 happy to see his friend again, and Isabel was yet to learn 
 that of his friend's wife there must be no criticism. Such 
 was his idea of loyalty. 
 
 Presently began the entertainments for the bride, led 
 off by Colonel Raynor, who gave a lieutenants' dinner, 
 so that he might have Isabel at his right hand. The 
 Colonel was a bachelor, and while some of the women 
 had been heard to say that it was a pity for the com- 
 manding officer not to have a wife to help him entertain, 
 it was generally felt that he did very well without one. 
 Also, it was more interesting for visiting ladies. Isabel's 
 curiosity about him had been quickened by Frank Hazle- 
 ton's characterization of him. She had asked what he 
 was like, this monarch whom they must all obey. 
 
 "Do you remember," Frank had replied, "the game 
 where 1 love my love with an A'? Well, let's love our 
 Colonel with an F. He's fair-minded and firm, and a 
 good fighter, when fighting is in the day's work. Also, 
 he's a flirt of the first water. And he loves his freedom 
 with such a very large F that his flirting is innocuous 
 to him and hopeless for the flirtee." 
 
 "He's so old for that," objected the young Isabel. 
 
 " 'Age cannot wither, nor custom stale' the infinite 
 variety of his flirtatiousness," replied Frank. "Besides, 
 you don't know the army. We never grow old." 
 
 It was a gay little dinner that the Colonel gave in her 
 honor. Dressed in the choicest of her bridal finery, 
 
Isabel Stirling 237 
 
 Isabel was delightful to look at and a-quiver with excite- 
 ment, but found herself, to her chagrin, with nothing to 
 say. The army post had its own small talk, and she had 
 only the small talk of Ptolemy. If only, she thought, 
 they would have let her alone, she could have listened 
 comfortably and might have picked up a lot of their 
 patter. She was not aware that her host would have been 
 quite content to talk to her and have her say nothing 
 in reply, so long as she could look so lovely. She did 
 her best to respond to him, and felt like a dunce. And 
 when he turned away from her for a moment, there was 
 Mr. Betts, on her other side, conscientiously trying to 
 adjust his conversation to her. It occurred to her to 
 wonder what they would think if they knew she had 
 written a novel, and then she wondered when, by the 
 way, she was going to tell her husband about that novel. 
 
 Farther down, on the opposite side of the table, sat 
 Lily. It seemed to her, in those days, that Lily was 
 always in sight and always supremely at ease, with her 
 demure smile and her coy drooping of pale lashes over 
 her shallow light-blue eyes. Lily did not seem to talk 
 so very much, but she listened, and the men were talking 
 to her endlessly. 
 
 It was a cavalry party and they all talked horse. Isabel 
 vowed that she would learn to talk horse too. She looked 
 askance at her glass of champagne and wondered whether 
 she would be transgressing any rule of army etiquette 
 if she were to leave it untouched. She did not suspect 
 that Colonel Raynor, who didn't consider Pommery Sec 
 a lieutenant's wine, had, on this occasion, ordered it in 
 her honor. She had tasted champagne during that honey- 
 moon trip to New York and liked it, but was afraid of it. 
 Moreover, so insidiously penetrating had been the code 
 of the parsonage that she, who considered herself to be 
 at odds with the parsonage rules, thought it a little wicked 
 to drink any wine at all. However, she would rather be 
 wicked than make a mistake, so she raised her glass to 
 her lips and sipped. As she set it down she met the 
 kindly eyes of her host. It seemed to her that he was 
 
238 Isabel Stirling 
 
 trying to think of something to say that might interest 
 her. A flash of irritation sent the blood to her cheeks 
 and drove away her shyness. She smiled at him frankly. 
 
 "I am absolutely out of all this," she said, "but I'm 
 going to get into it as fast as I can. IVe never been on 
 a horse. I don't know anything about them — and I think 
 I'm a little afraid of dogs." 
 
 Colonel Raynor laughed. "That's nothing," he said. 
 "It will soon come as natural to you as to the rest of 
 us." 
 
 "At any rate," she said, "I'm going to get over my 
 ignorance. I'm cultivating the acquaintance of Dick's 
 dog, and we are going to buy me a horse. And if I'm 
 observant perhaps I'll soon learn which is the near and 
 which is the off side of him." 
 
 "You're getting on famously," said the Colonel. "And 
 you'll love it all after a while." 
 
 "I love it now," she replied, her eyes shining. 
 
 "Good! And you'll like the dances. You didn't get 
 there last Saturday night." 
 
 Isabel's eyes drooped and the color flooded her face. 
 Why did he have to mention dancing? She played with 
 her fork for a moment and then faced him again. "I 
 don't dance," she said. 
 
 Colonel Raynor could not remember ever having met 
 a girl who didn't dance, or a married woman either, un- 
 less she were inordinately stout. "Oh, but you must 
 change that," he said briskly. "I hope you'll give me 
 many a waltz. And your husband is the best dancer 
 at the post." 
 
 She shook her head. "When I was a child I promised 
 my father that I would never dance in my life. So you 
 see I can't." 
 
 "Well — " said the Colonel, and slipped off to another 
 subject. How could he commend her sense of honor in 
 keeping a promise which she ought not to have made, 
 when her breaking it was only a matter of time ? 
 
 As she and Dick walked home together, Isabel won- 
 dered again when she was going to tell him about the 
 
Isabel Stirling 239 
 
 book. She hardly ever thought of it nowadays, since 
 she was in such a different world from the old one. It 
 really was more comfortable to keep it out of her mind, 
 for the better she knew Dick, the more certain she was 
 that no one in the world would more thoroughly dis- 
 approve of her for having written it. 
 
XLVII 
 
 Dick had assumed, as a matter of course, that Isabel 
 would set aside the old promise about dancing, and was 
 greatly put out when he found that she meant to keep 
 her word. 
 
 "I don't see any sense in it," he said. "You could run 
 away and marry me when your father forbade it, and 
 now you can't do a much smaller thing." 
 
 "But I never promised not to marry you," said Isabel. 
 
 "But no human being could blame you for breaking 
 a promise extorted from you when you were a child. 
 Come now, let me give you a lesson. You'll learn di- 
 rectly. You're built just right for dancing." He put 
 his arm around her waist and began to whistle a waltz. 
 
 She threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Dick !" she 
 exclaimed. "If you only knew how hard it is! I long 
 to dance. And if I could only feel right about it myself, 
 I shouldn't care in the least what anyone else might think 
 about it. Dick, don't you have to make things square 
 with yourself before you can do them?" 
 
 He took her face between his hands 'and kissed her. 
 "Yes, I do," he said. "You're a brick, Isabel. But as 
 soon as you feel differently about it, be sure and let me 
 know. Because, you see, you are going to be dreadfully 
 out of it in an army post." 
 
 "Let you know !" she cried. "Why, Dick, if I could 
 feel differently about it I shouldn't give you a moment's 
 peace. You'd have to teach me, morning, noon and 
 night." 
 
 "I'll be ready, darling girl. And now, how about the 
 hops? Do you want to go and look on, next Saturday, 
 or shall we stay at home?" 
 
 "Oh, I'll go. I must see everything." 
 
 She went, gaily enough, and it did not at first strike 
 
 240 
 
Isabel Stirling 241 
 
 her that there was anything strange in Dick's sitting 
 beside her without dancing. Many men came and stood 
 for a few moments, or sat out a dance with her, and at 
 those times Dick walked rather aimlessly away and talked 
 to people here and there. Lily came up to her between 
 two dances. 
 
 "How perfectly sweet for Dick to be so devoted," she 
 said. "But it does seem queer not to have him dance. 
 He loves it so. Are you going to make him give it up 
 altogether?" 
 
 "I should never think of making him give it up," re- 
 plied Isabel, with spirit. "I dare say he'll be dancing 
 soon." 
 
 "It's so funny about you," pursued Lily. "I never 
 expected you to be strict about such things after you 
 left home." 
 
 "No," said Isabel. "I suppose not." She looked re- 
 flectively at Lily's blonde prettiness and recalled a remark 
 of Cassie's. Cassie had said that Lily was "a sleek white 
 cat." 
 
 Just then Lily was taken away by a partner and Dick 
 came back to her. For the moment there was no one 
 near them. After all, cat or no cat, she herself was being 
 a selfish pig, which was just as bad. Poor Dick must 
 be having a dull time of it; and besides, no one should 
 think that she was keeping him from amusing himself. 
 She told him that she wanted him to go and dance. 
 
 "What for?" he answered promptly. "I'd rather not, 
 if you don't mind." 
 
 She smiled up at him. "You look so nice," she said. 
 "Nicer than anyone here. And everyone says you dance 
 better. I want a chance to admire you." 
 
 "I'm going to sit right here and make you say those 
 things some more. There's no diet so agrees with me 
 as flattery." He sat for a moment, glancing about the 
 room. "Pretty to look at, isn't it ? And by George, that 
 music's good." 
 
 She regarded him with an amused smile. He was 
 being perfectly heroic, poor dear. She rejoiced in his 
 
242 Isabel Stirling 
 
 willingness to sacrifice himself for her, but given the 
 willingness, she could not think of actually accepting the 
 sacrifice. She insisted and he demurred, until Colonel 
 Raynor came and asked to sit out a dance with her. Then 
 Dick left her for "just one dance." 
 
 "It really is fun to look on," said Isabel, not knowing 
 that her wistful eyes betrayed her. 
 
 "You are a wise girl," said Colonel Raynor. 
 
 Veteran philanderer though he was under suitable cir- 
 cumstances, Colonel Raynor never trifled with married 
 women. For some of them he had a genuine, kindly 
 friendliness, as far as possible removed from flirting. 
 A good friend Isabel always found him. She was well 
 content as she sat beside him now ; a contentment which 
 had nothing to do with his rank or his distinction. True, 
 she didn't succeed in giving him her undivided attention, 
 but even when he saw that her eyes could not be kept 
 from wandering to her husband as he passed her in his 
 circling of the room, her inattention was not laid up 
 against her. 
 
 When Dick came back to her Captain Home was bow- 
 ing and getting ready to take Colonel Raynor's place, 
 so he consented to be sent away again, and seeing that 
 she was never alone, he kept on dancing. Isabel tried 
 to be interested in the various men and their conversa- 
 tion, but she was fancying herself among the dancers, 
 always picturing herself as gliding easily and gracefully 
 over the floor ; as easily as Lily, but not in the same way. 
 She found herself hating Lily's dancing, without quite 
 knowing why. Lily's feet seemed all lightness, and the 
 rest of her all languor. The men said she was a wonder- 
 ful partner; and when she and Dick danced together 
 some of the others paused to look at them. 
 
 Across the room, Isabel saw Frank watching them, his 
 eager dark eyes following his wife intently. It struck 
 her again, as it had done when she first saw them to- 
 gether, at the time of their wedding, that he seemed too 
 vivid a personality for so slight a person as Lily. How- 
 ever, such charm as she had still appeared to hold him. 
 
Isabel Stirling 243 
 
 As the evening went on Isabel grew tired. Her eyes 
 ached with the incessant circling movement ; it was hard 
 to talk or listen in such a noise ; Dick and Lily waltzed 
 together interminably. Before it was time to go home 
 she had decided that, for a person who didn't dance, 
 hops were tiresome — even rather hateful. 
 
XLVIII 
 
 Luckily, dancing doesn't make up the whole of one's 
 amusement at an army post. The great adventure of 
 riding was at hand. Dick was fortunate to find just the 
 right horse and bought it immediately. 
 
 "What a price!" exclaimed Isabel. "I had no idea 
 horses cost so much/' 
 
 "Horses don't," said Dick. "This horse does — and 
 isn't dear." 
 
 "I'm afraid it's too good for a beginner." 
 
 "Not when you're the beginner. I only wish women 
 had the sense to ride astride." 
 
 But Isabel did not wish so. She took the most naive 
 pride in her new habit, the best that could be got in New 
 York, with its accompaniment of smart hat, gauntlets and 
 riding crop. She had a good saddle, too — much better 
 than she was yet able to appreciate. She was, to be sure, 
 a little surprised when Dick, explaining its good points, 
 dwelt entirely on the fact that it was so easy on the horse, 
 hardly seeming to consider its comfort as a seat for her. 
 
 She looked complacently in her mirror when she was 
 dressed for her first lesson, and then apprehensively out 
 of the window at the horses, with the orderly standing 
 at their heads. 
 
 " 'Every prospect pleases/ " she quoted, in an attempt 
 at light-mindedness, "but oh, Dick, I think I'm a little 
 scared of the horse. He looks so appallingly powerful." 
 
 "No, you're not scared of him," said Dick with deci- 
 sion, "and he's powerful, but stupid. He doesn't know 
 enough to oppose his power to your will, if only you 
 know how to express it. Never forget that you are the 
 boss. By the way, his name is Pat." 
 
 He had never spoken to her in just that tone before. 
 
 244 
 
Isabel Stirling 245 
 
 She cast a sidelong glance at him and vowed that never 
 again would she confess to fear of a horse or anything 
 else. She would live up to Dick. Incidentally, she meant 
 to ride better than any woman at the post. But, standing 
 beside Pat, she still regarded that superior animal with 
 trepidation and wondered how in the world she was ever 
 to get into the saddle. 
 
 "Come now, I'll put you up," said Dick. 
 
 She obeyed directions and placed her foot in his hand, 
 wondering silently how that little bit of help was going 
 to get the whole of her up. But when, at his command, 
 she obediently straightened her knee and lifted herself, 
 without even springing, as would have been her impulse, 
 she found herself, by some miracle, in the saddle. Dick 
 sorted the reins for her and put them into her hands, 
 then walked around her, showed her how to rise in the 
 stirrup and pull her skirt into place, and ordered her to 
 sit up straight. Then he swung himself into his own 
 saddle and they started at a walk, down the officers' row, 
 past the verandah where Lily was watching, out toward 
 the open country. Isabel felt a wild desire to cling to 
 the pommel, but did not move her fingers from the posi- 
 tion in which Dick had placed them. 
 
 "Drop your hands lower," he commanded. "Square 
 your shoulders and straighten your back. Keep your 
 elbows in and cheer up! Now you look all right — only 
 you're as pale as a ghost." 
 
 "I'm all right," she said, breathlessly. She sat rigidly, 
 in exactly the position he required, not daring to look 
 either to the right or to the left. 
 
 "You look perfectly fine," said Dick, encouragingly. 
 
 "That may be so," she breathed to herself, "but it's a 
 long way to the ground." 
 
 They kept their horses at a walk and gradually she 
 began to breathe more freely. 
 
 "Now we'll trot a little," said Dick. They were out 
 of sight of the post by this time. "Tighten your reins 
 a bit and relax your body, so that you can rise with the 
 horse." 
 
246 Isabel Stirling 
 
 She tightened the reins and Pat broke into a swinging 
 trot, a beautiful easy trot, had his mistress but known it, 
 but to her it was agonizing. Her body had remained as 
 stiff as a ramrod, every muscle tense, and at each stride 
 of the horse she seemed to go so far into the air as almost 
 to lose her saddle, which at intervals she would find again 
 with a most painful bump. It seemed to her sheer luck 
 that it was underneath her each time that she came down. 
 
 "Relax ! Relax !" cried Dick. "Let yourself go as if 
 — as if you were dropping into an easy-chair." 
 
 She laughed almost hysterically and then, with a 
 mighty effort of will, let her strained muscles relax, with 
 the result that she felt herself jumping about loosely, 
 almost as uncertainly as before, with a wobble substi- 
 tuted for the bump. 
 
 "I'm like a bag of meal," she said. They were the first 
 natural words she had spoken. 
 
 "You have to relax intelligently." They dropped into 
 a walk again. "Now try!" 
 
 She said to herself: "Of course I'm horribly afraid, 
 but I'm going to do it just the same." By degrees she did 
 better. "Am I getting the idea now ?" she asked. 
 
 "You're getting it splendidly. But you mustn't keep 
 it up too long the first time. We'll go home now." 
 
 At their own door she looked doubtfully from the horse 
 to the ground. "Aren't you going to lift me off?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 But he showed her how to do it and she landed on her 
 toes, lightly and safely. As they went up the steps Lily 
 came strolling over from her own verandah. 
 
 "Sweet thing !" she said. "Were you as frightened as 
 you looked? When you went past on your way out I 
 thought you were going to faint." 
 
 "Can't imagine where you got such an idea," broke in 
 Dick. "She just naturally rides. She'll outdo everybody 
 after a while." 
 
 "Isn't he sweet, to be so proud of you ?" said Lily. 
 
 Isabel thought he was, but didn't choose to say so, 
 
Isabel Stirling 247 
 
 or to mention how little ground he had for pride in her 
 performance. "He's a good teacher," she said carelessly. 
 
 "And one ought to be able to learn to ride on such a 
 lovely horse," added Lily. "Do let me try him some day 
 when you're not going out." 
 
 But Dick had already said that no one else must ride 
 Pat. There was an embarrassing little pause. 
 
 "Well," said Lily, not seeming to notice that she had 
 received no answer, "I must be going back. Come over 
 soon." 
 
 Isabel felt rather pleased with herself all day and was 
 eager for the morrow, but that night she had horrible 
 nightmares. She was falling — falling off a horse which 
 was as high as a house, and Dick was standing by and 
 saying, "No, I won't help you." Or the horse was trot- 
 ting and throwing her up high into the air and Dick was 
 saying, "Relax!" It was a relief to wake up in the 
 morning. 
 
 She was sore and lame from her bumping and after 
 such a night she thought she would be more afraid than 
 the day before, but having made up her mind to pay no 
 attention to fear, it gradually diminished, until, as the 
 days and weeks went by, she forgot it altogether. To be 
 sure, it was a breathless experience when she took her 
 first lessons in jumping, but excitement helped her, and 
 she came to love the sense of rising from the earth and 
 the feeling of the tremendous effort which the powerful 
 animal was making at her bidding. 
 
 "I believe you do the spectacular things the best," com- 
 mented Dick one day after a particularly high jump. 
 
 "Doesn't one do best what takes one out of oneself? 
 Or perhaps what brings applause? I'm a vain thing." 
 
 "You've something to be vain of. And you're not 
 afraid any longer." 
 
 She turned on him. "Did I ever say I was afraid — 
 after I once tried it?" 
 
 "You had too much pluck to say it, but bless you, did 
 you suppose I didn't know it? It was perfectly fine, your 
 going on and saying nothing. And now you ride like 
 
248 Isabel Stirling 
 
 a natural-born horsewoman. You have a good seat and 
 good hands. From the first you've had good hands — as 
 soon as you dared think they belonged to you. And you 
 and Pat are understanding each other better every day. 
 A little more experience and I'd trust you anywhere." 
 
 "I never was so proud in my life!" She turned a 
 flushed, beaming face to him. "Oh — " with a long sigh 
 — "there's nothing like conquering. Were you ever 
 afraid, Dick?" 
 
 "Scared to death." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Well, the time I remember best — " he stopped sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Oh, go on! You've really got to tell me now." 
 
 "Oh, it wasn't much. We went out for an Indian 
 who'd sworn to have my scalp and we had to go along 
 through a narrow defile, one at a time, and I in front. 
 I was fresh from the Academy then. One gets over it. 
 One has to, you know." 
 
 "Yes, one has to. What happened?" 
 
 "Nothing — we didn't find him. All my funk was for 
 nothing, you see." 
 
 "Does he still want your scalp?" she asked anxiously. 
 
 Dick grinned. "You needn't worry about that. Some- 
 one brought me his, one day." 
 
 "I'm glad of it !" Then she shivered slightly. "I hope 
 you won't be sent out after Indians again." 
 
 He laughed shortly. "One takes what comes. Don't 
 let's worry. Come ori! I want to see you jump that 
 ditch over there." 
 
 She had never taken such a long jump before, but she 
 did it with spirit. 
 
 "Perfectly bully !" was Dick's comment, and her mind 
 was diverted from Indians. 
 
 In fact, why should she think of them? Indian cam- 
 paigning was something which, in her inexperience, 
 seemed quite past as far as Dick was concerned. They 
 were in a lovely place now and, although she had been 
 told that they might have to leave it at any time, she 
 
Isabel Stirling 249 
 
 did not take the warning seriously. Permanence had 
 been the keynote of her life in Ptolemy. 
 
 They trotted along peacefully and presently met Lily, 
 riding with young Dakin, a boy in his first year out of 
 the Academy. She was not well mounted. She was 
 always lamenting to Isabel that she couldn't afford to 
 buy a horse, but must take what she could get. However, 
 she seemed to be enjoying herself. 
 
 "How do you think Lily rides?" asked Isabel. 
 
 "Oh, not very well. It isn't her accomplishment." 
 
 Isabel was about to say that dancing was her accom- 
 plishment, but decided not to. "She rides with Mr. Da- 
 kin pretty often," she said, "considering " 
 
 "Considering nothing. What's the harm ?" 
 
 "Well, she says Frank is so jealous." 
 
 Dick made a movement of vexation which caused his 
 horse to swerve. He brought it back beside her and said 
 rather hotly. "Don't talk like that! I hate gossip, and 
 army gossip worst of all. For the Lord's sake, don't 
 get into any of it." 
 
 "I don't," said Isabel, in a hurt tone. "It's only what 
 Lily says to me herself. And I thought I could say 
 things to you. Of course not to other people." 
 
 "I'm sorry if I was cross. You see, Frank is a sensi- 
 tive fellow, and sometimes a little inclined to look on the 
 dark side of things and to worry. But jealous — no ! He's 
 the best fellow in the world — and the best friend I have." 
 
 "He's too good for Lily," said Isabel shortly. 
 
 "Oh, come!" 
 
 "She'll torment the life out of him — and enjoy herself 
 doing it." 
 
 "She's Frank's wife. Don't let's talk about her." 
 
 Isabel gave her head a little indignant lift. Then she 
 turned and looked at Dick, and as she met the straight- 
 forward glance of his blue eyes she laughed, half angry 
 still, but seeing the uselessness of anger. 
 
 "Your dislike of hearing anything unpleasant said 
 about people is almost a monomania," she said. 
 
 "Perhaps it is." He spoke quietly and soberly now. 
 
250 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "When I was a boy I happened to hear some lies told 
 about someone I cared for, and it gave me a hatred for 
 talk of that kind — even if it happens not to be lies." 
 
 Isabel loved him the better for it. And anyway, she 
 rode better than Lily. 
 
 There were moments when she needed the balm of that 
 knowledge. The Saturday night hops always made her 
 feel a little depressed, whether she went to them or stayed 
 away. For, although Dick would not go without her, 
 that made her uncomfortable; and when she went, it 
 seemed as if Lily were always trying to show the whole 
 room how admirable a couple they two were. 
 
 "So sweet of you to let me. have him," Lily would say. 
 
XLIX 
 
 The riding was brought to an end by the doctor's orders. 
 Isabel was going to have a baby. 
 
 This, she felt, was the most exciting adventure of all. 
 Terrifying, as well. A baby, when it had once arrived, 
 might be a very nice thing to have ; certainly, she did not 
 wish to be a childless woman, aside from the unfairness 
 to Dick. But she shrank in mingled alarm and disgust 
 from all that lay between the present moment and the 
 finished accomplishment. Her alarm she could put aside 
 more easily than her repugnance. An unceasing physical 
 self-consciousness was horrible to her. Yet there were 
 moments when she became aware of a queer, primitive 
 pride in herself, a feeling that she was doing something 
 wonderful — something which she was made for. 
 
 And then Dick was so sweet to her. Surely, it was 
 worth while to put up with a good deal for the sake of 
 that tenderness of love and care which transcended any- 
 thing that she had yet known. She recalled Amy Boyd 
 and her distress over the child which a poor professor 
 could not afford to have. Looking around her, she saw 
 poor army families in the same plight; and she was 
 thankful from her heart that, at least, she and Dick need 
 not have that cause of anxiety. She felt less warmth 
 of gratitude when Lily pointed out her good fortune. 
 
 She had all, and more than all, of the shyness of her 
 generation, and would have been glad to keep her secret 
 from Lily and from everybody else, but unfortunately 
 such secrets cannot be kept; and, in the fact that she 
 refrained from mentioning the situation to Lily, the lat- 
 ter saw no reason for keeping silence. 
 
 "You sweet thing," she said. "It's so perfectly lovely. 
 There's nothing I would like so much as to have children 
 
 251 
 
252 Isabel Stirling 
 
 — lots of them. Frank and I both adore them. But army 
 officers who have to live on their pay never ought to have 
 children. While they are lieutenants and captains they 
 are too poor, and by the time they get to be majors they 
 are too old. to begin life that way. You are so lucky 
 tc have money enough not to have to think about that." 
 
 Isabel was speechless with embarrassment and annoy- 
 ance. She wished Lily would stop, but didn't know 
 how to stop her. 
 
 "What is your number ?" asked Lily, when she had 
 said all the congratulatory things she could think of, and 
 had made Isabel still more acutely uncomfortable. 
 
 "My number ?" Isabel couldn't imagine what she 
 meant. 
 
 "Yes. How many do you mean to have?" 
 
 "Oh, don't!" exclaimed Isabel. 
 
 And the next day Lily told Mrs. Bennett that it was 
 too bad that Isabel felt so about having a baby. "Per- 
 fectly hates it, dear Mrs. Bennett. Simply can't bear 
 to think of it or speak of it — even to me, and of course 
 she would talk to me if she would to anyone. We've 
 known each other all our lives. I think it's really wicked. 
 I'm sure I would be glad enough if I were in her place. 
 Nobody knows how Frank and I feel about it." She 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 Mrs. Bennett did not care particularly for Lily, but 
 saw no reason to disbelieve her ; and so she was unaware 
 of the wistful, tentative advance which Isabel made to 
 her one day. Isabel, in her supreme ignorance of every- 
 thing connected with the affair, had thought that if she 
 could once conquer her shyness, it would be a comfort 
 to talk to Mrs. Bennett, a woman old enough to be her 
 mother, and with a kind face and manner. She made a 
 morning visit on purpose, but the major's wife seemed, 
 to her sensitiveness, unresponsive, and she came away 
 without speaking. Thrown back on herself, she made 
 no further attempt to confide in anybody, while the ladies 
 of the garrison, having been given to understand that the 
 subject was taboo, carefully avoided ever leading up to it. 
 
Isabel Stirling 253 
 
 She was lonely enough, in spite of Dick. They had 
 already begged Cassie to come and visit them and, for a 
 while, had expected her. But Cassie did not come, and 
 gave no very satisfactory reason. She was spending the 
 winter in New York and seemed to be enjoying herself. 
 
 "If there were any special reason," said Dick, who 
 was inclined to be a little aggrieved. Cassie had not been 
 used to fail him. 
 
 "Perhaps there is," said Isabel. "You never can tell." 
 
 Meantime, however, Lily was constant in her visits. 
 "I want," she said one day, "to make something pretty 
 for little It. What would you rather have ? What have 
 you got?" 
 
 "I haven't got anything," said Isabel, and closed her 
 lips firmly on that answer. 
 
 "But my dear!" Lily's dismay was genuine. What- 
 ever might be her real feeling about babies, there was no 
 doubt of her enthusiasm with regard to the clothes for 
 them ; and she loved to sew. 
 
 "I don't know anything about such things," said Isabel 
 indifferently. 
 
 "You poor thing! You certainly do need help." 
 
 "Oh, no. It will all come right." Not for worlds 
 would she have told that she was intending to arrange 
 with Cassie to have the little wardrobe made and sent 
 out to her. This, she felt, was no time for her to try 
 her prentice hand at sewing. 
 
 So Lily, even while planning, with entire good will, to 
 contribute her own beautiful needlework to the emer- 
 gency, told Mrs. Bennett and others that Isabel so hated 
 the whole thing that she would not even think about 
 planning clothes for the baby. 
 
 To Isabel herself she said: "Sweet thing! You'll have 
 to learn to be more practical than that." 
 
 Presently she broached another subject: "Frank can't 
 go to the hop to-night," she said. "That strained knee 
 bothers him and Dr. Kirby says he must keep quiet. He 
 won't hear of my staying home, dear thing, but I won't 
 go without a man. It's so stupid." 
 
254 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "Is it? You dance every dance whether Frank is there 
 or not." Isabel was not particularly interested. 
 
 Lily cocked her blonde head on one side and held her 
 work off at arm's length to admire it. "Sweet, isn't it?" 
 she said. "I can't understand your not taking more inter- 
 est — well, I know Dick is too devoted to go to hops just 
 now, but we thought you would lend him to me for this 
 evening. You wouldn't mind just one evening, would 
 you?" 
 
 "Lend you Dick !" The color flamed in Isabel's cheeks. 
 "Dick isn't a property to be lent by me. He does what 
 he likes." 
 
 "And of course he likes best to stay home with you," 
 said Lily sweetly. "But— oh, here he comes — dear me, 
 it must be lunch-time. I had no idea it was so late." 
 
 Dick came briskly up the steps. "Good-morning, Lily," 
 he said, perching himself on the verandah railing. "How's 
 Frank? I heard his knee was bad." 
 
 "He's sitting with his foot up, poor darling, and in- 
 sists on my going to the hop to-night without him. Of 
 course, I'd rather stay with him, but he won't listen to 
 it. He said, if you were going, perhaps you'd take me." 
 
 "I'd love to — but I don't go to hops. How about the 
 Bettses?" 
 
 Lily made a little face. "I don't hang on to couples. 
 Well, it's all right, and I'd so much rather stay home 
 with Frank. I'll tell him you set me an example of de- 
 votion. If only he doesn't insist!" she sighed. "You 
 know dear Frank is perfectly foolish about my doing 
 what he thinks will be pleasant for me. Of course he'll 
 understand your refusing." 
 
 Dick flushed. "There can't be any question of his 
 understanding." 
 
 "Oh, I hope not," said Lily, gently. "I'll explain why 
 my leap-year sort of request had to be refused. Frank 
 is unreasonably sensitive, you know, and we mustn't al- 
 ways humor him." 
 
 Dick looked uncomfortably at Isabel. Whether or not 
 there was a question in his glance, she read it there. 
 
Isabel Stirling 255 
 
 "I think you'd better go with Lily," she said. "It 
 would be much the simplest thing." 
 
 "Sweet thing!" said Lily, leaning forward with her 
 caressing touch. 
 
 Dick's face cleared. He hated the idea of the slightest 
 misunderstanding and was too simply straightforward to 
 suspect that Frank knew nothing of Lily's plan. 
 
 "If you really don't mind my leaving you," he said to 
 Isabel. Then, turning to Lily: "You see, it's just as the 
 missus says. It will give me pleasure to be a handy man, 
 and I'll call for you." 
 
 But Isabel just then hated Lily; hated her caressing 
 manner and her blonde beauty — and the grace of her slim 
 form. 
 
 She did not sit up for Dick that night, but went to bed 
 early. However, she was not asleep when he came in. 
 
 He slipped in softly, but seeing that her eyes were open, 
 leaned over and kissed her. "Feeling all right ?" he asked. 
 
 She put up her hand and stroked his hair. "It's all 
 moist," she said. "You must have danced hard. Did 
 you have a good time?" 
 
 "Bully. It always makes me warm, but Lily doesn't 
 turn a hair. She's like thistledown, and just as cool and 
 unruffled at the end of the evening as at the beginning." 
 
 "I'm glad you had a pleasant time." The slight stiff- 
 ness was quite lost on him. "I think I'll go to sleep now." 
 
 No, she assured herself, as she lay awake in the dark- 
 ness, she was not jealous. She could not be so utterly 
 absurd as that. But she was teased, irritated, helpless. 
 
Of course Lily came over in the morning. She took 
 credit to herself for her daily visits. When she came in 
 — as usual, without knocking — Isabel laid her pen down 
 and self-consciously thrust a sheet of paper under her 
 blotter. She was writing to Cassie about the things 
 which she wanted sent. 
 
 "I want to tell you," began Lily, "what a heavenly 
 time I had last night. It was so sweet of Dick to take 
 me and of you to let him go. And really, I think it did 
 him good too. There's nothing like dancing to freshen 
 up your spirits. Frank says it pays him to do without me 
 for a while to have me come back so livened up. Now, 
 wasn't it just that way with Dick?" 
 
 "Dick said he had a good time." Isabel got up from 
 her desk and, after a turn around the room, seated her- 
 self in a large wicker chair. She had on a pale pink 
 morning gown in which Dick had told her that she looked 
 lovely. 
 
 "That's a sweet dress," said Lily, looking her over 
 with her competent, critical glance, "and a wonderful 
 disguise." She opened her work-basket and took out her 
 sewing — the baby-work that she had volunteered to do. 
 "Isn't it sweet?" she said, holding up the little garment. 
 "Why, I declare, it makes you blush just to look at it. 
 I never saw anything like you." 
 
 Isabel was flushing painfully and had a foolish desire 
 to cry. She forced her voice to cordiality. "You do it 
 exquisitely. I never saw such sewing." 
 
 "I do sew pretty well," said Lily, complacently. She 
 took a few more stitches and, with her eyes still on her 
 work, asked in a casual tone : "What are you going to do 
 with your horse until you can ride him again ?" 
 
 "Dick said he would arrange to have him taken care 
 of." 
 
 256 
 
Isabel Stirling 257 
 
 "I'd love to exercise him for you." 
 
 Isabel was furious with herself for not having said 
 something — anything, to forestall this, and vexed at Dick 
 for his procrastination about sending Pat away. "No- 
 body ever rides him but me," she said, not too graciously. 
 "Dick said it was better for him not to be ridden by 
 anyone else." 
 
 "Naturally — when you are riding him regularly. And 
 of course I wouldn't for the world get on him if you 
 would rather I wouldn't. Only Dick said — M She 
 paused. 
 
 "What did Dick say?" asked Isabel, and then was sorry 
 that she had spoken. 
 
 "Oh, nothing very much. We were talking about Pat, 
 and he said it would be nice for me to ride him if you 
 were willing — that I should ask you." 
 
 Isabel would have been less credulous if she had not 
 still been a little sore from the evening before. Lily 
 could wind Dick around her finger, she said to herself 
 scornfully, and — well, if he had encouraged her to ask 
 for the horse, nothing mattered very much. 
 
 "If Dick chooses to let you, I shan't say anything," 
 she said. 
 
 Certainly, she was ungracious, but Lily was diplomati- 
 cally impervious. With effusive thanks, she folded up 
 her work and took her joyful way homeward. 
 
 All that day Dick wondered what was wrong. There 
 was an aloofness in his wife's manner, an avoidance of 
 his anxious attentions, which first distressed and then 
 irritated him. When he asked her what was the matter, 
 she replied, "Oh, nothing," with a bleak smile which sig- 
 nified — oh, everything. In short, as he put it to himself, 
 she had no use for him. Well, he told himself reasonably, 
 she was entitled to her moods. They were doubtless part 
 of a state of things which he had already found less sim- 
 ple than he had ever supposed. But meantime, since he 
 evidently only vexed her, he might as well take himself 
 out of the way for a while. 
 
258 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "I think I'll go over to the club for a bit," he said 
 casually. 
 
 "Yes," said Isabel, and was unable to think of any- 
 thing further to say. But when he was gone she shed 
 miserable tears. If she had looked out of the window 
 she might have seen that he did not get to the club after 
 all. As he passed Lieutenant Hazleton's quarters Lily 
 called to him from the verandah and, after standing talk- 
 ing on the sidewalk for a few moments, he went up the 
 steps and sat down beside her. After all, one place was 
 as good as another. . . . 
 
 Isabel woke early the next morning and sat up in bed. 
 The sky was deeply, beautifully blue ; a rose-laden branch 
 from the tall bush outside was pressing its pink sweet- 
 ness against her window-screen. The world seemed made 
 over afresh. Her sense of injury had somehow vanished. 
 Doubtless, Lily had bamboozled Dick and he couldn't 
 help it. Anyway, she wanted to be friends with him. 
 When he came to her bedside all dressed for his morning 
 ride she held out her arms to him and laid her cheek 
 against his. 
 
 To him, yesterday was as if it had never been. "How 
 I wish you could go with me, darling," he said, as he 
 smoothed her hair. 
 
 "I wish so too," sighed she, but not unhappily. "Do 
 you have to go alone ?" 
 
 "Not this time. The Hazletons asked me to join 
 them." 
 
 "Oh!" A shadow fell over her face. "Well, good- 
 bye." Would Lily ride Pat? She would not ask. 
 
 "Take care of yourself." He closed the door softly 
 and ran downstairs whistling. 
 
 She stayed in bed for breakfast and pretended to be 
 asleep when Dick came up to see her. They met at 
 luncheon and talked about one thing and another, until 
 he presently said: 
 
 "I'm rather sorry that you let Lily ride Pat. She isn't 
 going to do him any good. She jerks his mouth. How 
 did you come to let her have him?" 
 
Isabel Stirling 259 
 
 "I let her have him?" cried Isabel indignantly. "It 
 wasn't I, it was you." 
 
 "Me? I don't know what you are talking about." 
 
 The world suddenly seemed brighter. "I might have 
 known! Now what did you say to her? She told me 
 that you said it would be nice for her to ride him if I 
 would let her — and that you told her to ask me." 
 
 "She misunderstood me. I dare say it was my fault, 
 but I never meant her to get any encouragement from 
 me. She asked me about it, and I simply said he was 
 your horse and I didn't have the disposal of him. And 
 I told her you were thinking of sending him out to Jen- 
 kins' ranch." 
 
 Isabel smiled at him teasingly. "You shirked and put 
 it on my shoulders to refuse." 
 
 "Yes, I shirked," said Dick penitently. 
 
 "It was horrid of you. And yet, if " 
 
 "If?" 
 
 "If I could keep Sam out of the room long enough, 
 I'd run around there and kiss you. I haven't really kissed 
 you since yesterday morning. I've been so furious at 
 you for letting Lily have my horse and then going out 
 riding with her." 
 
 "Good gracious !" said Dick, jumping up from his seat. 
 "Never mind Sam !" 
 
 "Go back! There he comes! But to think — oh, just 
 to think that I believed her — when I've always known she 
 was a liar !" 
 
 "Oh, I don't suppose she meant to lie," said Dick easily. 
 "She only misunderstood — and wanted to understand it 
 her own way. We're all more or less like that." 
 
 "I believe," said Isabel, vexed, "that you'd stand up 
 for the devil himself." 
 
 "Perhaps. There's no telling." 
 
 "And meantime, she's got to use poor Pat? Can't I 
 get him away?" 
 
 "Certainly," he replied firmly. "Pat picked up a nail 
 in his hoof this morning — can't be ridden for a month. 
 Shockingly careless of the stable orderly, wasn't it?" 
 
LI 
 
 The next day's mail brought a piece of news which put 
 everything else out of their heads. Cassie really had been 
 getting herself engaged and, astounding to contemplate, 
 engaged to Lansing Fordyce. 
 
 "But I've never seen the fellow," said Dick, in an 
 injured tone. 
 
 "I have," said Isabel. 
 
 "What's he like?" 
 
 She had not thought of him for ages. It seemed queer 
 now, to think of him as a brother-in-law. She ran her 
 fingers up and down the arm of her chair and reflected 
 for a moment before she spoke. 
 
 "It's some years, you know," she said. "Well, he's 
 tall and slender and dark — I like blue eyes best " 
 
 "Thanks. Goon." 
 
 "And aristocratic-looking. And his manners are — 
 quite charming, I think." 
 
 "Sounds as if you didn't like him. What's the 
 matter?" 
 
 "Oh, but I did like him immensely." She felt deceit- 
 ful, but how, under present circumstances, could she tell 
 him anything more? And really, there was nothing to 
 tell, except that Lansing Fordyce had been a rather enter- 
 prising flirt and she had been a little fool. Yet somehow 
 she felt as if there were a good deal of her past life which 
 Dick did not know. She went on trying to elucidate him 
 to Dick. 
 
 "I'm trying," she said, "to think what he was really 
 like. Clever and delightful — and I do think you'll like 
 him." 
 
 "Not fast or anything?" 
 
 "Oh, no. How could I tell? But I never heard so. 
 And I do think you could trust Cassie." 
 
 260 
 
Isabel Stirling 261 
 
 She felt that she herself could trust Cassie. If, as she 
 had always suspected, that intelligent young woman had 
 divined something of what she had gone through, nobody 
 would ever be the wiser. When Dick said that since 
 the wedding was not to be before the next winter, they 
 could go east for it, she wondered, a little, what it would 
 be like to see Mr. Fordyce again. She thought she would 
 like to have him see how happy she was. What she said 
 was: 
 
 "I wonder what Father and Lydia will do about me 
 if I go back there." 
 
 However, nothing mattered just now except this tre- 
 mendous undertaking which she had on hand. And pres- 
 ently came other engrossing matters. 
 
 For one thing, Dick got his first lieutenancy. Isabel, 
 rejoicing with him, found her pleasure not at all enhanced 
 by Lily's plaintive congratulations, coupled with a re- 
 minder that she and Dick did not need the increased pay 
 as much as some other second lieutenants did. 
 
 Following directly on the promotion came orders for 
 a change of station. B Troop was to be sent to a small 
 post in Arizona, while C Troop, to which Lieutenant 
 Hazleton belonged, was to be stationed at a much nearer 
 point. 
 
 "For your sake," said Dick, "I could almost wish I 
 were in Frank's place." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind," said Isabel cheerfully, immensely 
 relieved at the prospect of a separation from Lily. 
 
 "But it's a God-forsaken place and they tell me it's a 
 beastly journey. I don't know whether you ought to 
 undertake it. Perhaps I'd better send you east." 
 
 "I won't go! Don't other women travel? Aren't 
 babies born everywhere ? And besides, where could I go ? 
 You know my father and Lydia wouldn't have me, even 
 if I were willing to go there." 
 
 "There's Cassie." 
 
 Isabel had her own reasons for being horrified at this 
 suggestion. "What !" she cried. "Mix up our baby busi- 
 ness with Cassie's love affair? Think how horrid for 
 
262 Isabel Stirling 
 
 her ! And for me too ! She's going to have a houseful 
 of guests, and Mr. Fordyce coming and going. Why, 
 this is her wonderful summer. Oh, Dick, a thousand 
 times no!" 
 
 "I'm sure Dr. Brenton would be glad to have you go 
 there." 
 
 "I know — but Dick, don't send me away from you." 
 She put her arms around his neck and laid her head on 
 his shoulder. "Dick," she whispered, "I can bear any- 
 thing as long as you are with me. And the only place 
 in the world where I want to be is where you are. I'll 
 get along." 
 
 After all, other women did get along, as everyone 
 knew; and of their special hardships Dick and Isabel 
 were equally ignorant. Even the doctor's advice was not 
 as emphatic as it might have been if he had ever taken 
 that particular journey. To be sure, at the last minute 
 Mrs. Bennett decided that she could not any longer re- 
 frain from telling that young thing how terribly impru- 
 dent she was in even thinking of such a thing as going 
 just now, and went over to talk to her. It was too late 
 for her advice to prevail, but she found Isabel touchingly 
 grateful. 
 
 "If you had only known how I wanted to talk to you ! 
 I tried one day — but somehow I couldn't." 
 
 "My dear!" said Mrs. Bennett. "How sorry I am! 
 I thought — we all thought you were unwilling to speak 
 or to be spoken to about it." 
 
 "Not if it had been you," said Isabel. 
 
 They had a long, intimate, comforting talk, but still 
 Isabel would not give up her intention of going with her 
 husband. Other women did it, she .said, and that, Mrs. 
 Bennett, with all her head-shaking, could not deny. 
 
 So the preparations went on with all speed and, with 
 the packing of the boxes and barrels, the spirit of adven- 
 ture seized Isabel and she did not wholly regret leaving 
 even an earthly paradise, innocently hoping to find 
 charms in the new place. In this state of blissful igno- 
 rance she embarked at San Francisco on the steamer 
 
Isabel Stirling 263 
 
 which was to carry them on the first stage of their jour- 
 ney. That first stage lasted a fortnight. Two weeks of 
 intense, overpowering heat, of provisions gradually spoil- 
 ing, so that toward the end one went hungry, sickened 
 by the noisome odors of the food which must needs be 
 prepared, even though no one could eat k. 
 
 "We've left Paradise and we're going through purga- 
 tory," said Isabel, as she turned in languid disgust from 
 the breakfast which had been brought to her as she sat 
 on deck under an awning. "What is it going to be next, 
 Dick?" 
 
 "Two of the soldiers died in the night," said a woman 
 who was lying stretched out in the steamer-chair next 
 to her. 
 
 Isabel closed her eyes and reached out for Dick's hand. 
 In his heart he damned the other woman. Looking at 
 her pale face, he said remorsefully, "I ought to have sent 
 you east. We could have found some place." 
 
 "I'll be all right when we get off this boat," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 But after that there was another boat; a boat which 
 was tied up to the river bank at night and only went on 
 during the hot, interminable days. Isabel had never im- 
 agined such heat. The diet of salt beef, dry biscuits and 
 strong black coffee was next to impossible to her and she 
 felt ill and weak. All day she lay on her steamer chair 
 and during most of the time was glad to close her eyes 
 to the view of desolate flat desert lands and the red seeth- 
 ing waters of the Colorado River. But behind those 
 closed eyes and underneath that deadly sense of sick ex- 
 haustion her spirit was unbroken. If not for herself, 
 then for the baby that was coming, she must rally all her 
 vital forces to surmount this terrible journey. "Don't 
 worry about me," she said to Dick, as he hung over her. 
 "It's too hot to worry about anything. Just mop your 
 poor dear face and keep quiet. It will all be behind us 
 sometime." 
 
 But it seemed as if they were to go on forever, after 
 a week had passed and they were still not near the end 
 
264 Isabel Stirling 
 
 of this stage of their journey. It was toward the end of 
 the second week of it when they at last left the steamer 
 and rested themselves at a friendly post, where the kind 
 officers and their wives did everything for them that hos- 
 pitality could suggest, before starting them off again. 
 
 Isabel had thought that traveling in the comfortable 
 carriage, which they had bought in San Francisco, would 
 be a delightful treat, after the recent experience, and 
 camping out at night sounded romantic and refreshing. 
 When the long train started out her spirits had quite re- 
 vived. The carriage, with its six mules seemed to her 
 a most luxurious equipage. To be sure, Dick could not 
 travel with her, as he had to ride with his troop, but she 
 had invited nice, friendly Mrs. Betts, the wife of the 
 captain of Troop B, to drive with her. "Get the best- 
 natured woman you can find," Dick had counseled her. 
 "You'll find the trip a strain on the disposition/' 
 
 Mrs. Betts fulfilled the requirement and the friendship 
 begun on that journey was never quite broken, even after 
 years of separation. 
 
 "Why haven't I known you better before this?" Isabel 
 would say. 
 
 "You were somewhat monopolized," Mrs. Betts once 
 answered. 
 
 "I didn't want to be," Isabel replied quickly. "Any- 
 way, that's past." And indeed, she felt that, as regarded 
 comradeship, her army life was just beginning. 
 
 But between hot winds and driving sand during the 
 day, and the horrid fear of snakes at night, the trip was 
 not by any means what her fancy had pictured it. As 
 day followed day, with its routine of making and break- 
 ing camp, its heat and sandstorms and snakes, and always 
 the same desolate scenery, Isabel began to wonder whether 
 they were ever going to get anywhere 
 
 "I feel," she said to Mrs. Betts, "as if I belonged to 
 a nomadic tribe — only if we did, I think we might per- 
 haps choose a better country." 
 
 "They say we are going to get to a better country," 
 
Isabel Stirling 265 
 
 said Mrs. Betts. "And for that matter, we are nomads, 
 we army people." 
 
 They got to the better country soon; a land of grass 
 and trees and game; restful to the eyes and comforting 
 to the appetite. Again a break in the journey and a short 
 stop at another comfortable army post, and then on 
 again; on through a wilderness where the carriage 
 pitched and tossed over rocks and fallen trees, and 
 swayed on the brink of precipices ; where the nights were 
 cold and a stove was set up in one's tent ; where bands of 
 hostile Indians roved and no one could wander far from 
 camp, and where every night held its terrors. Isabel had 
 her own pistol and Dick had taught her how to use it. 
 She knew that its possible use might be to put an end 
 to her own life if there should be at any time a certainty 
 of capture by Indians of a most cruel tribe. She refused 
 to think of the possibility and kept the pistol out of sight. 
 And at last they arrived at their destination. 
 
 It was in a log cabin that the Maidens once more set 
 up their household possessions — such of them as were 
 left after the mischances of the journey. There were 
 enough, however, for the smaller quarters, and Isabel 
 cared little just then for breakages and losses. 
 
LH 
 
 Isabel's spirit had been more enduring than her body. 
 There came, all too soon, a dreadful day and night when, 
 as in a nightmare, she was aware of a strange doctor, of 
 Dick's anguished face, of Mrs. Betts's cheerful, coura- 
 geous help, before she became unconscious altogether and 
 knew nothing of the fight that was being made to save 
 her. 
 
 When, at last, she opened her eyes again and mistily 
 saw her husband's face she had forgotten, for the mo- 
 ment, what it was all about. She wondered weakly why, 
 when Dick leaned over her, a drop of water fell on her 
 face. He kissed her and she wished he wouldn't. She 
 wanted all the air. She closed her eyes again. . . . 
 
 Later, when she came back to life, she found that her 
 untimely baby had been born dead. 
 
 266 
 
LIII 
 
 When, in the winter, Dick took his leave and they went 
 to Cassie's wedding, Isabel found herself relieved from 
 a very considerable source of embarrassment. Her father 
 and his wife were no longer living in Ptolemy. This was 
 a thing which she could never have anticipated, for how- 
 ever movable she herself might have become, it seemed 
 against nature that anyone but her father should be living 
 in the old parsonage on the hill. 
 
 Indeed, it had seemed somewhat that way to William 
 Stirling himself. When he accepted a professorship in a 
 theological seminary he felt that it was an admission of 
 defeat; an admission which was not rendered less bitter 
 by the consciousness that such a position would be more 
 congenial to his present taste than the pastorate. To in- 
 still a knowledge of Hebrew into the minds of young men 
 seemed to him a less exalted vocation than to instill the 
 fear of God into their souls, but he knew himself compe- 
 tent to do the one and felt that he had failed in the other. 
 He was a fighter and he had been beaten. He was sore, 
 too, over the knowledge that his people, among whom he 
 had worked for so many years, were ready for a change. 
 They deprecated his resignation half-heartedly and as a 
 matter of form, but carefully avoided asking him to 
 reconsider it. He bade them good-bye in bitterness of 
 soul. And yet, to his surprise, when the break was once 
 made, he confronted the new career in a more adventur- 
 ous spirit than he would have thought possible, and felt 
 himself more in his element among the young theologues 
 than with the good sisters of his congregation. 
 
 As for Lydia, although, as a matter of course, she over- 
 flowed with all the proper platitudes of parting, she was 
 delighted. True, a theological seminary was not a uni- 
 
 267 
 
268 Isabel Stirling 
 
 versity, but it was a step in that direction. She would 
 now be, as she expressed it to herself, "one of the faculty." 
 
 And so Isabel could go with an easy mind to stay in 
 her father-in-law's house. She had dreaded Peter Mai- 
 den a little and was surprised to find how much she liked 
 him. He seemed to her much older than when she had 
 last seen him, his broad shoulders bent and his heavy 
 figure somewhat shrunken. He had grown absent-minded 
 and his eyes looked tired, although they lighted up with 
 pride and affection when they rested on his son. He was 
 gentler than she had supposed and his years of prosperity 
 and of contact with the world had smoothed off most of 
 his superficial roughness. He had never been rough at 
 the core. He was kind to her, not talking much to her, 
 but evidently anxious to make her feel that she, no less 
 than Dick and Cassie, was a child of the house. In some 
 incomprehensible way, he touched her heart, and the 
 pretty deference of her manner to him was entirely spon- 
 taneous. It pleased him and delighted Dick and made 
 Cassie take her quite unreservedly to her heart. 
 
 Cassie was frankly happy, although she had not at- 
 tained happiness without some doubts and questionings. 
 Lansing Fordyce had not found her easy to win. She 
 could not forget that she had been almost won before, 
 and she was wary of him and of herself. As for him, 
 he had long ago persuaded himself that his brief infatua- 
 tion for Isabel had been caused by Cassie's inaccessibility, 
 that, in short, it was all her fault. 
 
 "I've waited for you a good while," he said to her. 
 "You nearly drove me into making a fool of myself 
 once" — and that was the only allusion ever made to that 
 affair. 
 
 Cassie smiled at his dexterity; hesitated, half thought 
 she would turn her back on him and go to visit Dick and 
 Isabel; then silently forgave him, quite aware that she 
 had something to forgive. "But then, I'm not perfect 
 myself," she thought. Moreover, whatever wounds Isa- 
 bel had sustained were quite healed and forgotten. 
 
 Cassie believed that Lansing loved her now. Whether 
 
Isabel Stirling 269 
 
 or not he had at first cared unduly for her fathers money, 
 he had by this time become too successful for that to be 
 much of a consideration. His career was well started and 
 he was a rising man and one of whom much was expected 
 by the older men in his profession. And as for herself, 
 she knew that, down in the bottom of her heart, she had 
 always cared. Nevertheless, she could not help having a 
 certain curiosity to see what effect Isabel would have on 
 him now, and thought she would rather have them meet 
 on the day before the wedding than on the day after. 
 
 For his part, he took no interest in the prospective 
 meeting. Why should he ? One doesn't get excited over 
 the recollection of every pretty girl with whom one has 
 had a passing flirtation. He had more than half for- 
 gotten the incidents of that episode, and would have been 
 surprised if he had known that Cassie gave it a thought; 
 equally surprised if he had suspected that to Isabel there 
 was excitement in the prospect of the meeting. Isabel 
 knew that he had behaved horridly. She could not be 
 thankful enough that the affair had ended as it did and 
 that she was married to Dick, but no woman is going to 
 be quite indifferent, to a meeting, after the lapse of years, 
 with a man — especially the first man — with whom she 
 has fancied herself in love. 
 
 It was on the day before the wedding that he arrived. 
 Cassie saw him in the drawing-room, but presently took 
 him into the library, where Isabel and Dick were un- 
 packing presents. Dick, who was near the door, came 
 forward and greeted him with the external cordiality 
 which the occasion demanded and the inward critical in- 
 terrogation of the brother who confronts for the first 
 time his sister's prospective husband. One could hardly 
 expect that he would be quite good enough for Cassie. 
 However, the first impression was a favorable one. In 
 looks and manner Fordyce pleased him. Unconsciously 
 he exhaled a breath of relief as Isabel, dropping a mass 
 of tissue paper and still holding a bronze card-receiver, 
 came toward them. "I believe you know my wife," said 
 Dick. 
 
270 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Even beauty has its off days. To be sure, Isabel was 
 never less than beautiful, but she had her more perfect 
 times, and her great moments of radiant loveliness; mo- 
 ments when one caught one's breath. This, from what- 
 ever reason, was not one of her best days. However, she 
 was not thinking about her looks. Never, even at worst, 
 having any real cause for dissatisfaction, she could well 
 afford to be unconscious. Her eyes were filled with curi- 
 osity, but her manner was careless. Perhaps that care- 
 lessness was a little conscious. 
 
 "I'm glad to see you again/' she said banally, as they 
 shook hands. 
 
 He seemed to her at the same time unchanged and 
 unfamiliar. In that unfamiliarity was the measure of 
 her own change since she had last seen him. If some 
 small portion of herself had been held in bondage, not 
 by him but by the fact of the old infatuation, she was 
 now set free. Not that she was consciously free any 
 more than she had been consciously bound. She only felt 
 elated and inclined to talk nonsense. 
 
 His manner was quite all that it should be, but Cassie, 
 studying the two, was fully aware of their entire indiffer- 
 ence to each other. Lansing was really more interested 
 in Dick than in Dick's wife. 
 
 "You have fourteen card-receivers," said Isabel, ex- 
 hibiting the latest one. "What in the world are you go- 
 ing to do with them?" 
 
 She turned to Fordyce. "You know," she said, "a 
 card-receiver seems to me the most useless thing one can 
 have. We live in a log cabin and don't even have a door- 
 bell. Some of the Ptolemy people insist that we draw 
 rations and all eat at the same mess, and they won't be- 
 lieve me when I tell them that we don't, and that we have 
 dinner parties even if we don't have doorbells." 
 
 "And you like the army life?" said Fordyce, for the 
 sake of saying something. Her interests were, he fan- 
 cied, at the opposite pole from his. 
 
 "I love it! There's nothing like it!" 
 
 Her enthusiasm struck him as schoolgirlish. He 
 
Isabel Stirling 271 
 
 looked from her to Cassie and contentment possessed his 
 soul. Isabel was lovely to look at ; Cassie was pleasing, 
 but not beautiful. Although he had once, for a short 
 time, been attracted by Isabel's youthful naivete — the 
 naivete of a very young girl who has seen nothing, known 
 nothing and is developing from moment to moment — 
 the kind of woman he preferred to all others was the fin- 
 ished woman of society; finished, but sincere; and that 
 was Cassie. He somewhat cruelly characterized Isabel as 
 half-baked; a handsome young woman who had known 
 nothing of life outside of a central New York village 
 and a frontier army post ; clever enough to learn, possi- 
 bly, if she had the chance, but Cassie had already learned. 
 Cassie would be in her element anywhere, could be relied 
 on to say and do the right thing, would always be a help 
 to him. Give him Cassie. Dick was welcome to the 
 Beauty. 
 
 And so the little fear passed away from Cassie and her 
 wedding day was not shadowed by any misgiving. . . . 
 
 On the evening of that day, after the newly married 
 pair had left and the house was quiet, Dick had the long 
 talk with his father for which there had hitherto been no 
 opportunity. He was anxious about his father, wanted 
 to find out the cause of his changed looks and manner, 
 but was unwilling to ask questions. They were sitting in 
 front of the fire in the library, saying little, from time to 
 time flicking the ashes of their cigars on the hearth. Pres- 
 ently Peter Maiden, with a gesture of decision, tossed his 
 cigar stump back of the logs and turning, faced his son. 
 
 "Dick," he said, "I've made a damn fool of myself." 
 
 Dick took his cigar out of his mouth and held it 
 between his fingers. "I don't see you doing that," he 
 said, his eyes meeting his father's with friendly sympathy. 
 "But I've seen that something worries you, and if you 
 don't mind telling me " 
 
 "It's due to you to tell you. I've tangled up my money 
 matters pretty badly." 
 
 He tapped the arm of his chair with his big fingers 
 and Dick pushed the cigar box within easier reach. 
 
272 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "You see," Peter Maiden went on, "when Farrell put 
 this university in one of the most unget-atable places 
 in the State — Simeon Farrell's a wonderful man, Disk. 
 Perfectly unselfish, way up in the skies with his plans 
 to help all the poor young men in the world, but not 
 very practical. I'm not very practical either, it seems. 
 You know I really got rich more or less incidentally. 
 Simeon Farrell's a man I love, and I wanted to help. 
 I'd helped with the charter and other things. So when 
 we got the town bonded and taxed up to its eyes for 
 these three branch railways Farrell took a lot of the 
 bonds. I took a lot of 'em too— not so many as Farrell, 
 but a lot. He sold out his good investments. So did I. 
 He borrowed money to finish the railroad he had pledged 
 himself to finish and I followed suit. Seemed as if we 
 had to get the job done. Well — " He threw out his 
 hands and let them drop heavily — "I'm likely to die a 
 poor man." 
 
 "Poor or not," said Dick heartily, "I'm proud to be 
 your son. As to the money, I don't see why it won't 
 work out all right in time." 
 
 "Not in time for me, Dick. I'm a sick man." He put 
 out his hand and took a cigar from the box, saying as 
 he cut off the end of it, "Doctor says I smoke too much, 
 but what difference does it make?" He held the cigar 
 unlighted in his fingers. "The thing that torments me 
 is that I've been so damned unfair to you and Cassie. 
 I hadn't any right " 
 
 "You had every right," said Dick firmly. "You have 
 been more than generous to Cassie and me. You gave 
 her just what you gave me, and I have my profession. 
 I owe you that too. So now you'll just let me give you 
 back the money you gave me after I was married. I've 
 four out of the five thousand too that you gave me when 
 I came and told you I was going to be married. I in- 
 vested it — and it's at your disposal with the rest." 
 
 "Good Lord, boy, no!" exclaimed his father. He 
 lighted his cigar and leaned back in his chair. "Thank 
 the Lord, I -did give you both something. I've enough 
 
Isabel Stirling 273 
 
 to live on and pay my interest, but there'll be an ungodly 
 amount of claims on my estate. And I meant to leave 
 you rich." 
 
 "We don't want to be rich. And at least, won't you 
 come back with Isabel and me? We'd love to have you 
 —both of us." 
 
 "Thank you, Dick. I like to believe you would — both 
 of you. I'm fond of your Isabel. She's the right stuff. 
 But no, Dick, I couldn't do that. And your Aunt Mary 
 will stay here for a while." 
 
 "Wouldn't your health be better for a change?" 
 
 "Oh, my health. Well — perhaps Brenton gives me 
 the dark side in hopes of scaring me into following his 
 trumpery rules. Anyway, I've had a pretty good time. 
 Lord ! When I think what I started from and how I've 
 got on! But mind you, Dick, there was good stuff back 
 of us, even if it wasn't aristocratic," He drew a long 
 breath. "Now that I've got this off my mind, I believe 
 I'll cheat Brenton and get well and leave you and Cassie 
 a pot of money yet." 
 
 "What does he say is the matter?" 
 
 "Oh— he talks. It's all right. Let's go to bed. It's 
 been a long day." He pulled himself out of his arm- 
 chair and stood up. 
 
 "Father," said Dick, standing in front of him. "Sup- 
 pose I resign my commission and work here with you 
 to get you out of this financial mess. I think I could be 
 a help." 
 
 Peter Maiden turned on him sternly. "Not a word 
 more of that, Dick. I thank God you have your pro- 
 fession and are a credit to the country which has 
 trained you for its work. Your country educated you. 
 Peter Maiden, rich as he was then, didn't do it. And 
 it's to your country you owe yourself. Good-night, 
 Dick. And God bless you, my boy, for being willing 
 to sacrifice yourself." 
 
 When Dick went to his room after saying good-night 
 to his father, he found Isabel, wrapped in a pink dress- 
 
274 Isabel Stirling 
 
 ing gown, sitting on the sofa under the gaslight, with 
 a book on her lap. 
 
 "Why did you stay up?" he asked; adding, "but I'm 
 glad you did." 
 
 "I thought you would be. I knew you'd want to talk 
 before you went to sleep." 
 
 He sat down beside her and told her all that he had 
 learned about his father's affairs and his anxiety about 
 his father's health. "Of course I'll see Brenton to- 
 morrow," he said. 
 
 She listened sympathetically, her hand in his. "It was 
 splendid of him," she said, "even if it wasn't practical. 
 And of course you couldn't do anything but offer to 
 give him back the money he gave you." 
 
 "I knew you'd agree with me," said Dick. "And when 
 I told him I'd resign from the army and come here to 
 help pull him through " 
 
 "Dick!" She straightened herself with a gasp, pull- 
 ing her hand away with a jerk. The blood rushed to her 
 cheeks and she gazed at him with incredulous, indignant 
 eyes. "But you couldn't " 
 
 "Yes, I thought I ought. I owe him all I can do for 
 him." 
 
 "Even to giving up your career !" She spoke with a 
 bitterness which was lost on him, absorbed as he was in 
 the thought of his father. 
 
 "If necessary," he said simply. 
 
 "And I — oh!" She choked down tears of angry dis- 
 may. "You simply can't! Give him the money, of 
 course, but not " 
 
 But not our lives, was what she would have said, but 
 Dick stopped her. 
 
 "He wouldn't have it. He was just as cross with me 
 as you are. Said the Government had educated me and 
 I belonged to the country and hadn't any right to think 
 of leaving the service. He was tremendously fine about 
 it — and I know just what it would mean to have me 
 here." 
 
 They were tears of relief now, and she let them fall. 
 
Isabel Stirling 275 
 
 "Oh, he was — he was fine," she said. Her voice broke. 
 "And you were fine too, Dick. But oh, don't think of 
 doing it, for I — I'm the only one among you that isn't 
 fine, and I couldn't bear it !" 
 
 But still Dick did not realize that it was for herself 
 that she couldn't bear it. 
 
LIV 
 
 When, on the following Sunday morning, Isabel went 
 to St. James's with Dick and his father, she reflected 
 with some surprise that it was the first time they had 
 ever been to church together. At their present post they 
 had no chaplain and before that, directly after they 
 were married, she had enjoyed her emancipated Sundays 
 too much to care to curtail her pleasure in them. Dick 
 had gone occasionally, compelled, she thought, by a feel- 
 ing that to put in an appearance now and then was part 
 of his job. Now she went with a little of the excitement 
 of tasting forbidden fruit. How disapproving some of 
 her father's former parishioners would be! Then her 
 memory went back to the time when she had driven with 
 Margaret to the little church in the village near Morning- 
 ton. How the service had thrilled her that day! She 
 remembered the little prayer book, with the Latin prayer 
 penciled in Margaret's handwriting on the flyleaf. 
 
 The service did not exactly thrill her now, but she 
 liked it; and she liked Dr. Harrison, who must be for- 
 ever associated with the greatest day of her life. As to 
 Dr. Harrison's sermon, she did not find it interesting, 
 but she could always practise her old trick of keeping 
 her eyes fixed on the preacher, while detaching her mind 
 so completely as not to hear a word that he said. To-day 
 she was wondering what Dick really thought about re- 
 ligion, a subject which they seldom mentioned. Not 
 that they avoided it, but it didn't seem to come in. She 
 had, to be sure, told him about her early experiences and 
 how religion had been made a bugbear to her all her 
 life, and he had listened with sympathy and indignation, 
 but had apparently had nothing of any sort to tell about 
 himself in that connection. Now she wondered. Later, 
 she said to him: 
 
 276 
 
Isabel Stirling 277 
 
 "Does religion mean anything to you, Dick? You 
 weren't taught to hate it, but is it a thing you ever think 
 about?" 
 
 "Why/' said Dick, taken by surprise and searching his 
 mind to find out what he did think, "of course it means 
 something. Aunt Mary used to tell us Bible stories when 
 we were kids — and then there was Christmas. I think 
 we were quite religious about Christmas time. As to 
 thinking about it now, I don't suppose I do, very often." 
 
 "But you believe in God, and Heaven and Hell?" 
 
 "Well now, I just don't believe in any everlasting Hell 
 — perhaps a temporary one when necessary — but an ever- 
 lasting Hell would be too darned unfair. Yes, I believe 
 in some kind of Heaven, and surely I believe in a God. 
 But Isabel, I doubt if I know many more answers to 
 your catechism." 
 
 "But just this — I know very well you don't believe in 
 my father's kind of God. But does your kind that you 
 don't often think about, have any sort of effect on you?" 
 
 Dick reflected a moment before he answered. Then he 
 said: "I suppose it's mostly indirect and unconscious, 
 but after all — I think perhaps the knowledge that there's 
 a — Critic — and perhaps — an Encourager, would make it 
 a little harder not to be a decent sort of chap." 
 
 "I see. It's just whether you have the standard set 
 up for you, or whether you set it up for yourself. 
 Whether somebody outside of you approves or disap- 
 proves, or whether you like yourself a little more or 
 a good deal less. One thing is quite certain. You live 
 up to your standard better than I live up to mine." 
 
 "What nonsense!" 
 
 "Oh, Dick! It's good for the soul to live with you." 
 
 She sighed and wished she could be as unselfish as 
 he and as free from self-consciousness. She was ashamed 
 of her anger at his willingness to sacrifice himself — 
 and her — for his father, yet knew she would be still 
 angry if he had had to do it. 
 
 After all, however, seriousness was not the dominant 
 note of her visit. There were many pleasures, much re- 
 
278 Isabel Stirling 
 
 newing of old ties. It seemed like going to a home of 
 her own when she went to Dr. Brenton's house. 
 
 "It's so good to have you for an uncle," she said to 
 him one day. "It's such a thoroughly nice relationship. 
 Why didn't we begin when I was little ? You don't know 
 how I needed an uncle then." 
 
 Dr. Brenton sighed and then smiled. "It wasn't my 
 fault," he said. "Your Aunt Eliza was the only woman 
 I ever wanted to marry, and she wouldn't have me." 
 
 "Oh!" cried Isabel. She went over to him, as he sat 
 in his chair facing her, and kissed him on the forehead. 
 "How could she not want you?" 
 
 "She did, rather, at one time," said the doctor dryly, 
 "but her creed, backed up rather vigorously by William 
 Stirling, decided her against me. I was regarded as an 
 Unbeliever. And there is a Scriptural command, more 
 effective then than now, not to be "unequally yoked." 
 
 "I can hardly imagine it of Aunt Eliza, strict as she 
 was. She certainly wasn't as rigid as that in those last 
 years. And she trusted you more than she did Father 
 when she gave you charge of the money for me. I wish 
 you had known her better then. Oh, it's a shame — poor 
 Aunt Eliza!" The sharpness of her sympathy for them 
 both brought the tears to Isabel's eyes. 
 
 "Well — it's all irrevocable now. And you are my 
 dear niece." 
 
 The adoptive relationship was thenceforth more tender 
 than ever. And there were other pleasures. There were 
 long delightful hours with Mrs. Gifford. Edmund still 
 lived at home, to the infinite satisfaction of his parents. 
 He liked women's society and was a petted guest in many 
 houses, but showed no inclination to marry. He was a 
 full professor now, at the head of his department, and 
 had recently published a book of clever essays, comments 
 on life, spiced with wit and amiable malice. The critics 
 praised it. 
 
 "There's no money in such a book," said Mrs. Gifford, 
 "but then Edmund needn't mind that and can write to 
 please himself." 
 
Isabel Stirling 279 
 
 The Giffords gave a dinner for her and she was placed 
 at Judge Gifford's right hand, and he talked to her with 
 an intelligent interest in army life and army work, and 
 in the Indian question, so vital to these keepers of the 
 outposts, so indifferently regarded by the dwellers in a 
 country town in central New York. 
 
 "It's you army people who have to pay for the Govern- 
 ment's mistakes with the Indians," he said. 
 
 After dinner Edmund sat down by her and told her all 
 the university news and was caustic about the admission 
 of "co-eds." She laughed at him and pretended to regret 
 that she could not have been a co-ed herself. When she 
 told him that she had not yet seen his book he promised 
 to give her a copy. 
 
 "With your name written in it," she stipulated. 
 
 "Certainly — although you hardly deserve it," he said. 
 "You never did anything like that for me." 
 
 She blushed furiously and had no reply ready. 
 
 "Are you writing an army story?" he asked, with a 
 sly smile. 
 
 "What an absurd idea!" She glanced hastily around 
 to make sure that no one was listening to them. . . . 
 
 She went, one day, to see her old friends, the Boyds, 
 and recalled with secret merriment her make-believe at 
 being their sister. Oh, if she could only tell them! If 
 only she could own up to the book! 
 
 Amy Boyd had three children now and looked haggard 
 and shabby. She worked very hard and the Professor 
 apparently spent all his evenings alone in his study. Amy 
 held the baby on her lap while they talked. She was 
 affectionate, but preoccupied. Isabel began to feel that 
 they hadn't much in common. 
 
 "Do you remember Mrs. Henderson?" asked Amy 
 suddenly. "She died last year. I suppose she really died 
 of fatigue and discouragement. Do you remember that 
 day when she said that a professor ought to marry his 
 cook?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember it very well." 
 
 "And how mad I got? And how I was going to show 
 
280 Isabel Stirling 
 
 them 'the marriage of true minds' ? Well — she was right. 
 A man like my husband can't let his mind be married. 
 It's got to work alone. And his body has got to be fed 
 and made comfortable, and its needs — all its needs, suffi- 
 ciently satisfied for him to forget it when it needs to be 
 forgotten. Which is most of the time. Of course, if 
 they have no children — that was one of Mrs. Henderson's 
 alternatives. But after all — " she looked thoughtfully 
 at the baby on her lap— "after all, Isabel, if a woman 
 doesn't have children, what's the use of her, except just 
 to cook?" 
 
 "I suppose," said Isabel, feeling very inadequate, "that 
 they do pay for themselves." She, too, looked at the 
 baby, which was a healthy specimen, but not particularly 
 attractive. 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean as a matter of affection," said Amy 
 scornfully, "but as a matter of significance. When I die, 
 I shall have meant something. If only they turn out 
 well." 
 
 "Amy," said Isabel, "can't you ever have any good 
 times? Don't you want to?" 
 
 "Of course I want to," flashed Amy. "I'm a human 
 woman — and I'm young. But there isn't any money for 
 good servants and enough of them, and without them 
 I've no strength left for amusement — not to speak of 
 money for decent clothes." 
 
 Isabel thought of certain hard- worked army women 
 with an overplus of children and decided that they had 
 a much better time of it than professors' wives. In spite 
 of hard journeys there was some relief in moving on, 
 and they got some fun as they went along. And always 
 they were automatically moving up in the scale. There 
 seemed no certainty of promotion in civil life, and much 
 less amusement to be had without spending money. 
 
 How these scenes and people recalled the Book! In 
 the stirring experiences of the last year and a half she 
 had seldom thought of it. Now she felt again that she 
 would like to tell Dick about it. It seemed the queerest 
 thing in the world that she had not yet told him. One 
 
Isabel Stirling 281 
 
 rainy day when they were sitting in the library and Peter 
 Maiden was shut up in his little office at the end of the 
 hall, she looked along the bookshelves for a copy which 
 she remembered having seen there. Having found it, 
 she took it out, flicked off the dust and carried it over 
 to Dick. 
 
 "Did you ever read this? ,, she asked. 
 
 He took the book and glanced at the title. "Don't think 
 so. Why?" 
 
 "Everybody here was reading it at one time." 
 
 "I wasn't here, I suppose. I don't think I ever heard 
 of it." 
 
 She felt unreasonably disconcerted. "It was supposed 
 to be a story of Ptolemy," she said, after a moment's 
 hesitation. 
 
 "That sounds interesting." He opened it at the first 
 chapter. 
 
 Yes, she would let him read it before she told. He 
 lighted a pipe, settled back in his chair and began to 
 read. She waited, pretending to be interested in a maga- 
 zine. Dick seemed absorbed, but made no comments. 
 She had hoped that he would speak of anything that 
 struck him. He read all the afternoon. At dusk he had 
 not finished, but he laid the book down and lighted a fresh 
 pipe. IsabeL still waited. 
 
 "Does anyone know who wrote it?" he asked. "I don't 
 suppose the name on the title page means anything." 
 
 It was on the end of her tongue to say — I wrote it — 
 but she checked herself. First let him say what he 
 thought of it. 
 
 "I believe not," she said demurely. "I don't think it 
 has ever been known." 
 
 "No, it wouldn't be apt to be acknowledged." 
 
 "Why? Don't you like it?" 
 
 "It hits out considerably at university management. 
 I dare say it was all true but it mightn't have been quite 
 safe, if it was written by anyone on the inside, as I dare 
 say it was. It sounds as if some professor's wife had 
 tried to get even." 
 
282 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Isabel's cheeks burned. "Do you think the charac- 
 ters are portraits ?" she asked. 
 
 "I can see a couple. Probably there are more. I don't 
 know people here so very well. ,, 
 
 He picked up the book again, looked at the date, then 
 turned over some of the leaves. Isabel saw him grin as 
 he stopped to read a page. She got up, sauntered over 
 to him and stood behind his chair. He was reading one 
 of the passages where Lydia figured. He shut the book 
 quickly and she went and sat down again. 
 
 "But aside from portraits, how do you like it? What 
 do you think of it ?" Her tone was carefully indifferent. 
 
 "Oh, it's amusing in spots — cleverish. It's as if a 
 bright woman sat down and hit off the people around 
 her — not very goodnaturedly. I hate ill-nature, and so 
 I don't care very much for the book." 
 
 Cleverish! She had been prepared to confess her 
 naughtiness, but — cleverish ! 
 
 "The book sold very well. There were some good 
 reviews of it," she said, in a subdued tone. 
 
 "I suppose a book of that kind would sell well just at 
 that time," said Dick, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. 
 "It's readable. Farrell University was new and there 
 were enough people down on it to be amused by a book 
 that showed up its weak points. I can understand that. 
 And after all, I'm no critic. I simply don't care much 
 for it myself. But then, I don't care for lots of things 
 that my betters like." 
 
 Isabel picked up the book and started toward the book- 
 case. "It's ages since I read it myself," she said, pausing 
 in the act of returning it to its place. "I think I'll look 
 at it again. Do you know it's almost dinner-time?" 
 
 "That's a fact," said Dick, glancing at the clock. "I'll 
 get a breath of air before dinner. Want to come?" 
 
 "It's raining too hard." She tried not to make her 
 tone curt. 
 
 She watched him as he put on his storm-coat and went 
 out, and then went slowly upstairs with the book in her 
 hand. Tell Dick? Never! 
 
Isabel Stirling 283 
 
 At her first opportunity she read it, slowly, carefully. 
 Her eyes were opened to a thousand defects and crude- 
 nesses. She saw too that her youthful indignation at 
 what she was told were mistakes and injustices in uni- 
 versity management might strike Dick as ill-natured, and 
 even that she might have been ill-informed and unjust in 
 some instances — but not in all. But it was a new idea 
 to her that she had played into the hands of the enemies 
 of the university. Not that it made any difference. The 
 university was not to be hurt by her pygmy blows. 
 
 But her portrait of Lydia! That, she saw, was un- 
 pardonable. She told herself scornfully that it was not 
 only a hateful, but a common thing to do. But — it wasn't 
 "cleverish," that portrait. It was dreadfully clever. A 
 thrill of exultation shot through her shame and remorse. 
 If she was clever enough for that! . . . 
 
 But was it wrong to go on keeping the thing a secret 
 from Dick? She hated having a secret from him. More 
 and more, she was getting into the way of thinking aloud 
 with him, no matter whether he always understood or 
 not. She did not want to tell him this. Therefore, 
 said her inherited puritanism, probably she ought to. 
 With an effort she put puritanism away from her. Would 
 Dick rather icnow or not ? Wasn't the telling going to 
 be as unpleasant for him as for her? He would be sorry 
 he had said what he did about the book, and yet he would 
 have to stick to it. He would be still sorrier that she 
 had written it, and horribly shocked at her for having 
 put Lydia into it. He might grin at somebody else's 
 portrait of her, but that was different. No, Dick would 
 not be proud of her. Possibly it might be better for her 
 own soul to confess and show him her meanness, but she 
 doubted whether it would be better for him. He would 
 wish she hadn't told him. 
 
 Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she was weakly 
 sparing herself. Perhaps he would find it out some day, 
 and then it would be better to have told him. She didn't 
 know. The only thing she really did know was that it 
 would be pleasanter for Dick not to be told ; and so she 
 
284 Isabel Stirling 
 
 would take the risk of his finding out, and bear the 
 burden of keeping a secret from him. 
 
 But reading the book over had aroused her writing 
 instinct. She longed to be at it again and wondered 
 why she had not felt that way before; although, to be 
 sure, life had been, so far, pretty full. But there was 
 going to be so much time out at the post, and how she 
 would love to write a novel of army life. But she would 
 not conceal anything from Dick, and he would not like 
 it at all, no matter with what affection she treated her 
 subject nor how impersonal she tried to be. It would 
 be sure to strike him as being in the nature of the army 
 gossip that he hated. No, she would have to find some 
 other subject, and even then, she doubted whether he 
 would be in sympathy. And he might even suspect her 
 of this first disastrous book. It would hardly be safe. 
 She sighed with vexation, then told herself that, after 
 all, one couldn't have everything; and, having Dick, 
 surely she had the best that life could give. 
 
LV 
 
 Three years more of Arizona, years marked by the 
 change from a log cabin to a low adobe house, as B Troop 
 moved from one hot post to another, but otherwise much 
 the same in the orderly routine of garrison life. They 
 were years in which Isabel seemed almost to forget that 
 she had ever lived any other life than the one punctuated 
 by the morning and evening gun and the bugle calls. She 
 adapted herself easily to the makeshift existence of the 
 frontier post, learned to do without the appurtenances 
 of civilization, and to make light of the loss and breakage 
 of the household gods which she had so recently learned 
 to adore, grew hardened to the publicity of sleeping on 
 the parade ground when the little houses were too hot 
 to be endured, and spent many a night under the stars, 
 sleeping or waking, as the case might be. 
 
 It was a life quickened by the sense of danger; a 
 danger whicfi her spirit could face when she shared it, 
 as, on some of their journeys through a country infested 
 by hostile Indians, she had to do, but before which she 
 quailed when Dick went off on expeditions to hunt up 
 and drive back those Indians who forsook the reserva- 
 tion for the warpath, leaving her in the idleness and 
 safety of the post, to eat her heart out with anxiety until 
 his return. But through it all, she more and more loved 
 the life, with all its uncertainties and discomforts. More 
 and more she thrilled to the sound of the bugle and the 
 sight of the soldiers. Guard mounting and dress parade, 
 all the recurring spectacles of each day, never ceased to 
 touch a responsive nerve. For there was nothing about 
 it which was merely spectacular. Reality lay behind it 
 all. It angered her to think how little people back in 
 the east realized the grim seriousness of a soldier's bust- 
 
 285 
 
286 Isabel Stirling 
 
 ness in the Indian country ; how little indeed, they honored 
 him when he fell in some obscure combat; a combat 
 brought on, very possibly, by a policy of which she saw 
 clearly the injustice or the folly. Truly, there was no 
 glory in Indian warfare. She learned to say bitterly, as 
 other army women have said before and since: "Nobody 
 cares !" 
 
 Perhaps nothing so much as this recurring danger 
 would have so kept alive the romance of her love for 
 her husband. Those ever-dreaded perils kept its first 
 freshness untarnished. There had not been any further 
 promise of children, but as yet, in their youth and their 
 enjoyment of comradeship the more intimate because 
 thus uninterrupted, neither of them could feel that they 
 missed anything. And how well they learned to know 
 each other! With a knowledge which, it seemed, pre- 
 cluded all possibility of future misunderstanding. 
 
 In these days Isabel learned to know and love her army 
 comrades; the group of women who, with indomitable 
 pluck, met the emergencies of each day as it came, putting 
 yesterday behind them, and taking to-morrow's chances 
 philosophically. She had her own place among them 
 now, as she had never had it when Lily stood between, 
 with Her half malicious, half unconscious mischief- 
 making. 
 
 In the midst of all this came the news of Peter 
 Maiden's fatal illness and the summons home. There 
 was the hurried start and the long journey which could 
 not be hurried and seemed to their impatience beset with 
 even more vexations and delays than usually befell. Peter 
 Maiden was dead when they at last arrived. 
 
 Dick felt his father's death very much, but seemed, 
 more than all, to feel for him the disappointments and 
 the cloud of depression which had made an old man 
 of him and shortened his life. That there should be little 
 to inherit seemed to him a small matter. Isabel thought 
 of her own father and of his harsh judgment of this 
 other man who, after all, had been able to gain and keep 
 the love of his children. She shook her head when Mrs. 
 
Isabel Stirling 287 
 
 Gifford asked if she would not, this time, try to see 
 her father. 
 
 "Dick's father was mine too," she said, "and Father 
 hated him." A moment after, she added; "I wrote to 
 Father once — but he never answered." 
 
 In spite of their sorrow, it was a pleasure to see Cassie 
 again and to realize how happy her marriage was. They 
 all spent some time together in the old Lansing house, 
 and then, Dick's leave being up and the necessary business 
 transacted, as far as was possible for the time, they 
 bade each other good-bye, and Dick and Isabel started 
 westward. 
 
 Sadness hung over them through all the tiresome 
 journey on the railway, but when they alighted at their 
 last station and met the familiar ambulance and mules 
 with the friendly soldier escort, and set out on the long, 
 rough drive across a country which was none too safe, 
 their hearts lightened, and neither monotony of desert 
 nor danger of pass seemed discouraging to them. They 
 were going to their own life again. 
 
 They were going, moreover, with another promotion 
 to cheer them. Owing to one or two sudden deaths and 
 resignations among the older officers of the regiment 
 everybody went up several files and Dick became a 
 captain before he could reasonably have expected it. 
 It seemed to him that he could ask nothing better of 
 life than to be captain of B Troop. 
 
LVI 
 
 From the burning sands of Arizona to the wind-swept 
 snows of the great northwest country; from the desert 
 dryness to the great river lying frozen below the bluff; 
 from the adobe house, with its thick walls, to the slightly 
 built shack of unseasoned lumber; from a hundred and 
 twenty degrees above zero to forty degrees below. Also, 
 from tinned meats and butter melting in glass jars to a 
 larder hung full of game. All this, with a preparation 
 no longer than the time required to pack boxes and bar- 
 rels and set out on the journey. 
 
 Isabel had thought that she could never find fault with 
 any degree of cold, but when she shivered beside her 
 fire of green wood, or took her short walk in front of 
 the quarters in a canon shoveled out through snowdrifts 
 so high that she could not see over them, and had to 
 hurry back to the house lest nose and cheeks should be 
 frozen, she almost wished for Arizona again. Almost, 
 but not quite. 
 
 "I will not say I like to be frozen because I hate to 
 be burned," she declared. "I feel at liberty to dislike 
 discomfort in any form." 
 
 But it was pleasant to get to a large post again, with 
 Colonel Raynor in command; and the old band, which 
 they had left behind when they went to Arizona, was 
 good to hear. There were lively hops every Saturday 
 night; and there was much music between times. 
 
 Troop C had come with the rest, and of course that 
 meant the Hazeltons. Isabel was glad for Dick, and 
 touched by his happiness at having Frank with him again. 
 She was even a little pleased to see Lily, so insistent 
 is an old tie. Moreover, they met on a new footing. 
 Lily was a much smaller element in her life than she 
 had been at the first post, and could not, she felt, any 
 
 288 
 
Isabel Stirling 289 
 
 longer come between her and other people. And she 
 was welcome to dance with Dick as often as she chose. 
 Nobody in the world could now disturb Isabel where he 
 was concerned. 
 
 She had now devised her own share in the amusement 
 of the hop nights. While the others were still dancing 
 she put away her book and got ready for them. They 
 were glad enough to come through the freezing air for 
 her good little supper. And if, sometimes, the hours 
 dragged before she heard the sound of their hilarious 
 voices as they came along the snow-packed walk; and 
 if she still longed for the forbidden pleasure, the sting 
 of the deprivation was drawn by a remark which her 
 husband happened to make in her hearing. Someone 
 had repeated the banal old saying about women's stand- 
 ard of honor; that it was different from men's; that 
 they did not live up to their engagements. 
 
 "Not the woman I know best," Dick had said quickly. 
 "My wife doesn't know how to break a promise, even 
 when she made it before she knew what it meant." 
 
 How worth while it had been after all! 
 
 And then, surprisingly, the eight months' winter was 
 over. At last, the spring actually came. Little by little, 
 the snow melted ; with many delays, many snow squalls, 
 many white patches in shady places — patches which 
 seemed as if they would never be all gone. But even 
 those discouraging bits gradually receded at the edges 
 and grew almost imperceptibly smaller until they van- 
 ished. The cottonwood trees, planted in rows in front 
 of the quarters because they grew so quickly, put out 
 their leaves and shaded the little frame houses which 
 were at last visible down to their foundations — or lack 
 of them. One could walk on the board walk now ; and 
 along the river bank were pleasant stretches where the 
 cottonwoods grew tall and broad and made a play of 
 light and shade, refreshing after the snow glare ; while 
 here and there one found a blue hepatica peeping from 
 its fuzzy gray calix. 
 
 Isabel resumed her rides with elation. Pat had ac- 
 
290 Isabel Stirling 
 
 companied her in all her changes of station, but she had 
 not been able to ride during the long winter, and now 
 it was delightful to find herself on his back again. She 
 found, however, that the rides must be restricted. Along 
 with the other wild animals, the Indians had crept out 
 from their winter shelters, and they were not all friendly. 
 Every now and then stories were brought in of grisly 
 deeds, and although Dick had kept it from her as far 
 as he could, there were beginning to be rumors of a 
 summer campaign. She kept her service revolver with 
 her riding clothes and took it when she went out, almost 
 as mechanically as she put on her boots. 
 
 Frank Hazelton sometimes joined them on their rides, 
 but Lily did not often go. She was discontented because 
 she could not have such a horse as she wished. 
 
 "It's just as well," Dick said one time when he and 
 Isabel were out by themselves. "She's hard on a horse. 
 I'm sorry for both back and mouth of any horse she 
 rides." The only criticism he was ever known to make 
 of Lily was of her riding. 
 
 Isabel smiled, but not aloud did she venture on the 
 comment that, as between Lily and a horse, he put the 
 horse first. What she did say was: "If you had found 
 out that I couldn't learn to manage a horse considerately 
 would you have loved me still?" 
 
 "That's nonsense," he replied. "Might as well ask 
 whether I'd have loved you if you hadn't been yourself." 
 
 "But you couldn't know — about me and a horse." 
 
 "Lots of things I couldn't know — nor you either — 
 but somehow we knew without knowing. It's a sort of 
 recognition that has nothing to do with knowledge." 
 
 Isabel rode on slowly. For a moment she said nothing. 
 Then she turned to him a face touched with emotion. 
 "I love you very much when you talk like that, Dick. 
 And I like to think of that spiritual side of love. How 
 can people " 
 
 "How can people — what?" 
 
 "How can they think it comes more than once ? Oh — 
 love affairs of a sort — yes. I don't mean that. But 
 
Isabel Stirling 291 
 
 marriage. How can that come twice? And how can 
 
 they marry without it? Or marry twice anyway?" 
 "Well, dear, let's hope we never have a chance." 
 "Live till we're both a hundred and then die together." 
 
 She spoke lightly, but a shiver passed through her. 
 
 "Let's have a gallop !" 
 
LVII 
 
 "I wonder what's the matter with Frank," said Dick. 
 "He looks haggard and sallow, and altogether off. And 
 he's nervous." Which was as near as Dick ever got to 
 admitting that Frank was sometimes irritable. 
 
 Isabel looked contemplatively across the breakfast 
 table. "One of the many nice things about you, Dick," 
 she said, "is that you are so tremendously good-looking. 
 And the kind of good-looking that a soldier ought to be." 
 
 "Thanks. I'm glad I make up properly for the part." 
 He made a grinning face at her as he took another 
 muffin. "It's obvious that I should say something nice 
 to you in return, but I won't. You're spoiled. The 
 Colonel was all struck of a heap with you last night." 
 
 "Well, every woman ought to be spoiled. Our day 
 is short. I'll be saying — My dears, I used to look so- 
 and-so, while you will still be as handsome as ever." 
 
 "And why not you?" 
 
 "Because complexion doesn't matter to a man. Lines 
 don't hurt his face a bit and he isn't dependent on color- 
 ing. When a woman gets wrinkles and loses her color 
 and has to depend on features and expression — well, 
 about that time she's a has-been. I think I may be 
 tempted to make up, like — " She paused and looked at 
 him with a gleam in her eye. 
 
 "Oh, don't say it! What's the use?" 
 
 She laughed outright. "I won't. I don't need to. 
 I'll only say — like some women who are young enough 
 to know better. But I do hope Frank will be all right 
 soon." 
 
 Dick reflected, with knitted brow. "I wonder if it's 
 money. I hope he gets his captaincy soon. You know 
 he has nothing but his pay, and think how much more 
 
 292 
 
Isabel Stirling 293 
 
 we spend — and yet we think we are living simply. I wish 
 — oh, hang it ! Frank oughtn't to be proud with me, but 
 he would be." 
 
 If Frank was proud, his wife wasn't. She would have 
 taken help wherever she could get it. For she was find- 
 ing herself hard pressed in these days. Even the slight 
 increase of pay which came with the first promotion didn't 
 seem to help very much. For there are so many things 
 which one can't do without. Lily lapped up luxuries as 
 a cat laps cream. To be sure, she was deft with her 
 needle, but nice materials are always expensive. And she 
 liked pretty furnishings for her dinner table and good 
 things to eat on it; and in her own room all sorts of 
 toilet appliances. Although her dressing table might be 
 made of a packing box draped with muslin, she liked an 
 array of costly things on it ; and in the cupboard the last 
 word in lotions and cosmetics. The delicate fair skin 
 which had suffered from the hot, dry climate of the south- 
 west must be delicately restored by art; the flaxen hair 
 must be treated with the utmost care and science. In 
 short, Lily worshiped her body and nothing was too good 
 for it. And, of course, Frank had to have his uniform 
 up to date and in good order. About that there was 
 no choice. She anathematized every order prescribing 
 changes and additions in the matter of uniform, and 
 longed with all her soul for the next promotion. She 
 did not hesitate to write home and ask that birthday and 
 Christmas presents should be in money; neither did she 
 scruple to ask for additional gifts, although she knew — 
 no one better than she — the limits of her father's income. 
 For such a gift she was now waiting with an impatience 
 which she could hardly control. She had an account at 
 a big New York store and had been unable to pay the 
 last month's bill, which was headed by the dread words, 
 "Account rendered"; and she had a lively recollection 
 of the only time when Frank had been so angry with her 
 that she really could not manage him. Indeed, "angry" 
 was a mild term for his fury of rage and mortification 
 when he told her that a bill of hers had been sent to 
 
294 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the War Department, and the amount kept out of his 
 pay. It was a hideous experience and one which she 
 could not repeat. But what was to be done? 
 
 Just at this crisis it was irritating to be present when 
 a large box arrived from the east for Isabel; a dress- 
 maker's box, of all arrivals the most interesting. Isabel 
 didn't want to unpack it with Lily looking on, seeing in 
 advance the envy in her eyes, no matter what might be 
 the criticism on her tongue. She put the box aside, but 
 Lily lingered. Irritating or not, she wanted to see what 
 Isabel had got. 
 
 "Aren't you going to open it?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, after a while." 
 
 "But I want to see your things. That's what I'm 
 waiting for. I dare say some of the women will try to 
 copy them, but you needn't be afraid of me" 
 
 "I never thought of such a thing," said Isabel, flush- 
 ing. 
 
 She cut the string and took the outer wrapping paper 
 off; then raised the cover. "I hardly know what Miss 
 Timmons has sent," she said, as she pulled a gown from 
 the enveloping tissue paper. "Oh !" 
 
 The exclamation was involuntary and expressed sheer 
 pleasure. 
 
 "It is lovely," said Lily, putting out an appraising 
 finger to feel of the material. "But a little fade-away, 
 don't you think? There won't be much color in it when 
 you get into a roomful of real pinks and blues." 
 
 "I don't care," said Isabel. "I like it." 
 
 The dress was of pale pink silk of softest sheen, half 
 covered with tulle of the same tint. People wore over- 
 skirts in those days, and bouffant draperies, but artistic 
 fingers had made an ugly fashion look graceful. She 
 shook out the soft folds and held it off at arm's length. 
 Then she happened to glance at Lily and her face changed. 
 She laid the dress over the back of a chair. 
 
 "Aren't you going to try it on?" asked Lily. 
 
 "Not now," she said carelessly. "It's too much 
 trouble." She did wish Lily would go. 
 
Isabel Stirling 295 
 
 "You really ought to see it on another person to get 
 the effect. I could put it on to show you. We are not 
 so different, even if you are taller." 
 
 "Oh, it doesn't matter about my seeing it now," said 
 Isabel hastily. "I'll just take it into the other room, in 
 case any of the men come in." 
 
 She picked it up and opened the door of her bedroom, 
 but Lily was behind her, already unhooking her own 
 gown. "Yes, it's better to come in here," she said 
 calmly. 
 
 She had her gown off in an instant, while Isabel stood 
 helplessly looking at her. Then she seized the pink gown 
 and put it over her head. 
 
 "Just lace it up for me," she said. "You can skip 
 some of the eyelets, you know." 
 
 Inwardly rebellious, Isabel obeyed her. She felt as 
 if she would like to slap the white shoulders which were 
 turned toward her. 
 
 "It just suits me," said Lily complacently. "You see, 
 all my tints are delicate enough to go with this faint shade 
 of pink." She regarded herself eagerly in the mirror. 
 "You need more decided colors. Such a shame that 
 Timmons doesn't know enough to see that." She turned 
 herself about, swishing the train behind her and stepping 
 on the front as she did so. 
 
 Isabel watched her in silence. 
 
 "Oh, you dear thing!" cried Lily, looking at her with 
 malice in her shallow blue eyes. "You needn't grudge 
 me its becomingness — here in your bedroom." She 
 turned herself this way and that, before the mirror. 
 "You've got the only cheval glass in the post," she 
 added. 
 
 "It certainly is becoming," said Isabel, trying to hide 
 her vexation. For the moment, her pleasure in the new 
 gown was spoiled and she half felt like telling Lily to 
 take it. But one hardly cared to play into her hand. 
 She would have accepted it instantly. 
 
 Lily had taken up the hand-glass and was now survey- 
 ing her back. "Well," she said finally, with a long sigh, 
 
296 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "I must get into my old clothes now and go home. 
 Unlace me, please.' ' 
 
 Isabel took the gown off from her and threw it care- 
 lessly on the bed. When Dick came in he saw it there. 
 He lifted the edge of the skirt and looked at it. "Pretty 
 nice. You'll be good enough to eat in that. But there's 
 a spot." He pointed to a smudge near the bottom. 
 
 "Lily wanted to try it on, " said Isabel, "and stepped 
 on it." 
 
 "What queer things women are," he commented, "try- 
 ing on each other's clothes." 
 
 "Could you imagine me doing such a thing?" cried 
 Isabel indignantly. "I hated her to try it on, but she 
 insisted. And oh, Dick, she was so envious." 
 
 "Oh, well — any of us might be envious, you know, if 
 we had to do without things." He started out of the 
 room, whistling, but turned at the door. "Going to wear 
 it to the hop to-night?" 
 
 "No, indeed. I'm not going. And if I were, I shouldn't 
 get myself up in a new frock when you're Officer of 
 the Day and have to go in fatigue uniform. It's to do 
 you credit at Colonel Raynor's dinner next week." 
 
 But Lily was going to the hop, and Isabel's new gown 
 and her own entrancing appearance in it had hardened 
 a resolution which had been slowly forming in her mind. 
 Once let her get that bill paid and she could start a fresh 
 account. She surely did need a new evening dress — and 
 why should Isabel have everything? She dressed herself 
 in the best of her old ones that evening, a soft, clinging 
 white gown ; and touched cheeks, lips and eyebrows with 
 deft, artistic fingers. When she had finished she was a 
 trifle paler than usual, with slight shadows under her 
 eyes. "I'm rather a fright when I look like this," she 
 sighed, "but it's best — and it's worth it !" She composed 
 her features into an expression of gentle melancholy — 
 then grimaced at herself in the glass. 
 
 Her husband was waiting for her in the next room. 
 "Aren't you well?" he asked, looking at her sharply. 
 "You don't look quite yourself." 
 
Isabel Stirling 297 
 
 She gave an ill-natured little laugh. "Perfectly well. 
 I suppose I look a bit passee in my old clothes." 
 
 He sighed with vexation. "Your clothes always look 
 all right" 
 
 "But they're not !" she retorted sharply. 
 
 They walked to the dancing hall in silence, but when 
 they entered the room Lily's face wore its most alluring 
 smile. As a matter of course, Dick came presently to 
 ask her to dance. To his surprise she proposed that 
 they should sit it out, and immediately conducted him to 
 the only retired corner which the big bare place afforded. 
 He went somewhat discontentedly, for although he loved 
 to dance with Lily he cared little, if he would have con- 
 fessed it, for her conversation. She seated herself, 
 giving her drapery a dexterous twist, to clear the way 
 to a chair close beside her. 
 
 "I'm low in my mind to-night," she said, "and for 
 about the first time in my life, I don't feel like dancing." 
 
 "Oh, if you're low in your mind," said Dick, rising 
 with alacrity, "come on and dance. It's a great deal 
 better for you than talking." 
 
 But Lily shook her head sadly. She sighed and looked 
 down, then raised her eyes appealingly. "Do sit down," 
 she said. "Perhaps in a few minutes I'll dance." 
 
 He sat down. There seemed nothing else to do. But 
 he found nothing to say. Lily was again looking at the 
 floor and did not seem to be thinking about him. Pres- 
 ently, however, she raised her head, as if she had taken 
 a great resolution. 
 
 "I wonder," she said, hesitatingly, "if I dare tell you 
 how desperately worried I am." 
 
 "It would do you more good to forget your worries 
 and have a good time," parried the unwilling confidant. 
 
 "But I'm so worried about Frank," she persisted. His 
 reluctance to listen was so evident that she gave up the 
 idea of trusting to her own allurement and threw herself 
 on the claims of his friendship for her husband. The 
 thought crossed her mind that she needn't have made a 
 
298 Isabel Stirling 
 
 fright of herself, after all. The stupid man didn't know 
 how she looked. 
 
 At the mention of her husband Dick turned to her 
 with a changed manner. "What's the matter with 
 Frank?" he asked quickly. 
 
 "Do you think he's looking well?" 
 
 "No, I don't. I've been thinking about it. Isn't he 
 well?" 
 
 "He's not ill," said Lily slowly, "but oh, he is so 
 worried all the time. And now — now it's going to be 
 worse." She hoped that the pathetic tremor in her voice 
 was not lost on Dick, but could not feel sure. He was 
 so dull. "It's all my fault," she continued. "I meant 
 so well and have been so foolish — and now I'm frantic 
 about him. He is going to be beside himself when he 
 knows." 
 
 "Knows what ?" Dick settled back in his chair. "Per- 
 haps you'd better begin at the beginning and tell me. 
 If I can do anything " 
 
 "Oh, you're so good. You're always so good!" 
 
 Genuine tears of relief were in her eyes as she raised 
 them to his. She did not let them fall, however. Quite 
 surely Dick would not have liked that. Instead, she 
 waited for a moment and visibly conquered them. "Now 
 I'm not going to be silly," she said, smiling deprecatingly. 
 "But it is hard to confess one's mistakes. I feel half like 
 running away. But then — there's no one but you I can 
 speak to — Frank's friend — and mine." She stopped, 
 with an air of reluctance. 
 
 Dick had seen the tears and was thankful to her for 
 suppressing them. She really looked very pretty, in spite 
 of her pallor — and she was Frank's wife. His manner 
 became far more sympathetic. 
 
 "Go on and tell me," he said encouragingly. 
 
 She did not fail to appreciate the kindness of his voice. 
 "I've made a debt," she murmured. Her shame facedness 
 was not all put on. "And Frank doesn't know." 
 
 "If it's only money it can be mended." 
 
 "Of course that seems only a small trouble to you," 
 
Isabel Stirling 299 
 
 she said reproachfully. "It's pretty dreadful for us. 
 And oh, I know how wrong it was, but I didn't realize 
 how large it was getting. And now they're dunning 
 me to pay the bill and there won't be anything to pay 
 it with, even when I do tell Frank — and he's already 
 worried with just ordinary expenses. You know how 
 punctilious he is." She raised her eyes to his. "I'm 
 almost out of my mind about it !" she exclaimed passion- 
 ately. "Sometimes I'm afraid Frank will kill himself 
 when he knows. He said once that he would rather shoot 
 himself — " She stopped suddenly. "I've sent home," 
 she added, in a subdued voice, "but they can't help me." 
 
 "Don't worry about it any more," said Dick. "Surely 
 Frank will accept a loan from me." But he spoke with 
 an assurance that he did not feel. 
 
 "He would never take it in the world," said Lily 
 quickly. Must she dot all her i's before he would under- 
 stand? "And he would never forgive me if he knew 
 that I had told you anything. And I'd have to tell him 
 about this debt, and — oh, don't you see what a horrid 
 mess it would be? No, it's awfully good of you, Dick — 
 just as good as it can be — but you'd better just forget 
 that I have said anything at all. I don't know why I 
 did — but it seemed as if I simply had to tell someone. 
 And perhaps — " her voice trembled a little — "perhaps I 
 might do something to earn money. Maybe Isabel would 
 let me do some sewing for her — and pay me. I am 
 skilful, you know." 
 
 "Oh, stop it, Lily! What are friends good for if they 
 can't help each other out? But not that way. Don't 
 be absurd." 
 
 Come now, thought Lily, this was better. She cast 
 down her eyes, lest their exultation betray her. 
 
 "Now, I'll tell you what," Dick went on, "you and 
 Isabel must get together. Frank and I will be entirely 
 out of it. You tell Isabel just how much you need and 
 I'll see that she has it to give to you. I'll talk to her 
 first, of course. And then we'll all be happy." 
 
 How utterly exasperating he was, in his stupidity! 
 
300 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Lily raised pained eyes to his face. "You dear fellow," 
 she said. "You are too sweet and generous for words, 
 but I could never, never do that. You know Isabel don't 
 like me as much as I like her — she never has, even when 
 we were small children. She wouldn't judge me as kindly 
 as you do. Of course she would have a right to judge 
 me harshly, for I've been so foolish and such a bad 
 manager — though I've truly had my lesson now. But 
 no, Dick, I don't see how I could possibly tell Isabel 
 about my failures and follies — and as to taking money 
 from her— even if it really comes from you — oh, I can 
 sacrifice my pride a good deal, for Frank's sake, but not 
 that! Thank you just the same, dear Dick. I do 
 appreciate it." 
 
 Their corner was quite retired. She laid her fingers 
 on his hand, with a timid, but clinging touch, and the 
 eyes which were upturned to his veiled their shallow 
 hardness under the film of tears, which came so obediently 
 to her need of them. Dick was sorry and embarrassed, 
 but his instinct still warned him to keep out of a personal 
 money transaction with his friend's wife. 
 
 "You're mistaken about Isabel," he said. "Just try 
 her. She'll be only too glad to help." 
 
 "But you know she would be critical of me in her 
 heart. I'm afraid I'm not large and fine enough to accept 
 that sort of help from anyone who don't feel very, very 
 kindly toward me — as I'm sure you do. You can't 
 really assure me that my instinct about Isabel's feeling 
 toward me is at fault." 
 
 Dick, nothing if not honest, hesitated just for an 
 instant under her scrutiny. When he was about to 
 speak she put out her hand to stop him. 
 
 "No, no," she said, "you needn't say a word. And 
 thank you just the same. There's nothing left but to 
 tell Frank and take the consequences. Poor Frank! If 
 I could only spare him! / don't matter." 
 
 Dick was desperately uncomfortable. It seemed that 
 there was no v/ay to get around it. "Look here!" he 
 said brusquely. "Tell me just how much you need. 
 
Isabel Stirling 301 
 
 We'll keep it between ourselves, since you prefer it that 
 way." 
 
 Lily thought quickly and decided to add fifty dollars to 
 the debt. The larger the amount, the more convincingly 
 it would show that Frank could not possibly pay it. 
 Besides, Dick owed her something for being so hard to 
 manage, with his talk about Isabel. 
 
 She drooped her head and seemed to hesitate. "It's 
 such a lot," she murmured. 
 
 "Oh, come, don't be afraid." 
 
 There was not in his tone the tender sympathy that 
 she needed. She felt wounded ; and added another fifty. 
 "It's two hundred and fifty dollars," she said in so low 
 a tone that he had to bend over her to hear the words. 
 
 He straightened up with a laugh. "All this misery 
 for that?" he said. 
 
 "It's more than a month's pay," she said in an injured 
 tone, and wished she had asked for a little more. "We 
 are always behind, without that. Of course it don't seem 
 much to people like you and Isabel, but it is tragedy 
 for us." 
 
 His face grew sober. "Yes," he said, "it would be 
 hard on Frank. I beg your pardon for laughing, Lily, 
 but I had really been afraid perhaps I wouldn't have 
 enough on hand. Now it's all right, and everything will 
 be happy again." 
 
 "Oh, you are so good — so good!" she cried softly. 
 "You know I'd never, never take it, but for Frank and 
 to save him unhappiness. For myself, I'd rather get 
 down on my knees and scrub." 
 
 "Well, now, it's all settled. I'll give you my cheque 
 to-morrow." He rose as he spoke. "I expect you are 
 keeping some partner out of his dance." 
 
 "One moment." She rose too, and laid her hand on 
 his arm. "I'm afraid the cheque — have you got it in 
 cash?" 
 
 He flushed with vexation. How he hated the affair! 
 But she was right about the cheque. There might be 
 embarrassments. He wondered whether she wouldn't, 
 
302 Isabel Stirling 
 
 after all, have taken the money from Isabel if he had 
 insisted. 
 
 "Yes, I drew out some money a day or two ago," 
 he said, a little stiffly. "I have enough. I'll put it in an 
 envelope and give it to you to-morrow." 
 
 "You'll hate me — I give you so much trouble. But 
 I'll thank you as long as I live, Dick. If you qome 
 right after breakfast, on your way to guard mounting, 
 I'll look out and go to the door myself." 
 
 "Very well," said Dick, leading the way back to the 
 ballroom. 
 
 Lily reflected that although he had said they would 
 keep it to themselves, she had not got him to promise 
 definitely that he would not tell Isabel. One couldn't 
 think of everything — and he hurried her so at the end. 
 But after all, he would hardly tell. It wouldn't be any 
 too comfortable for him to own up to his wife. It was 
 the kind of thing a man would keep to himself. 
 
 But then, Lily did not quite understand the relation 
 between Dick and his wife. 
 
LVIII 
 
 Dick had always found it more comfortable to take a 
 superficial view of his friend's wife. Instinctively, he 
 didn't want to understand her thoroughly. Now, com- 
 pelled to a better comprehension, he stigmatized her as 
 a little cat, and himself as a simpleton. Not that he 
 was unwilling to help her out of her scrape. Indeed, 
 for Frank's sake, it was necessary to help her out; but 
 it ought to have been done through Isabel. Between 
 the two women, all could have been arranged; whereas, 
 if Frank should ever find out what he was doing, good- 
 bye to their friendship. The perspiration started out 
 on his brow as he thought about it. He wanted to go 
 straight home and tell Isabel all about it. A moment's 
 reflection convinced him that Lily would not have re- 
 fused to take the packet of money from her, in spite 
 of her fine words. How she had wound him around 
 her finger! 
 
 But meantime, he was engaged to dance with his 
 Major's wife and with his Colonel's niece. Impossible 
 to cut the rest of the hop and go home. 'The dancing 
 was to stop at eleven, but afterward there was to be 
 a larger supper party than usual at his quarters. He 
 and Isabel were trying to make the visit of the Colonel's 
 niece pleasant. And he couldn't slip off earlier because 
 Miss Raynor had put him down for two dances, one 
 of them being the very last; and as the Colonel could 
 not come to supper that night, he was to act as her 
 escort and take her home again afterward, and then, 
 being Officer of the Day, he would still have to make 
 a round of the big post. 
 
 He sighed with vexation, resolved to expedite the sup- 
 per so far as he might and get back home before Isabel 
 could go to sleep. He was almost sure they would de- 
 
304 Isabel Stirling 
 
 cide to have her hand Lily the money. Then with an 
 effort, he threw the affair aside and did his duty by 
 the female relatives of his superior officers. So well 
 did he do it that the Major's wife, when she was brush- 
 ing her hair that night, confided to her husband that 
 she was rather sorry for Mrs. Maiden. 
 
 "Really," she said, "she makes a great mistake to keep 
 that tiresome old promise about dancing. She ought 
 to go with her husband and keep her eye on him." 
 
 And the Colonel's niece said to her uncle at breakfast 
 the next morning that she should think Mr. Maiden's 
 pretty wife would be jealous of him; he flirted around 
 so. Whereupon Colonel Raynor snubbed her properly 
 and warned her not to start garrison gossip. 
 • "And you needn't worry about Mrs. Maiden," he ad- 
 ded. "Her young man knows how well off he is. He's 
 only being polite." 
 
 The supper was a lively one ; so lively that even Frank's 
 careworn countenance relaxed. Lily was in high feather, 
 relieved of all her anxieties, and as for the Colonel's 
 niece, there could be no doubt that she was enjoying 
 army life. But Isabel wondered why Dick was in such 
 a hurry to get the supper served. He did contrive to 
 say to her aside, that he wanted a chance to talk to her, 
 but somebody claimed her attention just then and she 
 failed to get an impression that it was of importance. 
 No one else was in a hurry. It seemed as if they had 
 never stayed so late before. The Colonel's niece laughed 
 incessantly and was evidently loth to have the enter- 
 tainment end. When at last the good-byes were said, 
 her host made as short work as possible of the walk 
 home with her, covering up his impatience by an extra 
 empressement of manner. 
 
 He was hurrying back to his quarters when Major 
 Home hailed him from his verandah. 
 
 "Come up, won't you," said he. "It's late, but you 
 won't be going to bed, as you have your round to make, 
 and I've been wanting a chance to talk with you." 
 
 What was the junior officer to do ? Dick went up the 
 
Isabel Stirling 305 
 
 steps, accepted a cigar, and was told news which drove 
 Lily and her affairs clean out of his head. 
 
 He stayed with Major Home nearly an hour, and 
 Isabel, tired of waiting for him, at last went to bed and 
 to sleep. Dick did remember Lily when he got home, 
 and was disappointed, but he would not for anything 
 have waked his wife. Let her sleep peacefully, while 
 she could! There would be time enough to talk in the 
 morning. He put out the lamp which had been left 
 burning for him and started out for his starlight walk 
 around the post. 
 
 It was after two o'clock when he got back from his 
 tour and went to bed on a sofa downstairs which had 
 been arranged by his order, so that he need not awaken 
 Isabel when he went out again. He was wide awake 
 at first, and not particularly tired, but in the end slept 
 heavily. He was roused by the din of an alarm clock 
 set on a china plate beside him ; a device which could be 
 relied on. He sat up with a start, rolled off his sofa 
 and hustling on his clothes, rushed out for reveille roll- 
 call. 
 
 On his way back, looking forward to his bath and 
 proper toilet, to be followed by breakfast with his wife, 
 he remembered Lily and his promise to take her the 
 money. Well, he could tell Isabel about it at breakfast. 
 
 But on his return he found no Isabel, only a note 
 saying that Mrs. Betts's baby was very ill and she had 
 gone over to see what she could do to help. 
 
 Dick realized afterward that the matter might have 
 waited a few hours, but he had an incurable habit of 
 keeping his engagements promptly. Moreover, the news 
 of the night before, followed by a few hours' sleep, had, 
 for the moment, blunted his perceptions. This was just 
 a disagreeable thing that he must get off his mind be- 
 fore he could go on to anything else. He swallowed the 
 last of his coffee and went to his desk. Unlocking a 
 drawer, he pulled out the money, counted it and folded 
 the notes as flat as he could. But they were quite new 
 and a good many small ones, so they made a thick 
 
306 Isabel Stirling 
 
 package, which he thrust into an envelope. Hastily 
 Duckling on his sword and snatching his cap and gloves, 
 he strode over to the Hazeltons' quarters. Lily was at 
 the door as he ran up the steps. 
 
 "Good-morning," he said, in his usual tone. Dick 
 was not used to concealments and precautions. 
 
 Lily put her finger to her lips and gave him a warning 
 look, as she held out her hand. Her fingers closed 
 quickly and graspingly on the envelope. "Oh, thank 
 you," she said, just above her breath. 
 
 The next instant Frank's head appeared behind hers 
 in the doorway. "Come in," he invited. 
 
 "I haven't an instant," replied Dick, hurriedly, trying 
 not to look as embarrassed as he felt. 
 
 How stupid of him, thought Lily. Why couldn't he 
 come in? Now she would have to invent. "I'm sorry 
 you're in such a hurry," she said. "Tell Isabel, yes, 
 I'll be delighted to come over." 
 
 She wished that Dick had made the money into a 
 smaller package. As it was impossible to conceal it, 
 she handled it as if it were of no account. Frank's ap- 
 pearance on the scene was quite contrary to her expec- 
 tation. He was supposed to be taking his morning ride, 
 but, as ill luck would have it, he had returned earlier 
 than he ordinarily did. 
 
 As Dick dashed down the steps, Frank said idly: 
 "That was the shortest message ever given. It seemed 
 to consist in saying good-morning." 
 
 "Oh," said Lily, "I was to tell him when he came, 
 whether I could go over there this morning to help Isa- 
 bel with some sewing. I must be off right away." 
 
 She said it quite smoothly and easily, but, in her haste 
 and her desire to get away she placed the imaginary 
 engagement too soon. Although Frank was not aware 
 of any reason for suspicion he was, as it were, auto- 
 matically suspicious. 
 
 "He hasn't gone home," he said. "You'll have to 
 deliver your message yourself. I don't see why he 
 came." 
 
Isabel Stirling 307 
 
 "That's a fact. Why— how stupid of us!" The ex- 
 clamation was quite sincere. 
 
 Frank had laid an arm across her shoulder and kept 
 her from flight. She dropped the hand containing the 
 precious packet until it hung down between them. In 
 that way it was safe from view. Unfortunately, it was 
 stiff at the corners. 
 
 "What's that you're sticking into me?" asked Frank. 
 He withdrew his arm, and, reaching down, pulled up 
 her hand. 
 
 "It's just a pattern Isabel sent me," she replied easily. 
 
 "The stiffest pattern I ever felt," said Frank, who had 
 vast experience with the envelopes full of mysterious 
 scraps of tissue paper. He pinched the envelope and 
 bent it back and forth, Lily still holding tightly to it. 
 Suddenly his face changed and he felt it more carefully. 
 She tried to pull it away, but in vain. 
 
 "Give it to me," he said. "I'd like to look at your 
 pattern." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, Frank!" She clung to it with cold 
 fingers. 
 
 He pulled them away, quite gently, but with a strength 
 which she could not resist. Then he tore the envelope 
 open. 
 
 "There seems to be a good deal of it," he said dryly. 
 He flattened the package, and lifting the end of each 
 note, counted them. 
 
 "Now please explain," he said. "Two hundred and 
 fifty dollars is a sum which is not quite legitimate in 
 this house." 
 
 Lily was trembling and the tears which came to her 
 eyes were genuine. She struggled to make her voice 
 even. 
 
 "Isabel insisted," she said. "She — I couldn't help 
 telling her some of my troubles and she said we had 
 been friends all our lives — long before I ever heard of 
 you — and I must let her treat me like a sister. She has 
 plenty of money." 
 
 Frank's face, which had been white, flushed deeply. 
 
308 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "She may have plenty of money," he said, "but it is not 
 for us to take it." He refolded the notes and put them 
 into the envelope again. 
 
 "Very well, give it to me and I will take it back," 
 said Lily meekly. "I said you wouldn't like it." 
 
 "And so you were not going to tell me. It was a 
 pattern. No, Lily, I can't trust you about money. We 
 will take it back together." He put the package into 
 his pocket and picked up his cap. "Come!" he said. 
 
 Lily burst into tears. She did not try to conceal her 
 face, which was quite distorted and ugly. "You haven't 
 any right!" she exclaimed, between her sobs. 
 
 "I have every right. Come !" 
 
 "I — I can't!" she gasped. She threw herself back 
 on a sofa, with an air of fainting. "I think I'm going 
 to die," she murmured. 
 
 "You're not fainting and you're not going to die," 
 said Frank, immovably. "Get up and come with me." 
 
 Lily had never heard him speak in that tone. For the 
 second time in her life, she was afraid of him. She got 
 up, wiped her eyes, passed her fingers over her hair and 
 went through the door in front of him. 
 
 Isabel, who had just got home, met them at the door. 
 A glance at their faces checked the cheerfulness of her 
 greeting. "Have you had bad news?" she exclaimed in 
 alarm. 
 
 Lily would have flown to her to whisper a hurried 
 appeal, but her husband's hand was on her arm, and at 
 her first movement, he gripped it tightly. 
 
 "We have come to give you this," he said, taking the 
 package from his pocket and extending it to her, "and 
 to say that while Lily appreciates your generosity, she 
 cannot accept it." 
 
 In her surprise, Isabel backed away from his out- 
 stretched hand. "I don't know what you mean," she 
 said. 
 
 Frank resumed with an air of controlling his temper. 
 "When you sent this " 
 
Isabel Stirling 309 
 
 "But I didn't!" interjected Isabel, in her bewilder- 
 ment. 
 
 Frank stopped short. His face became livid. There 
 was a moment of dead silence. He still gripped Lily's 
 arm so that she could not move. 
 
 "Of course you sent it," said Lily, desperately. "You 
 don't understand. It's what you told me " 
 
 "Keep quiet!" said her husband. His fingers were 
 hurting her badly. 
 
 Isabel looked from one to the other, looked at the 
 envelope which Frank was still holding out to her, opened 
 her lips to speak, and closed them again. What it was 
 all about she could not imagine, but it seemed to her 
 an occasion when whatever she said was likely to be 
 disastrous. 
 
 Frank stood with compressed lips, trying to control 
 himself. "Then you have been deceived, too," he said 
 at last, between set teeth. Leaving the package on the 
 table, he added: "This is for Captain Maiden, with my 
 compliments." Turning on his heel, he was about to 
 leave the room, when his eyes fell on his wife. She was 
 gazing at the precious package. "Come with me!" he 
 said imperatively, and, cowed, she followed him. 
 
 Isabel, bewildered, walked to the table and picked up 
 the mysterious envelope. Turning back the flap, she 
 saw its contents. She dropped it quickly, with an ex- 
 clamation of astonishment, then stood quite still, her 
 brows puckered in thought. 
 
 It did not take long for her to guess pretty accurately 
 what had happened. "Poor Dick!" she said to herself. 
 "What was he to do in the hands of the little white cat? 
 And, of course, he made a botch of it." 
 
 She spent the morning in an agony of anxiety lest the 
 two men should meet before she could get at Dick, but 
 when he came in to luncheon it was evident that nothing 
 had happened. He seemed a trifle preoccupied, but not 
 at all upset. He was upset, however, when she told 
 her tale. 
 
 "But oh, you foolish person," she exclaimed at the 
 
310 Isabel Stirling 
 
 end, "why didn't you tell me and let me manage it, if 
 it had to be managed?" 
 
 "I wish to God I had !" said Dick, desperately. "But 
 I couldn't get at you." 
 
 He told her all about it. "I was dying to tell you," 
 
 he ended, "but you see how everything got in my way. 
 
 First last night and then this morning. And now — you 
 
 see what Frank thinks ? It's too bad to put into words." 
 
 I see. ^ 
 
 He dropped into a chair, his elbows on the table, his 
 head supported on his hands. "It's perfectly hopeless! 
 He wants to kill me and I can't blame him." 
 
 "It shan't be hopeless!" Isabel, as always, rose to 
 conquer defeat. "There must be some way out of it. 
 Of course, he will never believe in Lily again, but I don't 
 think he has believed in her very much for some time. 
 But he must believe in you again, Dick. He simply 
 must be made to!" 
 
 But Dick only shook his head miserably. "He's seeing 
 red just now." She was leaning over him and he turned 
 and put his arm around her. "You are the one satis- 
 factory person in the world," he said. "You always 
 understand." 
 
LIX 
 
 After Dick had at last been obliged to leave her, Isabel 
 paced the floor, trying to find some way of cutting the 
 tangle. That, for the present, any effort Dick could 
 make would only be likely to bring about a still worse 
 situation, she had to admit. Lily, of course, was worse 
 than useless. She herself was the only person who might 
 possibly do anything. If only she could get a chance! 
 To accomplish anything she must see Frank alone and 
 without danger of interruption; and it might take a 
 long time to bring him to reason. How to get that 
 opportunity? 
 
 In one of her turns through the room she stopped 
 by the window and stood looking out, scarcely seeing 
 anything at first. Then she suddenly started up to an 
 alert attention. Frank rode past, and, as her eyes fol- 
 lowed him, she saw that he was going toward the river 
 road. N 
 
 "Poor fellow," she said to herself. "He has gone 
 out to try to get away from everyone — and I will go 
 after him!" 
 
 She flew to the kitchen door and called for Kelly, the 
 striker. She had seen him go around the corner of 
 the house only a few minutes before. She ordered her 
 horse. "Just as quickly as you can, Kelly," she enjoined, 
 giving thanks that she had a better horse than Frank. 
 Surely she could overtake him. 
 
 She put on her habit and was impatiently waiting when 
 Kelly brought Pat up. He was mounted to accompany 
 her. 
 
 "But I don't want you," she said. "I am going alone." 
 
 Kelly looked doubtful. "The Captain would not like 
 me to leave you go alone." His manner was respectful, 
 but firm. 
 
 311 
 
312 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "But I'm not really going alone/' she replied, im- 
 patiently, as he put her in the saddle. "I'm only starting 
 alone. And I'm late and must hurry." She gathered 
 up the reins as she spoke. "It's all right," she said, 
 over her shoulder, and was off at a smart gallop. 
 
 Kelly stood looking after her dubiously. "But 'tis 
 queer," he muttered, shaking his head. "When 'tis a 
 gentleman, he comes to get the lady. If 'tis two wim- 
 min I should be following." He mounted and rode on 
 for some distance, and, by keeping his horse to its best 
 speed, was able to keep his captain's wife in sight until 
 she had overtaken and joined Lieutenant Hazelton. 
 Then he turned and went back, wondering at the queer- 
 ness of it all, but thanking his stars that he had been 
 seen riding behind Mrs. Maiden by anyone who chose 
 to look. No one knew better than Kelly the comments 
 that might be made. 
 
 It had not been difficult for Isabel to overtake Frank, 
 who was sitting in his saddle as though he did not know 
 where he was or what he was doing, the horse going at 
 the gait which suited it. He looked up in surprise as 
 she reined in beside him, and the first involuntary ex- 
 pression on his face was of intense irritation. 
 
 She was the first to speak. "You are not glad to 
 see me," she said. "I was afraid you wouldn't be, but 
 I had to talk to you, and this seemed the easiest way." 
 
 He looked at her gloomily. "I don't see what good 
 it can do." 
 
 She turned to him a flushed and eager face. "Oh, yes, 
 it can do good. It must do good. You see, I under- 
 stand all about it, and you don't." 
 
 "You and I are pretty much in the same boat," he 
 said morosely, "only you seem to be fooled, and I am 
 not." 
 
 "Now see here, Frank," she said quietly. "Do I strike 
 you as a person who is likely to be fooled?" 
 
 "Not in most things," he admitted, "unless you want 
 to be. I don't blame you for wanting to keep your eyes 
 shut — but I can't do it myself." 
 
Isabel Stirling 313 
 
 "Doesn't it mean anything to you that you have known 
 Dick all these years? Haven't you always known what 
 kind of a man he was?" 
 
 "Don't speak of him!" said Frank, violently. "There 
 are some things I can't stand." 
 
 They went on for a few moments in silence, their 
 horses walking side by side. Then Isabel said: "You've. 
 no quarrel with me, have you?" 
 
 "No— but " 
 
 "But you want me to let you alone. Well, instead of 
 that, I am going to ask you to do me a favor. Will 
 you?" 
 
 "If I can." It was a grudging consent. 
 
 "Surely you can. I want you to listen to me while 
 I tell you exactly what happened." 
 
 He began an impatient exclamation. 
 
 "No," she interrupted, "you've really got to hear me." 
 
 He listened in dogged silence, then, while she told him 
 all that had happened exactly as Dick had told it to her ; 
 and she had got a pretty full account of the affair. "I 
 am not sparing Lily," she concluded, "because I can't. 
 I've undertaken to tell you a perfectly true story." 
 
 "Do you suppose you have got at the true story ?" 
 he asked with a sneer. 
 
 "Yes, I do," she flashed back at him. "And so do 
 you. You know perfectly well, Frank, that even if Dick 
 didn't want to tell me the truth, I should either get it 
 out of him, or know that he was lying. Dick is ever 
 and ever so much better than I am, but in some things 
 he is no match for me — and you know it. And besides, 
 you know that he has never been anything but straight 
 and clean and true. You know him — and you know 
 Lily. Or perhaps you don't know Lily. I have known 
 her all my life. She likes to flirt in a harmless way, 
 she likes her pleasure, but it isn't her pleasure to flirt 
 seriously. She does love to think that people are crazy 
 about her, but that's all. Of course, she has spent too 
 much money and she has deceived you. It rests with 
 you to decide whether you can forgive that But Dick! 
 
314 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Do vou mean to say you can't see how it is about 
 Dick?" 
 
 "But even supposing it were all as you say — what 
 right had Dick to give my wife money — money that he 
 knew well enough I wouldn't myself take from him ? Do 
 you mean to say that that wasn't an insult?" 
 
 "Well, put yourself in his place. Suppose I had found 
 myself in a scrape about money and you had had plenty 
 — and I had been plaintive and pitiful — and scared to 
 death about what would happen to Dick — wouldn't you 
 have helped me?" 
 
 "I can't quite see you in the situation," he said dryly. 
 
 "But suppose — just suppose me not as myself, but 
 just as your friend's wife — Oh!" she cried, impatiently. 
 "Can't you turn the situation about, as between you and 
 Dick? And wouldn't you have been managed, just as 
 Dick was? He was managed, you know. She pretty 
 much asked him for the money. Can't you see how it 
 was ? And seeing, can't you forgive him for being a lit- 
 tle stupid ? I don't deny he was stupid about it, but he is 
 absolutely true — and down in your heart, you know it." 
 
 She stopped, feeling that she had said all she could. 
 For what seemed to her an interminable while they rode 
 on in silence. From time to time she glanced at Frank, 
 but he was looking straight between his horse's ears 
 and there was no softening of his set, frowning face. 
 Well, she would give him all the time he needed. She 
 rode on silently, her glance straying unseeingly to the 
 desolate landscape ; a sandy waste, broken here and there 
 by the cotton wood trees which half hid the broad reaches 
 of the river, as it rushed past, turbid and violent. 
 
 After a while, however, her preoccupation was pene- 
 trated by an uneasy suspicion that they were getting 
 farther away from the post than they ought, yet she 
 would not on any account disturb Frank by suggesting 
 that they turn around. So much depended on the out- 
 come of that mental struggle which made him uncon- 
 scious of everything about him. A few steps more 
 surely would make no difference. She went on, sub- 
 
Isabel Stirling 315 
 
 duing her uneasiness and trying to be patient, although 
 they had already passed a stake on which a bit of red 
 flannel was fastened, a sign that they were in an un- 
 friendly country. Then, suddenly, with a gasp, she 
 leaned over and clutched his arm.- 
 
 By the side of the road, protruding from a clump 
 of bushes, she saw a booted foot, its toe sticking up 
 with a peculiar effect of rigidity. 
 
 "Look !" she whispered, just above her breath. 
 
 Frank gave one look and then, grasping her rein, 
 turned her horse about. "Wait here!" he commanded. 
 
 She heard him, behind her, go a few paces toward 
 that thing which lay so still behind the bushes, and then 
 he came back to her. One glance at his white, stern face 
 was enough. 
 
 "Come !" he said. "You have a better horse and ride 
 lighter, but you must not let yourself get separated from 
 me. Unless something happens. Then go as fast as 
 you can, but remember you have five miles and don't 
 run your horse out at the beginning, unless it's neces- 
 sary. Watch him — nurse him over the whole distance. 
 If you can't get through — have you your revolver?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. Even in her haste she had not 
 forgotten her promise never to go outside the post with- 
 out it. And there was not a woman in those western 
 outposts who did not know that she must not be taken 
 alive by Indians. 
 
 Frank took out his own revolver, spun the cylinder 
 and slipped a cartridge into the chamber which he kept 
 empty under the hammer. "One more shot might help," 
 he said. He did the same thing for her and then they 
 headed toward the post and put their horses into a 
 gallop. 
 
 "Easy," said Frank, as her horse forged ahead. "Re- 
 member it's a long way. We want to use all they've 
 got — but not kill them until we're in." 
 
 Holding back was the hardest thing that Isabel had 
 ever had to do. To fly fast and straight toward safety 
 was her terror-stricken impulse. For any possible ad- 
 
316 Isabel Stirling 
 
 vantage to herself she could hardly have kept from 
 doing so, but she had an agonizing picture of Frank, 
 left behind and intercepted. The horses knew nothing 
 of danger, but they were headed for the stables and it 
 was time for the evening feed. They pulled at their 
 bits and were continually trying to break from the col- 
 lected gallop in which they were held. 
 
 How far it was, and how slowly they seemed to go! 
 After the first two miles, Frank's horse no longer fought 
 for his head, the reins lay loose on his neck. Frank 
 began to talk to him and to encourage him with a gentle 
 touch of the spurs. In another mile he was using his 
 spurs in earnest. The horse's gait lost all its springiness 
 and became a succession of lumbering bounds, each one 
 requiring a visible effort. Their pace was perceptibly 
 slower. 
 
 "Hadn't we better walk a little?" Isabel made herself 
 ask. "He's nearly all in, isn't he?" 
 
 "No. He's feeling it, but a horse can go a long while 
 after he's tired. That's what we feed 'em for." 
 
 "But isn't he apt to stumble?" 
 
 "Oh, no," he lied promptly. 
 
 The post came in sight, a mile away, as they rose over 
 a fold in the ground and Frank's horse seemed to pick 
 up fresh strength. She could feel the jumps of her 
 own horse becoming stiffer and more labored, his legs 
 seeming to shake each time he came down. 
 
 "Pat's not going to fall, is he?" she asked in a sud- 
 den terror which she strove to keep out of her voice. 
 "He seems wobbly." 
 
 "No indeed, this fellow has been that way for two 
 miles." 
 
 Finally they came up to the gate of the field at the 
 edge of the reservation, where a non-com. was school- 
 ing some new recruits. Frank slipped off his horse, 
 opened the gate and they went through. Then the horse 
 stretched his neck out, lowered his head, shivered, 
 dropped slowly down and lay quietly on his side. 
 
 "Sergeant !" called Frank, "lend me a horse and look 
 
Isabel Stirling 317 
 
 after this one. Better get your men back to the bar- 
 racks. I will report I ordered you in." 
 
 They came into the post quietly at last and found Dick 
 mounting his horse in front of his quarters. 
 
 "You had no business to go off in that way," he said, 
 as he lifted Isabel from her saddle. No waiting this 
 time for her to dismount by herself. Relieved from the 
 anxiety which had suddenly possessed him, he was now 
 disposed to be cross. When she leaned against him 
 limply, he looked at her more closely. 
 
 She heard Frank say huskily : "Thank God she's back 
 safe!" What was it that his voice recalled to her, as if 
 from a long distance? In an instant it all came back 
 to her. Dick's arm had tightened around her now, but 
 she pulled herself away and fled into the house. Her 
 only thought now must be to efface herself. This was 
 the moment on which everything hung. At the door she 
 turned and saw the two men clasp hands. Then she 
 made her way blindly to her own room, the tears stream- 
 ing down her cheeks. 
 
 When Dick came in, she flung herself into his arms. 
 "Don't scold me !" she exclaimed hysterically. "I'm glad 
 I did it!" 
 
 "Scold you, my dearest!" He held her close and she 
 forgot everything but the comfort of being thus held. 
 
 Presently, however, she raised her head and drew his 
 down. "It's all right between you and Frank?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "It's all right," he answered. "I don't know how you 
 did it, but I've you to thank for it." 
 
 "I don't quite know how I did it, myself." She shiv- 
 ered. "I suppose I got him ready by talking a little 
 common sense to him, but it was that dreadful ride 
 together that really did it. It made the little things seem 
 as little as they really are. Oh, Dick, something awful 
 has happened." 
 
 "Darling! You didn't see ?" 
 
 "No— just enough to know — I don't know what 
 Frank saw. I wish I needn't imagine it! But oh, 
 
318 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Dick " she clung to him again — "will some of you 
 
 have to go out against the Indians?" 
 
 "Oh, come! Just let me give you a pick-me-up," he 
 said cheerfully. But he did not answer her question. 
 
 Later, after dinner, he told her the news that Major 
 Home had given him the night before; that an expedi- 
 tion of considerable size was to be sent out at once to 
 overtake and punish the Indians who, under Bloody 
 Lance, most redoubtable of chiefs, had been particularly 
 bold in their depredations; raiding ranches, capturing 
 wagon trains, killing and capturing women and children. 
 
 "Major Home told me in confidence last night," he 
 said, "so I didn't tell you before, but now the order is 
 out." 
 
 She hid her face on his shoulder and he felt her shud- 
 der. He held her close, then gave her a little shake. 
 "Come, now," he said, "what else are we stationed here 
 for?" 
 
 "Who are going?" she asked in a muffled voice. 
 
 "The Colonel is going — and pretty nearly all of us — 
 about six hundred. Enough are left to guard the post. 
 That, of course. We hope to make a clean job of it 
 this time." 
 
 His voice jarred on her, with its tone of excitement. 
 "You sound pleased!" she exclaimed reproachfully. 
 
 "Pleased? Well—" He looked at her ruefully. "Oh, 
 my dear girl, don't take it like that. You never did 
 before. And haven't I always come back safe and 
 sound ?" 
 
 "But I've never seen before " 
 
 "I'd have done anything to keep you from seeing — 
 but you can see it has to be stopped." 
 
 She raised her head. "Don't be ashamed of me, Dick. 
 I'll behave." 
 
 She did behave. They were to start the next evening 
 at sundown, and, although she got but little sleep that 
 night, she saw to it that nothing disturbed Dick. All 
 the next day, while getting his things ready, she managed 
 to achieve a cheerful every-day manner, almost as if he 
 
Isabel Stirling 319 
 
 were merely setting out on an ordinary camping trip. 
 Just before he left her he said: 
 
 "I've been so proud of you all day, dearest." A mo- 
 ment later he added: "J ust think what it is for Frank 
 and me to go together now, and what it would have 
 been if you hadn't made things straight." 
 
 And after that, it was good-bye. 
 
LX 
 
 Good-byes are hard; and the tension of the last two 
 days had been great. As Dick rode away from the post 
 with his face set toward the duty ahead of him, he felt 
 a great lightening of the spirit. Misadventures and per- 
 plexities were behind him; the parting, with its grip on 
 the emotions, was over; his friend was reconciled; un- 
 der him was a good horse, behind him his own troop, 
 and before them lay an adventure — the sort of adventure 
 which might culminate in one tense half-hour. But for 
 such half-hours his whole professional life, from the day 
 he entered West Point, had been merely a preparation. 
 
 The dimness and coolness of early evening were re- 
 freshing after the heat and glare of the day. He turned 
 in his saddle and looked back at his troop, listened to the 
 confused sound of hoof-beats, the creak of leather and 
 the snatches of talk of the men. He knew them, every 
 one, just what each man was and what he was good for ; 
 and take them all in all, they could be depended on. 
 As surely as he knew anything, he knew that wherever 
 he led them, those eighty horsemen would follow. More 
 than that, wherever he might send any of them, they 
 would go, and would deal with the business in a work- 
 manlike way. Discipline they had of the old-fashioned 
 kind which taught them that their officer was a being set 
 apart, whose word might never be questioned. But they 
 had self-reliance too, as befitted trained and seasoned 
 men, who knew their job and knew that they knew it. 
 The horses, too, were all in good shape and, as he cast 
 his eye appraisingly over them, he blessed the dull routine 
 of daily horse exercise which now put them in the field 
 fit to do their hundred miles in twenty-four hours if 
 need be. 
 
 Stretching out in a column, the head of which was lost 
 
 320 
 
Isabel Stirling 321 
 
 in the twilight, were five other troops; behind them two 
 more; all good men and good horses, but B Troop was 
 the best. Of that he was sure. 
 
 He fell to thinking of nothing in particular, just not- 
 ing the shadowy clumps of trees which they passed here 
 and there, the waning light, as night came on, and the 
 waxing brightness of the stars. 
 
 When they made camp about midnight he was sleepy 
 and quite ready to turn in, but first he and Frank smoked 
 a pipe together. How good that pipe was, out in the 
 open, they two together, just as they had been in the 
 old days. Their hearts were warm with an affection 
 which neither found nor needed expression in words. 
 Dick's last thought before sleep fell upon him was not 
 of his wife. "Good old Frank," he was saying to him- 
 self. "I hope this trip will cheer him up." But Frank 
 did not put any thought into words, only lay on his back 
 for a while and drew deep breaths ; then turned over on 
 his side and slept more peacefully than he had done for 
 many a night. Far out in the night the sentries were on 
 guard and from close by came an occasional stamp and 
 whinny from the picket line. 
 
 They were off again in the early morning ; warily this 
 time, with scouts ahead searching for the trail. It was 
 picked up, but was not fresh. The Indians must have 
 passed along there in considerable force some days be- 
 fore. By degrees it diminished, as the hostile band 
 scattered, going off by twos and threes, where the ground 
 was hard and they could not be traced, until at last it 
 disappeared altogether. Now it must be more or less 
 guesswork, and Indian scouts are more skilful guessers 
 than white men. Flying Man,' the chief scout, advised 
 them to go southwest; and, "Southwest we go," agreed 
 Colonel Raynor. 
 
 They found the trail again a few miles farther on, and 
 once more advanced carefully, but trotting most of the 
 time. They were not burdened with wagons, but had a 
 pack-train of mules. The trail grew wider, as they went 
 along, but still was not new. 
 
322 Isabel Stirling 
 
 The hot midsummer sun of the north shone fiercely 
 down on them as they pursued their way. It was a deso- 
 late country which they traversed, fairly level just here 
 and covered with clumps of sagebrush, with a thin row 
 of trees marking the course of a stream which, running 
 full in the springtime, now showed only a dry, sandy 
 bottom. They got among hills before they came to the 
 end of a long day's march and made camp in a wide 
 valley, divided by the bed of a stream of such size that it 
 still showed shallow pools here and there. 
 
 The camp was made with care and no fires were 
 allowed, for although the trail was old, there might still 
 be hostile scouts looking out for them. The horses were 
 picketed in a long hollow and the eight troops bivouacked 
 around them, in readiness to stand to arms at an 
 instant's notice. 
 
 At daybreak four scouts were sent forward to inspect 
 the country. They returned, reporting a much smaller 
 but fresh trail about a mile up the valley, cutting into the 
 wide one from the east and then following it along. The 
 tracks showed not more than twenty-five ponies and they 
 must have passed within twenty-four hours, very likely 
 even during the night. 
 
 "Looks as if they had cut along to warn the main 
 body of our approach," said Major Home to Dick. "It 
 oughtn't to be hard to overtake them, for we are always 
 better mounted than the Indians. Though we haven't 
 got better firearms," he added ruefully. "Uncle Sam is 
 very thoughtful about supplying them with the means of 
 fighting us." 
 
 To catch this small flying band and stop them before 
 they should have time to warn the main body of Indians, 
 a small and mobile force was better than a large one 
 hampered with baggage. C Troop was detailed, com- 
 manded, in the absence of its captain who was on leave, 
 by Lieutenant Hazelton. They were to follow up the 
 fresh trail as rapidly as possible and cut the Indians off 
 from communication with Bloody Lance and his village. 
 Each man was to take two days' rations in his haversack. 
 
Isabel Stirling 323 
 
 "You got in ahead of me," grumbled Dick to his 
 friend. 
 
 "My good luck," said Frank. 
 
 Dick looked after him as he walked away, alert and 
 cheerful. What a difference it made in him to be up and 
 doing. 
 
 Lieutenant Hazelton culled out a dozen men whose 
 horses did not seem perfectly fresh and, with the sixty 
 odd who remained, was soon out of sight around the 
 bend of the low hills, while the main body followed at 
 a slower, though steady pace. By afternoon the route 
 became more difficult. The ground was cut up by ra- 
 vines crossing their path and in some places the trail 
 was so narrow that two horses could not go abreast. At 
 some distance beyond them the ground rose still more 
 steeply and so high that from the lower crests they could 
 not see beyond; nor could they, as yet, hear anything 
 but the sounds which they themselves made. Well- 
 mounted scouts were sent on ahead to climb the hill and 
 find out, if possible, whether anything was happening on 
 the other side. 
 
 Dick, going at an even trot along one of the infrequent 
 stretches of fairly smooth ground, found his thoughts 
 suddenly straying far away from the things which might 
 be expected to engross them. Instead of wondering what 
 might be going on over the brow of the hill, or listen- 
 ing for the sound of shots, he thought of the time when 
 he and Isabel first met on the edge of the Fall Creek 
 gorge. He saw her as she looked then, glancing up at 
 him from under her broad-brimmed hat, smiling and 
 blushing. He saw her in a series of pictures; as she 
 looked when, proudly defiant, she told him in her 
 father's frowning presence that she would marry him; 
 and next, so adorably shy when he gave her his first 
 kiss — how hard it had been to get her used to his kisses ! 
 He smiled tenderly as he remembered that. Then the 
 picture of her as she stood, in her bridal whiteness, at 
 the door of the room and paused for an instant before 
 she came to him to join hands before the old clergyman. 
 
324 Isabel Stirling 
 
 And since then! What a comrade she had been! How 
 plucky and gay and loving ; never misunderstanding him 
 for a moment, not even when he had been such a fool 
 with Lily just now; even giving him back his friend. 
 He seemed to feel her arms about his neck and her fare- 
 well kisses. "Good God!" he exclaimed aloud. "I 
 wonder if the two troops left at the post can handle 
 anything that comes. ,, . . . 
 
 His mind suddenly came back to the present situation. 
 Coming faintly over the hill ahead was a rat-a-tat which 
 sounded as though somebody was clapping shingles to- 
 gether. Four small black figures appeared over the crest 
 in front and, as they rapidly drew closer, he could make 
 out the scouts, rushing their horses down the declivity 
 toward the column as fast as they could gallop. Colonel 
 Raynor and the adjutant were riding by the troop just 
 ahead of B Troop, so Dick heard the report: 
 
 "Down in the valley the other side of this first hill 
 Lieutenant Hazelton and his men are in it — five or six 
 hundred Indians all around them, front and rear and 
 flanks. The valley's swarming with them. Hazelton 
 standing them off — but we've got to hurry, for he's got 
 poor cover." 
 
 Even while the scouts were talking the Colonel spoke 
 a few quick words and the trumpeter at his side blared 
 out a shrill call. 
 
 Before its echoes had died away the long column of 
 horsemen which stretched nearly half a mile back was 
 breaking up in apparent disorder. Orders were being 
 shouted and repeated down its length, troop trumpeters 
 were sounding short, sharp calls, and the whole mass 
 was sorting itself out at a gallop. In an incredibly short 
 time the three leading troops were in line and on their 
 flanks and to the rear were two other long lines, each of 
 two troops. The three leading troops, with Dick and 
 B Troop in the centre, trotted forward toward the sound 
 of the firing, two hundred horsemen abreast, the long 
 line sagging here and there as parts of it met stretches 
 of hard going. 
 
Isabel Stirling 325 
 
 As they came toward the top they could hear a wild 
 din of whoops and shouts, weaving into the continuous 
 rattling and crackling of rifle shots. As they came over 
 the crest there lay before them a more gentle slope, de- 
 scending to a narrow valley and the dry bed of a creek,, 
 behind which the ground again rose steeply. The valley 
 was filled with a horde of naked, painted savages, lances 
 brandished on high, feathered length of war-bonnets 
 waving to the wind, and in nearly every warrior's hand 
 a carbine of the latest improved type. Dashing back and 
 forth among them was a huge naked giant, painted 
 fiercely and mounted on a great black war-horse, cap- 
 tured from a slain trooper in some former battle — 
 Bloody Lance himself. Here and there, on the further 
 side of the field, were fallen Indians, and ponies dead, 
 or writhing in their last agony, and others running loose, 
 riderless. In the deeper part of the gully, around which 
 the throng revolved, Hazelton and his men had en- 
 trenched themselves behind piles of saddles, blanket-rolls 
 and dead horses. Their horses which had not been shot 
 had been lost. The Indians raced around and past them 
 and even in the minute that the men on the hilltop were 
 watching, a few score savages, formed in a loose body 
 and shrieking and yelling, galloped straight at the little 
 band in the ravine. The sound of single shots rose to a 
 continuous rattle, like the noise made by a small boy 
 drawing a board across a picket fence. Dick could make 
 out Hazelton walking quietly back and forth behind his 
 men. In a few seconds there were so many empty sad- 
 dles in the charging force that the survivors veered off 
 and rode by the flanks of the defenders, shrieking their 
 defiance and shooting their carbines as they galloped. 
 
 "Pretty work," muttered Dick to himself. "Good old 
 C Troop!" 
 
 Colonel Raynor, riding in front of the three troops 
 on the hilltop, turned to his adintant "We've go* to get 
 down there quick," he said. "Tell the two troops back 
 there on the right to follow right in and mix it up. Tell 
 Major Home to keep his two troops on the left out of 
 
326 Isabel Stirling 
 
 it and wait developments. . . . Trumpeter, sound the 
 charge !" 
 
 Down the slope charged the troops, yelling and cheer- 
 ing. From the gully came an answering cheer which 
 blended with the pounding of the hoofs and the rattling 
 of the rifle-shots. 
 
 Now lack of organization told against the Indians. 
 With this new and more formidable foe sweeping down 
 on them, they galloped about in wild confusion, each 
 man for himself. Some circled around the ends of the 
 line which was held by Hazelton's troop and crossed to 
 the farther side of the gully. Others apparently had 
 some intention of standing to meet the charge. Most 
 of them galloped around with no order or purpose. 
 
 As the charging line drew near to the scattered and 
 confused Indians, the troopers began to shoot at them 
 with their revolvers, without for an instant slackening 
 their gallop. The Indians replied with their carbines, 
 even those who were in full flight from the rushing 
 avalanche, turning in their saddles to shoot back. Here 
 and there a trooper reeled in his saddle or fell to the 
 ground, but the line rushed on unchecked. In another 
 moment the whole scattered force of the Indians was 
 making its escape across the gully and up the opposite 
 hill. Hazelton and his dismounted men could not, at 
 first, fire at them, for fear of shooting into the approach- 
 ing troops, but as they swept past his flanks and up the 
 slope, C Troop's carbines took heavy toll. 
 
 When the charge had swept down to the gully it was 
 checked. The obstacle was too deep and the banks too 
 precipitous for troopers to ride over and keep any sem- 
 blance of order, and Colonel Raynor had no mind to 
 let scattered and disorganized groups of men go swarm- 
 ing up the hill with no more cohesion than the Indians 
 themselves had. The halt was sounded and, an instant 
 later, the dismount. "Line the bank of the gully, ,, was 
 the order, "and open fire! ,, And, to an orderly, his 
 command was: "Back to Major Home now — quick! 
 Tell him to cross with his command 'way up there to 
 
Isabel Stirling 327 
 
 the left, where the ravine is flattened out a bit — to go 
 on beyond there a quarter of a mile, then swing in and 
 hit 'em on the flank, charging right across our front. 
 Tell him we'll mount and go ahead when we see him 
 begin to swing in. That'll fix 'em." 
 
 Then he turned to the group of officers at his side. 
 "Now then," he said, "slow fire. You see they've begun 
 to stop running on that slope yonder and we don't want 
 to drive 'em too far before Home gets in. Let 'em 
 think we're short of ammunition or afraid of 'em — any- 
 thing they like." 
 
 Between the troops which had just swept down and 
 the men whom they had rescued there was no time for 
 congratulations or thanks for their deliverance. The job 
 was only half done. When the fresh troops had swept 
 into the gully, some of Hazelton's men, in their excite- 
 ment, had climbed out and started on foot to pursue the 
 fleeing Indians up the slope. Hazelton and his sergeants 
 had, by much shouting at them, got them back to the 
 gully, to wait until the real advance should begin; all 
 except one man who had been the foremost. Running 
 on ahead of the others he had not known that his com- 
 rades had stopped and gone back. As order began to 
 emerge from the momentary confusion of establishing 
 the line in the gully and getting, the horses under cover, 
 Hazelton saw his trumpeter lying on the ground a hun- 
 dred yards up the slope. At almost the same instant, 
 from a group of dismounted Indians hugging the ground 
 farther up, one man sprang up and ran toward the 
 fallen soldier. 
 
 "Get him !" Hazelton jerked out to his men. 
 
 A burst of scattered shots rang out, but the Indian 
 ran unhurt, brandishing his knife in the air. Hazelton 
 grabbed a carbine from the trooper nearest him and 
 started toward the trumpeter. Ten feet away he fired 
 his carbine from his hip, still running. The Indian 
 staggered, but came on, his knife drawn back for a 
 lunge. They met at the man's body. Hazelton ducked 
 to one side, seized his carbine with both hands at the 
 
328 Isabel Stirling 
 
 muzzle and swung the butt down like, a sledgehammer 
 on the Indian's head, killing him instantly. Falling in 
 a heap with the dead man from the force of his own 
 blow, he quickly regained his feet and knelt down by 
 the trumpeter. iThe man was still living. He picked 
 him up, slung him over his back and started back to 
 his line at a trot, while a fusillade rang out from the 
 Indians. 
 
 In the meantime a dozen soldiers had sprung out of 
 the gulley here and there, and rushed forward to help 
 him, but because of the difficulty of getting a horse up 
 the steep bank and into the open, all of them were dis- 
 mounted. Dick, watching the scene in the instant of its 
 happening, had flung himself on Defiance, picked out a 
 low place in the bank and jumped his horse up. Now, 
 from far off on the right, he was galloping toward 
 Frank, using his spurs as Defiance had never felt them 
 before. He quickly outdistanced the men on foot, but 
 tearing down the slope toward him came another horse- 
 man, a splendid savage figure, naked, shining with grease 
 and sweat, the long plumes of his war-bonnet streaming 
 out behind him — Bloody Lance, on his powerful black 
 horse. 
 
 The Indians stopped firing, lest they hit their Chief. 
 The soldiers stopped too, as the two horsemen raced 
 toward the same point. Dick had seen instantly that 
 until Bloody Lance was disposed of there was no rescue 
 for Frank. He altered his course and made straight, 
 for the charging chief. The galloping animals met, 
 and passed so close that their riders' knees brushed each 
 other. As they came together Dick fired his revolver 
 and the Indian his carbine. Both riders remained steady 
 in their saddles as they swept by and their horses carried 
 them apart. 
 
 With rein and voice and knees Dick stopped Defiance 
 so sharply that the horse went down on his haunches. 
 Then he swung him about and started back to meet the 
 Indian again. Bloody Lance was struggling to stop his 
 horse and face his antagonist in the same way, but had 
 
Isabel Stirling 329 
 
 not yet succeeded, so that Dick rode at him from behind. 
 As he came up, the Indian turned in his saddle. Dick 
 aimed his revolver, but did not fire, waiting until they 
 should be close enough to make certain of not missing. He 
 did not fire at all. Suddenly the fierce leer on the Indian's 
 face changed to an expression of angry disappointment. 
 His body sagged and, with the next jump of his horse, 
 fell to the ground, almost under Defiance's hoofs. 
 Dick slipped his revolver back in the holster and rode 
 toward Frank, who had now almost got back to safety. 
 Two of the dismounted men reached him almost at the 
 same time. A score of others, mounted and dismounted, 
 were swarming out of the gully. An instant's glance 
 showed Dick that the man Frank was carrying was dead 
 and that Frank himself was hit. 
 
 "Put him down, old man," he said. "These men will 
 take him, and you get on this horse." 
 
 Frank relinquished his burden and said stupidly: 
 "Never mind. Give me your stirrup and I'll be all 
 right." 
 
 "Not a bit of it," said Dick. "You . . . catch 
 him there, quick!" He called out to one of the men 
 who had just come up, as Frank began to sway on his 
 feet. "Lift him up here over the front of the saddle." 
 
 And so, with his friend's dead body across the neck 
 of his horse, and shots spattering all about him, he rode 
 back to the line. When they lifted Frank off the horse, 
 laid him on the ground, and covered his face, Dick slid 
 from the saddle. As his feet touched the ground his 
 knees gave Way for an instant, but he steadied himself 
 with his arm over the horse's neck. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked the Colonel anxiously. 
 "Are you hit?" 
 
 "Yes. I think he got me when we came together 
 there. He never knew it though," he added with a little 
 smile. 
 
 Then his hold on the horse's neck relaxed and he slid 
 down to the ground. An hour later he died, shot 
 through the lungs. 
 
PART FOUR 
 
 LXI 
 
 Isabel had once read an imaginative description of 
 drowned men who never reached the bottom of the sea, 
 but remained in its middle depths, endlessly swaying to 
 and fro. The description came back to her now, and it 
 was she herself who was suspended, unable, try as she 
 would, to find anything solid under her feet. The voices 
 of affection came to her as from an immense distance 
 and through an impenetrable mist. There were times 
 when she appeared to herself to be two persons, the one 
 who could neither sink altogether in those horrible 
 depths, nor yet rise above them, and the other who 
 guarded the poor wretch from making a sound of self- 
 betrayal. Yet to the friends anxiously watching her, 
 she appeared self-controlled and sane, but so aloof that 
 their affection could not reach her. 
 
 In the end, it seemed to her that it was Dr. Brenton's 
 hand which grasped hers and pulled her up. 
 
 She was living with him ; that was taken by them both 
 as a matter of course. It was to him that her spirit 
 clung when she began to come back to life. Lydia wrote 
 to her — a letter overflowing with the proper sentiments, 
 with perhaps some real feeling underneath the phrases. 
 She begged Isabel to come to them, "at least for a time," 
 adding, "Your dear father wishes me to ask you." 
 Isabel did not refuse to make the visit — simply pushed 
 it aside. When Cassie, whose grief was only less than 
 her own, came back from New York a second time to 
 persuade her to go home with her, she went; but re- 
 turned quickly. Cassie had her own life to live and 
 much happiness still left to her. Isabel was glad of that, 
 
Isabel Stirling 331 
 
 and some day she might not mind looking on. Just now 
 all she wanted was Uncle Brenton. 
 
 When she had emerged somewhat from her apathy 
 she could shed a few tears in Mrs. Gifford's motherly 
 embrace, but talking, and not tears, relieved her then, 
 and it was to Dr. Brenton that she could sometimes talk 
 of Dick. Always she was to look back to the drives 
 with him over the country roads, up and down the hills, 
 waiting in a sort of stupid blank patience while he 
 stopped in this or that house on professional visits. He 
 kept her out of doors as much as possible. 
 
 "It is curious," she said to him one day, "how my life 
 has been lived in episodes, and how definitely a door has 
 closed on each one when it has ended. Miss Pryor's 
 school was such a dear world to me. When I left there 
 it was as if I had crossed a gulf. To be sure, Miss 
 Pryor has written me some wonderful letters, and Mar- 
 garet and I write occasionally, and there have been 
 wedding cards now and then, but the life was ended. 
 And it had been so very real and vivid. And then the 
 parsonage. And now all my army life and friends. 
 I love them — and I loved it all. Oh, Uncle Brenton !" 
 she broke out passionately. "Dick loved it so ! He loved 
 his life — better, I'm sure, than he could love any other. 
 I suppose — I believe — he is living somewhere. I can't 
 believe that anything so alive as he was could be just 
 snuffed out — but I'm sure he loved this best — and me! 
 It's so cruelly unjust, not merely to me, but to him." 
 
 How could he answer her, when, in truth, he felt 
 very much as she did? 
 
 "My dear," he said at last, "you've got to hold on 
 to something. You've got to believe that even if one 
 doesn't want to go away from what one knows and cares 
 for, it won't be to a cold, unnatural place. There may 
 be pleasant natural comfort there too — and good work 
 to do." 
 
 "He hasn't got me! And then — oh, my point of view 
 is of the earth — I can't feel that any joys of an im- 
 material existence can make up for the warm, bodily, 
 
332 Isabel Stirling 
 
 human touch. If I could feel his hand on mine!" She 
 broke into unusual tears. . . . 
 
 Another day he asked if she didn't want her friend 
 Margaret to visit her. 
 
 "I used to want her," she answered, "but there never 
 seemed to be a right time for Lydia to have her. Now 
 — I don't want her quite yet. I only want you." 
 
 "Don't you ever feel like writing?" he asked at an- 
 other time. "You might write something now that you 
 would be glad to acknowledge." 
 
 She shook her head. "I haven't any mind," she said. 
 "At least, not any consecutive mind. No, I want no 
 companion but you, and no occupation but driving about 
 with you — as long as you'll have me." 
 
 One Sunday morning, during the first months of her 
 bereavement, Dr. Brenton was startled to see her come 
 downstairs, as the church bells were ringing, dressed in 
 her formal mourning costume, with bonnet and veil. 
 
 "Going to church?" he asked. 
 
 She stood hesitating in the doorway. "I suppose so," 
 she said. "I don't really want to, but — Dr. Harrison 
 was so very nice to me when he came to see me. I sup- 
 pose I am doing it out of politeness to him." 
 
 "Want me to go along?" 
 
 "No. If you don't mind, I'd rather go by myself." 
 
 In fact, Dr. Harrison had shown much tact at the 
 time when, without urgency, he had suggested to her 
 the consolations of religion. 
 
 "I am not religious," she had said to him frankly, 
 "and when people talk about resignation and about being 
 'reconciled', they only make me angry. I think one bears 
 a thing because one has to. There's nothing else to do 
 about it." 
 
 He did not press her, showed no disapproval, didn't 
 even ask her to go to church. And now she was going, 
 simply to show him her gratitude. 
 
 She got there early and slipped into the Maiden pew 
 without meeting anyone. In the bottom of her heart 
 was a little hope that she might find some comfort. But 
 
Isabel Stirling 333 
 
 the churchgoing was not a success. Stifling behind her 
 heavy veil, she did not dare raise it because she found 
 her composure leaving her. The music brought tears 
 which she struggled to control. The pew was conspicu- 
 ous and she was well aware of the sympathetic glances 
 which were sure to be turned on her. Not for anything 
 would she break down. And why, she wondered, with 
 a flash of anger, why must there be such an insistent 
 physical side to the emotions of the soul? Why must 
 the tears streaming from her eyes also involve the 
 swabbing of her nose? She rebelled against her body; 
 and her struggles with it quite precluded any sense of 
 spiritual uplifting. During the sermon, which she 
 scarcely heard, she at last compelled herself to a stony 
 composure and sat waiting with what patience she could 
 compel, for the ordeal to be over. It was only just at 
 the end when, kneeling, she happened to turn her head 
 a little, that she became aware that Lily Hazelton was 
 sitting in the pew beside hers. Lily was kneeling, her long 
 veil flowing back — and surely there never were mourn- 
 ing garments so black as Lily's — her fair, sad face up- 
 turned, eyes closed, hands clasped, a lovely image of 
 Grief assuaged by Religion. 
 
 A wave of repulsion swept over Isabel. So she and 
 Lily had been sitting side by side all through the ser- 
 vice. She had forgotten where the Brainards had their 
 pew. She knew how the tableau had gratified Lily and 
 could feel the unction with which she had regarded the 
 touching sight which they must have presented — the two 
 beautiful young women widowed by the same cruel blow. 
 She had already endured much from Lily and had been 
 hard put to it to evade her. She couldn't, positively 
 she couldn't bear to be spoken to by her after the ser- 
 vice was over — nor by anybody else. Abruptly she rose 
 from her knees and quickly and quietly made her way 
 down the aisle and out of the door. Oh, no! she 
 wouldn't try it again. 
 
 As regarded the great issue she had not failed in 
 generosity. Dick had given his life for his friend and 
 
334 Isabel Stirling 
 
 he would not have been Dick if he had held back. Even 
 in her bitterest grief she knew that. But must she then 
 take Lily into a close partnership for the rest of her 
 life? She had never been a match for Lily's clinging 
 determination, but she vowed now to release herself. 
 
 Yet out of all her rebellious and unsuccessful experi- 
 ments Isabel did bring a tangible though unorthodox 
 creed. She believed, as she had said, that her husband 
 still lived — somewhere. There were moments when she 
 could fancy that she felt his presence near her. She 
 thought that if she could only be good enough she would 
 join him some day. But being good didn't mean going 
 to church, or even saying one's prayers, but living up 
 to his standards. Hadn't she once told him that it was 
 good for the soul to live with him ? Well, what she had 
 to do now was to live up to him, as far as she could. 
 She promised herself that since she accepted no dicta- 
 tion from outside, she would always respect her own 
 scruples. She would follow the light that she saw, and 
 perhaps it would grow brighter. She evolved the theory 
 that if she did not make the spiritual side of her nature 
 dominate the material side, there could be no reunion 
 with Dick, who himself must be constantly advancing. 
 So she made her vows. But she could not, after all, 
 see anything pleasant in the future existence. It was 
 only that she must try to be where Dick was. 
 
LXII 
 
 One day Dr. Brenton asked Isabel if she would help 
 him with a little matter of bookkeeping. "You ought 
 to learn something about business," he said, "and this 
 would be a real help to me." 
 
 To her surprise, she developed an aptitude for the 
 details of affairs. Gradually she assumed more and 
 more the position of a secretary; and it was then that 
 she really came to appreciate the benevolence of a 
 country doctor. The calls he made and the calls which 
 were made on him were duly noted, but when it came 
 to making out bills she was continually told that this 
 bill was to be made smaller than his very moderate 
 regular price and that one was not to be sent at all. 
 In the matter of new babies his charges were always 
 extraordinarily low. 
 
 "I don't believe in making it so expensive to have 
 children," he said. "Of course one might say that when 
 a woman pays so exorbitantly in her own person, a 
 man might well pay a good sum out of his pocket. But 
 among people in moderate circumstances — as the major- 
 ity of people are in a place like this — it comes out of 
 the woman in the end. She is the one who works a 
 little harder and does without things a little more to 
 pay the doctor. No, we'll let the babies into the world 
 as cheaply as we can, poor little souls." 
 
 "And oh, if I only had a baby!" sighed Isabel in 
 her heart. 
 
 From seeing their names on the books she grew to 
 take an interest in some of the patients. There was a 
 Mrs. Barnes to whom the doctor's visits never ceased. 
 Nor did he ever send her a bill. 
 
 "But she has a nice little house," said Isabel, who 
 had spent many half-hours waiting in the buggy at that 
 
 335 
 
336 Isabel Stirling 
 
 gate. "I believe she could pay something, and perhaps 
 if she had to do that, she would get well." 
 
 "Possibly it might have been so at one time," said 
 the doctor. "But not now." 
 
 At the moment, they were driving up a long hill, the 
 reins lying on the horse's neck. Above them, a little 
 breeze went sighing through the trees, detaching the 
 red and yellow leaves which dropped slowly, flecking 
 the road before them. It was a woodland road and the 
 day was lovely and mild. Isabel's black hat cast a 
 shadow over her eyes, but did not hide the curve of 
 her cheek. Dr. Brenton, looking around at her, rejoiced 
 that the cheek had regained its perfect outline and was 
 tinted with its former loveliness. Now, after nearly a 
 year and a half of his care, the child was really well, 
 he said to himself. That her eyes were grave and the 
 line of her lips sad was no more than must be expected. 
 No, her face would never be quite as it had been be- 
 fore. He sighed and wondered what life would yet 
 bring her. She was still so near the beginning. 
 
 "So she really has something the matter now?" said 
 Isabel. 
 
 The doctor gathered up the reins before he answered. 
 They had got to the top of the hill and were now start- 
 ing down on the other side, toward a group of houses 
 dominated by a country store. 
 
 "Yes," he said soberly, "there's something the matter 
 now." 
 
 They drew up at Mrs. Barnes's house and he gave 
 the reins to Isabel and got out. She watched him as 
 he opened the gate and went up the path and into the 
 door, and then settled herself for a long wait. Mrs. 
 Barnes always kept the doctor as long as she could. 
 He was too good to her, Isabel thought. But then he 
 was always too good to everybody, to herself most of 
 all. What would she have done without him, all this 
 long, dreadful time? Her eyes moistened. If only she 
 could really make it up to him! Then she smiled. 
 Yes, she thought she could be sure that Uncle Brenton 
 
Isabel Stirling 337 
 
 was far happier with her than without her. She thought 
 he would be glad if she would take a little more inter- 
 est in some of his poor people and she resolved to do 
 it for his sake. She told him so when at last he came 
 out and, taking the reins from her, turned Dolly's head 
 toward home. 
 
 "I know I've been self-absorbed and horrid," she said, 
 "and you have been an angel of patience with me. I've 
 been sitting out here remorsing over my sins and making 
 good resolutions, and I'm going to turn over a new leaf 
 now and try to be a little real help. I'll make some 
 clothes for those twin babies and go to see them in their 
 horrid little smelly house. I'm sure it's smelly. It looks 
 it from the outside. But I'll do that and anything else 
 you want me to do." 
 
 He smiled at her affectionately. "Good girl," he said. 
 "Don't get so busy that you won't have time for me. 
 You don't know what it is for me to have you to come 
 back to, when I come out of the houses." 
 
 She thought there was an unusual gravity behind his 
 smile. "Is Mrs. Barnes really very ill?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes." He did not usually discuss the ailments of 
 his patients with her, but this time he went on. "She 
 is hopelessly ill and she begs for an operation. It won't 
 do any good." 
 
 "Then you won't do it?" 
 
 "I can't refuse. If there were any hope it would be 
 an operation — and she won't believe that there isn't. 
 She insists, and I've told her I'd do it. A country doc- 
 tor has to be a surgeon, too, in an emergency. If we 
 only had a hospital — or any trained nurses. The day 
 will come when even country towns will have them, and 
 I hope I'll be here." 
 
 "Would you like me to be a trained nurse and help 
 you?" 
 
 "You? Heaven forbid! You've no vocation for it 
 — and you need a pretty loud call to keep you up to it. 
 I'd never interfere if you had the call, but believe me, 
 you never will have it." 
 
338 Isabel Stirling 
 
 She persisted in playing with the perfectly new idea. 
 "I'd like to help you," she said. 
 
 "It would have to be a different motive from that," 
 he replied. "Either a distinct vocation, or else a finan- 
 cial necessity which compels one to drill oneself into 
 efficiency. You have neither. You have other things — 
 the things which make you a heart's delight. So be 
 satisfied." 
 
 "I ought to be." She had a glow at her heart warmer 
 than anything she had felt since she lost Dick. 
 
 Dr. Brenton flicked his whip at a willing horse. "I've 
 got to make haste. This thing must be done at once. 
 I must get a man to help me — Denham, if I can find 
 him — and some sort of a nurse." 
 
 "Drop me anywhere." 
 
 "No, you can hold Dolly while I stop at one or two 
 places." 
 
 They found Dr. Denham and a nurse of sorts, whom 
 Denham was to take out with him. Then Dr. Brenton 
 went home and got the things he needed and was off 
 again, telling Isabel not to expect him until she saw 
 him. Norah would have something for him to eat when- 
 ever he might come in. 
 
 Isabel was left with an unusual sense of excitement 
 and dread, almost as if illness had come into her own 
 circle of life. She wandered about the house, unable 
 to settle down to anything; and although she reproached 
 herself for it, she felt a sort of resentment at Mrs. 
 Barnes, who would not take the doctor's word for it 
 that this was all useless. "Poor soul," she said to her- 
 self, "I ought not to blame her for grasping at a straw." 
 Yet the feeling of resentment persisted, 
 
 It was the middle of the afternoon when Dr. Brenton 
 got back. He looked tired and Isabel would not ask a 
 question. He went into his office and closed the door 
 and she sat down on a chair in the hall and waited. As 
 he did not come out, she knocked at last. 
 
 "Won't you come and have some lunch?" she called. 
 
 He came out presently, patted her on the shoulder 
 
Isabel Stirling 339 
 
 and went with her to the dining-room. At the door he 
 paused. "Of course you want to know," he said. "The 
 poor soul is gone — never came out from the anaesthetic. 
 And very lucky for her. She understood quite well 
 what might happen." 
 "Had you operated?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, I had operated. Now come and talk to me." 
 She talked to him and saw him grow more cheerful; 
 yet her resentment against Mrs. Barnes persisted. 
 
LXIII 
 
 For the first time in Isabel's remembrance, Dr. Bren- 
 ton was not well. Tired he had often been and willing 
 sometimes to lie down on a sofa for a matter of half 
 an hour, but never ill. He said he was not ill now, 
 said it in an irritable tone which she had never heard 
 before; and when she touched his hand it was hot. It 
 was swollen too, and there was an angry mark on it. 
 
 "What's that?" she asked. 
 
 "Oh, nothing." He drew the hand away. 
 
 "Did you cut yourself the other day?" she asked 
 quickly. 
 
 "It isn't a cut," he answered sharply. Never had 
 he spoken to her in that tone. 
 
 Then he went to the kitchen door and told Norah to 
 tell Michael to bring the horse around. When Isabel 
 turned to get the hat and coat which always hung in 
 the hall closet, he stopped her, saying, with all his usual 
 gentleness: 
 
 "Not this time, Isabel. I'm taking Michael this 
 morning." 
 
 She stood looking after them blankly. What could 
 be the matter? She felt that something menaced. 
 
 And then her spirit rose in arms against the threat, 
 whatever it might be. Of course there couldn't really 
 be anything the matter — and if Uncle Brenton wanted, 
 once in a way, to be cross, why shouldn't he? Only — 
 she wished he would do something about that swollen 
 hand. 
 
 To distract her mind, she got her gardening tools and 
 some tulip bulbs which had arrived the day before and 
 went out to plant them. She had told Uncle Brenton 
 that she was going to make the bare patch below his 
 office windows into a place of beauty, so she went 
 
 340 
 
Isabel Stirling 341 
 
 around to the back of the house and, setting herself to 
 work, managed to keep her apprehension down below 
 the surface of her mind. She was planting the last 
 bulb when she heard her name spoken. 
 
 "Mrs. Maiden !" said the voice. 
 
 She looked up. Dr. Denham "was standing behind 
 her. Throwing down her trowel, she stood up, all the 
 anxiety which she had so carefully concealed from her 
 own view now possessing her. She looked at Dr. Den- 
 ham with terrified eyes. 
 
 "I know," she said. "He is dreadfully ill." 
 
 "Not dreadfully ill," he answered, in his professional 
 reassuring voice, "but we must take care of him." 
 
 She fixed him with her eyes. He said to someone 
 afterward: "You can't tell that woman any lies." 
 
 "Tell me," she said, "absolutely everything." 
 
 He told her. Dr. Brenton had not exactly cut his 
 hand, but in tying an artery the thread had cut halfway 
 through the skin. In an ordinary case it mightn't have 
 done any harm, but Mrs. Barnes's case was a bad one. 
 The operation ought never to have been insisted on. 
 Well, it might not do fatal harm, but he wouldn't con- 
 ceal from her that it was a serious matter. If Dr. 
 Brenton were twenty years younger it would be less 
 serious. 
 
 "He isn't old," said Isabel. 
 
 "No," said Dr. Denham, "but he isn't young exactly." 
 
 Then he told her just what the treatment must be. 
 "We'll fight it for all we are worth," he said. 
 
 Isabel's hands, hanging by her sides, clenched. "Yes !" 
 she answered. 
 
 To herself she vowed to fight and win. To lose! 
 she refused to face the thought. 
 
 She did not decline the services of a nurse. "I will 
 have all the help I can," she said. "And I don't care 
 how much trouble anybody takes." She herself rose 
 marvelously to the need. 
 
 "I'll never say again that you can't nurse," said Dr. 
 Brenton, trying to smile at her through his nightmare 
 
342 Isabel Stirling 
 
 of fever and confusion. "You're a trained nurse by 
 accident." And then, as he closed his eyes again wearily: 
 "But don't go and fancy it's your vocation. It's only 
 that I'm your vocation just now." 
 
 They fought for a week of grim days and grimmer 
 nights. He knew, himself, that it was a losing fight, 
 but Isabel would not believe it. The worse he grew 
 the more she set her teeth and said that it should not 
 be so. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said to her. "Sorry for myself, for 
 I was taking an uncommon interest in life lately and 
 was so happy with you, Isabel — and I'm sorrier for 
 you, my dear, than I am for myself. It's hard on you." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Brenton!" she said desperately. "Can't 
 you fight? Can't you fight?" 
 
 He had closed his eyes and seemed drifting away from 
 her. He opened them again at her appeal. "I've been 
 fighting, my child — fighting all I could. But it's no 
 use." He roused himself with an effort of will. "We've 
 got to face it, Isabel, you and I. You'll have to do 
 without me, poor child. Don't stay alone — but better 
 alone than with people you don't want. Pick up your 
 courage, little girl, and make a good life of it." Then 
 his eyes closed again and he was off in some dim, fever- 
 world where she could not follow him. 
 
 "A good life!" she thought bitterly, as she sat look- 
 ing down at him. Life was nothing but a brutal thing. 
 But oh, if she could still conquer, if he could-be made 
 to stay with her, what a good life she would make for 
 him and for herself. Why, she had only just waked up 
 to realize how good he had been, how unselfish, how 
 inimitably patient with her self -absorption ; she was only 
 now going to try to show him that she knew and ap- 
 preciated; only now going to try to make him happy. 
 No, she would not give up. She would still fight. 
 
 But Death takes small account of determination. 
 
LXIV 
 
 Isabel told herself that she could not bear it. Not even 
 her husband's death, incomparable as that loss had been, 
 had roused her to such a passion of rebellion. The 
 greater loss she had been slowly learning to endure, but 
 had felt that she could endure it only with the help of 
 the man on whom she had been daily more and more 
 depending, and daily learning to love with a more tender 
 devotion. That he, too, should be taken from her — no, 
 she could not bear it! And all the time she knew well 
 that bear it she must. Death offers no alternative. 
 
 To those around her, with one exception, she showed 
 nothing of the rage which possessed her. To Mrs. 
 Gifford alone she could partly disclose herself. To 
 the others she seemed entirely firm in her self-control. 
 They said she was "wonder ful." 
 
 During those first days the house was full of people; 
 those who came to mourn for themselves, people of 
 every age and degree, and those who came, not only 
 for that, but chiefly to try to help her. Mrs. Gifford 
 was there, day and night; Edmund, who hated the 
 atmosphere of mourning, came to ask what he could 
 do; Cassie came from New York; Anne, the niece 
 whom she had once adopted as a cousin, hurried from 
 Kansas — the funeral was delayed for her. And there 
 was yet another visitor, unexpected by anyone. William 
 Stirling, moved by memories of his boyhood and perhaps 
 by other relentings, had, without stopping to debate the 
 impulse, come to Ptolemy and to Dr. Brenton's house. 
 Isabel met him quite accidentally, as she was crossing 
 the hall and, not seeing who he was, would have passed 
 without raising her eyes, if he had not spoken. 
 
 "Isabel r he said. 
 
 343 
 
344 Isabel Stirling 
 
 She stopped then and looked up. Amid all that was 
 so strange and so monstrous, the sight of her father and 
 the sound of his voice seemed to her no more strange 
 than anything else. 
 
 "Yes, Father/' she said, just as she used to say in the 
 old days of the parsonage. 
 
 Then she waited, just as she used to wait, but for a 
 moment he found nothing more to say. His ideas were 
 undergoing an extraordinary readjustment. 
 
 This was not the daughter whose obduracy he had 
 all these years resented — this black-garbed woman with 
 the rigid, grief-stricken countenance. This was not a 
 person with whom he could have any rights to main- 
 tain. She was infinitely remote from him and entirely 
 his equal. His instinct was to be simply courteous, as 
 to a stranger. 
 
 Under any other circumstances Isabel would have 
 smiled incredulously at hearing herself addressed in the 
 tone which she had heard her father use when he was 
 being polite and not authoritative. Now she did not notice 
 it. He asked her what he could do for her, and she told 
 him there was nothing to be done — that everybody was 
 very kind. 
 
 'The funeral," she told him, in her self -controlled, 
 colorless monotone, "is to be from the church. There 
 are so many who will come." She added, in careful 
 explanation, "the Episcopal church." She said it in 
 meticulous performance of a duty, and with absolute 
 forgetfulness of the way it would strike him. 
 
 Dr. Stirling may have had some idea that he would 
 be asked, or would offer, to render his tribute of service 
 at that funeral, and it would have seemed to him a token 
 of reconciliation. Certainly he had never thought to 
 pass through the doorway of the Episcopal church in 
 Ptolemy. Surely he was not quite himself that morn- 
 ing, for he did not hesitate when he said: "I shall be 
 there." 
 
 He left her then, since he saw plainly enough that 
 
Isabel Stirling 345 
 
 she did not want him, but that evening, after the funeral 
 was over, he rang her doorbell. He would not, how- 
 ever, ask for her by the name which was hateful to him. 
 
 "Can I see my daughter?" he asked Norah. 
 
 Norah, to whom he was anathema, replied with dig- 
 nity that she would see if Mrs. Maiden would see him. 
 "Sure an' he knows she's his no longer," she said to 
 herself, as she went upstairs with his message. 
 
 Isabel came down, although reluctantly. Why should 
 he trouble her now? His new politeness, his unprece- 
 dented consideration, had not penetrated her conscious- 
 ness. In this second interview she did become aware 
 of it, but nothing seemed of consequence now. He 
 found her as far removed from human intercourse as 
 she had been used to find him. 
 
 It was a stiff interview. He ventured on no con- 
 ventional utterance of sympathy; he refrained from 
 religious commonplaces. Unconsciously to himself, he 
 had dropped those commonplaces when he ceased to be 
 pastor of a flock for whose religious welfare he felt 
 responsible. He was too reserved, too shy, to speak 
 about his revived feeling for the friend of his boyhood 
 and he, surely, was the last person to whom she could 
 have opened her heart. He asked if she had decided 
 what to do now, and she answered that there was noth- 
 ing to do; she was just going to stay there. 
 
 "You will be welcome in my house," he said. "I hope 
 you will come to me." He thought afterward that he 
 might have called it home to her, but at the moment 
 it did not occur to him. 
 
 She did dully recognize the extraordinary concession 
 which he was making and felt wearily that she must 
 try to reply adequately, but she was weighed down by 
 such an overwhelming fatigue that her brain would 
 hardly supply her with words to answer him. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "After a while — I am so 
 tired now — and " 
 
 "Yes, you must be tired," said her father (when did 
 
346 Isabel Stirling 
 
 he ever think of such a thing before?), "but later — I shall 
 expect you later." 
 
 He would have been willing to say more if he had 
 known how. 
 
 Isabel found unexpected comfort in Anne, the un- 
 known adopted cousin of her childhood, divining in 
 her some quality of her uncle. Anne was sympathetic 
 and generous; sincerely glad that "Uncle John" had left 
 his house and its contents to Isabel. "For," as she 
 said, "now we know that all trace of him will not be 
 wiped out from the place where he lived and worked 
 and was loved." 
 
 Dr. Brenton had tried to be fair. He had left his 
 little property, with the exception of the house, to his 
 nieces, knowing that Isabel had an income which would 
 suffice for moderate living; and knowing also, that 
 Anne and her sister, both of them married, were not 
 in need, he had gratified himself by giving the house 
 with all that was in it, to Isabel. It would, he had 
 said to himself, provide her with a foothold to which 
 she could come back, even if she chose to wander away 
 from it for a time. He knew that she would keep it, 
 for love of him, even if at first its associations should 
 be painful; and for her part, she was glad to have it, 
 even while she wondered how she could bear to stay 
 there without him. 
 
 In the course of her work as his secretary she had 
 learned something about the management of her own 
 affairs. He had seen to that. Now she found herself 
 with a sufficient income to keep up the little place and 
 to live comfortably. There seemed, for the moment, 
 nothing for her to do but to stay there. Besides, Dr. 
 Brenton had said to her: "Stay here for the present, in 
 your own place, with command of your own life — but get 
 someone to stay with you. That friend of yours — 
 Margaret. Get her to come." 
 
 At first it seemed that she did not care to have Mar- 
 garet or anyone else, but presently when Anne had gone 
 
Isabel Stirling 347 
 
 back to her husband and children, and when she realized 
 that Cassie was staying longer than was convenient to 
 herself, when Mrs. Gifford was anxiously begging her 
 to come to them for a time, and when finally Lydia wrote 
 and offered to come to stay with her and take her back 
 after a while to the "home" which was awaiting her, 
 she wrote to Margaret. 
 
 With Margaret's coming the anxious friends were 
 more at ease, feeling in her presence an influence which 
 was calming and sustaining. It was an experiment which 
 might have been a failure, for the two had not met for 
 a dozen years, but the old tie held good. As of old, 
 Isabel had a charm for Margaret, quite irrespective of 
 sympathy and pity; and as of old, Isabel looked up to 
 her, and now found as much comfort in her as it was 
 possible for her to find in anyone. 
 
 Margaret said she was not in a hurry. There had never 
 been a time when her family could spare her so well. 
 Her parents had died and the young brother and sister 
 were grown up and able to look after themselves. She 
 could stay; yes, she could even live for a while with 
 Isabel. 
 
 It was some months later, when Isabel was still plunged 
 in black depression, still convinced that life was but a 
 brutality, and unable to look for anything beyond, that 
 Margaret proposed that they should go abroad. 
 
 "Dick and I always meant to go together," said Isabel 
 drearily. 
 
 Margaret said no more at the time, but some days later 
 remarked casually how much she had always wanted to 
 go and had always been prevented by some duty. After 
 all, thought Isabel, why not do something that Margaret 
 wanted ? 
 
 It was easy to make arrangements. Norah and Michael 
 would take care of the house and could so easily get well- 
 paid work to do that she would be at no great expense 
 for them. Judge Gifford said he would be only too glad 
 to look after all business affairs; Cassie would take their 
 passage and they must start from her house; everybody 
 
348 Isabel Stirling 
 
 was glad to help. Edmund came with guide-books and 
 spent several evenings with them, giving them all sorts 
 of advice and information for which they found reason 
 to bless him. 
 
 One thing, however, Margaret insisted on. Isabel must 
 go and visit her father before she sailed. He had written 
 and renewed his invitation, but she had no desire to 
 accept it. 
 
 "I can't understand it," said Margaret. "Even if he 
 wasn't kind once — he wants to be kind now, and he is 
 your father." 
 
 "No," said Isabel, "I can't expect you to understand, 
 unless you had known all along. There are things that 
 no telling will ever make understandable — you've got to 
 live them. And I don't want to tell you. It doesn't seem 
 worth while — and I hate to be reminded." 
 
 "But with all that, I think you ought to go. Then you 
 will have done your part." 
 
 Isabel sighed. "How conscientious you are." 
 
 "I don't know. I can't help looking at his side too. 
 And perhaps it's a matter of self-indulgence. I like to 
 feel that I have done my part and don't have to regret 
 anything. And after all, Isabel, there's nothing like the 
 tie of blood." 
 
 "How lucky you are, to be able to feel that! If I do 
 go, it will be to please you and have your good opinion." 
 
 She went and stayed a week. In the end, she was not 
 sorry to have made the visit; and the strangeness of it 
 roused her interest as nothing else had done. She even 
 discovered that she had some sense of humor left. 
 
 Her father was extremely polite to her, treated her as 
 an honored guest. She thought sometimes that he must 
 have forgotten that theirs was the relation of father and 
 daughter. In that case, he could forgive her for having 
 been born. She studied him with some keenness and 
 fancied that his present occupation, with its purely intel- 
 lectual demands, had somewhat blunted the sharpness of 
 his religious — or should she say, his theological, convic- 
 tions and prejudices. According to Lydia, he had grown 
 
Isabel Stirling 349 
 
 into the habit of spending his life between study and 
 classroom, avoided social gatherings and never entered 
 a pulpit if he could help it. Isabel was far from sus- 
 pecting that he had never gone into a pulpit with quite 
 the same certainty of his infallibility since those last 
 words which she had spoken to him in the parsonage at 
 Ptolemy. Rage at her as he might, those words had 
 struck home. 
 
 As for the rest, she was sure it must be a great relief 
 to him to be free from all gatherings in which women 
 largely figured. Heavens ! How the women of the con- 
 gregation did use to flock around him! 
 
 Lydia, after remaining apparently of the same age 
 ever since her stepdaughter could remember, had now 
 grown distinctly middle-aged. Her hair, elaborately ar- 
 ranged as ever, showed some gray among its sandy coils, 
 her face was lined, and her figure, formerly so youthful 
 in its slenderness, had taken on the unmistakable middle- 
 aged thickness. Yes, Lydia was growing old, but she 
 was as sententious as ever ; very polite, impressively and 
 dreadfully sympathetic. Every word, every tone, was 
 intended to remind the afflicted guest that her sorrows 
 were being considered with a wonderful, an unprece- 
 dented tenderness. Isabel froze under it. 
 
 On her return Margaret told her that the visit had 
 done her good. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Isabel, "but not for any reason you 
 would think creditable. Lydia was awful — and so ridicu- 
 lous. I could see it even when she touched me on a bare 
 nerve. And my father was so surprising and perplexing." 
 
 "And you found you had misjudged him just a little?" 
 
 "No, not that at all. I don't believe I had misjudged 
 him, except in thinking that he was set so hard in his 
 mould that he could never change in the least. He has 
 changed and it was — interesting. Don't expect any filial 
 virtues from me. I think I'm set pretty hard in my 
 own mould." 
 
 She suddenly broke into a laugh, then gasped and was 
 threatened with hysterical tears. After a moment she 
 
350 Isabel Stirling 
 
 controlled herself. "Margaret !" she said. "I haven't 
 laughed for so long that the muscles of my face are stiff." 
 
 She left the room in tears; but Margaret told herself 
 that the visit had done her good ; and perhaps, Margaret 
 optimistically thought, she loved her father a little more 
 than she knew. 
 
 They both made another visit before sailing. 
 
 "I have so often wanted to see Miss Pryor again/' said 
 Isabel one day. "She has written to me several times. 
 Her letters are different from anyone else's." 
 
 "It would be perfectly easy," returned Margaret. "We 
 can go up there for a day from New York." 
 
 Presently Isabel found it all arranged. A letter from 
 Miss Pryor told her how welcome they would be. 
 
 Just to be back in the old place gave her more pleasure 
 than she would have thought possible. To walk along the 
 village street with Margaret, recognizing old landmarks; 
 to sit once more on the step under the Memento Mori 
 arch and recall those talks of her precocious childhood; 
 to find out what had become of the various village nota- 
 bilities — all this took her astonishingly out of herself. 
 With Miss Pryor she felt humble, reverential, ashamed 
 of the poor showing which she knew that she must make 
 if judged by the standards of that lofty and ardent soul, 
 but warmed and comforted by the affection in which she 
 was enfolded ; conscious that, as always, she was regarded 
 with eyes which saw her as better, far better than she 
 was. And, as always, she felt the inspiration of that 
 regard. She wanted, not to lay bare her imperfections, 
 but to get rid of them, to justify the estimate in which 
 she was held. When Miss Pryor asked her, with a ten- 
 derness which robbed the question of all intrusiveness, 
 whether she had at last found in religion some solace 
 for the present, some hope for the future, she had to 
 confess that she was without religion, and then ventured, 
 hesitatingly, to say something of those aspirations, so 
 little remembered since Dr. Brenton's death, toward a 
 fitness for a future existence. 
 
 Miss Pryor regarded her thoughtfully. "You are tak- 
 
Isabel Stirling 351 
 
 ing your own by-path," she said, "and the way is more 
 difficult. But you will learn. You have learned very 
 early how full of renunciation life must be. Be true to 
 yourself, as I am sure you are — your way will lead you 
 in the end to God and His love." 
 
 "Renunciation?" said Isabel questioningly, and fell into 
 a moment's thought. Then she raised her eyes again to 
 Miss Pryor's face. "I don't know what renunciation is," 
 she said. "Things have been taken away from me — 
 violently — and I have borne it, because I must. I have 
 never renounced anything in my life." 
 
 Miss Pryor looked at her for a moment in silence. In 
 her eyes was infinite pity — a pity born of the foresight 
 with which she gazed along the vista of the path yet to 
 be trodden by that ardent and self-centred soul. "My 
 poor child !" she said. 
 
 There was so much that she could have added — words 
 of ripest wisdom. She left them unspoken. Here was 
 one who would learn only of life. But the dejection 
 which the old feel when they realize how useless to the 
 beloved young are the fruits of their knowledge and 
 experience was quickly overborne by her confident faith 
 in one so dear to her. Through whatever hardships, 
 Isabel was sure to reach the goal in the end. One 
 injunction only she gave her as they parted : "Through 
 everything, hold fast to the things of the spirit." 
 
 Isabel, bending her tall young form to the tender em- 
 brace, could only whisper, "I will." 
 
 It was a promise which she never wholly forgot. And, 
 in the long quiet hours when, wrapped in her rug, she 
 lay in a steamer chair on deck, she pondered that idea 
 of renunciation. It seemed to her, now that her attention 
 had been drawn to it, that nearly everyone in the world 
 except herself was at least ready to renounce something. 
 Dick gave his life for his friend. And when he went 
 into the army did he not hold himself ready to give it for 
 his country? One might perhaps answer that he took 
 the chance for the sake of the profession he loved ; but 
 he had offered to renounce that profession for his father's 
 
352 Isabel Stirling 
 
 sake. And old Peter Maiden — he too knew renunciation 
 when he refused Dick's offer. And Dr. Brenton had 
 given his life; and had always stood in daily readiness, 
 as she realized now. And there were others. There was 
 Margaret. . . . 
 
 At the beginning of their journey Isabel had been 
 plunged in deeper melancholy than ever. She was con- 
 stantly recalling the plans which she and Dick had made 
 to go abroad together. She told herself and Margaret 
 that it seemed unfair that she should be doing it without 
 him. And Margaret was so patient with her ; yet it was 
 the fulfilment of Margaret's dream to go abroad. It 
 was horrid of her to spoil her friend's pleasure. 
 
 With her resolve to renounce the indulgence of her 
 grief, some of her old ardor awoke in her. 
 
LXV 
 
 Isabel surprised herself and Margaret by her keenness 
 as a sightseer. She was indefatigable. When not actu- 
 ally standing before pictures and statuary or pacing the 
 aisles of old churches, she was studying diligently in 
 preparation for the next day's excursions. Nor did the 
 beauties of nature find her less responsive. Sunset and 
 sunrise, gentle summer landscape and snow-covered Al- 
 pine peak, she stood rapt before them all. 
 
 "I used to think," said Margaret one day, "that you 
 were singularly indifferent to nature." 
 
 Isabel turned to her with a sigh and a smile. "I've 
 always been so occupied with myself and my own affairs," 
 she said. "I hadn't any attention left for anything else. 
 Are all very young people like that, I wonder. Was I 
 unusually self-absorbed, Margaret?" 
 
 "I think perhaps you were," said Margaret, truthful, 
 even though fond. "But you're not so now," she added. 
 
 "I haven't any affairs now," said Isabel sadly. "And 
 now," she added, laughing ruefully, "I go the other way 
 about to tire you out. Poor Margaret! My extremes 
 must be wearing. Why don't you let me go sightseeing 
 alone sometimes. I know you get tired sooner than I." 
 
 "You know why," replied Margaret with a shrug. 
 "That man has hired a carriage to-day. It stands a 
 little way from ours and he is following you on foot at 
 a discreet distance. It might be at an indiscreet nearness 
 if you were alone." 
 
 "Good gracious! I never knew it. After all, it may 
 be on your account and not on mine." 
 
 "Don't be foolish! And Isabel — don't go out to see 
 the sunset with Mr. Hillquist any more." 
 
 "Why, he's an old man," said Isabel indignantly. "I 
 might be his daughter." 
 
354 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "That doesn't make any difference." 
 
 "Oh, how stupid everyone is!" cried Isabel. 
 
 In fact, the task of chaperoning Isabel was not alto- 
 gether easy. She considered herself still Dick's wife, 
 hated the word "widow" so sensitively that she never used 
 it about anybody if she could avoid it, and shrank from 
 its use with regard to herself with an abhorrence of which 
 she never spoke to anyone. Feeling thus, she met men 
 on exactly the same footing as when her husband was 
 alive and was entirely unobservant of their occasional 
 misunderstanding of the situation until her eyes were 
 forcibly opened. When this happened, she was inclined 
 to be almost as much insulted as if she were still the wife 
 of a living husband. - 
 
 "But you can't blame them," Margaret would say. 
 "You are so perfectly friendly with them, and how can 
 they know?" 
 
 "I suppose there are advantages in suttee," Isabel once 
 replied to her. "Then there are no mistakes made and 
 you can die just at the time when you don't care about 
 living. Later, life gets hold of you again somehow. Oh, 
 yes, I can feel it getting hold of me. I'll never be more 
 than half a person, and yet that half does care about 
 things — people and places and art, and even the physical 
 things — heat and cold, food and clothes. By the time I 
 have to die I shan't want to. And yet; — to grow old 
 when the person you hope to live with again has perhaps 
 stayed young! Do you suppose they stay young? Do 
 you remember the story of the bride whose husband fell 
 into a glacier, and the glacier moved so slowly that years 
 and years passed before his body came in sight — and she 
 lived for that moment, and came and saw him, a fresh 
 youth — kept young in the glacier — while she was a with- 
 ered old woman. Do you remember? I sometimes 
 wonder if that is partly why people marry again — so 
 that they may have someone like themselves. Only, I 
 don't see how they can do it." 
 
 "You don't think it's wrong?" 
 
 "Certainly not — for those who want to." 
 
Isabel Stirling 355 
 
 After another misadventure in friendship Margaret 
 said to her: "Isabel, you would get along more easily 
 if you didn't really prefer men to women." 
 
 "Do I?" said Isabel in surprise. Then she fell into 
 thought. "I don't think I did, as a girl," she said. 
 "I always felt then that I liked women best and under- 
 stood them best. After that I didn't think anything 
 about it. We saw a great many men and they were my 
 good comrades as well as Dick's. I got to know them 
 better and perhaps I do like their point of view and their 
 way of disposing of the affairs of life. Yes, perhaps I 
 do like them best. It's unfortunate, isn't it?" 
 
 "Why not try a study of women for a while ? It would 
 be so much less complicated." 
 
 "Pension women ?" said Isabel with a grimace. "I love 
 young girls and get on with them, but these women who 
 flock over Europe!" She threw out her hands with an 
 expressive gesture. "Do you think they reward study? 
 Which do you prefer — Mrs. Bay ley with her fluffy auburn 
 wig, or Mrs. Westerfield with her smooth dark one? I'm 
 so tired of them all — of the yards of darned net and the 
 reams of second-hand Baedeker, and the frisky middle- 
 aged women and the doddering old ones." 
 
 "Do you want to go home?" This was at the end of 
 the first year. 
 
 "Heaven forbid ! We neither of us want to go home. 
 Why, we've just begun to see things. But don't you 
 think we could afford to take a little apartment and keep 
 house? And then move on and take a little apartment 
 somewhere else. We could have a lovely time all by our- 
 selves — with now and then just the few people we're 
 always sure to meet and like." 
 
 They tried it and liked it. They made a slow progress 
 from place to place, now spending too much money and 
 then making up for it by an economical sojourn in some 
 remote, unfrequented, but not uninteresting corner. This 
 way of living was quite to their minds, giving them 
 privacy and a certain status, while in each place the 
 housekeeping was a fresh adventure. They saw inter- 
 
356 Isabel Stirling 
 
 esting things, studied interesting languages, and made 
 enough acquaintances to keep them from feeling isolated. 
 Sometimes they saw friends from home. Twice Edmund 
 Gifford came their way and stopped near them for a 
 time, giving them always a fresh start in their pursuits. 
 
 "He's a very stimulating person," said Margaret. 
 
 "And very determined to make us into his good pupils," 
 added Isabel. 
 
 Nevertheless, she enjoyed being his pupil again; 
 reading the books and seeing the things which he recom- 
 mended; and she missed him when he went away. In 
 some ways she seemed to herself to have become a differ- 
 ent person from the one she had been before. Not that 
 she had ceased to think of Dick daily, but he formed 
 the background rather than the foreground of her 
 thoughts. By sheer force of having to do without him, 
 she had got used to his absence. 
 
 The one disturbing thing was the occasional sugges- 
 tion by Margaret of a return home and a separation. 
 
 "I wish we could always live together," said Isabel, 
 "and always like this." 
 
 They were spending a domestic morning, resting from 
 outings and mending their clothes. Margaret's sleek dark 
 head was bent over the stocking she was darning. She 
 drew the long thread of silk carefully through before she 
 answered. 
 
 "Do you realize how long we have been together?" 
 she asked at last. "And, incidentally, how long I have 
 been away from my family? Do you realize it's three 
 years? I never dreamed of staying so long — but I've 
 loved it." 
 
 "Your family don't need you." 
 
 "I'd be sorry to think that." 
 
 "Are you needing them?" asked Isabel quickly. "I know 
 I'm a selfish pig, but oh, Margaret, I don't believe any- 
 body needs you as I do. But of course — they are your 
 own. Have you been hearing anything in particular?" 
 
 "Clara has been getting engaged," said Margaret, be- 
 tween a smile and a tear. "And to somebody I've never 
 
Isabel Stirling 357 
 
 seen! She wants to be married soon, and she is going 
 to California to live. And Fred will be alone. I must 
 go, Isabel." 
 
 "I see. Oh, dear, doesn't Fred want to get married 
 too?" She let her work slip to the floor and walked to 
 the window. All flavor, all interest, had suddenly gone 
 out of life. . . . 
 
 But — come now, said her soul to her, shall those fine 
 ideals which you cherish go for nothing? Shall it be for 
 nothing that you have lived with unselfish Margaret these 
 three years? — After a few moments she turned and went 
 back to her friend. 
 
 "Well, it's all settled," she said. "This chapter is 
 closed. It has been a good one. Now — let me help you 
 all I can. Doesn't your bride want us to get her trousseau 
 for her? I'm sure she dreams of Paris finery." 
 
 "She does," said Margaret, "and I'm the worst shopper 
 in the world." 
 
 "But I'm not," said Isabel. "We'll go to Paris and 
 then home." 
 
 She gathered up her work and went to her own room, 
 and if she shed a few tears there, she never let her friend 
 know. To Margaret's suggestion that she might find an- 
 other friend to stay with her, instead of going back to 
 America, she returned a decided negative. 
 
 "Never!" she said. "No, I'll just go back to my own 
 house. Only I'll stop and see Cassie first. I'd like to 
 see Cassie." 
 
LXVI 
 
 After all, coming home proved to be, in its way, an 
 adventure like another. Cassie was her old satisfactory- 
 self and it was delightful to come back to her. Lansing 
 seemed a little changed in some way which Isabel did not 
 trouble herself to analyze. He looked older and, while he 
 had never appeared exactly robust, he was less so now. 
 Cassie was always looking out for him, seeing that his 
 food was right and persuading him to lie down before 
 dinner. 
 
 "He works too hard," she told Isabel. "I suppose it's 
 the price one pays for rapid success." 
 
 There were two children and Cassie was a devoted 
 mother, but she had always subordinated everything to 
 her husband's need of her. She had helped him im- 
 mensely in his career, not by wire-pulling, but by sheer 
 tact and pleasantness ; and he frankly said that he could 
 not have got along without her. 
 
 Cassie's welcome to Isabel was heartwarming. "It's 
 such a joy to get you back at last," she said. 
 
 "I begin to wonder," said Isabel, "why I haven't come 
 sooner — even if I had gone back again." 
 
 "I'm so glad you are ready for us now," said Cassie 
 simply. 
 
 "You are just the same. You never fail to understand. 
 And I — I seem to myself in some ways so different. And 
 yet, Cassie, I'm not, really." Her voice trembled on the 
 last words. Cassie had brought Dick vividly before her. 
 
 "You're wonderful," said Cassie. 
 
 At thirty-three, Isabel was at the height of her beauty. 
 She had not, to any perceptible degree, lost the freshness 
 of youth, and she had gained a poise and grace which in 
 early youth had been lacking to her. Unconsciously she 
 had acquired the bearing, the tone and accent of a woman 
 
 358 
 
Isabel Stirling 359 
 
 of the world ; one might even say, a woman of the great 
 world, although she had had no social experience to war- 
 rant such a claim. Cassie admired her enthusiastically 
 and, to his wife's relief, Lansing did not now seem bored 
 by her. His attitude toward her had been somewhat 
 embarrassing on other occasions. 
 
 He had, in fact, been bored by Isabel when he first 
 renewed his acquaintance with her. He was not in the 
 least interested in the things that she cared for and they 
 were both too self -engrossed to make much pretence of 
 interest in each other's affairs. Later, when she came to 
 his house, absorbed in her grief, he was sorry for her, but 
 even more bored by her. He had not, therefore, looked 
 forward to her visit with any anticipation of pleasure. 
 He meant to be as patient as possible, on Cassie's account. 
 Cassie really deserved that of him. The new Isabel was 
 a delightful surprise. He mentioned the fact to his wife. 
 
 "I didn't think she had it in her to be anything but 
 provincial," he said. "It's one more example of what 
 can be done by getting out of one's rut. Did she really 
 go into society over there — she and the old maid friend ?" 
 
 "I feel like crowing over you," said Cassie. "I've 
 always known Isabel's possibilities. No, I don't think 
 they went into society much— if at all." 
 
 "And to-night we take her to the Lorimer ball." He 
 was lying on his sofa, taking his rest before dinner. 
 He sighed as he spoke — a sigh of physical weariness. 
 
 "Are you more tired than usual? Do you want to 
 stay home?" She kept her tone casual. He didn't like 
 anxiety. 
 
 "Oh, no, I'll be all right after dinner." He got up and, 
 going to a cupboard, poured out a generous allowance of 
 whiskey. 
 
 Cassie was growing to hate that cupboard. Nor did 
 she approve of the amount of strong coffee which he 
 usually took after dinner. But remonstrance irritated 
 him and did no good. 
 
 Later, he was quite at his best and ready for enjoyment ; 
 and he and Cassie were both proud of Isabel. Under the 
 
360 Isabel Stirling 
 
 influence of European customs, she had gradually dis- 
 carded the densely sombre garments which she might have 
 worn all her life if she had stayed in Ptolemy. She had 
 not brought herself to the wearing of bright colors, and 
 her income did not permit any great outlay in dress, but 
 her few and simple costumes were distinctly smart ; and in 
 the black evening gown which showed the long lines of 
 her graceful figure and brought out the whiteness of 
 neck and arms and the softly brilliant tints of face and 
 hair, she was by no means the least noticeable figure in a 
 crowd of well-dressed, dazzlingly bejeweled, and beautiful 
 women. 
 
 Cassie, glancing at her across the ballroom, was freshly 
 impressed by her. At the moment, Lansing was with 
 Isabel, piloting her across the room. What a convenience 
 it was to have him take some interest in her. Cassie 
 was too secure in her happiness ever to give a thought 
 to those far-off days when he had had his brief attack of 
 infatuation for a lovely face ; and her mind had been full 
 of other things. She gazed at the two very happily until 
 the crowd came in between and hid them from her sight ; 
 then turned with fresh attention to the man who was 
 talking to her. Some man was always talking to her 
 about himself and she always listened with intelligent 
 sympathy. 
 
 Isabel, her eyes full of amused interest, was looking 
 about her at New York's elite. "I haven't been to any- 
 thing like this — well, of course I've never been to anything 
 like this," she said. "We didn't have such choice as- 
 semblies at army posts, and certainly not in Ptolemy, and 
 Margaret and I lived like mice most of the time we were 
 abroad. And yet I'm oddly reminded of my very first 
 party. I was only nineteen and it seemed to me the 
 grandest affair possible." 
 
 "The point of view of nineteen " 
 
 "Exactly. And I seem to have got it back, just for 
 the moment. It's a sort of tiptoeing into adventure in 
 an unknown world." 
 
 Fordyce looked at her with something of the amuse- 
 
Isabel Stirling 361 
 
 ment which he forgot that he had felt when she was 
 eighteen and said naive things to him. He reflected that, 
 even while she was declaring herself a novice in the world 
 of the socially elect she seemed, in looks and in manner 
 and in the tones of her voice, to be a citizen of that very 
 world. A citizen ? She looked a queen, he said to himself. 
 
 "Stay by me," said Isabel, "and tell me who they are." 
 
 As she spoke, there came back to her a memory of 
 Edmund Gifford taking her through the rooms of his 
 father's house and pointing out to her the celebrities of 
 the new university. Odd, how it all came back and almost 
 made her homesick. Lansing, she thought, was hardly 
 as amusing as Edmund had been on that occasion, and 
 the people around her did not stimulate her interest nearly 
 as much as had those professors and their wives. 
 
 But Lansing did his best to be entertaining and felt 
 that he was successful. Isabel glanced and smiled and 
 responded to his gossip — and he could not know that she 
 had suddenly grown from nineteen to thirty-three. 
 
 She was quite thirty-three and at her best when she 
 met some of the people, and was able to hold her own 
 with them, ignorant though she was of their special lan- 
 guage of small talk. She was reminded now of that 
 dinner when she was an army bride and sat beside Colonel 
 Raynor and felt so out of it all. But even then, she had 
 in the end held her own. Now she cared far less; and 
 that comparative indifference, added to her lovely face 
 and distinguished carriage and the intent way in which 
 she fixed those beautiful, dark-lashed gray eyes on the 
 person who was talking to her, carried her through. On 
 the whole, her debut in New York society was singularly 
 successful. 
 
 Yet when she went home and to her room she gazed 
 into her mirror with eyes which saw not the present, but 
 the past. And oh, how homesick she was for that irrecov- 
 erable past ! "Oh, Dick !" she sighed softly, as she turned 
 away and put out the light. 
 
 On those previous occasions when Isabel had visited 
 Cassie, she had had little to do with the children. Grief- 
 
362 Isabel Stirling 
 
 absorbed, she had been only dimly aware of Katrina; 
 and little Dicky's name and his blue eyes had stabbed her 
 so sharply that she had only wanted to avoid the sight of 
 him. Cassie, who had hoped that he might be a comfort 
 to her, as he was to herself, was grieved, but tolerant. 
 The time would come, she said to herself. She was 
 justified in her patience. The time had come. Isabel's 
 first visit to the nursery proved that. 
 
 For Katrina, the image of her father, tall for her age, 
 slender and dark, somewhat aloof and chary of her 
 favors to a new-comer, she had enthusiastic admiration. 
 Katrina was an aristocrat and would be a beauty. At 
 the sight of Dicky she caught her breath. That sturdy 
 little figure, that frank, smiling face and, oh, those blue, 
 blue eyes, how they pulled at her heart-strings! She 
 knelt and held out her hands ; and Dicky, after one good 
 look, came running into her arms. 
 
 After that, his constant demand was for "Aunt Isabel." 
 "Why doesn't Aunt Isabel come ? Why does Aunt Isabel 
 go out? Why doesn't she stay always?" Dicky was a 
 child of "why." 
 
 Most of her gowns were black, but one evening when 
 she went to the nursery to say good-night, she was wear- 
 ing a white, satiny dress, of dim sheen and straight severe 
 lines, a marvellously perfect setting for her beauty. 
 Cassie, turning toward her as she came in, thought her 
 the most radiantly beautiful creature she had ever seen 
 and then turned away with a lump in her throat at the 
 expression of her face as the children came to meet her. 
 Even Katrina was impressed by the beautiful aunt and 
 Dicky was too ecstatic for mere words. He put a hand 
 softly on each side of her face as she stooped to him; 
 then, suddenly turning away, he ran and picked up the 
 box of soldiers which was his dearest treasure. He 
 brought it to her, staggering a little under its unwieldi- 
 ness, and laid it at her feet. 
 
 "I'll give you all my soldiers," he said, "if you'll stay 
 here in that dress." 
 
 How like Dick he was — Dick, who had always loved to 
 
Isabel Stirling 363 
 
 see her in pretty clothes, and hated the black which she 
 wore when his father died. She gave a little laugh 
 which was half a sob. "Keep your soldiers, darling," 
 she said. "I'll wear a white dress for you every evening 
 when I say good-night." And she did, even when it 
 meant a quick change afterward. 
 
 "If he were only mine!" she said to Cassie, as they 
 went downstairs together. "It's wicked to be as envious 
 as I am." 
 
 "Stay and take your share in him," said Cassie, putting 
 an arm around her. "It's a pretty big share, you know. 
 The rest of us are nowhere since you came." 
 
 "I can't stay always," said Isabel. What she did not 
 say was that she longed to take him away and have him 
 all to herself. 
 
 She seldom spoke of the child to his father; not with 
 any intentional avoidance, but it did not occur to her to 
 talk about him to Lansing. To-night, however, the boy 
 was mentioned — perhaps by Cassie. 
 
 "He's a jolly little chap, isn't he?" said Lansing, with 
 proper parental pride. "They are very satisfactory chil- 
 dren, I think. Why do you look so startled? Mayn't a 
 man say that much about his own children ?" 
 
 She laughed with a little embarrassment. It would 
 hardly do to say that she had never thought of Dicky 
 as his child. It had seemed to her as if he only belonged 
 to Cassie and herself. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, rallying herself, "I look startled 
 because you never said as much as that about them 
 before." 
 
 "Still waters," said Cassie with a laugh: "Lansing 
 never says much." 
 
 "But you can assure our guest that nevertheless, my 
 heart is in the right place," added Lansing. 
 
 "I really don't see how it could be anywhere else, con- 
 sidering what you have," replied Isabel; and just then 
 the first guest arrived. They were having a dinner that 
 night. 
 
 But still it seemed to Isabel that Lansing had no real 
 
364 Isabel Stirling 
 
 part in Dicky, and she never talked to him about the 
 child. Their intercourse was on different lines. She had 
 become keenly interested in the larger affairs of the 
 world, and it was of those, rather than of domestic mat- 
 ters or of the gossip of society that she encouraged him 
 to tell her. Nothing could have been more impersonal 
 than their conversation, or than her attitude toward him. 
 He was Cassie's husband, a goodlooking and agreeable 
 man, who knew a great many interesting things and im- 
 parted his information in an interesting way. Also, when 
 one came to think about it, he was her brother-in-law. 
 The episode of her girlhood was so far buried that its 
 only result, as far as she was concerned, was an un- 
 derlying feeling that he wasn't quite good enough for 
 Cassie. 
 
 With him, the reverse experience was taking place. 
 When, at the time of his marriage, she had remembered 
 that episode, he had practically forgotten it. Now, it 
 came back to his mind with a curious persistence ; as also 
 his later judgment of her provincialism. It seemed that 
 his first estimate of her had been the correct one. He 
 had seen her possibilities at the time when he had so 
 nearly lost his head over her. And as for her beauty — 
 there had never been any doubt about that. He lost 
 himself sometimes in contemplation of it. 
 
 "You ought to have your portrait painted," he said to 
 her one day. 
 
 Isabel had a perfectly unaffected knowledge of her 
 beauty and, secure in it, never had to be self-conscious. 
 "Before Time gets in his work ?" she said laughing. "I 
 shall have to bestir myself, for Time is getting ready 
 for me. But I can't afford a portrait, you know. Besides, 
 who should I do it for? There's nobody," she ended 
 soberly. 
 
 "For the joy of the world," said Lansing. 
 
 "Hark to his gallantry!" she mocked. "Cassie, is it 
 his habit to say such things ?" 
 
 "For Dicky," said Cassie softly. 
 
 "Ah, for Dicky! I could even gladly spend a year's 
 
Isabel Stirling 365 
 
 income for Dicky. But what should I live on in the 
 meanwhile ?" 
 
 "I know an artist," said Lansing, "who would do it 
 for pleasure and fame." 
 
 "Yes, Eric Dane would love to do it," said Cassie. 
 "And then we'd save up and buy it for Dicky. And it 
 would keep you with us longer." For Isabel had been 
 talking about her return to Ptolemy. 
 
 They dropped the subject, but Lansing brought it up 
 again. Every beautiful woman likes the idea of having 
 her beauty perpetuated. When he invited Eric Dane to 
 dinner, and the artist begged Isabel to sit for him, she was 
 pleased to consent. It would be something to her to cheat 
 Time, the beautiful woman's arch-enemy. 
 
LXVII 
 
 The weeks went by delightfully. Isabel found her taste 
 of New York society one of the most stimulating of her 
 adventures, totally different as it was from anything 
 which she had known. There were advantages, she 
 thought, in being merely a visitor. She brought to the 
 scene a freshness of vision, a capacity for being amused 
 at things which everybody else took for granted ; and she 
 was as little as possible occupied with the impression 
 which she herself was making. 
 
 "When I was younger," she remarked to Lansing, "I 
 might have been alarmed by your haughty dames. They 
 are surely the last word in haughtiness. I love to watch 
 them. I love it all." 
 
 Watching and listening with alertness, her imagination 
 was, for the first time in years, awakened to vivid activity. 
 She was seized with the long-dormant desire to weave 
 tales out of what she saw and heard. Unconsciously 
 following Dr. Brenton's advice, she had no impulse to 
 use her material raw. Of all the stories she heard, there 
 were none that she wanted to write down verbatim. But 
 the sight of a happily married pair who seemed improbable 
 as mates set her to building a whole tale, ending in that 
 mating; or some incident, coming to her detached from 
 all that had led up to it, took hold of her and would not 
 let her go until she had constructed a plot and fitted it 
 into place. The prospect of getting settled in her house 
 at Ptolemy gave her unexpected pleasure, for there she 
 could write at her leisure. Not but what she wanted to 
 come back again. Never again, she told herself, could 
 she bear a long separation from Cassie and Dicky. If 
 Cassie would only lend her the boy sometimes! Mean- 
 time, she scribbled on scraps of paper all sorts of bits; 
 fragments of conversation, description and comments, 
 
Isabel Stirling 367 
 
 anything which seemed at the moment to demand pre- 
 servation. 
 
 Her many social engagements would have left little 
 time for such exercises of the intellect had it not been 
 for the portrait. The sittings gave her some leisure for 
 her mind. Not but what there was a good deal of con- 
 versation then too. 
 
 Ordinarily, Eric Dane knew well enough how to 
 awaken the look of interest which he wanted to use in 
 the cause of art. Indeed, it had been said of him that, 
 in the matter of a woman's portrait, he never felt that 
 he had entirely done justice to himself as an artist unless 
 he had succeeded in arousing on the part of his subject 
 a very particular interest in himself as a man. Tales 
 were told of occasional disastrous results of his method. 
 Perhaps that was the reason why mothers of tender debu- 
 tantes had their own, but not their daughters' portraits 
 painted by him. However that may have been, any 
 effort which he made to excite a special interest on the 
 part of the beautiful Mrs. Maiden was a signal failure. 
 He recognized but one obstacle to the infallibility of his 
 attraction. To some other man he attributed the look of 
 detachment which years before had intrigued Amy Boyd 
 and Edmund Gifford. 
 
 Having an inquisitive mind, he kept his eyes and ears 
 open, but made no discovery until, one day, Fordyce paid 
 a visit to the studio during a sitting. Then he thought he 
 had a clue, no less interesting because shocking. However, 
 an artful playing of that line brought him to the conclusion 
 that, however she might have gone to Fordyce' s head, 
 her own, as far as he was concerned, was perfectly steady, 
 and her heart quite untouched. "And a good thing for 
 Cassie," he said to himself. Like everyone else, he liked 
 Cassie. No, the man was elsewhere to seek; probably 
 not in New York at all. 
 
 Since he could not awaken that particular interest 
 which would have given the portrait the touch he wanted 
 (and how he would have loved to see the perfect face 
 light up with that divine fire!), he must make shift to 
 
368 Isabel Stirling 
 
 do without it. He hesitated between the look of detach- 
 ment which made her so elusive and which had its charm, 
 and the intelligent animation with which she responded 
 to his experiment in telling her about himself as an artist 
 rather than as a man. Meantime, the portrait fell just 
 short of completion. Isabel began to be impatient and 
 Lansing grew suspicious. Why had he let the fellow have 
 the chance. And, strangely enough, the atmosphere at 
 home seemed to become a little strained. Or was it 
 Isabel's imagination? 
 
 It was really nothing that you could put your finger 
 on. Once or twice Cassie, the most cheerful and even- 
 tempered of mortals, had spoken sharply to a servant — 
 an unheard-of thing in that house — and lately, when she 
 was off guard, Isabel had surprised a worried look on 
 her face. And then, when Isabel began to speak about 
 going home, and had prepared herself to meet affectionate 
 urgency to stay, there was an entire and disconcerting 
 lack of opposition to her plan. Well, after all, Cassie 
 had probably been thinking only of the portrait at the 
 time. 
 
 "I wish Mr. Dane would finish," Isabel had said, "for 
 I really do think I ought to go to Ptolemy." 
 
 "What's the matter with the portrait ?" asked Cassie. 
 
 Did Isabel only imagine there was sharpness in her 
 tone? "I hardly know," she said. "He paints out and 
 paints in. When I am allowed to see it I think it is all 
 right — and better-looking than I have any right to ask 
 of it. But he tries on expressions just as I try on a hat." 
 
 Cassie reflected for a moment. "Let's take Dicky to 
 see it," she said. "I know a portrait painter who says 
 he has great confidence in a child's opinion." 
 
 They took Dicky to the next sitting and the portrait 
 was set down on the floor against the wall, so that he could 
 see it satisfactorily. On this occasion it had its detached 
 expression ; the look of one who knows a pleasant secret 
 and isn't going to tell it. 
 
 "That's my bufle Aunt Isabel," said Dicky. "But she 
 doesn't look at me like that." 
 
Isabel Stirling 369 
 
 The artist, who had been studying the child, turned 
 quickly and surprised on Isabel's face the expression with 
 which she did look at Dicky. He lifted the portrait and 
 put it on the easel. This was what he wanted. This, 
 and not the other, was the divine fire. Beside it, that 
 other expression seemed wholly of the earth. He was 
 glad he had not found it. 
 
 "Stay a while, Dicky," he said. "I'll have the picture 
 finished pretty soon and then you shall see it again." 
 
 He turned to Cassie. "Leave the little chap and his 
 nurse," he commanded, rather than requested. "I want 
 him." 
 
 Cassie saw fire in his eye and instantly agreed. When 
 she was gone Dane turned to the nurse. 
 
 "Keep him right here," he said. He pulled out some 
 illustrated magazines and threw them on the floor. "Here, 
 Dicky, look at these." Then he went to work like one 
 inspired. 
 
 It did not take so very long. Dicky exhausted the 
 pictures and made a tour of the studio, called back now 
 and then by Dane and bidden to tell his aunt what he 
 had found. 
 
 At last the artist threw down his brushes. "I can't 
 do any better," he said, with a long sigh. 
 
 Carefully he lifted the painting down to the floor 
 again and stood on guard over it, lest an eager child 
 make a rush. "Here, Dicky," he said. "Is this the way 
 she looks at you ?" 
 
 The child regarded it solemnly and, for a moment, in 
 silence. He clasped his hands ecstatically. "It's just 
 my Aunt Isabel," he said. "I want it. May I have it?" 
 
 "Some day, Dicky," said Isabel, smiling. She had eyes 
 only for the child. 
 
 "Don't you want to see it too?" asked Dane. 
 
 He lifted it and set it on the easel again, and made her 
 stand where she would get the best light. She looked 
 at it without speaking. At last, with a quivering sigh, 
 she turned to him. 
 
 "Paint it out !" she said to him in a low tone. 
 
370 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "Paint it out?" He took a step between her and the 
 picture. "It's absolutely yourself — and the best thing 
 I ever did." 
 
 "I don't want the whole world to see my naked soul." 
 
 "Your soul will bear looking at. But don't concern 
 yourself. The world is blind and stupid — and even if it 
 were not, it would only see half." 
 
 Again she sighed, seeing the futility of her appeal. But 
 she wished he had left the portrait as it was. 
 
 When they were saying their good-byes, he said: "I 
 owe you and Dicky the rarest of all things — a sense of 
 pure satisfaction with my own work." 
 
 To himself he added, after he had closed the door 
 behind her — "And if she marries and has a child of her 
 own, will she ever look like that? I doubt it. In the 
 place of poignancy there'd be complacency !" 
 
 He stood long before the picture, absorbed in every 
 technical detail. "By Jove !" he said, "that's a good piece 
 of work!" 
 
LXVIII 
 
 "Where's everybody ?" called Fordyce from the foot of 
 the stairs. 
 
 "I'm here," said Isabel, coming out of her room. "But 
 I shan't be here long." She came down the stairs as she 
 spoke. "Cassie went to pay some visits which I didn't 
 have to make and is to send back the carriage for me to 
 join her at the Wentworths' reception. It ought to be 
 here now." 
 
 "It's here. Are you in a hurry for the reception? 
 Can't you take me in and stop by the way for a few 
 minutes? Dane tells me that he finished the picture this 
 morning and I came home early on purpose to get you 
 to go with me to see it." He did not add that he had 
 heard Cassie make the arrangement for the afternoon. 
 
 "I can drop you there," said Isabel. 
 
 "And come in just for a minute with me," he persisted. 
 "I want to compare the portrait with the original." 
 
 "Not at all necessary." For some unexplained reason 
 she did not want to go to the studio with him. 
 
 Nevertheless, there seemed to be no real cause for re- 
 fusing. She was glad, however, to find that Dane was 
 not at home. When Lansing came back to the carriage 
 and told her, she wondered why he didn't get in. Instead, 
 he held the door open for her. 
 
 "We're going up, just the same," he said. "I have 
 the freedom of Dane's studio." 
 
 "But I haven't," said Isabel. She went with him, how- 
 ever, for again there seemed to be no good reason why 
 she should refuse, except that she was wondering uncom- 
 fortably whether he would see as much of her soul as 
 the artist had done. 
 
 The easel, with the portrait on it, was turned away 
 from them as they entered, and was placed where it got 
 
 371 
 
37 2 Isabel Stirling 
 
 the best of the waning afternoon light. Isabel stayed 
 near the door while Lansing walked around until he faced 
 the picture. There he stood, silent and motionless. She 
 could not see his face, as the easel was between them. 
 She had an uneasy sense of tenseness in the atmosphere 
 and thought better of an impulse to join him. She re- 
 mained where she was and suddenly began to consider 
 whether she might slip out of the room and leave him 
 there. What a pity that one cannot always recognize 
 one's heaven-sent impulses! She thought it would be a 
 childish trick. Instead, she spoke: 
 
 "I really ought to go on, if you've looked long enough." 
 
 He moved then and came toward her. His back was 
 to the light and she could not see the expression of his 
 face. It was the huskiness of his voice that startled her. 
 
 "You can't go," he said, and put out his hand as if to 
 detain her. 
 
 In a lightning flash her eyes were opened. The shock 
 was dizzying. For an instant she stood quite still. Then, 
 with a woman's instinct to bridge an abyss with a laugh, 
 she said lightly: 
 
 "Oh, but I must. Cassie will be expecting me." She 
 turned quickly to the door. 
 
 "No matter," he said, still in that husky, strained voice. 
 "Nothing matters outside of this room. Good God, 
 Isabel, can't you see ?" 
 
 "I see it's getting late," she said, still lightly. Oh, if 
 she could only get out of the room before he said any- 
 thing more. Unspoken things could be ignored. She had 
 her hand on the knob. 
 
 He put his over it. "You shall not go like that!" he 
 said passionately. "Look at me! Just once with that 
 look in your eyes. . . . How did he get it? Were 
 you looking at Dane like that? He does that to women 
 — but not you — good God, not you!" 
 
 "Take your hand away!" She spoke in a smothered 
 voice, suppressing the shiver that ran through her. She 
 stood rigid until his hand dropped to his side. "How can 
 you insult me so!" she said then. "I was looking at 
 
Isabel Stirling 373 
 
 Dicky. I never knew how I looked — I didn't want Mr. 
 Dane to leave it so — and I owe you no explanation." 
 
 "Isabel ! You should have been mine ! I knew it once 
 and like a fool I let you go. You loved me once!" 
 
 "Never!" She flamed with anger now. "You tried 
 hard enough to make me. You turned the head of a 
 child, but it wasn't love. I never loved anyone but Dick. 
 And you — have you no decency ? Do you forget Cassie ? 
 She's far, far too good for you!" 
 
 "You make me forget everything," he said doggedly. 
 "I choose to forget everything for you." 
 
 She drew herself up. "Once you might have chosen 
 that. You controlled yourself quite easily then. You 
 wait till now — now when you can do the most harm — 
 now when you can hurt Cassie and me so dreadfully " 
 
 "Is it nothing at all to you," he said, "that I'm suffer- 
 ing the tortures of the damned?" 
 
 "That," said Isabel, "does not concern me." 
 
 She opened the door and went out. . . . 
 
 That evening she said to Cassie: "Now that the por- 
 trait is finished I really ought to be going home. Norah 
 has written about things — and I think I'd better be oft 
 to-morrow." 
 
 At last! thought Cassie. 
 
 Isabel had tried for her usual manner, but Cassie's 
 sharp wits were not deceived. She knew that something 
 had happened. She was fair-minded enough to acquit 
 Isabel of everything but stupidity; an unpardonable sin. 
 She ought never to have let anything happen. 
 
 Isabel felt humiliated, heart-broken, almost guilty. The 
 forms of friendship were kept up between them, but both 
 knew that the parting was for an indefinite time. And 
 Dicky! There was a grief indeed! 
 
LXIX 
 
 It was with a sore and bitter heart that Isabel travelled 
 homeward. It seemed to her that never before, even in 
 the keenness of fresh bereavement, had she felt so alone 
 in the world, so bereft of all natural ties; for always 
 hitherto, she had had a comforting sense of Cassie in 
 the background, with her sisterly interest and love. And 
 now, through her, Cassie had received that cruellest hurt. 
 Oh, why couldn't she have had a seeing eye and taken 
 herself away before things came to such a pass? Was 
 ever anyone so stupid ? Which, if she had known it, 
 was just what Cassie was at that moment asking. 
 
 Michael met her at the station, with his warm Irish 
 greeting and his voluble explanation that, but for the 
 shortness of the notice, Mrs. Gifford would have been 
 there. 
 
 " Tis herself that's sorry," said Michael, "but she's 
 having a dinner party, and she'll be over in the morning." 
 
 It didn't matter, Isabel said ; and told him she was glad 
 to see him and Norah; but her spirits sank still lower. 
 Yet when she reached the house, all alight to welcome her, 
 and was met at the door by Norah, overflowing with 
 affection, her heart was a little lightened. After all, it 
 was good to have a home to come to. There was a fire 
 in the parlor and in front of it a small round table was 
 laid for her supper. It looked very cosy. 
 
 "I thought ye'd like it here to-night," said Norah. 
 "And now let me take off yer things and you sit down 
 by the fire till I bring yer supper. I've waffles for ye, 
 and cinnamon and sugar for them." 
 
 Waffles with cinnamon and sugar ! Isabel hadn't seen 
 or heard of such a thing since she left Ptolemy. She ate 
 and drank and wondered somewhat scornfully why her 
 spirits should rise with the comforting of her body. But 
 
 374 
 
Isabel Stirling 375 
 
 after supper was over and she sat by the fire her thoughts 
 went to the empty rooms across the hall. It seemed as if 
 Uncle Brenton must be there, just on the other side of 
 the door. Norah came back and forth, clearing the table, 
 mending the fire, and hovering over her. 
 
 "Are the other rooms lighted ?" she asked 
 
 "Sure, it's all lighted/' said Norah. "I wouldn't lave 
 a dark corner." And then, as Isabel rose from her chair 
 — "But ye'll not be going over there to-night?" 
 
 Isabel looked down into the kindly, anxious face. She 
 patted Norah' s stout shoulder and took an affectionate 
 survey of her, as she stood there in her black gown, with 
 a white apron around her comfortable, middle-aged waist. 
 "Oh, Norah," she said, "you do look so good to me. 
 And I do believe you've got on your very best dress and 
 have cooked supper in it." 
 
 "Sure I have," said Norah, smoothing herself down. 
 " 'Tis the black silk ye sent me when ye were on yer 
 wedding journey. It's always been me best. And now 
 will ye be goin' up to yer own room?" 
 
 "No, Norah, I must go into those rooms to-night. I — 
 I can't go to bed and feel them there — waiting for me." 
 
 "Sure an' I know," said Norah. She went at once back 
 to her kitchen, and wiped her eyes when she was out 
 of sight. 
 
 When Isabel opened the door of the doctor's office it 
 seemed as if she must see him sitting there ; but no, he 
 would be beyond in the little study, leaning back in the 
 big leather chair, smoking his pipe, or writing at his 
 desk. She went in and sat down there herself and covered 
 her face with her hands. She believed then, and she 
 never ceased to believe that he really was there, to wel- 
 come her back to his old home, to comfort her and tell 
 her to take courage. . . . 
 
 The winter sun shone brightly into her room when 
 she opened her eyes the next morning. Norah was softly 
 making a fire in the fireplace. Life was not all bad; 
 and coming back to Ptolemy to live in her own house 
 was also an adventure. She rose to begin life over again. 
 
LXX 
 
 Isabel's house was in the village, where the houses were 
 close together. However, the street was wide and well 
 shaded, and her little garden had not, like many of its 
 neighbors, been stripped of its protecting fence. She 
 cherished such measure of privacy as that gave her. 
 
 In the first hard days, when the memory of that last 
 experience in New York was still fresh in its bitterness, 
 she found some solace in putting her belongings in order ; 
 in trying to make the place livable without depriving it 
 of its personality. The study, a place of dear memories, 
 should be her own writing room — if indeed, she could 
 ever carry out those plans which she had made with so 
 much zest. The flavor had gone out of everything and 
 her imagination seemed paralyzed. She pulled herself 
 together on the resolve that, in spite of everything, she 
 would be master of herself. Her mind should, it must, 
 obey her. 
 
 Of visitors she had no lack. The people of the town 
 came to see her, foremost among them her father's old 
 parishioners. Amy Boyd came, less careworn now, since 
 there were no new babies and the professors' salaries 
 were a trifle more adequate now that the affairs of the 
 university were prospering. With the Giffords there was 
 a happy reunion. When Mrs. Gifford put her arms around 
 her, Isabel realized with self-reproach that in counting 
 herself alone in the world she had underestimated that 
 kind old friend's affection. Judge Gifford made much of 
 her, as he had always done in his humorous way. Ed- 
 mund, for the moment, was away, delivering a course of 
 lectures for which he had obtained leave of absence. He 
 was highly thought of in the university and, it was said, 
 could have whatever he asked for, in spite of certain 
 trustees who were somewhat inclined to mark time, after 
 
 376 
 
Isabel Stirling 377 
 
 the fashion of a factory. Jessie was happy and well in 
 her western home and would be coming east to spend the 
 summer. 
 
 Lily Hazelton, of course, was among the first visitors 
 — just the same Lily, touching her with caressing fingers 
 and saying, "Sweet thing," exactly as she had done years 
 ago when they met at their first army station. Isabel 
 drew away a little at the remembrance. 
 
 "Beautiful as ever," said Lily, "and of course your 
 colored clothes are so becoming." Isabel was wearing a 
 violet morning gown. 
 
 "Now I," pursued Lily, "have never been able to bring 
 myself to make any change in my dress." She sighed and 
 smoothed back a cuff. 
 
 Isabel regarded her with curiosity. Lily was wearing 
 the deepest, most immaculate black. The white ruche in 
 her hat and her crisp lawn collar and cuffs still proclaimed 
 her widowhood. In this setting her delicately tinted, fair 
 face gained a softness and a distinction which it never had 
 possessed in the days of her most artful management of 
 colors. 
 
 She gazed around her with all the old-time envy. "How 
 nice it is," she said, "for you to have a house of your own 
 to come back to. Now I — " She paused and sighed. 
 
 "You have a father and mother to live with," said 
 Isabel, banally enough. 
 
 "Oh, yes, and they are very, very dear and sweet (Isa- 
 bel couldn't imagine anybody, even a daughter, calling 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brainard "sweet"), but when one has lived 
 independently one feels it to come back to even a partial 
 dependence. "I suppose you know we have moved ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Yes, we really didn't care for the neighborhood any 
 longer. There was a chance to sell the house, so now 
 we have one — very tiny, to be sure, up on the hill, not far 
 from the campus." 
 
 "It must be a change for your father and mother. 
 Hadn't they always lived in the same house ?" 
 
 "Yes, ever since they were married — but my dear — the 
 
378 Isabel Stirling 
 
 neighborhood was really impossible." Lily waved the 
 neighborhood away with a gesture of her slim, black- 
 gloved hand. 
 
 Isabel thought of the plain, elderly couple who had 
 lived all their married life among the same friendly 
 neighbors, and felt sorry for them. 
 
 A few days later Mrs. Gifford expressed herself with 
 unaccustomed energy on the subject of Lily. 
 
 "I dare say you'll think I'm getting to be an unchari- 
 table old woman," she said, "but I simply can't stand her 
 pretenses. All the poppycock about her not being able to 
 'make any change* in her dress, for instance. The Brain- 
 ards have very little money, poor things, and she is clever 
 enough to know that she couldn't possibly make such a 
 good appearance if she didn't hold fast to that costume." 
 
 "I think it makes a difference what people about you 
 are doing," said Isabel. "You fall insensibly into the 
 custom of the country. I realize that many people here 
 wear black all their lives. It makes me feel very odd." 
 She ended with a wistful sigh. 
 
 "Oh, my dear !" exclaimed Mrs. Gifford. "You have 
 done exactly right. When I compare you and Lily — 
 well, it's a case of 'rend your hearts and not your gar- 
 ments.' " 
 
 Isabel laughed. The figure did not seem to fit Lily. 
 Even in metaphor one could not picture her rending a 
 garment. 
 
 "And then," pursued Mrs. Gifford, "the way she has 
 dragged those two poor old things up to the top of the 
 hill, so that she can get at the bachelor professors. You 
 know Town and Gown have grown apart of late years — 
 and the hill is a large natural barrier. I'll say for her 
 that she lets the married men alone — but no great credit 
 to her. She wants to marry again. I assure you she'll 
 shed the weeds fast enough if she can get a chance that 
 seems worth her while." 
 
 Isabel smiled and wondered. This diatribe seemed 
 quite uncharacteristic of Mrs. Gifford, who was usually 
 easy-going and disinclined to say hard things about 
 
Isabel Stirling 379 
 
 people. "Will she get the chance, do you think?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "I hope not." Mrs. Gifford set her lips hard. "You 
 see, she doesn't want to marry a poor man this time and 
 the professors, as a rule, are not too well off, although 
 the unmarried ones, as long as they stay unmarried, have 
 money enough to live pleasantly. I suppose the only 
 fairly good match is Edmund." 
 
 "And you certainly don't have to worry about him. I 
 quite remember that he didn't like Lily." 
 
 Mrs. Gifford shook her head. "One can't be too sure. 
 Men change in the course of time — and also, there are 
 critical moments. She's making a dead set at him — and I 
 imagine she knows how to cater to a man. She sits up 
 there in that little house with her tea-table and her chafing 
 dish — and keeps the old people out of the way. I assure 
 you, she's popular among the men. They go there and 
 meet each other and talk — and probably credit her with 
 some of their own good talk. And she pampers them 
 and looks pretty and appealing. And Edmund — well, 
 the instinct of marriage — the desire for a wife and family 
 of his own gets hold of a man. And then if a woman 
 strikes while the iron is hot she's apt to get him, if she 
 has any tact at all. Edmund ought to have married long 
 ago. I love to have him at home, but I hate to see him 
 miss anything he ought to have in life. And now — Lily 
 is after him and I live in mortal terror lest she get him. 
 If she could make him happy — but I'm sure he'd hate 
 her after a while." 
 
 "From what I know of him," said Isabel, "I think he 
 might. Only, I can't for a moment imagine him marry- 
 ing her." 
 
 "You think my imagination is running away with me. 
 Well, my dear, I only hope it may be." 
 
 To tell the truth, that was just what Isabel did think. 
 She thought so all the more when, on his return, Edmund 
 came to see her. There was such a sane, wholesome 
 friendliness about him. Always, she reflected, he dropped 
 back into the same comfortable comradeship, no matter 
 
380 Isabel Stirling 
 
 how long it might have been since they had met. To be 
 sure, there had been that one startling episode when he 
 asked her to marry him; an episode which seemed more 
 and more unreal to her. Probably it had happened at 
 one of those crises of which Mrs. GifTord had spoken, 
 when the instinct to marry seizes a man. At all events 
 it was buried in the past. She hoped she was going to see 
 a good deal of Edmund. More than anyone else in 
 Ptolemy, he spoke her language. 
 
 But, as the weeks passed, she saw him less often than 
 she had anticipated. Of course he was busy catching up 
 with his work, after his absence. When she dined at his 
 mother's, either alone, or with a party of the people whom 
 Mrs. Gifford wanted her to meet, he was as nice to her 
 as ever, but she had disappointingly little of the intimate, 
 intellectually stimulating intercourse with him to which 
 she had looked forward. 
 
 Presently, however, in the other interests which began 
 to fill her time and thoughts, she forgot to miss him. She 
 made new acquaintances. The people whom she met at 
 the GifTords' came to see her and invited her to their 
 houses, where she met more people. Quite simply, she 
 slipped into the innermost exclusive circle of the campus, 
 the circle where there were many charming little enter- 
 tainments. In her modest way, she was able in her turn 
 to entertain these new friends. Edmund came when he 
 was asked and made himself most agreeable. 
 
 She still meant to begin her novel at once. Writing 
 table, paper, pens and ink, all were ready for her in the 
 study, and even a typewriter stood on its table by the 
 window. Yet from day to day she put off beginning, and 
 was thoroughly dissatisfied with herself for the procras- 
 tination. It seemed that her mind still shrank away from 
 all the plans and ideas which owed their beginning to 
 that ill-fated visit. 
 
LXXI 
 
 Of course if Isabel had known of Lily's Sunday after- 
 noons she would not have chosen that day to go to see 
 her. But it happened that, on this particular Sunday 
 solitude became unbearable to her; nor did she want to 
 see anyone to whom she would be tempted to unburden 
 her soul — as she might have done to Mrs. Gifford. The 
 longing for Dicky, which she had kept out of sight, in the 
 back recesses of her mind, had burst all bounds and taken 
 possession of her. She wanted him so dreadfully, wanted 
 to feel him in her arms and to look into those blue eyes. 
 A bitter rage at Lansing Fordyce surged up in her, and 
 shame and sorrow at the thought of Cassie. Every bit 
 of her soul felt sore. 
 
 She tried to read, but the words got no farther than 
 her eyes and she threw the book down. She began a 
 letter to Cassie. Surely they must not quite give up 
 writing. She found herself weeping and a tear fell on 
 the paper. She dropped the letter into the fireplace and 
 touched a match to it. She went to the typewriter and 
 gave herself a lesson in its use. That was calming, but 
 not enlivening, and she soon got tired of it. Although she 
 had been walking all the morning, she decided to go out 
 again, and went to put on her hat and coat. 
 
 The gusty March wind blew violently in her face as 
 she opened her door and stepped out. The winter snow, 
 lingering late in that northern climate, still lay in patches 
 in sheltered spots, and on the gray, uncovered ground 
 there was, as yet, no tinge of green. "Horrid climate I" 
 she said, as she fought her way against the wind, but it 
 brought color to her cheeks and light to her eyes. 
 
 She walked far up on the hill and the day was waning 
 when, on her return, she passed the Brainards* little house. 
 It occurred to her that it would be a convenient time to 
 
 S81 
 
382 Isabel Stirling 
 
 go in and return one of Lily's numerous visits. She was 
 hating to go home to shadows and memories. 
 
 She would not have been admitted if it had occurred to 
 Lily to deny herself to unexpected visitors, but as no 
 woman had yet been known to come on a Sunday, the 
 maid let Isabel in. When she heard the voices she thought 
 it was too late to withdraw. Yet she stood for a moment 
 on the threshold of the parlor before anyone saw her. 
 
 The corners of the room were dusky, but the tea-table 
 was in a lighted space. Lily's face shone out white above 
 her black gown. She was smiling up at Edmund Gifford, 
 who stood near her, tea-cup in hand. There was an open 
 fire and in front of it two men were talking and smoking. 
 Another was sitting near the tea-table, evidently having a 
 bantering argument with Edmund. It all looked intimate 
 and attractive. Isabel felt more and more annoyed at 
 herself for being there. 
 
 It really was but an instant before Lily saw her and 
 sprang up. Her cordial manner was extremely well put 
 on and Isabel was grateful to her for it. 
 
 "But this is delightful !" exclaimed Lily. "I had been 
 wondering so much what had become of you, and now 
 you just complete our little circle. You know everybody 
 here? Mr. Lang, Mr. McAlpine, Mr. Harding — I sup- 
 pose I ought to say Professor to all of them, but you 
 know nobody is professorish here. Come and sit down 
 right here by the fire — you don't mind smoke. Doesn't 
 it remind you of our dear old army days?" 
 
 The man by the fire offered her a chair with alacrity, 
 but it was Edmund who brought her a cup of tea, after 
 which he drew up a chair for himself and sat down by her. 
 He had been quick to see the little embarrassment which 
 no one else had detected. One of the two men, after 
 standing about for a moment, strolled to the tea-table, 
 and presently the other followed him. Not but what 
 either of them would willingly have stayed to talk with 
 Mrs. Maiden if Gifford had given them a chance. Coming 
 in tingling and glowing after her battle with the wind, 
 she had brought into the warm, dim room a suggestion of 
 
Isabel Stirling 383 
 
 open-air freedom and buoyancy. Beside her Lily seemed 
 bleached. 
 
 "I really had no idea," she said to Edmund, with a half 
 deprecating laugh. 
 
 "You had no idea how sophisticated we had become in 
 Ptolemy. The Sunday salon was unknown when you 
 lived here." 
 
 "Ptolemy is much nicer now. At least, the campus. 
 The people there don't seem so careworn as they used to." 
 
 "You frequent the upper stratum where they have good 
 salaries and time to amuse themselves." 
 
 "And work enough too—which they do." 
 
 "They're obliged to do it. You sound envious of the 
 work. Does time hang on your hands?" 
 
 "On, I'm constitutionally busy — and so I don't do the 
 right things. Don't you know what makes time shortest 
 of all? It's keeping on not doing the thing that you 
 intended to do — that you most want to do. It's always 
 to-morrow — and to-morrow is over before you know it 
 has begun." 
 
 "I know. It eats up your life and leaves you dissatis- 
 fied. But why not make a plunge and begin ?" 
 
 "I'm putting it off till this evening. And this evening 
 I'll put it off till to-morrow." 
 
 "So you're planning another novel." 
 
 She laughed. "Of course it's easy for you to guess. 
 And I never meant to let a soul know of my presumptuous 
 ambitions. But you are very safe." 
 
 "Don't write anything that you must keep secret." 
 
 "I never shall. Only while I'm trying to do it. One 
 really must keep one's own counsel then — little as I seem 
 to be doing it. Perhaps you think because I've told you 
 so easily " 
 
 "I believe I think it's natural for you to let me into 
 the secret. You know I was the only person — at least, I 
 think I was the only person who found you out before. 
 That was an extraordinary thing — a girl of your age 
 doing such a thing and keeping it absolutely to herself." 
 
 "I had an idea of telling you," she said, playing with 
 
384 Isabel Stirling > 
 
 her teaspoon. "You wouldn't have let me publish it, and 
 of course I ought not to have published it." 
 
 "But why?" he began, and stopped with a sudden 
 thought of the possible reason. "How did you manage 
 the details?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, Uncle Brenton knew I was doing something, be- 
 cause I had to ask him to let my mail come to him. He 
 didn't take it seriously — and was horrified when he saw 
 it. And you — you were really the cause of it, you know." 
 
 He smiled. "I've always wondered if a conversation 
 at one of our lessons started you." 
 
 "I began it that very day. And you helped me all along 
 too." 
 
 "Of course I tried to set you in the way of writing 
 English, but that was very little." 
 
 "You helped me by telling me that I couldn't do any- 
 thing without applause — that I wouldn't work on a desert 
 island. So whenever I got tired of it and wanted to give 
 it up I said I would work on my desert island. But after 
 all, you were right about it." 
 
 "I don't quite see it. It seems to me that I was signally 
 wrong." 
 
 "I can see that I always meant to tell you some time 
 and get your applause. I thought I was so clever. But 
 you didn't applaud me to any great extent that one time 
 when you did speak to me about it." 
 
 "I'm sure I admitted cleverness. It was clever. But 
 you'll do a great deal better now. Just for the moment 
 you are feeling as if you were on that desert island, and 
 so you can't begin. Let me land on the island with you. 
 Talk to me about it. But there's a better thing than talk- 
 ing. Begin! There's magic in beginning." 
 
 "I'll begin to-day — just as I did before." 
 
 "And, of course, you'll tell me how you are getting on." 
 
 They talked a little more before Isabel recalled her 
 intention of staying only for a moment. She rose and 
 set down her teacup. "I must speak to Lily and then go 
 home," she said. 
 
 Edmund followed her to the tea-table. 
 
Isabel Stirling 385 
 
 "Don't go," said Lily, rising with alacrity, to speed the 
 parting. She had hardly been able to endure the sight of 
 the two, so absorbed in conversation. 
 
 "I only stopped in passing," said Isabel. "I'll come 
 another day." 
 
 "Let me walk home with you," said Edmund. "It's 
 quite dark." 
 
 Lily's fingers tapped impatiently on the back of the 
 chair near which she was standing. This was too much 
 and, in spite of herself, the sweetness of her tone could 
 not quite cover a touch of sharpness. 
 
 "Do!" she said. "We can look over those pictures 
 another time." She glanced, as she spoke, at the portfolio 
 which he had brought, at her request. He had not in- 
 tended to show her the pictures, only to leave them with 
 her. 
 
 "It isn't in the least late," said Isabel. "It only looks 
 dark from inside. I came out for an unfriendly solitary 
 walk and you must let me go on with it. Good-bye." 
 
 She went quickly to the door and turning, smiled at 
 them all before she disappeared. With her departure 
 some vitality seemed to go out of the atmosphere. 
 
 Edmund outstayed the others, as Lily had intended him 
 to do, and showed her the photographs. It bored him to 
 show pictures to a person who had not his associations 
 with them. 
 
LXXII 
 
 Isabel felt like a schoolgirl again, working under a spur. 
 She began her novel that night and, under the impetus of 
 her conversation with Edmund, wrote a first chapter 
 which pleased her. She read it over once more just before 
 she got into bed and asked herself half incredulously, 
 whether she could keep up the pace. "But I will!" she 
 said, as she put out her light. 
 
 The next morning things did not go so well. She 
 wrote and rewrote and destroyed. At the end of three 
 hours she was just beginning to get into the swing of 
 thought and expression when Norah announced luncheon 
 and she had to stop. After that it was not easy to begin 
 again. Besides, she wanted to get out of doors. When 
 evening came she had written no more, but a visit from 
 Edmund encouraged her. 
 
 "Show me what you've done," he said, and she obeyed. 
 
 It reminded them both of the days when he read and 
 corrected her exercises in English. 
 
 "That's good," he said. "Really good. And now?" 
 
 "Nothing but drivel since that. It's easy to make a 
 start, and so hard to go on." 
 
 "You'll come to smooth sailing again — by dint of 
 cruelly hard work. Do you feel like telling me something 
 about your plot?" 
 
 "I feel exactly like it, but I'm going to deny myself. 
 Not because it would bore you, though I dare say it might, 
 but because I'm afraid it would be an enervating luxury. 
 I've an idea that what I have to say will gather more force 
 if I keep it tightly bottled and only let it out on paper." 
 
 "You're probably right. Show it to me afterward. 
 But you know I'm an incorrigible critic — and, I'm afraid, 
 a confirmed schoolmaster." 
 
Isabel Stirling 387 
 
 1 like your criticism. It's fierce, but stimulating. I 
 haven't forgotten. And I need something to drive me. 
 Oh, you were quite right about the desert island. My 
 mind isn't a kingdom to me unless it is stimulated by 
 contact with other minds. It gets stodgy. But if a com- 
 petent person is going to overhaul me — that makes all 
 the difference. It's very good of you." 
 
 He looked at her across the library table. They had 
 unconsciously taken the old positions they had been used 
 to occupy when she came to his study as a pupil. He 
 recalled her as she was then; the ardor of her seeking 
 mind, the eager intelligence with which she responded to 
 his guidance, the impatience to begin and accomplish 
 which had carried her through the extraordinary under- 
 taking of her book, and then — the radiance of her girlish 
 beauty. She was not less beautiful now, he thought. The 
 years, with their sorrows, had matured her, but had made 
 no conquest. And the ardent, seeking mind was still hers, 
 and the determination to achieve. How interesting it 
 would be to watch and to help her. 
 
 "Suppose you abandon that stiff chair," she was saying, 
 "and take an easy one, by the fire. I have cigars and 
 cigarettes which competent judges tell me are fit to 
 smoke." 
 
 "You didn't learn to smoke, yourself, while you were 
 abroad?" he asked, as he took the seat she suggested. 
 
 "Could I ever have come back to Ptolemy if I had? 
 Besides, even if I had wanted to, I don't think Margaret 
 could have borne it." 
 
 "How is she, the good Margaret?" 
 
 "Always the very best Margaret. She's a person you 
 can count on, whether you can on anyone else or not." 
 
 A shadow came over her face and he looked at her 
 curiously. 
 
 "Are you writing something, yourself ?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm usually writing something," he told her, "but 
 nothing of very much account. Students pick my brains 
 dry. However, I shall take a sabbatical year soon, and 
 then perhaps " 
 
388 Isabel Stirling 
 
 That was the first of many evenings which he spent 
 with her. As far as she knew, he still may have gone to 
 Lily on Sunday afternoons and perhaps at other times, 
 but it hardly seemed to her that his mother's fears could 
 have any real foundation. He was so exactly his old self, 
 just as she had always known him, except during that 
 one brief, amazing episode. How unreal that seemed to 
 her now, and how uncharacteristic! The real Edmund 
 was this friendly, whimsical, thoroughly human man of 
 intellect ; a man with a very particular genius for friend- 
 ship, both with men and women; sympathetic, quick- 
 witted, domineering at times, sure he was right and that 
 one must go his way, yet always, with a laugh and a 
 shrug, recognizing his own foibles. This was not a man 
 to concentrate his affections on a wife and to sit quietly 
 by his own fireside. For him, an open house of his own 
 and a welcome at many firesides. Certainly the warmest 
 of welcomes at hers. 
 
 Of course Ptolemy would have talked if Ptolemy had 
 known, but Isabel received few other visits in the evening, 
 so that Edmund was seldom met at her house except when 
 she invited him there with other guests. Without any 
 intention of concealment on the part of either of them, 
 their growing intimacy was kept out of the public eye. 
 Yet in one case Isabel did purposely avoid mentioning it. 
 She had quoted some saying of his to his mother, and had 
 added, quite innocently: 
 
 "You know Edmund comes to see me sometimes and 
 I always enjoy him." 
 
 Mrs. Gifford had looked so greatly pleased and, withal, 
 had given her such a sharp glance that she was vexed. 
 Edmund's mother, she told herself, was too ready to 
 imagine things. She had alarmed herself so much and so 
 groundlessly that now she wanted to turn matchmaker 
 to keep him safe from Lily. After that she refrained from 
 mentioning his visits. 
 
 Meantime, she was writing diligently and, from time 
 to time, showing Edmund what she had written. As he 
 had said of himself, he was an unsparing critic and an 
 
Isabel Stirling 389 
 
 urgent one. She didn't always agree with him and they 
 had hot arguments. 
 
 "I really think," she said to him once, "that your 
 criticism helps me almost more when I think you are 
 wrong than when I know you are right. When I disagree 
 with you it is as if you drove my mind with whip and 
 spur and it goes on the gallop. In trying to answer you 
 I get ideas I've never had before and never should have 
 had, and it helps me a lot." 
 
 "That's gratifying — and shows you are worth criti- 
 cising." 
 
 He was always willing to see when she was right and 
 to admit it handsomely. "Far be it from me to meddle," 
 he said once. "You are quite capable of carrying the 
 thing through without any help of mine." 
 
 But it was not possible for him to keep his hand out. 
 In half an hour he might start a fresh discussion and 
 would be as sure as ever that he was right. It was one 
 Saturday evening that, before leaving her, he issued 
 orders to her to rewrite a certain chapter within twenty- 
 four hours. "You must do this," he said, "while the iron 
 is hot. Make the first draft to-night, if you're not too 
 tired. Anyway, work at it to-morrow morning and in the 
 afternoon I'll drop in, if you'll let me. Perhaps you'll 
 give me a cup of tea." 
 
 On that occasion Isabel never gave a thought to Lily 
 and her Sunday tea-table, but when he came again the 
 next Sunday, and again the next, she wondered what Lily 
 was thinking about his defection and thought how relieved 
 Mrs. Gifford would be if she could know. But the good 
 lady had to do without that comfort. . . . 
 
 Spring came on reluctantly, with many advances and 
 retreats, as is her custom in that unfriendly climate. 
 Isabel, usually impatient of the season's slow advance, 
 noticed it so little now that she was surprised when. her 
 garden burst into bloom ; surprised, too, at her own peace 
 of mind. She still felt the hurt of that unhappy ending 
 of her New York visit, still longed for Dicky and had 
 pangs of self-reproachful distress at the thought of Cassie, 
 
390 Isabel Stirling 
 
 but she resolutely pushed those thoughts into the back- 
 ground. She wrote to Cassie from time to time — that 
 one thing she would not give up, and she could only hope 
 that in the future Cassie would not be sorry to have kept 
 up their intercourse, although at present she responded 
 seldom and briefly. 
 
 In other ways Isabel's time and thoughts were fully 
 and agreeably occupied. From the time she got up in 
 the morning until she unwillingly went to bed at night 
 she found plenty to do, and only wished that the days 
 might be longer. Her garden and her writing-table com- 
 peted for her attention of a morning; her books always 
 awaited her pleasure ; and her few old friends of the town 
 and her many new ones of the campus contrived to fill 
 as many of the later hours of the day as she would give 
 to them. As for Edmund, he was now an inspiring habit. 
 
LXXIII 
 
 It sometimes seemed to Isabel that the novel was too 
 solidly planted on its feet. It marched, yes — but it did 
 not soar. And sometimes her imagination felt its wings 
 and longed to try them in the upper air. But she was 
 working under a master, and stimulating though Edmund 
 was to her intellect, her imagination shyly withdrew itself 
 from his expert criticism. There were moments when 
 her spirit demanded solitude. 
 
 It was at such a moment that she left the pile of manu- 
 script in its drawer and seated herself at her typewriter 
 with fresh paper before her. She told herself apologeti- 
 cally that it was only a short story she wanted to write 
 and that perhaps she would do her real work better if 
 she got this off her mind. 
 
 All the morning she worked. She was learning at last 
 to think on the typewriter and found that it far surpassed 
 the pen. The little story shaped itself under her flying 
 fingers and, from some subconscious realm of her mind, 
 came thoughts and words and phrases which, it seemed, 
 she could never deliberately have devised. When Norah 
 came to call her to luncheon she looked up, dazed. The 
 room seemed quite unfamiliar to her and Norah's voice 
 came as from a distance. With an effort she brought 
 herself back, looking about her and placing the familiar 
 objects. Then she rose with a long sigh. Could she 
 recapture the mood? 
 
 She did recapture it, helped by the habit of voluntary 
 concentration acquired in the weeks of hard work. It 
 was wonderful to her to find that, under favoring cir- 
 cumstances, the wings of imagination could be made to 
 bear her up at her bidding. When, at the end, she read 
 over what she had written, she was elated. Faulty it was, 
 
 391 
 
392 Isabel Stirling 
 
 careless and diffuse, but it had a quality which had been 
 in nothing else which she had ever written. 
 
 And now to correct the faults. Not for this would she 
 consult Edmund. Between them, they would clip the 
 wings of fancy and bring the poor butterfly fluttering 
 down to earth. She corrected and condensed and rewrote, 
 but always with a care to free rather than to fetter the 
 elfin child of her soul. Then, when she had done all that 
 she could, she signed her name and sent the manuscript 
 to the editor of the magazine for which she had the most 
 regard. 
 
 Edmund wondered that she had nothing to show him 
 and reproached her with laziness. 
 
 "I'm not lazy," she replied. "But Fve wondered some- 
 times whether I had it in me to do anything alone — 
 whether I wasn't depending on you too much." She was 
 tempted to tell him about the little story. 
 
 He was silent for a moment, looking at her somewhat 
 intently. Then he smiled. "But why not depend on me ?" 
 he said. "I'm always here." 
 
 "And always good to me — even when you browbeat 
 me. But after all, I must learn to do my own work." 
 
 "Must you ? Really, you know, my help doesn't amount 
 to much, except to keep you from feeling alone on your 
 desert island. And I like being there with you." 
 
 "Oh, I certainly like to have you. Don't sail away. 
 I'm coming back to you with a big bunch of manuscript 
 some evening — for you to tear to pieces." 
 
 "Why not for me to approve? Very well, since you 
 don't dismiss me altogether, perhaps you'll turn about and 
 give me some criticism yourself. I'd like to bring a little 
 thing of my own to read to you. Our discussions have 
 started me off and I've experimented a bit." 
 
 She leaned forward, her eyes shining. "Oh, if you 
 would let me hear it ! I'm immensely flattered." 
 
 It was just at that moment, when he smiled into her 
 eyes, that a little uneasiness invaded her consciousness, 
 though so slightly that she was able to put it aside and 
 forget it. 
 
Isabel Stirling 393 
 
 He brought his manuscript — a short essay — and in 
 response to her enthusiastic appreciation of the clever 
 deftness of his touch, told her that it was she who had 
 inspired it. 
 
 "In the matter of mental stimulus," he said, "you give 
 far more than you get." 
 
 There was that in his voice which again disturbed her, 
 and this time she was not able to forget it. 
 
 After her unhappy experience with Lansing Fordyce 
 she had vowed that never again would she be taken by 
 surprise in such a matter. In the future she would be 
 wary to the point of exaggeration. Surely now it seemed 
 an exaggeration of her imagination, of her self-conceit, 
 to think of Edmund in such a connection, so confident 
 had been her belief in his brotherly friendship and in his 
 immunity from feelings of another sort. That he had 
 once professed to love her had not seemed to count in 
 her estimate of him; but it counted immeasurably if it 
 were indeed possible that he cared for her now in that 
 way. It was unthinkable that she should be a second time 
 surprised by Edmund, and it would be absolutely un- 
 pardonable. And yet — if it were all her imagination, how 
 fatuous to discourage where discouragement was need- 
 less! She blushed with shame at the thought. 
 
 For all that Isabel had never been foreseeing in such 
 matters, the latter years had not left her quite without 
 experience in the delicate art of withdrawal from advances 
 which she could not encourage. But what a thankless 
 task it was to set about a gradual separation from a friend 
 to whom she was attached. She loved Edmund's visits, 
 loved all their intercourse. Without him, she felt that 
 she would be horribly lonely. Yet it did not then occur 
 to her to ask herself why, under those circumstances, she 
 should put him away from her. 
 
 She rose the next morning, planning her day as usual ; 
 but the flavor was taken out of all her pursuits. She 
 took her manuscript out of its drawer only to put it back 
 again. She busied herself more successfully in manual 
 labor among her flowers, but she worked without zest. 
 
394 Isabel Stirling 
 
 Fortunately she was invited out that evening and felt that 
 she had gained a breathing space. Edmund was at the 
 dinner and seemed so altogether natural that she told 
 herself she had been imagining things. With immense 
 relief she gave herself up to enjoyment; and when he 
 came the next evening she felt that everything was simple 
 and natural again. 
 
 But again there were disturbing indications. Now that 
 her eyes were open nothing escaped her. There could be 
 no dalliance with the situation. She must address herself 
 to the difficult task of setting up an invisible, impalpable 
 barrier between herself and him. 
 
 It was not easy, when she received a flatteringly prompt 
 acceptance of her story, to keep from telling him about it. 
 She was immensely elated and it was lonely business, 
 keeping her elation to herself. Some day he would see 
 it published with her name. How surprised he would be ! 
 And how she was always going to miss him ! 
 
LXXIV 
 
 Isabel saw very little of Lily nowadays and would 
 scarcely have thought of her, but for an uncanny feeling 
 which grew upon her that Lily was watching her. She 
 had had that impression ever since the evening when Lily 
 had so surprisingly dropped in on her; surprisingly, be- 
 cause they had exchanged no evening visits. The distance 
 was great and there were, as yet, no street cars. 
 
 Edmund was with her at the time (this was in the hey- 
 day of their friendship), and it happened that, for once, 
 they were not in the study, but in the larger room in front. 
 It was a mild evening late in May and still quite light. 
 They were standing at an open window, discussing some 
 matter of , gardening. In that, as in so many other things, 
 Edmund was an adept. 
 
 Lily hated walking, but she had for some time been 
 wondering what Isabel did with herself of an evening 
 when there were no entertainments going on. She had 
 descended from her cottage on the hill on the chance of 
 finding out. Coming from the other direction, she did 
 not have to pass their window, but heard their voices 
 before she came up the verandah steps, and came lightly. 
 Also, she did not ring the doorbell. What need of such 
 formality between old friends, especially as the door 
 stood open, with only the green blind doors closed? She 
 pushed the blinds apart and turned toward the voices. 
 
 "May I come in?" she called, and entered the room 
 without waiting for an answer. "But this is nice," she 
 went on, shaking hands with them both. "I walked all 
 the way down, thinking you might be having a lonely eve- 
 ning — I've had so many of them myself. You quite got 
 on my mind. But now I'm quite happy about you — and 
 
 395 
 
396 Isabel Stirling 
 
 I must only stay a minute and get home before dark. You 
 know I was always such a ridiculous coward about going 
 out alone after dark." 
 
 But she did not go. Isabel displayed all the cordiality 
 she could muster and Lily settled herself gracefully in a 
 chair and stayed until long after twilight had given place 
 to darkness. Isabel lighted a lamp and still she stayed. 
 It was nearly ten o'clock when she jumped up with an 
 air of suddenly recollecting herself. 
 
 "How could you let me stay so long?" she exclaimed. 
 "I simply forgot that we weren't at the dear old post, 
 where one ran back and forth at any hour — well, yes — " 
 as Edmund picked up his hat and prepared to accompany 
 her — "I'll have to let you go with me, though it's horrid 
 to take you away. Won't you bring Isabel up some time 
 and spend an evening with me?" 
 
 As the door closed after them Isabel wondered just 
 what had brought Lily down there that evening. There 
 was no reason why it should seem strange for anyone to 
 find Edmund at the house of so old a friend as she, yet 
 there had been an alert watchfulness in Lily's eyes which 
 vexed her. 
 
 Lily did not come again for a long time, but there was 
 another meeting between the three just at the time when 
 Isabel had definitely made up her mind that she must 
 break off her intimate friendship with Edmund. It was 
 at a large reception during Commencement week. Ed- 
 mund had joined her and they were standing a little apart 
 from the crowd, enjoying the breeze which came wander- 
 ing through a bay window. Lily came to them with an 
 air of drifting, but with purpose in her hard blue eyes. 
 Young Professor Lang was with her. 
 
 "Wise people," she said, "to get near a window. It's 
 suffocating in that crowd." She folded up the big black 
 fan which she had been languidly swaying. "One wouldn't 
 have thought there could be such a keen little breeze." 
 
 Edmund glanced at Isabel's bare shoulders and at the 
 little curly lock at the back of her neck which, loosened 
 from the mass of her hair, was fluttering in the draft. 
 
Isabel Stirling 397 
 
 "Stand here," he said, standing aside to give her his place. 
 "Just so that you don't have your back to the breeze." 
 
 She laughed at his carefulness, but moved as he 
 directed, yielding as a matter of course, to his autocratic 
 way, but became so aware of Lily's keen and malicious 
 observation that she blushed, inopportunely and uncom- 
 fortably. 
 
 Lily added audacity to malice because she foresaw fail- 
 ure to her plan of leaving Mr. Lang with Isabel and taking 
 Edmund away. 
 
 "I was thinking of our parties when we were in our 
 teens, Isabel and I," she said, turning to him. "I remem- 
 ber you were a sort of missionary who went about show- 
 ing people how they ought to behave. You separated all 
 the couples and paired them off differently. Do you still 
 do that?" 
 
 "How irritating I must have been. Do let me forget 
 my disagreeableness. No, I shouldn't dream now of in- 
 terfering with you in any of your little affairs." 
 
 Her head went up. "Oh, you didn't interfere very 
 appreciably then," she said. "Our customs remained 
 much the same, stupid as they were.". 
 
 Edmund thought the retort good, especially for Lily, 
 who ordinarily was nothing if not amiable toward him. 
 He liked her very well at that moment and would have 
 liked her better if she had then taken herself off. Instead 
 of that, it was Isabel who, by some skilful management, 
 presently walked away with Mr. Lang, leaving Lily sur- 
 prised at the success of her scheme. 
 
 It was not a happy evening for Isabel, who found the 
 business of turning cool to Edmund entirely hateful. 
 When she took her leave early she found that he intended 
 to drive home with her and that she could not prevent him. 
 She fenced with him delicately during the drive and, when 
 he had left her at her door and she had locked it and put 
 out the hall light and gone to her room, she told herself 
 that she must do something more decided. Yet, although 
 she stayed awake for hours, she could not devise any plan 
 but that of flight. She could accept those invitations from 
 
\ 
 
 398 Isabel Stirling 
 
 her father and Margaret which she had intended to ac- 
 cept later. To be sure, she didn't want to go away, but 
 what of that ? 
 
 And yet it was still so intangible. Edmund implied a 
 great deal, but so elusively that she needn't notice it if 
 she did not choose. But she must choose. 
 
 Oh, why must such things happen? She had been 
 more contented, really happier than she had ever expected 
 to be again. She liked these people whom she was learn- 
 ing to know, liked her position among them, liked her 
 house and garden and good old Norah and Michael. More 
 than all, she liked Edmund himself and their happy com- 
 radeship. Oh, why couldn't he be satisfied with the 
 friendship which she found so sufficing? 
 
 Nor did morning bring comfort. What it brought was 
 a visit from Lily. Isabel greeted her cordially, glad of 
 anything that promised distraction from her perplexities. 
 
 "I came early to have a nice long visit," said Lily. 
 "We don't have them as often as we used to in the dear 
 old days." She had brought her work-bag and took out a 
 piece of her fine sewing. "I don't suppose you sew any 
 more than you used to," she said. "Ah, well, you don't 
 have to." 
 
 "You do everything like that so beautifully," said 
 Isabel, with ungrudging admiration. 
 
 "It's just as it always used to be and probably will be 
 all my life. I have to make my pretty things or do 
 without them. I thought, for the summer, I'd wear these 
 little mull fichus, but they have to be hemstitched." 
 
 She sewed for a while and talked of trifles, while Isabel 
 leaned back lazily in a big chair, responding as far as 
 necessary and reflecting that a conversation with Lily 
 never did make much demand on one's intellect. 
 
 "I suppose that to you those old days when I used to 
 bring my work over and sit with you must seem very far 
 off and dim — nozv/' said Lily. 
 
 "I don't see why 'now' especially," said Isabel. She 
 wished that Lily would not constantly go back to the 
 memories which she could not bear to share with her. 
 
Isabel Stirling 399 
 
 "Well, because it seems to me that life is opening 
 freshly to you again." Lily spoke with a sentimental 
 intonation, but cast a keen side-glance as she did so. 
 
 "Of course every time one comes home and starts again 
 you might call it a fresh beginning, but it doesn't mean as 
 much as all that." 
 
 "Oh, you can't possibly be as unconscious as you seem. 
 And really, Isabel, you might confide in me — old friends 
 as we are. I'd like to be the first to congratulate you." 
 
 Isabel suddenly sat up straight. "I don't in the least 
 understand you," she said, but understanding had come 
 to her and her voice was frigid. 
 
 Lily had laid down her work. "Of course you do 
 understand," she said. "And I do think, Isabel, you 
 might tell me about it. When are you going to be 
 married?" 
 
 Isabel's face flamed. "How dare you ?" she exclaimed. 
 
 "You act as if I had insulted you. How ridiculous !" 
 
 "I feel as if you had." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you are not going to marry 
 Edmund GifTord?" 
 
 "You have no right to ask such a question and I am 
 not obliged to answer you, but to make things perfectly 
 plain I will tell you that there has never been such a 
 thought between us." 
 
 "Then I must say — " began Lily. She picked with 
 her needle at the work in her lap. "He's got the thought, 
 all right," she said. "And if you haven't, then I think 
 you've been behaving horridly." 
 
 "I don't think you need disturb yourself about Ed- 
 mund," said Isabel coldly. 
 
 "I'm not troubling myself about Edmund." The color 
 rose at last in Lily's cheeks. "I'm troubling about myself. 
 / love Edmund, though I'd never have let you suspect it if 
 you had been going to marry him. He was beginning to 
 care for me — it wouldn't have been long before I should 
 have been the one to announce a marriage. And then you 
 came. You came to my house — uhinvited — and took him 
 away before my eyes. And now you say you don't want 
 
400 Isabel Stirling 
 
 him yourself. I don't believe you. I believe you do want 
 him and have led me on to tell you " 
 
 "Lily, don't P 
 
 "You act," said Lily, "as if one had no right to marry 
 again — but you'll do it, when you get ready. One doesn't 
 bury oneself forever. We're both women, after all." 
 
 She stopped and waited until she could recover her 
 usual manner. "Dear Isabel," she said, "do forgive me. 
 And try to be a friend to me. It isn't, after all, quite 
 impossible that Edmund should get back to where he was 
 before you came. Won't you let him alone — since you 
 really don't want him?" 
 
 Isabel stared at her, unable to frame a reply. 
 
 "Can't you see," said Lily, struggling with tears, "how 
 difficult it is for me to open my heart to you in this way?" 
 
 "Difficult!" said Isabel. "It ought to be impossible." 
 
 Lily turned white to her lips. "I don't think," she said 
 slowly, "that I can ever forgive you for that." 
 
 Her face was quite hard and expressionless now. At 
 that moment she was a plain woman who looked her full 
 age. She folded up her work, put it carefully into her 
 bag and got up. Isabel watched her in silence, nor did 
 she speak when Lily, pausing an instant at the door, went 
 out of the room. There seemed to be nothing to say. 
 
LXXV 
 
 Isabel felt that she positively could not see Edmund that 
 evening, for every reason. But he came earlier than 
 usual, before she had time to carry out her intention of 
 going out after dinner. Norah let him in, of course. It 
 would never have done to depend on Norah to help her 
 evade him. 
 
 As it happened, Edmund was at his best that night and 
 so entirely undisturbing to her composure that she was 
 fain to think that she had greatly exaggerated the situa- 
 tion. From moment to moment, she felt the nervous 
 tension of the past twenty-four hours relaxing. She was 
 able to put Lily and her horrid impertinence out of her 
 mind as unworthy of another thought. 
 
 Edmund had been blind neither to her expression of 
 worry and preoccupation during the early part of the 
 evening, nor to the way in which that expression had 
 yielded to her usual cheerfulness ; the cheerfulness which 
 he liked to think he had helped to restore to her. It was 
 no wonder that he felt encouraged ; no wonder that, after 
 having shown consummate tact in his management of 
 the situation, he should, just at the end, have spoiled his 
 effect by a word, a tone, a glance, by the merest accen- 
 tuation of his hand-clasp in leave-taking. But had he 
 spoiled it? 
 
 When the door had closed behind him Isabel stood still 
 for a moment, then walked slowly to the writing table, 
 and sat down in the chair in front of it. She put her 
 elbows on the table and rested her head on her hands. She 
 felt almost dizzy, as if the ground had been cut away from 
 under her feet. For she had felt, within herself, the most 
 sudden, surprising, disturbing impulse of response to 
 Edmund's calL She would almost have liked to cling to 
 
 401 
 
402 Isabel Stirling 
 
 his hand when he held hers for that unnecessary instant, 
 although, as a matter of fact, she had withdrawn her 
 fingers quickly. She was ashamed and overwhelmed and 
 utterly astonished. 
 
 And then, for the first time, the thought invaded her 
 mind — what if she should yield, instead of withdrawing? 
 She raised her head and, sitting straight up in her chair, 
 faced the idea and considered it. 
 
 Certainly, she had an affection for Edmund. As to 
 that, she could hardly bear the idea of giving him up — as 
 she would have to do. There could be no halfway meas- 
 ure of friendship between them any more. Probably she 
 had as much affection for him as he would ever demand. 
 Of course not the love she gave to Dick. That was dif- 
 ferent. But life with Edmund would be charming. He 
 was so companionable, so altogether pleasant, and so 
 stimulating. And dear Mrs. Gifford would be so pleased. 
 She could be a real daughter to Mrs. Gifford; not like 
 Jessie, of course, but a daughter near at hand and occu- 
 pied in making the beloved son happy, even if she couldn't 
 give him the love that was Dick's. 
 
 As for Dick, would she not go to him in that other 
 world, which could not be a material world? She never 
 doubted the existence of that other world, or of Dick 
 and Uncle Brenton living in it. But Dick — since he was 
 through with material things, would he care for that side 
 of it, if she could be happy and less lonely while she was 
 waiting ? 
 
 Will he care — if I keep my soul for him? 
 
 Perhaps he wouldn't. Perhaps they didn't care over 
 there for the things of this material world. But she 
 herself cared dreadfully. And to keep her soul for one 
 man while giving her body to another would be too re- 
 volting. No, she must give herself entirely or not at all. 
 Edmund must be all in all to her, just as Dick had been. 
 
 She got up, walked across the room and back, then sat 
 down again with flaming cheeks. Yes, there might be 
 children. Her life, like other women's, might have 
 significance. . . . 
 
Isabel Stirling 403 
 
 Dicky's blue eyes seemed to look into hers. There had 
 been no child for Dick. 
 
 Then she tried to think sanely and unselfishly about 
 Edmund. She could make him happy. Ought she to 
 make him unhappy? Was she not fantastic and selfish? 
 Almost the whole world married again and she hadn't 
 the slightest objection to it — for them. She had even 
 been glad sometimes to see a life renewed and made happy 
 again — had said what a good thing it was. Why should 
 it seem so different in her own case ? Had she any right 
 to sacrifice Edmund, who had been so unceasingly good 
 to her? She hid her face in her hands, trying to make 
 herself see things reasonably. Yet when she raised her 
 head one thought stood out in her mind: / have given 
 myself once. To do it again — no, that is not for me. 
 
 Fantastic perhaps — but she couldn't argue it away, this 
 feeling that in giving herself twice she would be sacri- 
 ficing her spiritual integrity. Isn't it — she asked herself 
 — the way we deal with the things of the flesh that fits 
 or unfits us for the things of the spirit? 
 
 In the end, what could she hold to, if not to her own 
 standards — the standards that she had vowed not to 
 forsake? She seemed again to hear Miss Pryor's voice 
 as she said: "Hold fast to the things of the spirit." 
 
LXXVI 
 
 For a week Isabel avoided Edmund as far as possible; 
 denying herself to him once or twice and, when obliged 
 to see him, retreating behind a shadowy wall of aloofness. 
 He bore it well; looking at her out of eyes that were 
 affectionately questioning and, at first, even somewhat 
 quizzical, but gradually becoming graver in his regard. 
 
 She found her task difficult until one day a great and 
 joyful surprise came to her and made her forget every- 
 thing else. She received a telegram from Cassie, asking 
 if she could put her up for a night. 
 
 Without a word having been said, Isabel had under- 
 stood quite well that the old house would not be opened 
 this summer. There was to be no chance for her to see 
 Dicky, and she had no complaint to make. Probably 
 Cassie was now coming to get the things which she would 
 want elsewhere. Was it a sign of friendship or only a 
 regard for appearances which caused her to come to her 
 sister-in-law instead of going to a hotel? With a remem- 
 brance of Cassie's transparent honesty, she felt that if 
 there had been no friendliness there would have been no 
 visit to Ptolemy. Cassie would have managed to do 
 without whatever she might want rather than come at all. 
 With a glow at her heart she answered the telegram. 
 
 Cassie arrived late the next day. She greeted Isabel 
 affectionately, but looked pale and careworn. During 
 dinner she said nothing about the reason for her coming 
 and Isabel had to treat the matter casually. 
 
 "Will you sit on the verandah?" she asked, as they 
 came out of the dining-room. 
 
 "Let's go where we shall not be interrupted," replied 
 Cassie. "I have something to say." 
 
 Seated in the study, she hesitated for a moment and 
 turned still paler. Then with an effort, she said: "Lansing 
 
 404 
 
Isabel Stirling 405 
 
 has been very ill — is still very ill. He is always over- 
 worked — and then an attack of grippe came. His doctors 
 say — " her voice grew husky and she paused to regain 
 control of it. "His doctors say that his one chance is to 
 give everything up and go away. A long ocean voyage — 
 a sort of unlimited voyage, stopping only at intervals in 
 certain climates, is what they recommend. It's very hard 
 for him." 
 
 "It's dreadful!" breathed Isabel. 
 
 "We can arrange," Cassie went on. "Things have 
 been made easy for us — as easy as they could be — I mean 
 financially. We let the house just as it stands. There 
 needn't be any delay about our starting. Only — the 
 children. The things we do won't do for them. I am 
 advised — authoritatively — to leave them behind." Again 
 her voice failed and again she controlled it. "Will you 
 take them?" she asked abruptly. 
 
 To Isabel, listening in sympathetic anguish, the words 
 seemed unbelievable. Could she have heard aright ? "Oh, 
 Cassie !" she exclaimed, in a breaking voice, "how good 
 you are to me !" 
 
 In truth, Cassie was great-hearted, but too, her need 
 was great. When she had thought to take the children 
 to Aunt Mary, Lansing had irritably and emphatically 
 refused to permit them to be subject to the wanderings 
 of a Methodist parson, who was due to change his abode 
 within the year. And he wanted them in a different 
 atmosphere anyway, he said. Cassie could not oppose 
 him. For his sake and the children's she buried whatever 
 remained in her heart of bitterness toward Isabel. It was 
 the easier since Lansing had turned to her with utter 
 faith and dependence; with an affection, too, which 
 seemed to show that his recent infatuation had been 
 blotted from his consciousness. 
 
 She smiled wistfully at Isabel's outburst. "I know 
 you love Dicky best," she said, "but Katrina " 
 
 "I'll love them both best!" cried Isabel, the tears 
 streaming down her cheeks. "Katrina shall be no less 
 dear than Dicky — and oh, to think that you will trust 
 
4Q6 Isabel Stirling 
 
 me with them! I'll try to deserve it — and to do all you 
 would want " 
 
 Once more Cassie was her sister, dearer than ever 
 before. Looking at her in her trouble, Isabel was ashamed 
 of the ecstacy with which she thought of the children's 
 coming. 
 
 Late into the night they talked and planned. "Ill leave 
 you the key of the house here," said Cassie. "You'll get 
 what they need — their little beds — " But at that she broke 
 down utterly and sobbed in Isabel's arms. 
 
 Later she said : "Of course we shall pay their expenses. 
 We've arranged for that." 
 
 "No, no !" exclaimed Isabel. "Cassie dear, you'll have 
 so much use for your money. Do, do let me have them 
 as if they were my own. I can do it, indeed I can." 
 
 She thought with joy of the cheque which she had that 
 day received for her story. What happiness to work for 
 the children, to have them as if they were her own. What 
 happiness if she should have to make sacrifices for them ! 
 She entreated, but could not shake Cassie's resolution to 
 deposit money in the bank for their use. 
 
 "Very well," she said at last, but resolved not to touch 
 a cent of it. Cassie might need that money yet ; and for 
 herself, how she would work now that she had an object ! 
 What wouldn't she achieve! 
 
 They were to be brought to her within the week. "I 
 must keep them as long as I can," said Cassie, and Isabel's 
 heart was melted with pity for her. Not while the mother 
 was there could she let herself indulge in happy plans for 
 them. Even after she had gone to bed she would not let 
 herself arrange their rooms and picture them living there. 
 
 But in the morning, when she came back from seeing 
 Cassie off on the train, she took Michael and went to 
 the old house to get the things which they would need. 
 How everything in that house reminded her of Dick and 
 of his father! She longed to linger and lose herself in 
 those memories, but to-day's demands pressed. She 
 locked the door and turned to the future. That future, 
 too, belonged to Dick 
 
Isabel Stirling 407 
 
 She went home to plan and arrange with Norah. 
 "They'll make you more work," she said. 
 
 "ill not be mindin' the work," said Norah loyally. 
 
 "And boys are more lively than girls," said Isabel, with 
 pride in Dicky's enterprise. 
 
 "Me own baby that died was a b'y," said Norah. 
 
 "And mine," said Isabel softly; adding, "The little girl 
 is a beauty. You'll love her as much as the boy." 
 
 "We will that," said Norah, with understanding. "An' 
 how long will it be ye'U be havin' them?" 
 
 "Oh, a year or two. Until their father gets well and 
 can come home." 
 
 She went about soberly for a little time. Cassie's great 
 joy would be her own bereavement. But after all, why 
 think about that now? Sufficient unto the day the good 
 as well as the evil. 
 
 How much she must learn about the care of children. 
 They would have their nurse, but she must know for 
 herself. Above all, how good she must be! She went 
 about her work of preparation, saying to herself: "I must 
 be good. If only I can be good enough !" 
 
 How had she dared to think that a woman's life could 
 have no significance if she had not children of her own? 
 She thought of Miss Pryor and of her influence over 
 generations of girls — not that she could ever be like Miss 
 Pryor. When the time should come to give the children 
 back to their mother she would be glad with Cassie — and 
 other ways would open. For the present, let her take the 
 gift of the gods and be thankful. 
 
 When Edmund came that evening she could hardly 
 remember that she was trying to avoid him. However, 
 the news with which she met him put him off, for the 
 moment, as effectually as any avoidance could have done. 
 She was so absorbed in her happiness, so eager for his 
 sympathy, that there was nothing to do but give it to 
 her with as much show of whole-heart edness as he could 
 command. But he felt as if he had been put outside of 
 her life. He would not submit to it without an effort to 
 regain his footing. 
 
408 Isabel Stirling 
 
 "How about the writing ?" he asked after a while. 
 "Isn't the book to be finished ?" 
 
 "Why, of course I shall write," she replied. "Indeed, 
 I must write. While I have the children I want them to 
 be wholly mine. I don't want to spend Cassie's money — 
 and so I must write and earn some for them." 
 
 "Then it's to be commercial — the writing?" 
 
 "Well, yes, if you put it that way. But need it be the 
 worse for that? Don't you get paid for your essays? 
 Perhaps you think I'm vain to imagine that I could make 
 money, but " 
 
 She told him about the story. He listened, but said 
 little. 
 
 "You don't mind?" she asked, feeling remorseful and 
 cast down. 
 
 "You were quite right," he said, recovering himself. 
 "You have the gift of imagination — and sometimes a 
 critic with his carping is likely to put out that divine fire." 
 
 "But you've helped me so much. How could I ever 
 have done anything without you?" 
 
 "I wish to heaven you did need me — as I need you !" 
 
 Too late she remembered. A look of dismay crossed 
 her face. 
 
 He smiled ruefully. "Yes, you forgot. You've tried 
 conscientiously to keep me from asking you to marry me. 
 Is it really quite impossible?" 
 
 She paled, but met his eyes squarely. "Quite impossi- 
 ble," she said. "I'm so sorry — I oughtn't " 
 
 "You've nothing to reproach yourself with. It's not 
 your fault that I insisted on having it out." He hesitated, 
 then went on. "People are apt to think I don't take things 
 seriously, but you don't know how seriously I do take it, 
 or how much I love you. You're really quite sure?" 
 
 "Absolutely." She hesitated in her turn. "As sure," 
 she said at last, "as if the world did not call me free." 
 
 For a while after he had left her she still sat, filled with 
 sorrow and regret, in the little room which had seen so 
 many happy hours of comradeship. At last she got up 
 
Isabel Stirling 409 
 
 and walked about, closing the windows and extinguishing 
 the lights. Then she went into the hall and put out the 
 hanging lamp. By the faint light which Came down from 
 the upper hall she found her way to the door opening on 
 the verandah and went out. 
 
 Around her was darkness. Masses of trees and shrub- 
 bery half concealed the neighboring houses, in which only 
 an occasional light still twinkled. From the garden came 
 the fragrance of roses; overhead stretched the immensity 
 of the starlit sky. Gazing upward, Isabel felt her spirit 
 once more uplifted. She was sorry, deeply sorry for 
 Edmund ; sorry for Cassie and for Cassie's husband. But 
 for herself she was glad ; glad of the life which lay before 
 her, of the work which she was to do, of the trust which 
 had been so wonderfully confided to her. She felt in 
 herself a spring of joyful energy, an ability to meet what- 
 ever life might yet bring to her. She consecrated herself 
 to the future and to the past. Never had she felt nearer 
 to her husband than at that moment. Never before had 
 she had a living consciousness of a great pervading 
 beneficent power. Was this what they called God ? 
 
 The night-wind blew fresh and sweet. She stood 
 motionless for a long time. Then she turned and went 
 into the house and softly closed the door. 
 
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