University of California Berkeley 
 
 THE PETER AND ROSELL HARVEY 
 MEMORIAL FUND 
 
 m 
 

 
 m^m 
 
 
 
 
 

 'Mothers and Fathers 
 
MOTHERS 
 
 AND 
 
 JUUETWlLBOKTOMPKiriS 
 
 MEW YORK 
 
 THE BAKER &TAYLOR CO 
 1910 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 
 
 THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK 
 
Contents 
 
 PAOC 
 
 I. WEATHERBY'S MOTHER . . , . . 7 
 
 II. ELSIE'S RETURN 26 
 
 III. THE REAL TRAGEDY 37 
 
 IV. THE HOUSE TO THEMSELVES ... 53 
 V. CONSTANCE DOROTHEA 79 
 
 VL THE LADY FROM CALIFORNIA . . 93 
 
 VII. TELLING KATE 116 
 
 VIII. SOMETHING 127 
 
 IX, A MOTHER OF FOUR . . . . . 142 
 
 X. THE RIPER YEARS 171 
 
 XI. NATURE 191 
 
 XII. THE VIPER 225 
 
 XIII. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL 243 
 
 XIV. THE MODERN WAY -281 
 
 XV. MY MOTHER'S DIARY 295 
 
 XVI. A SPOILED OLD LADY 308 
 
 XVII. THE RULE OF THE MAGNIFICENT . 347 
 
 XVIII. THE THRIFTY SARAH 362 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
MOTHERS AND FATHERS 
 
 "Ralph, Ralph!" 
 
 "Yes what is it, Helen?" 
 
 "Isn't gas escaping somewhere? Can 
 you smell it? " 
 
 "No; no, not at all. You imagine it. 
 Have you been awake long?" 
 
 "Ever since the wind died down. It 
 is so still, I can't sleep. I can't think of any- 
 thing but Roy." 
 
 "I know. Didn't you think he was a 
 little more cheerful to-night, Helen?" 
 
 " No. He seemed to me half desper- 
 ate. I could feel him crushing himself down 
 into his chair, forcing himself to hold a book 
 and There! Don't you smell it now? " 
 
 "A little. I will see where it is. 
 Helen, tell me has he spoken of her lately?" 
 
 " Yes. Night before last. Just for a 
 moment. Oh, curse her!" 
 
 [3 ] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "Hush, dear! These jets are all 
 turned off. Did Roy go up to his room when 
 he left the library?" 
 
 "I thought he did. The wind was 
 raging so, I couldn't be sure. It is so terribly 
 still now! Wait for me." 
 
 "Won't you stay here?" 
 
 " No. It will quiet me to walk about 
 a little. I suppose one of the hall jets is turned 
 on. Try this one." 
 
 "It is coming from the other end of 
 the hall, Helen." 
 
 " Oh, then it is the one by Roy's room. 
 How strong it is! You go so fast, Ralph, I 
 can't keep up. Walk softly: we don't want to 
 startle Roy. It is worse here it makes me 
 a little giddy" 
 
 "Helen, go back!" 
 
 "No! Keep away from Roy's door 
 you will disturb him. Here, I have found 
 the jet / knew just where to put my hand. 
 I think it was turned on a little. I can't be 
 sure, but I think it turned. Yes, I am certain 
 it did. Some one must have put it out very 
 
 [4] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 carelessly. Now we can go back. Oh, why 
 don't you come?" 
 
 "Helen, I am going into Roy's room. 
 Walt here if you will, but don't follow. Ah! 
 Stand back till I There, it's off now. I'll 
 open the " 
 
 "Ralph! Roy! Why doesn't some 
 one speak? Ralph, wake him up!" 
 
 "Roy isn't in the bed, Helen. He 
 hasn't been in it." 
 
 " Then he went out. Of course he went 
 out! Now will you come?" 
 
 " Dear, he may be here. I shall have 
 to feel. I don't dare strike a light yet." 
 
 "Feel?" 
 
 " The chairs, the floor. You said he 
 seemed to you " 
 
 " Why, you thought he was more cheer- 
 ful, Ralph! You noticed it. You said so 
 didn't you!" 
 
 " I don't know, dear. There is noth- 
 ing on this side. I wish you " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "What is it, Helen? Speak!" 
 
 [ 5 ] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " No, no! It was nothing only his 
 coat on a chair. It startled me. Go on; I'll 
 lean against the window a moment. The gas 
 makes me don't stop, don't stop! " 
 
 " // only I dared light " 
 
 "Ralph, I hear something! There is 
 some one on the stairs. Listen! " 
 
 "I don't hear " 
 
 "It is his step. It is Roy! Oh, God, 
 God! " 
 
 " Yes, I hear now. Then it was the 
 gale it blew his gas out." 
 
 " Quick, Ralph, come away! We 
 mustn't seem " 
 
 "Hush! He will know by your voice. 
 Let me speak. . . . Roy, is that you? Your 
 gas blew out. Your mother and I have been 
 airing your room. Good night! " 
 
 [6] 
 
I 
 
 IPeatherby s Mother 
 
 WEATHERBY'S mother looked distinctly 
 guilty when he entered the room. She went on 
 talking to her caller with the nervous fluency 
 of one hastily changing the subject, and in an 
 elaborately accidental fashion contrived to drop 
 a newspaper over the open magazine in her lap. 
 When Mrs. Carter had gone, she inquired 
 solicitously about lier son's day, avoiding his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Mother," said Weatherby remorse- 
 lessly, " you have been talking about my im- 
 mortal works." There was amusement as well 
 as resigned patience in his voice, but Mrs. 
 Weatherby felt the irritation underneath and 
 defended herself with flurried indignation. 
 
 " I did not, Howard! I had to. She 
 brought the subject up herself." 
 
 " Didn't you just casually ask her if 
 
 [ 7] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 she had seen the February magazines? " His 
 tone was still bantering, but his forehead was 
 slightly drawn and his eyes seemed to pierce 
 the newspaper lying so artlessly on her lap. 
 Mrs. Weatherby resorted to dignity. She laid 
 the paper aside and placed the magazine on 
 the table. 
 
 "I am sure I don't know how we 
 reached the point, Howard. But when she 
 asked me about your poems I could not very 
 well snub her on the subject as you do me. 
 And she thought this extremely pretty, dear." 
 The desire to mollify came uppermost again. 
 " She said it was as good as anything Keats 
 ever wrote. I don't see why you should always 
 act so ashamed of your pieces." 
 
 " But, dear mother, if you would only 
 let the public discover them for itself! " How- 
 ard said, wearily. " When you slug a nice, 
 kind old lady with a madrigal, and then de- 
 mand, * Isn't that as good as anything Keats 
 ever wrote? ' of course she is going to say yes. 
 She has been drinking your tea and sitting on 
 your chairs it's the least she can do. Only " 
 
 [8] 
 
Weatherby y s Mother 
 
 his voice suddenly became serious, and even 
 entreating, as he stood before her, long, thin, 
 and gentle, hating above all things to give pain 
 " only don't you realize that it makes me 
 rather ridiculous? " 
 
 Mrs. Weatherby turned to her unfail- 
 ing help in time of trouble hurt feelings. 
 
 "I am sorry if I mortify you, How- 
 ard, " she said, very meekly. 
 
 Weatherby looked down on the plump, 
 powdered face, handsome in spite of its in- 
 jured expression, on the white hair coiling and 
 puffing between its combs with an elaborate 
 precision that someway suggested landscape 
 gardening, and the stout figure in its tight and 
 fashionable garments, and sighed to himself. 
 But he was a good son. He kissed her and 
 made affectionate fun of her, and she relented 
 to his intention. Her dignity would have 
 chosen a more deferential overture to peace, 
 but she had learned to make sighing compro- 
 mises in a long life with an irreverent child. , 
 
 " How did your club meeting go off? " 
 he asked, presently. "Any hair-pulling?" 
 
 [9] ' 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Very pleasantly/' said Mrs. Weath- 
 erby, ignoring the latter question beyond a 
 slight lifting of eyebrows at its questionable 
 taste. " Mrs. Carter was made chairman of 
 the next entertainment committee, and I and 
 Mrs. Van Home and Elizabeth Trent are 
 to serve with her." Weatherby had lifted 
 his head with a quick frown at the last 
 name. 
 
 " What is Bessie Trent doing on that 
 committee? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Apparently trying to block our plans 
 and make everything as difficult as possible," 
 said his mother with tightened lips. " I 
 have never forgotten, Howard, the way she 
 scratched your face because you made a rhyme 
 about her, and I don't think the past twenty 
 years have improved her in the least. All the 
 others want me to give a reading from Brown- 
 ing, but she seems to think that would not be 
 sufficiently entertaining." 
 
 "Well, really, you know," Weatherby 
 began with cheerful energy, " Browning is 
 rather overdone, don't you think? " 
 
 [10] 
 
Weatherby's Mother 
 
 " I realize that you don't like my read- 
 ing, my dear; " his mother spoke with careful 
 politeness. " But as the club does, and as you 
 do not have to go to the entertainments " 
 
 " Oh, I know," he said contritely. 
 " It's a very harmless vice, dear mother, and I 
 suppose you must have a flaw or two, to keep 
 you human. Don't mind me I'm a carping 
 ass." And he rubbed his cheek against hers, 
 then went to dress for dinner. 
 
 In his own room he paused at his desk 
 and took from a drawer a little photograph, 
 of a fashion ten years past. The face was full 
 of young curves, the appealing roundness of 
 sixteen, but he found there force, humor, and 
 a trace of impishness. 
 
 " What a jolly mother you would make, 
 thirty years older! " he reflected. " You would 
 be so o, Bessie Trent ! One could be intimate 
 friends with a mother like you." Then he put 
 away the thought as disloyal and dropped the 
 photograph back again with a frown. The 
 Elizabeth Trent of to-day was a more compli- 
 cated problem than the school girl who had 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 given him her photograph, or the small child 
 who had scratched his face. 
 
 A few days later Weatherby, coming 
 home early, heard voices in the drawing-room 
 and paused in the hall to reconnoiter. A vo- 
 luminous flow of silk from a big chair suggested 
 Mrs. Carter, and against the window was 
 Elizabeth Trent's profile, looking so pro- 
 foundly bored that he smiled to himself. Evi- 
 dently there was a committee meeting in prog- 
 ress and his mother had been giving a sample 
 reading, for the sonorous roll of her Browning 
 voice came to him as he closed the front door, 
 and a scattering fire of small compliments could 
 now be heard. 
 
 "Wonderful!" " Oh, charming!" 
 u And so perfectly rendered!" Elizabeth 
 Trent said nothing, and Weatherby nearly 
 laughed outright at the suppressed impatience 
 of her face and attitude. 
 
 " Poor Bess ! I know just how you're 
 feeling," he murmured, with twinkling eyes. 
 Then Mrs. Van Home's voice fell on his ears 
 with a cold shock. 
 
 [12] 
 
Weatherby' s Mother 
 
 " It must be beautiful to have such a 
 talented son," she was saying. " I envy you, 
 Mrs. Weatherby." 
 
 Weatherby stood rigid, the color slowly 
 rising to his forehead. Oh, it couldn't be she 
 wouldn't do that ! He moved cautiously till 
 his mother was in range between the portieres. 
 In her hand was, not a volume of Browning, 
 but a publisher's proof that he had been cor- 
 recting the night before. On her face was a 
 heavenly composure. 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" muttered Weatherby, 
 helplessly. His eyes again sought Bessie 
 Trent's bored profile, but he no longer found 
 it amusing. The red in his face deepened and 
 he was turning noiselessly to escape when his 
 mother's voice arrested him. 
 
 " Yes, Howard has great talent. All 
 the magazines are running after him," she said. 
 " Now I am going to read you " 
 
 Weatherby turned back in desperation 
 and entered the drawing-room. 
 
 " Oh am I interrupting a committee 
 meeting? " he asked, pausing deferentially. 
 
 [13] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 11 Oh, no; we had finished," said Eliza- 
 beth Trent, rising hastily. His mother dropped 
 the proof under the table and welcomed him 
 blandly. When he had shaken hands with the 
 others, he made himself face Elizabeth. 
 
 " Well, Bessie,' 5 he said nervously. 
 
 "How is the poet?" she returned. 
 Her smile was all derision, and he found him- 
 self voiceless before it. " You came at the 
 wrong moment," she went on. " You should 
 time your entrances better. You have cut us 
 off from a great privilege." She gave him a 
 little mocking smile and left before he could 
 answer. 
 
 He waited grimly for the others to go, 
 resolved to settle this thing forever with his 
 mother, with no weak relenting before hurt 
 feelings. But Mrs. Weatherby, after a glance 
 at his face, insisted on Mrs. Carter's staying 
 to dinner, and when, after an interminable 
 evening, Weatherby returned from taking her 
 home, his mother had discreetly gone to bed. 
 Not till the next evening could his attack be 
 made, and then, unsupported by the freshness 
 
Weatherby's Mother 
 
 of his indignation, he came off with a very poor 
 victory. Mrs. Weatherby suggested that if he 
 preferred she would never mention him in any 
 way: perhaps that would be best: it was hard 
 to teach an old woman new ways, and if her 
 pride and affection were a trial to him here 
 she cried, and Weatherby felt like a plain brute. 
 Presently he discovered himself begging her 
 pardon, and gave up with a sigh of despair. 
 He knew that it was unfair of her to cry, but 
 he could not stand up against it. 
 
 A couple of weeks later Weatherby, wish- 
 ing to refer to a small volume of verse he had 
 published the year before, searched the house 
 in vain for a copy. His mother gave them 
 away so fast that there was seldom one on 
 hand, and now even his private book case had 
 been rifled. The next day he stopped furtively 
 at a book store and asked for it, with a guilty 
 stammer over the name. The clerk held out 
 the little gray-and-gold volume for inspection. 
 
 " Yes, that's it," said Weatherby hast- 
 ily. " I'll take it with me." 
 
 "Ah so the poems are still selling? " 
 
 [15] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 said a cool, amused voice at his shoulder. His 
 start brought him face to face with Elizabeth 
 Trent. He flushed miserably, then clutched at 
 his self-possession and managed a rueful laugh. 
 
 " Bessie, I'd rather you had caught me 
 picking a pocket! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " So would I," she assented, with a 
 trace of sharpness. Peace-lover though he was, 
 Weatherby could fight on occasion. He paid 
 for his book with a new effrontery, then looked 
 reflectively down on her. 
 
 " You scratched my face for one of my 
 early works; and the later ones seem to affect 
 you in exactly the same way," he said mildly. 
 " I wonder why is it poetry in general, or 
 just my idea of it? I must have improved a 
 little in the interval." 
 
 She recognized the challenge with a 
 slight flush, but stood her ground valiantly. 
 
 " Your work has improved yes," she 
 said with meaning; "it is extremely good, for 
 modern verse." 
 
 " Then it is I myself who have gone 
 downhill?" 
 
 [16] 
 
Weatherby's Mother 
 
 She shrugged slightly. " Oh, well, I 
 don't believe I like celebrities. But others do 
 your name will be on every tongue at the 
 club this afternoon. The applause for you will 
 be quite as loud as for Browning louder, 
 even. It is too bad you can't be there! " She 
 turned to go, with a somewhat trying smile and 
 nod, but Weatherby did not notice. He was 
 staring at her in growing dismay. 
 
 " What do you mean about me at 
 the club?" he burst out. " Oh, you don't it 
 couldn't " 
 
 She looked at him in surprise and her 
 face unbent a little. 
 
 " Didn't you know that your mother is 
 going to read from your works, as an encore 
 by unanimous request? " 
 
 "Oh, Lord!" 
 
 His sincerity was unmistakable. She 
 laughed out, and the old friendliness suddenly 
 dawned in her eyes. 
 
 " Why, I thought you would like it! " 
 she said in frank relief. 
 
 "Like it! " he stammered. " Like it? 
 
 [17] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 My good Bessie, my life is one long fight to 
 keep my mother from making a public show of 
 me. I have hurt her feelings, I've insulted her 
 and she won't stop. I'm perfectly helpless. 
 What can I do?" All the bitterness of past 
 struggles was in his voice. It was the first time 
 he had ever broken out on the subject, and he 
 could not stop. u You have no idea what she 
 does, Bessie! She has special copies made on 
 vellum and gives them round at Christmas. I 
 caught her once reading samples of me and 
 then of Keats to a select crowd and making 
 them guess which was which! She's a dear 
 good woman and she'd give her life for me, 
 and I try to be big about it and find it merely 
 amusing. But, by heaven, I can't. This has 
 got to end. What time does your show be- 
 gin?" 
 
 " At three. I am just flying home to 
 dress." 
 
 " Well, I shall settle one number on 
 your programme." And he left her with scant 
 ceremony. But she smiled after him as she 
 had not since the days of his obscurity. 
 
 [18] 
 
Weatherby's Mother 
 
 A growing fear made Weatherby rage 
 at the slowness of his car. Yesterday he had 
 finished the first draught of a little drama in 
 verse, the most serious attempt he had yet 
 made. His mother had begged to see it, and 
 he had laughingly refused, on the ground that 
 this was his one intelligible copy and that he 
 could not trust it out of his hands. His real 
 reason was a certain divine shame that came 
 with every new piece of work, a longing to 
 treasure it in secret for a few days till the 
 glamour of the hours of labor was a little 
 dimmed and comment from without would not 
 seem a hateful familiarity. His mother, of 
 course, did not understand could not have 
 understood, even if he could have explained 
 and persisted, so, finally, being a good son, he 
 had given it to her, with many exaggerated 
 cautions for its safe-keeping. Then he had 
 abruptly gone off for the evening. What she 
 had wanted of it became every moment more 
 certain and more exasperating. The club was 
 to be honored with a first hearing. 
 
 She had gone when he reached the 
 
 [19] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 house. Being on the reception committee, she 
 had to be there early, he remembered. Weath- 
 erby made a careful search for his manuscript, 
 knowing quite well that he should not find it; 
 then, with set lips, turned toward the club. He 
 had never been quite so angry in his life. For 
 the first time he forgot that there was an ele- 
 ment of the ridiculous in the situation. She 
 had got to understand if he had to leave 
 home to teach her. 
 
 A block on the car line forced him to 
 alight several squares from the club and he 
 noticed with surprise that snow was beginning 
 to fall. The sidewalks were already wet and 
 slippery with it. At the door of the club-house 
 he was told that his mother was not there: she 
 had come and gone hurriedly away again. As 
 he stood on the steps wondering what to do, 
 the familiar family carriage of the Trents 
 paused in front and Bessie came to his relief. 
 She volunteered to find out where his mother 
 had gone, and disappeared with a glimmer of 
 amusement in her eyes; but this had quite van- 
 ished when she came back. She looked grave 
 
 [20] 
 
Weatherby's Mother 
 
 and puzzled. It seemed his mother had been 
 taking off her things in the dressing room, talk- 
 ing pleasantly with the maid, when suddenly 
 she had given a little cry, looked wildly about, 
 then caught up her wrap and rushed out with- 
 out bonnet or gloves. She had given no ex- 
 planation, but she had appeared deeply dis- 
 tressed. 
 
 They looked helplessly about. The 
 drug store on the corner gave Bessie a dim sug- 
 gestion. Could she have felt ill and gone there 
 for some remedy? 
 
 " She does faint, once in a very great 
 while," Weatherby admitted. " But surely she 
 would have sent some one." Nevertheless 
 they went in and asked. 
 
 Mrs. Weatherby had not been there, 
 but the clerk had seen her, in a silk gown with 
 no bonnet, holding a wrap about her with bare 
 hands. He had been interested because she 
 was so evidently distressed about something. 
 She had hurried up to a policeman who was 
 passing and they had talked for several mo- 
 ments. After receiving directions, she had 
 [21] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 waited a moment for the car, then, finding the 
 line blocked, had turned and walked hurriedly 
 south. The snow had just begun. 
 
 South was directly away from home. 
 They returned to the street in a silence that 
 covered alarmed thoughts, avoiding each 
 other's eyes. The policeman was not in sight, 
 and there seemed nothing to do but to take the 
 same direction. 
 
 In nearly every block some one had 
 seen her, with the snow falling on her uncov- 
 ered hair and her distressed face, hurrying reck- 
 lessly. Once, when she had nearly fallen, a 
 boy had caught and steadied her; she had not 
 thanked him or seemed to notice. Evidently 
 her whole soul had been bent on reaching some 
 point. 
 
 " Bess, you must go back," said Weath- 
 erby suddenly, when they had walked half a 
 mile without result. " It may take hours, and 
 your feet are wet." 
 
 She did not trouble to answer. " Shall 
 you tell the police? " she asked instead. 
 
 " Oh, not yet I can't! " he exclaimed. 
 
 [22] 
 
s Mother 
 
 " What do you think, Bessie ? Do you sup- 
 pose she " He could not say it, but she knew 
 his thought. 
 
 " No, I don't," she said stoutly. " Peo- 
 ple don't lose their minds all in a moment. 
 There is the power-house let us go across and 
 ask there. All those conductors standing 
 about " She broke off with a clutch at his 
 arm. A door leading to the car company's 
 offices had opened and there stood Mrs, 
 Weatherby, pale but radiant, clinging to a 
 white package. 
 
 "Mother!" cried Weatherby as they 
 ran up to her. She did not seem at all sur- 
 prised to see them. 
 
 " I have it, dear, quite safe," she called 
 joyfully. " I have been over it and not a page 
 is missing. The conductor picked it up just 
 after I got out and " 
 
 " Oh, mother! That wretched poem 
 why did you bother?" exclaimed her son, an- 
 ger and remorse and overwhelming tenderness 
 struggling in his voice. 
 
 " She is not well," said Bessie sharply. 
 
 [23] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 He had barely time to put his arms about her 
 before she sank limply against him. 
 
 They carried her to a drug store, and 
 she was soon looking weakly up at them, while 
 Bessie rubbed her hands and the young woman 
 cashier fanned her with a magazine and her 
 son hovered over her with brandy. Suddenly 
 tears ran down her cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, Howard, if I had lost it!" she 
 murmured. 
 
 " Mother, dearest! " he pleaded. " It 
 wouldn't have mattered. I am ashamed that 
 you cared so much about the thing it wasn't 
 worth it. I never dreamed how much you 
 you make me feel like a beast. Now I am go- 
 ing to telephone for a carriage and take you 
 home." 
 
 '* The club," she began, starting up. 
 Bessie pressed her back again. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Weatherby, I will see to 
 the club: don't worry about it," she said, with 
 unwonted gentleness. When Weatherby's back 
 was turned, she stooped and kissed the older 
 woman's cheek. 
 
 [24] 
 
Weatherby 9 s Mother 
 
 When Weatherby came back he found 
 the cashier still fanning with the magazine and 
 cheering his mother with conversation, while 
 Bessie stood by looking pale and tired. Mrs. 
 Weatherby, with returning brightness, glanced 
 up at the brown cover fluttering before her. 
 
 " Is that the new March number? " he 
 heard her say. " My son has a poem on the 
 first page you may have noticed it. It has 
 been very highly praised." The cashier turned 
 to the first page and was pleasingly impressed. 
 
 Weatherby glanced at Bessie, and she 
 smiled at him with sudden tremulousness. He 
 smiled back with misty eyes, and his hand 
 closed over hers for a long moment. 
 
 " It was we who had to be taught,' 1 he 
 said vaguely; but she seemed to understand. 
 
 [25] 
 
II 
 
 Elsie s Return 
 
 " So Elsie will be back on Tuesday. 
 Dear me, Mrs. Kennedy, how glad you must 
 be." 
 
 "Yes; it's three months," assented 
 Mrs. Kennedy, with a maternal smile. 
 
 " It must have been so lonely for you," 
 went on a mother of five. " I suppose you can 
 hardly wait. I am so glad for you." 
 
 " Well, I'm not glad Elsie is coming, 
 at all," said a venerable voice. " It's the first 
 time I have seen anything of Bessie Kennedy in 
 twenty years. I know how it will be when 
 that one chicken gets back." 
 
 "'You have been so kind all of you," 
 said Mrs. Kennedy warmly. " I haven't been 
 so dissipated for years." 
 
 " My dear Bessie, it wasn't kindness; it 
 was grabbing our opportunity," protested the 
 
 [26] 
 
Elsie's Return 
 
 venerable voice. " I wanted you for dinner on 
 Tuesday night, to meet a charming young pro- 
 fessor; but I suppose you won't come now." 
 
 " I don't think your young professor 
 would appreciate the honor," commented Mrs. 
 Kennedy. " You forget that I'm nearly fifty." 
 
 " And my young professor is fifty-five," 
 was the triumphant answer. " Dr. Deane 
 thought you most interesting. He talked about 
 you much more than I thought necessary. Still, 
 I know you mothers. You'll prefer Elsie's 
 chatter to all the wise and delightful men on 
 earth. Send her away again soon, won't 
 you?" 
 
 " Indeed she won't," laughed the moth- 
 er of five. " I know all about it, and I sympa- 
 thize, Mrs. Kennedy." 
 
 There was bright color in Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy's face as she walked briskly home, and 
 she was still smiling a little as she shut her 
 front door. 
 
 " People always did like me when I 
 was a girl," she admitted to herself as she took 
 off her bonnet before the hall mirror. " Dr. 
 
 [27] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Deane was really a remarkably interesting man. 
 Dear me, what a blessing it is to have good 
 hair when you're an old woman! I wonder 
 how I should look with it pompadour! " She 
 lifted the soft gray ripples and drew them to- 
 gether over the parting, looking critically at the 
 effect. " But Elsie wouldn't like it," she added 
 with a slight sigh; "and I hate fixed up old 
 ladies, myself." 
 
 She turned into the parlor and lit all 
 four gas burners, glancing with a faint air of 
 apology toward a photograph of a young girl 
 over the fireplace. She loved bright light, but 
 Elsie would not have anything but the dimmest 
 of muffled lamps, and she had kept dutifully 
 to these, her book thrust well into their meager 
 spot of light, until the kerosene had given out 
 a couple of weeks before. The item had been 
 on her marketing list every day since, but some- 
 way she had always forgotten it. She looked 
 about the room with a guilty satisfaction in the 
 vulgar blaze of gaslight, even while reminding 
 herself that the kerosene must be in before 
 Tuesday. 
 
 [28] 
 
Elsie's Return 
 
 Old Kate summoned her to dinner with 
 a benevolent smile. 
 
 " You'll be glad to have Miss Elsie 
 back, ma'am," she said. 
 
 "Indeed I shall," agreed Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy. " You must remember not to use onions 
 after she comes, Kate. You know she can't 
 bear them in anything." 
 
 " And she'll be wanting sherry wine in 
 the pudding sauce again," Kate added. 
 
 " Yes ; I'm glad you thought of it. 
 And you must get out the salt cellars and 
 spoons. Miss Elsie would be terribly shocked 
 at this shaker," Mrs. Kennedy said, comfort- 
 ably sprinkling her soup. " Suppose you give 
 me corned beef and a little cabbage to-morrow 
 night, Kate. This will be the last time we can 
 have it." 
 
 It was a pleasant little meal, with the 
 cheerful gaslight irradiating bright silver and 
 clean linen. The stimulation of the afternoon 
 was still with Mrs. Kennedy, and the room 
 seemed full of approving presences. She smiled 
 often to herself, and once or twice repeated 
 
 [29] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 half aloud some little speech of the afternoon. 
 When she left the table, there was a gentle dig- 
 nity in her carriage, as though others had risen 
 to their feet and some one had sprung to open 
 the door. Back in her bright parlor she sat 
 with her open book in her lap, looking con- 
 tentedly about her. 
 
 When the doorbell rang, she started 
 instinctively to escape to the dining room, but 
 then sank back, remembering that it could not 
 be any caller for Elsie. Kate brought in Dr. 
 Deane's card and Dr. Deane himself at the 
 same minute. 
 
 " You have not forgotten that you said 
 I might call, have you, Mrs. Kennedy?" he 
 began. 
 
 " I am glad to see you remembered it," 
 she said with a touch of shyness in her cor- 
 diality. She felt a trifle conscience stricken 
 about the four gas burners, but the doctor was 
 not visibly shocked; and it was a comfort to 
 see the person you were talking to. He stayed 
 two hours, and they discussed the wonders of 
 modern science, and the Panama Canal, and the 
 
 [30] 
 
Elsie's Return 
 
 earthquake in Japan, and early days, and in- 
 dulged in anecdotes to an extent that made 
 Mrs. Kennedy glance uneasily at Elsie's pho- 
 tograph, as if it might betray this lapse from 
 discipline to that stern young judge of con- 
 versational ethics. When he rose to go, they 
 said charming things to each other, with stately 
 little inclinations of the head to mark the com- 
 pliment paid. 
 
 " And you must let me congratulate 
 you on the prospect of regaining your daugh- 
 ter," he said at the door. " It must make 
 you very happy." 
 
 " Indeed it does," assented Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy. When he had gone, she picked up the 
 photograph and dusted it very tenderly. Then 
 she put out the four lights and went up to bed 
 with a book under her arm. 
 
 " Any little excitement makes an old 
 person lose her sleep," she mused, as she 
 propped herself up in bed to read. " Dr. 
 Deane is really very cultivated. I don't know 
 when I have enjoyed any one more." She 
 stared thoughtfully into space, with her finger 
 
 [31] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 in her book, till twelve o'clock startled her back 
 to the duty of sleep. 
 
 Elsie came on Tuesday afternoon, her 
 hair done in a new way, her accent a little al- 
 tered, her clothes indescribably changed. 
 
 '* They wanted me to stay another 
 week, and I was dying to, but it didn't seem 
 right to leave you alone any longer," she ex- 
 plained. " What have you done to the cur- 
 tains? They look so stiffy and funny." She 
 shook them out experimentally. " Have you 
 been dreadfully doleful?" she asked. 
 
 ;< Why, I missed you, dear, of course," 
 said her mother; " but I went out a great deal, 
 for me. I really was quite gay." 
 
 " Oh, I knew people would be nice to 
 you and invite you, when they heard you were 
 alone," assented Elsie. " I wish you hadn't 
 had that gown made till I came, mother. The 
 skirt is last year's cut, and it fits so badly 
 right here. See, that seam ought to come this 
 way." 
 
 " Why, I thought it looked very well," 
 said Mrs. Kennedy, gazing down in gentle anx- 
 
 [32] 
 
Elsie's Return 
 
 iety. " I'm sure Mrs. Frith took a great deal 
 of trouble." 
 
 " Frith is an imbecile, if you don't di- 
 rect her," said Elsie decidedly. " And you 
 know, mother, you're dreadfully unobserving 
 about clothes. I hope you haven't bought your 
 bonnet." 
 
 A look of guilt came into Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy's face, though she tried to cover it with 
 an expression of dignity. 
 
 " My clothes are quite well enough, 
 dear, for an elderly lady," she said. " Don't 
 you want to come out and see the garden? I 
 have done a great deal of planting." 
 
 Elsie hesitated. 
 
 " Do you really want me to? " she said 
 reluctantly. " I know you do. Well, I'll go. 
 I'll get my hat." 
 
 She went up stairs, and Mrs. Kennedy 
 stepped out into the spring sunshine, her gown 
 caught up in front and trailing generously be- 
 hind. Some one was coming up the path. She 
 went forward smiling when she recognized Dr. 
 Deane. 
 
 [33] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " I was passing, so I ventured to in- 
 trude long enough to ask about the daughter," 
 he said over her hand. " I trust she arrived in 
 safety." 
 
 " Yes, very well, thank you," she an- 
 swered cordially. " She has had a very happy 
 time." 
 
 " And now she is making her mother 
 very happy," he went on, as Elsie came down 
 the steps. The girl paused, then sauntered for- 
 ward with a little nod. 
 
 "Oh, how do you do, Dr. Deane?" 
 she said. "Are you admiring our flowers? 
 Every one who goes by stops perfect stran- 
 gers, even. We are getting quite vain. Mother, 
 you ought not to stand here in the sun." 
 
 " Don't let me keep you," said Dr. 
 Deane hastily. " I thought, perhaps, Mrs. 
 Kennedy some night next week if you " 
 
 " Oh, I'm afraid we're very much tied 
 up," said Elsie pleasantly. " When one has 
 been away so long, you know " 
 
 " Yes, of course. Well, perhaps, some 
 time but I mustn't detain you." And Dr. 
 
 [34] 
 
Elsie's Return 
 
 Deane stepped nervously into a flower bed, and 
 tried to open the gate the wrong way. 
 
 Elsie looked after him with lifted eye- 
 brows, 
 
 " How did the man come to call on 
 me?" she exclaimed. "Dr. Dufferin Deane, 
 of all people!" 
 
 Her mother hesitated. 
 
 " I think it was on me, dear. I met 
 him at Mrs. Long's one night." 
 
 Elsie laughed. 
 
 " You poor thing I know him. He's 
 a horrible old bore. Everybody calls him Dr. 
 Duffer Deane. He's the kind that comes three 
 times a week, if you're civil to him. I'll get 
 rid of him for you. I can do those things beau- 
 tifully. Didn't you see how I managed it 
 then?" 
 
 " I don't believe it will be necessary. 
 He probably won't come again," said Mrs. 
 Kennedy, with a slight effort. When she went 
 to her own room, later, Kate was there with 
 the clean clothes. 
 
 " The house will be a different place for 
 
 [35] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 you now, ma'am, with Miss Elsie back," said 
 the old woman kindly as she passed out. 
 
 Mrs. Kennedy's smile faded as the door 
 closed, and she looked at herself in the glass 
 with an air that was both startled and ashamed. 
 
 " God forgive me for a wicked old 
 woman ! " she said solemnly. 
 
 [36] 
 
Ill 
 
 The Real Tragedy 
 
 "THIS air, my dear Imogen! Drink 
 deep draughts of it, as I do ! Doesn't it expand 
 your whole being?" 
 
 -"It is very clean and nice," assented 
 the girl, plodding steadily up the rocky slope. 
 
 " ' Clean and nice ' ! It's the cham- 
 pagne of the gods iced vitality! How is 
 that for a phrase ? Iced vitality ! Fits it very 
 well, I think. Pause a moment and look back, 
 my dear; you don't want to miss an aspect of 
 this. See the purple shadows on those great 
 mountain flanks no, mauve, I should say; a 
 warm violet. And the river like a silver ribbon 
 woven through! And then that patch of sun 
 on the green of the valley just the right touch 
 of vivid color. Wonderful ! " 
 
 The girl paused, planting her stick to 
 steady herself. Her eyes wandered over the 
 
 [37] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 wide range of country beneath them, then rested 
 a moment on the thin little gray figure, with 
 one arm pointing shoulder high, and sparse 
 beard swept to one side by the wind. 
 
 " Yes; but we must not stand here; we 
 shall be chilled," she said. 
 
 He turned to follow her with a laugh 
 of fond reproach. 
 
 " Always practical, Imogen ! I wish 
 you could get all this as I do. Every cloud 
 shadow, every bird song, gives me a keen thrill 
 of delight. The artistic temperament is a 
 marvelous blessing even to a business man. 
 Forty years in an office can't wholly stifle it, 
 you see." 
 
 " Yes, it must be," was the somewhat 
 dry answer. 
 
 " Your mother has it, to a certain de- 
 gree. I don't see why it was denied you so 
 completely. My dear, I saw you face one of 
 the most perfect sunsets imaginable for ten min- 
 utes last night a sea of rose and opal, barred 
 off with gold, and, above, little tender flecks of 
 cloud, like silver boats; it fairly brought tears 
 
 [38] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 
 to my eyes. And yet not a change crossed your 
 face; you did not even comment on it. I am 
 not reproaching you, my dear daughter, but I 
 can't help grieving at what you miss." 
 
 " Oh, I think I get enough," said 
 Imogen, a little impatiently, her eyebrows meet- 
 ing in a sharp frown. " This seems to be the 
 top of the slope. I don't believe we had better 
 go on to the next to-day." 
 
 They had reached a grassy plateau, held 
 by a few old and stunted oak trees, all bent in 
 the same direction by the wind. Mr. Wallace 
 stretched out his arms with widespread fingers 
 and drew his breath with a deep "Ah!" of 
 delight. 
 
 " ' The leaping from rock up to rock, 
 The strong rending of boughs from the fir 
 tree,' " he quoted. " If I had been a poet, I 
 should have written that myself. Not being a 
 poet, I left it to Mr. Browning, and he did very 
 well very well. I am perfectly satisfied. See 
 how all the trees are bending in obeisance to us 
 the invaders ! Sirs, we return your salute ! " 
 He offered a majestic sweep of his arm to the 
 
 [39] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 stooping trees, then smiled round at his daugh- 
 ter; but she was looking fixedly in another 
 direction. 
 
 " Perhaps we'd better be starting 
 down," he went on, with his unwavering genial- 
 ity. " Your mother will be lonely if we stay 
 too long." 
 
 " You are always so lovely to mother," 
 said the girl quickly. She seemed glad to say 
 it, as if the acknowledgment lightened some 
 burden. 
 
 " One marries for in sickness as well as 
 for in health, my dear. There is nothing I 
 hold more sacred than love. And when a pure, 
 good woman has given herself into a man's 
 keeping, the least he can do is to surround her 
 with his care. See this lovely little flower, 
 Imogen such an innocent, pearly little thing! 
 I think we must take it home and press it or 
 no, let it live its life out here, under the sky, 
 where it belongs. That would be the kindest 
 and best." 
 
 The involuntary frown had come back 
 to Imogen's face. She put up her fingers and 
 
 [40] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 
 tried to smooth it away, with a sigh for the 
 hopelessness of the task. 
 
 On the way down they gathered some 
 trailing green vines, already tipped with autumn 
 red, by way of carrying the woods to Mrs. 
 Wallace. She lifted a thin, lined face from the 
 sofa as they entered. 
 
 " You're back," she commented. 
 
 * Yes, dear. Such a beautiful walk! I 
 wish you could have shared it with us, Fanny. 
 I will tell you all about it." 
 
 " That is so exciting, when you can't 
 stir yourself," said the invalid with a nervous 
 laugh, discordantly loud. Imogen had picked 
 up a card that was lying on the table, and now 
 held it up to her mother. 
 
 " When did he come? " she asked. 
 
 " Soon after you left. Ella was giving 
 me my massage, so I couldn't see him. Wasn't 
 it just my luck ! I don't care especially for Mr. 
 Knight, but he is better than nobody to talk to. 
 The afternoon seemed about a year long." 
 And she repeated the high, hard laugh, that 
 seemed as involuntary as a cough. It had 
 
 [41] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 come with her invalidism, and was an automatic 
 testimony to the fact that she was a Christian, 
 and, therefore, if she said sharp things, they 
 were to be understood merely as jocular. 
 
 Imogen went to her own room, still 
 holding the card. The last outburst of a 
 flaming sunset drew her to the window and held 
 her till its fires had quite died away; but even 
 then her expression would not have satisfied her 
 father certainly there were no tears in her 
 eyes, and he would not have noticed that when 
 she turned away, the card in her hand was 
 broken and crumpled. She smoothed it out 
 with grave care and put it in her top drawer 
 under some laces. 
 
 When she went down to dinner a man 
 came in from the hotel porch, where he had 
 evidently been watching the stairs. 
 
 " I carried out my threat, you see. 
 Here I am ! " he said. " Can you stand me 
 for three or four days? " 
 
 " Oh, I dare say," answered Imogen 
 with a half smile. 
 
 " We are more than happy to see you, 
 
 [42] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 
 Mr. Knight." Her father shook the young 
 man's hand in both his. " My daughter does 
 not mean to be uncordial. It is merely her way 
 of expressing herself or not expressing her- 
 self." And he smiled with humorous reproach 
 at Imogen, who turned serenely toward the 
 dining room without answering. 
 
 " Oh, I can always count on you, Mr. 
 Wallace," said the young man, with the vague 
 smile of one who feels friendly, but has no 
 attention to spare at the moment. 
 
 After dinner Imogen and her guest 
 strolled out into the grounds, silvery with moon- 
 light, while Mr. Wallace, with gentle, tiptoe 
 haste, went back to his wife. 
 
 " I don't see why they can't come up 
 here and talk," she said plaintively. " I 
 wouldn't interrupt them. Just to have some- 
 thing going on in the room is a relief when you 
 are tied to a sofa. It doesn't seem to me it is 
 asking so very much." 
 
 " I will go and suggest it to them. I 
 am sure they would be more than willing 
 they probably feared to disturb you, my dear." 
 
 [43] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 And Mr. Wallace went back with single-minded 
 zeal. 
 
 They came at once. Imogen sat in a 
 low chair near the open window, her eyes on 
 the dim lines of the mountains, while Mr. 
 Knight talked to her mother or listened, with 
 polite comments at intervals. Imogen some- 
 times wondered why her mother kept such an 
 exacting record of her various callers, for she 
 never showed the slightest interest in them as 
 individuals, or seemed to regard them as any- 
 thing but receptacles for her nervous, eager 
 talk. Surely it could not matter very much 
 upon whom this was poured out. Yet she had 
 a sharp resentment for those who failed to come 
 in their proper turn. After an hour Mr. 
 Knight rose, with a questioning look at Imogen 
 which she apparently did not notice. She did 
 not even leave her chair or offer her hand in 
 response to his good night. 
 
 " Very nice, manly young fellow. I 
 like him," commented Mr. Wallace. " I in- 
 vited him to join us on our tramp to-morrow. 
 Dear me, we shall sleep without rocking to- 
 
 [44] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 night, we mountaineers. I could begin this 
 
 minute." 
 
 " Oh, then I suppose you don't want to 
 read to me," sighed his wife. " My head has 
 been aching all the evening. I thought he 
 would never go. Of course, if you would 
 rather go to bed " 
 
 " Certainly not, Fanny. I shall love to 
 read to you. I am never averse to the sound 
 of my own voice, you know." And with a sly 
 laugh he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and 
 pulled his chair to the light with valiant alacrity. 
 
 At home Mrs. Wallace was accustomed 
 to having several daughters very much at her 
 service; so Imogen's morning was a busy one, 
 and she did not see Knight till they started for 
 their climb. The keen, fresh air, the freedom 
 of her short skirt, the unmistakable meaning of 
 this man's presence, sent her spirits up with a 
 bound and suffused her with a great kindness. 
 She laughed spontaneously at one of her father's 
 persistent little witticisms, and even forgave him 
 his elation at its success. Afterwards she for- 
 got this, but she remembered how he had 
 
 [45] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 turned back at the last moment to be sure that 
 his wife was comfortable, and that she would 
 not rather he stayed with her. 
 
 He led the way up the rough ledges, 
 declaiming poems that honored such scenes, and 
 calling for their admiration at every new aspect 
 of the view as eagerly as if he were responsible 
 for its success. Whether he broke in on their 
 talk or their silences, they answered him cheer- 
 fully, and turned obediently as he pointed; 
 nothing could really interrupt or mar the beauty 
 of that hour for them. Imogen once heard 
 herself call her father " dear/' and she remem- 
 bered this afterwards with passionate gratitude. 
 Certainly it was a happy afternoon for him; 
 and the end came so swiftly, so utterly without 
 warning, that scarcely a second could have been 
 darkened. They were still beneath him when 
 he reached the top of the cliff, and saw him lift 
 his arm in admiration of the mountain ranges 
 beyond, drawing back a fatal step. An instant 
 later, he lay somewhere below, in the shadows 
 of the precipitous rocks. 
 
 "Wait here let me go," Knight im- 
 
 [46] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 
 plored, but Imogen was already flying down the 
 path. They did not find the terrible thing they 
 dreaded. He had fallen on a merciful strip of 
 grass, and might be still living. Imogen sat 
 beside him till Knight came back with men and 
 a stretcher, then started to hurry ahead and 
 warn her mother. He caught her back. 
 
 " I told her, dear; and she was wonder- 
 ful. You needn't be afraid for her." Then 
 for the first time Imogen seemed to weaken a 
 little, and leaned against the bank to steady her- 
 self, but only for a moment. 
 
 Mr. Wallace died the next afternoon, 
 without having regained consciousness. When 
 everything was attended to, and there was noth- 
 ing to do but wait for the early morning train, 
 Imogen slipped out of the hotel by a side door 
 and turned toward the mountains. She had 
 not slept, and had scarcely eaten since the day 
 before. It seemed as though another moment 
 inside those walls would drive her mad. She 
 mounted desperately, not noticing where she 
 was going at first, but not shrinking when she 
 discovered. The grass where he had fallen 
 
 [47] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 was still crushed, and she stood looking at it 
 dry eyed, too dazed and tired to feel anything 
 but a dreary surprise at her own insensibility. 
 
 Some one came scrambling down from 
 the cliff overhead and stopped with startled 
 abruptness on finding her there. She looked 
 up, and was remotely aware of a boy in golf 
 stockings, who had lifted his cap and was evi- 
 dently planning to speak. 
 
 " I hope I didn't startle you," he said. 
 " I was just did you know there was a man 
 killed here yesterday? " 
 
 " Yes, I knew it," Imogen heard herself 
 say. 
 
 " I thought I'd come and see the place," 
 he went on. " He wasn't at my hotel, but a 
 friend of mine had met him said he was rather 
 an old goat ; but I don't suppose that made fall- 
 ing off any pleasanter." 
 
 u Yes; that is what the world would 
 call him." She spoke with sudden bitterness. 
 The boy's face expressed an anguish of dismay. 
 
 " Oh, did you know him?" he stam- 
 mered. 
 
 [48] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 
 "No; I never really knew him," she 
 answered after a pause. His flaming color be- 
 gan to subside, and he gave a laugh of noisy 
 relief. 
 
 " I was scared for a moment," he ad- 
 mitted. " I thought I'd made a break. If 
 you are going my way " 
 
 " No, I shall rest here for a while. 
 Good night." 
 
 " Well, good night." 
 
 When he had gone, she flung herself 
 down in the grass and crushed her face against 
 her arm. She was still sobbing exhaustedly 
 when Knight found her. He knelt beside her 
 and gathered her into his arms. 
 
 " Dear, dear girl," he said brokenly. 
 " I was afraid you would be here. This terri- 
 ble tragedy " 
 
 She drew away from him and pressed 
 both hands to her face with a despairing move- 
 ment. 
 
 " Oh, this isn't the tragedy! " she cried. 
 " This was just his death. It was his life that 
 was the tragedy don't you understand? He 
 
 [49] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 did so long for sympathy, intimacy, and no one 
 ever gave it to him ever. I tried to be a good 
 daughter; oh, I did try, Richard! But it was 
 only negative it was setting my teeth and not 
 being actively disagreeable. I was always chill- 
 ing him. He wanted to share our lives and 
 feelings, and we never let him for a moment. 
 I couldn't! And yet for just a little warmth 
 and approval he would " 
 
 " Dearest, don't ! You must not re- 
 proach yourself so. You " 
 
 " Oh, no; it was inevitable. If he came 
 back now, I should be just the same," she said 
 drearily. " He was a saint in all that he did 
 oh, if you knew his devotion to mother ! but he 
 was ridiculous. We knew it ; every one knew 
 it perhaps he knew it, too. But he couldn't 
 face it, or give up the hope of applause. He 
 would make those terrible little jokes, and al- 
 most pray that some one would laugh and no 
 one ever did. And he would feel things that 
 poets feel, really feel them and then, too, he 
 was ridiculous. And nobody would feel them 
 with him. All the time good and faithful and 
 
 [50] 
 
The Real Tragedy 
 
 sincere and all the time struggling, struggling 
 for the little things that we throw away on 
 anybody, but that we couldn't give him. And 
 always ridiculous ! Oh, that's the tragedy that 
 is killing me." She dropped her head 
 again. He put his arm about her shaking 
 shoulders and drew her back to him, tears run- 
 ning down his face. 
 
 " It couldn't be helped, my poor girl. 
 We can't change what we are. You mustn't 
 blame yourself." 
 
 She lifted her head with a certain fierce- 
 ness. 
 
 'There is just one thing in this world 
 that will comfort me for his life. And do you 
 know what? It is to have children of my own 
 who will grow up and begin to bear with me; 
 and listen to me with obvious patience, because 
 it's their duty; and shrink at my ways, but 
 dutifully hide it; and give me little forced smiles 
 when I wanted a laugh; and take turns sitting 
 with me so that I won't feel neglected, all the 
 time holding the door between us tight shut 
 then I shall be getting it back, and I'll be glad, 
 
 [51] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 glad ! It's the only way the burden can ever be 
 lightened. Don't you see? " 
 
 He drew her closer and kissed her very 
 gravely. 
 
 " Things work themselves out, dear 
 one way or another," he said. 
 
 [5*] 
 
IV 
 
 The House to Themselves 
 
 EVERY time Edy rocked there was a 
 screaking protest from the wardrobe, and a 
 little more of its varnish was yielded up. After 
 a few moments she jerked her chair impatiently 
 to one side ; but at the next rock she was brought 
 up with a sharp jar, as the end of the rocker 
 caught under the side of the little white iron 
 bed. She jumped up in exasperation, and, after 
 studying the tiny room with resentful eyes, set 
 her chair in the one spot where it had space to 
 move freely. 
 
 " And to think of all those nice, big 
 rooms downstairs," she muttered, stooping for 
 her thimble. She hit her head against the wash- 
 stand as she came up, and a half-smothered 
 " Oh, dear! " burst from her. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked a brisk 
 voice from the doorway. 
 
 [53] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Mamma, I'm tired of having board- 
 ers all over our house," Edy declared. " Let's 
 send them packing, and have those good, big 
 rooms for ourselves." 
 
 Her mother smiled as she laid an arm- 
 ful of clean clothes on the bed. 
 
 " Let's," she agreed cheerfully. Edy 
 smiled back. 
 
 " Now, most people would have re- 
 minded me that we'd have nothing to live .on, 
 if we did, and that we ought to be very thank- 
 ful for the old boarders," she said. " You're 
 
 so nice." 
 
 " Well, I guess you know all that," ad- 
 mitted Mrs. Williams. " I'll finish these stock- 
 ings if you like. I've got my dessert all made, 
 and Pauline is helping with lunch." 
 
 " No, you won't," declared Edy. " Go 
 and rest a while. What's dessert?" 
 
 " Suet pudding and a mite of custard 
 for Miss Anderson, because she don't eat the 
 pudding." 
 
 Edy frowned. 
 
 " Fussy old thing! Couldn't we give 
 
 [54] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 up some of them if we sell the farm?" she 
 added. 
 
 " Not at the price they are offer- 
 ing," answered her mother, turning to go. 
 " 'Twouldn't Looking for me, Lida?" 
 
 " There's a gentleman down in the par- 
 lor, ma'm." 
 
 " Well, I haven't a room vacant," said 
 Mrs. Williams, half to herself, lifting cau- 
 tiously inquiring hands to the neatly waved 
 gray hair that rippled across her forehead from 
 a part of suspicious straightness. 
 
 Edy finished the stockings just as the 
 lunch gong sounded, and distributed them on 
 her way downstairs. A voluminous woman, 
 handsome and richly dressed, overtook her and 
 laid a much-ringed hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " Such an industrious little person," she 
 commented, smiling affably. Edy twitched her 
 shoulder slightly, and frowned in the other di- 
 rection. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I've been busy," she said in a 
 manifestly unwilling voice. She was spared 
 any further strain on her manners by Pauline, 
 
 [ssi 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 who came running up the basement stairs, 
 flushed and pretty, putting the links into her 
 shirt cuffs, which had evidently been turned 
 back. 
 
 " Another busy girl," beamed Mrs. 
 Bartlett, stretching out a second jeweled hand. 
 Pauline met the overture with great friendli- 
 ness, and smiled up at the somewhat majestic 
 figure. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Bartlett, what a lovely new 
 blouse ! " she exclaimed. " Edy, doesn't she 
 look too stunning? " But Edy had escaped, 
 and was pouring out tea for a young man who 
 had taken his place at the long table and was 
 calling loudly for food. 
 
 " When a fellow has only twenty min- 
 utes to eat, and you keep him waiting nineteen, 
 he doesn't have the pleasant, reposeful meals 
 that the doctors advise," he was complaining. 
 Edy brought him his tea in unruffled serenity. 
 
 " Mr. Berry, youVe made that remark 
 every noon for four years and seven months," 
 she commented. " Why don't you change it? " 
 
 " Because I'm always hoping you'll 
 
 [56] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 think of something bright to say back/' he 
 returned. " Most people could work up a 
 very decent repartee in four years and seven 
 months." 
 
 " I've had other things to think about," 
 Edy answered. 
 
 " Oh, do keep the peace for one meal, 
 you two," interposed Pauline, taking the head 
 of the table. " Edy, Mrs. Bartlett wants her 
 tea. Oh, Miss Anderson, you don't eat chops; 
 your poached eggs will be up in a minute. Mr. 
 Berry, have you everything? " 
 
 " Everything in sight, thank you. But 
 I'd like another potato if it isn't extra." 
 
 " No, they're free on Wednesdays," 
 said Edy. " Where's mamma, Pauline? " 
 
 " Why, she went flying off, just after 
 that man called. I don't know what was the 
 matter, but she was wildly excited. She started 
 with two white waistbands streaming down in 
 back; I had to run half the block after her to 
 fasten them. And she had both gloves for the 
 same hand. All she'd say was that she was 
 going to see Uncle Daniel." 
 
 [57] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Dear me, then it's something about 
 law/' commented Edy. 
 
 " Well, if I'd known she was going to 
 call in a lawyer, I'd have paid up long ago," 
 said Mr. Berry, holding his napkin high in 
 front of him to fold it. " No, Miss Edy, you 
 needn't offer me cut up peaches now. Two 
 minutes ago, I'd have taken them gratefully, 
 but now you're welcome to them all yourself. 
 People carrying saucers of peaches are not al- 
 lowed on the Fourth Avenue cars." 
 
 " Would you like some saved for your 
 dinner?" Pauline called after him. 
 
 "What's dessert?" 
 
 " Suet pudding." 
 
 " Lots of raisins in it? " 
 
 " Lots. I stoned them myself." 
 
 "That's good enough. Let Miss Edy 
 keep her old peaches." And the front door 
 slammed. 
 
 " You spoil him dreadfully, Pauline," 
 Edy complained. 
 
 " Oh, spoiling's good for people," Pau- 
 line answered easily. " Miss Anderson, if you 
 
 [58] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 don't want peaches, you can have some pre- 
 served cherries just as well as not." 
 
 " Oh, no; I won't trouble you. I can 
 get along very well without," said Miss An- 
 derson patiently. 
 
 " One never has to ' get along without ' 
 in Mrs. Williams's household," said Mrs. Bart- 
 lett graciously. " I'm sure everything is always 
 most generous. Ah, Lida, you saved that eclair 
 for me? How very kind! " 
 
 It was nearly dinner time when Mrs. 
 Williams came back. She looked flushed and 
 tired, and the ripples of gray hair crossed her 
 forehead at an unconvincing slant, but there 
 was an air of elation about her that roused 
 clamorous curiosity in her family. When she 
 took her place at the head of the long table, her 
 usual sunniness was multiplied into radiance. 
 The boarders smiled back at her sympatheti- 
 cally as they shook out their napkins. Most 
 of them had been with her four and five years, 
 and none less than two, except a nice, fresh- 
 looking boy who sat by Mr. Berry, and nearly 
 strangled himself trying not to laugh too much. 
 
 [59] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Williams," began Mr. 
 Berry, " you know you're going to tell us by 
 dessert, anyway. Why not let us have it with 
 the soup and enjoy it with you? " 
 
 " What do you want me to tell you? " 
 demanded Mrs. Williams, with pleasant, el- 
 derly dimples coming and going around her 
 mouth. 
 
 " Why you shot off this noon with two 
 white waistbands hanging down your back," 
 was the prompt answer. " Excuse me if they're 
 things I ought not to mention. You know I 
 never had any sisters to put me on." 
 
 " Some one has been telling on me," 
 protested Mrs. Williams. " Pauline, I didn't 
 suppose you'd make fun of your old mother the 
 minute her back was turned." 
 
 " Well, she couldn't before it was 
 turned, in this case," interposed Edy, and there 
 was a general giggle, in which Mrs. Williams 
 led. Mr. Berry went back to the attack. 
 
 " If you don't tell me yourself, you 
 know I'll get it out of Miss Edy afterwards," 
 he said. " She can't keep anything." 
 
 [60] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 " Well, I certainly couldn't keep a 
 boarding house with you in it," said Edy 
 promptly, to the vast delight of the others. 
 
 " There's where she got you, Frank," 
 some one applauded. 
 
 " Well, I guess she's safe enough this 
 time," commented Mrs. Williams. " She don't 
 know any more than you do, and she isn't 
 going to yet a while." 
 
 " Oh, it isn't anything," declared Pau- 
 line. " Mamma acted just this way when some 
 one promised us a Persian kitten. My! We 
 thought it was going to be a horse and carriage, 
 and were fighting about who should drive, when 
 the miserable thing came in a paper box. We 
 never forgave it." 
 
 " Probably this time it's a pug dog," 
 said Edy. 
 
 " You'll see," returned their mother 
 with a shake of her head. 
 
 It was several weeks before they did 
 see. Mrs. Williams made many trips to Uncle 
 Daniel, and was increasingly mysterious, but 
 refused to explain. 
 
 [61] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 * That pug dog is too young to leave 
 its mother yet," was all she would say. " You'll 
 have it in due time if it lives." 
 
 Late in November, she threw the whole 
 household into excitement by going away for a 
 couple of days. 
 
 " Your Uncle Daniel's with me, and 
 you don't need to worry," she announced. 
 " Pauline, you can run the house as well as I 
 
 can." 
 
 " Going to bring back that pug dog, 
 mamma?" Edy demanded. 
 
 " P'raps," she admitted, breaking into 
 a broad smile. 
 
 The girls worked hard the next two 
 days, realizing with a new acuteness how much 
 their mother did. 
 
 " It's a shame," Pauline concluded, 
 coming up from the kitchen toward dinner time 
 the second night, and throwing herself down 
 on a lounge. " She ought not to have to slave 
 so. It's not fair." 
 
 " Oh, if we didn't have to keep board- 
 ers, wouldn't it be blissful?" sighed Edy. 
 
 [62] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 " Think of having those big, comfortable 
 rooms to ourselves." 
 
 "And a little bit of a dinner table," 
 added Pauline. 
 
 " And no Mrs. Bartlett playing Queen 
 of the Boarding House all over the place. 
 Ugh! She does feel so regal." 
 
 " And no Miss Anderson to cook spe- 
 cial dishes for all the time. I think she takes 
 tea at breakfast just because nobody else does; 
 and I know that's why she wants cocoa at lunch. 
 There is boiled mutton to-night, and I was 
 dying to forget that she didn't eat it, but I knew 
 mamma wouldn't like it. She always says, 
 * Oh, well, she don't have so much to interest 
 her. I guess we can give her a bit of steak.' 
 Isn't that mamma all over? " 
 
 " We'd be richer if it wasn't," said Edy 
 despondently. " There comes Mr. Bridges 
 now; I can tell by the way he puts his key in. 
 He's going to clear his throat, put his hat on 
 the second right-hand hook while he looks at 
 himself in the hat-rack mirror and gives his 
 hair two little pats with his left hand; then he's 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 going to march upstairs humming * The Holy 
 City.' Oh, dear! He's been doing that in our 
 front hall every night for five years. Why 
 can't we live by ourselves? " 
 
 " Children ! " called a voice from the 
 basement stairs. Some one was heard mount- 
 ing heavily. 
 
 " There she is," they cried, jumping up. 
 Mrs. Williams emerged from the semi-dark- 
 ness, tired, travel-marked, the gray ripples of 
 her front hair at an angle that defied possibil- 
 ity; but unmistakably triumphant. 
 
 "Where's the pug dog?" demanded 
 Edy. 
 
 " Come up to my room. I've brought 
 him," she answered in a half whisper. 
 
 The boarders were all assembled when 
 the three came down again. The girls looked 
 flushed and excited, and Mrs. Williams's smile 
 was like a burst of sunlight. They greeted her 
 noisily, with sincere warmth. All through din- 
 ner they " kept it up," as she would have said, 
 and there was a general air of peace and satis- 
 faction when the men pushed back their chairs 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 a little and took out their cigars. Miss Ander- 
 son generally left with marked haste at this 
 point, but to-night even she was warmed into 
 sociability, and pretended not to notice the blue 
 clouds of varying fragrance that began to form 
 in level drifts below the droplight. 
 
 " Dear me, Miss Edy's got on the light 
 blue waist," Mr. Berry commented, looking 
 across at her approvingly. " I hope you don't 
 all want the parlor to-night, for I always pro- 
 pose to her when she wears that blue waist." 
 The nice boy beside him laughed convulsively, 
 and blushed because he couldn't stop. Edy was 
 quite unmoved. 
 
 " Pity it's most worn out," she said, 
 with lazy sarcasm. Mrs. Bartlett entered in 
 with somewhat lumbering sprightliness. 
 
 4 The last time you wear it, you will 
 have to accept him," she smiled. 
 
 " Oh, he'd never forgive me," said 
 Edy. " It would be a mean trick." 
 
 " It would that," agreed Mr. Berry 
 gravely. The boy's explosion was covered in 
 a general laugh this time, to his deep gratitude. 
 
 [65] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 ' Well, he won't have so many more 
 chances," announced Mrs. Williams. Some- 
 thing in her voice made them all turn to her. 
 She rose and leaned two plump hands on the 
 table, smiling down on them. 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen," she began, 
 " in the years we've been together, youVe been 
 very nice to me, and I've tried to be nice to you. 
 I don't say things have been perfect; I know 
 Minnie's coffee is uncertain and sometimes not 
 what it should be, and I haven't forgotten that 
 Mr. Bridges's closet door won't shut, though I 
 can't seem to remember to get it fixed. How- 
 ever, I've tried to make you pretty comfortable 
 on the whole, and I hope you'll be sorry when 
 I tell you that this isn't a boarding house any 
 longer. It will stay open till you all get com- 
 fortably fixed somewheres else, but after that 
 it's my private home, to which you're all wel- 
 come whenever you're a mind to come." 
 
 There was a confused burst of wonder 
 and dismay as she sat down, and she was over- 
 whelmed with excited questions. The explana- 
 tion was very simple. It seemed there was 
 [66] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 newly discovered a good supply of oil on the 
 old farm in Pennsylvania, and the people who 
 had been trying to buy it from her at a nominal 
 sum, without arousing her suspicions, had been 
 obliged to pay a fair price for their bargain. 
 She had been down for a final survey of the 
 property, and the papers were now drawn up 
 and signed. It was not wealth that had come 
 to them, but a pleasant degree of comfort. 
 They could have their home to themselves, and 
 if they kept to a certain frugality, there would 
 be better clothes and more theaters as a reward. 
 Pauline was already lost in an absorbing dream 
 of pink chiffon and yellow lace, while Edy was 
 mentally fitting up Mr. Bridges's big, sunny 
 room to fit her own ideas. The boarders were 
 congratulatory, but plainly dismayed. 
 
 " Fate has been mighty nice to you, but 
 it has played a dirty trick on us," Mr. Berry 
 summed it up. " Miss Edy, I'll let you off to- 
 night. I'm not up to it. Anybody that wants 
 can have the parlor." 
 
 The next few days were very exciting. 
 Dinner, which was always a jovial meal, be- 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 came positively hilarious as the different mem- 
 bers reported each night their experiences in 
 hunting for quarters. Mrs. Bartlett was the 
 first to go, then Mr. Bridges and the nice boy 
 who sat beside Mr. Berry. Gradually quiet de- 
 scended on the house. 
 
 The first week of their freedom went 
 in readjusting the house, the second in contem- 
 plating the change with smiles of satisfaction. 
 The third Monday morning Edy wandered 
 rather aimlessly into Pauline's room and stood 
 staring into the sleety rain that was beating 
 down outside. 
 
 " Isn't it good to dawdle around Mon- 
 day morning?" she said. 
 
 "Isn't it?" echoed Pauline, throwing 
 down the paper; yet there was a lack of convic- 
 tion in both voices. 
 
 " We really are going to have lots of 
 time now," Edy went on presently. " We ought 
 to plan something regular to do. I think one's 
 a little restless if one doesn't." 
 
 " Well, of course we'll sew some," said 
 Pauline without enthusiasm. 
 [68] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 14 We might take up some study." 
 
 " But what's the good? We always 
 did hate studying. My! Wasn't I glad when 
 we had to leave school." Edy sighed and 
 gave in. 
 
 " I know," she said. " I don't really 
 want to." 
 
 " Children," said Mrs. Williams from 
 the doorway, " Lida has a headache, and I told 
 her to go and lie down. Who will set the table 
 for lunch?" 
 
 " Oh, I will," exclaimed both the girls 
 at once. 
 
 The storm lasted all the afternoon, and 
 was still beating against the windows when they 
 sat down to dinner. Mrs. Williams eyed the 
 two with some dissatisfaction. 
 
 " Seems as though you might change 
 your waists for dinner, girls," she commented. 
 " Edy, I don't believe you've even done your 
 hair." 
 
 " Well, it doesn't feel worth while, 
 somehow, when there's just us," she admitted, 
 and they all fell into silence. Mrs. Williams 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 finally came out of her thoughts with a long 
 sigh. 
 
 " It does seem mortal quiet," she re- 
 marked. " My conscience, don't a roast of 
 beef last nowadays ! I don't believe we'll ever 
 get this ate up." 
 
 " We might ask some people in to 
 help," Edy suggested listlessly. 
 
 " Why, let's," exclaimed Pauline. " Ask 
 some people to dinner, I mean. Why can't we, 
 mamma?" They had all brightened im- 
 mensely. 
 
 " I don't see why not," Mrs. Williams 
 said. " We can have Frank Berry in and 
 Mr. Bridges? All right. To-morrow's iron- 
 ing; say Wednesday, then. Suppose you write 
 them notes, Edy." 
 
 " And I'll put on my storm things and 
 mail them," agreed Pauline enthusiastically. 
 
 . The ex-boarders accepted joyfully. 
 Word was sent to the dressmaker to hurry 
 on the three new gowns that were well 
 under way, and Mrs. Williams bustled happily 
 about the kitchen preparing all her famous 
 
 [70] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 specialties with hospitable recklessness. There 
 were flowers in the drawing-room that night, 
 and gowns that trailed, and Mrs. Williams's 
 gray ripples had been changed for a beau- 
 tiful pompadour that matched the silvery 
 gray of her dress even better than that of her 
 back hair. Yet when the two guests arrived 
 in the splendor of evening clothes, the bright- 
 ness seemed suddenly to die out, and an un- 
 locked for constraint fell on them all. The 
 affair which had seemed so simple and jolly in 
 prospect, all at once became complicated and 
 difficult. To be sitting in a wide circle mak- 
 ing conversation with Mr. Bridges and Frank 
 Berry was an impossible situation. Edy writhed 
 under it, and grew cross and short, while Pau- 
 line was gay with a visible effort, and the two 
 guests had come to saying " do you not " and 
 " I beg pardon " in the torturing stiffness of 
 the occasion, when Mrs. Williams saved the 
 party and brought them all to spontaneous 
 laughter by jumping up with a cry of: 
 
 "Land! I told Minnie I'd make the 
 gravy, and I clean forgot ! " 
 
 [71] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 It was all right after that. Mrs. Will- 
 iams hurried off, turning back her skirt as she 
 went, and the rest, relaxing from their for- 
 mality, moved about the room laughing and 
 disputing and teazing, as they had always done. 
 When Mrs. Williams came back and sum- 
 moned them to the dining room there was a 
 touch of flour on her cheek, and the new pom- 
 padour had a slight list to port, but the sunny 
 friendliness of her smile became her better than 
 any outer precision could have done. And when 
 she said, " Boys, it's good to see you," and they 
 caught the fragrance of a perfect turkey float- 
 ing up the dumb-waiter, they could only express 
 their joy in her by pulling out her chair and 
 clamoring to sit next to her. 
 
 "Isn't she just bully?" Mr. Berry 
 sighed, dropping down beside Edy. 
 
 " And isn't it good to be back? " echoed 
 Mr. Bridges from the other side. 
 
 The dinner was a brilliant success. 
 When she chained up the front door, four hila- 
 rious hours later, Mrs. Williams looked un- 
 wontedly thoughtful. 
 
 [72] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 " Poor boys it does seem a kind of a 
 shame, " she said a little vaguely. 
 
 Every year since their home had been 
 turned into a boarding house, the girls had 
 mourned for Christmas to themselves. Of all 
 the things they had had to give up, this had 
 seemed the hardest And when Mrs. Williams 
 brought the good news that November even- 
 ing, their first thought had been that at last 
 they should have a home Christmas. A dozen 
 plans for celebration had flashed through their 
 minds. They had plotted surprises for their 
 mother, and she had taken each apart in turn 
 and confided an exciting secret that was to be 
 guarded from the other. And holly was to 
 shine from every bracket and chandelier. 
 
 They discussed it daily. Yet, as the 
 day drew near, the glory began to fade from 
 the prospect. Three was such a very small 
 number for a Christmas celebration! In the 
 old days of prosperity, when the boys had been 
 home, and the older sister, there had always 
 been spontaneous noise enough to make any 
 holiday a merry one. But now, though they 
 
 [73] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 would not have confessed it, each began a little 
 to dread the quiet Christmas to themselves that 
 they had dreamed of so long. Mrs. Williams 
 struck from her list, one by one, the different 
 items of the holiday feast she had planned with 
 such delight. 
 
 "What's the good? We'd never eat 
 them up in this world," she said; and a dismal 
 silence fell upon them. The news that Miss 
 Anderson was in the parlor came like a pleasant 
 event. Mrs. Williams went down radiating 
 cordiality. 
 
 When she came back, half an hour 
 later, her face was a pathetic mixture of doubt, 
 dismay, and amusement. 
 
 u I declare, girls, I don't know what 
 you'll do to me," she began. They looked up 
 anxiously, and she plunged ahead. ' The poor 
 little lady did seem so sort of forlorn, and she's 
 tried three places since she's been here, and she 
 hadn't anybody to spend Christmas with. And 
 before I knew it, I asked her to Christmas din- 
 ner. Yes, I did!" And she looked appeal- 
 ingly from one stern young judge to the other. 
 
 [74] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 " It wasn't fair to you girls, and I'm sure I 
 didn't mean to; it just came out somehow be- 
 fore I knew it." 
 
 "Well," said Edy slowly, "I don't 
 know that I really mind." The other two 
 were visibly relieved. 
 
 " Well, I don't," said Pauline briskly. 
 " And see here, mamma, since we won't be 
 alone anyway, why not ask Mrs. Bartlett, too? 
 I met her yesterday, and she hates it where she 
 is. And she's real sweet and nice, always." 
 They both looked rather eagerly at Edy. 
 
 "All right," she said cheerfully. "I 
 don't mind her. And see here we'll have the 
 whole day to be by ourselves why not have 
 some of the others, too ? I'll tell you let's ask 
 them all! Let's give a Christmas dinner 
 party!" 
 
 " Oh, jolly! " exclaimed Pauline. Mrs. 
 Williams's face was beaming as it had not 
 beamed for weeks. 
 
 '* Then there'll be some sense getting 
 up a good dinner," she said. " I declare, I did 
 just hate to order an eight-pound turkey. I 
 
 [75] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 haven't bought less than a sixteen pounder in 
 twenty years. Now, girls, you mustn't talk if 
 you're going to stay here. I've got to make 
 out my list." 
 
 Christmas night all the leaves were 
 back in the table, for not one of the accustomed 
 faces was missing. Mrs. Bartlett was regal in 
 satin and lace, and praised and admired every 
 one into a glow of good feeling. Miss Ander- 
 son was almost noisy, and when Lida brought 
 her her little special dish of gravy without 
 giblets, she was so touched that she nearly wept. 
 Mr. Berry kept the nice boy beside him at the 
 point of strangulation from laughter, and all 
 ate with a keenness of appreciation that told 
 how they had been faring during these home- 
 less weeks. 
 
 " I declare, it's worth while having a 
 dinner for you people," Mrs. Williams ex- 
 claimed, as a tiny, fading mound of her home- 
 made ice cream was borne away. " It don't 
 seem worth while getting up good things for 
 us three alone." 
 
 " Well, any time you want us " sug- 
 
 [76] 
 
The House to Themselves 
 
 gested Mr. Bridges. They all paused at that. 
 Mr. Berry put down his coffee cup and looked 
 at her eagerly. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Williams, take us back!" 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Williams!" echoed Miss 
 Anderson and Mrs. Bartlett. They all joined 
 in, stretching out their hands to her, laughing 
 but excited: 
 
 "Take us back!" 
 
 "But, land sakes, where'd I put you?" 
 she protested. " We're using the rooms 
 you " 
 
 " Mrs. Williams," said Mr. Berry sol- 
 emnly, " I will take the littlest, coldest, meanest 
 north hall bedroom you can scrape up, if you'll 
 just let me come ! " 
 
 "And I'll go on the top floor with 
 thankfulness," added Mr. Bridges. 
 
 " We'll take anything, anything'' 
 pleaded Miss Anderson and Mrs. Bartlett. 
 " Just let us come." Mrs. Williams looked at 
 Pauline, and then they both turned shining eyes 
 to Edy. 
 
 [77] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " We don't really need that sewing 
 room at the back," she said, looking away. 
 
 " Nor the spare room, either," added 
 Pauline joyfully. " And we can keep another 
 girl." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Williams!" they all chor- 
 used again. She rested her chin on her clasped 
 hands and dimpled down on them. 
 
 " Well, if you can find rooms to suit 
 you, I guess I'll have to let you come," she said. 
 
 "Hooray!" shouted the nice boy be- 
 fore he could stop; and then they were all 
 crowding around her, shaking her hands, ra- 
 diant with satisfaction. Mr. Berry turned to 
 Edy. 
 
 " If ever there was a saint on earth! " 
 he exclaimed. " I mean your mother, not you. 
 Jiminy, but it will be good to be back. I'm so 
 grateful, I want to do something for her 
 make a sacrifice. Is the light blue waist quite 
 worn out? " 
 
 " Quite," said Edy. Then their eyes 
 met, and an irrepressible laugh escaped her. 
 " I've got another," she added. 
 
 [78] 
 
V 
 
 Constance Dorothea 
 
 THERE really was not anything else to 
 do, after all Aunt Suzanna's kindness taking 
 us in after the fire and giving Alice such beau- 
 tiful care while she was so miserable. 
 
 " Suzanna isn't the worst possible name; 
 and maybe it will come into fashion by the time 
 baby is grown up," said Alice, who is naturally 
 optimistic. I had my doubts of that, but there 
 was really no help for it the dear lady evi- 
 dently longed for a namesake, and it was the 
 only return we could make her. So we went 
 the whole I mean, we gave the baby the full 
 Suzanna McMoogle, since we were in for it, 
 and hoped the poor little soul would forgive us 
 later. 
 
 When the next baby came, we did not 
 happen to have any girl names handy, having 
 been discussing such titles as Ralph and Donald 
 
 [79] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 and Philip, so the kiddie was simply " baby " 
 for a few weeks. Then, when we were com- 
 fortably debating over Dorothea and Con- 
 stance and Helen, we were taken aside and pri- 
 vately informed that Alice's grandmother was 
 horribly hurt that we were not naming it after 
 her. Now we loved Grandmother Perkins de- 
 votedly, but someway it had not occurred to us 
 that anyone could expect anything to be named 
 Luella. We wrestled long with the subject, but 
 Alice's heart was tender, and Luella finally won 
 out. And I will admit that the old lady's joy 
 was touching. 
 
 We had plenty of feminine names ready 
 when the third appeared, but Alice, poor girl, 
 was so ill for a week or two that we did not 
 give the matter a thought; though I admit an 
 awful sinking came over me when my Aunt 
 Effie summoned me by telephone. 
 
 "We won't! That's settled," I said 
 between my teeth as I rang at her imposing 
 front door. 
 
 Aunt Effie came straight to the point. 
 
 " See here," she began, settling herself 
 [80] 
 
Constance Dorothea 
 
 with a brisk rustle of silk, " what are you going 
 to name that new child? " 
 
 " Dorothea," said I. She paid no 
 earthly attention either to the assertion or to 
 my tone. 
 
 " I don't like it," she went on, " the 
 way you take all your names from Alice's side 
 of the family. Your own side has some claims, 
 I should think. Now, I haven't any children, 
 but I can't take much interest in a Suzanna or 
 a Luella. And I should like to take an interest 
 in one of your children." She paused impres- 
 sively. " Give her my name, and I will see that 
 she doesn't lack for advantages," she con- 
 cluded. " School, college, society everything 
 I would do for a daughter of my own. And 
 there is some sense in a pretty little name like 
 Effie. Go home and talk it over with Alice." 
 
 Well, of course, there was no real ques- 
 tion as to our duty, after we had relieved our 
 feelings by vowing nothing should persuade us. 
 We were poor, and we could not deny the child 
 the prospect of such advantages. 
 
 u We can name the next Eleanor," 
 [81] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Alice suggested, trying bravely to be cheerful 
 about it. 
 
 "There won't be any next," I said 
 firmly. 
 
 Nineteen months later the doctor made 
 the somewhat trite announcement: " A splendid 
 little girl." Alice looked feebly up at me as I 
 bent over her. 
 
 " Go and get a clergyman," she mur- 
 mured. I was horribly frightened. 
 
 "Why, you're all right, dear! You're 
 coming through splendidly!" I stammered. 
 She gave her head a weak little shake. 
 
 " No I mean, to name the baby 
 quick," she murmured. My circulation started 
 up again, and I departed light-heartedly in 
 search of the Reverend Dr. Hoyt. And that 
 child was formally christened Constance Doro- 
 thea before she had her first square meal. We 
 would have given her Helen and Rose and 
 Eleanor, too, if we had had the courage of 
 our desires. 
 
 It seemed almost too good to be true 
 not to have to apologize and explain when 
 
 [82] 
 
Constance Dorothea 
 
 we were asked the new baby's name. We had 
 always congratulated ourselves on not boring 
 others with the subject of our children, but 1 
 now began to have a small suspicion as to the 
 true cause of our restraint. There is no deny- 
 ing that we dragged in Constance Dorothea at 
 every opening, without a scruple. And she 
 proved as pretty as her name when her features 
 had set in. She was a real show child in every 
 respect, bless her. 
 
 It was when she was about a year old 
 that Alice came in one day with a piece of fam- 
 ily news. 
 
 " Cousin Hermione is coming East," 
 she announced. "She is going to spend the 
 winter with Aunt Suzanna." I had heard of 
 Cousin Hermione before, but the name struck 
 ominously on my ears. 
 
 " Thank goodness, Constance Dorothea 
 has got her name nailed on ! " I exclaimed. 
 Alice laughed. 
 
 " Oh, I should not have consented to 
 Hermione for any reason ! " she asserted. 
 
 "Rather not!" I agreed; but still I 
 [8 3 ] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 felt a vague uneasiness. The next day I bought 
 the baby a silver porringer and had her full 
 name, Constance Dorothea, engraved on it at 
 great expense. It seemed to make things more 
 assured. 
 
 Cousin Hermione was a little dried-up 
 person, very prim and reserved, her shabbiness 
 brushed and mended into a dim gentility, who 
 talked with the corners of her mouth held 
 tightly together and shook hands distantly with 
 the babies when introduced. She seemed to 
 consider conversation as an instrument for pre- 
 venting familiarity, and I would gladly have 
 followed the frank retreat of my three daugh- 
 ters if the laws of hospitality and Alice's firm 
 eye had not held me. Then Constance Doro- 
 thea woke up audibly and was brought in as 
 soon as she could be whisked into a clean dress. 
 She was not a shy young person and she stared 
 earnestly at her new relative, then broke into 
 an enthusiastic smile and called a greeting in 
 her own language, for which the nearest trans- 
 lation would be : 
 
 " Hello, old girl ! Bully for you ! " It 
 [84] 
 
Constance Dorothea 
 
 seemed to me that the tight corners of Cousin 
 Hermione's lips showed a faint quiver. 
 
 " She has never walked alone yet, but 
 she can stand," said Alice, putting the baby 
 down on her two little square moccasins. Cou- 
 sin Hermione, who sat a few feet away, almost 
 held out her hand. 
 
 " A healthy-looking child," she said, 
 her eyes fixed on the beaming face. How or 
 why it happened no man might tell, but at that 
 moment Constance Dorothea straightened her 
 little back, stood wavering an instant, then 
 lurched bravely across the intervening space, 
 six full steps all alone, and would have gone 
 down with a thud at Cousin Hermione's feet 
 if she had not caught the little starfish hands in 
 a breathless rescue. Alice was too excited over 
 the event to notice anything else, but I took a 
 short-sighted satisfaction in our visitor's im- 
 perfectly concealed pleasure. I dare say it is 
 flattering to have a baby take her first steps for 
 you; anyway, Cousin Hermione, stiffly and ner- 
 vously, drew Constance Dorothea into her lap, 
 and she made an infernally long call. I don't 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 suppose anyone had ever before sucked her 
 finger or jerked her watch chain or even butted 
 her in the chest. 
 
 When she did get up to go, she stood 
 looking wistfully at Fatness on the floor. 
 
 " She has a look of my mother, your 
 great-aunt Hermione, Alice," she said. " It is 
 something about the brow. She was a remark- 
 able woman. Her mother was named Her- 
 mione, too that was your great-grandmother. 
 It has always been one of our family names." 
 
 " Yes, so it has," Alice assented. 
 
 " No, you don't!" I muttered, quite 
 inaudibly though Alice insisted afterwards 
 that it could have been heard a block. 
 
 " It has begun," I told her, when the 
 front door had closed. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! Baby is christened," 
 returned Alice. 
 
 Cousin Hermione came in nearly every 
 day after that, but we never got any closer to 
 her. We could not very well chew at her 
 knuckles nor pull her hair, and that seemed to 
 be the only way to pass her barriers. She and 
 [86] 
 
Constance Dorothea 
 
 Constance Dorothea developed an intimacy 
 that delighted Alice, who only laughed at my 
 warnings. I called the baby " Hermione " 
 once, just to put that young person on her 
 guard, but she, too, chuckled in my face. I 
 was the prophet without honor. 
 
 The resemblance to great-aunt Her- 
 mione seemed to increase daily about the brow 
 of Constance Dorothea. Evidently the one 
 great feeling in the life of this little wisp of 
 humanity had been for her mother, and there 
 was a growing wistfulness in her references to 
 the likeness. It was a Sunday afternoon when 
 she made her first timid attack. 
 
 " All your children seem to have family 
 names, Alice," she ventured. " I I approve 
 of that. It seems fitting to commemorate the 
 the most valued members of a family." 
 Alice in her blind security assented to the gen- 
 eral proposition. " Do you never wish you 
 had done the same with this little one? " 
 Cousin Hermione went on, flushing faintly. " I 
 had so hoped that somewhere my mother's 
 name Hermione " 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Yes, of course," said Alice sympa- 
 thetically; "but baby has been christened, you 
 know. Dr. Hoyt came up when when she 
 was very little. So, of course, it could not be 
 changed no matter how much we wanted to." 
 
 " Oh, of course!" said Cousin Her- 
 mione, and the subject was apparently closed. 
 Only I knew better. 
 
 After that, when she thought that no 
 one was within earshot, she used to call the 
 baby Hermione. I warned Alice she ought to 
 make a bold stand and declare her mind on the 
 subject, but she refused to see any danger. 
 
 " I hate to hurt her feelings unneces- 
 sarily," she explained. 
 
 It was several weeks later that Cousin 
 Hermione came in with an air of repressed 
 excitement about her. 
 
 " I have met your Dr. Hoyt," she an- 
 nounced, a tremor in her precise tones. " We 
 stayed after service this morning and and I 
 was introduced. He says that the Church does 
 not oppose a change of name, if the reason 
 seems a good one." 
 
 [88] 
 
Constance Dorothea 
 
 " You refer to the marriage service?' 1 
 I asked, hoping to divert her. 
 
 " No; it was in reference to christening 
 children," she explained. " I spoke to him 
 about " 
 
 It was this moment that Luella, thought- 
 ful little soul, selected for her historic tumble 
 down the front stairs. In the commotion that 
 followed we forgot all about Cousin Hermione, 
 and when it was settled that Luella was only 
 pretty well bumped, she took herself off. I saw 
 the stiff little figure go down the walk, never 
 dreaming that it was for the last time. When the 
 report of a heavy cold explained her non-appear- 
 ance a few days later, Alice was only relieved 
 that the hurting of her feelings was put off. 
 
 " Of course, I shall be firm when it 
 comes to the issue," she assured me. 
 
 " I don't know I'm afraid she will 
 work us yet," I answered worriedly. 
 
 Cousin Hermione's cold was suddenly 
 pronounced pneumonia. Next thing we knew, 
 she was very low, and wanted earnestly to speak 
 with us. 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "It's coming! " I warned Alice as we 
 hurried over to Aunt Suzanna's. " She is go- 
 ing to make it a last request. If you had been 
 frank in the first place ! " 
 
 " Don't! " begged Alice. " I I don't 
 believe it is about the name." 
 
 * You know it is I " I returned. 
 
 We rang the bell in miserable dejection. 
 It is not pleasant to refuse last requests. After 
 a long delay, an agitated maid opened the door. 
 Cousin Hermione had died fifteen minutes 
 before. 
 
 When we went away, later, we were 
 ashamed to look at each other, though Alice 
 permitted herself a sigh of relief as she kissed 
 the sleeping Constance Dorothea in her crib. 
 
 " I don't know I don't feel altogether 
 easy yet," I muttered, and was reproved for 
 levity. Save in his own country! 
 
 A few days later we were summoned to 
 Aunt Suzanna's. The poor little woman had 
 left a will, and we went tolerantly ready to re- 
 ceive a coral brooch or a tree-calf copy of 
 Emerson's " Essays." Alice was sure there 
 
 [90] 
 
Constance Dorothea 
 
 would be some memento for Constance Doro- 
 thea. 
 
 There was. We might have known it. 
 My premonitions had not been for nothing. 
 Ten thousand dollars in stocks and bonds 
 her treasured all to go to Constance Doro- 
 thea, on one condition: that her name be 
 changed " to that of my beloved mother, Her- 
 mione Small." There it was, ten thousand dol- 
 lars; and we an unprosperous young couple 
 with four girls. 
 
 " We won't, we won't ! " we said to 
 each other in pale dismay on the way home. 
 But we had not said it before the lawyer, and 
 we both knew it. 
 
 We went dismally to the nursery, where 
 the baby beamed at us over her empty por- 
 ringer. I picked it up and read the name ex- 
 pensively engraved on the side. 
 
 " ' To the glory that was Greece and 
 the grandeur that was Rome,' " I murmured. 
 Then I held it up to Constance Dorothea. 
 " Wouldn't you rather be called that than have 
 ten thousand dollars?" 
 
 [91] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Alice held out a silver chain-purse, un- 
 usually full. " Choose, baby: which will you 
 have?" The decision did not take Constance 
 Dorothea two seconds; she lunged at the purse 
 with both hands. Alice relinquished it with a 
 long sigh. 
 
 "That settles you, Hermione Small/* 
 she said. 
 
 [9*] 
 
VI 
 The Lady from California 
 
 " MRS. NICHOLSON is from Califor- 
 nia," Mrs. Burke added as a congratulatory 
 supplement to the general introduction. The 
 newcomer slipped into her seat with eyes mod- 
 estly lowered, as though disclaiming any special 
 glory that the fact might contain. 
 
 " California that is where I want to 
 go/' said Mrs. Whitehouse, a mature and awk- 
 ward bride with a very bad cold in her head. 
 Mr. Turnbull, across the table, lifted a square 
 face of an elderly red from a swift absorption 
 of soup. 
 
 " I was there once," he announced, with 
 a relieved push of his empty soup plate from 
 him. " Nice place nice, kind people. Only 
 they will serve salad before the meat. 
 Wretched custom couldn't find out why they 
 did it. No one wants roast after salad." 
 
 [93] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 The Californian, a thin, worn-looking 
 woman with a sensitive mouth and the forehead 
 of an idealist, looked up anxiously. 
 
 11 Why, I never did in my house," she 
 protested, " and none of my family did. You 
 might find it now and then " 
 
 "They all do it," Mr. Turnbull per- 
 sisted. u I know there six weeks and was 
 asked out all the time. Invariable custom in 
 California salad before meat. Wretched 
 idea. Why do you suppose they like it? " 
 
 A faint flush had replaced the pallid, 
 flat pink of premature withering in Mrs. Nich- 
 olson's limp cheeks. 
 
 " I have kept house there over twenty 
 years, and my mother before me, and I am 
 sure " she was beginning in a distressed voice 
 when Mrs. Burke came to the rescue. 
 
 " Well, of course, Mrs. Nicholson, the 
 two years you have been away may have made 
 changes. Don't you find yourself impatient to 
 go back, sometimes?" 
 
 "Oh, so impatient!" Mrs. Nichol- 
 son's eyes softened to longing. 
 
 [94] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " It's four years since I was there," an- 
 nounced Mr. Turnbull uncompromisingly. 
 
 " Do you really think California fruit 
 is as good as ours except just in appear- 
 ance?" Mrs. Whitehouse asked deprecatingly, 
 looking up from a low-toned conversation with 
 her solemn husband. The anxious line came 
 back into Mrs. Nicholson's forehead. 
 
 " But you get it a week old and picked 
 green," she explained conscientiously. " If you 
 could have it right off the trees, as we do in 
 my garden " 
 
 "Well, I had the best in the market 
 there and I thought it pretty poor stuff," put 
 in Mr. Turnbull. " Get better peaches out of 
 Delaware than California ever grew. Nice 
 people there, nice place; but they don't know 
 what's what when it comes to flavor." 
 
 " Well, seasons vary," said Mrs. Burke 
 pacifically. " I suppose your flowers just beat 
 everything." 
 
 " Oh, tell us about them," said the 
 bride, with a sigh of appreciation that ended in 
 a sneeze. The handkerchief she clutched from 
 
 [95] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 the front of her blouse brought with it a burst 
 of pink baby ribbon, which was thrust back 
 with embarrassed haste. 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson turned to her grate- 
 fully, her eyes alight with the frail fire of the 
 enthusiast. 
 
 " Oh, if you could see my garden in the 
 spring! " Her evident shyness was forgotten: 
 heliotrope and oleanders and Banksia roses 
 bloomed through her eager talk, trellises of 
 jasmine vied with scarlet heaps of pomegranate 
 and odd, fragrant names new to their ears. 
 Even Mr. Turnbull, swallowing his roast beef 
 as though some one held a stop watch on his 
 performance, forebore to comment. 
 
 " My ! I'd like to see it all," said Mrs. 
 Burke comfortably. A flower garden would 
 have roused about as much sentiment in her as 
 a tour through a department store did, but she 
 had a mild energy for " sights " of any sort. 
 " Though I suppose it's you native Califor- 
 nians that get the most out of it," she added. 
 
 The happy excitement died out of Mrs. 
 Nicholson's eyes and they fell uneasily. 
 
 [96] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " I I suppose so," she said. 
 
 " Being born in a place does seem to 
 count curiously with people," Mrs. Burke went 
 on. " I suppose it's like your own child; an 
 adopted one can't be just the same to you, no 
 matter how fond you are of it." 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson seemed absorbed in her 
 salad, and the talk drifted in other directions. 
 Her face was still troubled when she went to 
 her own room a little later. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to have told! " she 
 murmured unhappily. 
 
 " The lady from California seems 
 homesick," Mrs. Whitehouse said with vacuous 
 kindliness when Mrs. Nicholson had gone. 
 The others had lingered in the dining room. 
 
 Mr. Turnbull took out his cigar with 
 an energetic jerk. 
 
 " Californians always are," he said 
 positively. u Burst into tears at the thought of 
 home. But they stay on here in New York year 
 after year, if you'll notice." And he jammed 
 the cigar back as though to repress further 
 comment. 
 
 [97] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Nicholson can't help it," 
 put in Mrs. Burke, smoothing her silken lap 
 preparatory to a comfortable crossing of her 
 knees. " It's her daughter. Cornelia is one 
 of those big, bossy girls that always seem to 
 have little, meek mothers, and she's been drag- 
 ging that poor lady about the continent for 
 most two years. Mrs. Nicholson can't leave 
 the girl to go about alone and Cornelia hasn't 
 any use for California." 
 
 " H'm ! I'd like to see her. Must be 
 a natural curiosity," muttered Mr. Turnbull. 
 " Hope she's coming here." 
 
 " Dearie ! " said Mr. Whitehouse with 
 a warning glance, and Mrs. Whitehouse ner- 
 vously pushed back a pink streamer between the 
 buttons of her blouse. Then they went off to- 
 gether, and presently Mr. Turnbull was left 
 alone with his landlady. He looked up abruptly 
 after a short silence. 
 
 " She's a sick woman," he said. 
 
 " Oh, it's just a bad cold," objected 
 Mrs. Burke. " Brides always get cold, some- 
 how." 
 
 [98] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " Not Mrs. Whitehouse lady from 
 California." Mrs. Burke rose with a sigh. 
 
 " She's homesick, that's all that ails her. 
 Between you and me, Mr. Turnbull, Pd like to 
 do something to that big daughter of hers. 
 The poor lady needs her home," 
 
 " Nice place, California," Mr. Turn- 
 bull admitted thoughtfully; "nice, kind people 
 only you do get tired of their lies ! " 
 
 The next evening Mrs. Nicholson came 
 to dinner with distress clearly written on her 
 face, an open letter held mechanically in her left 
 hand. She greeted the others absent-mindedly 
 and took up her soup spoon, then laid it down 
 with a small sigh. 
 
 " I guess you find this September heat 
 pretty trying," said Mrs. Burke kindly. " You 
 Californians aren't used to it." 
 
 " Don't you think it is the humidity 
 rather than the heat that is so exhausting?" 
 ventured Mrs. Whitehouse. 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson lifted vaguely startled 
 eyes, then collected herself with another sigh. 
 
 " Oh, I do not mind the weather," she 
 
 [99] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 said. " It is just I had a letter from my 
 daughter, and she thinks we had better spend 
 the winter in New York. She wishes me to 
 hunt up an apartment at once. I I had rather 
 planned to go home this fall." 
 
 Mr. Turnbull, who had been swallow- 
 ing fragments of bread as fast as he could jerk 
 them from the parent slice, glanced up at her 
 from under a lowered forehead as he dusted 
 away the crumbs. 
 
 "Much better stay here; you'll be 
 vastly more comfortable," he began. " Houses 
 are all freezing cold out there. San Francisco 
 has the worst climate in the world, anyway. 
 Cold gray fog every morning, howling wind 
 every afternoon. Most overrated climate on 
 earth." 
 
 " Oh, but that is only at one time in the 
 year," Mrs. Nicholson explained eagerly. "If 
 you could see it in February, or just after the 
 first rains ! And where I live, across the bay, 
 it is warmer. You have no idea how much I 
 sit out in my garden." 
 
 Mr. Turnbull shook his head. 
 [100] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " Fog and wind have 'em all the time. 
 I know. I was there. And no provision for 
 keeping decently warm. Here you'll have 
 some good, honest snow, but at least you'll be 
 dry and warm in the house. Much better 
 stay." Mrs. Nicholson was evidently too de- 
 pressed to make a good fight. 
 
 " There is so much gardening to do in 
 the fall," she said helplessly. " Spring will be 
 too late." 
 
 14 Well, now, perhaps you can persuade 
 your daughter," comforted Mrs. Burke. 
 " When do you expect her? " Mrs. Nicholson 
 glanced at the letter. 
 
 " The wedding is next week; she is 
 staying to be bridesmaid for a friend. I sup- 
 pose she will come up the day after. She she 
 seems to have quite set her heart on an apart- 
 ment here." 
 
 "I should think snow and ice would be 
 hard on a person born in a tropical climate," 
 put in Mrs. Whitehouse, diving into her blouse 
 for her handkerchief; the burst of baby ribbon 
 that followed to-night was pale blue. 
 
 [101] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson's eyes fell uncomfort- 
 ably. Her mouth opened, hesitated, closed 
 again. 
 
 u H'm ! Tropical climate ! " muttered 
 Mr. Turnbull. '* Wait till you've worn your 
 winter flannels there in August. Tropical ! " 
 But the lady from California was too far down 
 to protest. 
 
 The hunted expression of the apartment 
 hunter was added to the dejection of Mrs. 
 Nicholson's sensitive face during the next 
 few days. Her hands looked thin and sick and 
 her frail shoulders seemed daily to droop closer 
 together. Mr. Turnbull baited her fiercely at 
 every meal on her beloved topic and stared 
 after her with impatient uneasiness when he had 
 driven her from the field. 
 
 " Why don't the woman go home if she 
 feels that way about it? " he scolded when he 
 was alone with Mrs. Burke. " Hasn't she a 
 grain of spunk? " She shook her head dubi- 
 ously. 
 
 " You don't know Cornelia ! " 
 
 The seventh night Mrs. Nicholson 
 [102] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 came to the table more dejected than usual. 
 Her eyelids showed a faint red line. 
 
 " House-hunting is pretty hard work," 
 Mrs. Burke suggested kindly. " I guess you're 
 just about discouraged, Mrs. Nicholson." 
 
 " Yes," she admitted; "yes, I am. I 
 I found it to-day. The very thing Cornelia 
 wants. I could not see an objection." She 
 sighed heavily. Mr. Turnbull jerked restlessly 
 in his chair, then shot an impatient glance at 
 her under his eyebrows. 
 
 " Isn't there some one who needs you 
 out there ? " he suggested. She did not brighten 
 at the idea. 
 
 " Well, my mother is seventy- four, but 
 she is very independent; Cornelia is just like 
 her. She is a wonderful woman Mrs. Mat- 
 thew Martin. I wish you could have met her 
 when you were there. If she did need me, of 
 course but she is not likely to. And there is 
 no one else." 
 
 Mrs. Burke led her on to talk of her 
 mother, which she did with a measure of en- 
 thusiasm. The picture she drew was a pleasant 
 
 [103] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 one a keen, active old lady, very much the 
 head of her family, and humorously belligerent 
 at any hint of failing faculties, who hoed and 
 raked daily in her own garden, and loved a 
 lawsuit as other grandmothers love fireside and 
 knitting. 
 
 " Why not get her to send for you?" 
 Mr. Turnbull asked. " God knows why any- 
 one should prefer to live there; but if you do, 
 won't she help you out? " 
 
 " But she is not at all likely to need 
 me," Mrs. Nicholson persisted. Evidently the 
 possibilities of ruse and stratagem were out of 
 her comprehension. Mr. Turnbull opened his 
 mouth to explain, then, meeting the clear, gen- 
 tle gaze, the idealistic purity of the worn face, 
 he closed it again with a faint grunt. 
 
 " I can show you pictures of my moth- 
 er," she said when they rose from the table. 
 "And would you care to see my garden?" 
 There was an eager timidity in the question. 
 " Cornelia says I bore people to death with 
 California," she added with an apologetic 
 smile. 
 
 [104] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " Delighted to see 'em," said Mr. 
 Turnbull gruffly. 
 
 She brought down an armful, chiefly 
 amateur views of a stanch old lady posed with 
 a rake or seated in an arbor, and tangled cor- 
 ners of riotous garden. She explained with 
 flushing cheeks which was the Lady Banksia 
 rose and which the Cherokee, and how the blaz- 
 ing Bougainvillaea must be separated from other 
 colors by adroit masses of green, and what 
 did best on the north side of the house or would 
 not thrive without the south; and Mr. Turnbull 
 grew momentarily more restless, but stayed 
 with short sighs and suppressed jerks, held by 
 the unconscious pathos of her home-love. 
 
 " You see, my garden adjoins my moth- 
 er's and she looks out for both while I am 
 away," she explained; " so there is nothing that 
 really calls me home. And I must not be selfish 
 about it, of course. A young girl needs her 
 good times." 
 
 "Had two years, hasn't she?" he 
 asked, seizing the interval to edge away from 
 the photographs, which Mrs. Nicholson was 
 
 [105] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 spreading out again as though for a second in- 
 spection. 
 
 1 Yes ; but she does not seem to get 
 tired of it." Tears welled up in her eyes. " I 
 am really foolishly fond of my home," she 
 apologized. 
 
 "Yes, of course;" Mr. Turnbull 
 brought himself sternly back and even picked 
 up a picture, a view of the mother's vine-cov- 
 ered house with Mrs. Martin seated militant 
 on the front porch. 
 
 " You were born here? " he asked. She 
 hesitated. 
 
 " No no, not in that house. It was 
 quite another house," she said nervously; the 
 light had left her face and she began to collect 
 the pictures. " I have taken the refusal of the 
 apartment for two days," she added dully. 
 " Cornelia will be here day after to-morrow." 
 Mr. Turnbull seemed to be musing on the pic- 
 ture he still held. 
 
 "Corner house," he said. "What 
 streets? I may have passed it." 
 
 She told him, with a faint return of the 
 [106] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 glow ; it seemed that the neighborhood had spe- 
 cial beauties in the way of trees and gardens. 
 Strangers were always driven round that way. 
 
 " You probably passed it," she said, 
 gathering up her armful. "I wish I had a 
 better view of the grape arbor. Do you know 
 the California grapes ?" 
 
 " I know the red ink they call Califor- 
 nia wine," he began with energy, but broke off 
 at her look of dismayed preparation for de- 
 fense. " Some of it is very good, of course," 
 he ended weakly. " Nice place, California. 
 People were very kind to me there." 
 
 "They are hospitable," she said grate- 
 fully. " Don't tell my daughter I bothered you 
 with these," she added with her dim smile. 
 
 " No bother at all," mutterd Mr. Turn- 
 bull, eagerly making his escape. He paused on 
 the steps outside to light his cigar. " Hang it, 
 it's not my business," he protested, flinging 
 away the match. " If she can't manage her 
 own affairs " He stumped defiantly down 
 the steps; but under the next lamppost he 
 paused and, drawing out a card, noted down a 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 name and address. " Not that I intend to in- 
 terfere ! " he asserted. At the door of his club 
 ten minutes later he gave a resentful snort. 
 " Californians make me tired ! " 
 
 In the morning Mrs. Nicholson did not 
 appear at breakfast, and Mrs. Burke brought 
 news of a nervous headache. 
 
 " She's just making herself sick, poor 
 lady," was her pitying comment. 
 
 "Well, what's she so silly for?" Mr. 
 Turnbull spoke irascibly. " If she can't man- 
 age her own affairs n 
 
 "Well, she is sort of helpless," Mrs. 
 Burke conceded; "but that don't make it any 
 easier for her." 
 
 At noon Mrs. Whitehouse reported 
 that she had sat an hour with the invalid. 
 
 " I couldn't read to her, my cold is so 
 bad, but it seemed to relieve her to talk of 
 her home," she explained, patiently thrusting 
 back an end of yellow baby ribbon into the 
 seclusion of her blouse. 
 
 At dinner time Mrs. Nicholson was 
 still too ill to appear. 
 
 [108] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " She seems real feverish," Mrs. Burke 
 confided. " I don't know but what she ought 
 to see the doctor; but she won't. She says she 
 just can't help hoping Cornelia has changed her 
 mind, and she's got herself all upset thinking 
 about it. Well, the girl will be here to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 " I really think it would be a good thing 
 for her to return to California," ventured Mrs. 
 Whitehouse. " She seems to be homesick. At 
 least I thought so," she added in apology under 
 the sudden glare Mr. Turnbull turned on her; 
 but he made no comment beyond a subdued 
 noise in his throat. 
 
 Mounting the stairs after dinner, Mr. 
 Turnbull passed a maid coming down with an 
 untouched tray of dinner. The door of Mrs. 
 Nicholson's room had been left ajar, and in* 
 voluntarily his glance fell on a limp form, very 
 still under a white counterpane. The eyes were 
 closed, but the folded hands rested on a photo- 
 graph. 
 
 "Oh, good Lord!" he muttered sav- 
 agely to the walls of his own room. A half 
 [109] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 sheet of paper was lying on the table, and, 
 bending over it, he began to write in pencil, 
 with many pauses and erasures. Presently he 
 thrust the scribbled slip into his pocket and 
 went out. 
 
 Mrs. Nicholson appeared at breakfast, 
 white and wan. She had a grateful smile for 
 Mr. Turnbull, remembering the happy hour 
 over the photographs, but he snubbed her un- 
 mercifully. 
 
 " You wouldn't get days like this in 
 California," he said, with a nod to the open 
 window. " We'll have three months of it now. 
 Better be glad you're to stay." She looked at 
 him piteously. 
 
 " Our fall is beautiful too," she plead- 
 ed. " Oh, I wish you could see " She stopped 
 as the unmistakable envelope of a telegram was 
 laid beside her plate. Her frown of anxiety 
 as she broke it open slowly gave way to won- 
 der, then to a dawning radiance that spread 
 and deepened till for the moment she looked 
 like a tremulous girl. She breathed a soft 
 "Oh!" of utter relief. 
 
 [no] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " Good news? " suggested Mrs. Burke. 
 She lifted shining eyes. 
 
 " It is from my mother ! " Her lips 
 quivered as she read it to them : " Am perfectly 
 well, but need company. You have been gone 
 long enough. Come home at once." 
 
 "Well, I declare !" said Mrs. Burke 
 in hearty congratulation. 
 
 "Shall you go?" inquired Mr. Turn- 
 bull. 
 
 "Go?" Tears gushed into her eyes. 
 With a broken apology, half laugh, half sob, 
 she rose and hurried from the room. Mrs. 
 Burke meditated during the rest of the meal, 
 sending an occasional speculative glance at Mr. 
 Turnbull. He avoided her eyes, but, neverthe- 
 less, lingered till they were alone. 
 
 "Well?" said Mrs. Burke. 
 
 "Well?" was the defiant answer. 
 
 " What do you suppose made old Mrs. 
 Martin wire like that?" 
 
 "How should I know?" 
 
 "Well, I found this in the hall this 
 morning. I don't know as I had any right to 
 
 Cm] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 read it." She held out a crumpled half sheet 
 of paper holding several lines of pencil scrib- 
 bling, much scratched and interlined. In its 
 final form it read: 
 
 " Excuse a meddling outsider. Mrs. 
 Nicholson's health imperilled by homesickness. 
 Stays to oblige daughter. Would advise a re- 
 call if possible. Oblige by considering this 
 confidential.' * 
 
 Mr. Turnbull thrust it into his pocket 
 and turned away with a scowl. " Well, I had 
 to have some peace," he grumbled over his 
 shoulder as he went out. She laughed. 
 
 " You're real good I don't care how 
 you put it ! I won't tell on you." 
 
 He came back from the front door. 
 
 " If she wants to get off this afternoon, 
 tell her I'll see to her tickets and berths," he 
 suggested. " I want her out of the house ! 
 That girl will be here by noon, won't she ? And 
 if she needs a check cashed " 
 
 [112] 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " Oh, you are real kind! " she repeated 
 as she went upstairs. 
 
 Late that afternoon Mr. Turnbull 
 escorted a radiant woman, followed by a hand- 
 some, sulky girl, to the overland train. 
 
 * Though what on earth you want to 
 go for! Could be warm and comfortable here," 
 he protested as they stood together on the plat- 
 form. 
 
 She was not listening; there was some 
 struggle going on that clouded her brightness 
 for the moment and made her eyes big and 
 anxious. 
 
 "Well, what's up now?" he asked. 
 " Want to stay, after all? " 
 
 * You have been so kind," she faltered. 
 " About the pictures, and all you have done to- 
 day. I never could have got off without you." 
 
 "Well, that's all right. Guess I've 
 badgered you some too. You native Califor- 
 nians sort of rub me " 
 
 " That is just it," she broke in tremu- 
 lously. " It is not fair to take it all and not tell 
 you " she had to clear her voice " I am not 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 a native Californian at all, Mr. Turnbull. I 
 was born in Chicago, and we did not go there 
 till I was nine years old. I was very weak and 
 foolish not to confess it at once; but people 
 won't believe that you can love a place like a 
 native even more than a native though you 
 did happen to be born somewhere else. And 
 the place is so much to me, so dear you don't 
 know how hard it is always to be frank about 
 that ! But I am so ashamed of having deceived 
 you! Will you tell Mrs. Whitehouse and the 
 others?" And there were actual tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Mr. Turnbull took her hand. 
 
 "Won't tell a blessed soul," he said 
 severely. " Ought to be a native, if you aren't. 
 We'll keep that a secret. .Whose business is it, 
 anyway?" She smiled gratefully. 
 
 " If it would not be too deceitful? " she 
 said with a sigh of happy relief. 
 
 Cornelia mounted the car steps and 
 called impatiently to her mother to follow. Mr. 
 Turnbull stood below, hat in hand, as Mrs. 
 Nicholson opened the window of her section. 
 
The Lady from California 
 
 " Good-by," he said. " Teach 'em not 
 to serve salad before the meat." 
 
 "*But they don't!" she protested ear- 
 nestly as the train began to move. 
 
 " Nice, kind people but they all do 
 it," he called after her. There was a twinkle 
 under his eyebrows as he turned away. 
 
 [us] 
 
VII 
 Telling Kate 
 
 " ANOTHER package, Mis' Redding. 
 Ye're after buyin' out the shops, these days! " 
 v " Very well, Kate. Just put it in my 
 room." Mrs. Redding spoke with mild dig- 
 nity, looking up from her account book with 
 reproving eyebrows, but a less martial spirit 
 than Kate's would have detected the underlying 
 weakness. The round little withered-apple 
 face stayed serenely in the doorway. 
 
 " There's a new baby acrost the street," 
 Kate went on. " Their girl come over and told 
 me when I was brushin' down the steps. She 
 ain't goin' to stay." 
 
 " But isn't that rather inconsiderate 
 to leave just when there is a new baby? " Mrs. 
 Redding suggested, her eyes fixed on the end 
 of her penholder. 
 
 " No, ma'am. I wouldn't stay where 
 [116] 
 
Telling Kate 
 
 there was childrun not wan minut. It's three 
 times the washin', and nothin' goin' as it 
 should. No, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Redding bent over her accounts 
 without answering, and Kate partly withdrew, 
 then thrust her head back again. 
 
 " That steak ye sent up ain't fit to eat," 
 she announced. " It's that tough ye'll never 
 be able to cut it." 
 
 "I'm sorry. You will have to do what 
 you can with it, Kate," Mrs. Redding said 
 without looking up. " It is too late to get any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " Well, ye won't be satisfied, that's all," 
 Kate grumbled, shutting the door. Then she 
 opened it a crack to add, " There ain't a potato 
 in the house." Mrs. Redding sighed. 
 
 " I'll be out presently, Kate," she said, 
 dipping her pen firmly in the ink. Neverthe- 
 less, when she had finished the accounts, she 
 dressed for dinner with comfortable slowness, 
 then settled down to a book before the fire 
 without going near the kitchen. She had not 
 lived under Kate's rule five years for nothing. 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 When dinner was served, the steak proved ex- 
 cellent, and there were potatoes to spare. She 
 smiled at her husband across the table. 
 
 " This is the uneatable steak," she said. 
 " Did you ever know any one broil as Kate 
 does? And the way she keeps the silver! 
 Think how she has managed this entire house 
 for us, Harry, for five years. I have never 
 had a care since we were married. What shall 
 we do without her? " Her husband looked up 
 hastily. 
 
 " Have you told her? " 
 
 " Indeed I haven't don't dare ! But I 
 must, very soon. If a new one is to be broken 
 in " He nodded uneasily. 
 
 " I suppose so," he admitted. " Couldn't 
 you write her a letter? " They both laughed. 
 
 " It will be bad enough to lose her; but, 
 oh, the scolding we'll get first ! " Mrs. Red- 
 ding exclaimed. 
 
 Some days later Kate walked without 
 
 ceremony into the sitting room where Mrs. 
 
 Redding was lying on the couch, and gazed 
 
 intently at the white muslin curtains with her 
 
 [118] 
 
Telling Kate 
 
 little red-rimmed eyes. Then she marched out 
 again, and presently returned with a steplad- 
 der, which she planted by the windows. 
 
 "There, now; if ye'll just take down 
 them curtains while I redd up my kitchen, I'll 
 wash 'em out for ye," she announced. Mrs. 
 Redding glanced at the ladder in dismay. 
 
 " I can't, Kate. I don't feel equal to 
 it," she protested, laying her hands across her 
 forehead with a hypocritical air of headache. 
 The tip of Kate's ruddy little pug nose wrin- 
 kled slightly, but she made no comment, and 
 soon a subdued puffing, accompanied by a 
 creaking of wood, showed that she was mount- 
 ing the steps herself. Presently she spoke from 
 the top : 
 
 " Ye don't take exercise enough, Mis' 
 Redding. Ye used to be as spry as a cat round 
 the house. Ye're gettin' rale lazy." 
 
 Mrs. Redding opened her lips to speak, 
 hesitated, then closed them again, letting her 
 hand slip down across her eyes. 
 
 " There's other parlor curtains in this 
 block that wouldn't be the worse for washing" 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Kate went on. " Acrost the street there now 
 I wouldn't be found with my curtains like 
 them. But that's always the way when there's 
 childrun nothin' as it should be. They got a 
 new girl, but her looks don't say much for her. 
 She'll not stay long." 
 
 " But there have to be children in the 
 world, Kate," Mrs. Redding faintly protested. 
 
 " Well, maybe ! " said Kate dubiously, 
 coming cautiously down with an armful of 
 dusty-smelling muslin. " I'm no hand for them 
 myself. Now are ye aqual to takin' the pins 
 outen these whilst I get ready for 'm? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I can do that," said her mis- 
 tress meekly. 
 
 That night Mr. Redding found the sit- 
 ting room clothed in fresh curtains, and his 
 wife slightly feverish. 
 
 "I almost told Kate, Harry; and then 
 I couldn't," she told him. " I simply hadn't 
 the courage." 
 
 " Why not wait a week or two longer? " 
 he weakly suggested. She shook her head. 
 
 " Oh, I can't stand it hanging over me 
 [120] 
 
Telling Kate 
 
 much longer! I'd rather face the worst and 
 have it done with. Harry," she went on, curl- 
 ing her fingers into his, " you're a big, strong 
 man, while I am only a poor, weak woman 
 you must do the telling." 
 
 " Yes, dear, of course," he agreed, with 
 an empty show of heartiness. " Only might 
 it not be simpler just to break up housekeep- 
 ing? " 
 
 " What a coward you are ! " she accused 
 him. 
 
 " It isn't cowardice to be afraid of 
 Kate; that's just common prudence," he ex- 
 plained. 
 
 The following Sunday, Mr. Redding 
 being away, Kate enlivened her mistress's soli- 
 tary luncheon with the news of the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 " That baby acrost the street, he's rale 
 sick," she announced. " Yes, ma'am. I guess 
 he ain't goin' to live they had the doctor all 
 mornin'." Mrs. Redding looked shocked. 
 
 "Oh, Kate, how dreadful!" she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 [121] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, it is so," Kate affirmed, 
 with a decorous enjoyment of the calamity, and 
 went on to offer other neighborhood items; 
 but Mrs. Redding's thoughts kept recurring to 
 the sick baby. When she had contrived to get 
 rid of Kate, the idea still haunted her how 
 frightened they must be, how tortured if the 
 poor little thing suffered. Finally she sent Kate 
 over for news, and left her luncheon half eaten 
 to wait at the window for her return. The 
 report was not hopeful. 
 
 Sunday afternoon is not a good time to 
 be nervous and lonely. Mrs. Redding wan- 
 dered restlessly about the house, oppressed by 
 the other woman's trouble. She could not get 
 the thought out of her head all the waiting 
 and planning and suffering, the happiness and 
 the hopes and the little clothes, all for nothing. 
 She would have comforted herself once with 
 the thought there would be other children; but 
 now her knowledge went deeper, and she knew 
 that the perfection of this first planning could 
 never come again the fresh wonder of it, the 
 fear and the eagerness, the long pondering over 
 [122] 
 
Telling Kate 
 
 names, the humor of those first tiny garments. 
 She longed with all her full heart to go across 
 the street, but a stranger would not be needed 
 or wanted in that busy, anxious household. 
 She could only hover about the windows and 
 send Kate for news. Once, trying to find dis- 
 traction, she shut herself in her room and took 
 out some fine sewing; but her hands were not 
 steady enough. At dusk she dropped down in 
 the shelter of the fresh white curtains, and gave 
 herself up to waiting. There was a light in 
 the upper window across the street, but the 
 shades were not drawn, and she could see fig- 
 ures passing back and forth, or standing to- 
 gether in grave consultation. An hour later 
 Kate found her still there. 
 
 "Will Misther Redding be home for 
 dinner? " she asked. 
 
 " No; and I don't want any, Kate. Just 
 give me some tea." 
 
 " Ye're worritin' about that child," 
 grumbled Kate, lifting the curtain to peer 
 across. 
 
 " I can't help it, Kate. I can't think 
 [123] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 of anything else. They seemed so young 
 and " 
 
 She broke off, to lean forward. The 
 doctor, who had been standing near the win- 
 dow in the lighted room opposite, started as 
 though abruptly, summoned and disappeared. 
 At the same instant a woman hurried past, 
 almost running. Quick shadows sped back and 
 forth for a moment, then the room seemed to 
 grow very still. Mrs. Redding pressed her 
 cold hands together and murmured a broken 
 entreaty. She had quite forgotten the old wom- 
 an standing behind her. After a long pause 
 the nurse appeared at the windows and pulled 
 the shades down very gently. Mrs. Redding 
 buried her face in her hands. 
 
 " Oh, poor little soul ! " she sobbed. 
 
 Kate went away without a word. Half 
 an hour later she came back with a tray that 
 was the perfection of temptation. She was very 
 glum and stern, and Mrs. Redding ate meekly, 
 thankful for the comfort, and not daring to ask 
 the trouble. When the tray was taken away 
 she ventured a conciliating good night, but re- 
 
Telling Kate 
 
 ceived no reply beyond a severe sniff. Never- 
 theless, when she crept wearily up to bed a 
 couple of hours later, she found the sheet 
 turned down and the room made ready for her 
 an unusual attention. 
 
 " So I am forgiven," she thought, glad 
 that the blinds were closed to shut out the house 
 opposite. " Oh, dear ! what shall I do without 
 Kate!" 
 
 The next morning Mr. Redding went 
 down town knowing that he must tell Kate 
 before the day was over. Intelligence offices 
 flaunted their signs at him from every side. He 
 peered into one and turned away sick at heart 
 dullness, laziness, inefficiency seemed written 
 on every face. When he let himself in late in 
 the afternoon, the sweet and wholesome clean- 
 ness of his house filled him with bitterness for 
 what might be in store. He passed out through 
 the pleasant kitchen, redolent of good things 
 to come, into the back yard, where Kate was 
 taking down the last batch of scrupulously 
 white clothes. He looked at the ruddy, seamed 
 face, the stumpy figure and fierce little gray 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 wad of hair, and felt his courage sink. Kate 
 went on taking off the clothespins as he loitered 
 by the fence, pretending to examine a vine, and 
 for several moments nothing was said. Then 
 he found the little red-rimmed eyes fixed on 
 him. 
 
 " Ye'll have to be gettin' me some more 
 clothes-line soon, Misther Redding," she said. 
 
 "Haven't you enough?" he asked 
 nervously, clutching at the excuse to delay the 
 telling. Kate gathered the last armful of 
 towels and turned to the house with her load. 
 At the door she sent him a shrewd glance over 
 her shoulder. 
 
 " Enough for the family as it is at pris- 
 int," she said, and there was the glimmer of a 
 smile about her puckered mouth. Redding 
 sprang after her. 
 
 "Kate!" he exclaimed. She turned 
 her back on him and began to poke violently 
 at the fire, but he laid his hands on her shoul- 
 ders. " You're an old brick! " he said. 
 
 " Ah, go 'long! " said Kate. " What's 
 a house without childrun, annyhow?" 
 [126] 
 
VIII 
 Something 
 
 " WELL, Teddy I " Mrs. Starr's intense 
 little face was impressed, even awed, and yet 
 at the same time triumphant. Mr. Starr 
 glanced without excitement at the letter she was 
 holding up across the breakfast table. His 
 polite "Well?" betrayed the noncommittal 
 caution of the legal mind, though there was a 
 gleam of provisional amusement behind his 
 glasses that changed her triumph to pleading. 
 
 " Oh, Teddy, won't you admit, just this 
 once, that it is at least queer? You know how 
 we were talking of Cousin Emma last night, 
 and I hadn't even thought of her for days and 
 weeks and now here is a letter from her. Do 
 you mean to say that that is mere coinci- 
 dence?" 
 
 Mr. Starr appeared to deliberate. " We 
 also talked a good deal about Mr. Roosevelt," 
 [127] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 he observed finally, spreading out the morning 
 paper. " Anything from him? " 
 
 " Oh, if you are going to be funny ! " 
 And his wife turned disappointedly to the coffee 
 pot. The reproof evidently disturbed him, for 
 presently he emerged from the news to ask: 
 
 " What time of day was the letter writ- 
 ten, Lollie?" She met the advance with an 
 eagerness that showed unquenchable hope of a 
 convert. 
 
 "Yesterday morning, dear; the post- 
 mark says 2 P.M." 
 
 " Well, then, did her thought-wave take 
 eight hours or so to get here, or was it the letter 
 in the mail that suddenly wigwagged last 
 night ?" 
 
 " Now, Teddy, what is the use of being 
 tiresome and literal?" Lollie was plaintive. 
 " I only claim that there's something I don't 
 pretend to know how it works. It happens too 
 often for mere coincidence to explain it." And 
 she began to read her letter. A moment later 
 he was interrupted by a note of triumph. 
 
 " Now will you be convinced ! " she 
 
Something 
 
 cried. " What were we saying about her last 
 night ?" 
 
 He admitted, with the reserve of a 
 truthful but circumspect witness, that they had 
 been wishing the boy might go down to Cousin 
 Emma for a week of country life, and so con- 
 firm his restored health. She nodded assent. 
 
 "Exactly! Now listen: 
 
 " * MY DEAR LAURA: I have been 
 thinking of you so much lately. I have had a 
 feeling that something was going wrong with 
 you or yours, and was on the point of writing to 
 you when a letter from Aunt Miriam brought 
 the news of the dear boy's illness. I am so 
 thankful that he is well again. Won't you send 
 him down to me for a week or two of country 
 air ? Tell him Flora has five new puppies, and 
 that ' " 
 
 She broke off to crow over him. 
 "What do you say to that, Mr. Teddy?" 
 
 "Why, I say he had better go," was 
 the irritatingly calm answer. 
 [129] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 She gave up the point with a sigh. 
 " Oh, yes. I will take him down to-morrow. 
 Will you have more coffee, dear? " 
 
 " Well, by Jove ! " Mr. Starr was star- 
 ing at her with astonished eyes. 
 
 "What?" she asked excitedly. 
 
 "That is the queerest thing! " 
 
 " Tell me, dear!" Her unsuspecting 
 delight in seeing him, for once, roused should 
 have touched him. 
 
 " Do you know," earnestly, " the very 
 moment you spoke, I was about to ask you for 
 another cup of coffee? Wasn't that strange? 
 How do you explain it?" Her face fell. 
 
 " I think you're simply &or-rid," she 
 protested, resentfully accepting the cup. " You 
 are just a stupid materialist, blind to everything 
 that you can't feel with your two paws. I tell 
 you, Theodore Starr, the world is simply full 
 of things that you will never know." 
 
 " Well, when some healthy, normal 
 man tells me about them, I will begin to listen," 
 he conceded. 
 
 " I don't believe the very healthy ever 
 
Something 
 
 know some things," she answered with unex- 
 pected mildness. " Their bodies crowd out 
 their souls. I know things every day things I 
 couldn't prove to you, and yet I know them. If 
 anything were wrong with you or the boy, I 
 should know it instantly absolutely know it 
 and go to you ! " She was deeply in earnest, 
 and her eyes looked so big and brown, her face 
 so white and little, that his teasing was checked. 
 
 " Lollie, my dear, we could spare some 
 of your soul for a little more body," he said 
 worriedly. 
 
 The next day she took the boy down to 
 Cousin Emma, planning happily to stay a night 
 herself. The little farm had been a second 
 home to her childhood, as it was now to her 
 son. Nevertheless, at ten o'clock that night 
 her husband, deep in a book, thought he heard 
 the nibble of a latch-key. Before he could be 
 sure, the door opened and she came swiftly in. 
 Her eyes darted from him to his safe and or- 
 derly surroundings, then returned with a smile 
 that betrayed relief. 
 
 " I came home after all," she an- 
 
 [131] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 nounced; but her lightness had a touch of bra- 
 vado. He put his hands on her shoulders, 
 holding her at arm's length. 
 
 " Lollie, you were going to stay all 
 night, 1 ' he accused her. 
 
 " But the boy was perfectly happy with 
 Cousin Emma " 
 
 " And then you had one of your mar- 
 velous intuitions: you FELT that I was suffer- 
 ing and in danger," he went on sternly. " So 
 you made them harness up at all hours " 
 
 " It wasn't late, sweetheart." She tried 
 to interrupt him with feminine blandishments, 
 but he still held her off. 
 
 " And you pushed the train along with 
 your two feet the entire way, then came home 
 on a dead run to save me " 
 
 "'And the dog was a-laffin','" she 
 broke in. " If you don't want to greet me 
 properly, you might let me take my hat off." 
 
 He greeted her properly; but " Now, 
 don't you see, Lollie, what nonsense it all is 
 these psychic messages?" he insisted. She 
 slipped away with a laugh. 
 
Something 
 
 "Who said I had a psychic message? 
 I wanted to come home, and I did, that's all. 
 Cousin Emma understood." 
 
 " Of course she did; she is worse than 
 you are. She has ' feelings ' about the bread's 
 rising, and the train's being late, and company 
 coming; and sometimes her premonitions come 
 true, but she never keeps track of the times they 
 don't ! For your own sake, Lollie, I want you 
 to realize " 
 
 " Teddy, I have a feeling an intuition 
 that you are going to lecture for the next half 
 hour; so I have an engagement upstairs." 
 
 She ran off, incorrigibly light-hearted 
 and elusive; but a moment later he heard his 
 name called in quite another voice a quick, 
 frightened cry. He dashed upstairs, to find 
 his wife sitting, breathless, on the side of the 
 bed with the charred remains of a muslin cur- 
 tain at her feet. 
 
 "Teddy!" she panted. " You know 
 we never light that gas just because of the 
 curtain. And to leave it lit with the window 
 open !" 
 
 [133] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "By Jove! Did I? It had just 
 caught? " He was looking anxiously for stray 
 sparks. 
 
 4 The draught of opening the door 
 blew it right in. I did feel so helpless! " She 
 shuddered. " But it came down at the first 
 pull : I had only to step on it." 
 
 '* There ought never to have been a cur- 
 tain there, anyway," he began, gathering up the 
 remains " Either this must stay down, or I 
 shall have that fixture taken out. That was 
 bound to happen, sooner or What is it?" 
 he interrupted himself, caught by his wife's 
 fixed gaze. 
 
 " I was just thinking," she said slowly, 
 " that it was as well I came home ! " 
 
 " Oh, come, now that is utter non- 
 sense! Don't you suppose I am as capable of 
 putting out a blaze as you? Besides " He 
 set forth the logic of the case exhaustively, be- 
 coming almost vehement in his desire to make 
 her see the falseness of her position; and she 
 heard him out with a baffling air of gentle in- 
 dulgence. 
 
 [134] 
 
Something 
 
 " I am so glad I came ! " was her only 
 comment. 
 
 Laboriously printed letters told her 
 daily that her " loving little son " was well and 
 hoped she was well, and for five days Mrs. 
 Starr went to sleep in peace about him and got 
 up in contentment. 
 
 "I am never uneasy for a moment 
 when Cousin Emma has him," were her last 
 words Saturday night. Six hours later Mr. 
 Starr was awakened by a breathless voice. 
 There was just light enough to show him two 
 big, frightened eyes staring at him out of a 
 white little face. 
 
 "Teddy!" Her hand closed tightly 
 on his arm. " It woke me up. I am so fright- 
 ened. It's the boy ! " 
 
 "What? What has happened?" he 
 asked bewilderedly. 
 
 " I don't know there is something 
 wrong. I am sick with fright! I can't stand 
 it." She sprang up and began hurriedly to 
 dress. 
 
 " Now, Laura ! " he began, all the logi- 
 
 [135] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 cal remonstrance of the indignant legal mind 
 arrayed in his voice. She put up one hand as 
 though to check a child's interruption. 
 
 " Find me a time table," she com- 
 manded, twisting up her hair with fingers that 
 shook. Something in the face staring unsee- 
 ingly from the jnirror turned back the tide of 
 his argument, leaving him silent. He obeyed, 
 then, still in silence, dressed and went down- 
 stairs, returning presently with a glass of milk 
 and some biscuits. 
 
 " There is a sort of milk train we can 
 get in half an hour," he announced drily. 
 " How we shall get up from the village, and 
 how you will explain our dropping in at dawn, 
 I am not so clear about." 
 
 She glanced at him dimly out of her 
 dire preoccupation. " I am ready now," was 
 all she said. He insisted on the milk, and 
 brought the biscuits in his pocket. 
 
 The chill of a bleak March daybreak 
 was on the deserted streets and in the early car 
 that crashed and jolted down to the station. 
 The one passenger car of their train appeared 
 
Something 
 
 unprepared for passengers, the cinders and 
 orange peel of its last trip still strewing seats 
 and floor. Their breath was visible in the stale, 
 chill air. Mr. Starr, sunk in discomfort, at 
 first maintained the silence of outraged pa- 
 tience; but his wife's blank unconsciousness of 
 him and his attitude presently goaded him to 
 more active measures. 
 
 " Look here, Lollie," he began with a 
 forced air of reasonableness, " I want you to 
 tell me exactly what it was what you heard or 
 saw or dreamed, to send you on this wild-goose 
 chase." The face she turned to him was so 
 pitifully haunted that he was obliged hastily to 
 harden himself with reminders of his own an- 
 noyance. 
 
 " I don't think I can tell you," she said 
 finally. " It was a sort of dream, and yet I 
 was awake. There was some big, dark danger 
 just ahead of him, and I knew, if I ran fast 
 enough, I could save him. Then it all van- 
 ished, leaving this awful oppression." She 
 strained her hands against her chest. " Oh, 
 why does the train stop and stop? " she cried. 
 
 [137] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 He could do nothing with her, or for 
 her, and in spite of all his logic and his com- 
 mon sense, her state began presently to have 
 an effect on him. Untoward things did happen 
 on lonely little farms. He vehemently main- 
 tained that there was no more reason to expect 
 disaster to-day than on any other day; yet he, 
 too, grew nervous at the slowness of the train, 
 and caught himself at the absurd device of try- 
 ing to hurry it with braced feet. The biscuits 
 in his pocket crumbled, forgotten. But for 
 shame's sake, he would have spent the last half 
 hour pacing the aisle. 
 
 At the station they found a wagon go- 
 ing in their direction and willing to drop them 
 at the farm gate. The morning down here was 
 turning out sweet and sunny; birds were call- 
 ing, and a green mist lay on the willows. Mr. 
 Starr threw off his depression, and tried to tease 
 Laura into a lighter mood; yet even he felt a 
 tightening in his throat when at last they 
 jumped down before Cousin Emma's rambling 
 old white house. The wide open windows and 
 the peaceful smoke from the kitchen chimney 
 
Something 
 
 spoke reassuringly of morning order and coffee. 
 Laura darted through the gate, then stopped 
 short. 
 
 " Look at that! " she cried joyously. 
 
 " That " was their own small son, ap- 
 parently in the best of health, high up in the 
 branches of an apple tree just ahead of them. 
 He turned sharply at her voice, and evidently 
 was moved to run and meet her without the 
 formality of first climbing down. There was 
 a dreadful sound of slipping and clutching, and 
 a little body came crashing toward the granite 
 slabs below. 
 
 " I've got him ! " called Mr. Starr, in 
 answer to his wife's cry; and a moment later 
 he was seated smartly on the granite slabs with 
 his son on top of him. 
 
 "Why, hello, daddy!" shouted the 
 boy, cheerfully ignoring this little interruption 
 in his welcome. 
 
 " Don't you climb that tree again!" 
 was the ungracious response as Mr. Starr 
 slowly picked himself up. Mrs. Starr was on 
 her knees by the boy, loving and kissing him 
 
 [139] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 with passionate little whispers and murmurs. 
 Then she lifted wet eyes to her husband. 
 
 " Now, dear, do you see why we 
 came? " she asked. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, Laura ! " Mr. 
 Starr's tried nerves gave away altogether. 
 "You'll drive me crazy! Don't you see that 
 you startled him and made him fall? If we 
 had stayed sensibly home in our beds he would 
 have climbed down as he climbed up. How 
 can you be so foolish? " 
 
 She pressed her face into the little body 
 she held. " I knew, I knew ! " she murmured 
 brokenly. 
 
 "Well, well!" Cousin Emma's hos- 
 pitable voice preceded her down the path. 
 " This is nice! I had a feeling that you would 
 be down to-day, but I didn't look for you so 
 early. Come right in and have some breakfast. 
 Did the boy tell you what a fright he gave me 
 last night?" she added, after their greetings 
 were over. They stopped short in the path. 
 "Walked in his sleep, the little tyke; some- 
 thing woke me just in time to find him in the 
 [140] 
 
Something 
 
 hall, headed straight for the stairs. I was 
 frightened." 
 
 Mrs. Starr had flung her arm about her 
 son; but her eyes, big and awed, were lifted to 
 her husband's face. 
 
 " What time did it happen? " he asked 
 defensively, drawing out his watch. 
 
 " Oh, soon after I went to bed. I 
 hadn't been asleep long. About eleven, I 
 should think." 
 
 He nodded at his wife. " Just as you 
 were saying that you felt perfectly comfortable 
 about him," he reminded her with open satis- 
 faction. She shook her head with the patient 
 quiet of perfect conviction. 
 
 " There's Something ! " she answered. 
 
IX 
 
 A Mother of Four 
 
 1 You are fortunate to find us alone, 
 Mrs. Merritt. With four girls, it is simply 
 terrible callers underfoot wherever you stir. 
 You must know something about it, with two 
 daughters; so you can fancy it multiplied by 
 two. Really, sometimes I get out of all 
 patience I haven't a corner of my house to 
 myself on Sundays! But I realize it is the 
 penalty for having four lively daughters, and 
 I have to put up with it." 
 
 Mrs. Merritt, the visitor, had a gently 
 worried air as she glanced from the twins, thin 
 and big-boned, reading by the fire, to pretty, 
 affected Amelie at the tea-table, and the apa- 
 thetic Enid furtively watching the front steps 
 from the bay window. Something in her ex- 
 pression seemed to imply a humble wonder as 
 
A Mother of Pour 
 
 to what might constitute the elements of high 
 popularity, since her two dear girls 
 
 " Of course, mine have their friends," 
 she asserted; it was an admission that perhaps 
 the door-bell was not overworked. " I enjoy 
 young life," she added. 
 
 " Oh, yes, in moderation! " Mrs. Bald- 
 win laughed from the depths of the complacent 
 prosperity that irradiated her handsome white 
 hair and active brown eyes, her pleasant rosi- 
 ness, and even her compact stoutness, suggesting 
 strength rather than weight. " But since Enid 
 became engaged, that means Harry all the time 
 there's my library gone; and with the other 
 three filling both drawing-rooms and the recep- 
 tion room, I have to take to the dining room, 
 myself! There they begin," she added, as 
 Enid left the window and slipped out into the 
 hall, closing the door after her. " Now we 
 shall have no peace until Monday morning. 
 You know how it is ! " 
 
 Mrs. Merritt seemed depressed, and 
 soon took her leave. 
 
 The twins, when they were left alone in 
 
 [143] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 the drawing-room, lifted their heads and ex- 
 changed long and solemn looks; then returned 
 to their reading in silence. When it grew too 
 dark by the fire, they carried their books to the 
 bay window, but drew back as they saw a pale 
 and puny youth with a retreating chin coming 
 up the front steps. 
 
 ; * The rush has begun," murmured 
 Cora. 
 
 "Amelie can have him, "Dora returned. 
 " Let's fly." 
 
 They retreated upstairs and read peace- 
 fully until tea-time. The bell did not ring 
 again. When they came down, Mrs. Baldwin 
 eyed them irritably. 
 
 l< Why don't you ask the Carryl boys in 
 to Sunday tea some time ? They will think you 
 have forgotten them. And Mr. White and 
 that nice Mr. Morton who lives with him I 
 am afraid you have offended them in some way. 
 They used to be here all the time." 
 
 " They only came twice, and those were 
 party calls," said Dora bluntly. 
 
 " My dear, you have forgotten," was 
 [144] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 the firm answer. "They were here constantly. 
 I shall send them a line; I don't like to have 
 them think we have gone back on them." 
 
 " Oh, I I wouldn't," began Cora, but 
 was put down with decision: 
 
 " When I need your advice, Cora, I will 
 ask for it. Amelie, dear, you look tired; I am 
 afraid you have had too much gayety this after- 
 
 noon." 
 
 " Oh, I love it! It's the breath of life 
 to me," said Amelie rapturously. The twins 
 again exchanged solemn looks and sat down to 
 their tea in silence. Mrs. Baldwin attacked 
 them peevishly at intervals; she was cross at 
 Enid also, who had not kept Harry to supper, 
 and preserved an indifferent silence under ques- 
 tioning. " When I was your age ! " was the 
 burden of her speech. 
 
 " I must give a dance for you young 
 people," she decided. "You need livening 
 up." 
 
 "Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Amelie. 
 
 " We have not had one this winter I 
 don't know what I have been thinking about," 
 [145] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin went on with returning cheerful- 
 ness. " We won't ask more than a hundred. 
 You must have a new frock, Amelie. Enid, 
 how is your blue one? " 
 
 " Oh, all right," said Enid indifferently. 
 Mrs. Baldwin turned to the twins, and found 
 them looking frankly dismayed. 
 
 " Well, what is it now? " she exclaimed. 
 " I am sure I try to give you as good times as 
 any girls in town; not many mothers on my in- 
 come would do one half so much. And you 
 both sit looking as if you were going to execu- 
 tion!" 
 
 " We we do appreciate it, mother," 
 wrged Cora unhappily. 
 
 " But we aren't howling successes at 
 parties," Dora added. 
 
 " Nonsense ! You have partners to 
 spare." Mrs. Baldwin was plainly angry. 
 " No child of mine was ever a wallflower, nor 
 ever will be. Never let me hear you say such 
 a thing again. You would have twice the atten- 
 tion if you weren't always poking off by your- 
 selves; and as it is, you have more than most 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 girls. You frighten the men they think you 
 are proud. Show a little interest in them and 
 see how pleased they will be ! " 
 
 The twins looked dubious, and seized 
 the first chance to escape. In their own room 
 they confronted each other dismally. 
 
 " Of course they will ask us, in our own 
 house; we won't have to sit and sit," said Cora 
 with a sigh. 
 
 " But it's almost worse when they ask 
 you for that reason," objected Dora. 
 
 " I know ! I feel so sorry for them, 
 and so apologetic. If mother would only let 
 us go and teach; then we could show we were 
 really good for something. We shouldn't have 
 to shine at parties." 
 
 " We shouldn't have to go to them! 
 Come on, let's do some Latin. I want to for- 
 get the hateful thing." 
 
 Cora got down the books and drew their 
 chairs up to the student lamp. " I know I 
 shouldn't be such a stick if I didn't have to wear 
 low neck," she said. " I am always thinking 
 about those awful collar-bones, and trying to 
 
 [147] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 hold my shoulders so as not to make them 
 
 worse." 
 
 "Oh, don't I know!" Dora had 
 slipped on a soft red wrapper, and threw a blue 
 one to her sister. When they were curled up in 
 their big, cushioned chairs, they smiled appre- 
 ciatively at each other. 
 
 " Isn't this nicer than any party ever in- 
 vented? " they exclaimed. Dora opened her 
 books with energy, but Cora sat musing. 
 
 " I dare say that somewhere there are 
 parties for our kind," she said, finally. " Not 
 with silly little chinless boys or popular men 
 who are always trying to get away, but men 
 who study and care about things who go to 
 Greece and dig ruins, for instance, or study 
 sociology, and think more about one's mind 
 than one's collar-bones." 
 
 Dora shook her head. " But they don't 
 go to parties ! " 
 
 " Both Mr. Morton and Mr. White do, 
 sometimes," Cora suggested. " They aren't 
 like the rest. I thought that tenement-house 
 work they told us about was most interesting. 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 But they would call if they wanted to," she 
 added. 
 
 The twins in wrappers, bending over 
 their books, had a certain comeliness. There 
 was even an austere beauty in their wide, high 
 foreheads, their fine, straight dark hair, their 
 serious gray eyes and sensitive mouths, pensive 
 but not without humor and sweetness. But the 
 twins in evening dress, their unwilling hair 
 flower-crowned and bolstered into pompadours, 
 their big-boned thinness contrasted with 
 Amelie's plump curves, their elbows betraying 
 the red disks of serious application, were quite 
 another matter, and they knew it. The night 
 of the dance they came downstairs with solemn, 
 dutiful faces, and lifted submissive eyes to their 
 mother for judgment. She was looking charm- 
 ingly pretty herself, carrying her thick white 
 hair with an air of humorous boldness, and her 
 smiling brown eyes were younger than their 
 gray ones. 
 
 " Very well, twinnies ! Now you look 
 something like human girls," she said gayly. 
 " Run and have a beautiful time. Ah, Amelie, 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 you little fairy ! They will all be on their knees 
 to you to-night. Where is Enid? " 
 
 " Nowhere near dressed, and she won't 
 hurry," Amelie explained. " Oh, I am so ex- 
 cited, I shall die ! What if no one asks me to 
 dance ! " 
 
 "Silly!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed. "I 
 am only afraid of your dancing yourself to 
 death. Ah, Mrs. Merritt, how good of you 
 to come with your dear girls ! And Mr. Mer- 
 ritt this is better than I dared hope." 
 
 The rooms filled rapidly. Enid, after 
 one languid waltz, disappeared with Harry and 
 was not seen again till supper. Amelie flew 
 from partner to partner, pouring streams of 
 vivacious talk into patient masculine ears. The 
 twins were dutifully taken out in turn and un- 
 failingly brought back. Both Mr. White and 
 Mr. Morton came, serious young men who 
 danced little, and looked on more as if the affair 
 were a problem in sociology than an entertain- 
 ment. There were plenty of men, for Mrs. 
 Baldwin's entertainments had a reputation in 
 the matter of supper, music, and floors. 
 [ISO] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 " After you've worked through the 
 family, you can have a ripping old time," Cora 
 heard one youth explain to another; a moment 
 later he stood in front of her, begging the honor 
 of a waltz. She felt no resentment; her sym- 
 pathies were all with him. She looked up with 
 gentle seriousness. 
 
 " You needn't, you know," she said. 
 " Dora and I don't really expect it we under- 
 stand." He looked so puzzled that she added: 
 " I overheard you just now, about * working 
 thr.ough the family.' " 
 
 He grew distressfully red and stam- 
 mered wildly. Cora came at once to his rescue. 
 
 " Really, it's all right. We don't like 
 parties ourselves; only it is hard on mother to 
 have such sticks of daughters, so we do our best. 
 But we never mind when people don't ask us. 
 Sometimes we almost wish they wouldn't." 
 
 The youth was trying desperately to 
 collect himself. "What do you like, then?" 
 he managed to ask. 
 
 " Oh, books, and the country, and not 
 having to be introduced to people." She was 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 trying to put him at his ease. " We really do 
 like dancing: we do it better than you'd think, 
 for mother made us keep at it. If only we 
 didn't have to have partners and think of things 
 to say to them ! " She held out her hand. 
 ;< Thank you ever so much for asking me, but 
 I'd truly rather not." He wrung her hand, 
 muttered something about " later, then," and 
 fled, still red about the ears. Cora returned to 
 her mother. 
 
 " Well, my dear, you seemed to be hav- 
 ing a tremendous flirtation with that youth," 
 laughed Mrs. Baldwin. " Such a hand-clasp 
 at parting! Don't dance too hard, child." 
 She turned to the half-dozen parents supporting 
 her. " These crazy girls of mine will dance 
 themselves to death if I don't keep an eye on 
 them," she explained. " Amelie says, ' Mother, 
 how can I help splitting my dances, when they 
 beg me to ? ' I am always relieved when the 
 dance is over and they are safe in bed then I 
 know they aren't killing themselves. The men 
 have no mercy they never let them rest an 
 
 instant." 
 
 [152] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 " I don't see Miss Enid about," sug- 
 gested Mr. Merritt. " I suppose she and her 
 Harry !" 
 
 " Oh, I suppose so ! " Mrs. Baldwin 
 shook her head resignedly. " The bad child 
 insists on being married in the spring, but I 
 simply cannot face the idea. What can I do 
 to prevent it, Mrs. Merritt ?" 
 
 " I am afraid you can't,'* smiled Mrs. 
 Merritt. " We mothers all have to face that.'* 
 
 " Ah, but not so soon ! It is dreadful 
 to have one's girls taken away. I watch the 
 others like a hawk; the instant a man looks too 
 serious pouf ! I whisk him away! " 
 
 Cora stood looking down, with set lips; 
 a flush had risen in her usually pale cheeks. 
 Dora, setting free an impatient partner, joined 
 her and they drew aside. 
 
 " It does make me so ashamed ! " said 
 Cora impulsively. 
 
 " I think mother really makes herself 
 believe it," said Dora, with instant understand- 
 ing. 
 
 They watched Amelie flutter up to their 
 
 [153] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 mother to have a bow retied, and stand radiant 
 under the raillery, though she made a decent 
 pretence of pouting. Her partner vanished, 
 and Mrs. Baldwin insisted on her resting " for 
 one minute," which ended when another partner 
 appeared. 
 
 " Amelie is asked much more than we 
 are, always," Cora suggested. Dora nodded 
 at the implication. 
 
 " I know. I wonder why it never 
 seems quite real. Perhaps because the devoted 
 ones are such silly little men." 
 
 " Or seem to us so," Cora amended con- 
 scientiously. " Don't you wish we might creep 
 upstairs. Oh, me, here comes a man, just 
 hating it! Which do you suppose he will 
 Oh, thank you, with pleasure, Mr. Dorr! " 
 Cora was led away, and Dora slipped into the 
 next room, that her mother might not be vexed 
 at her partnerless state. 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin saw to it that the twins 
 had partners for supper, and seated them at a 
 table with half a dozen lively spirits, where 
 they ate in submissive silence while the talk 
 
 [154] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 flowed over and about them. No one seemed 
 to remember that they were there, yet they felt 
 big and awkward, conspicuous with neglect, 
 thoroughly forlorn. When they rose, the 
 others moved off in a group, leaving them 
 stranded. Mrs. Baldwin beckoned them to her 
 table with her fan. 
 
 ;< Well, twinnies, yours was the noisiest 
 table in the room," she laughed. " I was quite 
 ashamed of you! When these quiet girls get 
 going ! " she added expressively to her group. 
 The twins flushed, standing with shamed eyes 
 averted. In the rooms above the music had 
 started, and the bright procession moved up 
 the stairs with laughter and the shine of lights 
 on white shoulders: they all seemed to belong 
 together, to be glad of one another. " Well, 
 run along and dance your little feet off," said 
 Mrs. Baldwin gayly. 
 
 They hurried away, and without a word 
 mounted by the back stairs to their own room. 
 When their eyes met, a flash of anger kindled, 
 grew to a blaze. 
 
 "Oh, I won't stand it, I won't!" ex- 
 [155] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 claimed Dora, jerking the wreath of forget-me- 
 nots out of her hair and throwing it on the 
 dressing-table. " We have been humiliated 
 long enough. Cora, we're twenty-four; it is 
 time we had our own way." 
 
 Cora was breathing hard. " Dora, I 
 will never go to another party as long as I live," 
 she said. 
 
 " Nor I," declared Dora. 
 
 They sat down side by side on the couch 
 to discuss ways and means. A weight seemed 
 to be lifted off their lives. In the midst of 
 their eager planning the door opened and Mrs. 
 Baldwin looked in at them with a displeased 
 frown. 
 
 " Girls, what does this mean? " she ex- 
 claimed. " Come down at once. What are 
 you thinking of, to leave your guests and go off 
 like this!" 
 
 The twins felt that the moment had 
 come, and instinctively clasped hands as they 
 rose to meet it. 
 
 " Mother," said Dora firmly, " we have 
 done with parties forever and ever. No one 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 likes us nor wants to dance with us, and we can't 
 stand it any more." 
 
 " Miss Browne still wants us to come 
 there and teach," Cora added, her voice husky 
 but her eyes bright. " So we can be self-sup- 
 porting, if if you don't approve. We are 
 twenty-four now, mother, and we have to live 
 our own lives." 
 
 They stood bravely for annihilation. 
 Mrs. Baldwin laughed. 
 
 " You foolish twinnies ! I know some 
 one has been hurting your feelings. Believe 
 me, my dears, even I did not always get just the 
 partner my heart was set on! And I cried 
 over it in secret, just like any other little girl. 
 That is life, you know we can't give up be- 
 fore it. Now smooth yourselves and come 
 down, for some of them are leaving." 
 
 She blew them a kiss and went off 
 smiling. After a dejected silence Dora took up 
 the forget-me-not wreath and replaced it. 
 
 " I suppose we might as well finish out 
 this evening," she said. " But the revolution 
 has begun, Cora ! " 
 
 [157] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 '" The revolution has begun," Cora 
 echoed. 
 
 In the drawing-room they found Mrs. 
 Baldwin talking with Mr. Morton and Mr. 
 White. They were evidently trying to say 
 good night, but she was holding them as in- 
 exorably as if she had laid hands on their coats; 
 or so it seemed to the troubled twins. She 
 summoned her daughters with her bright, 
 amused glance. 
 
 " My dears," she said, " these two good 
 friends were going to run away just because 
 they do not dance the cotillon. We can't allow 
 that. Suppose you take them to the library 
 and make them wholly comfortable. Indeed, 
 they have danced enough, Mr. White; I am 
 thankful to have them stop and rest for a while. 
 I will take the blame if their partners are 
 angry. 
 
 She nodded a smiling dismissal. Dis- 
 concerted, wholly ill at ease, the four went 
 obediently to the library, deserted now that the 
 cotillon was beginning. The two men strug- 
 gled valiantly with the conversation, but the 
 
 [158] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 twins sat stricken to shamed dumbness : no topic 
 could thrive in the face of their mute rigidity. 
 Silences stalked the failing efforts. Mr. 
 White's eyes clung to the clock while his throat 
 dilated with secret yawns; Mr. Morton twisted 
 restlessly and finally let a nervous sigh escape. 
 Dora suddenly clasped her hands tightly to- 
 gether. 
 
 : * We hate it just as much as you do," 
 she said distinctly. 
 
 They turned startled faces toward her. 
 Cora paled, but flew to her sister's aid. 
 
 :< We knew you didn't want to come," 
 she added with tremulous frankness. " We 
 would have let you off if we could. If you 
 want to go now, we won't be hurt." 
 
 They rose, and so did the bewildered 
 visitors. 
 
 " I am afraid you have misunder- 
 stood," began Mr. White. 
 
 "No; we have always understood 
 everybody," said Dora, " but we pretended not 
 to, because mother But now we have done 
 with society. It is a revolution, and this is our 
 
 [159] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 last party. Good night." She held out her 
 hand. 
 
 " Good night," repeated Cora, offering 
 hers. . The guests took them with the air of 
 culprits; relief was evidently drowned in as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " Well, good night if we must," they 
 said awkwardly. 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin, looking into the library 
 half an hour later, found the twins sitting there 
 alone. 
 
 "Where are your cavaliers?" she de- 
 manded. 
 
 " They left long ago," Dora explained 
 sleepily. " Mayn't we go to bed? " 
 
 " Oh, for pity's sake go ! " was the 
 exasperated answer. 
 
 In the morning the twins appeared 
 braced for revolution. When a reception for 
 that afternoon was mentioned, they announced 
 firmly that they were not going. 
 
 " I think you are wise," said Mrs. Bald- 
 win amiably. " You both look tired." 
 
 They were conscious of disappointment 
 [160] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 as well as relief; it was the establishment of a 
 principle they wanted, not coddling. Three 
 weeks went by in the same debilitating peace. 
 The twins were smiled on and left wholly free. 
 They had almost come to believe in a bloodless 
 victory, when Mrs. Baldwin struck a masterly 
 attack where they were weakest. Her weapon 
 was not welcome temper, but restrained 
 pathos. 
 
 " A mere fourteen at dinner and a few 
 coming in to dance afterward, and I do want 
 you twinnies to be there. Now I have not 
 asked one thing of you for three weeks; don't 
 you think you owe Mother some little return? " 
 
 " But ! " began the twins, with a rush 
 of the well-known arguments. Mrs. Baldwin 
 would not combat. 
 
 " I ask it as a favor, dear girls," she 
 said gently. They clung to their refusal, but 
 were obviously weakening when she rose to her 
 climax: "Mr. White and Mr. Morton have 
 accepted ! " She left them with that, confident 
 and humming to herself. 
 
 The twins stared at each other in open 
 [161] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 misery. Reappear now, after the solemn 
 declaration they had made to those two ! Their 
 cheeks burned at the thought. They mounted 
 to their room to formulate their resistance, and 
 found two exquisite new gowns, suitable for 
 fairy princesses, spread out like snares. " To 
 please Mother " seemed to be written on every 
 artful fold. And Mrs. Baldwin was not a rich 
 woman, for her way of life; such gowns meant 
 self-denial somewhere. The twins had tears in 
 their eyes. 
 
 " But if we give in now, we're lost ! " 
 they cried. 
 
 Nothing more was said about the dinner, 
 Mrs. Baldwin gayly assuming success, but avoid- 
 ing the topic. The twins wore a depressed and 
 furtive air. On the fatal day they had a long 
 interview with Miss Browne, of the Browne 
 School, and came away solemn with excitement, 
 to shut themselves in their room for the rest of 
 the afternoon. 
 
 A few minutes before the dinner-hour 
 Mrs. Baldwin, triumphant in satin and lace, 
 paused at their door. 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 "Ready, twinnies?" she began, then 
 stared as though disbelieving her eyes. In the 
 glow of the student lamp sat the twins, books in 
 their hands and piled high on the table beside 
 them; their smooth, dark hair was unpom- 
 padoured, their shoulders were lost in the dark 
 blouses of every day. 
 
 "What does this mean?" Mrs. Bald- 
 win asked shortly, fire in her eyes. 
 
 " Mother, we told you we could not go 
 to any more parties, and why," Cora answered, 
 a note of pleading in her voice. 
 
 " We begin teaching on Monday in 
 Miss Browne's school," added Dora more 
 stoutly. " We have tried your way for years 
 and years, mother. Now we have to try ours." 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin's lace bertha rose and fell 
 sharply. 
 
 " Indeed. I am sorry to disappoint you, 
 but so long as you live under my roof, you 
 will have to conform to the ways of my house- 
 hold." 
 
 " Then, mother, we cannot stay under 
 your roof." 
 
 [163] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " As you please ! I leave the choice en- 
 tirely to you." She swept out, leaving them 
 breathless but resolute. 
 
 "I am glad of it!" said Dora with 
 trembling lips. 
 
 In explaining their absence at dinner, 
 Mrs. Baldwin was lightly humorous about the 
 twins' devotion: one could not weather a head- 
 ache without the other. Mr. White and Mr. 
 Morton exchanged glances, and showed interest 
 in the topic, as if they were on the track of some 
 new sociological fact. 
 
 Later in the evening the twins, their 
 spirits restored, stole to the top of the stairs and 
 peered down at the whirling couples, exultant 
 not to be among them. Mr. White was stand- 
 ing just below, and he glanced up, as if he 
 might have been listening. His face bright- 
 ened. 
 
 " May I come up ? " he signaled, and 
 mounted two steps at a time, keen interest in 
 his thin, intellectual face. 
 
 " Is it really headache, or is it revolu- 
 tion?" he asked without preface. "Morton 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 and I have been longing to know, all the 
 evening." 
 
 " Revolution," said the twins. 
 
 " How very interesting ! Do you know, 
 we came to-night just to see if you would be 
 there. You you staggered us, the other even- 
 ing. We were glad when you didn't appear 
 if you won't misunderstand. It is so unex- 
 pected, in this environment. I shall be curious 
 to see how far you can carry it out." He was 
 leaning against the banister, looking at them as 
 if they were abstract propositions rather than 
 young girls, and they felt unwontedly at ease. 
 
 " To the very end," Dora asserted. 
 " We begin teaching Monday, and and we 
 have to find a place to board." Her color rose 
 a little, but she smiled. 
 
 " That is plucky," he commented. 
 " We can help you there; I know a number of 
 places. When do you want to move ? " 
 
 " To-morrow," they answered in unison. 
 
 He consulted an engagement-book, re- 
 flected a few moments, then made a note. 
 
 " Morton or I will call for you to-mor- 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 row at three," he announced with businesslike 
 brevity. " I think I know just the place, but 
 we will give you a choice. If you really wish 
 to move in at once, you could have your things 
 packed, ready to be sent for." 
 
 " Oh, we do ! " said Cora. He glanced 
 meditatively at their fine and glowing faces. 
 
 " Of course you won't be comfortable, 
 luxurious, as you are here," he warned them, 
 with a nod toward the great paneled hall. Mrs. 
 Baldwin passed the drawing-room door below 
 with the stately tread of a reviewing officer on 
 duty. 
 
 " Oh, we don't care ! " they exclaimed 
 eagerly. 
 
 The next day their mother treated the 
 twins as if they were not. She spoke no word 
 to them and did not seem to hear their husky 
 little efforts at reconciliation. They found it 
 hard to remember persistently that they were 
 revolutionists rather than children in disgrace. 
 She was unapproachable in her own room when 
 Mr. White and Mr. Morton came for them. 
 
 " Well, we can't help it," they said sadly 
 [166] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 as they locked their two trunks and went down 
 the stairs. 
 
 Three hours later the twins had entered 
 a new world and were rapturously making an 
 omelet in a kitchen that had begun life as a 
 closet, while Mr. Morton put up shelves and 
 hooks and Mr. White tacked green burlap over 
 gloomy wall paper. Groceries and kitchen 
 utensils and amusing makeshift furniture kept 
 arriving in exciting profusion. They had not 
 dreamed that there was such happiness in the 
 world. 
 
 " If only mother will forgive us, it will 
 be simply perfect! " they told each other when 
 they settled down for the night in their hard 
 little cots. They said that many times in the 
 days that followed their revolution. The utter 
 joy of work and freedom and simplicity had no 
 other blemish. 
 
 For five weeks Mrs. Baldwin remained 
 obdurate. Then, one Sunday afternoon, she 
 appeared, cold, critical, resentful still ; lifted her 
 eyebrows at the devices of their light housekeep- 
 ing; looked disgusted when they pointed out 
 [167] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 from the window the little cafe where they 
 sometimes dined; and offered to consent to their 
 social retirement if they would give up the 
 teaching and come home. The twins were 
 troubled and apologetic, but inflexible. They 
 had found the life they were meant for: they 
 could not give it up. If she knew how happy 
 they were ! 
 
 " How, with your bringing up, you can 
 enjoy this! " she marveled. " It isn't respect- 
 able eating in nasty little holes alone at 
 night I " 
 
 " But it is a nice, clean place, and Mr. 
 White and Mr. Morton are nearly always with 
 us," Dora began, then broke off at an expression 
 of pleased enlightenment that flashed across 
 her mother's face. * They are just very good 
 friends," she explained gravely; "they don't 
 take us as girls at all that is why we have such 
 nice times with them. We are simply com- 
 rades, and interested in the same books and 
 problems." 
 
 " And they bother about us chiefly be- 
 cause we are a sort of sociological demonstra- 
 [168] 
 
A Mother of Four 
 
 tion to them," Cora added. " They like experi- 
 ments of every kind." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I understand," assented Mrs. 
 Baldwin. u Well, you certainly are fixed up 
 very nicely here. If you want anything from 
 home, let me know. After all, it is a piquant 
 little adventure. If you are happy in it, I sup- 
 pose I ought not to complain." 
 
 She was all complacence and compliment 
 the rest of her visit. When she went away, the 
 girls glanced uneasily at each other. 
 
 " She took a wrong idea in her head," 
 said Dora. " I do hope we undeceived her. It 
 would be hard for her to understand how 
 wholly mental and impersonal our friendship 
 is with those two." 
 
 " Well, she will see in time, when noth- 
 ing comes of it," said Cora confidently. 
 " That's their ring, now. Oh, Dora, isn't our 
 life nice!" 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin, passing down the shabby 
 front steps, might have seen the two men ap- 
 proaching, one with an armful of books and the 
 other with a potted plant; but she apparently 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 did not recognize them, for she stepped into 
 her carriage without a sign. The visit seemed 
 to have left a pleasant memory with her, how- 
 ever; her bland serenity, as she drove away, 
 was not unlike that of the cat which has just 
 swallowed the canary. 
 
The Riper Tears 
 
 MAIDA had been home an hour before 
 the subject was broached. Her mother, follow- 
 ing her nervously from room to room, could 
 not tell whether it was in her mind or not; she 
 was gay, alert, a little boyish, just as she always 
 was on her yearly return from college; inter- 
 ested in the new dining-room wall paper and the 
 private bathroom that was her special surprise; 
 brief and uncommunicative about the details of 
 her graduation but eloquent over the tennis 
 finals to all appearances as unreproachful and 
 friendly as her letters had shown her. Mrs. 
 Hamilton herself flushed pink at every pause, 
 absently repeated her questions, and listened to 
 Maida's talk with wide, troubled eyes and a 
 fixed smile; the tenderness of her frequent 
 " Yes, dear! " was very close to tears. 
 
 The photograph on her dressing table 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 finally brought them to it. Maida picked it up 
 and looked with smiling inscrutability at the 
 solemn, kindly, middle-aged face. 
 
 "Well?" she said. 
 
 It came out in a torrent, all that Mrs. 
 Hamilton had been rehearsing during the un- 
 easy days of expectation. 
 
 " You know, dear, I won't do it for one 
 moment if it is in any way distasteful to you. 
 I wrote you that, and the Judge understands it 
 perfectly. Your letters were lovely, Maida 
 they might so easily have been a little unkind, 
 and, indeed, I should have understood it. To 
 a girl of your age it might seem rather shock- 
 ing, perhaps; or ridiculous. I want you to be 
 frank with me, my dear girl. I shall never 
 consciously do anything that would spoil your 
 home for you." And two tears ran suddenly 
 down the smooth, delicate little face. Maida, 
 always embarrassed before emotion, kept her 
 eyes on the photograph. 
 
 " Why, mother, I have no objection," 
 she said cheerfully. " Judge Reynolds is a 
 fine old chap I shall like having him about 
 
 [172] 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 the house, if you don't mind him." Her eyes 
 met her mother's in a fleeting glance. " I'm 
 not sentimental, you know; I shouldn't want 
 any one that way myself. But if you do 
 well, then, I'm jolly glad you've got it." She 
 put the picture down and gave her mother's 
 shoulder a furtive pat, which was as near as 
 she ever willingly came to a caress. " He's a 
 first-rate man; I respect him a lot," she added. 
 
 Happy relief set Mrs. Hamilton bloom- 
 ing. 
 
 " Oh, yes, Maida, he is a remarkable 
 man. In a bigger place, with wider opportuni- 
 ties, he would be very famous. As it is, the 
 whole county comes to him for his opinion. 
 And he's so courageous, Maida ! Never afraid 
 to say exactly what he believes. Why, a big 
 corporation once tried " Her earnest voice 
 faltered and paused before the glimmer of a 
 grin on her daughter's face. " Anybody would 
 tell you exactly the same things; I am not 
 biased, dear, truly," she urged, flushing. The 
 glimmer was dutifully repressed, though it still 
 lurked close to the surface. 
 
 [173] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Of course, he's splendid," Maida as- 
 sented. " By the way, does Billy come with 
 him?" 
 
 " Oh, no; he will take rooms some- 
 where. He has been very sweet and nice it 
 makes me very happy, Maida, that both our 
 children take it so so kindly." 
 
 "Oh, it's all right. I'm glad if you 
 are," Maida reassured her. When her mother 
 was called away, a few minutes later, the glim- 
 mer returned; she picked up the photograph 
 again and studied with twinkling eyes the solid 
 citizen it represented. Across the back was 
 boldly written, " For Fanny," and a quotation 
 beginning, " Unto the riper years " Maida 
 hastily put it down. 
 
 " Oh, Lord! " she murmured. 
 
 One afternoon two weeks later Maida 
 frankly posted herself at the garden gate to- 
 ward six o'clock, when a blaze of curly red hair 
 and a short pipe usually signaled the passing 
 of her future stepbrother. His droll face, like 
 a narrow block of white wood curiously carved, 
 creased into a smile at sight of her. 
 
 [174] 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 " I was waiting for you, Billy; I want 
 to have a talk with you," Maida said, opening 
 the gate. 
 
 "Why didn't you pretend that the 
 meeting was accidental, and start with surprise ? 
 I should have felt more flattered," he sug- 
 gested, following her across the lawn to an an- 
 cient latticed summer-house. 
 
 " Why should I bother to flatter you, 
 Billy Reynolds?" Maida demanded. 
 
 " Well, girls always do. Besides, I ex- 
 pect to hand you out numerous bouquets." 
 
 " It will be a change. You slapped me 
 once in this very summer-house." 
 
 " And I dare say I shall again. I cer- 
 tainly shall if you bite my thumb half off, as 
 you did that day." 
 
 " It was your own fault for trying to 
 cover two thirds of the chocolate with it. I 
 only wanted my fair half." 
 
 '* Well, I will send you up a cake of 
 Peter's, if that is what you called me in about." 
 They both laughed. 
 
 "No; I wanted to talk to you about 
 
 [175] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 your father. Truly, Billy, you have got to 
 make him behave." 
 
 "What on earth is he doing? I'd run 
 a mile to see him actually misbehave," he added 
 with an eagerness whose roots lay deep in his 
 own past. 
 
 " He stays too late," said Maida with 
 indignation. " Mother always wakes up at 
 dawn anyway, and here he is keeping her up 
 till eleven and twelve four nights a week it's 
 too much for her. She can't sleep daytimes, 
 and she is getting so nervous and tired. I don't 
 exactly like to pound on the floor or wind the 
 hall clock, but " Under Billy's hoot of laugh- 
 ter her frown melted into an answering laugh. 
 
 " I might come and take him home 
 at ten," he suggested. " Why doesn't your 
 mother fire him? " 
 
 " She promises to, but she's so afraid of 
 hurting his feelings. Besides, you know " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Well, I think she sort of likes hav- 
 ing him. She wants him to stay." Billy hooted 
 again at the reluctance of the admission. 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 " I suppose you never wanted any one 
 to stay, yourself ! " 
 
 11 Certainly not, after a sensible hour! " 
 
 He looked at her meditatively. " It 
 might be good sport to enlighten your dense 
 ignorance." His tone was derisive, but some 
 expression in his red-brown eyes made her 
 frown restively. 
 
 " Oh, we will leave all that to our par- 
 ents," she said impatiently. " But couldn't you 
 give your father a hint? " 
 
 There was humor in the slow shake of 
 his head. " I don't see myself doing it, some- 
 way." 
 
 " Well, then, I suppose I shall have to. 
 I am not going to have her all worn out." She 
 rose with a definiteness that brought him reluc- 
 tantly to his feet. 
 
 " You don't have any trouble sending 
 people home yourself, do you ! " he commented. 
 
 " Of course not," said Maida, wholly 
 missing the application. He smiled to himself 
 as he held out his hand. 
 
 " You're a fine, strong woman, Maida," 
 
 [177] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 he said. " It's splendid characters like you that 
 pass bills through the legislature and get the 
 suffrage and all that. But sometimes you splen- 
 did characters get something else, just the 
 sarnie. And get it bad." Maida resentfully 
 drew away her hand. 
 
 " Oh, good night," she said. 
 
 When the Judge, with his solemn shy- 
 ness and his top hat, mounted the steps the fol- 
 lowing evening, the somewhat rakish figure of 
 his son lounged in his wake. 
 
 " Father bribed me to come and keep 
 you out of the way to-night," he announced to 
 Maida, who opened the wire door for them. 
 
 " My dear Will ! How can you tell 
 such an untruth ! " The Judge was red with 
 righteous wrath. " I assure you, Maida " 
 
 "Oh, I know Billy!" she comforted 
 him. " I never believe him. Mother is in the 
 sitting room, Judge Reynolds. I am going out 
 to weed the pansies, Billy you may come if 
 you like." 
 
 " But I am calling on you," he pro- 
 tested as the Judge, superhumanly erect and 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 still slightly glowering, entered the sitting 
 room. " You can't go about your chores just 
 as if you were alone." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " When you have been home a little 
 longer, Maida, you will realize that a man 
 caller is not to be taken lightly or forced to 
 weed the garden. They give him the best chair 
 here and make him lemonade and What is 
 it?" For Maida was staring after the Judge 
 with a look of incredulous dismay. Yet the 
 tableau seen through the half-open door was 
 not a surprising one under the circumstances. 
 
 " Boys will be boys, you know," Billy 
 reminded her gravely. " We have to be pa- 
 tient with the young people, my dear." 
 
 Maida turned to the dusky garden. 
 " Oh, it's all right if they like it," she said with 
 an expressive wrinkling of her nose. " One 
 comfort, you can take him home early to-night 
 and let mother get some sleep." 
 
 " Exactly why I came " Billy seated 
 himself on the steps and took out a cigarette 
 " only I'm not going so infernally early my- 
 
 [179] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 self," he added, his tone decided but his eye cau- 
 tiously inquiring. 
 
 " I couldn't do the pansies to-day, it was 
 so hot," said Maida, kneeling before a gold and 
 purple bed beside the steps. 
 
 " I said," repeated Billy with cold em- 
 phasis, " that I was not going home so infer- 
 nally early myself." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Haven't you the manners to express 
 pleasure at the news?" She laughed in spite 
 of herself. 
 
 " I'll tell you how I feel about it later 
 in the evening," she said. 
 
 Promptly at ten o'clock the Judge was 
 interrupted in the story of an important legal 
 battle by the entrance of the young people with 
 a pitcher of lemonade. Twenty minutes later, 
 as he walked home with his son, he commented 
 approvingly on this sweet little daughterly act. 
 
 " Maida is a very thoughtful girl," he 
 added contentedly. 
 
 "Oh, yes, she's thoughtful," Billy as- 
 sented. He seemed depressed. 
 
 [i so] 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 Billy came frequently after that, and 
 the Judge, being a methodical person, soon fell 
 into the way of taking his departure shortly 
 after ten, whether his son were there or not. 
 But having plenty of time for sleep did not pro- 
 duce the expected effect on Mrs. Hamilton. 
 She seemed to become daily more wan, more 
 nervous, and her appetite, always small, dis- 
 appeared altogether. Maida watched her with 
 indignant anxiety. 
 
 " Why don't they marry and get it over 
 with? What is the sense of waiting till Octo- 
 ber? " she demanded of Billy one evening; she 
 was mounted on a ladder, training and pruning 
 the vines with which the old summer-house was 
 heaped up and running over, while he sat on 
 the step beneath discontentedly watching her. 
 His good spirits seemed to have deserted him 
 of late. 
 
 " You're always so busy," he com- 
 plained. " Why can't you sit down here and 
 be sociable like anybody else?" 
 
 " Oh, I like to get things done." The 
 scissors snapped energetically and several long 
 [181] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 sprays of honeysuckle fell about his head. 
 " But about mother and the Judge why don't 
 they?" 
 
 " I believe the idea was to let you down 
 easy give you a summer to get used to the 
 idea." 
 
 " Well, I'd rather cut that out and have 
 a sane and orderly household. We have had 
 steak three times this week because mother for- 
 got that she ordered it before, and half the 
 time there's no butter for breakfast or not an 
 egg in the house. She has given up eating, her- 
 self, and the consequence is Oh, I think en- 
 gaged people are dreadful ! " 
 
 Billy was weaving the honeysuckle 
 sprays into a wreath. 
 
 " I don't have any trouble with the old 
 boy," he observed. " He eats and sleeps about 
 as usual." 
 
 " Men have a little sense," Maida con- 
 ceded, coming down to move her ladder. When 
 she had finished her work she sat on the step 
 beside him and submitted indifferently to hav- 
 ing the honeysuckle wreath placed on her hair. 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 His hands lingered over the task, his eyes rest- 
 ing gravely on her clear profile. 
 
 "I must train the vines on the wood- 
 shed to-morrow/' said Maida. His hand fell 
 with exasperated heaviness on her shoulder. 
 
 " Woman, wake up ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Here it is a night full of stars, and you look 
 like a dream princess with your hair full of 
 flowers and you talk about the wood-shed! 
 Don't you ever see an inch beyond the prac- 
 tical?" 
 
 She drew away resentfully from his 
 hand. " You needn't knock me over," she pro- 
 tested. He sighed. 
 
 " Well, I said I should probably slap 
 you again on this historic spot," he said more 
 mildly. His quaint, comedian face looked old 
 and tired in the dim light. Maida turned away 
 from it frowning, but her eyes came back to it 
 again and again in the half hour of silence that 
 followed. 
 
 "I can't help it, Billy," she said sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " I know you can't, dearest." It was 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 spoken so quietly and naturally, that amazing 
 word, that she could not take offense, could not 
 even seem to notice it; and yet it was disturb- 
 ing. She almost forgot his presence as she sat 
 turning it over, wondering at it, throwing it 
 angrily away, and then curiously picking it up 
 again. Dearest strange little word to have so 
 big an echo ! 
 
 She was startled back to the present by 
 the appearance of the reformed Judge. 
 
 "After ten, Will; time to be going. 
 We old people can't sit up like you young 
 ones," he added innocently. Maida looked 
 self-conscious, but Will laughed outright. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton had already gone to her 
 room when Maida went in. The girl's sleep 
 was broken and troubled that night, and when- 
 ever she wakened she had a sense of sighs and 
 uneasy turnings in the next room. Starting up 
 from a doze as the clock struck three, she saw 
 a light under her mother's door. She rose in 
 wrath. 
 
 ;t Why aren't you asleep?" she de- 
 manded from the doorway. 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 " It seems to me rather close." Her 
 mother spoke guiltily, and the eyes she lifted 
 from her book were unmistakably tear-stained. 
 Maida stumped severely to the windows, open- 
 ing them wider and fastening back the curtains. 
 With her back to her mother she took the 
 plunge. 
 
 "If you're waiting till October on my 
 account," she began abruptly, " I wish you 
 wouldn't. I should much prefer it right now." 
 
 "There is no hurry; October will do 
 very well." Mrs. Hamilton spoke quietly, a 
 little coldly, her eyes on her book, but Maida 
 was sure that the firmly closed lips would quiver 
 helplessly at another word. She turned uncer- 
 tainly back to her own room. 
 
 "Well, good night. Do sleep," she 
 urged. 
 
 They avoided each other's eyes in the 
 morning, but it was quite clear that Mrs. Ham- 
 ilton was unhappy. Maida tried to cheer her 
 with references to the Judge's sterling qualities, 
 but, after a wan assent, her mother seemed to 
 sink deeper than ever into depression. Then 
 [185] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Maida turned firmly to cheerful topics of gen- 
 eral interest, and invited her mother to go to 
 drive. But it was a weary drive, talking to 
 deaf ears and pointing out the beauties of na- 
 ture to sad little elderly eyes that more than 
 once filled with tears. Maida knew that she 
 ought boldly to demand the cause, but her hor- 
 ror of sentimental confidences was still too 
 strong. 
 
 " He has hurt her feelings or some- 
 thing; engaged people are always like that," 
 she reassured herself. 
 
 The next day was a little better. Mrs. 
 Hamilton became quite cheerful after supper 
 as she sat in spotless precision waiting for the 
 Judge. Maida, sitting on the front steps, found 
 herself watching for two figures; whereupon 
 she rose impatiently and sought a hoe. 
 
 " Idiocy seems to be contagious," she 
 muttered, going viciously at the weeds under 
 the hollyhocks. Mrs. Hamilton came out pres- 
 ently and stood watching her from the porch. 
 
 " They are late to-night," said Maida 
 cheerfully. 
 
 [186] 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 " Yes ; he is always here before this." 
 The brief brightness had left Mrs. Hamilton's 
 face. Maida's next slash nearly laid low a 
 hollyhock. She went indoors presently, but all 
 the evening she could not lose consciousness of 
 the frail little figure sitting motionless on the 
 veranda. 
 
 At nine o'clock she gripped the situ- 
 ation. 
 
 " Something must have detained him," 
 she said, coming out and seating herself on the 
 balustrade. 
 
 " Yes; it is very much what I have been 
 expecting." Mrs. Hamilton's voice sounded 
 dim and hopeless. 
 
 "Expecting?" 
 
 " Yes, Maida. I think it has all been 
 a a mistake." Maida was startled out of her 
 horror of confidences. 
 
 " You don't want to do it? " 
 
 " Oh, no, dear ! I mean, yes it is not 
 that. But I think the Judge I have been no- 
 ticing for some weeks I am an old woman, 
 Maida, and it was folly to suppose I could 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 hold such a such an important man. I under- 
 stand perfectly " The poor little voice fal- 
 tered. 
 
 " But, mother, he seems so happy and 
 satisfied; and this is the first night he has 
 missed coming," Maida urged. Mrs. Hamil- 
 ton bravely dried her eyes. 
 
 " I know, dear. But I have been no- 
 ticing he he does not stay nearly so long as 
 he used to. And I think he sometimes I don't 
 mean this unkindly but I think he sometimes 
 brings his son just so as to to break it up in 
 good season. I am not speaking in blame I 
 understand perfectly. But it has it has kept 
 me from sleeping so well, and so I suppose I 
 am easily upset. You must excuse me, dear." 
 A sob broke from her and she went blindly into 
 the house. Maida stared after her in sick dis- 
 may. So this was what she had wrought; and 
 she had meant so well! 
 
 The gate clicked and a footstep on the 
 
 gravel sent a curious pang, half pleasant, half 
 
 terrifying, through her left side. It passed 
 
 abruptly as she recognized the Judge. He was 
 
 .[188] 
 
The Riper Years 
 
 in business clothes and an unwonted air of the 
 day's disorder hung about him. 
 
 " Good evening, Maida. Am I too late 
 to come in? " he asked apologetically. " I was 
 kept downtown until now " 
 
 Maida clutched her courage in both 
 hands. 
 
 " I am glad you came I want to speak 
 to you. Judge Reynolds, I don't think mother 
 is very well. I think she ought to go away for 
 a few weeks." He looked so dismayed that she 
 could have embraced him. " Being engaged 
 seems to be a great strain," she went on bravely. 
 " I wish that October were not so far away." 
 His face lit up. 
 
 " Why, my dear, your mother thought 
 that you Well, really, there is no fixed law 
 about October. So far as that goes, next week 
 would " She grasped his arm. 
 
 " Go and tell her that," she whispered. 
 Then she ran down into the garden, leaving 
 him to find the way in. 
 
 A whistle from the gate brought again 
 that curious stab of expectancy. She was ab- 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 sorbed in unscrewing the hose when Will came 
 through the shrubbery. 
 
 "Is my father here?" he asked. "I 
 have been waiting all the evening to chaperon 
 him." 
 
 "Oh, he's here! " said Maida dryly. 
 
 " Misbehaving? " 
 
 " Not exactly. But if ever I have any- 
 thing to do with engaged people again ! " 
 
 " But you will you can't help your- 
 self! " It was not too dark for him to see a 
 sudden tide of color in her face. He came and 
 took the hose from her. " Let me help you, 
 dearest," he said, his air entirely practical as he 
 knelt down by the faucet. The little word 
 echoed and reverberated about her. 
 
 "Don't you call me that!" she cried 
 desperately. Will, at her feet, smiled to him- 
 self. 
 
 [190] 
 
XI 
 
 Nature 
 
 " BACK to nature that is what she 
 needs," commanded the doctor, and Louise, un- 
 consulted and disconsolate, was straightway 
 transported to the wilds by her anxiously con- 
 cerned father. Once established, with her 
 mother and a servant, in a borrowed pine cabin, 
 with Bald Mountain towering high above them 
 and Loon Lake shimmering beneath, she inter- 
 preted the doctor's words as a literal command 
 to turn her back to nature, and turned it with 
 defiant persistence. 
 
 "It's no use; I don't like the woods, 
 and I never have and I never shall! " she was 
 goaded into exclaiming after forty-eight hours 
 had dragged, one by one, over her head. " And 
 I haven't slept any better than at Westering," 
 she added with covert triumph. 
 
 Mrs. Russell looked up from her book 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 with a smile that was amused, faintly derisive, 
 and wholly untouched by responsibility. 
 
 " How silly you are, Louise ! " she 
 commented, and her eyes returned to the page 
 without expectation of an answer. Louise 
 sighed fretfully, but attempted none. She did 
 not even feel resentful for more than half a 
 minute; it was impossible to cherish anger 
 against a person so aloof and so exquisitely 
 handsome as her fine, dark-haired mother, espe- 
 cially when one was well, " more like the 
 father," it was kindly expressed. 
 
 Nature, whose radiant morning had 
 been ignored, had withdrawn behind a fine veil 
 of rain. A hearty pattering on the cabin roof 
 would have had its own charm, but this sound- 
 less, clinging, almost invisible misting seemed 
 to Louise funereal. The great pines about them 
 dripped solemnly at long intervals; drenched 
 witch-hazels made the paths impassable; the 
 hammock on the porch was as clammily damp 
 as though it were not under cover. A log fire 
 made the living room the only habitable spot, 
 and, convinced that any hope of diversion was 
 [192] 
 
Nature 
 
 over for that day, she got out the bundle of 
 books that her father had placed in her trunk. 
 Their titles filled her with fresh exasperation: 
 " Bird Notes," " The Insect World," " Deni- 
 zens of the Forest," " Nature's Children," 
 " The Heart of the Wild." She pushed them 
 angrily away, and her eyes were full of hot 
 tears, partly because she hated them, partly be- 
 cause a sudden vision of her anxious, careful 
 father, earnestly selecting these dreary volumes 
 and carrying them home himself lest they 
 should not arrive in time, hurt her inexplicably. 
 His devotion had always held this uncompre- 
 hended pang for her, even in the days when he 
 buttoned her leggings in the morning and 
 started her off to school, or hurried home from 
 the office to help her with her arithmetic. Close 
 on her impatience now came a compassionate 
 need to put her arms about him and tell him 
 how good he was, and she fell to thinking how, 
 if he were dead instead of merely returned to 
 the city, this need would be deepened to a haunt- 
 ing passion of regret that she had not done it 
 oftener; and so, when her mother chanced to 
 
 [193] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 glance up from the pages of Pierre Loti, she 
 saw symptoms that had grown dismally famil- 
 iar of late scarlet eyelids and wet cheeks. She 
 closed the book over a tentative forefinger. 
 
 " I will play backgammon with you, if 
 you like, Louise," she volunteered, after a mo- 
 ment of silent consideration. Louise hastily 
 averted her face, not knowing herself discov- 
 ered. 
 
 " I think I will write to papa now ; I am 
 in the mood for it thank you, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Russell returned to her book with- 
 out comment. 
 
 Louise's nervous disorder had not been 
 brought about by the usual dissipations of her 
 age. Although she was twenty-one, she had 
 never " come out." She had confidently ex- 
 pected to when she left school, three years be- 
 fore. When she brought up the subject, her 
 mother, after hearing her, had mused for a 
 disconcerting interval on the eager face that not 
 even the fresh skin of youth could beautify. 
 
 " Why, you may come out if you want 
 to, Louise," she had said finally, " but I don't 
 [194] 
 
Nature 
 
 believe you would be a success; you never have 
 got on at all with boys. You would not enjoy 
 coming out and being a wallflower, would 
 you?" 
 
 Most emphatically Louise would not 
 have enjoyed being a wallflower the word 
 had sent a flush up to her smooth brown hair. 
 Her mother's verdict left a gash, but she did not 
 dream of appealing from it; the subject was 
 never brought up again. So she had given her 
 days to girl friends and desultory studies, em- 
 broidery and horseback riding and fitful philan- 
 thropy, spending six months in town and six 
 in Westering, an expensive suburb with lawns 
 and paved sidewalks, where she did very much 
 the same things as in the city. And when a 
 man had crossed her way, she had remembered 
 that she was not born to success and had sat 
 passive until he drifted past. If he stayed, it 
 was because he had fallen in love with her 
 mother, whose wonderful eyebrows, slim and 
 mobile as little black serpents, would presently 
 take a bored, derisive arch at the discovery, and 
 so send him away writhing. Why, out of such 
 
 [195] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 a tame, hygienic order of life, Louise should 
 suddenly develop hysterics and insomnia, only 
 nature could explain; and so, logically enough, 
 it was to nature that she had been sent. The 
 doctor was elderly and conventional, and even 
 the girl herself did not realize that the wrong 
 kind of nature had been chosen. 
 
 The drizzle had stopped by the time 
 Louise had finished her letter; there were signs 
 of light in the west, giving hope of a sunset. 
 She started up. 
 
 " I am going down to mail this myself," 
 she announced. " Papa said the trail was per- 
 fectly plain." 
 
 " A good idea," said her mother ab- 
 sently. It was Annie who insisted on rubbers. 
 Annie's hair was spun amber and her eyes were 
 blue delft, and her place was that of upper 
 housemaid, but she had cheerfully deserted her 
 sphere and unnumbered followers to come up 
 into the wilds as cook, from devotion to her 
 handsome, impassive mistress. Louise, as one 
 of Mrs. Russell's belongings, was briskly 
 looked after. 
 
Nature 
 
 The pensive, earthy odors of autumn 
 rising from the sodden trail were sweetened 
 and glorified by a burst of golden light as 
 Louise set out; the leaves of the witch-hazels 
 were turned to shining, glancing mirrors. An 
 early frost had set the maples flaming, and al- 
 ready the blaze was spreading to oak and beech 
 and aspen. The chain of little dipping hills 
 across the lake looked like Persian rugs hung 
 on slack clothes lines. Louise paused to laugh 
 at the simile, forgetting for the moment her 
 boredom and her unconquerable dislike of the 
 woods. 
 
 She had not seen him until her laugh 
 made him look up; and then she found herself 
 looking down into two of the bluest eyes ever 
 set in a brown face, a dark blue, yet of such 
 sapphire clearness that she saw color before 
 outline. The man was kneeling on the trail, 
 tying the last knots in a heavy bundle that he 
 had evidently been repacking. His brown can- 
 vas suit showed him, as he rose, magnificently 
 tall and straight, his head set above his broad 
 shoulders with the ease of a stag's, his features 
 
 [197] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 shaped with the grave beauty of ancient sculp- 
 ture. For the moment Louise could only stare. 
 She had never looked on a man like this, and 
 the next twenty steps were as twenty epochs of 
 her experience. So far did they carry her that, 
 from a first tremulous wonder whether she 
 might not venture a bow in passing, she jumped 
 to panic lest he should go before she could 
 speak. 
 
 " Is this the trail to the post office? "she 
 asked hurriedly, with fluttering color and her 
 heart struggling at her throat. 
 
 He paused before answering, not, evi- 
 dently, in doubt, but because his ways were de- 
 liberate; and in that moment the simplicity of 
 his amazing beauty stabbed her with glorious 
 pain, like the sight of a great deed. Then fate 
 dealt her the sharpest blow of her life, a blow 
 that left her dazed, gasping, wholly uncompre- 
 hending, yet crushed under some awful, name- 
 less disappointment. 
 
 " Yes, marm," he said. 
 
 After a blank recoil, she sped on, the 
 shamed dread of a burst of tears hurrying her 
 
Nature 
 
 feet. Once hidden in the woods, she dropped 
 down on a log and sobbed recklessly. 
 
 "It's all dreadful!" she stormed. 
 " Nothing is for me, nothing is ever for me ! " 
 The meaning of her own words startled and 
 arrested her. She repeated them, as though 
 listening to a verdict, then cried again, dis- 
 mally, in poignant self-pity: " Nothing, noth- 
 ing ! " She accepted it hopelessly. Her letter 
 to her father was in her hand, but it did not 
 occur to her to wonder what there had been for 
 him, or for anyone else. To her young wretch- 
 edness, it seemed that everyone else had every- 
 thing life could offer; only she was isolated and 
 a failure. 
 
 The lamp was already lighted when 
 she dragged herself listlessly up the trail again, 
 an hour later. Her mother's eyebrows curved 
 delicately at sight of her muddy skirt. 
 
 "Why didn't you hold it up?" she 
 asked, not in reproof, but in cool wonder that 
 anyone could be so unfastidious. 
 
 " It was too much trouble," was the 
 sullen answer. Mrs. Russell's glance touched 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 for an instant the pale, heavy face, then fell to 
 the book in her hand. 
 
 " I don't expect you to like it, Louise," 
 she began, smoothing the page back with her 
 palm before lifting it into the light, " but I 
 have engaged a guide to take you for an excur- 
 sion every day. Annie will go, too. He will 
 be here at ten in the morning." And she would 
 have begun reading, but Louise's startled ques- 
 tions interrupted: 
 
 " A guide? Where did you get him? " 
 
 " He came this afternoon with a letter 
 from Mrs. Harrison they are breaking up 
 their camp at Big Moose, and she thought we 
 might need some one. His name is Anderson." 
 She waited courteously for the further questions 
 with which her daughter was evidently strug- 
 gling. 
 
 " Did he was he " she could not ask 
 " was he beautiful as a god?" and so con- 
 cluded lamely, "You liked his looks? " 
 
 u Naturally; or I should not have en- 
 gaged him." 
 
 Louise turned dazedly to her own room. 
 [200] 
 
Nature 
 
 " He's only a guide," she told herself, 
 but that strange sense of blank loss was tossed 
 aside like her wet skirt. Life was not so empty, 
 after all. It would be something just to look 
 on beauty like that. 
 
 It was something. It was an exhilara- 
 tion keen as though the thin, sharp, dry sunlight 
 were champagne to the spirit when she peeped 
 out between the curtains at ten o'clock the next 
 morning and saw him standing at his magnifi- 
 cent ease. Annie, her spun amber hair bared 
 to the brightness, her garb of neat maidservant 
 oddly incongruous with her alpenstock, was talk- 
 ing to him with a slightly critical patronage. 
 
 " I'd die for lonesomeness up here, but 
 I don't suppose you're used to anything differ- 
 ent," she was saying. 
 
 Louise stepped out with a suppressed 
 skip. She no more understood her sudden gay- 
 ety than she understood the depression of the 
 past months. Perhaps she had never understood 
 anything about herself very clearly since her 
 mother's gashing verdict on the subject of 
 " coming out " poor, impulsive, trustful little 
 [201] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 girl in grown-up clothes that she was ! She had 
 lived three years under the saddening shadow 
 of that word " failure " without once dreaming 
 that anything might have been done about it. 
 Now all she realized was that, suddenly, it was 
 fun to be alive. Her voice had a brimming 
 gayety. 
 
 " Good morning, Anderson ! " The 
 passive sobriety of his " Morning! " did not 
 chill her; she felt curiously like a joyous mote 
 dancing before a kindly, solemn sun. ' Where 
 shall you take us? " she asked, happily ready 
 for anything. 
 
 He reflected, and she watched him, 
 thinking, " One could die for a man like that! " 
 
 "Been up the Ridge yet?" he finally 
 asked. 
 
 " No. I've never been anywhere in 
 all my life," she wanted to add. 
 
 " Guess that'll do, then." 
 
 They set out up a rocky trail, Annie 
 
 falling respectfully to the rear, but muttering 
 
 disrespectfully as stones slipped under her feet 
 
 and briers scratched her sleeve. Anderson 
 
 [202] 
 
Nature 
 
 went ahead of Louise in Indian silence, paus- 
 ing occasionally to indicate that there was a 
 view, and she could look at it if she liked. Her 
 bursts of enthusiasm were accepted placidly as 
 manifestations appropriate to a woman but 
 scarcely interesting to a man. He utilized the 
 pauses by breaking twigs and closely examining 
 the fracture, turning over bits of rock with 
 thoughtful interest, running his hand inquir- 
 ingly along the trunks of trees. 
 
 " What is it you are looking for? 
 What are you finding out?" she finally asked 
 him. 
 
 " W-e-11, I don't know," was the 
 slow answer. " Kind of a habit, I guess." He 
 picked up a tiny brown pine-cone and held it 
 out to her on his great palm. " Nice little fel- 
 ler, ain't it ! " he commented. 
 
 " Intelligent about nature and probably 
 kind to children" some voice deep down in 
 Louise's consciousness seemed to record. She 
 took the cone with a rather absurd enthusiasm 
 and presently slipped it into her pocket. 
 
 The trail grew steep and hot and Annie 
 [203] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 spluttered into open complaint. Louise would 
 have laughed at her, but Anderson stepped 
 back and helped her in a way that made the 
 secret voice cry out, "Patient, chivalrous!" 
 with a ring of triumph. The words were ad- 
 dressed more to a disdainful image of her 
 mother than to herself. 
 
 Their climb terminated on a rocky shelf 
 that hung over a lavish prospect of lakes and 
 glowing hillsides. Here they sat and rested, 
 Annie prophetically mending a rent in her skirt 
 while their guide explored a crevice with his 
 jackknife. Louise's eyes soon left the view for 
 the unconscious profile on her left, and again 
 the man's beauty brought that baffling sense of 
 pain and loss. Was there no way that a creature 
 like this could be reclaimed could be made 
 over into a gentleman? 
 
 " Have you always lived up here? " she 
 asked. 
 
 * Yes, marm," was the disheartening 
 answer. The recoil left her silent, but Annie 
 was moved to know with a shudder how he 
 existed through the winters. 
 [204] 
 
Nature 
 
 " Oh, the winters are first rate," he ex- 
 plained, looking across indulgently at the taut, 
 protesting figure. " There's hunt'n' and log- 
 g'n' daytimes, and I read a lot. I'm a great 
 hand for books." 
 
 "Oh, you are?" Louise's dulled face 
 was relit. " What sort of books? " "A man 
 who reads can become anything" the secret 
 voice was declaring. 
 
 " Did you ever read the life of General 
 Ulysses S. Grant?" 
 
 " His autobiography? Yes, indeed." 
 
 " Ain't that a book, though ! And I've 
 read General Sherman's life, and two books 
 about George Washington. I admire great 
 men," he concluded simply. In the glamour of 
 the moment, this seemed to her a striking sen- 
 timent. 
 
 " I do, too," she assented with enthusi- 
 asm. " Perhaps we have some books at the 
 cabin that you would enjoy." 
 
 " I'd like to try 'em first-rate," he as- 
 sented; and the secret voice added a proud 
 "Intellectually ambitious!" to its testimony. 
 [205] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Read'n's a great thing," he went on, his won- 
 derful face gravely kindled. " Why, y'know, 
 if you was to offer me my choice of a book or a 
 turkey dinner, I'd take the book ! " 
 
 It was an admirable choice, but elation 
 fell dismally, and the secret voice had nothing 
 to say. After a chilled silence, Louise rose. 
 
 " We must go back," she said sadly, 
 and started on ahead. The guide followed 
 with Annie, who needed incessant help and 
 gave little thanks for it. 
 
 A week of sun and wind, of lake and 
 mountain, obviously did marvels for Louise. 
 Her step lost its protesting drag, she laughed 
 easily and forgot her manifold complaints. 
 Sometimes, with hair roughened and color 
 blown into her cheeks, she looked almost pretty, 
 and she knew it, and rejoiced. The secret voice 
 had swelled to a steady chorus of praise; and 
 surely, if all the splendors of character as well 
 as of physique belong to a man her thoughts 
 usually broke off here, leaving her gasping; but 
 she was given to small flings at social position 
 and the minor advantages in these days. 
 
 [206] 
 
Nature 
 
 Sunday brought a gap in the excursions, 
 and a corresponding gap in her mood. Doubts 
 that the excitement of the daily encounter kept 
 down had their chance now, and took it relent- 
 lessly. In the late afternoon, after an unhappy 
 walk by herself, she went desperately to her 
 mother. 
 
 " Mother! Don't people sometimes 
 marry people of of a totally different class of 
 life?" 
 
 " I believe they do." 
 
 " And suppose that that the heart and 
 character are all right do you think that a 
 lack of education is a a fatal barrier? 1 ' 
 Louise's face was burning with eagerness. 
 
 " I am afraid I do, Louise. You see, if 
 a man marries a woman of no advantages, he 
 can't go on, himself. He will always be held 
 down by her." 
 
 " But suppose he didn't want to go 
 on? " she burst out. " Suppose he wanted to 
 to be a peasant, too, and lead a peasant's life 
 with her? Suppose that would make him abso- 
 lutely happy? Then wouldn't it be all right? " 
 [207] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " For a few months perhaps a year. 
 Not longer." 
 
 " I think that is cynical," Louise pro- 
 tested hotly. " Carrie Madden married her 
 father's chauffeur," she added, as her mother 
 attempted no defense. 
 
 " And have you any knowledge as to 
 how Carrie Madden is liking it?" 
 
 " No," Louise had to admit, turning 
 restlessly away. She presently wandered out to 
 the kitchen, where Annie, trim and blue- 
 aproned, was preparing supper. The bright 
 pine walls and Annie's bright head shone in the 
 lamplight, the gay red apples in her lap, chang- 
 ing to fresh-cut white under her brisk hands, 
 accented her sharp prettiness; but Louise was 
 too self-absorbed to appreciate the picture. 
 She perched on a corner of the table and helped 
 herself to a slice of apple. 
 
 ;< We are going to row up to the falls 
 to-morrow," she announced, for the sheer pleas- 
 ure of hearing the news herself. " We'll have 
 lunch there." 
 
 " If we don't tip over first." Annie 
 
 [208] 
 
Nature 
 
 deeply distrusted the slender boats of the re- 
 gion. 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! Nothing could go 
 wrong with Anderson in charge." Louise spoke 
 with happy pride. " Did you ever see anyone 
 so strong? " 
 
 " Well, he'd ought to be big clodhop- 
 per like that," was the grudging response. 
 
 " He isn't a clodhopper, Annie! He is 
 the most perfectly graceful man I have ever 
 seen. You don't know what you are talking 
 about." 
 
 Annie shifted her ground of attack. 
 " He's that stiff and solemn ! I like a man with 
 some go to him, and a mustache." 
 
 "And curly blond hair?" Louise sug- 
 gested ironically. 
 
 "Yes, that's it; and a tongue to give 
 you a good smart answer." Annie's nod seemed 
 to be directed affirmatively toward some spe- 
 cial image, but was received full by their guide 
 himself, who appeared at that moment in the 
 square of light that fell across the threshold. 
 Louise again had that sense of seeing the blue 
 [209] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 of his eyes before she saw the eyes themselves, 
 and a flush touched her face, leaving it lit and 
 quickened. The guide had halted at sight of 
 her, and he, too, showed an unmistakable blush. 
 He stopped awkwardly outside, displaying a 
 little battered brown volume. 
 
 " I thought I'd bring it back. I liked 
 it a lot," he blurted out in hasty excuse. His 
 embarrassment startled and thrilled her. With 
 a new and brilliant sense of ease, she held out 
 her hand for the book without rising, and so 
 obliged him to come in. He did not even 
 glance at Annie, whose brisk efficiency had 
 taken on a tinge of conscious superiority. 
 
 " I am so glad you liked * Walden.' 
 My father is devoted to it," Louise rejoiced. 
 
 " I liked about the feller build'n' his 
 own house," he explained conscientiously. 
 " That's the part that took me." 
 
 She skimmed gayly away from further 
 inquiry into Thoreau's success. " I must get 
 you something else," she said, springing up. 
 " Wouldn't you like me to? " 
 
 " First-rate, thank you." He was still 
 [210] 
 
Nature 
 
 unwontedly constrained, and she flew off with 
 a thought of giving him time. She needed time 
 herself, for that betraying flush of his had 
 swept her triumphantly over the day's barrier 
 of doubts. 
 
 " Mother, Anderson likes ' Walden,' " 
 she cried. Mrs. Russell did not seem ade- 
 quately impressed by the news, so Louise re- 
 peated and dwelt on it. " And I've never even 
 read it through myself!" she exulted as she 
 turned back to the kitchen. " He is no common 
 guide, you know ! " 
 
 Mrs. Russell looked after her with a 
 slightly puzzled expression. Even after she 
 had returned to her book, a frown still lingered 
 about her eyes. 
 
 Another long week went by, and the 
 mote still danced in the solemn, kindly sunlight. 
 Louise had ceased arguing and cataloguing 
 traits, ceased struggling with decisions, and 
 given herself wholly over to the magic of the 
 hour. And yet, while her heart stirred, her 
 mind stayed curiously unawakened. No child 
 of eight ever dreamed more simply of a play- 
 
 [211] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 house in the woods; Anderson's part therein 
 was chiefly grave blue eyes through the dusk, a 
 profile against the sky. The only unhappy mo- 
 ments came when her mother stepped out to 
 speak to him, as she did almost daily, in her 
 serene guise of fine lady consulting with excel- 
 lent servitor. Then Louise winced and suffered 
 and secretly cried out against the unfairness of 
 a world that permitted social chasms. The 
 very obviousness of the chasm had evidently 
 smoothed the frown out of Mrs. Russell's 
 thoughts ; she had forgotten her momentary dis- 
 comfort. 
 
 She was struck down, at the week's end, 
 by one of her blinding headaches. Louise, with 
 a heavy heart, offered to stay in and wait on 
 her, but was told with wan courtesy that Annie 
 would do it better. 
 
 " Get Anderson to take you out on the 
 lake for an hour or two," she was commanded. 
 " I don't want you to miss any good you can 
 get." 
 
 Concern for the headache was physi- 
 cally impossible after that. Louise slipped off 
 [212] 
 
Nature 
 
 to her room and, for the first time, cast aside 
 the canvas and flannel of their daily excursion. 
 It was not warm enough for summer dresses, 
 but with furtive haste she chose a pale pink 
 linen, suited to a garden party, and managed to 
 hook it up unaided, having a shamed dread of 
 comment. 
 
 Anderson blinked a little as she came 
 out, and she hastened to explain. 
 
 " We are only going to row for an hour 
 or two, Anderson. My mother has a headache, 
 and Annie can't come. I must be back for 
 luncheon." 
 
 " Hadn't you better bring along a 
 coat?" he suggested. " Kinder sharp this 
 morning." 
 
 Louise was growing up. A week be- 
 fore she would have protested that she was 
 "roasting"; now she smiled and made frank 
 confession : 
 
 " But I look so much nicer without it ! " 
 
 " Won't nobody see you," was the mat- 
 ter-of-fact reply. 
 
 "Nobody?" 
 
 [213] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Oh, I guess I don't count." 
 
 Joy suddenly ran over in effervescent 
 laughter. " Oh, don't you?" she cried and 
 flew down the path. 
 
 Anderson picked up a shawl that was 
 lying over the rail and followed at his usual 
 sober pace. 
 
 Mrs. Russell, who had been standing at 
 her bedroom window for the sake of the cool 
 air on her head, sank quickly into a chair as her 
 daughter disappeared. The frown was back in 
 good earnest, a frown of offense and repulsion, 
 but also of dismay. She sat for a bewildered 
 half hour with cold hands clinging to her hot 
 head, and murmuring, " Oh, impossible!" at 
 intervals. Then she rose and summoned the 
 maid. 
 
 [< We are going back to town to-mor- 
 row, Annie. Please begin to pack up." 
 
 ;< Well, that's good news, anyhow," 
 was the lively comment. 
 
 The morning dragged by, and luncheon 
 time came, but Louise had not returned. Mrs. 
 Russell, ignoring her headache, went down to 
 
 [214] 
 
Nature 
 
 the landing to look for her. The lake was long 
 and winding, and set with little islands that 
 obstructed the view; but there was no boat in 
 sight. 
 
 " It's a mercy if they haven't tipped 
 over," was Annie's cheering comment as she 
 came slowly up the trail again. " Little boats 
 like them " but some look in her mistress's 
 face checked her. "They'll be all right," she 
 added consolingly. " Don't you worry, now. 
 They'll be here in no time." 
 
 Mrs. Russell turned in silence to her 
 own room and shut the door. It was not the 
 fragility of little boats that was haunting her 
 eyes and drawing her pale lips; it was her 
 daughter's laugh and voice, the vivid change 
 in her of late, some half-forgotten words of a 
 week ago: " Carrie Madden married her fath- 
 er's chauffeur " How fastidiously she had 
 drawn away from that vulgar event, when 
 everyone else was enjoying the shock! Some 
 one in her hearing had blamed Carrie's parents. 
 " They never gave her any fun, and a girl has 
 to have something it's nature ! " She had met 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 the explanation with a glance of disdain, but 
 she could not call it up now. She could only 
 look frightened. 
 
 Three o'clock came, and four. If there 
 had been another boat, she would have set out 
 herself in search; but the last neighbor had 
 closed his camp and gone, and she shrank un- 
 speakably from turning to the little village. 
 Annie, touched by her silent distress, haunted 
 the landing, and she wandered back and forth 
 through the empty house, long and trailing, 
 like some tormented spirit. Happening to 
 pause in her daughter's room, her eyes, absent 
 at first, fell on a half-open drawer. A sharp 
 realization that it had been emptied smote 
 her to gray-white. She caught open another 
 drawer; that, too, had been partially emptied 
 and for the moment she forgot that she had 
 told Annie to pack. " To be a peasant, too 
 to lead a peasant's life " the words whirled 
 about her as she crouched down on the bed, 
 holding dizzily to the footrail. Then she heard 
 steps flying up the path. Annie's voice called 
 from the porch: 
 
Nature 
 
 1 They're coming, Mrs. Russell, they're 
 coming! They're all right this time! " 
 
 Louise had found her guide even more 
 silent than usual when they set off that morn- 
 ing, and it seemed to her that there were lines 
 of sadness in his face. Her Greek god had 
 acquired some touch of modern world-weari- 
 ness, and with it the modern appeal of pathos. 
 The effervescence that had run over in pink 
 linen and crude impulses to flirtation died down, 
 and she emerged as grave as he, but moved with 
 a new form of recklessness, a dangerous reck- 
 lessness that believed itself a higher wisdom, 
 and that declared with deceptive calm that 
 youth and beauty and goodness were all that 
 any heart could need, and that for these the 
 world would be well lost. For nearly an hour 
 she let him row in silence, hoping for some 
 word or sign; then she had to speak. 
 
 " Why did you say that you don't 
 count? " she asked abruptly. 
 
 " Guess it's the truth." 
 
 "Why shouldn't you count?" 
 [217] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Oh, I'm just a rough feller, I know! " 
 His eyes, lifted to hers, frankly confessed his 
 trouble, and her heart went out to him, dizzy- 
 ingly. 
 
 " You are a man" she said tremulously, 
 " a strong, brave, beautiful man. Nothing on 
 earth counts like that." 
 
 " For cuttV down a tree, perhaps. But 
 for making a lady look at you twice " He 
 broke off with a despondent motion of his head. 
 " I got to live up here, you know. Down in 
 cities I'd be nowhere." 
 
 She glanced from right to left, at the 
 sparkling water, the shadowing mountains, and 
 drew a deep breath of clean autumn. Her 
 hands impulsively went out to it. 
 
 " Oh, it would be glorious to live up 
 here! " she cried. He stopped rowing to look 
 at her intently. 
 
 " Do you really think I got a chance? " 
 he demanded in a low voice. The color swept 
 so burningly across her face that she hastily 
 averted it. She could not answer, for some 
 distressful voice in her was crying out, " No, 
 
 [218] 
 
Nature 
 
 no ! " like a child in panic. " That ain't quite 
 fair I ask your pardon," he added quickly. 
 " Only, as you see her every day, I thought she 
 might have said something she's never give 
 me a word of encouragement." 
 
 Louise lifted a strained, startled face. 
 " I know whom you mean, of course," she 
 faltered. 
 
 " Yes'rri Annie." He spoke the name 
 reverently. " I can't believe she'd ever look at 
 me. She's too far above me." And he took 
 sadly to the oars again. 
 
 Louise was silent for a long time. Then 
 she raised her head and met his eyes with quiet 
 composure. " I am afraid Annie would not be 
 very happy up here," she assented gently. For 
 the first time in her life there was a suggestion 
 of her mother in her face and voice. " I am so 
 sorry. Now I think we must go back." 
 
 He met the verdict with one long, vio- 
 lent sweep of the oars, careless, for once in his 
 woodsman's life, of where he was. Nature 
 seized the chance. The boat leaped ahead, 
 then stopped with shocking suddenness and a 
 [219] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 splintering that meant trouble. A knife of rock 
 had gashed open the side below the water line. 
 
 " Sit still," said Anderson quietly. One 
 glance placed the shore and his course to it, and 
 then the boat seemed to rise as though for 
 flight at the plunge of the oars. " Lift your 
 feet and that shawl," he added a moment later 
 as a bright stream gushed down the flooring. 
 Except to obey, Louise did not move or speak. 
 The boat already had a wounded drag, but the 
 shore was near, and he flung it forward till it 
 could drop harmlessly on the strip of sand that 
 edged the pines. He was over the side in an 
 instant, dragging it up higher, and helping 
 Louise to walk the seats to safety. 
 
 " You did splendidly. I am not even 
 wet," she assured him, as calmly as her mother 
 might have spoken. 
 
 " To think of me running on that 
 rock! " he muttered in deep disgust. " Known 
 it for twenty years. Me ! " 
 
 He tipped out the water and pulled the 
 boat up to examine the break, then laid it down 
 with sober finality and faced the question of 
 [220] 
 
Nature 
 
 getting home. They were far down the lake 
 on the wrong side, five or six miles of difficult 
 scrambling between them and the nearest boat. 
 The trip would be very hard for a lady; but 
 if she was not afraid of being left, he could do 
 it in an hour or two and come back for her. 
 She assented passively to the arrangement, and 
 huddled down in the sunlight on the little strip 
 of beach with the shawl wrapped about her, 
 longing only to be alone. When the sounds of 
 his quick stride had died away, she dropped her 
 face into her arms and sat so still that the little 
 creatures of the woods ceased to take any ac- 
 count of her. 
 
 Shame burned her like a corrosive acid. 
 So she could not have had him if she would 
 this ignorant laborer to whom she had 
 dreamed of condescending! It was Annie, her 
 mother's servant, who had won him; Annie 
 empty little piece of tart prettiness that she was 
 whom he had thought too far above him, 
 and who would have entirely concurred in the 
 opinion. Ah, after all, he was common, com- 
 mon ! And she had dreamed of she crouched 
 [221] 
 
Mothers and Feathers 
 
 and clenched her hands and cried out brokenly 
 against the thought. "I wouldn't really have 
 done it oh, I wouldn't!" she wailed to her 
 own self-respect, and gradually some soothing 
 knowledge that this was true stole over her, re- 
 laxing her tense muscles and cooling her hot 
 face. " No, it was only play. I never could 
 have, really," she assented at last, with a long 
 breath of reassurance. The pain grew easier 
 after that, and presently a creeping sense of 
 relief, of freedom and escape, made itself 
 known. She was ashamed of it at first, for she 
 had called that heady effervescence love, and 
 was mortified to find it a mere vanishing froth; 
 but the relief grew and spread until it could no 
 longer be ignored. Life was not over for her; 
 a new stirring in her pulses suggested that it 
 might be just beginning. Louise was coming 
 at last to understand herself and the world 
 about her; the universal song of youth sounded 
 the quick notes of its prelude. 
 
 Mrs. Russell was lying down in her 
 darkened room when her daughter came in, and 
 heard her explanation in silence. 
 [222] 
 
Nature 
 
 " Your head must be awful," the girl 
 murmured with timid compassion. " I hope 
 you weren't worried about me? " 
 
 " A little," she answered gently. 
 
 Half an hour later she came languidly 
 out to the porch where Louise, restored to flan- 
 nel and canvas, was watching the western sky 
 with absent, absorbed eyes. 
 
 " You know that we are going to-mor- 
 row, Louise? " she queried. Her eyes were on 
 her daughter's face in dread of some betrayal, 
 but it was unwontedly serene. 
 
 "Yes. I am so glad!" was the reas- 
 suringly sincere answer. Then Louise stretched 
 out her arms with fists tightly clenched. " Oh, 
 I do hope there will be some fun this winter! " 
 she cried. There was a new tension in her 
 voice, a new alertness in her whole body. Mrs. 
 Russell sank into a porch chair. 
 
 " I think I shall have to have some 
 parties for you," she said, and relief had given 
 her voice a new kindness. " You are develop- 
 ing, Louise: I think you might have a very 
 good time, socially. We must see about some 
 [223] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 evening clothes for you as soon as we get 
 back." 
 
 The light that had sprung into the girl's 
 face deepened and glowed into a wonderful 
 radiance. Sentence had been commuted there 
 was something for her, too ! Her eyes brimmed 
 with warm tears. Forgetting all the years of 
 constraint, she flung herself down beside her 
 mother, one arm across her knee. 
 
 " Oh, mother, let's talk about my 
 clothes ! " she cried. 
 
 [224] 
 
XII 
 
 The Viper 
 
 MRS. PATTISON was flying through her 
 domain like an energetic guardian angel. At 
 nine she was testing the water for the baby's 
 bath. At nine-three she was in the kitchen, in- 
 venting a new dessert from the remnants of 
 two old ones and a stale cake. Five minutes 
 later she was separating two small combatants 
 in the garden and inaugurating a new experi- 
 ment in penalties for infractions of the peace. 
 On her way upstairs she stopped to telephone 
 to the butcher, yet she arrived at the bath room 
 in time to receive the dripping baby into a 
 toweling apron, designed by herself, and to 
 send faithful old Maria scurrying to the beds. 
 
 She was still rubbing as if at a baby- 
 drying competition when her husband's gentle, 
 considerate step was heard on the stairs. 
 
 " I'm in the nursery, Charles ! " she 
 [225] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 called or, more exactly, shouted; her voice 
 was as vitally energetic as her movements. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Pattison came in, lifting 
 his coat solicitously as he stepped over a small 
 daughter with a train of cars in the doorway, 
 and removed a pile of baby-clothes from a 
 chair, holding them on his knee as he sat down. 
 He had brought a troublesome parish problem 
 to submit to his wife, and his kindly, near- 
 sighted eyes were fixed on her with enormous 
 faith as he set it forth. 
 
 " We must not be too hard on the boy, 
 when we know what his father was," he con- 
 cluded with a sigh when she had passed judg- 
 ment. 
 
 Mrs. Pattison, who was brushing the 
 baby's hair straight up from the back of his 
 neck as he lunged after a box cover, paused to 
 emphasize objection with the brush. 
 
 " Indeed, I have more blame for the 
 virtuous, stupid mother who brought him up 
 than for the wicked father who died before he 
 was born," she declared. " I tell you, Charles, 
 there is a lot of nonsense talked about heredity. 
 
 [226] 
 
The Fiper 
 
 Women don't know how to bring up their chil- 
 dren, that's all; they don't give whole-souled 
 attention to it, and they haven't sound theories, 
 or the right kind of inventiveness. Why, I'll 
 bet I could take the worst little slum rat you 
 could pick up, and it would turn out just as 
 sweet and good as our own children. Just ex- 
 actly ! " And she slid a little shirt on the baby 
 without interrupting his enjoyment of the box 
 cover. 
 
 "I wish I could believe that!" Mr. 
 Pattison spoke with troubled intensity. " I 
 wish I could believe it! It would make for 
 hopefulness as nothing " 
 
 " Very well, then, I'll do it." Her tone 
 was so casual that an outsider would have be- 
 lieved her joking, and wondered at her hus- 
 band's instant alarm. 
 
 "Oh, now, Mary! With five children 
 already " 
 
 She waved all that aside. 
 
 " It would be worth trying, you know," 
 she said, her increasing excitement showing 
 only in the accelerated speed with which the 
 [227] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 baby was whisked into his clothes. " I'll find 
 a baby boy with the very worst inheritance pos- 
 sible Josie Colman can help me. And if I 
 don't make a good little citizen of him here, 
 take Charles a moment. I'm going to call up 
 Josie ! " 
 
 Mr. Pattison received the baby and ab- 
 sently trotted the clean clothes, dismay .written 
 on his wide forehead. 
 
 "But, Mary! Do you realize " 
 
 Mrs. Pattison spared a moment to cope 
 with her husband's distress, looking back at him 
 from the doorway with a comprehending smile. 
 
 " Won't it be a pretty good deed, 
 Charles, to rescue a child? Aren't you ready 
 for your share of it? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, yes ! But it is you that I 
 am thinking " 
 
 " Oh, me ! Nicest experiment I ever 
 had in my life ! " She laughed at herself as she 
 hurried away. 
 
 It took several weeks to find a specimen 
 sufficiently unpromising to satisfy Mrs. Patti- 
 son. Then, one afternoon, she came home 
 
 [228] 
 
The Viper 
 
 radiant, to set up a new crib and to air the 
 present baby's outgrown clothing. Her hus- 
 band found her telling the assembled family 
 about the new little brother who was coming in 
 the morning. Marian, the eldest, who remem- 
 bered the coming of the last little brother, was 
 inclined to think that there was a mistake some- 
 where; but the others jumped for joy, and ran 
 to meet their father with the splendid news of 
 his new son. Mrs. Pattison sent them away 
 while she made her explanations. 
 
 " Nothing could be better," she assured 
 him, her needle flying triumphantly about some 
 little worn flannels. " He is three weeks old, 
 the child of a sneak thief who is now in the 
 penitentiary for the third time, and of a dis- 
 solute servant named Katie Sullivan, who 
 died when he was born. Josie heard about it 
 through a friend of the Howard Grannises. 
 The girl was their cook, and she and the man 
 took away most of the family plate when they 
 cleared out. I'm going to get the story in de- 
 tail when the Grannises come back; but it's bad 
 enough to satisfy anybody. My dear, he is the 
 [229] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 most awful little thing! I can scarcely wait to 
 get my hands on him ! " 
 
 Mr. Pattison's gentle white forehead 
 showed helpless creases. 
 
 " You are sure there is no disease? " he 
 began. 
 
 " Why, Charles, he's just a little disease 
 himself nothing else! But there isn't any- 
 thing that can hurt the others; the doctor and 
 I have been all over him. Give me five years, 
 and then we shall begin to see where this mighty 
 business of heredity comes in." She glanced at 
 the clock, then sprang up and opened the door. 
 " What child is going to have the cleanest 
 hands for supper? " she called, and smiled the 
 smile of successful generalship at the ensuing 
 scramble. The cleanest hands always sat in 
 the seat of honor, which had arms, and received 
 first service. 
 
 For a few weeks it looked as if the 
 experiment in heredity were coming to an 
 abrupt end. Then sun and air, cleanliness, 
 nourishment, and devotion began to blossom in 
 the tiny form. Having finally made up his 
 
 [23] 
 
The Viper 
 
 mind to gain, the waif gained generously, put- 
 ting on flesh and color, and even unexpected 
 charms. At six months he was a pretty baby 
 with large, placid gray eyes rimmed with 
 black, and a bubbling laugh. At two years he 
 was so splendid, so loving and lovable, that 
 any one but Mrs. Pattison would have forgot- 
 ten that he was an experiment in heredity. She 
 loved him dearly, but she loved her experiment 
 as well. 
 
 " Not much sign of the jail bird about 
 him yet," she announced to her husband at 
 happy intervals. 
 
 For four years little Joseph proved an 
 ascending climax of sweetness and light. He 
 was chivalrous, he was honest, generous, warm 
 to all his world. His very faults showed no- 
 bility. When his fifth birthday approached 
 without bringing to light any sign of the an- 
 cestral taint, Mrs. Pattison felt that the time 
 had come for action. The rescue of this one 
 child was only the beginning of her task; it was 
 for all the branded waifs in Christendom that 
 she had been working. 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Her husband heard her plans with gen- 
 tle distress. 
 
 " But, Mary," he protested, " do we 
 want people to be told that our dear little 
 boy " 
 
 ' Yes," was the firm interruption. Mrs. 
 Pattison always knew how sentences were go- 
 ing to end. " Yes; we want people to be told 
 that his father was a sneak thief and his mother 
 was worse to know all that, and then just to 
 look at him ! Why, Charles, that is the very 
 thing that I have done it for! " 
 
 "Yes, dear. I understand; and, of 
 course, you are right. Only " 
 
 " That is his debt to the world to help 
 free it from the false burden of heredity. I 
 shall make him understand it when he is eight 
 years old. Now he is simply an unconscious 
 illustration." 
 
 Mrs. Pattison threw a kiss from the 
 window to the unconscious illustration, then sat 
 down before a large pad, and wrote firmly 
 across the first sheet: "The Heredity Bogy." 
 Mr. Pattison hesitated unhappily for a mo- 
 [232] 
 
The Viper 
 
 ment; but she had begun to write, so he tip- 
 toed away without speaking. 
 
 The Mothers' Psychology Club was 
 full to the very window ledges. It was not a 
 wholly friendly audience that faced the speaker. 
 More languid mothers were not always in sym- 
 pathy with Mrs. Pattison and her experiments; 
 but every one always wanted to hear her. 
 There might be murmurs of dissent, but there 
 was never a stir of inattention after her bright- 
 eyed, headlong speech was set loose. 
 
 This particular address had been pre- 
 paring for five years. She told them of her 
 hunt for the most hopeless specimen of human 
 infancy; of the sneak thief, with his black rec- 
 ord, and of his accomplice in the theft, who 
 had been found dying in well-earned misery ; of 
 the forlorn, sickly waif who had satisfied her 
 worst requirements; of the struggle to keep the 
 child alive, and then of the blossoming heart 
 and soul of this little Joseph, born of the slime, 
 but no more polluted by it than was the sound 
 young oak polluted by the ooze at its root. 
 [233] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " And you can do it, too ! " she cried, 
 with a swift glance at her watch. " Suppose 
 each one of you three hundred intelligent 
 women took a waif into your homes took it 
 bravely and publicly to fight this bogy of 
 heredity that makes people drop their hands 
 and say, ' What's the use? What's the use? ' " 
 She turned slightly toward the door. " I am 
 going to show you right now what's the use ! " 
 
 The door opened, and old Maria in her 
 best bonnet appeared, leading little Joseph, 
 ruddy and shining with starched whiteness, by 
 the hand. He stared dubiously at the strange 
 faces, all turned his way; then he saw the 
 familiar figure on the platform, and, with a 
 crow of joy, he ran forward, tugged up the two 
 brief steps, and flung both arms about his 
 mother's knees. 
 
 No coaching could have produced any- 
 thing half so perfect. There was a touched 
 gasp in the audience, and then came a burst of 
 clapping. Mrs. Pattison lifted the child to the 
 chair beside her and set him standing on its 
 seat, turning him to the house. 
 [234] 
 
The Viper 
 
 11 See how they're clapping, dear," she 
 said to reassure him. 
 
 Joseph, seeing the hands go, promptly 
 began to pat his own fat palms together, beam- 
 ing down at them in his joy at the new game, 
 so sweet and wholesome and unconscious a lit- 
 tle figure that laughter and clapping broke out 
 all over again, and several women began to 
 cry. Then they all started to their feet and 
 surged round the platform. 
 
 "Ah, if I had not three children al- 
 ready ! " sighed one. 
 
 " I had five," said Mrs. Pattison. 
 
 " But we are not at all well off. We 
 can't be sure what advantages " began an- 
 other. 
 
 " My husband is a poor clergyman," 
 was the quiet answer. 
 
 " But what if it was just luck this 
 particular angel? " urged a third. 
 
 " Try it, and help prove that it was 
 not." 
 
 " Oh, I will I'll take one! " exclaimed 
 an eager voice. " I'll begin looking to-night! " 
 
 [235] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " So will I ! " 
 
 " So will I ! " 
 
 " And I ! " 
 
 " My husband will be oh, but I must 
 do it!" 
 
 "I'll take two!' 1 
 
 The enthusiasm spread and flamed. 
 They were eager to commit themselves. Mrs. 
 Pattison produced a great sheet of paper, and 
 the signatures went down with a dash. For 
 those who did not know how to go about it, 
 she had lists ready addresses of foundling 
 homes and maternity hospitals, notes of private 
 cases. Some members went off in their car- 
 riages at once to begin on the good work. 
 Everyone had to give Joseph a kiss, hygien- 
 ically planted on his wide forehead or the soft 
 nape of his little neck. He bore it with his 
 inexhaustible friendliness; then, when it was 
 time to go, put up his hand to lead his mother 
 down from the platform. 
 
 " I'm right here; I won't let you fall," 
 he assured her. And one wavering soul ex- 
 claimed, with tears in her eyes: 
 
 [236] 
 
The Viper 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Pattison, put me down, 
 too!" 
 
 There were seventy-four names on the 
 list when the meeting was over. Nineteen 
 wrote that night, between regret and relief, 
 that their husbands utterly refused consent; but 
 the remaining fifty-five showed gratifying cour- 
 age and activity. Baby carriages were brought 
 down from attics, baby linen was seen bleach- 
 ing on the barberry bushes. Twenty copies of 
 "The Young Child and Its Care" were or- 
 dered by mothers whose own children had come 
 in the pre-germ days, and by single ladies who 
 had been swept into the movement from the 
 outside. 
 
 At the end of five weeks there was not 
 an adoptable infant left unclaimed in the city, 
 and a drag-net had been thrown over the dis- 
 tant metropolis, producing a wan and wailing 
 little bunch of human flotsam. The public 
 guardians, accustomed to an unvarying demand 
 for curly hair, blue eyes, and a sober inherit- 
 ance, let these undesirables go with astonished 
 alacrity; and if the new mother, confronting 
 [237] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 her acquisition, felt her heart fail her, Mrs. 
 Pattison was there with an uncompromising 
 photograph showing how much worse Joseph 
 was at three weeks, and a radiantly contrasting 
 likeness of Joseph seven months later. Soon 
 she was making daily rounds like a doctor, to 
 advise, reassure, and congratulate; and the 
 false burden of heredity seemed in a fair way 
 to be lifted from the weary shoulders of man- 
 kind. 
 
 The newspapers, of course, took up the 
 movement some humorously, some with genu- 
 ine enthusiasm. Other local societies begged 
 for addresses on adoptive motherhood. One 
 sweet, summery afternoon, the postman brought 
 a similar request from the great W. M. D. S. 
 itself, a metropolitan association that amalga- 
 mated wife, mother, daughter, and sister, and 
 paid its lecturers thirty-five dollars and their 
 expenses. 
 
 Mrs. Pattison sat down on the porch to 
 consider the request, her eyes bright with ex- 
 citement, her spirit untouched by a tremor of 
 warning. Honeysuckle bloomed about her, 
 
 [238] 
 
The Fiper 
 
 and the two smallest boys were playing hap- 
 pily together on the lawn beneath. Little Jo- 
 seph's abundant sweetness had just come out in 
 a cheerful 
 
 " I'll be the horse if you like, Charlie! " 
 and Mrs. Pattison was resolving to see that 
 Charles took no more than his fair share of the 
 driver's cracking whip, when a caller mounted 
 the steps. For a moment she did not recognize 
 the grave, distinguished - looking gentleman 
 whose mustache had acquired a foreign twist 
 and his bow a foreign emphasis; then she put 
 out her hand with a glad exclamation. She had 
 been wanting to see Mr. Howard Grannis for 
 five years. 
 
 " Yes, we are home at last," he said, in 
 answer to her questions. " And, Mrs. Pattison, 
 I have only just discovered that it was you who 
 adopted poor Katie Sullivan's child. I wanted 
 to ask you about it." 
 
 Silent in her shining pride, she nodded 
 
 to the prancing horse on the lawn. Her visitor 
 
 rose and stood looking down over his folded 
 
 arms at the sturdy, joyous little figure. The 
 
 [239] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 face he turned back to his hostess was deeply 
 touched. 
 
 "Splendid, splendid!" Mr. Grannis 
 evidently meant the word of admiration for her 
 as well. " He will repay you, Mrs. Pattison. 
 His mother was one of the finest, purest, warm- 
 est souls I have ever known." 
 
 Mrs. Pattison turned white. 
 
 "His mother?" she breathed. 
 
 * Yes Katie Sullivan. She lived with 
 us seven years my wife brought her up, and I 
 have never known a truer, more generous na- 
 ture. Too trustful, that was all; and a villain 
 got hold of her." Mr. Grannin's jaw set. " He 
 pretended to marry her pretended that there 
 were reasons for keeping it from us ah, we 
 ought to have taken better care of her! The 
 night of the theft, when she found out what he 
 was, she ran away, broken-hearted, poor soul! 
 We could not find her, and then the consulship 
 took us away. Of course, the police and the 
 newspapers insisted that she had gone with the 
 wretch, but we knew better and a sad little 
 letter telling us the whole tale was mailed to 
 [240] 
 
The Viper 
 
 us just before her death." He openly wiped his 
 eyes. " I knew the child was in good hands, but 
 I didn't know how good," he added. 
 
 Joseph's rescuer sat rigidly still, her face 
 turned toward the couple on the lawn. Charles 
 tumbled rather hard at that moment, and the 
 horse came back to put a stubby little arm over 
 his shoulders and make anxious inquiries. 
 
 " Ah, he is like Katie," exclaimed Mr. 
 Grannis. " He has inherited his mother's na- 
 ture. He will be a great joy to you, Mrs. Pat- 
 tison!" 
 
 Her look was not joyful. From a neigh- 
 boring house came the thin, flat wail of early 
 infancy. A baby carriage was turning in at the 
 gate. The letter from the W. M. D. S. stared 
 up at her from her knee. She drew a painful 
 breath. 
 
 " So his mother was a good woman, all 
 the time ! " she stammered. 
 
 " A dear, good woman," said Mr. 
 Grannis. 
 
 Mrs. Pattison stared dazedly on the 
 ruins of her experiment, on the task before her. 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Down on the lawn, little Joseph, beaming en- 
 couragement, turned a somersault to divert the 
 bruised Charles; and suddenly she laughed. 
 
 "The viper !" she cried. " Oh, the 
 viper!" 
 
 [242] 
 
XIII 
 
 The House Beautiful 
 
 THE great house stood blank and life- 
 less in the early darkness. Rain was pouring 
 down the gables, turrets and towers of its mas- 
 sive roof; its red sandstone carvings and gar- 
 goyles and balconies and balustrades were 
 spouting fountains, its wide sheets of plate 
 glass were rivers of rain. There was a curious 
 look of stale newness about the place. The 
 mounds of clay left by the builders on either 
 side of the marble steps gleamed yellow under 
 the torrent, but they were worn and rounded, 
 as though this were not the first flood they had 
 encountered, and the boards thrown down as 
 a footpath between steps and sidewalk were 
 black with time. A girl in rain coat and 
 rubber boots crossed them adroitly, evidently 
 familiar with their seesawing tricks, and, let- 
 ting herself in at the wrought iron and glass 
 
 [243] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 front door, pressed a button just inside. The 
 hall that sprang into light was an odd place in 
 which to be tugging off rubber boots. Its wide 
 tracts of inlaid floor, spreading off into dim 
 drawing-rooms, suggested the hushed steps of 
 decorous service, and the polished doors seemed 
 about to swing back under the hands of liveried 
 coat takers and tea bearers. But not a step or 
 a movement sounded after the front door had 
 closed, and the hall, for all its carved panels 
 and lattices, its gildings and bronze fixtures, 
 was totally empty of movable furnishings. 
 
 The girl put her wet things in a closet 
 near the front door, emerging with a pair of 
 worn slippers. Stooping to put these on seemed 
 to suggest to her that she was very tired; she 
 slipped down to the floor, her back against the 
 wall and arms about her knees, staring resent- 
 fully at her surroundings. There was some- 
 thing about her that suggested the idealized 
 college girl of sympathetic illustrations, some- 
 thing wholesome and sensible and square- 
 shouldered and, above all, indomitably honest. 
 Truth lay, a definite beauty, on her wide fore- 
 [244] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 head, candor looked out of her open glance, 
 reliability and straightforwardness had squared 
 her chin and steadied her gravely generous 
 mouth. It was not at this moment a serene 
 face. She looked troubled, galled by some 
 bruising thought, and her eyes, passing from 
 splendor to splendor, were dark with protest. 
 At last, rousing herself, she put out the lights 
 with an unfriendly thrust and went quickly and 
 surely through big, dark passages till she 
 pushed back the swing door of a lighted 
 kitchen. Its range, designed to give a chef 
 scope, stood cold and rusting, but a gas stove 
 was in full blast, and over it bent a gray- 
 bearded man in an apron, frying sausages with 
 desperate attention and frequent jerks of pro- 
 testing hands when the hot fat spouted. In 
 spite of his alertness, every line of his hand- 
 some face and loose figure marked him easy- 
 going, careless, incorrigibly good-humored. 
 
 " Hello, Bertie," he greeted her, with- 
 out looking up. " Don't come near these durn 
 things; they bite." 
 
 "Why do you stay so close?" she 
 
 [245] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 asked seriously, beginning to set a small table. 
 " Just give them an occasional turn." 
 
 " Not much. I've burned dinners 
 enough to Look here ! " He beckoned her 
 mysteriously and pointed to a sausage frying 
 furiously in the center of the pan. " See that 
 one? " he whispered. " I'm calling it William 
 F. Gorman." 
 
 She turned away with an unwilling 
 laugh that was more than half a protest at his 
 levity. '* The paper wants me to interview 
 William F. Gorman's son," she announced 
 dryly. " He's arriving to-day in their private 
 car to work his way up from the bottom." 
 
 Mr. Rix jeered. " Overalls and ten 
 dollars a week for six weeks. I know ! You 
 going to do it? " he added. 
 
 "Interview that man's son!" Her 
 horror made him glance hastily over his shoul- 
 der with a soothing: 
 
 " Of course not, course not. I was jok- 
 ing. Wouldn't have you for dollars. Only, 
 you know, Bertie," he reminded her presently, 
 as she went on setting the table in silence, 
 
 [246] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 " Gorman hasn't broken any laws except the 
 Ten Commandments and the Golden Rule and 
 the Precepts of Mohammed. He couldn't be 
 jailed. If heaven hadn't given you a careless 
 old fool for a father, you'd be lording it in the 
 pink and gold southeast suite this very min- 
 ute." Mention of the pink and gold suite 
 seemed to restore Berta's good humor. 
 
 " Oh, well, there's a good side to every- 
 thing," she said with an air of cheerful incon- 
 sequence. " By the way, we may get a lodger 
 or two to-night. Both the hotels are full, and 
 Mrs. Loftus hasn't a room left. She called 
 me up at the office to ask if " 
 
 A bell clipped her sentence. 
 
 " There they come," said her father jo- 
 vially. " Tell 'em they can have the second 
 pantry man's apartment and the personal 
 maid's lobby." Though it was nearly a year 
 since his disastrous palace had been finished, 
 Mr. Rix was still enjoying the enormous joke 
 of the plans. 
 
 The house had been his surprise for 
 Berta when she came out of college; he had 
 
 [247] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " imported the best men from Chicago and 
 turned 'em loose," as he explained nonchalantly 
 to his daughter while she still sat in the car- 
 riage outside, too dazed to move. " Surprise 
 of your life, h'h? " he had burst out, giving her 
 a happy hug. And, indeed, it was. Berta, 
 fresh from four years of classical study and 
 a summer of mellow Europe, had followed 
 from room to room of florid gorgeousness in 
 growing, dumb panic, and then, on their re- 
 turn to the vast, scarlet-walled drawing-room, 
 had crumpled down against his shoulder in an 
 anguish of tears, as difficult and shamed as a 
 boy's, but wrenched out of her very soul by the 
 pathos of the monstrous thing. But, before 
 he could suspect their meaning, she had taken 
 her part, flung away her splendid birthright of 
 truthfulness and committed herself, heart and 
 soul, to a pitying lie. 
 
 "It's magnificent!" she gasped. Ber- 
 ta's lightest word was as another's oath, and 
 her father was hilarious at his success. 
 
 " Like it, do you? " he chuckled. 
 
 " Like it ! " Berta lied up and down, 
 
 [248] 
 
The H ou's e Beautiful 
 
 back and forth, lied wincing in every fiber, 
 scorched with shame and repugnance, hating 
 the great incubus for this as she could never 
 have hated it for its own sins, yet lying as 
 steadily as though she had had weeks in which 
 to choose her course instead of that one mo- 
 ment of heart-breaking perception. 
 
 " It's great, stunning, beautiful," she 
 cried over and over. " And you did all this 
 for me ! " 
 
 " Oil did it all for you," was the jubi- 
 lant answer. " Gorman and I have got a great 
 thing between us, Bertie. This House Beautiful 
 is just the beginning of it. You wait! " 
 
 The servants' quarters had been fur- 
 nished, but the rest was waiting for Berta's 
 hand, and the two had gone back to Chicago a 
 day or two later, prepared with monster lists, 
 over which they wrangled, with tremendous 
 laughter, all the way. Berta did not do things 
 by halves; her one great lie was as uncompro- 
 mising as all her life's honesty had been. She 
 spoke of the house as one speaks of a triumph, 
 and let him plan their future life in it without 
 [249] 
 
Mothers and Feathers 
 
 one outward shudder, though the florid facade 
 loomed before her like a jail. The memory of 
 the trip ended in darkness. From the crash 
 till the sudden peace of the cool, clean hospital, 
 Berta knew only the confused horror of bad 
 dreams. Then had followed the months of 
 her father's slow healing, while the very word 
 business was forbidden, and William F. Gor- 
 man, his associate, was busy after the manner 
 of his kind. Mr. Rix at last came' feebly home, 
 without furniture, and also, strangely enough, 
 without bitterness. 
 
 " Own fault," he said philosophically. 
 " I ought to have done my rights up in barbed 
 wire I knew Gorman well enough. Well, 
 we've got the house yet, and perhaps some 
 sucker will buy it before they foreclose." He 
 had paused on the sidewalk in front, his weight 
 resting on his daughter's arm. u Grand, isn't 
 it! " he said confidentially. 
 
 "Great!" said Berta. 
 
 " Pretty low, to do you out of that! " 
 he muttered. It was the nearest that he ever 
 came to a complaint. 
 
 [250] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 The bell had time to ring again before 
 Berta could set down her dishes, take off her 
 apron and make her way through the long pas- 
 sages to the front door. It opened on a big, 
 rain-coated figure whose question died in his 
 throat as his glance passed Berta to her splen- 
 did background. 
 
 " Oh, I'm sorry I've made a mis- 
 take." In spite of his commanding size, he 
 blushed awkwardly. " A Mrs. Loftus directed 
 
 M 
 
 " Did you want lodging?" Berta 
 threw back the door. " We furnish rooms, but 
 not meals. Come in, please," she added, as he 
 still seemed inclined to stay out in the down- 
 pour. He obeyed with a start, dropping his 
 soaked umbrella across the threshold and 
 clutching for it with a sigh of despair. 
 
 " If anything can be dropped, I drop 
 it," he stammered. " I hope it hasn't hurt 
 your floor." 
 
 As he straightened up, Berta realized 
 with satisfaction that at last here was some one 
 big enough for the hall; he made a visible im- 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 pression on its overpowering spaciousness. The 
 shy boyishness of his big face made her smile 
 as she took the umbrella away from him and 
 set it in the coat closet. 
 
 " We generally use the side door, but 
 the path is under water just now," she said re- 
 assuringly. " You wanted a room? " 
 
 His worried glance had paused at the 
 bronze Ceres on the stairpost with her clusters 
 of luminous grapes. 
 
 " I want to hire a room," he explained 
 with difficulty. " I know you're awfully hos- 
 pitable out here and all that, but I've come as 
 a workman, and I " 
 
 " Three dollars a week is our usual 
 rate," she interrupted composedly. "If you 
 want a sitting room that will be two dollars 
 more. I will show you what we have if you 
 will come to the back stairs. We don't use this 
 part of the house." 
 
 She pressed buttons as they went, send- 
 ing the light darting ahead of them, lighting 
 up rich woods crowded with carving, decorated 
 walls, painted ceilings, grilled arches, wrought 
 [252] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 door knobs; there did not seem to be a foot of 
 space unadorned. She could feel the groping 
 astonishment of the young giant at her back, 
 but it did not amuse her. The house was too 
 sore a subject for any aspect of it to make her 
 smile. 
 
 1 You have a a handsome house," he 
 ventured as they mounted what she had called 
 the back stairs, though the homely title was 
 ludicrously inappropriate. 
 
 " It is a very beautiful house. " Berta 
 spoke with a note of authority, almost of de- 
 fiance. 
 
 " Stunner," he assented with a hasty 
 enthusiasm that made her warm to him. " You 
 must be it must be awful " he broke down, 
 flushing at his impulsive intrusion. " I'm very 
 glad you had a room for me," he finished 
 lamely. 
 
 She opened the door of the room 
 marked " Butler's Suite " on the plans. It 
 had three windows, a bath and a big closet, and 
 the lodger looked about him with open satis- 
 faction as he set down his bag. 
 
 [253] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "This is great," he exclaimed. " Of 
 course you want references. My name is Gor- 
 man, and " 
 
 All the friendly liking was stricken out 
 of Berta's face. 
 
 " Are you related to William F. Gor- 
 man ? " she asked sharply. 
 
 "Why, yes. He is my father." He 
 had only honest surprise for her hostility. 
 
 " My father is Albert Rix," she said, 
 and looked to see him wince. 
 
 " Albert Rix," he repeated slowly. " I 
 know the name, but my father never talks 
 much, Miss Rix, and I've been at college. Did 
 they have a row? " 
 
 He was so frankly puzzled, so unsus- 
 pecting of his father's part, that the hot words 
 would not be said. 
 
 " You'd better ask him about it," she 
 muttered, turning away. In the pause that fol- 
 lowed, the rain, coming in mighty dashes 
 against the windows, seemed to threaten the 
 glass. 
 
 " You mean that your father wouldn't 
 
 [254] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 want me staying here?" He could not quite 
 grasp anything so incredible. 
 
 " Oh, he wouldn't mind he doesn't 
 mind anything!" impatiently. "It's only 
 I " 
 
 He picked up his bag again. !< I'm so 
 sorry," he said, and waited for her to lead the 
 way out. For all her righteous anger, she 
 found that she could not; and blamed the 
 weather. 
 
 " You can't go room hunting in this 
 rain," she said severely. " You will have to 
 stay, now that you are here." 
 
 He still hesitated, looking at her with 
 troubled eyes that were as honest as her own. 
 
 " I think I'd better see your father," he 
 said. Berta left him without a word. 
 
 Dinner waited a long time while Mr. 
 Rix and the lodger talked upstairs. At last 
 Berta heard steps in the passage, and her fath- 
 er's genial voice. 
 
 " Well, I was down, and I got put 
 out;" he was evidently repeating himself. 
 " When you go into business, you take the 
 
 [255] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 chance of getting business treatment, and I've 
 never blamed anyone but myself. It's natural 
 that my daughter should feel rather hot," he 
 added confidentially. u You can see what a 
 home like this would mean to a girl I " 
 
 " I should say so ! " was the heavy re- 
 sponse. 
 
 " Well, it's all right," urged Mr, Rix. 
 " Here's a key for you. Sure you wouldn't 
 rather have a sausage here than swim for it? 
 Want to be called in the morning or anything? 
 Well, good night. Let me know if you want 
 anything; if I'm not in the kitchen, you'll find 
 me in the servants' dining room ! " he ended 
 with his unfailing laugh. " That's a first-rate 
 young fellow, Berta," he announced from the 
 doorway. " He plays chess, too." 
 
 " Oh, do come to dinner," said Berta 
 desperately. 
 
 The lodger stayed, but evidently not 
 very comfortably. If he met Berta in the halls, 
 he flushed, and generally contrived to drop 
 something. Mr. Rix persistently dragged him 
 downstairs, evenings, for long, silent games of 
 
 [256] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 chess, while Berta, equally silent, sat near them 
 with book or mending or with her tired head 
 dropped back and her eyes closed. She spoke 
 to the lodger with passive courtesy when he 
 came and went and, in between, there was not 
 a flicker of a sign that the two were even re- 
 motely conscious of each other. Yet, if Mr. 
 Rix left the room, the silence lost its ease, be- 
 came rigid, momentous. The third time that 
 this happened, Gorman turned to the averted 
 figure with an abruptness that set the chessmen 
 rolling. 
 
 " I don't know what to do about this 
 chess, Miss Rix." He had flushed, but his voice 
 was courageous. " Your father seems to want 
 it so much; and yet for me to intrude on you 
 like this well, I can see how it must look to 
 you ! " 
 
 She did not lift her head from her book. 
 " Your playing with him is a great kindness," 
 she said coldly. " My father isn't well enough 
 to work yet, and chess is the only game he cares 
 for. I am very glad to have you come." 
 
 He sighed. " I'm afraid you don't 
 
 [257] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 mean that," he said. Her eyes flashed round at 
 him. 
 
 " I don't lie," she said shortly; and 
 then, before his startled apology could find 
 words, her color rose and rose till her very 
 forehead was flooded. u Except on one sub- 
 ject," she muttered. The blush and the un- 
 willing admission put him more at his ease. 
 She looked very young and girlish in that mo- 
 ment of distress. 
 
 "Of course," he said heartily. "I 
 didn't mean it that way. I have tried every day 
 to find another room," he presently went on, re- 
 arranging the chessmen, " but, between the oil 
 boom and the weather, every corner of the 
 town is full. I have hated to have you think 
 that I was simply disregarding your feelings. 
 Mrs. Loftus may be able to put me up after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 There was a question under the state- 
 ment, and, after a moment's struggle, Berta 
 acknowledged it. 
 
 "If you are comfortable here, I hope 
 you will stay." The words were not cordial, 
 
 [258] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 but they were unmistakably honest, and he 
 looked relieved. 
 
 " Thank you, then I will at least, 
 until my father gets back." 
 
 At the mention of his father she re- 
 turned pointedly to her book. When Mr. Rix 
 reappeared, the mislaid pipe in his hand, the 
 two were apparently as unaware of each other's 
 existence as they had been when he left. 
 
 Young Gorman was evidently not 
 afraid of work. Berta, collecting " oil notes " 
 for her paper, saw him day after day, mud 
 splashed and rubber booted, in the thick of the 
 tumult, directing gangs of laborers or throwing 
 his own great bulk against a difficulty with the 
 trained ease of a famous center rush. The con- 
 trast as he stood talking down to a gnarled 
 little Italian foreman often made her laugh to 
 herself. She was more at peace with life, more 
 friendly to man even man bearing the name 
 of Gorman when she was out from under her 
 own overpowering roof. He, too, seemed 
 freer in the open. His face turned rather grave 
 at sight of her, but he neither flushed nor stum- 
 
 [259] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 bled as he returned her slight greeting. She 
 punctiliously sought all her information from 
 others until one day he took hold of the situ- 
 ation with unexpected force. 
 
 He had come on her struggling across 
 the rough ground in a driving rain, trying with 
 both hands to hold her umbrella against the 
 wind, and the sight seemed to bring some hid- 
 den protest to a sudden climax of anger. He 
 took the umbrella from her with one hand and 
 with the other turned her forcibly to the shelter 
 of an empty shed. 
 
 " Why on earth will you martyrize 
 yourself?" he burst out, giving the umbrella 
 a wrathful shake. She was too breathless and 
 surprised to answer. ' You know perfectly well 
 that you could get every bit of news you want 
 any evening, without leaving your chair," he 
 scolded on; "but your confounded pride, and 
 your desire to rub it in what's the sense of 
 punishing me?" 
 
 The flushed, rain-wet face betrayed a 
 momentary confusion. Berta had not been 
 sorry that Gorman's son should see how hard 
 
 [260] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 Albert Rix's daughter had to work, but she had 
 not expected him to recognize this. She hastily 
 collected her defenses. 
 
 " I see no reason that you should do my 
 work," she began. 
 
 He was too intent on what he had to 
 say to heed that. 
 
 " I know how you feel, of course," he 
 went on. " Every time I go into that that 
 magnificent home of yours I can tell you it 
 wrings me. Not that I judge my father! I'm 
 with him, you know. Even if I might not act 
 just the same myself, I'm on his side I stand 
 by him through everything. I might fight him 
 privately, but I'd fight for him outside, just as 
 you would for yours. It's natural that you 
 should hate us, but you know I think you 
 ought to be big enough not to. You, even with 
 all you've lost right there before you ! " 
 
 Berta had always seen him in the apolo- 
 getic attitude before, and the unexpected re- 
 proof stung. 
 
 " It isn't for myself," she said hotly. 
 " It's for him ! If your father were trustful 
 
 [261] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 and careless and warm to everybody and and 
 pathetic, some way, and some cool, clever man 
 stabbed him in the back when he was down 
 oh, could you get over it? " Tears rushed into 
 her eyes. " Wouldn't you have to be angry 
 for him?" 
 
 He paled under the attack. " Perhaps, 
 for a while," he admitted slowly. " But I 
 should want to be very sure I hadn't misjudged 
 the cool, clever man. YouVe never heard 
 the other side, have you?" 
 
 " I don't feel as if words could make 
 any difference. I don't want to be small; but 
 there is the fact. Of course, I know it doesn't 
 involve you," she added honestly. " I will try 
 to remember that." She held out her hand, 
 and he took it in both his. 
 
 " Will you let me bring you your oil 
 news? " he asked, as though that were the test 
 of her sincerity. She drew her hand away with 
 a faint smile. 
 
 " On wet days," she conceded. 
 
 He hailed a passing buggy. " Jim, 
 take Miss Rix over to the car," he commanded. 
 [262] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 Berta had not got what she came for, but she 
 went in astonished docility. 
 
 The side path was an impassable 
 slough, and she let herself into the great house 
 by the front door, tugging off her rubber boots 
 under the luminous grape clusters of the bronze 
 Ceres on the stairpost. Her bearing had a new 
 cheerfulness to-night, and she even greeted 
 Ceres with a tolerant, " Hello, old girl," as the 
 lights sprang up. To be wroth with even a 
 chance acquaintance is a sorry state, and Gor- 
 man's forcible burying of the hatchet had made 
 her ashamed of her bitterness. He had been 
 quite right to call her small : she liked his doing 
 it, and the memory of his anger was oddly stir- 
 ring. She wasted no time glowering at her 
 surroundings to-night. 
 
 The kitchen was still unlighted, and her 
 father sat by the window, a dim outline, yet so 
 expressive of patient discouragement that her 
 new spirits went down before a sudden stab of 
 pain. 
 
 "Tired?" she asked, her hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 [263] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "Just a little." He could not quite 
 manage his usual cheerfulness, and she saw the 
 white glimmer of a letter in his hand. 
 
 "Bad news?" she asked quickly, tak- 
 ing it from him. 
 
 "Well, I don't care for it myself," 
 with feeble whimsicality. * There's a man 
 who says I owe him some money and I guess 
 I do. Anyway, he's said it often enough to 
 make it true, even if it wasn't. Now he says 
 he's coming to take the furniture out from 
 under us in the morning. Nice fellow, isn't 
 he? Such a joker." Berta dropped down on 
 the nearest chair in blank dismay. Her father 
 hurried on : " Don't you think we'd be happier 
 in rooms, anyway, Bertie? It's kind of foolish, 
 living in the coal bin of a palace, like this. Sup- 
 pose he takes the chairs and the tables and we 
 get out?" 
 
 " But rooms cost," she protested. " We 
 can't afford them." 
 
 " Oh, I'll be at work again pretty 
 soon." He felt his head with inquiring fingers, 
 as though to see what it would stand. " And, 
 
 [264] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 anyway, we'll have to move in eight weeks, 
 dear child." 
 
 "They'll foreclose?" 
 
 " That's what." 
 
 A sense of sinking helplessness, of utter 
 panic, clutched at her throat and side. Then 
 she rose up, her sturdy, practical self again, and 
 turned on the lights. 
 
 " We might as well have dinner," she 
 announced. Her father caught at her tone 
 with an eager gratitude that nearly broke her 
 down. 
 
 " Eat, drink and be merry, for to-mor- 
 row we'll be sold up," he cheered her on. 
 " Don't leave anything in the refrigerator or 
 they'll attach that. Here's Gorman," he added 
 as the door opened. 
 
 " I just brought you a few items for 
 your paper, Miss Rix." The lodger was hold- 
 ing out a typewritten sheet with shy determina- 
 tion. " You know, you said I might." 
 
 She took it mechanically. " Thank 
 you," she said. " Father, oughtn't we to tell 
 Mr. Gorman that we are moving? " 
 
 [265] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "Moving?" The young man looked 
 dismayed. 
 
 " Fact, Gorman. It's very sudden, but 
 it looks as if we should oh, take to furnished 
 rooms or something." 
 
 " I suppose you would be more com- 
 fortable," he assented after an unhappy pause. 
 "How soon?" 
 
 "Well, to-morrow, I'm afraid." 
 
 "But have you found a place? You 
 know the town is jammed." 
 
 'That's so; but we'll get something. 
 Awfully sorry about you, though. Perhaps 
 Mrs. Loftus " 
 
 " Oh, I'm all right." He looked un- 
 easily from one to the other; but Mr. Rix was 
 filling the kettle with an air of cheerful indus- 
 try, and Berta's head was bent down over the 
 apples she was coring. Something in the at- 
 mosphere said, " Don't stay," and he reluc- 
 tantly obeyed. He got no farther than the 
 stairs, however; halfway up he paused, pon- 
 dering, with troubled eyes. Voices sounded 
 cheerfully from the kitchen. He heard Berta's 
 
 [266] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 laugh and her father's answering chuckle, and 
 the sounds of brisk movements, then a clear, 
 " In five minutes ! " as the door swung open. 
 Berta did not see him, and he stood transfixed 
 at the sudden change that came over her when 
 the door had shut. Her face dropped into her 
 hands and she made blindly for the stairs, but 
 sank down on the bottom step, crushing back 
 all sound of the sobs that shook and wrenched 
 her. At his gasp of distress, she crouched 
 closer to the stairs, as though to hide. 
 
 " My dear girl ! " He was nearly cry- 
 ing himself as he knelt beside her. " What is 
 it? Don't mind me let me help. I knew 
 there must be something. You poor child ! " 
 She made no attempt to answer, but presently 
 her fingers found a letter in her belt and held 
 it out to him. He read it with muttered sounds 
 that rose to an explosive climax of wrath, heav- 
 ing him to his feet with its force. 
 
 " Don't give it another thought," he 
 burst out. " He's not coming near you. I'll 
 see him! " He would have rushed off on the 
 instant, but her broken voice stopped him. 
 
 [267] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " You're not going to pay him ! I 
 couldn't bear that ! " 
 
 " Pay him? I'm going to kick him! " 
 
 u But we do owe him the money, you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes ; and he owes us exactly seven 
 times that amount, and has had all the consid- 
 eration and time and oh, this makes me 
 swear! You won't hear from him again till 
 you're ready to, I can promise you that." 
 
 " If he'll only wait eight weeks. " She 
 lifted her tear-stained face in her relief. " Then 
 they'll foreclose on the house, and he can have 
 the furniture as well as not. And if some one 
 should buy it first, we can pay him. So, you 
 see, it's all right," she ended with an eager 
 reassurance that made his big hands clench in 
 
 impotent pity. " Oh, I do thank you, Mr. 
 
 Gi )t 
 orman ! 
 
 " Don't, don't," he muttered, turning 
 away. " I'll explain to your father," he added, 
 without looking back. 
 
 The weeks that followed were a sur- 
 prisingly cheerful time, in spite of impending 
 
 [268] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 homelessness and incessant storm. Never had 
 the rainy season earned its title so thoroughly; 
 but, after forty days, the slow-breaking clouds 
 of sunset revealed the gold bar of heaven and 
 left hope of dry land once more. A better hope 
 came with the clearing. When Berta let her- 
 self in, late and tired but inexplicably buoyant, 
 her father, who had evidently been listening 
 for her, met her wildly in the hall, blue- 
 aproned, a knife in one hand and an orange in 
 the other. His kindly, careless, handsome face 
 was burning with excitement, deeply moved 
 with joy and relief. 
 
 " We're saved, Bertie," he cried. " The 
 wind's tempered this time. There's some one 
 after the house and you needn't work any 
 more, my little girl ! " Tears ran down his 
 face, and knife and orange met recklessly as he 
 flung his arms about her. 
 
 "To buy it?" she gasped. 
 
 '* To buy it cash down and no ques- 
 tions. I'm sorry, dear, for it was your home, 
 but, oh, glory, I'm glad ! " 
 
 " O father ! " The heavy care was 
 
 [269] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 leaving her heart, the lie was rolling off her 
 soul. 
 
 " We won't get what it cost, of course," 
 he explained, wiping his eyes. u But there'll be 
 enough over the mortgage to give us an income 
 for all our days. I don't see what we're snivel- 
 ing about," he ended with a catch in his breath. 
 
 " Oh, I see," she returned with a sob. 
 He stood with his arms round her, looking 
 proudly, yet sadly, at the splendors about them. 
 
 " If you could only have lived in it 
 properly just once," he sighed. " It's a pretty 
 fine house, if I do say it! " 
 
 The lie was so nearly over for her now 
 that she gave it with her whole heart. 
 
 " It's the most beautiful house in the 
 world," she cried, then flushed as she saw the 
 front door opening. Mr. Rix suddenly recov- 
 ered his spirits. 
 
 " Hello, Gorman ! We've got some 
 one after the house," he shouted. The big 
 lodger smiled uncertainly, his glance resting on 
 Berta's tear-touched eyes. 
 
 " Well, of course, it must be a relief, 
 [270] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 too," he offered her comfortingly. " Who is 
 buying it?" he added, turning to the coat 
 closet. 
 
 " Some oil nabob, I suppose; he doesn't 
 appear in the transaction. He sent an agent. 
 It's a load off, Gorman, I can tell you! Isn't 
 there some show in town? We must all go to 
 the theater. Oh, my Lord, those chops ! " And 
 he fled. 
 
 Gorman turned quickly to Berta. 
 ' You're happy, aren't you? " he asked, earnest 
 eyes on her face. " The relief is greater than 
 the loss, isn't it? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes I'm happy right down 
 through ! " she cried. " If you only knew ! " 
 
 " I can guess, a little." He looked 
 deeply, warmly happy himself. " Well, then, 
 I'm going to ask you something." 
 
 She bent down to tie her slipper. " It's 
 a good night to ask me things," she said. 
 
 "Will you forgive my father?" She 
 
 looked up, too surprised to answer. " Couldn't 
 
 you accept him forget all your bitterness and 
 
 be friendly with him ? You see, I'm not trying 
 
 [271] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 to excuse him though he doesn't feel himself 
 in the wrong. I'm just begging, that's all, be- 
 cause I it means everything in the world to 
 me. Could you? " 
 
 He held out his two hands as though 
 they were his father's. She waited a moment, 
 to be sure, then gave him both her own. 
 
 "Yes; I'll be friends with your fa- 
 ther," she promised, and, looking up into his 
 eyes, forgot to look away again. Ceres was 
 kind; the electric light faltered, then went out, 
 leaving them for a moment in total darkness. 
 When the purple grapes bloomed again, they 
 shone on a new heaven and a new earth. 
 
 The chops were burned to a crisp, so 
 they went down to a hotel for dinner, Berta 
 and the lodger suddenly very shy and silent. 
 When dessert was served, Mr. Rix, a sympa- 
 thetic twinkle in his eyes, left them together 
 while he went after theater tickets. Gorman, 
 meeting Berta's glance, suddenly laughed. 
 
 " It's no use. I can't keep it," he ex- 
 claimed. " Berta, who do you think is going 
 to live in your grand home? " 
 [272] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 " Your father?" in startled suspicion. 
 
 " No. Young married couple." His 
 smile was so significant, so embracing, that her 
 face flamed. 
 
 "Tell me," she commanded hastily. 
 
 " You are ! " 
 
 " What? " She recoiled from him, but 
 he saw only her bewilderment. 
 
 * You see, I wrote my father how it 
 was with me ; and how you were situated. And 
 he told me to go ahead and buy the house as 
 a wedding present from myself to any lady 
 who would have me. We can't keep it up just 
 as it should be, at first, but we'll do very well, 
 and you will be in your own pink and gold 
 rooms my dear love! " he ended, with all his 
 heart in his voice. 
 
 "Oh!" After the faint, frightened 
 gasp, she said nothing at all, but sat so motion- 
 less, her white face bent on her hand, that he 
 was troubled. 
 
 " I've upset you. I'm a clumsy brute 
 I always upset everything," he muttered. " It 
 wasn't anything to do, Berta don't take it so 
 [273] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 to heart. We'll forget all about it now. Dear, 
 here comes your father ! " 
 
 She roused herself with a strained smile, 
 and Gorman kept Mr. Rix's attention engaged 
 until they were in their musty little velvet seats 
 and the curtain was going up on " The Old 
 Homestead.' 1 The play was, as Mr. Rix jovial- 
 ly explained, " sort of appropriate, " but during 
 those three hours Berta neither saw nor heard. 
 She was facing the consequences of her one 
 kindly lie. A big thing had been done to give 
 her happiness: thousands of dollars were to be 
 taken out of this simple, honest man's heritage 
 to restore to her a beloved home. Could she 
 throw the gift back, let him see that she had 
 made a fool of him? Not that she had made 
 a fool of her father: " I couldn't have done dif- 
 fently, I couldn't ! " she cried before the piteous 
 memory of his happiness over the surprise. But 
 with this younger man it was different. She 
 could not enter on her life with him except in 
 the clear beauty of absolute truth, she could not 
 for one half hour feign joy in that monstrous 
 possession. And yet the alternative seemed 
 [274] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 equally impossible. To so wound a generous 
 soul, to make him understand the ugly, lying 
 part she had played ! 
 
 " If only I needn't tell him now! " was 
 her silent wail when at last the curtain fell on 
 the play and they rose in their seats. The 
 knowledge that it must be now lay like a dead 
 weight on her heart. 
 
 Yet it was not to be that night. As they 
 stepped out on the sidewalk, Mr. Rix turned 
 to her with an apologetic smile and tried to say 
 something. A moment later he lay unconscious 
 at their feet. 
 
 For forty-eight hours Berta scarcely 
 knew day from night. She could have lost her 
 father after his accident with only the normal 
 sorrow common to all daughters of kindly, 
 loving men; but in this year of caring for him, 
 working for him, lying for him, her love had 
 sunk to a depth that was half motherhood. She 
 could not let him go. When the nurse coun- 
 seled rest and fresh air, Berta simply looked at 
 her as if she spoke an unknown tongue and 
 turned back to the bed. She would lie down 
 
 [275] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 only when Gorman took her place. He was a 
 rock of strength to her, and those two long 
 nights brought them together in a closeness 
 that no happy experience could have wrought; 
 but she gave him no separate thoughts, and the 
 look in her eyes haunted him. 
 
 Mr. Rix rallied as suddenly as he had 
 gone down. By the fourth night he was out of 
 danger, and Berta was rounding out twelve 
 hours of unbroken sleep. He smiled with feeble 
 whimsicality as Gorman came to relieve the 
 nurse. 
 
 " I almost ended my days in the House 
 Beautiful, after all," he said, and sighed faint- 
 ly. Then a worried frown crossed his fore- 
 head. " By the way, we haven't lost that sale, 
 have we? " 
 
 "No; and you won't lose it," Gorman 
 promised. The heartiness of his reassurance 
 made the older man look at him with awaken- 
 ing keenness. 
 
 " See here, Gorman, who's buying it? " 
 he asked suddenly. 
 
 " You ought not to talk, Mr. Rix." 
 [276] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 " I don't want to talk I want you to. 
 Who's going to live in this house, young 
 man?" 
 
 Gorman took the aged hand in his big, 
 young grasp. " Berta and you and I," he 
 said. 
 
 Relief dawned in the worn face, grew 
 to heavenly peace. 
 
 " She'll have her own beautiful home 
 my little girl ! " he murmured. He became 
 drowsy after that, but presently started awake. 
 " You're a good fellow, Gorman. I'm glad it's 
 you." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad it's me," said Gorman 
 with a mighty sigh. 
 
 When Berta came hurrying down at 
 midnight, self-reproachful for her long ob- 
 livion, she found her father sound asleep, and 
 Gorman yielding up his place to the nurse. He 
 followed Berta to the kitchen, where a kettle 
 bubbled hospitably on the glowing range. 
 
 " I have told your father," he began 
 joyfully. Berta, who was investigating the re- 
 frigerator with sudden appetite, slowly closed 
 
 [277] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 its door and rose to face him. She realized 
 with sickening certainty that the time had come. 
 " You never saw anything so wonderful as his 
 face," Gorman was going on. " The fact that 
 you were to live always in your splendid home 
 that meant more to him than our marriage, 
 Berta. At first, anyway. How he did love 
 doing it for you ! " 
 
 " Don't. I've got to tell you some- 
 thing." Her strained voice sounded harsh, al- 
 most angry. " I told you long ago that on one 
 subject I lied always. Well, I can't lie to 
 you. It has got to be straight between us. I 
 hate this house ! " 
 
 " Berta!" 
 
 " I loathe this house. I consider it a 
 horror," she rushed on. "There isn't an inch 
 of it that doesn't break every law of beauty and 
 taste and oh, it is vulgar and unspeakable ! 
 But the poor darling didn't know, and it was 
 his surprise for me, so I lied and lied and 
 and now I'm punished, for I have to put a 
 knife into you, hurt you horribly. Oh, I love 
 you, but I can't live all my life in this house! " 
 [278] 
 
The House Beautiful 
 
 " Berta ! " He swept her up into his 
 arms. " You poor child! Listen, listen I've 
 lied, too ! For I thought the house was just 
 what you say pretty bad, dear! But I tried 
 to like it, because I did so awfully like you r 
 oh, I'd have liked a pink silk Chinese pagoda, 
 if you did ! But, just the same, it's perfectly 
 bully to find you didn't ! I might have guessed. 
 What is it? " he added, for, after a moment of 
 shining joy, her face had clouded, and she drew 
 away from him. 
 
 " He will be so disappointed," she fal- 
 tered. " If he hadn't been told but now he'll 
 be so disappointed! " Gorman nodded in so- 
 bering recognition of the fact. 
 
 " So he will," he assented. They faced 
 it sadly for a long minute; then she drew the 
 deep breath of resolution. 
 
 " So long as you knew so long as 
 there was no lie between us " she began. He 
 caught her meaning, and responded with gen- 
 erous eagerness. 
 
 "Why not, for the rest of his life! 
 Couldn't you be happy here if we got together 
 [279] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 in corners and called it names whenever we 
 liked ?" 
 
 She ran back into his arms. " Oh, we 
 can be happy anywhere. Let's make him happy 
 too! " she cried. 
 
XIV 
 
 The Modern 
 
 AT the nursery door her brother stopped 
 her with a hand on her shoulder and a laugh in 
 his big voice. 
 
 " Cordy, I tell you right here, I'm skep- 
 tical about the kids," he declared. " This 
 bringing them up with no punishments well, 
 it wouldn't have worked with us, you know ! " 
 
 " Ah, but they have consequences," 
 Cordelia broke in eagerly. " Every bad act 
 brings its inevitable consequence you will see 
 just as it does in life. Isn't that better than 
 frowns and blows from me? Isn't it infinitely 
 wiser?" 
 
 " We break the colts by kindness but 
 we take the whip along." He spoke dubiously. 
 " Well, if I think they need a whack or two, I 
 shall say so, that's all. You did in your day, let 
 me remark! " 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Ah, poor mother didn't know," she 
 murmured, and threw back the door. " Here is 
 dear Uncle Henry come to see Helena and Rob- 
 ert ! " The earnestness of her inflections raised 
 the announcement almost to the plane of prayer. 
 " Now what do you say to Uncle Henry, 
 darling? " 
 
 "How do you do?" The small, flat, 
 monotonous drawl offered an amusing contrast. 
 The big uncle, suppressing a laugh, looked 
 down into a small, pale, inscrutable face. For 
 a bare instant the eyes were raised to his, but 
 the glance was curiously blank, and fell away 
 unresponsively before his smile. Released, 
 Helena returned at once to her little table and 
 her water colors, paying no further attention 
 to the new relative. Big Robert, aged four- 
 teen months, was a simpler matter; a poke or 
 two established their relations at once. 
 
 " And now we're going down to lunch 
 with Uncle Henry ! " Cordelia went on with 
 an air of elated climax that should have aroused 
 a childish heart to jumpings. 
 
 " Mother, I am not hungry. I should 
 
 [282] 
 
The Modern Way 
 
 like to stay and finish my picture. " The tone- 
 less little voice neither pleaded nor protested; 
 it merely stated. 
 
 " No, dear. Mother will explain just 
 why to you by and by. I want you to come now 
 and eat your lunch. Maybe there's something 
 you like ! " with a clap of enthusiastic palms. 
 Helena's fathomless glance touched her moth- 
 er's face unresponsively, then dropped; but she 
 rose at once and preceded them to the dining 
 room. 
 
 " Soft mouth," Henry admitted. 
 ' That's pretty sharp minding. If she always 
 comes up to the reins like that " 
 
 " But isn't it a daily experience that 
 people will do for love and reason what they 
 won't for force?" Cordelia broke in. "Hel- 
 ena, at seven, is a perfectly reasonable being, 
 because she has been led, shown the way, not 
 driven. And it is a strange thing, Henry " 
 she paused, lowering her voice " she is hand- 
 ing down to the baby this same guiding of love 
 and reason that I have given her. She is the 
 most wonderful little mother! And Robert 
 
 [283] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 minds her twice as well as he does me. It's al- 
 most hypnotic, the way the little thing can con- 
 trol and direct him. And they don't know the 
 word s-l-a-p ! " 
 
 " Well, you're a wonder," Henry con- 
 ceded, but provisionally. 
 
 There was certainly truth in the claim 
 that Helena had a strong influence over her 
 baby brother. Early in the meal Robert, from 
 his high chair, became so enamored of a cut- 
 glass dish that life without it grew suddenly 
 insupportable. He squirmed, scolded, stormed, 
 and his mother's insistent " Hurt baby! " illus- 
 trated by touches of the sharp edge on his fat 
 hand, wholly failed to appease his desire. Baby 
 preferred consequences to denial. Suddenly 
 Helena, who had been eating diligently, with 
 bent head, turned to him, lifting a small fore- 
 finger. 
 
 "Robert! Mustn't!" she said quietly. 
 The baby, meeting her still, pale gaze, stared 
 for a moment as though fascinated, then mut- 
 tered, bubbled, sighed, and went back to the 
 tame joys of a napkin ring. Helena returned to 
 
 [284] 
 
The Modern Way 
 
 her chicken. It was odd that, a few minutes 
 after this exhibition of maturity, she should 
 childishly, even wantonly, tip over a glass of 
 milk, chiefly into her lap. 
 
 " My darling girl ! That was care- 
 less ! " Her mother's voice was all love and 
 distress. " See your clean gown is drenched. 
 Now what will be the consequences of such care- 
 lessness? " 
 
 " Leave the table," murmured Helena 
 dispassionately. 
 
 " I'm afraid so, love. Mother is so 
 sorry! Get all dry, won't you, dear?" Hel- 
 ena slipped soberly out of the room, but they 
 could hear her light feet scampering on the 
 stairs. 
 
 "You see?" Cordelia turned trium- 
 phantly to her brother. " There is no anger, 
 no punishment just inevitable consequences." 
 
 " We'd have got it pretty warm for 
 that," he admitted thoughtfully. 
 
 "Yes; anger, reproaches, slapped 
 hands, resentment! And we should have left 
 the table disgraced. She's got the gist of the 
 [285] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 experience, the necessary part. Now isn't the 
 modern way better? She won't do it again." 
 Henry's thoughtfulness had increased. 
 
 " She didn't want to come to lunch," he 
 said suddenly. 
 
 " No. She is so absorbed in her paints, 
 she doesn't want to do anything else," was the 
 indulgent answer. 
 
 u H'm," murmured Henry. "I don't 
 believe she will do it again," he added presently. 
 " Interesting child very! " 
 
 It had rained that morning, and in the 
 afternoon Helena stated a preference for the 
 nursery over the wet garden; but, after submit- 
 ting to an earnest talk on hygiene and the need 
 of fresh air, she went readily forth with Robert 
 and the nurse. It was the nurse who sent her 
 back, ten minutes later, because of leaking 
 rubbers. 
 
 " But where are your new ones, dar- 
 ling?" urged her mother. They spent twenty 
 minutes in the search, but finally had to give up 
 hygiene for that day. Not till the next morn- 
 ing, when a little playmate called to beg that 
 
 [286] 
 
The Modern Way 
 
 Helena might " come over," did they reappear 
 down behind the nursery woodbox. 
 
 " It is very queer how they got there," 
 wondered Cordelia. 
 
 " I think Robert was playing with them 
 yesterday," said little Helena. " I think so 
 I am not sure," she added carefully. 
 
 " You were a clever little daughter to 
 find them," said her mother fondly. 
 
 " May I stay to lunch if Gladys's moth- 
 er asks me ? " 
 
 " No, darling. You haven't been very 
 well, and mother likes to know just what you 
 eat. Come home at twelve, won't you? " 
 
 1 Yes, mother." The toneless answer 
 betrayed no disappointment. Cordelia went to 
 the window to smile after the two little figures. 
 
 " I sometimes fear that Helena is al- 
 most too docile," she said. " When I remem- 
 ber how we fussed ! You don't think she is 
 weak, do you, Henry?" 
 
 "Weak! My dear Cordy, she's steel 
 granite we're paper beside that child! 
 Weak!" It was almost a shout, and he re- 
 
 [287] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 peated it on a still higher key. " She's got the 
 bit in her teeth from the moment she wakes up 
 in the morning she's going to have her own 
 way if the sky falls! Weak my Lord! " 
 
 " Oh, Henry, you are too absurd." 
 Cordelia was amused. " You ought to marry 
 and learn something about children. Robert's 
 a little rebel, if you like, but Helena really 
 and truly, she's almost too good. The way she 
 will take care of Robert, for instance I can 
 leave them all alone together for hours. You 
 ought to hear what other mothers say to me 
 about her." 
 
 " She isn't weak," was the dogged an- 
 swer. " Don't you worry about that! " 
 
 Henry happened to be present, a couple 
 of hours later, when his sister was summoned 
 to the telephone. The broken conversation set 
 him smiling deeply behind his newspaper. 
 
 " Why, that is too bad! Helena hasn't 
 been very well lately, and I told her . . . Oh, 
 of course, sponge cake is very simple . . . 
 Well, if the cook has gone to all that trouble, 
 I suppose . . . You are very good, Mrs. 
 
 [288] 
 
The Modern Way 
 
 White, to want her. Yes, she can stay. But 
 just give her simple things, won't you? . . . 
 Why, the dear little soul! Tell her it is all 
 right mother is willing that she should stay. 
 . . . Oh, I am sure of that. You are very 
 good. Good-by ! 
 
 " Henry, isn't it annoying! The cook 
 had understood from the children that Helena 
 was to stay to lunch, and had made little special 
 what are you smiling at? " 
 
 Henry erased his expression with a 
 thoughtful palm. " Paper's rather amusing 
 to-day," he said, rising. " So Helena is going 
 to stay to lunch after all ! " 
 
 "Well, after the cook had taken all 
 that trouble their names on the cakes and all 
 that and Gladys was weeping Sponge- 
 cake is harmless enough. But I would so much 
 rather have her home! Mrs. White is not 
 modern about diet and hygiene." 
 
 " I wonder how the cook came to make 
 the mistake? " mused Henry. 
 
 He was watching for his niece when 
 she came home that afternoon, and followed 
 
 [289] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 her to the nursery. He found her embracing 
 Robert with the fervor of reunion, fussily ma- 
 ternal, but obviously sincere. Henry took a 
 chair facing the group. 
 
 " You are fond of your brother, aren't 
 you, Helena ? " he began. Her brief, veiled 
 glance met his only for an instant, but she an- 
 swered with childish simplicity. 
 
 " Oh, yes. I love him better than any- 
 thing. I've never wanted my dolls since I had 
 him." 
 
 " She's real wonderful with him," put 
 in the nurse admiringly. " He don't mind no 
 one else. It ain't easy," she added confidential- 
 ly, " this bringing 'em up without no well, you 
 know what, sir! " 
 
 Henry nodded understandingly. " Hel- 
 ena, come here," he said, as the nurse left the 
 room with Robert's empty bowl and cup. She 
 obeyed at once, but so reluctantly that he felt 
 half ashamed of the superior strength that co- 
 erced her as he lifted her to his knee. " You 
 are a very clever little girl," he said, looking 
 keenly into the small, pale face. " Cleverer 
 [290] 
 
The Modern Way 
 
 perhaps than even your mother knows aren't 
 you? " The downcast face remained obstinate- 
 ly blank. " It's hard to be a little, weak girl, 
 and yet want your own way so awfully, isn't 
 it?" he went on with confidential sympathy. 
 " I always wanted my own way just as hard 
 as you do, but I was big and strong and I could 
 fight for it. But I know exactly how you feel, 
 Helena. So I hope we're going to be friends, 
 you and I." There was not a gleam of re- 
 sponse. She might have been the dullest little 
 girl in Christendom ; and the disturbing thought 
 that perhaps she really was, and that he had 
 been misreading her, checked his speech. He 
 was still faltering before the idea when Corde- 
 lia appeared in the doorway. 
 
 " Henry, the wringer is misbehaving. 
 I wonder if you could fix it? " she began. 
 " Darling, you will take care of Robert for half 
 an hour? Nurse is in the laundry if you need 
 her. I am glad you and Uncle Henry are be- 
 coming such friends," she added, with a smile 
 for the tableau she had interrupted. 
 
 Henry followed to the laundry, but 
 [291] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 presently returned for a screw-driver. He had 
 come up the back stairs, and, as he turned to 
 the front of the house, a voice from the nursery 
 made him pause. 
 
 " Robert mustn't! No, no, naughty 
 must mind ! Robert knows what happens when 
 he doesn't mind Helena ! " 
 
 A mumble of defiance was followed by 
 a small crash. Helena jumped to her feet and 
 stood for a moment at the open nursery door, 
 listening intently. Henry, who had slipped into 
 the room adjoining, was not seen. The nursery 
 door was closed with ominous quiet. 
 
 What happened when Robert didn't 
 mind Helena? The uncle felt an overwhelm- 
 ing desire to know, and, stealing to the nursery 
 door, he opened it a noiseless inch. His gasp 
 of swallowed laughter would have betrayed 
 him if Helena had not been so absorbed. 
 Where, in that household, had she learned 
 how? Was the knowledge in the blood? Or 
 had the unhappy experiences of little playmates 
 enlightened her? Robert was turned across 
 Helena's small knee at the historic angle, and 
 [292] 
 
The Modern Way 
 
 the slipper was descending with temperate but 
 honest zeal. Even her little mouth had the 
 traditional expression; it was firm but sorrow- 
 ful, as though it said, " This hurts me more 
 than it hurts you ! " 
 
 An indignant roar followed Henry as, 
 screw-driver in hand, he slipped quietly down 
 the stairs again. His face, when he reappeared 
 in the laundry, was so red that his sister re- 
 proached him for hurrying. 
 
 " Say, Cordy," he began, his eyes fixed 
 on the screw he was tightening, " how long be- 
 fore Robert will be able to tell things say what 
 happens to him and all that? " 
 
 " Oh, not for a good many months. He 
 is backward about speaking he hasn't any 
 words at all yet. Were the children all right? " 
 Cordelia added as he said nothing. 
 
 " First-rate. Couldn't be better," was 
 the emphatic answer. " Good idea, letting Hel- 
 ena take care of Robert. I'd leave them to- 
 gether a whole lot if I were you. Clever child, 
 that." 
 
 " Oh, we do," said the mother fondly. 
 
 [293] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 11 Now don't you begin to see the value of the 
 modern method, Henry? " 
 
 Henry's face was bent abruptly over 
 his work. 
 
 " It has its points," he conceded. 
 
 [294] 
 
XV 
 
 My Mother s Diary 
 
 JUNE 1 1 : This is the end of our first 
 day in the valley, and Yosemite is almost up 
 to its photographs. The others weren't ener- 
 getic, but Tom and I went to see the Bridal Veil, 
 and sat there for an hour or more, discussing 
 what seems to be the correct topic now, heaven 
 versus extinction. He's an atheist, of course, 
 but not a very bigoted one. I shouldn't wonder 
 if in time he settled down into quite an orthodox 
 agnostic. We got very solemn. If you care 
 about sensations, the old place certainly does 
 give you your money's worth. It seems queer 
 to think that I, in my calfskin boots and leather 
 leggings, have been going over the very ground 
 that my mother traversed thirty years ago to- 
 day, probably in paper soles and hoop skirts. 
 She says that her engagement came out of that 
 trip. I wonder if Yosemite always affects our 
 [295] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 family that way! I ran across her little old 
 diary just before I left, and I am going to read 
 it each day after I have made my own record. 
 Let's see what she says of the nth of June. 
 Two pages of purple peaks and glowing senti- 
 ments, then: 
 
 Sat on a rock with J. and talked of the 
 immortality of the soul. Was troubled to find 
 he had been assailed by the doubts so prevalent 
 in this generation. Shall do all I can to clear 
 his vision. Talked long and earnestly, went 
 back much exalted by the grandeur and beauty 
 on every side. 
 
 Yes, I know that uplifted, soul to soul 
 feeling. Nowadays we call it religious flirta- 
 tion. Is this generation coarser and less rever- 
 ent, or simply more honest? I suppose J. stands 
 for Joseph, who has since become my father 
 and a pillar of the church. Mother did good 
 work that trip. 
 
 June 12:1 had a small adventure this 
 morning, all by myself. I was up earlier than 
 the rest, and it looked so lovely out that I 
 
 [296] 
 
My Mother's Diary 
 
 strolled a little way, and then a little farther, 
 and still on up a fascinating trail. I was ex- 
 amining a stone I had found, which I was mor- 
 ally certain indicated a gold mine under my feet, 
 and was trying to decide how I could stake out 
 my claim, when a little sound in front of me 
 made me look up. Not three feet away lay a 
 huge rattlesnake, who had evidently just dis- 
 covered me. We stood staring at each other 
 for a few seconds without any interchange of 
 courtesies. I was too scared to move, and I 
 dare say he was. Then I flung my gold stone 
 in his face and jumped back as far as I could. 
 There was a b-zz that made my blood run cold, 
 but it was his death rattle. He was very dead 
 and very nasty. 
 
 At first I thought I would sit down and 
 cry; then, running back to the hotel seemed 
 more attractive; but finally pride and vainglory 
 made me spear the vile thing upon a long 
 forked stick and carry him back to impress the 
 others. They were all out in front, wondering 
 where I was, and everybody was nice and im- 
 pressed and congratulatory, except Tom, who 
 
 [ 2 97] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 chose to be cross as a bear about it and to sulk 
 all day, probably because he didn't have the 
 glory himself. He read me a long lecture on 
 foolhardiness and not knowing when you ought 
 to be afraid, just as if I hadn't been in an agony 
 of fright the whole time. I suppose he would 
 have admired me more if I had let the snake 
 chase me home, so that he could rush out and 
 throttle it with one hand and bear me fainting 
 into the house with the other. Men say they 
 like girls to be plucky and sensible and all that, 
 but in their secret hearts they still adore the 
 Clingy Vine kind. Next time I get into a tight 
 place, and Tom is around, I'll give him a 
 little exhibition of how Clingy Vine behaves 
 under those circumstances, and we'll see how 
 he likes it. 
 
 Now for my mother's June twelfth. 
 More purple sentiments, which I'll skip, then: 
 
 I had a shock this morning, from which 
 my nerves have scarcely yet recovered. The 
 sense of horror still clings to me, and I dread 
 going to sleep, knowing what my dreams will 
 be. J. and I were following a path when sud- 
 
 [298] 
 
My Mother's Diary 
 
 denly we came upon a mammoth rattlesnake, 
 which one of the guides had killed. We saw 
 at once that the creature was dead, but his evil 
 look, and the dread thought of what might have 
 happened had he been alive, made me so faint 
 that J. was obliged to support me to a seat, 
 where I clung to him trembling and weeping 
 in spite of my efforts at self-control. It was a 
 long time before I was able to go on. He 
 showed the greatest kindness and sympathy, and 
 the gentlest consideration for my feminine tim- 
 idity. I find in him some very noble traits, and 
 his conversation is highly enjoyable. 
 
 My mother would have just suited Tom. 
 If she had been alone and the snake alive, I 
 wonder if she would have killed it herself! And 
 do you suppose I might have trembled and wept 
 if there had been any one on the spot to ap- 
 preciate it? It isn't impossible. 
 
 June 13: We went up Cloud's Rest to- 
 day : very fine. Edith wished she had a kodak, 
 which Tom said would be about as much in 
 place as a kazoo in a Beethoven symphony. 
 He has rather devoted himself in that direction 
 since I refused to be lectured more than a lim- 
 [299] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 ited amount yesterday. Edith doesn't kill 
 snakes. She squealed a little to-day when her 
 horse shied, and Tom grew positively affection- 
 ate. All the same, I happen to know that once, 
 when she was a little girl, she held up a mouse 
 by its tail; and if she goes too far, I'll betray 
 her. No present timidity can live down a past 
 like that; and she can't deny the charge, for I 
 stood on a table and shrieked while she did it. 
 Oh, I can spoil her chances any moment I 
 choose. I have had to content myself with 
 Will all day, and, what was harder still, to con- 
 tent him with me. It isn't easy to rouse en- 
 thusiasm in a man who is all the time trying to 
 overhear what another man is saying to another 
 girl, and wishing said other man's horse would 
 drop him over the edge of a cliff; but I finally 
 did it. I asked him if he didn't think Edith 
 had a lovely profile, and that caught his atten- 
 tion. Then I went on to her full face, and he 
 began to expand ; and by the time I had reached 
 her eyelashes he was all responsiveness. At 
 the end of half an hour we were so absorbed 
 in our topic that we nearly took the wrong trail. 
 
 [300] 
 
My Mother's Diary 
 
 Edith was rather cool to me afterwards, which 
 I call a little hard. 
 
 At the 1 3th, my mother has a tiny fern 
 pasted over the following: 
 
 One of the party gathered this for my 
 diary, as it would suggest the mighty handi- 
 works of nature on which it had been gazing all 
 its brief life, and added, " Take the bright shell 
 to your home on the lea, And wherever it goes, 
 it will sing of the sea." We had a long talk 
 about poetry and its influence on the emotions, 
 which I considered inferior to that of music. 
 He did not agree with me, and quoted many 
 beautiful lines from Mrs. Hemans and others 
 to convince me, as we strolled up and down in 
 the moonlight. J. was disposed to resent what 
 he called my desertion of him, and maintained 
 a gloomy front all the evening. I notice in him 
 a tendency to domineer at times, due to his 
 strong nature. He needs a softening influence. 
 
 Yes, Joseph, I've noticed that tendency 
 in you occasionally, too. Poor papa, the I3th 
 is an unlucky day for both of us! If I were 
 thirty years previous, I would go out and stroll 
 with you in the moonlight myself, and tell you 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 how " The rose had been washed, just washed 
 by a shower, Which Mary to Anna conveyed,'' 
 and we would make mother and Tom wildly 
 jealous. We aren't fickle things, always taking 
 up with another member of the party. Our 
 heart is true to Poll, isn't it? 
 
 June 14: I had a chance this afternoon 
 to show Tom how Clingy Vine acts in an emer- 
 gency, but pride and a rival in that line pre- 
 vented. We were going along a narrow trail 
 when Edith's mule, who had some private 
 grudge against mine, sneaked up behind and 
 tried to take a piece out of poor Jonathan. He 
 shrieked with rage and surprise, and gave an 
 indignant buck, and, before I could recover, 
 the saddle slipped around, and I found myself 
 riding on the wrong side of his body. Not 
 being skilled in the Human Fly act, I promptly 
 fell off, and landed with a large part of me 
 dangling over the Yosemite Fall. Of course I 
 was picked up and dusted and fussed over all 
 in a second; and I should have gone into hys- 
 terics if Edith hadn't got in ahead of me. It 
 was selfish of her, for I am sure my nerves were 
 [302] 
 
My Mother's Diary 
 
 more upset than anybody's. The only alter- 
 native was to make myself as disagreeable as 
 possible, which I did. Tom wanted to do all 
 sorts of things carry me home was one of 
 them, I believe but I told him Edith needed 
 his attention more than I did. I didn't really 
 suppose he would be discouraged so easily, but 
 he fell back at once, and made her drink some 
 brandy, and lent her his handkerchief. 
 
 This is the record of our last day in 
 the Valley, for we leave to-morrow noon. Next 
 time I visit Yosemite I am coming alone, and 
 then, perhaps, I shall have some time for the 
 scenery. Mother, too, seems to find human 
 relations disturbing. The I4th hasn't a word 
 about foaming cataracts, nor even a Biblical 
 quotation : 
 
 There are some things about J. that dis- 
 turb me not a little. When alone with me, he 
 shows the fullest appreciation of the marvels 
 around us, and a marked tendency to serious 
 reflection; but when amidst a crowd, he dis- 
 plays a certain levity that jars, a mad desire to 
 quiz from which nothing is sacred. His humor 
 
 [303] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 is quick and sprightly, and I cannot help laugh- 
 ing at his jests, which serve to make him but 
 the more popular with the other ladies; but 
 the fear that they are the outcome of a certain 
 lack of depth spoils my enjoyment. To-day, 
 whilst riding along the edge of a precipice, his 
 horse hit its foot against a stone and stumbled. 
 Had J. been a poor horseman, they might both 
 have been plunged to a horrible death. The 
 thought of it even now blanches my cheek. 
 Most men would have been sobered by such a 
 possibility, but J. showed a laughing careless- 
 ness that jarred on my sensibilities. Am I too 
 fanciful ? I trust and pray that I may not show 
 myself carping. We had a long and most de- 
 lightful talk this evening on the beautifying 
 influence of love, the glamour it casts over ob- 
 jects otherwise indifferent or even unsightly. In 
 many things we are kindred spirits. 
 
 \ 
 
 June 15 : There is still half an hour be- 
 fore the stage goes, so I will make a last entry 
 if people will only stop talking to me. We 
 went to Mirror Lake early this morning, I cling- 
 ing persistently and successfully to Will until 
 he suddenly saw Edith standing all alone, gaz- 
 [304] 
 
My Mother's Diary 
 
 ing pensively at her own reflection in the water. 
 That was too much. With one bound he had 
 shaken himself free and was off; and when I 
 collected my wits, I found myself discussing 
 the beauties of nature with Tom. I could write 
 yards about the lovely effects I saw in the next 
 half hour, but it all condenses down to the fact 
 that, on due provocation, I told Tom I loved 
 him which any idiot might have discovered 
 weeks ago and he explained his sentiments 
 toward me, about which there had been some 
 little confusion. I was inclined to be huffy 
 when I found that Edith had been merely a 
 blind, a ruse, to see how I would take it. I told 
 him he had won me under false pretenses, for I 
 never should have accepted him so promptly if 
 I hadn't supposed he was trembling in the bal- 
 ance between Edith and me. But I am happy 
 enough to forgive anybody anything. 
 
 He is pestering me now to come out for 
 one last stroll, but I must take a look at moth- 
 er's record for to-day. What if she and her J. 
 chose the I5th on which to come together, too? 
 I'll just glance, for my dear boy is saying softly, 
 [305] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 with all a lover's impressioned romance, " Say, 
 do brace up. The time is almost gone/' and 
 adding with tender pleading, " Won't you get 
 a move on? " 
 
 I am sad at heart, and have shed many 
 tears this beautiful day. Early this morning J. 
 and I walked to Mirror Lake, and there he of- 
 fered me the highest honor man can pay woman. 
 He asked me to be his wife. Fond as I am of 
 him, much as I admire his brilliant qualities, 
 I feel that I can never care for him as a true 
 wife should, and told him so, with all possible 
 gentleness. He was much cast down, and even 
 my offer of being a true and affectionate sister 
 to him did little to lighten his misery. I trust 
 I have not been to blame in any way and that 
 he will not let one disappointment blight his 
 life. Poor dear John! 
 
 John! Poor dear John? Then J. didn't 
 stand for Joseph, and it wasn't papa at all. 
 And after all those deep, soulful talks, and 
 communings, she naively hopes she hasn't been 
 to blame in any way ! My dear mother, I think 
 you must have forgotten what was in that old 
 
 [306] 
 
My Mother's Diary 
 
 diary when you said I might take it. There 
 are some things that even your frivolous daugh- 
 ter doesn't do. I may not inspire a man to 
 lead a better life, but I don't let him offer him- 
 self to me unless I mean to accept him. Yes, 
 Tom, I'm coming. My mother's diary ends 
 here, but across the corner of this last page is 
 written : 
 
 Had a long talk with another member 
 of the party. He asked me to call him Joseph, 
 and I said I would. Small conventionalities 
 seem out of place in this grand environment. 
 
 And this while poor John is eating his 
 heart out with grief ! O mamma ! 
 
 [307] 
 
XVI 
 
 A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 ADELAIDE'S first visit to her grand- 
 mother, paid when she was fourteen, had been 
 the most wonderful event of her life of any 
 girl's life, she was inclined to think. In spite 
 of her mother's proud reminiscences, a childish 
 conception of a softly shapeless old lady, knit- 
 ting by a sunny window, had persisted in her 
 expectations as the inevitable grandmother. She 
 was prepared to be driven in a carryall to an 
 old-fashioned mansion, shaded by elms, in 
 Fifty-second Street, New York City; the cat 
 would rise from its red cushion at her timid 
 entrance, and her grandmother would give her 
 peppermints between naps and cups of tea. 
 And there would be quaint paintings, pink wild 
 roses on black panels, sweetly frail ladies with 
 slanting eyes and pointed fingers, since her 
 grandmother had in her day been known as 
 [308] 
 
A foiled Old Lady 
 
 Adelaide Sayre, the artist. Young Adelaide 
 had gone eagerly prepared to be the daily bless- 
 ing and comfort, the willing runner of errands 
 and finder of spectacles, that any earnest reader 
 of Miss Alcott must hold as the ideal grand- 
 child. She would even read aloud nightly from 
 the Bible, she resolved in a burst of devotion, 
 as she followed her mother from the train at 
 Forty-second Street. 
 
 The whirl of new sensations that suc- 
 ceeded had left her speechless, weighted by a 
 shy awkwardness that was smilingly explained 
 as fatigue from the long journey. The pert 
 little dark-blue brougham had been the first 
 shock; next came the marble halls and uni- 
 formed boys, the big elevator, like a velvet- 
 padded room ; and then, instead of a kerchiefed 
 knitter under the elms, a handsome, well- 
 dressed, energetic woman, a gay, voluble per- 
 son, obviously not in the least in need of a lit- 
 tle comfort, who laughed and ordered every one 
 about, and said witty, delightful things, and 
 glanced into the mirror whenever she passed it, 
 as well she might. 
 
 [309] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 And the paintings! It was twenty-four 
 hours before Adelaide was calm enough to look 
 at them and banish forever any idea of flower- 
 wreathed panels. They were portraits of liv- 
 ing men and women ; big, bold figures, as salient 
 from the canvas as her grandmother's person- 
 ality from the dark splendor of her drawing- 
 room. The reconstruction had to be complete: 
 not even the cat survived. 
 
 They had arrived on Monday, and so 
 were comfortably settled in time for what Mrs. 
 Sayre explained as her Tuesday evenings. " Let 
 the child sit up; it will amuse her," she had 
 said, and so, about the time Adelaide should 
 have been giving her first granddaughterly 
 reading from the Bible, she was lurking in a 
 corner in her best gown, and saw the rooms fill 
 with strange and brilliant figures, among whom 
 her grandmother moved like a reigning sov- 
 ereign, surrounded wherever she paused by a 
 jovial court. She kept the talk and laughter 
 going with an irresistible enthusiasm, and they 
 all, young and old, filled every chink and cranny 
 in the gayety with a compliment to her charm 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 or her wit or her looks, and there was not one 
 compliment too small or mean to bring a dim- 
 pling smile, though even then Adelaide noticed 
 that those about her looks pleased her most. 
 
 The evening had been still more en- 
 chanting when Cousin Emma, a kindly, color- 
 less person who did the marketing and ar- 
 ranged the flowers, sat down beside her and 
 told her who the various visitors were : that one 
 had written books that were in the library at 
 home, another edited the magazine lying on the 
 table, another had painted pictures that she 
 must be taken to see. It was an evening from 
 a fairy tale. And when a writer of beloved 
 stories for young people took her cordially by 
 the hand and said he was always glad to meet 
 anyone whose name began with Adelaide Sayre, 
 no matter what it ended with, she could only 
 dash out of the room and burst into tears of 
 sheer glory. 
 
 And now she was coming back, ten 
 years older, schooled and colleged, experienced 
 in social doings, with several offers of marriage 
 to her credit, and an energetic theory ready for 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 every aspect of life, honest, cocksure, tender- 
 hearted and exceedingly pretty, to visit this same 
 wonderful grandmother. That Mrs. Sayre 
 also would be ten years older she accepted, but 
 did not quite realize; she fancied the fairy tale 
 as going on with undiminished splendor. And 
 this time she was to be a part of it, instead of 
 a little frightened outsider; the thought made 
 her lips curve joyously, bringing out a tempered 
 resemblance to her grandmother Sayre. 
 
 Cousin Emma, more pallid and dim 
 than ever, said repeatedly on the way from the 
 station how glad she was that Adelaide had 
 come. 
 
 " You will do your grandmother good," 
 she said, not without wistfulness. Adelaide, re- 
 membering her little-comfort aspirations of ten 
 years before, smiled to herself. 
 
 " Grandmother is more likely to do me 
 good, I imagine," she said. But she under- 
 stood better when she entered the drawing- 
 room not quite so large or so splendid as she 
 remembered it and took her grandmother's 
 outstretched hands. Somewhere in the interval 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 Mrs. Sayre had crossed the line and entered 
 the territory of old age, but not willingly, nor 
 with the grace of patience. She had chosen to 
 ignore it, as she might have ignored a muddy 
 skirt or the blunder of a domestic. 
 
 " Well, my dear! I am glad to see you. 
 And how pretty you have turned out ! " was her 
 greeting. Adelaide kissed with quick compas- 
 sion the cheek that ten years before had been 
 so firm and smooth, and whose color had been 
 the natural autumn of maturity instead of this 
 pitiful glazed pink. 
 
 " Mother has hopes that I shall grow 
 to look like you, grandmother," she answered; 
 then wondered if she had said anything to of- 
 fend, in the blank pause that followed. Cousin 
 Emma, under pretense of helping her to un- 
 hook her boa, murmured hastily: 
 
 " Speak more slowly and distinctly." 
 
 " If you and Adelaide have secrets to 
 whisper about, Emma, I will leave you to- 
 gether," was the sharp interruption. 
 
 "Indeed, no, dear!" Emma pleaded. 
 " Adelaide, don't you think it is amazing how 
 
 [313] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 little your grandmother has changed in ten 
 years?" 
 
 " I think I have changed more than 
 either of you," said Adelaide. 
 
 Mrs. Sayre smiled indulgently. " But 
 very much for the better, my dear! But you 
 must be tired; I am going to take you to your 
 room. I beg you, Emma, keep your shawl for 
 your own rheumatic shoulders ! I am not quite 
 in my dotage." She led the way with tremu- 
 lous dignity, her handsome gown, accented 
 waist line and firmly tailored shoulders con- 
 trasting oddly with the curved back of old age, 
 which no padding or lacing could mitigate. 
 Cousin Emma followed meekly, the rejected 
 shawl held as unobtrusively as possible over one 
 arm. 
 
 " We shall have gay times, you and 
 I, Adelaide," her grandmother announced, a 
 gleam of the old briskness in her eyes and voice. 
 " Emma will have her hands full chaperoning 
 us. Now I want you to rest, for you know this 
 is one of my Tuesday evenings. The crowd 
 changes from year to year I grow more ex- 
 
 [314] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 elusive and admit fewer; but it never falls off 
 in quality, does it, Emma? " 
 
 " Indeed, no. You always have won- 
 derful people," Emma said, with an eagerness 
 that was dimly apologetic. Mrs. Sayre ac- 
 cepted this with a dignified patience that seemed 
 to say, " Of course poor Emma cannot help 
 being obvious and tiresome, but I think she does 
 appreciate me." 
 
 " I have sent for young Dwight Mar- 
 shall to entertain you, Adelaide," she went on. 
 " His father was an old love of mine. He 
 would do anything for me till the hour of his 
 death though he married a very worthy lit- 
 tle person from the West and was always good 
 to her." 
 
 " And the son seems to have inherited 
 the devotion," Cousin Emma put in. " He 
 sends Aunt Adelaide a great box of roses every 
 Christmas, just as his father used to do. He 
 thinks the world of her." 
 
 " Oh, Emma exaggerates ! " But Mrs. 
 Sayre was evidently not displeased. She sub- 
 mitted to the shawl as she turned to leave; or, 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 rather, ignored its quiet placing across her 
 shoulders. In the doorway she paused. 
 
 ' You see, I have put you in the room 
 next to mine," she said graciously. " Some- 
 times I sleep badly, and reading aloud is not 
 Emma's forte! She is a good soul" (with an 
 affable nod), " but she stumbles among the 
 words like a child learning to walk. I think her 
 eyes are failing, but she is too vain to admit 
 it." She shook her head in humorous reproach. 
 
 " Everybody's eyes can't be as wonder- 
 ful as yours, dear aunt," Adelaide heard Emma 
 say as she closed the door. 
 
 Still in her hat and coat, the girl sat 
 down on the edge of the bed and stared dubi- 
 ously at her boots. Disappointment, dismay, 
 pity, indignation even, crowded her tired brain, 
 culminating in a forlorn laugh. 
 
 " Anyway, the Tuesday evenings still 
 go on," she reflected, rising with a sigh to put 
 away her things. 
 
 Adelaide appeared in the drawing-room 
 just before dinner, wearing her prettiest gown, 
 a flush of renewed anticipation in her cheeks. 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 Cousin Emma, who was there alone, dressed in 
 dim, drab colors, looked uneasily at the deep 
 folds of soft old blue falling all about the little 
 bronze slippers, the bare shoulders, the velvet 
 bow in the bright bronze hair. 
 
 " My dear, must you wear that? " she 
 asked, rising nervously to her feet. 
 
 " But why not? " Adelaide looked be- 
 wildered. " Do you mean the low neck? 
 Doesn't everyone? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course, and you look 
 lovely." Cousin Emma hesitated and flushed. 
 " Only, you see, your grandmother she can- 
 not wear what she once could, and it is natu- 
 rally hard for her to see " She broke down 
 under Adelaide's stare of honest noncompre- 
 hension. " Of course, you look lovely; only, 
 when one has been the center for so many 
 years Oh, Aunt Adelaide, and this is the 
 new lavender silk! Doesn't she look like a 
 piece of Dresden, Adelaide? " 
 
 The old lady came forward graciously, 
 smiling with satisfaction, her elaborate head 
 high, her little blue eyes glancing under a fine 
 
 [317] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 lady droop of wrinkled lids above the pitiful 
 pink of her cheeks. But the satisfaction died 
 abruptly when she saw her granddaughter, 
 fresh and lovely, careless of where the light 
 fell on her girlish throat and shoulders. 
 
 "H'm! You look very fine," she said 
 shortly. " I wore things like that myself once." 
 Her hand went to the chiffon folds that swathed 
 her throat almost to the ears. " You will have 
 all the cavaliers to yourself, which, I suppose, 
 is all you care about. Emma, when will dinner 
 be ready? This is the third time within a week 
 that I have had to wait and wait." 
 
 Emma apologized and soothed and 
 complimented, but to little purpose. Mrs. 
 Sayre ate her dinner in aggressive silence, 
 broken by an occasional sharp comment upon 
 the follies and vanities of youth. Adelaide 
 tried her best to be brightly unconscious of the 
 atmosphere; but she was hurt and astonished, 
 and not a little indignant. Jealous of one's 
 own grandchild? It was incredible. After 
 dinner Cousin Emma tried deviously to get a 
 private word with her, some urgent request dis- 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 tending her pale eyes; but Adelaide was in no 
 mood to make concessions, and would not see 
 the cautious signals. 
 
 Then Dwight Marshall came, boyish, 
 thickset, friendly and direct " her kind," as 
 she decided with quick satisfaction. She knew 
 in two minutes that he found her charming; 
 and yet he was evidently in the secret, for he 
 talked almost exclusively to Mrs. Sayre until 
 the rooms began to fill. 
 
 Not that they actually filled, as in the 
 old days; but Adelaide counted some twenty 
 arrivals. At first she was too absorbed in meet- 
 ing the individuals to see the assemblage as a 
 whole. Her little blue eyes and bronze hair 
 and the sweeping folds of old blue silk brought 
 her instant importance, and she was talking 
 with happy animation to an increasing group 
 when a glimpse of Cousin Emma's face, dis- 
 tressed almost to tears, made her look about, 
 startled. Over by the table where the coffee 
 service was always placed sat her grandmother, 
 quite alone. Her court was surrounding Ade- 
 laide. 
 
 [319] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 The girl hesitated in dismay, uncertain 
 how to act: Mrs. Sayre's face did not invite 
 artless approach. But the others, following 
 her glance, evidently understood, for one by one 
 they began to drift over to the coffee table. 
 Mrs. Sayre did not unbend readily, but they 
 drew up chairs and begged for coffee and ad- 
 mired her lavender gown until finally the thin 
 lips relaxed and she shone upon them again, a 
 wintry warmth not without an occasional nip 
 to it. 
 
 Adelaide, left free to move about, real- 
 ized for the first time the strangeness of the 
 assemblage. There were white-bearded old 
 men, feeble or weary, with the keenness of their 
 eyes faded to dim kindliness, notably one who 
 strayed persistently from group to group assur- 
 ing each with a childish laugh that he had not 
 missed one of Mrs. Sayre's Tuesdays in thirty 
 years. There were women who suggested queer 
 cults, women with massive noses or projecting 
 teeth or high, rapid voices echoing long years 
 of argument; wisps of vegetarianism and dull, 
 complacent widows of great men long dead; 
 
 [320] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 Illustrators of obscure magazines, singers whom 
 no one ever asked to sing. Two young women, 
 eager-eyed for celebrities, pursued Cousin 
 Emma with excited whispers of, " Who is that 
 one? What does he do?" and were plainly 
 disappointed in the answers. 
 
 " Nothing but dictionary makers and 
 relatives of dead authors ! " Adelaide heard one 
 of them complain to the other. It was a mot- 
 ley, shabby crowd; the splendid court of ten 
 years before had suffered a grievous enchant- 
 ment. 
 
 Did Mrs. Sayre know? She was mov- 
 ing among them with as much of her old-time 
 air as her feebler carriage could convey, seem- 
 ing wholly complacent at the cracked and an- 
 cient homage. The compliments had grown 
 vapid, foolish, but no chance for one was passed 
 over: that seemed to be the recognized price of 
 admission. Why they came could be surmised: 
 a very few for old times' sake, the majority be- 
 cause they had nowhere else to go, or because 
 the glamour of a past exclusiveness still made 
 their admission seem a triumph; one or two, 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 perhaps, because they actually needed the coffee 
 and cake. They petted Mrs. Sayre and re- 
 peated themselves dutifully at her impatient 
 "What's that? What's that? How you all 
 do mumble ! " and smiled or sighed about her 
 in corners when they could escape from court 
 duty. The calm satisfaction of her bearing 
 suddenly reminded Adelaide of a broken-down 
 prima donna she had once seen bowing to the 
 applause, half derisive and half kindly, of a 
 vaudeville audience, and she could have burst 
 into tears as she did ten years before. She 
 turned abruptly away, and so came face to face 
 with Dwight Marshall while her eyes were still 
 full of distress. 
 
 He seemed to understand. 
 
 " Your grandmother has been a remark- 
 able woman in her day," he said with grave 
 directness. " People will always be very kind 
 to her." 
 
 " Kind? You call this kind? " There 
 was indignation in the protest. " They are mak- 
 ing a fool of her, they are humoring her and 
 then laughing at her. It isn't kind! How 
 [322] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 do you think she would feel if she saw herself 
 as you all see her? It would kill her. People 
 have petted her vanity till it has blinded and 
 deafened her, and she was too fine to be treated 
 like that. If I found you had a weakness for 
 drink, and then on every occasion I urged it on 
 you until you could not live without it, would 
 you call that kind? " 
 
 Marshall looked startled. " No one 
 meant it in that way," he protested. 
 
 " It isn't as if she were feeble-minded 
 so old that there was nothing to do but keep 
 her amused till the end," Adelaide went on 
 more calmly. "She is still a capable citizen; 
 a little deafness won't let her out of her respon- 
 sibilities. She understands well enough, I am 
 sure of it; so did the prima donna only you 
 don't know about that. It is not that I don't 
 respect old age, Mr. Marshall, truly. Only 
 don't you think even old age has to help earn 
 its respect? Do I sound hard? " 
 
 He obviously did not think her hard; 
 but he would not agree. 
 
 " I don't see how you can discipline 
 
 [323] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 people who are over sixty," he said. " They 
 get what they demand." 
 
 " People have to be disciplined at any 
 age if they need it. And she does." Adelaide 
 relaxed into a smile. " She is the most spoiled 
 old lady I ever met ! " He looked amused. 
 
 "What are you going to do about it? 
 You know there is a vulgar saying, ' Don't teach 
 your grandmother ' ' 
 
 " I know ; you need not finish it. I don't 
 see why I should not unspoil her a little, quite 
 politely. I certainly shall not offer up a com- 
 pliment for every breath she draws." Then 
 she colored with a sudden thought. " I have 
 not meant to be disloyal," she said quickly. 
 
 " Oh, I am almost one of the family," 
 he reassured her. Obviously he did not think 
 her disloyal. 
 
 When the last guest had gone, Adelaide 
 tumbled wearily into bed, too tired even to take 
 down her hair. After two hours of what she 
 called " stumping sleep," a dull sound, repeated 
 at intervals, dragged her back to consciousness. 
 When she realized that it was a knocking on 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 the wall beside her, her senses cleared with a 
 start, and, catching up a wrapper, she ran into 
 her grandmother's room with a sinking appre- 
 hension of vague terrors known as " attack " 
 and " seizure." 
 
 Mrs. Sayre was sitting up in bed, 
 wrapped in a pale-blue dressing gown, a shaded 
 lamp at her elbow. 
 
 " My dear," she said impressively, " I 
 have not closed my eyes. I am sorry to awaken 
 you, but then young people go right to sleep 
 again. Suppose you read to me for a while; I 
 am sure your voice is soothing." 
 
 u Yes, certainly. I will get on some- 
 thing warmer." At the instant, Adelaide felt 
 only relief, though there was a suppressed firm- 
 ness in her movements when she came back 
 from her room a few moments later. A mem- 
 ory of the projected Bible readings of ten years 
 ago made her smile a little grimly as she took 
 up the indicated novel. 
 
 The reading was so successful that in 
 half an hour the wrinkled lids had drooped over 
 the little blue eyes. Adelaide let her voice grad- 
 
 [325] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 ually die down, then put out the light and stole 
 away. It was a long time before she could get 
 to sleep herself. 
 
 " Adelaide is an excellent reader," said 
 Mrs. Sayre contentedly in the morning. " I 
 think she will be a great comfort to me." Ade- 
 laide tried to look gratified, but the idea of be- 
 ing a comfort seemed to have lost some of its 
 glamour in the last ten years. 
 
 Three times during the week that fol- 
 lowed the knocking on the wall brought Ade- 
 laide scrambling back from slumber. She be- 
 gan to sleep uneasily, expecting to be called and 
 starting up at imaginary sounds. When 
 Dwight Marshall accused her of looking 
 fagged, she ruefully confessed the truth, on the 
 accepted basis that he was almost one of the 
 family. 
 
 " Of course, if she were ill I should 
 think nothing of it," she protested. " But it is 
 just that she likes the amusement; she is simply 
 spoiled." 
 
 " Put dope in her coffee," he suggested. 
 
 " She ought to give the coffee up; that 
 
 [326] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 would be the sensible thing," was the energetic 
 answer. Marshall smiled; he liked her em- 
 phatic assertions. 
 
 " If I were you, I would sleep through 
 the knocking," he said. 
 
 The words came back to her that night, 
 checking a startled impulse to rise at the famil- 
 iar summons. She covered her ears and lay 
 guiltily still. Mrs. Sayre rapped again, and 
 then again, more sharply. Adelaide stealthily 
 pulled the pillow over her head. The knocking 
 persisted for half an hour, but without success. 
 Mrs. Sayre was probably asleep long before her 
 grandchild was. 
 
 " Dear me, Adelaide, you slept like the 
 dead last night," was her greeting in the morn- 
 ing. " I could not rouse you." 
 
 " I was very tired," Adelaide began 
 evasively, then took a courageous resolve. 
 " You see, I am not used to being waked up in 
 the night," she said brightly, " and it has made 
 me sleep very brokenly and badly. Don't you 
 suppose, if I read to you before I went to bed, 
 that would get you to sleep earlier? " 
 
 [327] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Mrs. Sayre was eying her more in as- 
 tonishment than anger. 
 
 " H'm ! Emma has never complained 
 at being waked in the night, " she said. 
 
 " Well, Cousin Emma looks very worn 
 and nervous. You know, dear grandmother, 
 she ought not to seem a dozen years older than 
 you ! " This concession to policy softened re- 
 sentment to plaintiveness. 
 
 " Young people think only of them- 
 selves! If you knew what it is to lie awake 
 hour after hour " 
 
 " Do you suppose that your coffee " 
 Adelaide ventured. 
 
 " Nonsense! Coffee never hurt me yet," 
 was the impatient answer, and the subject was 
 dropped. Nevertheless, Adelaide did not seem 
 to have lost favor by her stand. And she was 
 not wakened again. 
 
 " Having succeeded, I feel rather un- 
 kind and ashamed," she confided to Dwight 
 Marshall in one of the rare moments when they 
 were left together. As a rule, Mrs. Sayre mo- 
 nopolized his calls. 
 
 [328] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 " But it is missionary work the un- 
 spoiling of a grandmother," he said teasingly. 
 " I am immensely interested, you know. Do 
 you mind if I come very often to hear the 
 reports? " 
 
 She admitted gravely that she did not 
 mind. Then their eyes met, and they laughed. 
 " Oh, I do like New York! " thought Adelaide 
 breathlessly. 
 
 Her grandmother, coming in later, 
 found Marshall's card on the table. 
 
 " I have been in all the afternoon," she 
 said indignantly. " Why was I not told he was 
 here?" 
 
 " I believe you were lying down, grand- 
 mother," Adelaide began. Then the approval 
 in Emma's pale eyes warned her that she was 
 slipping. " Besides, I really think he came to 
 see me this time," she added frankly. Cousin 
 Emma made a sign of dismayed warning. 
 Mrs. Sayre, still holding the card, eyed her and 
 her pretty white gown in cold astonishment. 
 
 u I suppose you think that of everyone 
 who comes to the house," she said ironically. 
 [3 2 9] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 "Indeed, I don't! But Mr. Marshall 
 well, honestly, grandmother, isn't it sort of 
 natural? " Mrs. Sayre's mood wavered a mo- 
 ment, then she actually relaxed into a smile. 
 
 " Well, honestly, my dear, I suppose it 
 is ! " she admitted. " The old women must ex- 
 pect to go into the background," she added with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " Indeed, Aunt Adelaide, no one who 
 saw your Tuesday nights could think that," 
 Emma put in eagerly. Mrs. Sayre ignored this, 
 and sat with her keen old eyes meditating on 
 Adelaide in a way that made the latter tremble 
 for what might be coming. It proved even 
 worse than she had expected. 
 
 " You have seen two of my Tuesdays, 
 Adelaide. What do you think of them? " 
 
 Cousin Emma was aquiver with signals. 
 The giiTs color rose, but she answered stur- 
 dily: 
 
 " I think, dear grandmother, that they 
 are not worthy of you." 
 
 " Worthy of me ! I should like to 
 know what you mean by that! " 
 [330] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 " I don't think most of those who come 
 are good enough," Adelaide persisted; " and 
 some of them are not even real friends." 
 
 Mrs. Sayre was plainly angry. 
 
 " No doubt my circle is not just what 
 you have been accustomed to in Portland, 
 Oregon," she said blandly. " You must forgive 
 me if I do not consider you qualified to judge 
 a New York assemblage. Emma, what are you 
 making faces about? It is a most annoying 
 habit. If you will indicate the sort of persons 
 you are pining for, Adelaide, I will send cards, 
 though I rarely increase my circle." Adelaide 
 was persistently good-tempered. 
 
 " You asked for my honest opinion, 
 grandmother," she said plaintively; "it isn't 
 fair to snub me because I gave it ! " 
 
 " One must be patient with the crude 
 ignorance of youth," said Mrs. Sayre, turning 
 away. She was reserved and haughty at din- 
 ner and all the evening, ignoring Adelaide's 
 bright friendliness as well as Emma's consola- 
 tory flattery; but when Adelaide was putting 
 out her light that night, a knock on the wall 
 
 [331] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 summoned her. She went with alacrity, feeling 
 secretly guilty and troubled. 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Sayre formally, 
 " I do not wish you to think that I disapprove 
 of your frankness. There is even a certain re- 
 lief in it; Emma is cloying at times. When you 
 are more at home here, you will find that there 
 are some fine and valued persons at my Tues- 
 day gatherings. I have no objection to saying 
 that there are also some very tiresome old 
 frumps. Good night." 
 
 Adelaide impulsively took the frail old 
 hand and kissed it. It was a warmly real trib- 
 ute. The fixed dignity of her grandmother's 
 face softened to a smile when she was alone. 
 
 From that night dated Mrs. Sayre's de- 
 pendence on her grandchild a reserved de- 
 pendence, seldom expressed, yet showing daily 
 more plainly. Cousin Emma had made several 
 attempts to reduce Adelaide's plumage to her 
 own dim drabs, but the girl had firmly con- 
 tinued to make herself look as pretty as pos- 
 sible, and her grandmother's hostility had grad- 
 ually diminished. She now began to consult 
 
 [332] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 Adelaide about her own clothes, somewhat to 
 the latter's dismay, for her honesty was her 
 most cherished principle as well as her strong- 
 est impulse, and there was scant room for it in 
 Mrs. Sayre's wardrobe. On a morning that 
 Adelaide never forgot, she went, an unwilling 
 prisoner in the little blue brougham, to help 
 choose an evening gown. The dressmaker, an 
 adroit and soothing Frenchwoman, showed soft 
 grays and lustrous black-and-whites, but Mrs. 
 Sayre's fancy was caught by the shimmer of a 
 delicate rose crepe. 
 
 " I don't see why I could not wear 
 that," she said critically. " Pink was always my 
 color." 
 
 The dressmaker was of the opinion that 
 madame could wear it charmingly. She threw 
 folds of it over Mrs. Sayre's shoulder, adroitly 
 lowering the shade of the big window by the 
 mirror, and turned to Adelaide with the trium- 
 phant air of a conjurer who has produced the 
 rabbit. Then she disappeared in quest of the 
 exactly appropriate lace. 
 
 Mrs. Sayre studied her image compla- 
 
 [333] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 cently in the long triple mirror, while Adelaide 
 turned away, sick at heart. There was some- 
 thing ghastly in the contrast of that fresh, deli- 
 cate rose with the worn face and curved back. 
 The pink of the sunken cheeks seemed to stand 
 out ironically. 
 
 " Well, what do you think, my dear? " 
 The cheerful question set her heart throbbing 
 heavily. 
 
 " Let us try this gray again, grand- 
 mother," she suggested. " I don't know but 
 that it is prettier." Mrs. Sayre was instantly 
 suspicious. 
 
 " I suppose you think I am too old for 
 this," she said sharply. " I can't see why young 
 girls should monopolize the pretty things." 
 
 "Nor I," Adelaide was glad to assent; 
 but she could not get off with that. 
 
 " Well, then, why do you disapprove of 
 the pink? " 
 
 She hesitated, then firmly clutched her 
 courage. " It does not seem to me as becoming 
 as the gray. It makes you look older." 
 
 Mrs. Sayre frowned into the glass. 
 [334] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 " I do not see it," she said severely. 
 ' The room is absurdly dark; suppose you pull 
 up that shade." 
 
 Adelaide meant to lift the shade an inch 
 or two, but the cord slipped from her fingers 
 and it shot up to the top, letting in a merciless 
 stream of light. She stood helpless in an an- 
 guish of pity as the old lady stared at herself, 
 unmistakably artificial, old, and unbeautiful, 
 growing slowly pale about her compressed lips. 
 Adelaide saw a shaking hand pressing heavily 
 on a chair back, yet could not lift her eyes from 
 the fashion plates she was blindly turning. 
 
 The dressmaker came back, her hands 
 full of lace. Mrs. Sayre turned away from the 
 mirror. 
 
 " I like this very well," she said in her 
 usual assured tones. " I think I will order it, 
 but I will take a day to consider. You might 
 save the gray, too. Well, Adelaide, shall we 
 do any more shopping? I believe I am rather 
 tired." 
 
 " Do let us go home," said Adelaide 
 eagerly. Later, in the brougham, she pressed 
 
 [335] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 her cheek for an instant against her grand- 
 mother's shoulder. 
 
 * You are so splendid," she murmured 
 impulsively. " I am proud to belong to you ! " 
 
 4 You are a good child, Adelaide," was 
 the bland answer. If Mrs. Sayre suffered, no 
 one saw it, though she looked haggard in the 
 morning, as though from sleeplessness. Nei- 
 ther the gray nor the pink was ordered. And 
 so ended the days of her splendor. 
 
 " Everyone has to face things," Ade- 
 laide argued to her troubled heart, still shrink- 
 ing at the white shock she had witnessed. 
 
 An unexpected result of this incident 
 was the growth of a veiled pride in Adelaide's 
 freshness and charm. With the end of her own 
 triumphs confronting her, Mrs. Sayre seemed 
 to transfer to the girl's interests a measure of 
 the restless vanity that had hitherto been all for 
 herself. She became greedy of compliments 
 for Adelaide, though she was still sufficiently 
 human not to repeat them. A shade of haugh- 
 tiness crept over the bland satisfaction of her 
 Tuesday evening manner. Once she inter- 
 
 [336] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 rupted a laborious admirer, dutifully paying 
 for his coffee, with a disconcerting " Non- 
 sense ! " adding at his astonished stare, " You 
 see that child over there? Keep your admira- 
 tion for her only she is too good for it ! " He 
 edged away and confided to a brother sycophant 
 that the old lady was failing very fast, and they 
 ate a double quantity of cake in melancholy 
 foreboding. 
 
 And it was true; Mrs. Sayre was fail- 
 ing. The signs seemed to come from every di- 
 rection at once, as though they had long been 
 preparing and only awaited some signal. She 
 began to shrink from her rigorously fashion- 
 able clothes, appearing most often in a softly 
 shapeless black cashmere, and the pitiful pink 
 showed in her cheeks only on Tuesday nights. 
 These occasions seemed to tire her out, and 
 there came one when, having a slight cold, she 
 consented to let Adelaide make her excuses to 
 her guests. When the girl was dressed, she 
 called her in and looked at her with quiet satis- 
 faction. 
 
 " You will do; you are a worthy repre- 
 [337] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 sentative, my dear," she said. " They will not 
 
 miss me." 
 
 " I shall miss you," said Adelaide with 
 a quick impulse of tenderness. " As for those 
 old frumps," daringly, " we don't care, do 
 we?" 
 
 " Not especially ! " with a faint smile. 
 
 The evening dragged heavily. Most 
 of the old habitues had dropped off during the 
 winter, and the assemblage, freed from the re- 
 straint of Mrs. Sayre's presence, seemed to Ade- 
 laide more strange and sycophantic and greedy 
 than ever. She resented their familiar ease in 
 the dignified luxury of her grandmother's draw- 
 ing-room, their loud voices and open relief in 
 the freedom from court duty. Several had lit 
 cigarettes: "We know you don't mind you're 
 too jolly! " they explained to Adelaide. 
 
 " Wouldn't I like to turn them all out ! " 
 was her fierce thought as eleven o'clock came 
 and they showed no signs of leaving. Some one 
 had brought a new guest, a red-haired young 
 man aggressively at ease, who had been ad- 
 dressing her at intervals with a cheerful " Say," 
 
 [338] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 and he was now called on for one of his evi- 
 dently famous monologues. 
 
 He prepared for his act by putting on 
 a derby hat very much over one eye and turning 
 up his coat collar, and took his place opposite 
 the lounging semicircle. Several had pulled 
 Mrs. Sayre's velvet cushions to the floor and 
 were seated on them, familiar elbows resting 
 on her stately brocade couches ; a young woman 
 with her foot tucked under her occupied the 
 chair of state by the solemn mahogany table 
 and peered freely into the coffeepot when her 
 cup was empty. A thin drift of smoke hung 
 under the chandelier. 
 
 " Me nyme is Artie," began the monolo- 
 gist, then stopped short with a dismayed stare 
 that led all eyes to the other end of the room. 
 The portieres had parted, and Mrs. Sayre, in 
 all the glory of lavender silk, old lace and dia- 
 monds, stood quietly surveying the scene. The 
 pink of her cheeks was war paint to their 
 shocked nerves. 
 
 They started to scramble to their feet, 
 but she checked them with a gesture. 
 [339] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " I beg you will not let me interrupt," 
 she said pleasantly. " I am anxious to hear. 
 I have always been fond of a good recitation." 
 She took the chair some one pushed forward 
 for her and turned her keen little blue eyes, ter- 
 rible in their bland courtesy, on the speaker. 
 The others sank back shamefacedly, or slipped 
 into chairs, extinguishing their cigarettes in 
 their coffee cups. The monologist stammered 
 an excuse, but Mrs. Sayre was inexorable, so he 
 went through his act with desperate bravado to 
 such empty laughter as they could manage. 
 When it was over, she thanked him with a mer- 
 ciless politeness and made a stately tour through 
 the awkward groups, pausing to speak to each. 
 Some one made an eager move to say good 
 night. 
 
 " One moment," said Mrs. Sayre, and 
 her voice reached and silenced them all. She 
 stood with the tips of her frail fingers resting 
 on the coffee table. " You have all been most 
 kind in coming to see me so faithfully," she 
 went on, with a courtesy that stung. " I have 
 appreciated it, as any old woman must appreci- 
 [340] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 ate unselfish devotion. But I find myself less 
 strong, too easily tired even by the pleasures of 
 hospitality. And so I am obliged to tell you 
 that this will be the last of my Tuesday even- 
 ings at home. I regret it, and I thank you from 
 my heart." 
 
 She stood in her place until the last one 
 had said good night and escaped ; then she went 
 to her room and closed the door. 
 
 Cousin Emma stared in pale awe at 
 Adelaide. 
 
 " How did it happen how did she 
 know?" 
 
 " I went and told her." The girl was 
 half frightened, half triumphant. " I asked 
 her to come and look at them through the por- 
 tieres an hour ago. But I never dreamed she 
 would do this. Still, aren't you glad? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. She will miss 
 them," said Emma uneasily. 
 
 Adelaide did not see how anyone could 
 feel the lack of such festivities, yet she had to 
 acknowledge a dim pathos when the next Tues- 
 day evening came. Mrs. Sayre had dressed 
 
 [341] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 elaborately, as though the habit were too strong 
 to be put away at once, and, as the clock ap- 
 proached nine, her eyes kept turning expectantly 
 toward the door. 
 
 Adelaide slipped down on the hearth- 
 rug with her cheek against her grandmother's 
 knee. " It is nice not to have that tiresome 
 crowd here, isn't it? " she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes, a great relief." Mrs. 
 Sayre had started slightly at the reminder, and 
 she now leaned back heavily in her chair. " A 
 great relief," she repeated wearily. When the 
 portiere was pushed back a few moments later, 
 she half started to her feet, and Adelaide saw, 
 with dismay, that her eyes brightened, to cloud 
 again as only a servant with firewood appeared. 
 
 " But they were hateful old deceiving 
 frumps," she assured herself. 
 
 At bedtime she begged to read aloud, 
 but the old lady was gently inaccessible, lost in 
 her own thoughts. 
 
 " Suppose we ask some new people for 
 Tuesday nights nice ones," suggested Ade- 
 laide, lingering in the doorway. 
 
 [342] 
 
A foiled Old Lady 
 
 " My dear, everyone who knows me 
 has been at liberty to come," was the stately 
 answer. " We will not send out into the high- 
 ways. Good night." 
 
 All that week Mrs. Sayre seemed 
 very feeble, sitting often in half smiling blank- 
 ness, wholly content if Adelaide was near her. 
 When Tuesday evening came and she appeared 
 in the soft negligee of other nights, they 
 hoped she would not remember, and Adelaide 
 welcomed Dwight Marshall with a warning 
 against any reminder of what day it was. The 
 old lady let him talk to her for a few minutes, 
 then, with a hint of her old briskness, she sent 
 Cousin Emma to see that the library fire was 
 going well and the lamp lit. 
 
 " I shall leave this fire to you two young 
 people," she said. " You are a good boy, 
 Dwight, but it is not the grandmother you come 
 to see." She went away smiling at their con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Dwight, seeing Adelaide's cheeks crim- 
 son, found courage to take one of her hands 
 and press it gently between his. 
 
 [343] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 " Well, it isn't, you know ! " he said. 
 " You do know it, don't you? " 
 
 An hour or two later they went to the 
 library hand in hand. ' We mustn't wholly 
 forget the perfectly trained grandmother," he 
 had suggested. 
 
 "Ah, don't! " she exclaimed. 
 
 In the doorway they paused. The old 
 lady sat alone in the glow of the lamp, her head 
 resting on her hand. Weakness and weariness 
 were in every line ; the shadow of the end lay on 
 her worn face. Spread on the table beside her 
 in a wide semicircle were rows and rows of pho- 
 tographs, most of them old and faded men 
 whose faces showed strength, or personality, or 
 talent, handsome women in quaint garb once 
 brilliantly fashionable, or with intellectual fore- 
 heads and poised penholders or magazines un- 
 der their elbows, a goodly company of person- 
 ages, many of them bearing names written in 
 the history of the city or of the nation, all 
 worthy of a renowned drawing-room. Mrs. 
 Sayre was spending Tuesday evening with her 
 friends. 
 
 [344] 
 
A Spoiled Old Lady 
 
 Adelaide abruptly turned away, and 
 they left unseen. In the other room she leaned 
 her arms on the mantelpiece and stared into 
 the coals, her eyes wide with some growing 
 distress. 
 
 " You have been a great comfort to her, 
 Adelaide," Dwight reminded her. She faced 
 him with a gesture of misery. 
 
 " I have killed her," she said hotly. 
 " Oh, don't you see ! I took away her vanity, 
 her pride. It was that that kept her up; that 
 held her together; and I knew so much, I called 
 her spoiled and took it away. No, don't say 
 anything ; I tell you, I know ! I have been feel- 
 ing it vaguely for weeks, ever since one dread- 
 ful day at the dressmaker's, but I didn't under- 
 stand till this minute. I let her see that the 
 effort wasn't worth while, and when she began 
 to let go, there was nothing to stop her. Oh, 
 it is horrible." She pressed her face into her 
 palms. 
 
 "Adelaide," he protested, "you have 
 been the joy of her life. All this just means 
 that her time has come." 
 
 [345] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Perhaps it is better for her to go than 
 to stay as she was," she said sadly, " but that 
 doesn't help me. I was a presumptuous fool. 
 I killed her." 
 
 [346] 
 
XVII 
 The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 FATHER couldn't bear Barry Ham- 
 mond, and the more he came to see Nan, the 
 crosser father grew. 
 
 " I don't see what you can find to ad- 
 mire in a dude," he broke out one day, when 
 Barry was coming to dinner. Mr. Hammond 
 isn't a dude, but he dresses well, and father 
 never will admit that brains and a high collar 
 can go together. " Why don't you invite some- 
 body that knows something like Fred Rich- 
 ardson? There's a young man that's worth 
 while. He'll be a partner by the time he's 
 thirty-five." 
 
 Nan was the only one of us who had 
 sense enough not to argue with father. 
 
 " We will have Fred, too, some time," 
 she said serenely. 
 
 Father kept going back to the charge at 
 
 [347] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 intervals. To tell the truth, I had a sneaking 
 sympathy with the way he felt about Mr. 
 Hammond, for, though the latter was unaf- 
 fected and sincere and thoroughly likable, as 
 well as socially important, I never felt ab- 
 solutely at ease with him, as I did, for instance, 
 with Fred Richardson. I always said " carn't," 
 and suppressed all the " my goodnesses " of 
 ordinary speech when he was around as I sup- 
 pose I ought to have done all the time, like 
 Nan. And I couldn't get over a sense that we 
 were honored by his friendship, though Nan 
 would have utterly withered me if I had let 
 my elation up to the surface. She took him 
 as composedly as she did silk linings. 
 
 Nevertheless, I hadn't an atom of sym- 
 pathy with what father did that night, for, 
 fired with a wish to show Nan " how a dude 
 looks beside a real man," he invited Fred to 
 come home to dinner " just as he was." And 
 poor Fred, never dreaming that he was part of 
 a plot, and always grateful for a chance even to 
 look at Nan, smoothed his hair and came. 
 Father was wild to make that a match and take 
 
 [348] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 Fred into the firm, but he did not understand 
 Nan, or the moral influence of perfect groom- 
 ing. The contrast all worked the wrong way, 
 and father, dimly recognizing a failure, was 
 more sarcastic than ever about high collars. 
 
 Barry Hammond kept on coming, and 
 it wasn't hard to tell what brought him, though 
 Nan never lost her dignified serenity, or talked 
 of him with any significance. And father kept 
 on growling. You see, Mr. Hammond treated 
 him with a well-bred, courteous indifference 
 that was as genuine as it was unconscious, and 
 father, who had grown used to being a pretty 
 big person down town, resented the attitude 
 without knowing quite what it was that irri- 
 tated him. He snubbed the young man on 
 every occasion, and the latter, uniformly polite, 
 didn't even know it, evidently thinking that 
 Nan had a crusty old father, but -that it needn't 
 bother them. Finally, father's irritation came 
 to a definite point. 
 
 " See here," he said to me one day; 
 " I'll tell you one thing, and I want you to tell 
 it to Nan. That young dude isn't going to 
 
 [349] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 marry into this family. If Nan insists on hav- 
 ing him, she won't get one cent from me. You 
 tell her that." 
 
 I reasoned a little, with the usual result 
 of making him more set than ever. 
 
 " Bring along a man that's got some 
 force, some control over other men, and doesn't 
 spend half his time parting his hair, and I'll 
 give my consent; but not to this starched-up 
 dude," he said. Power over other men was 
 father's standard of greatness, his secret pas- 
 sion. 
 
 Nan was furious about it, but when 
 Barry asked her to marry him, a few days later, 
 she refused. 
 
 " I don't care anything about father's 
 consent," she said, when she told me about it, 
 " but I wasn't going to have Barry go and see 
 him in his inspired moments, and hear himself 
 called a ' dood.' I didn't care to explain this, 
 so it was simpler just to say I wouldn't." 
 
 ' Then he won't be coming here any 
 more?" I asked, half relieved and half sorry. 
 Nan looked a little disconcerted. 
 
 [350] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 " Oh, yes; I think he will come about 
 as usual. It wasn't so final as all that," she 
 said. 
 
 It was in absolute unconsciousness that 
 Barry worked out his own salvation, which be- 
 gan a few nights after the coming of the majes- 
 tic Bradley. It was Nan who insisted on our 
 having a butler, for the rest of us would have 
 been satisfied with a maid, a pretty one with a 
 cap, for the table. Dear me, two years before 
 we'd have felt rather grand to have had the 
 dinner served by any one but the flushed and 
 ponderous person who cooked it. But now 
 that we were established in the new house, Nan 
 would have a butler, and had her own way, as 
 usual. 
 
 We thought we were pretty well used 
 to the new order of things, by that time. We 
 had learned to throw out the flowers the min- 
 ute the first freshness was gone, and to take 
 lists when we went shopping for fear we'd 
 forget something (before we had been chiefly 
 afraid we'd remember) ; and when Alice found 
 a tailor who did her a plain blue serge for 
 
 [351] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 eighty dollars, we told about it as a wonderful 
 bargain. Our blue serges had previously cost 
 about fifteen dollars a head, but we weren't con- 
 sciously putting on airs. It doesn't take long 
 to get into the way of saying " only eighty," 
 and really meaning it. But that horrible but- 
 ler made two whole years' experience seem as 
 nothing. 
 
 You see, he had lived with people who 
 had said " only eighty " all their lives, the 
 really grand people, who didn't care to know 
 us a bit more now than they had in our dark 
 ages. The first night, by the time we had 
 squeezed the lemon on our raw oysters, he had 
 begun to find us out, and " the soup put him 
 dead on," as Bert afterwards said. For, you 
 know, poor old father has had to work too 
 hard all his life to pay much attention to what 
 he calls our monkey business, and of course, 
 mother being dead so long, he has grown care- 
 less. We don't bother him, for it is thanks to 
 him that we do know some of the little refine- 
 ments of life and that our children are going 
 to know more (I shouldn't wonder if our 
 
 [352] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 grandchildren were real swells). But I think 
 Nan winces a little. 
 
 As the dinner went on, Bradley that 
 was the butler's name grew more and more 
 haughty, and by dessert the back of his neck 
 appeared to have petrified. We made talk and 
 were terribly obliging and pleasant, all except 
 father, who kept an uneasy silence, and jumped 
 half a foot when Bradley stooped majestically 
 and murmured a few words down his back. 
 
 "H'r? What's that?" he exclaimed, 
 looking as if he expected a bomb. 
 
 " What kind of wine do you want, 
 father? " Nan interpreted, with a shade of im- 
 patience. 
 
 That was the beginning of a dismal 
 period in which an intelligent, strong-minded 
 American family was terrorized by one stuck- 
 up snob of a butler. Nan was the only one 
 who didn't grow thin and nervous, and father 
 had a real attack of dyspepsia the third day, 
 from eating under such a strain. Our funniest 
 stories, our brightest repartee, never brought a 
 flicker of human sympathy to that stern face 
 
 [353] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 hovering over the feast; our most effusive 
 gratitude never softened his stony aloofness. 
 Nan said with satisfaction that he was a per- 
 fect servant, and we all assented, though when 
 Bert murmured " Perfect nuisance," our hearts 
 secretly applauded. We were very uncomfort- 
 able. In short, we felt as though some proud 
 scion of an ancient race had changed places 
 with his menials to win a bet. 
 
 Sunday night Mr. Hammond came to 
 dinner, and father, who evidently thought 
 Bradley was infliction enough, said things in 
 his throat that we discreetly didn't hear. The 
 meal was going forward more or less stiffly. 
 Bradley was doing dethroned royalty around 
 the table, and most of us were trying to look as 
 if we had forgotten him. Father wanted some 
 cayenne pepper, but couldn't quite get his voice 
 pitched to ask for it, and I was thirstily wait- 
 ing for the Magnificent to see my empty glass. 
 Barry was trying to explain to Nan why a yacht 
 did not necessarily have to go the way the wind 
 did. 
 
 " Here, I'll show you with a diagram," 
 
 [354] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 he said, and, after feeling in his pockets, turned 
 to the butler. 
 
 " Bring me a piece of paper and a pen- 
 cil," he said, as naturally as though Bradley 
 were a maid of all work on four dollars a week. 
 The Magnificent went for them with unex- 
 pected promptness, and in father's eyes there 
 dawned a new expression. It was one of won- 
 der, almost of respect. 
 
 Another incident, a few nights later, 
 brought the same look back again. It was rain- 
 ing hard, and father and I were sitting in the 
 library, from which we could get a clear view 
 of the big front hall, when Barry Hammond 
 called. Now, if there was one thing more than 
 another that father loathed, it was to have 
 Bradley help him on or off with his overcoat. 
 He would use stratagem to avoid it. Sometimes 
 he would grasp it, as though too hurried to 
 stop, and put it on out of doors, and one cold 
 day, when Bradley got there first, he muttered 
 something about the heat and went off without 
 it. When Bradley let in Barry Hammond, this 
 particular night, I saw father lean forward and 
 
 [355] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 watch with sudden interest. Barry presented his 
 damp back to the Magnificent, as a matter of 
 course, and let himself be peeled with an un- 
 troubled countenance. A moment later, the 
 Magnificent was down on one knee, humbly re- 
 moving the overshoes that covered Mr. Ham- 
 mond's patent leathers. And Mr. Hammond's 
 face was still serene. Father almost gasped 
 aloud. 
 
 " Did you get wet? " I asked, as he 
 came in. 
 
 " Very little, considering that I walked 
 down," he answered, going to the fire. " Is 
 Nan home? " 
 
 " H'm ! So you are not afraid of a 
 little rain?" said father, a trifle less ungra- 
 ciously than usual. 
 
 "No; I like it," said Barry indiffer- 
 ently, quite unconscious of how he had helped 
 on his cause. 
 
 Father did not refer to dudes after 
 that, though he still held forth on his pet hobby 
 of " a man who can handle other men knows 
 his power and isn't afraid to use it " ; for he 
 
 [356] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 gloried more insistently in his down-town great- 
 ness now that the spell of Bradley lay heavy 
 on the household. It was at dinner, a week or 
 two later, that Barry played his master stroke. 
 He was explaining how he came to be five min- 
 utes late. 
 
 " They were posting the winner of the 
 Brooklyn, and I had to see who won," he said. 
 Bradley was serving the soup, and I noticed that 
 he grew suddenly attentive. It was the first 
 human expression I had ever seen on his face. 
 " You know, it's the big race of the year, Dia- 
 mond against Nicholas, Jr.," Barry went on, 
 turning to Nan. " I suppose thousands of dol- 
 lars will change hands to-night. Earlier in the 
 afternoon the news came that it was a dead 
 heat, and would be left that way. Then there 
 was some kind of a row, and it was finally de- 
 cided to run the race over again." The butler, 
 pausing behind Barry with a plate of soup, had 
 grown rigid; his face was red, and the hand 
 that held the plate shook. He was listening 
 breathlessly. " You never saw such an ex- 
 cited crowd," Barry went on, all unconscious. 
 
 [357] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 '* They fairly went mad when the winner was 
 posted " 
 
 ; ' Which got it?" broke in an excited 
 voice, as a little stream of soup pattered down 
 on the carpet. The Magnificent had forgotten 
 himself. 
 
 There was a startled pause, then Barry 
 turned his head and gave the man a cool, delib- 
 erate look. It was neither haughty nor reprov- 
 ing, but Bradley pulled himself together with 
 a muttered apology, and went on serving the 
 dinner with a humbled tread. 
 
 " And so, you see, I was late," Barry 
 continued, to Nan. 
 
 As the others were leaving the dining 
 room I generally stayed with father while he 
 smoked the butler, with an apologetic move- 
 ment, stopped Barry. 
 
 " I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir," he 
 said, with an expression none of us had ever 
 
 seen. " I had heard it was a dead heat, so 
 j 
 
 " I think the apology should go to the 
 head of the table," said Barry pleasantly. 
 
 [358] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 "Oh, no, no that's all right," said 
 my father hastily, all ready to run. 
 
 Barry leaned his arms on the back of a 
 chair. 
 
 " I suppose you know by this time that 
 Diamond won? " he said. " Do you play the 
 races much, Bradley?" 
 
 " Well, sir, I suppose so, a good deal. 
 I can't seem to keep out of it." 
 
 " Did you drop much to-night? " Barry 
 continued. Father was looking from one to 
 the other with something like awe in his face. 
 
 " Pretty nearly everything I had, sir," 
 was the despondent answer. 
 
 " I suppose you know what a fool you 
 are to do it," Barry said. 
 
 " Well, sir, I think I'll keep away from 
 it, for a while, anyway." 
 
 " I hope so," said Barry, with a nod, 
 as he strolled off to find Nan. 
 
 Father smoked in meditative silence. 
 
 " I don't know but what there is some- 
 thing to that young man," he said at last. " He 
 isn't weak. Nan might do worse." 
 [359] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Barry came to him for his consent two 
 days later. It was hard for father to give in 
 completely. 
 
 " Nan's too young," he said decidedly. 
 " Make it two years from now, or not at all." 
 
 Nan acquiesced to the delay with a 
 calmness that irritated her fiance. But that 
 evening, when father and I were having his 
 smoke, she came and dropped down beside him. 
 
 " Father," she said, " there is some- 
 thing I want to ask of you. I know it is selfish, 
 but if I'm not married for two years, it won't 
 matter to you yet. When we go to housekeep- 
 ing I want you to let us have Bradley." 
 
 My father's face lit up with a look of 
 absolute radiance. 
 
 " I know it is unfair of me when you 
 are used to his ways," Nan went on; "but 
 you'll have two years of him, anyway, and 
 perhaps by " 
 
 Father was looking ten years younger. 
 
 "Why, little daughter," he said, pat- 
 ting her hand, " of course, as you say, we're 
 used to him, but still, if you want him, you 
 
 [360] 
 
The Rule of the Magnificent 
 
 shall have him. We'll do all right. And I 
 suppose," he added reflectively, "you'll be 
 wanting money for your trousseau pretty soon. 
 Young people always are in a hurry to get mar- 
 ried! " 
 
 Nan was married three months later. 
 The Magnificent went with her, and his place 
 was filled by a pretty Irish girl, who inwardly 
 and outwardly looks up to us. And we laugh 
 and talk as in the old days, and put jelly on 
 our bread and gravy on our potatoes, and eat 
 our corn on the cob and our ice cream with a 
 spoon and our little birds in our fingers in un- 
 ruffled comfort. 
 
 Fred Richardson comes here now far 
 more than he did in the old days, and father, 
 supremely satisfied, says that when we are mar- 
 ried we can have anything in the house but 
 Maggie. 
 
 [361] 
 
XVIII 
 The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 " IT'S a great year for mothers/* said 
 Sarah reflectively, as she divided the tiny steak 
 with scrupulous exactness. u Ellen has brought 
 hers on for six weeks, and Jean Humphreys has 
 sent for hers, and Mrs. Torrey is visiting Isabel 
 she sleeps in the little room off the studio. 
 Here, these peas are yours; I didn't order any. 
 And Stella Brooks Livingston told me she was 
 going to devote half her royalties this fall to 
 her mother bring her to town and get her 
 clothes and take her to things. What has come 
 over you all? Is it conscience?" 
 
 "Urn perhaps, a little," said Molly 
 slowly, eating her canned peas with the vague 
 indifference that testifies to a restaurant life. 
 " That started it with me, when I found I 
 couldn't get home. But it isn't all that, some 
 way. I can't analyze, but it's something more." 
 
 [362] 
 
The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 " I think you are all simply reverting to 
 parents." Sarah was eying her amusedly. 
 " You have had your years of freedom and 
 your work and your latch-keys, and now the 
 glamour is wearing thin and you are turning 
 back to home and mother. Or, rather, you 
 are trying to compromise to mix mother and 
 freedom. It won't work, though you can't 
 do it. You won't acknowledge it, but you will 
 all be frightfully relieved when you buy those 
 dear old ladies their return tickets.' 1 
 
 "Not at all! " Molly spoke with de- 
 cision. " We shall have a beautiful time. First 
 thing you know, you will be sending back for 
 yours." 
 
 Sarah shook her head with a quick 
 frown. 
 
 " Not I. She would loathe it. Besides, 
 I am too busy to take her about." She 
 shrugged away from the suggestion. " When 
 is yours coming? " 
 
 ' To-morrow. She is such a dear, 
 Sarah ! And think of having all one's stock- 
 ings darned. I shall meet her at the train with 
 
 [363] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 a work basket." Sarah glanced down thought- 
 fully in the direction of her own boots. 
 
 " There is something in that," she ad- 
 mitted. Then she laughed with a sudden idea. 
 " I'll tell you I will give you all a parents' 
 party. Each guest must bring one mother, and 
 only one. Wouldn't it be funny the collec- 
 tion?" 
 
 " I think it would be very sweet and 
 nice not funny at all," Molly protested. " Go 
 on and do it, Sarah. We'll come." Sarah sat 
 smiling into her teacup. 
 
 "Can't you hear them? ' My Stella ' 
 * My Isabel ' ' My Molly ' If you were 
 each one as brilliant as mother believes, what 
 a glittering array it would be ! " Sarah's in- 
 flection on the word " mother " reduced it to 
 semi-humorous slang. 
 
 " Well, thank Heaven for one per- 
 fectly undiscriminating critic," said Molly, 
 with a laugh. " Now I must get back to work. 
 I am doing such a good wall paper, Sarah 
 the prettiest design I ever struck. You must 
 have it when you build your country house." 
 
 [364] 
 
The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 " Thanks, I will," said Sarah. " Will 
 five cents do for the tip? Well, ten, then 
 you're so lavish, Molly ! " 
 
 They parted at the door, and Sarah 
 turned to the bank to deposit a check she had 
 received that morning. The growing pages of 
 figures in her bank book gave her a little thrill 
 of satisfaction as she walked home. They 
 stood for freedom, clothes, books, opera, cabs, 
 Europe even; it was worth while to live in two 
 tiny rooms and let these be lean years of inces- 
 sant work with that prosperous future piling up 
 ahead of her. 
 
 " Some day Sarah will sit on a pink 
 satin chair and dash off articles on a gold type- 
 writer," the spendthrift Molly had prophesied 
 Molly, who, the instant she found herself 
 ahead of her expenses, invited all her friends 
 to dinner or brought one of her family down 
 from the little country home for a week of city 
 life. Sarah could see her scanning the amuse- 
 ment columns for plays suitable to a mother 
 and joyfully bringing home surprises of silk 
 blouses and lace stocks. She winced and 
 
 [365] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 frowned sharply, thrusting the bank book into 
 her desk. 
 
 " Mother would hate it; she'd be in 
 terror of the streets, and the noise would drive 
 her crazy," she argued, half aloud. " And go- 
 ing out to meals would be too hard for her. 
 Oh, it wouldn't do at all! " And she turned 
 resolutely to her work. But something made 
 her cross that afternoon. She jerked impa- 
 tiently at her papers, and once stopped to make 
 some pencil calculations that had no bearing on 
 her article. 
 
 A few days later, passing through a 
 crowded shop, Sarah paused and smiled to her- 
 self at two figures bending absorbedly over an 
 assortment of white lawn ties. Molly's mother 
 was a gentle-looking little woman, whose quiet 
 country garb had already begun to blossom out 
 in spots with touches of city smartness. Molly 
 was choosing and setting aside ties with lavish 
 enjoyment. 
 
 "That is surely enough, dear girl!" 
 her mother was saying as Sarah came up. 
 
 " This is the one who is going to give 
 
 [366] 
 
The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 the mothers' party," Molly supplemented her 
 introduction. " I have told everyone about it, 
 Sarah, so you can't back out." 
 
 " But, indeed, I don't want to back 
 out," Sarah protested. The remark left a small 
 sting. Had she, then, the name of being one 
 who backed out? She did not often entertain, 
 of course; perhaps she sometimes made impul- 
 sive suggestions for festivities that the cooler 
 afterthought allowed to drop and be forgotten. 
 But she was poor! And one had to put by 
 money. It was crazy not to, when one worked 
 so hard to get it. She had proved her point 
 to her entire satisfaction by the time she 
 reached home, but still the resentment lingered 
 in her eyes, and before taking off her hat she 
 sat down at her desk and wrote the notes of 
 invitation to the mothers' party. The idea no 
 longer amused her especially, but she was not 
 going to have them say she backed out. 
 
 What they did actually say came to her 
 with bitter suddenness the next afternoon in 
 Isabel Torrey's studio. The world has a way 
 of seeing the facts of our conduct and ignoring 
 
 [367] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 the softening logic that explains them sorely 
 trying to one who is sensitive to public opinion. 
 Isabel's big canvases, pulled out for exhibition, 
 divided the studio into sections, and Sarah 
 stood in the shadow of one when a group 
 paused on its other side. 
 
 " But the thrifty Sarah giving the party 
 that is what amazes me," an amused voice 
 was saying. 
 
 " Perhaps she has brought her own 
 mother down," another voice suggested. 
 
 "Not Sarah! She prefers to lay up 
 treasures in the Second National wise girl." 
 
 " But that isn't the reason, Ellen," 
 Molly's kindly voice broke in. " She told me 
 herself her mother wouldn't like it the noise 
 and the way she lives and all that She didn't 
 think it would work truly." 
 
 "' Thrift, thrift, Horatio,'" was the 
 skeptical answer. " Sarah will be rich some day 
 but she won't be beloved. She didn't use 
 
 The voices passed on, leaving Sarah 
 white with anger. She slipped out and walked 
 
 [368] 
 
The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 home, her mind a bitter chaos of self-justifica- 
 tion. They were unfair, they had no right! 
 Why shouldn't she be careful of her money, 
 she who worked so hard for it? She asked 
 nothing of them; why should they sit up and 
 judge her? She proclaimed fiercely that she 
 did not care what they thought; yet through 
 all her passionate resentment her mind kept re- 
 turning to a picture that she had been learning 
 not to see a patient woman fitting her needs 
 to her tiny income in a small, dull town and 
 bravely agreeing that Sarah could not be ex- 
 pected to come home often. It was eight 
 months since the last visit. Suddenly Sarah put 
 her face in her hands and cried. 
 
 An hour later she wrote to her mother, 
 inclosing a check for the journey. " I shall ex- 
 pect you to stay a week," she said, and mailed 
 the letter with a lightening heart. " I'll show 
 them," she muttered, recollection bringing back 
 a flash of resentment to her eyes. 
 
 After all, it was pleasanter than she had 
 suspected to have a mother coming. Per- 
 haps that picture she had been forgetting had 
 
 [369] 
 
x Mothers and Fathers 
 
 troubled her more than she realized. Sarah 
 started to prepare one of her two tiny rooms, 
 then went boldly out and hired a large and 
 comfortable room across the hall. This led to 
 several minor purchases, and a surprise or two. 
 She hummed over her preparations and undid 
 her packages with a thrill of satisfaction. She 
 was glad she had a handsome new gown com- 
 ing home; her mother would find it dazzling. 
 And she herself should have a new bonnet or 
 something. Sarah's blood tingled with the for- 
 gotten joy of giving. Her head was full of 
 plans when she opened her mother's answer 
 two days later, and sat down to read it. 
 
 MY DEAR, GENEROUS GIRL: How I 
 wish I could! But your Aunt Bessie cannot do 
 the work, and you see, dear, we don't keep help 
 any more. I can't quite understand it, and Mr. 
 Jordan says it will come out all right, but just 
 now we don't get any income, and so for six 
 months your Aunt Bessie and I have done what 
 we could, but we are not so strong as we were, 
 and the hot summer was hard on your aunt. I 
 did not mean to tell you, dear, you work so 
 
 [37] 
 
The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 hard and have quite enough on your mind, but 
 I could not leave your aunt to do all the work, 
 for lodgers do make dirt, and we give them 
 their breakfast. They are very nice and re- 
 spectful to us, so you need not mind, though I 
 did not mean to tell you. Besides, I have not 
 anything fit to wear in a city except my black 
 silk, though my old alpaca does well enough 
 here. Don't worry about me, Sarah. Mr. Jor- 
 dan says he may have it straightened out by 
 New Year's. If you don't mind, I will keep 
 the check for the grocer we could not help 
 falling behind a little. I hope you won't be 
 angry about the lodgers. They have the two 
 west rooms, and are always polite. I wish I 
 could see you, my dear girl. Sometimes I real- 
 ize that I am becoming an old woman. I 
 should have enjoyed your party for the moth- 
 ers. It was a kind idea. 
 
 Your loving MOTHER. 
 
 P. S. You are not to be troubled 
 about me, but I had to tell you, to explain why 
 I could not come. 
 
 The letter slipped from Sarah's hand 
 and she sat staring fixedly in front of her. For 
 six months all her own work and lodgers. 
 
 [371] 
 
Mothers and Fathers 
 
 Sarah's thoughts turned to the gifts she had felt 
 so generous in buying a pair of gloves, four 
 handkerchiefs, and a veil. The color flushed 
 to the edges of her hair. Some one knocked 
 and a box was handed her. She opened it ab- 
 sently, to see the shining folds of the gown 
 she had absolutely had to have. The bill lay 
 on top ninety-five dollars. Sarah covered it 
 hastily, and read the letter through again, un- 
 sparingly. Then she started up with a little 
 cry of pain. 
 
 " Oh, how could I ! How could I ! " 
 she whispered. She turned impetuously to her 
 desk to write and her eyes fell on a time-table. 
 She caught it up, and a moment later was 
 thrusting things into a traveling bag and pin- 
 ing on her hat with shaking fingers. 
 
 The night of the mothers' party, each 
 arrival had a cordial " Oh ! " of surprise to find 
 an elderly woman presiding with Sarah a 
 woman with a worn face, but with sweet, kind 
 eyes that once or twice seemed near tears and 
 a smile tremulous with some inner happiness. 
 
 " I am to stay a month," she told them, 
 [372] 
 
The Thrifty Sarah 
 
 and evidently held back other pleasant secrets 
 by main force. 
 
 " The thrifty Sarah is a good sort I 
 take it all back," some one murmured, turning 
 away from the bright old face. 
 
 " I told you she was," answered Molly 
 triumphantly. And Sarah, watching them, 
 knew what had been said, and wondered if it 
 would always hurt like this. 
 
 THE END 
 
 [373] 
 
66 52. 853-0 
 
 
 
mrnm 
 
Booksellers & Stationers, j j 
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