I 
 
 
 ^i&-'<^<i. 
 
 
 GOOD MORNING 
 R05AM0ND!' 
 
 CONSTANCE SKINNER 
 


' (jOGDjV[ORNINq, 
 
 TiQSAMONDr 
 
 ItiluJones'DowTUi^ 
 
 T^CMA-* FoCArtT. 
 
'When one is to have perhaps only one wonderjiU day^ decision 
 how one shall spend any moment of it is important " 
 
 (See Page 24) 
 
(( 
 
 GOOD-MORNING, 
 ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 BY 
 CONSTANCE LINDSAY SKINNER 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 THOMAS FOGARTY 
 
 Garden City New York 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 1917 
 
Copyright^ 1917, hy 
 Constance Lindsay Skinner 
 
 All rights reserved, including that of 
 ' *ttaiitslati(fv. iiit^ ff)r£,^ languages y 
 "■ ^ \in€ludi%i the ^c'a'^i^avian 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 " When one is to have perhaps only one wonderful 
 day, decision how one shall spend any moment 
 
 of it is important " Coloured frontis, 
 
 (See page 24) 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 " Mrs. Lee sat in her rocker knitting. Her ball of 
 yarn was flipping about the sward under the 
 paws of a white kitten " 42 
 
 " Regarding each other and yielding to the charm 
 of the sunset and the music, they did not ob- 
 serve a black-whiskered man who was crawling 
 through the orchard " 154 
 
 a 
 
 Rosamond saw a man who was presumably in his 
 * middle thirties ' — a strong, well-built man, 
 with face and hands tanned by years of turning 
 them, unprotected, toward all weathers " . . 234 
 
 M10595? 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND/'' 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 NEGLIGES were unknown in Roseborough. 
 Even at seven in the morning, which was 
 Rosamond Mearely's hour for greeting the new day, 
 the ladies of Roseborough did not kimono: they 
 dressed. 
 
 Young Rosamond Mearely might be — as indeed 
 she was — the richest and fairest woman in Rose- 
 borough, and the widow of a gentleman whose name 
 the hamlet and countryside mentioned still with the 
 bated breath of pride; but she would no more have 
 dared to appear at breakfast before her housemaids, 
 the imposing Frigget sorority — Amanda, aged forty- 
 nine years "come Michelmas," and Jemima, forty- 
 seven and three quarter years — in what they would 
 have pronounced (and condemned as) a "wrapper," 
 than she would wittingly have committed any other 
 irretrievable /^t^;v pas. 
 
 The mother of the Frigget sorority had guided the 
 first adventures of the late, distinguished Hibbert 
 Mearely about the by-ways of Trenton Waters, his 
 
 3 
 
4 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 birthplace, in the infantile push-carts of his period — 
 that is to say, fifty-odd years before this morning 
 when his young widow slipped a decorous print gown 
 (lavender with black floral design) over her dainty, 
 white roundness and the whalebone and batiste 
 article that confined it, and descended to her fourteen 
 hundred and eightieth solitary breakfast. It was 
 four years since Hibbert Mearely's departure. His 
 faithful nurse was slowly preparing to follow him; 
 she lay bedridden in Trenton Waters. Her two 
 daughters, who had been brought up to serve him, 
 still dominated his household. 
 
 Rosamond saw them now, as the stairs circled to 
 the door of the large living room where summer 
 breakfasts were spread. They were tall, multi- 
 boned women with straight, thin, gray hair — drawn 
 sheerely to a polka dot at the back, which one, or at 
 most two, hairpins controlled — and clad in skimpy, 
 dark, cotton dresses, well starched and designed to 
 reveal every puritan angle. They stood at opposite 
 sides of a long, black table. The table was one of 
 Hibbert Mearely's antiques (a ticket attached to the 
 foot gave its date and history); its "early Seven- 
 teenth" carvings were hidden now by a cloth of 
 gleaming white damask bearing Mrs. Mearely's 
 breakfast. Rosamond's glance, by habit, travelled 
 in a direct line between her female grenadiers to the 
 wall where a Ufe-size portrait, in oils, of the late 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 5 
 
 master depended. Outside the wide-open doors, 
 the sunHght filtered through the overlacing trees and 
 kindled the proud red of the dahlias to flame. A 
 little breeze, vagrant and wilful, danced through the 
 garden and set all the leaves to clapping their hands. 
 Rosamond sighed. She flitted through the doorway 
 and down the huge room, sedately, to her place. 
 
 "Good-mornin', Mrs. Mearely, ma'am." 
 
 "Good-mornin', Mrs. Mearely, ma'am." 
 
 "Good-morning, Amanda. Good-morning, Jemi- 
 ma." 
 
 These salutations never varied. Rosamond spread 
 her old-fashioned damask napkin on her lap slowly 
 with a sense of apprehension. Amanda had her own 
 manner of estabHshing an "atmosphere." Out of 
 the corner of her eye Rosamond perceived that she 
 was more unbending than usual this morning. 
 
 "I was a 'most a-comin' up to see if you'd ben 
 took sick — it's five after." Amanda's tone was dry 
 and accusative. 
 
 "Is it.? Perhaps I may have dawdled a little 
 . . . I mean," hastily, "I think one of my laces 
 knotted." 
 
 "Seven sharp was a 'ways Mr. Hibbert Mearely's 
 breakfast hour" — Jemima's tone was impersonal 
 and final — "as we'd oughter know that cooked and 
 served it to him twenty year, not countin' the long 
 time of his young an middle manhood when he was 
 
6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 trapsein' the world after them curios an' antics of 
 his'n." 
 
 "Antiques, Jemima," the lady of the house cor- 
 rected. 
 
 "That's wot I said,'' stubbornly. 
 
 "Your porridge was dished at seven sharp an' was 
 perfec' for that hour; but five minutes makes a world 
 of difference in the nature of a hot bowl of porridge." 
 
 "I'm sure it will be delicious, Amanda," her mis- 
 tress murmured. Her tone was timid and placating. 
 
 "Speakin' of laces knottin'," Amanda continued, 
 "Mary Caroline was the only one of us girls that was 
 incHned to fat, an' maw a 'ways made her let 'em 
 out when she took 'em off, nights, so there'd be no 
 time wasted in the mornin'." 
 
 "It was my ^oo^-lace, Amanda," milady protested. 
 
 "Mebbe 'twas — an' mebbe 'twasn't. It's loos- 
 enin' em overnight that counts — both boots an' 
 stays. An' so Mary Caroline found — leastways if 
 she didn't want maw to wallop her for bein' late — 
 sloth bein' one of the seven deadly sins maw could 
 not abide. Mary Caroline was a natural temptation 
 to a high-tempered, energetic woman Hke maw — she 
 bein' inclined to fat." 
 
 Mrs. Mearely motioned the porridge bowl away 
 with a chill gravity. 
 
 "I'd like my toast and eggs now. Of course I do 
 not suppose you mean anything personal, Amanda, 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 7 
 
 by your repeated allusions to your deceased sister's 
 physique. Nevertheless I may say, without lower- 
 ing my dignity, that, although I am not thin and — 
 and — er — flat all over like some of Roseborough's 
 women, I am not fat. I am not even * inclined to fat ' 
 as it appears your — er — walloped sister was, accord- 
 ing to your description." 
 
 Mrs. Mearely's attempt to reduce Amanda Frigget, 
 domestic, to a proper sense of her relation toward 
 the mistress of Villa Rose, failed miserably. The 
 haughty eye of the would-be grande dame wavered 
 from that forbidding countenance and weakly sought 
 refuge in the colour-blend of buttered toast with yolk 
 of egg. Alas, she had given Amanda the sort of 
 opportunity which never passed unimproved. 
 
 "You're not fat as compared with some, but youVe 
 got a general curve to you, which is on'y to be ex- 
 pected in the daughter-of-a-farmer's figure." Aman- 
 da proceeded, uncompromisingly, to make the 
 Frigget position on curves and non-curves even 
 plainer. "Now Mr. Hibbert Mearely's sisters, both 
 what married small but choice titles, was so lean an' 
 aristocratical you could count the ridges in their 
 backbones — on'y you wouldn't of persoomed that 
 way on born ladies. But look who their father was — 
 an' Mr. Mearely's father, too! A perfessor an' 
 clergy that had his descent from the middle ages of 
 Henery Seven!" 
 
8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "No wonder Mr. Mearely felt he could afford to 
 be condescendin'," Jemima put in, as she removed 
 the tea cosy. "But I don't s'pose he'd ever have 
 set his a 'most royal foot onto ploughed an' harrowed 
 groun', if he hadn't of seen you that day in the gate 
 of your father's farm in Poplars Vale. That's when 
 he forgot about Henery Seven an' went back to the 
 soil — a man that was past fifty an' had seen all the 
 museums of Europe!" 
 
 "Strange — strange, indeed!" Mrs. Mearely hissed 
 softly, striking a small silver knife into a butter ball 
 with intent to wound. 
 
 Amanda took up the theme. 
 
 "An' how did it all come to happen.? By the 
 accident of him, a absen '-minded man, takin' the 
 wrong turn at the cross-roads as he come up from 
 fishin'! The han' of fate pinted him to Poplars 
 Vale 'stead of Roseborough. An' there was you, 
 eighteen — an' allurin' no doubt, but 'umble an' 
 uncultured — a-sittin' on your paw's farm gate, but 
 lookin' higher. What a talk it made in these parts! 
 When I says to maw, I says, *Mr. Mearely's goin' 
 to marry Rosamon' Cort of Poplars Vale,' she took 
 to her bed for the day with a spell. Such a shock it 
 was to her to think how him as she'd used to trundle 
 had forgot his station." 
 
 " By marrying a butter-maker ? " Rosamond's voice 
 was sharp at the edges now. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 9= 
 
 "We said then — maw an' Jemima an' me (Mary 
 Caroline havin' passed beyon') — we said, 'We'll 
 never remember again in this life that Mr. Hibbert 
 Mearely's fiancy's mother made an' soV the first 
 roun' fancy butter pats in this distric'.' That's 
 the way all Trenton Waters an' Roseborough felt 
 bounden towards the Mearelys. That's, in special, 
 the way His Friggets felt bounden toward Mr. Hib- 
 bert Mearely." 
 
 "No doubt he is very grateful to you both, and is 
 waiting eagerly to reward your devotion" — she 
 paused also at the "cross-roads," so to speak, ere 
 she gestured a vague direction and concluded — 
 "wherever he is." 
 
 If her inflections were strangely pungent and her 
 phraseology speculative, the angle of vision sought 
 by her too large, cloud-flecked, sky-blue eyes was 
 absolutely right. They gazed ceilingward. Aman- 
 da folded her hands across her apron. She also 
 looked upward. 
 
 "No doubt," she repeated, solemnly. 
 
 "No doubt;" Jemima echoed her sister's sepul- 
 chral accents, and folded her hands and looked at the 
 same bit of the gold cornice. If they had concen- 
 trated on this point long enough in rapt faith — who 
 knows? — they might have materialized there the 
 shade of the departed collector of antiquities to 
 demand of them, sternly, which careless hand- 
 
lo ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 maid with intrusive mop had nicked his Florentine 
 gilding. 
 
 "The raspberries, Jemima, please. I shall always 
 wonder why it is that . . . (cream, please) 
 . . . the very persons who wouldn't for worlds 
 . . . (and powdered sugar) . . . recall the 
 fact that Hibbert Mearely's widow's mother once 
 sold butter . . . (are you sure this is sugar, 
 Jemima? It looks suspiciously like salt) . . 
 are the very ones who are always reminding me of 
 . . . the butter, please'' She finished, tartly. 
 
 Jemima hastened to pass the hereditary slur. 
 
 "Well, ma'am, I wouldn't go to say that exac'ly." 
 Amanda studied the question. "But them what 
 thought so high of Mr. Mearely kind of wants to 
 help you remember what he done for you." 
 
 "Ah! that is it, eh.?" 
 
 "Yes. An ' you bein' a widow an ' havin ' to put all 
 his blue blood in the tomb — ^when you hadn't en- 
 joyed it but a year an' four month — we feel like it 
 comforts you to remin' you that, even if you come 
 off a farm in Poplars Vale, your diseased husban' 
 didn't. No, Sir ! He come off of Henery Seven!" 
 
 An odd little squeak pierced through Rosamond's 
 damask napkin. It terminated hastily in a cough. 
 
 "May I ask, ma'am, when Mrs. Witherby stopped 
 in here yesterday mornin' did you happen to be 
 wearin' them white cuffs an ' collar with your lavender 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' ii 
 
 'stead of the black watered ribbon ones as you've 
 worn for nigh a year?" 
 
 "Yes. Yes, Amanda, I beHeve I did have these 
 on yesterday — for the first time in the daytime. 
 You know I've worn all white with flowers — in the 
 evening." 
 
 "It's doin' it in broad daylight that causes remark. 
 Oh, I'm not forgettin' my place an' criticizin'. It's 
 all correc' enough. You done your eighteen months 
 crape an ' one year plain, then your six month black 'n 
 white. Then come your year of lavender with black 
 ribbons, an' now it's time for white or even light 
 colours, if you're desirous, an' none should objec'. 
 But Mrs. Witherby's tongue is Hke a dog's on a 
 huntin' mornin'; it's that easy set to waggin' an' 
 anticipatin'. Jemima, you it was overheard her 
 remarks. Be so kin' an' repeat." 
 
 Nothing loath, Jemima obliged. 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby says, says she, *well, you mark 
 me,' says she, *Mrs. Mearely will not remain long a 
 widder. It'll be Judge GifFen or Wilton Howard 
 afore Christmas.'" 
 
 "Oh! the gossip!" Mrs. Mearely snapped indig- 
 nantly. Amanda nodded sagely. 
 
 "It was them white muslin trimmin's what done 
 it," she averred. "She says it afore her niece. 
 Miss Mabel, who all Roseborough knows is jus' 
 a-pinin' an' a-languishin ' for Mr. Howard; and Miss 
 
12 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Mabel she goes white as your napkin — ^which ain't 
 so white, but considerable eggy now you've had your 
 soP boileds. I could a'ways tell your napkin from 
 Mr. Hibbert Mearely's wherever Fd pick 'em up — 
 be it in church or tavern — for Mr. Mearely he could 
 comfort his appetite without a smear. But, of 
 course, he was born to refinements. Well, it's too 
 bad, ma'am, but gossip is what you mus' expec' 
 from now henceforth." 
 
 "Yes," Jemima went on to illustrate, "all Rose- 
 borough is a-waitin' breathless to see what you'll do 
 nex' — you bein' the widder of a aristocrat but the 
 chil' of a farm." 
 
 "Standing, so to speak, with one foot on the throne 
 and the other on the churn?" milady murmured 
 between bites at a large berry. 
 
 "Wilton Howard's too young — he's on'y aroun' 
 thirty-five," Jemima continued. "Though him bein' 
 a relation of the departed has a sort of sentimentality 
 to it. It'll be the Judge, if ever she do take unto her 
 another spouse. Him an' Mr. Mearely was intimate 
 bach 'lor frien's; an' the Judge is a highborn man, 
 specially on his mother's side — 'Doubledott' bein' 
 one of our proudest names. An' he's jus' fifty-three 
 years old, what is the exac' age Mr. Hibbert Mearely 
 was when he lifted you from the farm gate to the 
 altar. It'd be a'most like gettin' married to Mr. 
 Mearely all over again — specially as the Judge not 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 13 
 
 havin' any property, you'd be livin' on here with 
 him." 
 
 This graphic prophecy of a second state of connu- 
 bial bUss affected Mrs. Mearely strongly. She burst 
 into explosive sobs. 
 
 "Yes! yes — yes! It would be just the — the 
 same as marrying Hib — Hib — Hibbert Mearely all 
 o — o — over again! And I'm only — only — not quite 
 — twenty-four. Oh — h — h ! " 
 
 She swept the dishes back ruthlessly, overtoppling 
 the hot water pitcher — Amanda saved the cream just 
 in time — and hid her face on her black-flowered, 
 lavender sleeves with their white cuffs (which, being 
 amorously interpreted by the Roseborough gossip, 
 had provoked this sorrow) and sobbed as stormily 
 and shamelessly as if she were still little Rosamond 
 Cort pouring out the briny aftermath of punishment 
 in the hayrick behind the dairy. 
 
 "There, there, ma'am," Amanda said, gently. 
 "There, there. Who could know better how you 
 feel than His Friggets, what has been to Hibbert 
 Mearely fifty year — mother an' daughters — all that 
 hired help can be in the Hfe of any highborn man ? " 
 
 "Who could know better 'n us?" Jemima obbliga- 
 toed. 
 
 "It's like a sacrilege to you to think of putting any 
 man, even Judge Giffen, acrost the table from you 
 under that portrait. To take a secon ' spouse seems 
 
14 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 to some natures a'most indelicate. Ma'am, while 
 His Friggets is conductin' Mr. Hibbert Mearely's late 
 home on earth, gossip can say no word agin you, for 
 ril promise you as no young sheeps-eyed, gallantin' 
 male critter will ever get inside the walls of Villa 
 Rose to blaspheme your sacred mem'ries. It'll be 
 the Judge or none — an' I ain't decided yet even as 
 the Judge . . ." She stopped short. 
 
 From the little anteroom which connected the liv- 
 ing room with the formal dining room came a tinkling. 
 
 "A telephone in Mr. Hibbert Mearely's antic an' 
 aristocratical home is what I'll never get accustomed 
 to." Amanda drew her lips down in displeasure. 
 ''He'd never have permitted it." 
 
 "Answer it, if you please, Amanda." Mrs. 
 Mearely lifted her head with an air that became her 
 well, despite her tears. 
 
 "Answer it, Jemima," the elder sister commanded, 
 noting, with a glitter of satisfaction, that her alleged 
 "mistress's" eyes flashed angrily. By such subt- 
 leties did Amanda remind milady, when necessary, 
 that, while "His Friggets" would do whatever was to 
 be expected of servants in Villa Rose, neither would 
 take personal orders — above all, if given as such — 
 from the farmer's daughter of Poplars Vale. 
 
 "I don't mind obligin' you, Amanda," Jemima 
 responded, with a certain pointedness. 
 
 "There won't be anyone there to answer, if you 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 15 
 
 don't hurry," Rosamond said sharply. Perhaps it 
 was the Hberating influence of her white cufFs and 
 fichu; perhaps it was because the early morning sun 
 and breeze on a midsummer day have a rapture of 
 their own which is communicable and urges gay de- 
 fiance of all convention; but, whatever the cause, 
 Rosamond Mearely was aware that, although she 
 had been irked aforetime, never had she felt the 
 oppressiveness of the Frigget sorority as she felt it at 
 that moment. Inwardly she was thinking: 
 
 "I couldn't discharge them. They wouldn't go. 
 Or, if they did leave, they'd make it impossible for 
 me to live in Roseborough. But if a wicked tramp 
 were to come by and I paid him a lot of money, and 
 he murdered them for me . . . ?" 
 
 Mrs. Mearely 's assassination reverie was cut short 
 by woeful wails from Jemima at the telephone. 
 
 "Oh! Mercy! Amanda! oh . . . !" 
 
 It was only on extreme occasions that Amanda 
 indulged in profanity. She did so now. 
 
 "Jemima! What in all sassafras is the matter 
 with you?" she demanded sternly as her sister 
 reeled into the room. 
 
 "Oh! Oh! Maw's had another stroke! We're 
 to go to her bedside immejit." 
 
 "Another stroke!" Amanda echoed in a ghostly 
 voice. " It's the end. Poor Maw ! Another stroke ! " 
 
 "Oh, poor Mrs. Frigget. Oh, poor Amanda! Oh, 
 
i6 ''GOOD^MORNING, ROSAMOND r' 
 
 poor Jemima! But it isn't the end. She'll have lots 
 more." Rosamond, all tender consternation, en- 
 deavoured to console. "It's only her second, and 
 they always have three^ at least. Dr. Wells says he 
 knew a patient who had seven." 
 
 Failing to stop their cries by hopeful words, she 
 took practical steps. She ran to the open door and 
 called : 
 
 "Blake! Blake! Oh, there you are. Blake, you 
 must harness the mare at once and drive Amanda 
 and Jemima to Trenton. Their mother is ill!" 
 
 "Good-mornin', Mrs. Mearely, mum. Ill, is she.^ 
 In course, she's ill," came in a slow, rumbling voice 
 from some aged masculine out of sight. "She's been 
 bedridden nigh three year." 
 
 "Hush, Blake. You must not be so unfeeling. 
 She's just had a stroke." 
 
 "That's them sleezy, new-style, board-roof cot- 
 tages. They'd oughter kep' a green umbreller over 
 'er bed." 
 
 "It isn't a sun-stroke, Blake! It's a — another 
 kind. And you must harness, at once, and take her 
 daughters to her." 
 
 "Oh, yep. If the wuss is a-goin' to 'appen, them 
 two Friggets has got to be thar to see it. Good- 
 mornin', Amanda and Jemima." 
 
 Blake, gray-haired, sixty, and stooped but hale and 
 ruddyfaced, Umped to the threshold. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 17 
 
 "So yer maw's nearin' 'er end, is she? That's 
 very sad — I know to a t 'ow you feel — if so be ye're 
 feelin' had — coz my rheumatiz is twistin' me like a 
 peavine this mornin'. I'm four square yards of 
 twinges. 'Owever, I'll 'arness the mare an' she'll 
 get us over to Trenton lickety-split — judgin' from 
 the way she's been actin' sence daybreak. That is, 
 if she don't fling us all over the bridge." 
 
 "Yes, yes! That'll do, Blake," Mrs. Mearely 
 interrupted impatiently. "People could be dying 
 while you're talking, you know. Hurry, now! 
 hurry!" 
 
 "Oh, whatever'll you do without us? Somethin's 
 mortally sure to happen!" Amanda moaned, torn 
 between two duties. "Somethin' a'ways goes wrong 
 in Mr. Hibbert Mearely's home when His Friggets 
 leaves it. Oh, be sure and sen' right away for Bella 
 Greenup to tidy up an' get your dinner." 
 
 "Nonsense, Amanda. What should happen? 
 Nothing has ever happened in Roseborough yet. 
 Nothing ever will happen in Roseborough. Leave 
 everything and go at once to your mother." 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am," Jemima said between sobs. 
 "It's kin' of you. If you'll telephone to Dollop's 
 Drugs, he'll sen' to Bella Greenup for you — him bein' 
 sweet on her an' more'n willin' to take her messages." 
 
 At the end of a half hour Rosamond saw them 
 driven oflF down the winding hill road, the gray mare 
 
i8 
 
 'GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND I " 
 
 snorting and kicking up her heels as if she had not, 
 some time since, reached years of discretion. 
 
 ** Florence is not acting in the least like a Rose- 
 borough mare," she commented aloud. "She is 
 positively unladylike this morning. Oh, dear, I 
 do hope their mother will get better — the poor 
 things!" Then, in spite of her genuine sympathy, a 
 giggle escaped her. "If it weren't such a sad occa- 
 sion it would be rather fun to see Florence kick a 
 fraction too high and roll *His Friggets' down the 
 hill. They are so unintentionally amusing that 
 there are times when I could almost like them if 
 only they wouldn't call themselves that !" 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 UNLESS she meant to clear away her breakfast 
 dishes herself, her first duty was to send for 
 Bella Greenup. She turned her back on both tele- 
 phone and dishes, however, and ran up the stairs and 
 into her room. It might be supposed that she in- 
 tended to begin the day's work by making her bed; 
 but she spared not a glance for its crumpled state. 
 Some secret purpose, brought to definite shape as 
 the carriage had disappeared, possessed and thrilled 
 her. 
 
 There was a window seat formed by a huge, carved 
 rosewood chest. Rosamond dropped on her knees 
 before it and began to search through the layers of 
 coloured frou-frous which were neatly sandwiched 
 between pieces of smooth, white linen. Pink muslin 
 bags containing dried rose leaves, and bunches of 
 dried lavender blossoms woven together in loose 
 checker pattern by lavender and white baby ribbons, 
 were tossed among the rainbow flounces of a profuse 
 wardrobe. 
 
 She rose presently with billows of perfumed 
 satins and lace flowing over her arm. Her cheeks 
 were rosy not only from her exertions but from the 
 
 19 
 
20 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 excitement that stirred her small round bosom, and 
 also kindled her eyes till they glowed like the blue 
 sparks of a driftwood fire. She skimmed across the 
 dull-polished dark oak floor to the mirror. This 
 latter was the one bright article among the sombre 
 furnishings of the room. It was a huge thing with 
 an ornate gold-enamelled frame that finished in a 
 top of turrets, flower-twined trellises, and one- 
 stepping cupids. It reflected the room for Rosa^ 
 mond in fan-shape, with herself the Watteau figure 
 in the fan's centre. 
 
 As she unfastened the top button of the black- 
 sprayed lavender gown she began to hum a little song. 
 They were tiny cut jet buttons, and no doubt sug- 
 gested to her that time could be saved and the 
 adventure hastened by a good pull. Two sharp 
 tugs ripped them all out of the button-holes; but 
 two of the jet balls had shot, like stray bullets, into 
 the unknown, ere the hated garment reached the 
 middle of the room, having been propelled thereto 
 by the farmer's daughter's toe. 
 
 The gown she selected in its place was of soft satin, 
 thin and sheer as silk, and of a lilac hue. The skirt, 
 made in two panniers and short round train, draped 
 over an Irish lace petticoat. The round-necked 
 bodice and short, close-fitting sleeves were of the lace. 
 From the front of the girdle, silk folds went over the 
 shoulders and hung in sash-ends at the back. It 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 21 
 
 was a frock of costly simplicity, witnessing that the 
 departed collector of curios, antiques, and ohjets 
 d'art had been no niggard in the matter of supplying 
 appropriate cases for his purchases. 
 
 The other gown, shimmering and smelling of pink 
 roses and traiUng with silver gossamer, she shook out 
 and hung upon the high back of some medieval 
 Louis' chair and draped it with linen to protect it 
 from dust. Presently she returned to the mirror to 
 survey, at her dehghtful leisure, a sight that would 
 have caused His Friggets to swoon with apprehension, 
 so boldly did it register new claims on life and on 
 youth's inalienable right to inspire love. 
 
 The figure reflected was not diminutive. Without 
 being tall, there was height enough, one would say, 
 to insure the eyes a good view of golden horizons and 
 near heavens, and the arms an easy reach to the 
 honeysuckle clusters or the ripe purple plum hanging 
 low by its own weight. The lines were long and not 
 fragile but well knit at knee and thigh, at shoulders 
 and supple waist; the curves were not less sturdy 
 than graceful and sinuous, like the outlines of a young, 
 white, birch tree, where poetic beauty harmonizes 
 with limber, enduring strength. The tenuousness of 
 high breeding, which His Friggets so admired, was 
 wholly absent from Rosamond's body. The well- 
 made feet looked equal to miles of meadow running; 
 and the finely rounded, firm, white arms would not 
 
22 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 tire under the pressure of market baskets. Yet there 
 was a daintiness about her — in her postures and her 
 movements, in the set of her throat and of the chin 
 raised to thrust her eager face a httle forward — but 
 It was the daintiness of the field, not of the hothouse. 
 
 Both La France and the wild rose are roses; both 
 permeate their worlds with fragrance and are some- 
 thing alike in colour, but no one would compare or 
 contrast them for purposes of criticism. One, the 
 product of selection, is the aristocrat of horticulture. 
 The other is the queen of rusticdom, as unspoiled as 
 she is undisputed in her sway, the passing centuries 
 of garden fancies and fads having influenced her not 
 at all. She is not the less lovely because she is 
 sturdy and able to bear wind and weather. 
 
 Rosamond Mearely, nee Cort — like the wild rose 
 — proclaimed that the cottager's environs, and not 
 lordly estates, were her native ground. She was a 
 willing little daughter of the earth, with the earth's 
 promise in her; and her halesome, country-bred 
 beauty challenged with a frank admission that it 
 would have shone as radiantly in a sun-bonnet, 
 patched gingham apron, and bare feet. This, 
 despite its present wrappings of Lyons silk and 
 Limerick lace and its background of some ancient, 
 royal reprobate's furniture; and also despite the fact 
 that the mirror which imaged the eager, wistful face 
 under its bright hair had once reflected (so 'twas 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 23 
 
 said) the coronets and the hauteur of the princesses of 
 the House of Orleans. 
 
 A joyous flush tinted her satiny skin which was 
 innocent of even the knowledge of powder. Thoughts 
 of freedom came to her and made her breath stir 
 quickly. They promised her things vague and 
 splendid and she felt a flutter about her heart like 
 the wings of birds waking for the morning flight. 
 She was beautiful, she was rich, she was young; and 
 for one whole day, at least, she was her own mistress. 
 A laugh rippled through the sombre old curio shop 
 of a bedroom. She swept herself a curtsy and called 
 gleefully to the contented-looking apparition in the 
 mirror: 
 
 "Good-morning, Rosamond!" 
 
 She fairly danced down the stairs. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 IN THE living room she paused for a conference 
 with herself. 
 
 "Let me see," she said, aloud. "Amanda said I 
 must send for Mrs. Greenup at once, to manage the 
 house till they come back. So I shan't do it! I'll 
 be my own Cinderella — sometimes in the kitchen 
 and sometimes my ladyship. This may be the only 
 day ril ever have that is all mine. So it must be — 
 it's just got to he-^-zvonderful I and nobody shall spy 
 on it. What shall I do first ?" 
 
 She dropped into an enormous padded chair and 
 stared thoughtfully at the farthest wall. When one 
 is to have perhaps only one Wonderful Day, decision 
 regarding how to spend every moment of it is im- 
 portant. 
 
 Even immersed — as she was — in delicious hopes, 
 she could not remain long unaware that her eyes were 
 fixed upon the countenance of the man who had 
 brought her to Villa Rose. The childish glow, the 
 eager make-believe, which had transformed her into 
 a girl of eighteen again, faded from her eyes. In their 
 place came a wistful gravity, the look of one who has 
 probed and queried and accepted certain harsh facts, 
 
 24 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 25 
 
 yet refused to let them wholly dispel the fancy and 
 optimism which alone can make a life of facts livable. 
 She accosted the portrait. 
 
 "You were very good to me, in your way, Hibbert 
 Mearely; but you never allowed me to forget how 
 greatly you had honoured me. It pleased you when 
 I called you *sir.' You didn't marry me for love of 
 me — you took me as if I were a — a — bunch of wild 
 flowers, to give just the right contrasting touch of 
 rustic simplicity to your fine house. No, not home. 
 It never was a home — only a museum." 
 
 She looked about the large room. It was orna- 
 mented with scores of pieces of bric-a-brac, with jars, 
 images, plates, trays, boxes, gathered from all parts 
 of the globe. They were artistically arranged, 
 making pleasant spots of colour, and might have 
 looked as if they belonged there and together — but 
 for the tags. Every article, no matter what its 
 size — even the thimble which, it is safe to say, Mary 
 Stuart never did wear — had a ticket attached to it. 
 Mr. Mearely had spent most of his time, when at 
 Villa Rose, in writing on these tickets, in his small, 
 pointed calligraphy, the fictions of dealers most 
 pleasing to his egotistical and highly artificial mind. 
 
 **I have been only another curio with a ticket on — " 
 Rosamond said, accusingly — "the rustic trifle to 
 off'set the art of all ages. You even told me that 
 was why you married me and thought I should feel 
 
26 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 complimented. What higher compliment could a 
 woman desire than to be regarded by her husband 
 purely as an art object? And I agreed — at first. I 
 thought that was finer than just love — the love of 
 farm lads and lasses. But, oh sir, the farm lads and 
 lasses know something more precious than any 
 treasure that has ever come into Villa Rose. Every- 
 body in Roseborough said that the butter-maker's 
 daughter married you from ambition, but it wasn't 
 only ambition. It was glamour!" 
 
 The wistful, far-away look came into her eyes 
 again, despite the little smile at the corners of her 
 mouth — a smile as if she mocked herself for a past 
 foible, the while her eyes denied that it was past. 
 
 "Yes, it was glamour. I had known nothing but 
 humdrum farm poverty — but I believed fairy tales. 
 I thought it would be good to be the wife of the dis- 
 tinguished Hibbert Mearely — to live in Villa Rose 
 among the antiques — among Cleopatra's kiitting 
 needles and Madame Pompadour's stuffed lizards, 
 with a knob of Charles I's unwise, not to say wooden, 
 head for the handle of my shoe-horn!" 
 
 A short sharp laugh came from her, unmellowed 
 by the spirit which had bubbled in her since His 
 Friggets' departure. It suggested that, unless she 
 laughed, she might cry. 
 
 "There wasn't a single woman in the district who 
 wouldn't have jumped at the chance of marrying 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 27 
 
 Hibbert Mearely. So I — yes, sir — I jumped! And 
 you never knew that I wasn't happy. You never 
 knew because you were not interested to inquire. 
 You of the portrait, there — do you accuse me of 
 ingratitude? Are you saying that you richly dow- 
 ered a beggar maid who gave you nothing but the 
 beggar maid in return.? Let us discuss that. You 
 made me beheve it, and I did beheve it, until lately. 
 But it isn't true. I spoiled nothing that you gave 
 me; but you! — I gave you my dreams, all the fairy 
 tales I'd imagined, all my ideals and faith and all 
 that I knew of reverence. But these things weren't 
 art objects, so you despised them. Well, I suppose 
 you'd say I gave you no gifts at all, because I gave 
 you what you had no taste for! Enough said for 
 my gifts. What do I owe you.f* Let us talk of your 
 gifts — without glamour — heart to heart." 
 
 Her hands smoothed down the crease in the hem 
 of the satin pannier, and she smiled. 
 
 *'You dressed me very beautifully and extrava- 
 gantly; but it was only to delight your eyes — not to 
 make me seem more lovable to you. Love was too 
 common — almost too vulgar — a sentiment to find 
 lodgment in the Mearely breast. I didn't mind 
 your being fifty-three, sir. That was like being 
 wooed by a prince with powdered hair — say, the 
 Fourth George, 'the first gentleman in Europe.'" 
 
 She nodded emphatically over this. 
 
28 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 "Yes, sir; indeed his nickname suited you, too, as 
 well as his nature; for you both had wonderful man- 
 ners but no hearts at all. What other gifts ? Many. 
 I remember, sir, and gratefully, that you taught me 
 all I know of fine airs — how to walk, as if I'd never 
 paddled on flat bare soles through the creeks and 
 meadows; how to talk in drawing-room accents 
 without the ill-bred emphasis of excitement. * Don't 
 rattle the milk pails, my love,' is what you used to 
 say, when my zest for Hfe keyed my tones above 
 the Mearely pitch and tempo. How you enjoyed 
 seeing people writhe under your ridicule! It put 
 you into a pleasant mood again, presently. You 
 taught me what music to admire, and what to con- 
 sider with pursed lips and lifted eyebrows; what 
 books, modern and classic, should lie on a cultured 
 woman's table. But I remember, too, that you 
 taught me these things by means of sarcasm that cut 
 to the bone; and my tears you called * squeezing out 
 the buttermilk.' You had a sort of placid cruelty, 
 sir, that always made the butter-maker's daughter 
 cringe. And only a few days before you died you told 
 me you feared I was * irredeemably bourgeoise' — 
 because I had *so much ernotion.' And the last gift.?" 
 
 A tremor of rebelHon went through her, and her 
 eyes flashed. 
 
 "Villa Rose, and your small, safe fortune! Villa 
 Rose and the Mearely money willed to me in terms 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'* 29 
 
 that make me a prisoner all my life! So I think, 
 on the whole, IVe earned my right to this day. I 
 have paid your memory the last jot of respect de- 
 manded by Roseborough. For four years I have 
 worn hideous blackish clothes which would have 
 caused you to swoon with horror had the angels 
 allowed you to lean out of heaven to observe me. 
 Now, I am going to be young and dress like a bird of 
 paradise! And — and . . ." 
 
 In a trice she threw off the mood that had held her 
 there. The grave analyst disappeared. It was a 
 young creature thrilHng with the joy of Hfe who 
 leaped up and threw her arms high above her head 
 and laughed. 
 
 "Do you know what this 'irredeemably bourgeoise' 
 bird of paradise is going to do now.?* She is going 
 out into the hedges and the river grass and along 
 the highways; and she is going to twirl her -finery 
 about, and shake her hair out in the sun, and call — 
 and call — till her true mate comes to her! And he'll 
 jump down off his horse — or the wind, or a heron*s 
 back — and he'll catch me up in his arms, because he, 
 also, is irredeemably bourgeois! And he'll say 
 . . . he'll say — * Good-morning, Rosamond!' 
 * Good-morning, Rosamond!'" 
 
 The sound of her name this morning gave her 
 exquisite delight, as if it introduced her to a new 
 being; as if, indeed, she had discovered that this 
 
30 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 new being, herself, contained in profusion all the 
 elements of the romance she coveted. 
 
 She sing-songed her matutinal salutation in the 
 theme of the little minuet she had hummed, from 
 time to time, since her pleasant interview with the 
 Orleans mirror, and danced herself out with it to the 
 garden. 
 
 The portrait of the late possessor of this rebellious 
 bit of country bric-a-brac was an excellent essay in 
 flesh painting of the realistic school. It had no 
 psychic qualities. Therefore it did not change its 
 tints or take on shadows when Mrs. Hibbert Mearely, 
 renouncing the life of an art-object, wafted out on 
 rustic love-adventure bent. The morning sun, so 
 kind to the fresh countenance of the farmer's daugh- 
 ter, dealt very sincerely with the gentleman in the 
 picture. Its arrow rays, shot across the wall, lent 
 neither warmth nor softness — only pointedness — 
 to the long, thin head, and the nose, chin, and lips 
 that were all long and thin and curved. Nor did 
 the sunshine kindle the prominent, cold, pale eyes 
 which looked out with condescension upon a world 
 of humanity that mattered little, collectively or 
 individually, to the self-contained self-sufiiciency of 
 Mr. Hibbert Mearely, aristocrat and amateur col- 
 lector of antiques. 
 
 One long, thin hand held a small gold-painted box 
 from which James II was supposed to have pecked 
 
. ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 31 
 
 his after-dinner comfits. With a fine impartiality, 
 the other hand rested on the head of a cane of EngHsh 
 oak and silver, said to have been given to William 
 of Orange by Mary, his spouse. Indeed, she may 
 have given it to him for, as all history knows, the 
 intense but plain-faced lady put her Stuart pride 
 in her pocket and wooed her dour Dutch Bill, assid- 
 uously and submissively from A to Z, before she 
 finally convinced him — to his belated joy — that 
 they were two souls with but a single thought, two 
 hearts that beat as one. 
 
 It may not be amiss to mention here (in whispers) 
 that the distinguished dilettante — whose taste and 
 knowledge of arts past and present had been that 
 of an amateur and a gentleman without vulgar taint 
 of professionalism — had once (only once and never 
 again) sought the opinion of an expert on his collec- 
 tion. This "brutal person," as Mr. Mearely had 
 characterized him on the only occasion thereafter, 
 when he permitted his name to be mentioned in his 
 presence, found the Orleans mirror and the Louis 
 chair to be of the periods claimed, but doubted that 
 princesses had ever looked in the one or kings sat in 
 the other. He approved the jade Buddha and 
 certain bronzes, potteries, and two pictures; but as 
 to the rest, he had said, amid detestable chuckles: 
 
 "Well, sir, my advice to you is, don't ever charge 
 the public admission to your private bazaar — Villa 
 
32 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 Bizarre, eh? — for the law would be down on you 
 for obtaining money under false pretences. And I 
 can promise you that all your 'royal' pepper pots 
 and powder puffs and poodles and petits pots — if they 
 sold for what they're worth — ^wouldn't bring in enough 
 to pay your fines." 
 
 "I have not a poodle in my collection," Mr. Hib- 
 bert Mearely retorted with icy dignity, and showed 
 the "brutal person" the door. 
 
 Perhaps it was not strange, therefore, that little 
 Rosamond Cort, equipped by Nature from the be- 
 ginning to be a connoisseur in happiness, should 
 have found out that the crown of wifehood bestowed 
 on her by Hibbert Mearely was something less than 
 royal, and that the joys which had glistered to her 
 through the window panes of Villa Rose were golden 
 only on the surface. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 DOWN the hill and down the valley, where the 
 crossroads pointed east to Poplars Vale and west 
 to Roseborough, and the low, gray stone bridge with 
 its mossy ooze led over the winding river toward 
 Trenton Waters, three miles north, stood a stone 
 tower. In it an old ship's bell hung, which, so report 
 said, had once rung meal hours and lullabies and other 
 clock stations for a captain and crew whose gory 
 barque flew the "Jolly Roger." The aged pensioner, 
 who collected the tow-path tolls, rang the strokes of 
 the hour on this bell from six a.m. until six p.m., and, 
 so closely did the low, curving hills advance to smile 
 upon each other from both sides of the running water 
 that they made a channel for the sound — like a 
 great, twisted, golden horn — so that the bell-tones, 
 rung out at the crossroads, were heard at Roseborough 
 and at Poplars Vale and even rolled their echoes, 
 when the wind was kind, upon the town of Trenton 
 Waters. 
 
 Nine o^clock! Rosamond heard it pealing as she 
 reached the terrace. 
 
 "I must hurry to find whatever it is I am looking 
 for," she said, "because my Wonderful Day won't 
 
 33 
 
34 ''GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 wait. It will move on, hour by hour, just like any- 
 other day." 
 
 The house was on a jut of the hill, sheer above the 
 gravel road and midway from the summit. The 
 road must make a long detour about the grounds of 
 Villa Rose ere it could continue its progress round 
 and over the hilltops and on toward more modern 
 and populous districts of Old Canada. At the foot 
 of the incline was the village proper, occupying three 
 streets in triangle about a combined courthouse, 
 police station and gaol, the latter seldom visited 
 even by the constables. On one street corner the 
 post office stood, flanked by a few small houses. 
 The other two streets shared between them the 
 business buildings of Roseborough; such as Bilkin's 
 meat market and hardware store; Miss Jenny's 
 millinery and dressmaking establishment; George 
 Dollop's drugs, stationery and lending library, with 
 John Dollop, plumber, and James Dollop, undertaker, 
 adjoining, and Horace Ruggle of the telegraph office 
 next door; and Brandon's stables and feed store. 
 
 In going over the hill's brow and on to the vague 
 unknown, the road led past Charleroy College 
 whither the lads within twenty miles came to acquire 
 knowledge. The residential portion of Roseborough, 
 comprising about sixty houses and gardens, spread 
 about the hillsides between the village and Charleroy. 
 
 The sun fell aslant over the garden and the orchard. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMONDT 35 
 
 as if indeed it had cast a golden net about Villa Rose 
 to snare the willing lady thereof in a witchery from 
 which she might never escape. To decide that this 
 was to be the great day of her life, a day of splendid 
 adventure, was one thing; to make it so — ^to make 
 any day a day of adventure in Roseborough — ^was 
 quite another. Pondering ways and means of 
 conjuring up romance, she fluttered about among 
 the blazing dahlia beds like a huge lavender butter- 
 fly. 
 
 "Oh!" She stopped suddenly. "I shall not de- 
 serve my Wonderful Day if I don't take Mrs. Lee her 
 flowers and her fruit, as usual. '* 
 
 She ran back to the verandah and picked up a 
 willow basket containing stout gloves and shears 
 and returned to the flower beds. She lingered only 
 a moment or two among the dahlias. Beyond their 
 haughty glory lay the rose garden, a radiant and 
 random half acre spilling forth every tint and 
 perfume known to the rose family. Here Rosamond's 
 shears went to work busily. She found dehght in 
 the task, for she hummed again the little minuet 
 theme which she had recomposed into this day's 
 salutation to herself. 
 
 When one is young, not only with the fearless 
 years but with the brave desires of youth and eager 
 for fairy tale happenings, so that every other sen- 
 tence begins with "I wonder!" one must talk; 
 
36 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 and if fate has set one in a high and lonely place with 
 no young, imaginative twin soul to companion one's 
 dreams, then one must talk to oneself — not merely 
 in silence but with the uttered phrase. Rosamond 
 talked to herself habitually. 
 
 She was musing aloud now: 
 
 "I wonder how it would feel to own all this — Villa 
 Rose and its gardens — ^with love, and then to lose it — 
 and love, too. Mrs. Lee did. Fm afraid I couldn't 
 be sweet about it, as she is." She concluded pre- 
 sently that in such circumstances she would even feel 
 resentful when flowers were brought to her from 
 the garden that had once been hers. 
 
 She pictured Mrs. Lee in thought as she would 
 see her presently — seated in her bit of garden, knit- 
 ting, or perhaps indoors, lovingly sorting and dusting 
 the precious (and, it must be confessed, prosy) 
 manuscripts written by her husband during his forty 
 years as professor of literature at Charleroy. She 
 would hear the gentle voice greeting her lovingly — 
 not because she was the rich Mrs. Mearely but be- 
 cause Mrs. Lee instinctively greeted all the world 
 lovingly. Under the white hair and dainty, white 
 lace cap, the kind eyes, which had seen seventy years 
 of life — ^with its human sun and shadow — go by, 
 would beam out of the delicately wrinkled face with a 
 delight in the flowers' beauty and fragrance as spon- 
 taneous and young as youth itself — the spirit which 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 37 
 
 discounts time because its habitation is with the 
 good and the eternal. 
 
 "Maybe it is because she never thinks of herself 
 that she has never found out that she hasn't things 
 any more." 
 
 Mrs. Lee's abihty to be happy, even after fate had 
 bereft her of everything, was a subject full of unusual 
 interest for Rosamond this morning. By some art 
 'this lonely woman, past her seventieth milestone, 
 managed to make every day of her life her '^ wonderful 
 day." The song of her "Good-morning!" came out 
 of a deep-toned, divine joy which neither age, pov- 
 erty, nor grief could blur. The wistful look was in 
 Rosamond's eyes again as she passed out of the rose 
 garden and into the orchard on her way to make her 
 daily offering. 
 
 The orchard lay higher than the garden and the 
 house. Rosamond went on up rustic steps, made of 
 earth and roots, that led between irregular lines of 
 pear trees weighted to the ground with their promise 
 of brown and golden fruit. She made her way to a 
 huge cherry tree, ran nimbly up the ladder, and cov- 
 ered the bottom of her basket with large> red- 
 cheeked, white cherries; then, jumping down, she 
 hastened on up the remaining steps into a small 
 grass plot surrounding a tiny cottage. A beech tree 
 took up its full share of the grounds and, close beside 
 it, as if in friendly converse, rose the rustic, vine- 
 
38 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 clad top of a well with wet bucket hung high on the 
 roller. 
 
 Mrs. Lee sat in a rocker beside the well, knitting. 
 Her ball of yarn was filliping about the sward under 
 the paws of a white kitten whose smudgy face be- 
 trayed a nature so obsessed with the entrancing 
 amusements of a woollen tangle that the duty of the 
 daily ablution was wholly forgotten. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Lee, I'm late; but here they are.'* 
 Rosamond held out her basket. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mrs. Mearely. How you spoil 
 me, my dear! What lovely roses — oh, and dahhas! 
 — dahlias of the very hue of Hfe itself, the unquench- 
 able crimson flame. How bravely and confidently 
 they give themselves to the sun and blend with its 
 rays! And cherries, too!" i 
 
 Rosamond laughed. 
 
 "Now, Mrs. Lee, how can you pretend to feel such 
 delighted surprise when you knew perfectly well that 
 I'd bring them to-day just as I always do.f"' 
 
 "Ah, my dear, that is the very secret of happiness." 
 She paused to pick up a dropped stitch, and Rosa- 
 mond, eager for data on this subject above all others, 
 asked quickly: 
 
 ''What is the secret of happiness?" 
 
 "Why — don't you know.? It is to anticipate only 
 what you know will surely happen. Then your every 
 desire comes to pass. And the surprise you feel is not 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 39 
 
 so much surprise, after all, as a kind of charmed 
 wonder that life is so beautifully arranged." 
 
 "/j- life beautifully arranged, Mrs. Lee?" Rosa- 
 mond took the basket from her friend's lap, where it 
 interfered with the stocking's progress, and set it on 
 the grass. She sank down on the broad, rustic seat 
 which surrounded the well's rim. 
 
 "Isitwo^.^ I am sure you feel that it is. To you, 
 in particular, in spite of the one great grief, life must 
 seem like a fairy tale. I must pause in discussion 
 of this infinite theme to remark upon your appear- 
 ance, my dear. You look ravishing this morning. 
 What a beautiful frock! I know that it has been 
 hard for you to put away the last black ribbons. 
 Although it is just what he would wish, it seems to 
 you like wilfully forgetting the beloved one." 
 
 She laid a comforting hand lightly for a moment 
 on Rosamond's. Rosamond, remembering the man- 
 ner in which she had discarded the black-garnished, 
 lavender dress, drooped her head quickly to hide 
 alike the little blush of shame that tinted her cheeks 
 and the wicked twinkle that brightened her eyes. 
 
 "It is so fortunate," Mrs. Lee went on, "that there 
 are no 'styles' in Roseborough. In Roseborough all 
 your lovely frocks will be as fashionable now as when 
 you bought them, four or five years ago. Miss 
 Jenny says that she does not know what this genera- 
 tion is coming to, because, even in Trenton Waters, 
 
40 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 they are beginning to ask whether a garment or a 
 ribbon is 'in style' before they buy it. Miss Jenny 
 says that she has seen some of those so-called stylish 
 hats, and garments of various kinds, and that she is 
 willing to take her * solemn oath in court' — as she 
 expressed it, being very much moved — that a few 
 scissor-snips would have laid the whole in ruins. 
 *Mrs. Lee,' she said to me, 'when Jenny Hackensee 
 sews a bow on even a child's hat, or a bone button 
 on the band of a genteel woman's flannel petticoat, 
 my conscience is satisfied that it will never come off!' 
 Poor Miss Jenny. She fears that the Roseborough 
 ladies may forget her worth and run after follies. 
 My dear husband used to say that that trait was one 
 of the charms of Roseborough — namely, the loving 
 regard each person in the community has for the 
 general morale.'' 
 
 "Yes, that trait is very marked in Roseborough." 
 Again Mrs. Mearely's drooped head hid a twinkle. 
 
 "It rejoices me to see you in that dainty Hlac and 
 white. It is just as if the fragrance and tints of 
 spring had lingered to make midsummer more be- 
 witching." 
 
 "Are you going to make me vain again to-day, 
 as you always do.?" 
 
 "Nonsense, dear child. Does expatiating on the 
 beauty of a rose or a brook make it vain ? Beauty is 
 one of heaven's choicest gifts, and is always to be 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 41 
 
 admired gratefully. How foolish must any fair 
 woman be who allows herself to become vain — as if 
 the beauty admired were her possession exclusively, 
 and not a free gift to the eyes of all beholders ! She 
 might as reasonably be conceited about holding up 
 a candle in the dusk." 
 
 Rosamond put out a hand and stopped the knitting 
 for the moment. "You were going to show me how 
 perfectly Hfe is arranged. I need to be shown.'* 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Perhaps I did, too, at your age. And I was. 
 For I married a remarkable man and Hfe became for 
 me at once very simple and large — something like 
 the process of Nature's unfoldment under sunlight. 
 Professor Lee's spirit was just that — a mellow sun- 
 shine, which made for growth in those who lived with- 
 in its radius. A bright and searching spirit it was; 
 for it revealed to you the weeds as well as the grain, 
 but in such a way that you were not hurt or humili- 
 ated; your only feeHng was a sense of freedom, of 
 relief that a danger had been pointed out, and that 
 you had therefore escaped it." 
 
 "Perhaps it would not be so difficult to give up 
 one's faults if one were told about them in that way. 
 One would have no reason for trying to excuse them." 
 
 "Ah, that was it exactly! He always said that 
 when you deprived people of the feeling of personal 
 possession in their errors you took away their only 
 
42 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 reason for clinging to those errors. But for this 
 egoism, we would all see clearly enough how inde- 
 fensible are many of the traits we justify. My hus- 
 band would have refused outright, if he could, to 
 believe there was any evil in the world at all. He 
 did insist that it was no true part of any person. 
 That was why he could help others so wonderfully 
 in their moral struggles, because he never censured, 
 never expressed a personal anger, only pointed out 
 the wrong as if it were — as, indeed, he regarded it — 
 an outside thing trying to fasten itself on the un- 
 suspecting individual. He used to say that moral 
 victories over temptation were all-important — be- 
 cause they registered something permanent, a degree 
 of progress won — but that defeats, though pitiable, 
 were not deeply important, because they were of the 
 moment only — the next hour might see victory; 
 some hour must see it." 
 
 "It must have been wonderful for his students to 
 oe trained by him— I mean, to be taught first to look 
 at Hfe and themselves by a man who had such a deep 
 faith within him. But weren't you always busy 
 keeping bad people from taking advantage of him?'* 
 
 ''Sometimes; but far less often than you would 
 think. I came to see that this spirit of my dear hus- 
 band's, so far from bringing deception and imposture 
 upon him, really contained its own protection against 
 these things. Those who were unworthy of his Inter- 
 
" Mrs. Lee sat in her rocker knitting. Her ball of 
 yarn was filliping about the sward under the paws of a 
 white kitten" 
 
c « • 
 • c » 
 
 • t 
 
 * c 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 43 
 
 est soon eliminated themselves. He never seemed 
 to guess why they went — but saw them go and wished 
 them well." 
 
 "To live for nearly fifty years with a man like 
 that might make me also believe that life is beauti- 
 fully arranged. But I am not convinced this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "You are wilful!" 
 
 " I know it. There will be only twenty-four hours in 
 this day and I need at least twice that." She paused. 
 
 Mrs. Lee smiled as she said: "You flit from one 
 subject to another like a bee after honey! My 
 mental wings take slow and reasoned flights. I 
 cannot follow you. What am I to make of your last 
 inconsequential spurt through the air — that, for you, 
 Ufe would be rightly arranged if this particular day 
 could have double hours? If so, why?" 
 
 Rosamond laughed. 
 
 "Don't let me give you 'nerves,' Mrs. Lee. I 
 know I do lack sequence, and that, to the life com- 
 panion of a professor of Hterature, must be very 
 trying. I can begin things wonderfully and I know 
 the ending I want; but I can't fill in the middle part. 
 The middle is just dots and dashes." 
 
 "Principally dashes," Mrs. Lee smiled. 
 
 "Principally. This time, though, there is a con- 
 nection. To-day is to be my Wonderful Day. So, if 
 life really is beautifully arranged I must find it out 
 
44 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 before to-morrow. And even a forty-eight hour day 
 is hardly long enough for one's only Wonderful Day." 
 
 "Oh, youth, youth! With all Hfe before it, it 
 must still invent limits for itself and tragic *ifs' and 
 *buts' and *perhapses.' Why must to-day alone be 
 wonderful? Every day has its wonders." 
 
 There was no answer for a moment; then Rosa- 
 mond leaned over and kissed the elder woman's 
 cheek — a fragile bit of pale pink and ivory modelling, 
 faintly impressed with many tiny Hues. She knew 
 that she could not uncover to Mrs. Lee's eyes all the 
 remote reasons for her mood of this morning. She 
 who had worn her weeds in loving sorrow and resigna- 
 tion must not be told of the young heart beating its 
 rebellious tattoo for long irksome months, under 
 crape and plain black, black and white, and lavender 
 with black trimmings — nor of the hoydenish kick 
 which had cast the last stage of woe from her forever. 
 
 It seemed to Rosamond, then, that the cynic 
 touch of disillusionment, and not the mere passing 
 of time, was what aged; and that, according to 
 such calculation, she was years older than Mrs. Lee. 
 Twenty-four's responsibility was to guard the couleur 
 de rose for Seventy! Her thoughts culminated in 
 the inward exclamation: 
 
 "It makes a difference, even in one's «g^, what sort 
 of a man one marries!" 
 
 Aloud, she said: 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 45 
 
 "You see, I called this my 'Wonderful Day,' and 
 put on this frock to celebrate it. So I must make it 
 wonderful, mustn't I?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, my dear, and all the midsummer 
 fairies will help you," her friend answered. 
 
 Mrs. Lee was placidly and patiently unmingling 
 her kitten and her wool, which had revolved and re- 
 solved themselves into one untidy ball with a miewing 
 centre. 
 
 Two sounds broke upon the lull in conversation. 
 
 Near by clattered the hoofs of the letter carrier's 
 pony rounding the hill's turn to the front gate. Far 
 down by the river the old bell rang its song of ten 
 o'clock into the mouth of the golden horn valley, and 
 the tones — muted but round and perfect — floated 
 up across the hillside gardens and carried, even here, 
 their separate theme dimly above the murmurs of 
 wind-rippled leaves and dripping bucket. 
 
 "Morning, Mrs. Lee. Morning, Mrs. Mearely, 
 ma'am." 
 
 Mr. Horace Ruggle — ^who was the mail carrier 
 twice daily when he was not the telegraph agent, 
 and vice versa — blinked perspiringly over the gate. 
 Mr. Ruggle was stout — deliberately and tyrannically 
 stout, no doubt his equine would have said, had there 
 been a bit of speech instead of a bit of steel in his 
 mouth — and whatever he did was done with gusty 
 effort. 
 
46 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Good-morning, Mr. Ruggle. Is it possible that 
 you have a letter for me?" Mrs. Lee queried, putting 
 her knitting aside and rising to the rare occasion. 
 Rosamond ran forward to receive it. 
 
 "One for you and one for Mrs. Mearely." Mr. 
 Ruggle put the letters into Rosamond's hand. 
 "Yours has come quite a ways; but Mrs. Mearely's 
 is just from Poplars. It'll be from her folks, Hkely. 
 Mebbe her mother's took sick or her sister's children's 
 caught a epidemic; or, more likely yet, has had a 
 accident with that new farm machinery." 
 
 "Oh, dear, oh, dear, I hope not!" Mrs. Lee looked 
 upon him with gentle disapprobation as if she 
 considered his attempts to rival the literary imagi- 
 nation of Edgar Allan Poe wholly out of tune with 
 a midsummer morning in Roseborough. "Do tell 
 me there is nothing of the sort, Mrs. Mearely, I 
 can't enjoy my own missive until I know. Mr. 
 Ruggle has alarmed me." 
 
 "Telegrapher and postman," Mr. Ruggle wheezed, 
 mopping his huge cheeks, "I'm the Bad News Syndi- 
 cate. I made that anecdote first along in the 'nine- 
 ties,' when the newspaper at Trenton joined the 
 news syndicate and gave me the idea; but it's a joke 
 that's always good. Back about six years ago, I 
 added something to it that's made it even better. 
 It's this: 'If I carry bad news and don't know it, 
 who carries worse and knows it?' Answer: the 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 47 
 
 undertaker.'" He took his own time and told it to 
 the bitter end despite Mrs. Lee's poHte, but none-the- 
 less quite marked, attempts to prevent the sombre 
 jest's completion. 
 
 "Yes, yes, Mr. Ruggle. You are fond of your wit, 
 we know; but while you are entertaining us, think of 
 the impatient ones elsewhere waiting for their letters." 
 
 "Right you are, ma'am — impatient for their 
 doom, never thinking as how what they don't know 
 won't hurt them." Mr. Ruggle drew his pony's head 
 out of the greenery about the fence. "Bad news 
 from Poplars.^" 
 
 "Oh, no, not at all." Mrs. Mearely gave him a 
 nod that meant dismissal. 
 
 "It is only a line from my sister, Mrs. Lee, saying 
 she can't come to me for a week." 
 
 "Should think you'd be looking in your own en- 
 velope, ma'am," Mr. Ruggle hinted to Mrs. Lee. 
 "It's come quite a ways." 
 
 "Not just now; I must find my other glasses first, 
 so I shall wait some time." 
 
 "Well, you may, but / can't!" The nonplussed 
 Mr. Ruggle masked his disappointment with a face- 
 tious air. "Good-day, ladies." The over-freighted 
 pony jogged on up the hill. 
 
 "Dear, dear, I wonder how many thousand times 
 Mr. Ruggle has repeated to me that unpleasant 
 'anecdote' of his, as he insists on calling it." Mrs. 
 
48 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Lee shook her head, with a mild perplexity that any- 
 one should evince a taste for such humour. 
 
 "Dreadful person!" Rosamond concurred. 
 "Wouldn't you suppose that an ordinary sense of the 
 fitness of things would keep a fat man from being 
 morbid?" 
 
 Mrs. Lee laughed heartily. 
 
 "Fm afraid I have been guilty of a tiny fib. Al- 
 though I generally use my other glasses for reading, 
 I do not positively require them. Still I do feel that 
 I should not be compelled to share my mail with 
 Mr. Ruggle." She slipped a knitting needle under 
 the flap and opened the envelope deftly. Presently 
 a murmur of delight caused her guest to say: 
 
 "No epidemics or accidents in your letter, either! 
 I heard you purr." ^ 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 IT'S from Jack — our Jack — and he is coming 
 home!" Mrs. Lee's deeply set, dark eyes were 
 shining, her cheeks flushed; her voice, keen-toned 
 with happiness, denied her three score and ten years. 
 
 "Oh, I hardly dared to believe it when he wrote 
 months ago that he would come! But he did mean 
 it — the dear, dear lad. Listen: *I will walk in 
 upon you on the morning of the fifteenth.' The 
 fifteenth? why, that will be to-morrow! To-morrow 
 morning! Oh, think of it, Mrs. Mearely! I, too, 
 am to have my 'wonderful day'; and it is to be 
 to-morrow!" 
 
 "Who is coming to-morrow? It should be a re- 
 markable person indeed to inspire all this joy." 
 
 "Oh, he is! But you shall see for yourself. It is 
 Jack Falcon." 
 
 "And who is Jack Falcon? His hawk-Hke name 
 makes me none the wiser!" Rosamond laughed in 
 asking. 
 
 "Oh, you will not recall him at all. You must 
 have been a small child when he went away. Oh, 
 dear, I am so excited! To-morrow morning! Come 
 in with me, dear friend, and do help advise me what 
 
 49 
 
50 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 preparations to make. And let me chatter, too; 
 for, really, if I cannot let out some of this exhilaration 
 in words, I fear I shall just puff and puff and go up 
 like a balloon." 
 
 "No, you won't, for Til hold on to you!" 
 
 "Oh, come in, dear, and help me — advise me." 
 . She drew Rosamond's hand through her arm. 
 
 "I shall love to help in anything that makes you so 
 happy. And to-morrow, early, you shall have fresh 
 flowers and fruit — and everything that Villa Rose 
 can supply. If only Amanda and Jemima were there 
 to cook things! But they went to Trenton for the 
 day," she added, not wishing to cloud Mrs. Lee's 
 joy by a recital of His Friggets' sudden sorrow. 
 "But there! / can cook! I'll bake a cake. It will 
 be fun to do it." 
 
 "Oh, my dear! will you? Oh, think of that!" 
 Mrs. Lee fluttered in ahead of her. "I must decide 
 which room to give him." 
 
 "You haven't any room. He'll have to sleep in 
 the well!" 
 
 "Ah! I have it! yes! I've just thought that I 
 can use the little room as a dining-room and give 
 Jack the dining-room because of the two sun windows 
 looking down toward the river. He will want a 
 sunny room to work in." 
 
 She led the way into the dining-room where light 
 and colour reigned even in the woodwork and dra- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 51 
 
 penes. Purple, pink, and blue morning-glories, 
 burdened with bees, peered in at the broad, low 
 windows. 
 
 "To work.?" Rosamond repeated interrogatively. 
 
 "Yes — I haven't told even you yet. It has been 
 such a secret! It is the professor's manuscripts. I 
 have arranged them. Oh! it took months to sort 
 them. Look." 
 
 She drew aside the scrim curtains before a low 
 bookcase. The shelves were packed with notebooks 
 and loose pages covered with small, even writing, all 
 lying in neat piles. 
 
 "Sit down, my dear, and let me tell you all about 
 it." 
 
 She pressed her guest into a little wicker chair 
 trimmed with rose chintz, and then sat at the table, 
 herself, with half a dozen of the manuscripts before 
 her. Marking a place with her forefinger, she 
 continued : 
 
 "You see, since my dear husband went away, 
 these have been my companions." 
 
 "He must have written a great deal that no one 
 else knew about. Why were they never published ?" 
 
 "Ah, that is the secret, dear! They will be pub- 
 lished. These are all thoughts of his, fruits of ex- 
 perience, little jottings on life and human character 
 as he had observed them, descriptive and philo- 
 sophical essays: the result, as he said, of having been 
 
52 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 taught faithfully and diversely by youth for forty 
 years." 
 
 "Of being taught by youth!" Rosamond repeated. 
 "Oh! what things youth could teach if age would 
 only let it." Her eyes sparkled. 
 
 "He often spoke of it in that way, as if he were the 
 pupil, and a very fortunate one, of all the hundreds of 
 boys who passed through his hands. And I know 
 that he hoped, in these writings, to give back to his 
 boys — in their maturer life, when they could appre- 
 ciate it — some of the gold of their youth." 
 
 "Did he care so much for all of them.?" 
 
 "He cared for every living thing. In loving any 
 individual it was all life that he loved with all its 
 potentialities. It came to me that if I could only 
 publish these notes and essays I would thus extend 
 his influence although he is no longer personally here. 
 I wrote to several of the boys about it. (I must still 
 call them *boys,' although some have their gray 
 and their bald spots, no doubt — and their whiskers!) " 
 
 "So Jack Falcon, dear filial soul, is bald and 
 whiskered," Rosamond murmured. "I might have 
 known it." 
 
 Mrs. Lee, examining the manuscripts, in a search 
 for some special article or paragraph, did not hear 
 her. 
 
 "Some of the boys were interested, and some I 
 thought were a trifle indiff'erent; but Jack wrote that 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 53 
 
 he would come home to help arrange and edit the 
 scattered notes into coherent form. He said he was 
 willing to give a year to the task, if need be. And — 
 think of it — he was ever so far away in southern 
 Europe at the time! Somewhere in those excitable 
 Balkans." 
 
 "The poor old thing was probably scared to death 
 in the Balkans and grasped at the opportunity to get 
 to a quiet spot," went through Rosamond's mind, 
 but she said, aloud: "He has a good, loyal heart, 
 evidently, and deserves that I bake him a cake." 
 
 "Indeed he does. Though he was a dreadful cake- 
 thief as a boy. I had to wrap my cakes in a towel 
 and hide them in my bonnet box. He would go 
 barefoot on long tramps through the valley and then 
 come into the house, after we had retired, and eat up 
 everything. The dear boy!" 
 
 "He wouldn't have done it a second time with my 
 cakes ! The idea of crawling in through windows at 
 midnight hunting for food! Vd 'dear boy' him!" 
 
 Mrs. Lee laughed. 
 
 "Oh, dear, how I am rambling on! It is the excite- 
 ment, and not knowing what to tell you first. But 
 I fear that authentic news of Jack Falcon could never 
 be grouped in orderly fashion, for he himself was a 
 very disorderly, lawless person. But so lovable!" 
 
 In chattering breathlessly, as she was, her slender 
 fingers had been searching rather inefficiently among 
 
54 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 the leaflets; but now it appeared that she had found 
 
 what she wanted. 
 
 "Here's his letter, pinned to this little prose poem 
 
 about Roseborough." 
 
 "He writes poems about Roseborough ? " 
 
 "Oh, no, no! It is the professor's. You see I 
 
 copied the little gem about our dear old town and 
 
 enclosed it when I first wrote him about publishing. 
 
 I wanted it to awaken the home desire in him. He 
 
 has never married — it is too bad. Wait . . . 
 
 oh, here it is. He says: 
 
 "I remember that names and dates never stayed in your 
 head, Mother Lee, even simple Anglo-Saxon names. So 
 I won't burden you with the extensive and excruciating 
 hereditary title of the royal personage who just now 
 employs me at a handsome salary in laying out a recreation 
 garden for his peasants. You would weary and faint 
 before you reached the end of it ! Suffice it for your pride 
 to know that I have given to this royal personage the 
 little article about Roseborough. It came about, natur- 
 ally, one day in the garden that I read it to him. He was 
 charmed with it, touched. So I, of course, let him keep 
 it. He has translated it into his own jawcracking 
 language [Jawcracking' is in brackets — the naughty boy!], 
 and has made an illuminated copy which hangs in his music 
 room where he spends most of his time. 
 
 "There, my dear! Is not that something to be proud 
 of? To think that my dear husband is even helping un- 
 pronounceable personages in those dreadful Balkans ! " 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 55 
 
 Rosamond's own cheeks were rosy from sympa- 
 thetic thrill and she joined warmly in the elder 
 woman's delight. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Lee, how lovely! J should think you 
 would be so proud that you would refuse to speak to 
 poor commoners like us! You have known that for 
 weeks and never told it! / should have gone up and 
 down Roseborough with a trumpet." 
 
 "Oh, you must not tell it even now ! I wish to keep 
 it until the right moment, when I can give it out 
 in such a way that all Roseborough will feel that the 
 honour does not exalt me, in a personal way, but is 
 theirs as much as mine." 
 
 Rosamond cocked her head, impudently. 
 
 "Afraid Mrs. Witherby will scratch?" 
 
 "No, you naughty girl! But Roseborough, having 
 the communal spirit so strongly, does not take kindly 
 to personal exaltations. I have learned to respect 
 this sensitiveness." 
 
 Rosamond's eyes twinkled again, as she listened 
 to Mrs. Lee's charitable paraphrase on local jealousy. 
 
 "What do you suppose it could have been, about 
 Roseborough, that appealed to the Balkan person.?" 
 she asked. "Try to imagine Roseborough in the 
 Balkans!" 
 
 "Do you know I, too, wondered about that at 
 first? Then I saw how natural it was — and felt that 
 I had been stupid not to comprehend it at once. 
 
56 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 What should appeal to those poor, sad, explosive 
 Balkans so much as Roseborough's peacefulness ? 
 They must grow very tired of the continuous gun- 
 popping and broken glass, and long for the 'twelve 
 hours of dreamless sleep' to which Professor Lee 
 alludes in the article. I always think that the sound 
 of windows, or even glass tumblers, breaking is such 
 a sharp, perturbing noise. I particularly disHke it. 
 And then, too, the pieces of broken glass, flying 
 through the air or scattered in profusion about the 
 roads, are really dangerous." 
 
 She was adjusting her glasses, so did not see the 
 sparkles of merriment in Rosamond's eyes. 
 
 "The article is short — only a few hundred words — 
 let me read it to you. It is entitled" (she paused — 
 dwelHng lovingly on the written word before she 
 uttered it) "*Roseborough.' Listen." She repeated 
 " Roseborough." 
 
 "Here, where all hearts are tender and sincere, and no 
 harsh word is ever breathed aloud, I will spend my days — 
 be they few or many. Roseborough, thou art the other 
 name of Happiness! Thy fragrance is a spiritual sweet 
 that exudes from fadeless petals. Thy calm days are 
 the flower, and thy velvety, star-veined nights of twelve 
 hours of dreamless sleep are the leafy stem, of my perfect 
 Rose of Content. I am happy indeed to be a busy bee 
 plying my simple art at the centre of this sweetness. For 
 what is my art — and all art? What is the art of pen, 
 brush, chisel, and melodic strain? These are but parts 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' S7 
 
 of the great Art of Life, namely the distillation of love. 
 If Happiness be thy other earthly name, dear Roseborough, 
 thy *new name' — ^written in the heavens — is Love. To 
 every seeker of harmony, thou art his end of journeying; 
 to every wanderer, his home. 
 
 (Signed) Ph. Autocritus Lee, 
 2 1 St June, 1895. 
 
 "He did not even initial all that he wrote; but he 
 must have felt himself that this was especially fine — 
 of course, as a professor of literature, with degrees, 
 he would know that about his own work as well as 
 about another's — for he signed it in full and dated 
 it. Except the first name," she added. "He never 
 signed Phineas but always used Ph. instead, saying 
 that Ph. was short for philosophy and so was he, 
 short of it, in spite of all his profound cogitations." 
 
 She sat gazing at the faded handwriting, though 
 the tears, that slowly formed and coursed her finely 
 wrinkled cheeks, entirely blurred the lines for her. 
 
 "*Here where all hearts are tender and sincere.' 
 To think that he wrote that about Roseborough 
 nearly twenty years ago, my dear! And it was just 
 as true then as it is now." 
 
 Rosamond put both her arms about the older 
 woman's neck and leaned her cheek against hers. 
 
 "His faith saw the beautiful truth of things, noth- 
 ing else. It was the same quality he loved best in 
 Jack. He used to say that Jack's faith was like the 
 
58 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 morning lark. Nothing could keep it from soaring 
 and singing." 
 
 "Then he is the right person to edit those papers 
 and you have reason to be happy." 
 
 Mrs. Lee looked down into Rosamond's eyes with 
 unwonted solemnity. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely, I am going to tell you something 
 now which, in days to come, you will hear from many 
 others. Then you will remember that it was I who 
 first told it to you — here, in this little room. Pro- 
 fessor Lee was one of the world's great and original 
 minds, though the world has not yet found it out." 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Lee, I am sure he was." 
 
 "While Jack, of course, agrees with me about 
 that, he feels that Professor Lee's highest value was 
 of another quality. He writes somewhere in this 
 letter — ^wait; yes, it is in this one — mum-m-m. " 
 She buzzed softly over the lines, hunting for the 
 passage. "Ah! here it is: 
 
 "I think that to lay stress, in a preface, upon the vastness 
 and originality of Professor Lee's intellect would be a 
 mistake. Besides, in these careless days, the words have 
 been misapplied until their meaning is nil." 
 
 She looked up from the letter. "He means by 
 that, dear, that while the words are truly applicable 
 to Professor Lee they would fail to make him so 
 conceived of by the reader; because they have been 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 59 
 
 used noisily by persons of no judgment to describe 
 men of shallow attainments — like some of those 
 unfortunate foreign professors, for instance, who are 
 so pathetically askew about everything. Poor things. 
 It was the electron that set them all off. My dear 
 husband used to say that the atomic theory, though 
 purely materialistic and proving nothing in the world, 
 was nevertheless not inimical to scientists' sobriety 
 and dignity, but that, when they lost the atom, they 
 lost their heads and their shoes and their shirts as 
 well! The electronic theory proved too exciting 
 for them. He would say to me: *My dear, they 
 should have held on to the atom. It was much the 
 safer toy!' When I saw the other day that radium 
 has shown that matter disappears altogether, I 
 wondered what the poor things would do now. They 
 must be dreadfully disturbed.^' She paused, shaking 
 her head from side to side in sympathy. 
 
 "What else does Mr. Falcon say about Professor 
 Lee?" Rosamond called her back, tactfully, to the 
 main point. 
 
 "Ah! none knows better than Jack that Professor 
 Lee was secretly a very great man. He goes on to 
 say: 
 
 "He thought and said the things which all good and 
 loving men have thought and said, and in much the same 
 way. Because like them, he had discovered the truth of 
 those things through living it. That was what made him 
 
6o ' ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 priceless to us. He was a Sympathy — a refining and 
 strengthening animus — which endured and went with us 
 to meet Hfe. The world of letters, science, and philosophy 
 will hardly note these memoirs, perhaps; but if the day 
 ever comes when greatness is measured by goodness — 
 as he measured it — and hope, faith, and charity form the 
 lens of the scientist's microscope, then his name, like 
 Abou ben Adhem's, will lead all the rest!" 
 
 "You can see by that last phrase that Jack con- 
 siders Professor Lee to have been far in advance of 
 his time as a thinker." 
 
 Rosamond did not speak at once. When she did, 
 she said: 
 
 "Yes, one can see plainly what he thinks, and also 
 what he feels — which is more important. I think 
 he is a very nice man, your Mr. Falcon; and this 
 afternoon I will bake him a marvellous cake. He 
 deserves it." 
 
 Mention of food brought Mrs. Lee back to the 
 immediate present and its problems. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, how good of you! I shall send for 
 Bella Greenup to cook other things. But there is 
 something even more important than food." She 
 paused and patted her lips with her forefinger, evi- 
 dently cogitating deeply. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Roseborough — dear, sensitive Roseborough. 
 How shall I present my Jack to Roseborough so that 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 6i 
 
 everyone will feel his homecoming — and the book, and 
 all of it — to be a communal event and not merely a 
 selfish, personal pleasure of mine ? That will require 
 some planning. Yes, it will need some quite subtle 
 planning." 
 
 She folded her hands on the pile of notebooks. 
 Her absent gaze turned to the window where the 
 splashes of purple and pink morning-glories vignetted 
 a bit of sun-smitten river. She was thinking hard. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 ROSAMOND regarded her with eyes a-twinkle and 
 presently interrupted her meditation to ask: 
 
 "What did Roseborough think of him before he 
 went away?" 
 
 Mrs. Lee sighed. 
 
 "That is what adds to the difficulty. The truth 
 is that Roseborough hardly knew him. Jack did not 
 care for Roseborough! It seems incredible, but it is 
 a fact. Jack did not care for Roseborough — I mean, 
 the people. He was an orphan and a poor lad of 
 whose beginnings we knew little. He came to us 
 because, in his wanderings, he had met a Charleroy 
 man and heard from him of my husband. He had 
 been tramping about the farming country, year 
 after year, tilling, sowing, reaping — whatever out- 
 door work he could get — and saving his pennies to 
 put toward an education when he should find just 
 the right instructor. As a child he had been with 
 gypsies." 
 
 "Gypsies! What adventures!" 
 
 "Yes, his mother, a young girl of excellent birth, 
 had run away and married a poor artist and been cast 
 ofF by her proud family. They suffered the hardship 
 
 62 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 63 
 
 of poverty, and Jack was soon left an orphan. 
 Whether he joined the gypsies or they stole him I 
 don't remember, but he was with them for awhile. 
 At one time his mother's relations found him and 
 offered to bring him up, but he considered the re- 
 strictions of their home too irksome. After two 
 years of it, he ran off and wandered about, earning 
 his way, as I have told you. I shall never forget 
 the night he came to us — it was a rainy, autumn 
 evening — a black, splashing night. There was a 
 loud knock on the door and, when we opened it — 
 for I had followed the Professor, holding the candle 
 (we did not have electric lights in our day in Villa 
 Rose) — there stood a dark, tall, sturdy-looking 
 young man, with long, black hair and the largest 
 and blackest eyes I'd ever seen; and, what's more, 
 he stood there on two bare feet, and he had no coat, 
 only a gray woollen shirt, belted into dark, fustian 
 trousers turned up above his ankles." 
 "You were frightened, weren't you?" 
 "Hardly that; I was more amazed. He said — 
 and his voice was mellow and attractive — *You are 
 Professor Lee and I have come to you to be taught.' 
 My husband asked, *What do you wish to be taught.?' 
 And Jack said, *I can read and write and keep a 
 merry heart under all skies; but I wish you to teach 
 me whatever men must know to make them good 
 and wise.' Then my husband said, 'Come in, and 
 
64 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 I will give you dry clothes and something hot to 
 drink.' Jack answered, *0h, as to that, the weather 
 and I are friends. It never hurts me.' Well, my 
 dear, he came in and we attended to his needs and 
 gave him a room for the night. Of course he was 
 not ready then to enter college, so my husband gave 
 him private instruction. And he seemed to take it 
 for granted that he could live in our home so we let 
 him have the little room off the living-room . . ." 
 
 "The little room? Which do you mean.?" 
 
 "Oh, that is all changed now, of course. Mr. 
 Mearely — ^when he bought Villa Rose — had it 
 enlarged and built out, taking in all that bend of the 
 verandah. It is your music room now. Jack was 
 a good deal of trouble, you may know ! " She laughed. 
 "But he loved my husband and was constantly 
 showing his gratitude, so that I never minded when 
 he upset things." 
 
 "And he didn't Hke Roseborough .? You could 
 forgive such sacrilege.?" 
 
 "One forgave Jack everything. He made very 
 few intimates. Indeed, I doubt if he had any be- 
 sides ourselves. He loved Nature, books, and soli- 
 tude. He was elusive and shy, I think. For in- 
 stance I remember that one day while we three were 
 chatting over a cup of chocolate we saw dear Mrs. 
 Witherby and her aged uncle — the late Reverend Dr. 
 Cumming-Shaw of Trenton Waters — drive up to the 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 65 
 
 door. As I turned back from greeting them, I saw 
 one leg of Jack's fustian trousers and a bare foot 
 disappearing over the back fence. The worst of it 
 was, he had taken the cake with him and I had 
 nothing but crackers to offer the poor dear old vicar, 
 who died almost immediately after of bronchitis. 
 It was really whooping-cough." 
 
 "Wicked, careless lady! They weren't crackers. 
 You gave him dog-biscuit by mistake and he barked 
 himself to death." 
 
 Mrs. Lee shook a stern forefinger at her irreverent 
 guest. 
 
 "You say shocking things. What I mean to show 
 by my little anecdote is that Jack . . , well 
 . . . that was, in general, Jack's attitude toward 
 Roseborough." 
 
 Rosamond burst out laughing. 
 
 "His attitude .f* A barefoot kick over the back 
 fence? Oh, Mrs. Lee!" 
 
 "How very naughty you are this morning! To 
 twist my words so! I shall always maintain that it 
 was shyness which made Jack avoid all intimacy 
 with those who would have received him for my 
 husband's sake. They did know, later, that he had 
 left the college abruptly, just because the desire to 
 wander was so strong in him; and that, too, after 
 Professor Lee had succeeded in having him ap- 
 pointed to teach minor subjects. They were 
 
66 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 most indignant — even those who did not know him at 
 all." 
 
 "They might have left it to Professor Lee and to 
 you to be indignant." 
 
 **0h! but you see, in a matter of that kind the 
 communal spirit of Roseborough was affronted. 
 And, alas, it will be remembered. All that must be 
 overcome, and Roseborough must take him to its 
 heart. How shall it be managed?" 
 
 To manage the communal spirit of sensitive Rose- 
 borough was no light undertaking. Old head and 
 young head pondered in silence. 
 
 "If they could come together in some wholly 
 unexpected way, without personalities, and not as 
 Roseborough and Jack Falcon, who shook the dust 
 of Roseborough from his feet sixteen years ago! 
 If only they could meet under other identities and, 
 having no memories, each immediately find the other's 
 true self!" 
 
 "Like a fairy prince and a fairy kingdom. Oh, 
 yes, that would be lovely. But, " the gay, mocking 
 light danced within her eyes again, "even if life is 
 * beautifully arranged,' it is not so beautifully ar- 
 ranged as all that!" 
 
 "What would you suggest?" 
 
 "Well, I think that — since he cant come as a fairy 
 prince and discover Roseborough's true nature and, 
 in turn, be discovered as a human symbol of all 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 67 
 
 Roseborough's day-dreams — ^which is what you would 
 like, you writer of fairy tales" — (she paused, with 
 wrinkled brow and pursed Hps) "I think you will 
 have to make it the very opposite of all that, and lay 
 stress on the fact that this returning wanderer is 
 the very same Jack Falcon who did run away, but 
 who has now come back to dear old Roseborough 
 with bells on, and all of them ringing! And then 
 Roseborough will be beside itself with delight at 
 the opportunity of welcoming home its distinguished 
 prodigal son. Emphasize the point that he has 
 deserted kings' palaces for Roseborough and they 
 will all turn out to greet him." 
 
 "Yes! Yes! You're right. Roseborough would 
 enjoy that view." 
 
 **How will he come?" 
 
 "By the morning train to Trenton Waters. I 
 know he will want to walk home from there — the old 
 walk he loved — down the river path. He should 
 arrive between ten and eleven, easily. What do you 
 think of this.f* To gather all our dear friends here 
 to meet him, at a sort of informal breakfast ? " 
 
 Rosamond clapped her hands. 
 
 "Oh, yes! I knew you'd think of something clever 
 in a moment! Make it one of those breakfast-lunch 
 affairs with delicious cold things to eat, and have it 
 set out in the garden in a semicircle about the well, 
 so that the big tree will shade them all. Mrs. 
 
68 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Greenup can do all the cooking for it this afternoon. 
 I will run home and telephone her that you want her. 
 And do let me bring over enough of that old Mearely 
 damask to cover the tables." 
 
 "Yes — yes. I shall be so grateful for everything. 
 Oh, dear! I never was in such a flutter! I do believe 
 that I never, never was in such a flutter! How shall 
 I let them all know?" 
 
 "I will telephone to all those who have telephones. 
 And — oh! a splendid idea! We will ask Mrs. 
 Witherby to drive about to those who have no tele- 
 phones, and ask them to come. Then she will feel 
 that it is really she who is arranging everything, and 
 that will help tremendously." 
 
 "Yes, yes — dear Mrs. Witherby. In a sense, her 
 nature epitomizes our sensitive little town. One 
 must not take it by surprise — that is, not deliber- 
 ately. How fortunate that dear Jack has given me 
 at least a day's leeway! If he had walked in on me 
 to-morrow, without notice, I doubt whether I could 
 ever have truly convinced them that I had not 
 known of his coming and kept the secret from them 
 perhaps for weeks. Quite innocently I might have 
 caused discord in Roseborough ! " 
 
 "I think it would be nice for you to come to Villa 
 Rose this evening for an hour. Now, don't shake 
 your head, I know you go to bed when the first star 
 peeps out. Some of us will bring you home at eight. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 69 
 
 if you like. This is my idea, and it is a very good 
 one. I will ask Mrs. Witherby to come over with 
 Corinne and Mabel for a round or two of cards with 
 Dr. and Mrs. Wells — and Judge Giffen and Mr. 
 Andrews. Wilton will come, too, Just those few — 
 oh, yes, and Dr. Frei also; he can play for us. I can 
 say that I wanted a few friends about me this evening 
 since my sister has disappointed me. That will seem 
 very natural to them. And you can take the occa- 
 sion, just at the right moment, to talk about Mr. 
 Falcon and to tell about the book and the royal 
 person — all in that unselfish, tactful way of yours. 
 They will all be pleased, and Mrs. Witherby will 
 set the pace for Roseborough. Nobody dares gainsay 
 her." 
 
 "How thoughtful you are! My dear, you have 
 forgotten nothing. It is really you who will have 
 made my Jack's homecoming a success. And you 
 have just called me unselfish! The word belongs to 
 you, dear." 
 
 "No, Vm not. Tm not! I'm — I'm jealous." 
 Suddenly her eyes misted and her Hp quivered. 
 Protest, passionate and clamorous, surged through 
 her and out at her trembling mouth. "Oh! must / 
 wait till I am seventy to have a real, Wonderful Day? 
 Nothing — nothing but make-believe." 
 
 "My dear child, what is the matter?" 
 
 Rosamond's fingers tightened on the hand which 
 
70 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 had gently taken hers. She turned almost fiercely 
 upon Mrs. Lee as if she challenged fate, or an enemy, 
 in this benign old lady who was regarding her now 
 with some perturbation. 
 
 "Will nobody ever come to me till Tm old — old — 
 old?" 
 
 "Will nobody ever come to you.?" Mrs. Lee re- 
 peated, puzzling. 
 
 Tragedy rushed on, interrupting her. 
 
 "This is my Wonderful Day — my only, one. Won- 
 derful Day. And somebody should come — he should 
 come . . ." 
 
 "He? Oh, you mean Jack." 
 
 "I dorit ! I dare say he's nice — a thoroughly good 
 man. Fm glad that you're glad, and all that. But 
 Vm not glad! No, Fm not! I think it's an outrage. 
 The gray, the bald, the whiskered! Roseborough is 
 full of them already. Another of those is an out- 
 rage!" 
 
 "My — dear — child! What is an outrage?" 
 
 "That another oldish man is coming to Rose- 
 borough! I want a fairy prince — or a beggar — or a 
 tramp — if only he is young ! He can come to the 
 back door in bare feet and fustian, or in rags and 
 patches. I shan't mind what he wears or how empty 
 his pockets are, if only he is young — young — and can 
 laugh out loud and say * Good-morning, Rosamond!" 
 
 "My — dear! You go so fast; and tears and laugh- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 71 
 
 ter follow each other so rapidly that I am all in a 
 whirl. But if you think my Jack . . ." 
 
 Rosamond broke in impetuously: 
 
 "Do you hear that? Ding — dong, ding — dong. 
 It is eleven o'clock and nearly half my only Wonderful 
 Day has passed already! I shall run away now and 
 do all that I have promised — telephones, cakes, Hnen, 
 Witherby, everything! But every moment of the 
 time I shall be saying in my heart: *It is an outrage 
 that another gray, bald, whiskered, middle-aged, 
 prosy old man is coming to Roseborough! It is an 
 outrage!' . . . Why couldnt he he young ?" 
 
 Before Mrs. Lee could gather herself into compo- 
 sure after a sudden violent hug and as sudden and 
 violent a release, her mercurial friend was dashing 
 through the gateway into the grounds of Villa Rose. 
 
 Mrs. Lee sat down and gave herself up to reflection. 
 
 "*A gray — bald — ^whiskered — outrage!' Is that 
 what she said? Dear, dear. What can have given 
 her the notion that Jack . . . ?" She mur- 
 mured. **To be sure I did say that some of our boys 
 are past middle Hfe now, but I'm sure I didn't say 
 that Jack . . ." [She broke off her musing to 
 pat her sooty kitten smartly. "No, no! naughty 
 kitty! You are not to scratch the table legs!'*] 
 "Such a rebel cry for youth! Nay, it was more; 
 it was an unashamed cry for a young man! Yet 
 we all thought hers such a wonderful marriage for a 
 
72 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 farm girl. But perhaps it wasn't, after all. Do 
 those who live by the soil need the cling of the earth 
 in all vital things.? Why there! what a mate she 
 might have made for my Jack if . . . ." 
 
 Her perplexed expression changed suddenly into a 
 glow and a smile as if her questioning thoughts had 
 accidentally discovered something so unexpected 
 that she hardly knew what to make of it. 
 
 "If? Why, there is no *if'! She is quite free! 
 It may be difficult for Roseborough to believe that 
 its Hibbert Mearely has really passed away from it 
 to a better place — for, of course, it seems almost dis- 
 loyal to suggest that even heaven is a better place 
 than Roseborough — but the truth remains that 
 Hibbert Mearely has gone.''' After contemplating 
 this calamitous but none-the-less statistical fact, 
 she added, **And it would almost seem as if that 
 April-hearted child he married realizes it and is" — 
 she cast about for a word and presently decided upon 
 — "resigned." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 DING-DONG. 
 The last stroke of eleven drummed softly 
 through the thick leafage of the orchard. Rosamond 
 sped down the path, as sure-footed as if she wore no 
 other heels, or soles either, than the ones she had 
 come into the world with, and by which Mother 
 Earth had held little Rosamond Cort of the Poplars 
 Vale farm in close acquaintance until the fancy 
 butter-pats had reduced poverty and inspired ambi- 
 tion. 
 
 She executed faithfully the commissions she had 
 given herself. After having entranced "Dollop's 
 Drugs " via telephone, by sending him to inform Bella 
 Greenup — the lady of his heart — that her cuHnary 
 art was in requisition, she called for the number of 
 that important gentlewoman, whose nature — as Mrs. 
 Lee had said — epitomized Roseborough. 
 
 "Good-morning, Mrs. Witherby." 
 
 "Who is it.? Oh, of course; it is Mrs. Mearely." 
 The answer came back in rather high accents and 
 the over-emphasized impressiveness that commonly 
 garnishes the slim utterances of self-importance. 
 "I was saying to Corinne not five minutes ago — 
 
 73 
 
74 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 actually, my dear Mrs. Mearely, not five minutes 
 ago, or ten at the most — *I think I shall drive round 
 to Mrs. Mearely's this afternoon.' Yes! that is 
 exactly what I said to Corinne not five moments 
 ago." 
 
 "How — er — remarkable! Then it is fortunate 
 I rang up; because I shall be out all afternoon and 
 would be so disappointed if I returned to find that 
 I had missed you." 
 
 "Indeed.? Where are you going?" 
 "Ah! you may well ask what I am going to do." 
 "What.? What.? A secret.? (Be quiet. Central, 
 Vm talking.) " 
 
 "A beautiful secret, but Fm going to tell you 
 about it now. It is Mrs. Lee's secret and she has 
 asked me to let you know of it first. If she had a 
 telephone she would be telling you about it now her- 
 self. However, she said that she felt sure you would 
 allow me to be her messenger." 
 "Oh, my dear Mrs. Mearely!" 
 "One of Professor Lee's old pupils — oh, of years 
 ago — is coming back to Roseborough to-morrow 
 morning. Yes. Oh, very unexpected. A tremen- 
 dous surprise! And Mrs. Lee is inviting you and 
 Roseborough to breakfast at eleven to-morrow in 
 her garden to help her welcome the prodigal home." 
 "Oh! How exciting! But who is he?" 
 "His name is Falcon — ^Jack Falcon." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 75 
 
 "Oh! no one / ever knew, evidently. Jack Fal- 
 con?" 
 
 "Yes, Falcon is the name — one of them; the other, 
 of course, being Jack." 
 
 "Falcon.? — Jack? Stop!" (dramatically — as if 
 Mrs. Mearely were running from the instrument at 
 the other end.) "Isn't that the man who literally 
 decamped from Roseborough years ago?" 
 
 ["Waiting?" Maria Potts, the Central, always 
 intoned her official query at brief intervals through 
 Mrs. Witherby's telephonic monologues and de- 
 lighted to cut her off, which she always did, as soon as 
 the conversation ceased to interest Miss Potts her- 
 self.] 
 
 "Yes — er — that is — I understand he did leave 
 Roseborough some years ago," Rosamond answered. 
 
 "Falcon? Yes. I'm sure that is the name. We 
 never encouraged the Lees to talk about him after 
 he went away, though they, no doubt, would have 
 liked to make us believe he was doing well. They 
 were idiotic about him when he was here. (Be 
 quiet. Central!) How extraordinary of Mrs. Lee 
 to be giving a breakfast to that person! While he 
 lived in Roseborough, he ignored Roseborough; and 
 he ran away from it just as soon as ever he could." 
 
 Rosamond saw — or heard, rather — that hers was 
 not to be so easy a task. She summoned all her 
 diplomacy and continued: 
 
'■je ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "It is because of all this that Mrs. Lee is calling 
 on you to help her. She feels — er — dependent on 
 your generous heart to mellow the heart of Rose- 
 borough. It seems that Mr. Falcon has come to a 
 realization of what Roseborough and — er — inciden- 
 tally, Professor and Mrs. Lee — did for him." 
 
 "Well! I should hope so," Mrs. Witherby broke 
 in — it was always difficult for her to remain silent 
 and allow another to talk — "but I certainly doubt it. 
 Why, I've seen him climb a thorn hedge to avoid 
 meeting me on the highway. I have always made it 
 a point to stop the boys, especially when I saw them 
 dawdling about the countryside, and say a few 
 pointed words to them about wasted opportunities. 
 {Be quiet. Central !) But I don't believe I ever once 
 caught that uncouth, hedge-leaping youth. I can't 
 imagine him coming to any good." 
 
 "Life — the years — age, you know — have greatly 
 changed him. He has come to feel that, but for his 
 training here in Roseborough, he could never have 
 made his" (she elongated the next two words) 
 "great success." 
 
 "What's that? What's that you say?" Mrs. 
 Witherby shook the instrument in her excitement. 
 "Success? What success V 
 
 ("Waiting?") 
 
 ("Be quiet, Central! Be quiet, I say!) What 
 success?" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' jj 
 
 "You are to hear all about that this evening. I 
 told Mrs. Lee I should ask you and the girls and the 
 Wellses, the Judge, Mr. Andrews, and Dr. Frei — 
 and Wilton, of course — to come in for cards and a 
 little supper. My sister has disappointed me. So 
 I shall be all alone, unless you come. I shall coax 
 Mrs. Lee to come, too, for an hour — though she 
 never goes anywhere in the evening. Then — ^with 
 that inimitable tact and sympathy of yours — ^you can 
 lead her to tell us all about Mr. Falcon's achieve- 
 ments in Europe." 
 
 "In Europe? Good gracious!" 
 
 "Yes. Of course, I only gathered odds and ends 
 about it, because Mrs. Lee is so retiring and seemed 
 to feel that to tell of the old pupil's honours might 
 appear vain on her part . . ." 
 
 "Oh, dear Mrs. Lee! Why should she feel so.^ If 
 this Mr. Falcon has won honours abroad, Mrs. Lee 
 can hardly consider his return in a personal light. / 
 consider it entirely a Rosehorough matter." 
 
 "There! Do you know I felt that you would.? 
 I told Mrs. Lee so. Isn't that remarkable?" 
 
 "Did you? Did you? My dear Mrs. Mearely! 
 But don't you yourself consider that it is a Rose- 
 borough matter?" 
 
 "I do. Yes — I do." Her tone was judicial. 
 "However, I won't say anything more to Mrs. Lee 
 about that. I will trust it all to your tact and 
 
78 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 sympathy, when you see her this evening, here. 
 Won't that be best?" Sweetly. 
 
 "Oh, entirely! Oh, yes! Oh, certainly! Leave 
 it absolutely in my hands. Dear Mrs. Lee! I always 
 know exactly how to manage her. In fact, my dear 
 Mrs. Mearely, I sometimes say that that is my one 
 great gift; {Will you be quiet. Central?) — er — my one 
 great gift is managing people, especially in emer- 
 gencies." 
 
 "All Roseborough admits that, Mrs. Witherby. 
 It is a wonderful gift; but not your only one, Fm 
 sure. So we can rely on you this afternoon to carry 
 the breakfast invitation to those of our dear friends 
 who have no telephones? That means, chiefly, 
 the Gleasons, the Montereys, and the Pelham-Hews." 
 
 "And the MacMillans, and the Grahams." 
 
 "Yes, and the Wattses. If only they all had tele- 
 phones, I could spare you the trouble. Really they 
 ought to have them put in, for their friends' sakes." 
 
 "Ah ! now, there I dont agree with you ! No, I really 
 do not agree. The telephone is a little luxury, 
 like electric lights — and — er — modern plumbing — 
 to which those are entitled who can afford them, 
 and whose heads will not be turned by possessing 
 them. Like ourselves, dear Mrs. Mearely. But 
 what is permissible luxury in one home is wicked 
 extravagance in another. (Maria Potts! If you 
 say 'Waiting' to me again while I am talking, I 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 79 
 
 shall report you!) If persons in the MacMillans' 
 straitened circumstances were to have a telephone 
 put in, I think all Roseborough would resent it. 
 I am convinced that / should ! And when one knows 
 — as we all do — that the Gleasons can hardly manage 
 to keep their boy at Charleroy College! As for the 
 Pelham-Hews, with their small income and those 
 seven simpering girls on their hands! Well, I, for 
 one, dare not imagine what all Roseborough would 
 say if we heard, to-morrow, that they were piping 
 water to the second floor — and wallowing in enam- 
 elled tubs! No, my dear Mrs. Mearely. In the 
 Witherby home a stationary bath-tub is a refinement; 
 in the Pelham-Hew home it would be an immorality." 
 
 It was at this point that Miss Potts deUberately 
 disconnected "Roseborough one-eight" from "Rose- 
 borough two-one" and turned deaf ears to the latter's 
 indignant demand for "the manager at Xrenton." 
 
 Rosamond came to the door sill of the living-room 
 again and drew a deep breath of the breeze-stirred 
 fragrance which enveloped Villa Rose on this perfect 
 midsummer morning. She sighed. 
 
 "Oh, Roseborough, couldn't you make a milady 
 of the little butter girl from Poplars without making 
 her — Milady Prevaricator? What is it — you, there, 
 Mr. Golden Sun, who sees everything; you, shining 
 old heart-searcher, tell me — what is it makes so 
 many poor humans twist and trick when it is their 
 
8o ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 blessed privilege to speak the plain truth ? Did you 
 laugh long ago, Mr. Sun, when you saw the little, 
 barefoot butter girl birched for telling fibs? — and did 
 you know that some day she would put on silk 
 stockings and satin shoes and have to learn to use 
 something called *tact' — first, because the rod of a 
 certain fine gentleman's sarcasm was merciless to- 
 ward any feehng that frankly revealed itself, and 
 secondly, because — marvel of marvels ! — most people, 
 it seems, prefer deceit? Heigh-ho! How the old 
 pool in the south meadow is shining among its reeds 
 at this very moment!" 
 
 She laughed, and the wistful shadow which had 
 darkened her eyes disappeared. 
 
 "At any rate, IVe managed Mrs. Witherby so 
 that dear Mrs. Lee can continue to believe in the 
 beneficent spirit of Roseborough. Roseborough will 
 open its arms to her Jack Falcon instead of tearing 
 off his hair — ^that is, if he still has hair. B'r'r'r, 
 but I am a-weary of old men!" 
 
 She gathered up her breakfast dishes, and took 
 them into the kitchen. The kitchen closet yielded a 
 blue-checked all-over apron of Amanda's. Rosa- 
 mond literally dropped herself into it at the neck. 
 She pinned it up in front so that she could not fall 
 over it. The back she did not bother about but let 
 it trail. After washing the dishes, she set about the 
 cake-making. This was not so simple as she had 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 8i 
 
 expected. It appeared presently that, in a few years 
 of miladying, one could forget even such native 
 feminine knowledge as pints, pecks, and egg calcula- 
 tions. 
 
 "This is absurd!" she exclaimed, indignantly. 
 "I can't have forgotten! Why, I made much better 
 cakes than Mrs. Greenup does. I shall have to 
 find a cook book.'* 
 
 A thorough search of every shelf and drawer in 
 Amanda's domain yielded naught in literature but a 
 few almanacs, and a tract entitled "Howl, Sodom!" 
 This last, she knew, belonged to Jemima, who had 
 surreptitiously attended a revival in Trenton Waters 
 during the spring and had been roundly scolded for it 
 by her elder sister, for whom the Church of her 
 fathers was sufficient. Mrs. Mearely surmised that 
 Jemima had hidden this leaflet of grace in the clove 
 pot because no cranny of her bedroom was safe from 
 Amanda's prying. 
 
 "Horrid nonsense!" She dropped it into the 
 stove. "There! I'm not going to have that Howl 
 Jemima stuff in my kitchen. No cook book? Of 
 course, not! His Friggets' boast that they never 
 even measure anything, because they are such born 
 cooks! What shall I do?" 
 
 She spent five minutes in dark despair. Then a 
 light broke upon her. It was a light with humour 
 in its flash, evidently, for she giggled. 
 
82 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Now, I wonder if there is a cake recipe in the old 
 cook book written by that Portuguese woman, 
 Countess Lallia of Mountjoye, who catered to the 
 Prince of Paradis so attractively that she never 
 lost his affection?" 
 
 She was soon rummaging recklessly among the 
 old volumes on the lowest shelf of the glassed book- 
 case. Each book or collection of leaves was in a 
 leather binding and bore a tag, telling its name, 
 date, and presumed history in Mr. Hibbert 
 Mearely's fine flourish. Memoirs, missals and Latin 
 parchments of all sorts and sizes — some said to have 
 been in popes' and princes' pockets — ^were tumbled 
 out on the floor, while irreverent Mrs. Mearely 
 hunted for information on practical cakemaking 
 to serve Mr. Falcon's palate. 
 
 "Ah ha!" she cried, gleefully. "Here it is!" 
 She scrutinized the tag attached to some sheets of 
 parchment in a green leather binding (stamped 
 with the Mearely crest). The parchment bore 
 characters in black India ink and each page was 
 ornamented by a coloured margin of very badly 
 painted fishes, birds, bunches of fruit, and other 
 delicacies. There was even one little creature on a 
 platter which may have represented a stuffed suck- 
 ling pig, or a mulatto baby au jus, with its mouth 
 pouting with prunes. The countess, by her own 
 confession, had wantonly tossed toxic and gaseous 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 83 
 
 particles together and then dared indigestion to 
 murder love. Most of her gluttonous recipes bore 
 this introductory note: — 
 
 And upon thys day, beinge of ambitious mynde to 
 pleasure the gracious appetyte of milorde, the Prince of 
 Paradis withe delicate dyshes of newe raptures, I didde 
 herewythe devyse and prepare and with myne owne 
 handes styrre the essences thereof, thys — "puddynge," 
 *' sauce," "souppe,*' or whatever it might be. 
 
 So well had his fair one pleasured, devysed, and 
 styrred to feed Dom Paradis's earthly appetite that 
 it was easy to beheve the last legend of their love; 
 namely, that, in dying, he had left her his jewelled 
 belt — no doubt as a grateful remembrance from the 
 princely "tummy" it had adorned though not re- 
 strained, and which she had kept so well lined. 
 
 "Contessa, if love and greed kept pace in your 
 little affair, your hearts must have been overflowing 
 with sweet spices and goo; for you smothered your 
 food in them. I think a plain, boiled potato would 
 have been a chastening experience for you both." 
 
 Rosamond was sitting on the floor, tailor fashion, 
 in the centre of a scattered ring of tagged leather 
 cases and books of all sizes, with the countess's 
 illuminated parchments spread on her knees. She 
 turned several pages of death-defying sauces, before 
 she came upon the welcome phrase "I didde devyse a 
 
84 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 cake" — or "a goodlie heartes cake" — as Contessa 
 Lallia y Poptu de Sillihofo Sanza Mountjoye pre- 
 ferred to describe it. 
 Wrote the Countess: 
 
 On thys day, beinge the same of a most warme myd- 
 summere day, I dydde persuade milorde husbande to 
 waite upon his highness and so to goe forthe and dydde 
 sende unto milorde the Prince of Paradis, who is in alle 
 weatheres mye beloved kinsmanne and friende in exile, 
 to come unto me to taste of a cake . . . 
 
 **0h, you wasteful woman, to use all those eggs!" 
 exclaimed Rosamond, in reading the Hst of ingredi- 
 ents. **You must have passed over the first-born 
 of the hen houses of Mountjoye like the destroying 
 angel over the Egyptians. A piece of butter as 
 big as milord's fist, she says; that is, half to three 
 quarters of a pound. Figs, raisins — so *thatte they 
 dydde cover mye two handes.' That's the way 
 Amanda measures — by hand. All born cooks do. 
 Contessa, I believe this is the original Lady Baltimore 
 cake — except that it is ever so much richer, and 
 peppered with spice and ground perfumes, which I 
 shall omit with the *oil of beaten milk,' which is 
 merely melted butter. No wonder he died, your 
 Dom Paradis. You oiled his goings for him, and 
 slid him down where all breakers of the command- 
 ments go. You were not only a Portuguese, you 
 were a Portu-grease." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 85 
 
 She read on and presently repeated the lines aloud 
 with little murmurs of laughter. 
 
 Thys cake dydde so pleasure mye deare Dom Paradis 
 thatte he therewythe expressed a greate love for mye 
 person; whych he dydde declare to be beauteouse beyonde 
 compare, and manny tymes dydde kysse me, and wysh 
 milorde the Earl myght nevere return, and dydde sud- 
 denlye falle into a greate jealousie, and beseech me to 
 vowe thatte I would no cakes make for Mountjoye, and 
 dydde aske and importune me to saye if he be stille so 
 younge and handsome thatte I do love him, I belnge 
 twentie yeares youngere than milorde Dom Paradis. 
 Then sayde I thatte I would bathe and dresse mye hearte 
 for hys delights, but at this he cryde oute and would not 
 and — ^when he had eaten alle my love-cake — Mountjoye 
 dydde enter. 
 
 "Twenty years younger! and was INlountjoye old, 
 too? Poor Contessa! You and I both, it seems, 
 must cater — and caker — for old men. Oh, Mr. 
 Falcon, when you bite into my modified edition of 
 the Contessa's * love-cake,' I pray you, fall not in 
 love with me!" 
 
 When she had popped her cake into the oven, 
 tossed off Amanda's apron, and stepped outside to 
 cool her cheeks in the breeze, the sun stood directly 
 over the rose garden and twelve o'clock was ringing 
 from the tower by the river. 
 
 "Noon! half my Wonderful Day has gone, and I 
 
86 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 haven't even set out on the adventures I planned 
 at nine." She thought this over for a few moments, 
 and concluded that, so far as this morning was 
 concerned, it had been a question of choice between 
 her own day and Mrs. Lee's, and that Mrs. Lee's had 
 won because it was actual — one of age's realities — 
 and her own was only a dream. Then, reversing 
 all this wisdom, she added hopefully, "But I still 
 have this afternoon!" 
 
 She walked across the garden and leaned her elbows 
 on the rough stone wall that formed Villa Rose's 
 front defense. Portulacca and canary creeper ran 
 over the stone displaying their bright green foliage 
 and little blossoms attractively against the granite 
 gray. Farther along, the wall rose to a man's height 
 and ragged robins and rose ramblers wantoned over 
 it merrily, always a-hum and a-twitter with bees and 
 wrens. 
 
 "That looks like Mr. Andrews," she thought, sur- 
 veying a small cart, drawn by a fat, stocky, black 
 pony wending upward. The road was steep and 
 one could not keep travellers in sight for long at a 
 time. She decided to wait until he drew near, in 
 order to give him his invitation for the evening card 
 game. 
 
 Forgetting her lilac-bud silk and her Irish lace 
 petticoat; forgetting the blush from the cook stove, 
 which still mantled her modest brow, forgetting that 
 
GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND ! 
 
 87 
 
 the strains of the gay minuet issuing from her lips, 
 with the words of salutation to herself, were being 
 carried to the ears of the gentleman in the cart; all 
 innocently, she waited. 
 
 It was important that he should not pass without 
 seeing her, since he could save her the trouble and 
 delay of telephoning to several of the desired break- 
 fast guests whom he would see on the round of his 
 duties. Mr. Andrews was the treasurer of the 
 Widowers' Mite Society of St. Jephtha's, which paid 
 the sexton's salary, and this was his day for collecting 
 from his associates. Mrs. Mearely, preferring to 
 arrest attention by a gesture rather than by a shout, 
 plucked a rose-bud from the bush nearest her, and 
 threw it; well aimed, it struck the brim of the gen- 
 tleman's straw hat and dropped into the cart in 
 front of him. He looked up, startled, and heard a 
 glad young voice chanting: 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Andrews! I am waiting for you." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MR. ALBERT ANDREWS was a young man, ac- 
 cording to Roseborough time, being now in his 
 forty-second year; and he was a widower. Although 
 he was not rich he was fairly " comfortable." He was 
 not brilliant, but his character was exemplary. If he 
 was somewhat deliberate — one need not say pompous 
 — of utterance, this was altogether becoming in a 
 gentleman who had twice been elected tax collector, 
 and, once, president of the Orphans' Fund Board. 
 He was not handsome, but Roseborough ladies 
 considered him "personable" — ^just as they had 
 considered Hibbert Mearely distingue and as they 
 did consider Judge Giffen imposing, Wilton 
 Howard magnetic, and Dr. Frei "so foreign and so 
 elegant." In height, width, weight, colouring, and 
 expression, he was medium; on the top of his head 
 he was less than that, because his hair there was thin, 
 but he devoted careful attention to it and, as yet, 
 the shining, pinky surface, lurking amid the tan- 
 coloured strands, was screened. His eyes were 
 prominently set, pale and placid. He had been 
 "alone" for six years; but, during the last two, he 
 had been slowly coming to a momentous decision. 
 
 88 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 89 
 
 In fact, he had already arrived at it. He had decided 
 to propose to Hibbert Mearely's widow. 
 
 With this canny and romantic aim in view, he had 
 recently visited a millinery and tub frocks shop in 
 Trenton, kept by a woman who owed his mother 
 for favours bestowed on her in poorer days, and had 
 allowed her to settle the score, so to speak, by inform- 
 ing him as to the etiquette involved. 
 
 "It's all but four years sence the departed did so," 
 Mrs. Bunny had said, after ponderous consideration, 
 "and you say her perferred raiment seems to be of a 
 paHsh hue with black ribbons? That's lavender, 
 an' no question 'tall about it. I'd say, Mr. Albert, 
 after a'most a lifetime of expeer'ence in dressin' the 
 genteel sets, that — so long as the black ribbons in- 
 dures — silence must be your potion. (It is conceiv- 
 able that she meant "portion.") Even if she was to 
 put on white or lavender streamers, you couldn't 
 pop the question, but only hint, an' trim your sub- 
 tile speech with looks an' gestures. If she was to step 
 out afore you in colours, it would be good ettikay to 
 fall on your knees an' oflFer your name an' pertection. 
 (Of course," she amended parenthetically, "your 
 name ain't nothing to the Mearely name; an' 
 I don't know how much pertection you'd be ekal 
 to in a pinch — ^you never havin' played no basket- 
 ball, nor nothing but whist — but there's no require- 
 mints to tell her so.) So long as she's got a speck of 
 
90 *' GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 mournin' onto her, do it rev'rence an' utter no ardint 
 word. Bestow on her sighs an' looks of yearnin'; 
 an' you can converse, offhand, concernin' wedded 
 love an' flowers that never fadeth, an' the moon, 
 an' all such sent'mints — an'" — she wound up, im- 
 pressively — *' hover, Mr. Albert, hover.'' 
 
 This last bit of advice he had obeyed as consis- 
 tently as was possible to a man by nature meek and 
 unobtrusive — he had hovered. He had, also, in a 
 measure, overcome his temperamental reserve through 
 the private practice of amorous facial expression 
 in the mirror after shaving. 
 
 Mr. Albert Andrews, Hke the majority of his sex, 
 was practically colour-blind. He knew black and 
 white, red, yellow, blue, and green in their violent 
 tints. A cobalt blue, for instance, a mustard yellow 
 or a bright bottle-green, he could immediately iden- 
 tify. Other shades, such as tan, champagne, lilac- 
 bud, lavender, mauve, cadet and alice blues, pale 
 pinks, straw-yellows, and deHcate grass-stain and 
 reseda greens, he called gray. He knew gray also 
 to be a colour; because he himself — as well as other 
 Roseborough gentlemen of quality, who were nicely 
 apparelled — favoured it in summer. 
 
 "Gray," he had answered unhesitatingly in re- 
 sponse to Mrs. Bunny's question as to what Mrs. 
 Mearely was wearing; "Gray with a dark pattern 
 in it, and black ribbons." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 91 
 
 Her expert knowledge immediately translated this 
 correctly. "Not gray, Mr. Albert; lavender'' 
 
 "Ah!" with heavy facetiousness, "when ladies 
 wear it they call it lavender? The sentimental 
 dears! So that is lavender. Well. Well." 
 
 Mrs. Bunny had thereupon led him to the ribbon 
 counter and endeavoured to teach him to distinguish 
 between pastels. 
 
 "For," said she, "Mrs. Mearely, being that kind 
 of a brownish blonde, an' not pure goldin nor yet 
 flaxin, she'll not take to loud shades. An', Mr. 
 Albert, if you don't know a pale turkoy blue, nor a 
 silver green nor a fawn, from a lavender, how'U 
 you know if the time's come to cease your dumb 
 yearnin' and bust out?" 
 
 Earnestly seeking to profit by Mrs. Bunny's in- 
 structions, he had carefully scanned, several times 
 daily, the little ribbon and chifFon samples she had 
 snipped from the reels and labelled for him. Even 
 without them in his hand, he beUeved he should feel a 
 degree of confidence if he were to encounter his 
 charmer without her black streamers and decked in a 
 "pastel." 
 
 He looked up now and saw her — a sight for rapture, 
 even to the eyes of an unimaginative widower of 
 forty-two, and indeterminate as to colours. He saw 
 that the customary dark garniture was not there. 
 He saw the white lace bodice and sleeves, the 
 
92 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 blushing, radiant face, the rosy lips, humming softly 
 and mellifluously. He saw the silk folds of shoulder- 
 drape and girdle, where the sun cast a silvery sheen 
 over the material's hue. 
 
 What was that hue? Poor man, his heart leaped 
 and fell before the dooming fact that his mind — 
 forgetful of its recent culture in this subject — had 
 automatically registered the word, "gray." To find 
 his intellect immediately correcting its stumbling 
 with "lavender" was no consolation. Here, seem- 
 ingly,, was his great opportunity; it was calling to 
 him, throwing coquettish flowerets, and chanting: 
 "I am waiting for you" — yet, alas, he knew not 
 whether the tint of that sun-silvered, silken girdle 
 enjoined upon him a silence to "do it rev'rence" 
 or coyly urged him to "bust out." 
 
 Drops of moisture stood upon his brow, his hands 
 became clammy, as he drew the pony up to the wall 
 of Villa Rose garden. Mutely he invoked the spirit 
 of Mrs. Bunny. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely!" 
 
 "Yes," she laughed back at him, cheerily. 
 "Wasn't that a lucky shot.? It hit you, didn't it?" 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely!" (What was that colour?) 
 
 "You'd better put your hat on again, to shade your 
 eyes from the sun," she cautioned, for Mr. Albert 
 Andrews's pale, prominent optics were almost popping 
 out of their sockets. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 93 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely!" (Surely that tint was blue? 
 Now that she turned, and her body shadowed it 
 from the sun's rays, it certainly looked as blue as 
 Mrs. Bunny's inch of baby ribbon.) 
 
 "I want to ask all sorts of favours of you, Mr. 
 Andrews." She paused, with her pretty head perked 
 on one side. It was her fashion to request favours 
 with this little flirt and smile which suggested, with 
 guileless conceit, that to serve any one so beautiful 
 and so young was payment enough and to spare for 
 any man in Roseborough. Little did she remember 
 at this moment, however, the results of that same 
 perking from her father's farm gate, when Hibbert 
 Mearely had asked her to tell him if he had, or had 
 not, taken the wrong turning at the bridge. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely!" (He would dare to believe 
 it blue. He would act as if it were blue!) 
 
 "What on earth is the matter with the poor man? 
 He'll be as red as a beanflower in a minute," ran 
 through her mind. Aloud she said: "I know you are 
 making your collecting rounds and you will pass 
 Dr. Wells's and Mr. Howard's and also Judge Giffen's. 
 Will you deliver a message at each house for me?" 
 
 A gulp was the only reply, for a second or two. 
 It meant that Mr. Andrews was done with "dumb 
 yearnin'." (The dress was, unquestionably, blue.) 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely! I beg you to listen to what I 
 am about to say." The words tumbled out pell-mell. 
 
94 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 now that he knew blue for what it was; in Mrs. 
 Bunny's phrase, they *'bust out." "I will take any 
 message of yours, every message, wherever and 
 whither you may send it. I shall be honoured — 
 nay, more, pleased." 
 
 Surely she could not mistake such ardour! he had 
 declared himself, and as a man of honour, would 
 stand by this avowal. He waited breathlessly for 
 her answer. 
 
 "Splendid!" She clapped her hands. "Then 
 you shall ask the Wellses and the Judge and Wilton 
 to come for cards this evening. Mrs. Witherby and 
 her daughter and niece are coming; and Mrs. Lee, 
 who has some news for us all. You will come, of 
 course, won't you? I am relying on you." 
 
 (She was relying on him — in blue!) 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely!" 
 
 "Well, then, say that you will," she prompted, 
 inwardly provoked by what she regarded as a stupid 
 man's more than usually dense mood, and remember- 
 ing that it would be wise to peep into the oven to see 
 how Dom Paradis's "goodlie hearte's" cake was 
 behaving in a modern cook stove. 
 
 He removed his hat again. He spoke solemnly. 
 
 "I will," he said — even as he had said it, thirteen 
 years ago, at St. Jephtha's altar. 
 
 "Thank you ever so much, Mr. Andrews. Now I 
 must run along in ... " 
 
" GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND I '' 95 
 
 " "Mrs. Mearely!'^ 
 
 "Yes? Were you about to say something? " 
 (Was he about to say something? She was 
 leading him on — in blue!) 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely! I have said it. Mrs. Mearely, 
 did you understand the purport of what I said to you 
 just now? *' 
 
 "What did you say to me just now, Mr. Andrews ?" 
 Such smiles leaning to him over the low wall; 
 such large blue eyes, flecked and changing from grave 
 to gay; and behind and about this entrancing jewel 
 of a woman her opulent setting of the Villa Rose 
 estate! He grew dizzy. Her dress was blue; 
 and she was eager to hear him repeat the declaration 
 he had already made to her! This could mean only 
 one thing, he was convinced. She had observed 
 his devotion and secretly coveted him. She had 
 noticed that he hovered and had approved his brood- 
 ing flutter. In short, she had donned that blue 
 satin to allure him; and had hung her charms upon 
 the wall, that morning, because she well knew he 
 must pass by. 
 
 Mr. Albert Andrews was the average, simple, 
 masculine creature, making up for other deficiencies 
 by an excellent conceit of himself. The tradition of 
 his sex — that woman is the pursuer, because she 
 recognizes the superiority of the male and wishes to 
 entrap a specimen of the wonderful species for her 
 
96 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 glory — comprised the major part of Mr. Andrews's 
 knowledge of the feminine. He had not learned 
 more during his marriage, because his satisfied 
 opacity was proof against all attempts to instruct. 
 
 It was to him wholly natural that Rosamond 
 Mearely — being, for all her beauty and wealth, 
 only a woman after all and therefore an inferior — 
 should have decided to entrain him; because, for- 
 sooth, he was a man. He did not see how she could 
 have chosen better in all Roseborough. 
 
 Literally he rose to do that which was demanded 
 of him; for he stood up in his cart and laid hold of 
 the wall with both hands. By standing on tiptoe 
 he could just reach the ledge near where her two 
 finely turned arms rested. 
 
 ** Goodness me!" she exclaimed with a trace of 
 the Poplars Farm in her accents. "Suppose your 
 horse walks off and leaves you hanging to my wall 
 like — like a tom-cod in a fish market?" 
 
 He interruped her. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely! I said just now that I would 
 carry any message of yours wherever and whither 
 you desire. I said even more. I said that I would 
 be pleased to do so. I meant it. I mean it still. Mrs. 
 Mearely! Can I tell you — may I tell you . . ." 
 He gulped. "Mrs. Mearely I have long — Mrs. 
 Mearely! I have often thought over the little 
 sentiments I might one day express to you. That is 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 97 
 
 to say, when I should see you again as I see you now, 
 that is to say, without the black-edged habiliments 
 of woe . . ." 
 
 "Oh, my frock? I see. You are going to pay 
 me compliments." 
 
 (She was asking him to pay her compliments! 
 She was making it easy for him!) 
 
 He beamed at her — the eager, engaging young 
 creature, so artful, yet artless, too — the pursuing 
 feminine. 
 
 "I have considered, in a poetical way, what I 
 would say if I saw you first in something — er — green. 
 Some little phrase about the grass and verdant inno- 
 cence. Or, in pink. I had that thoroughly out- 
 lined, too; because we thought, Mrs. Bunny and I, 
 that the likeliest hue would be a pastel pink." 
 
 Her fair white forehead puckered; her perfect 
 eyebrows lifted. 
 
 "Mrs. Bunny? Pastel pink?" She sought en- 
 lightenment. 
 
 "One moment. I would then have Hkened you to 
 a rose and a sea-shell, both chaste similes and very 
 pretty conceits. But now I can say to you, that 
 you are most fair in this colour since it is the colour 
 of the sky, therefore — may we not say? — (I think 
 we may) the colour of heaven — and of my birth- 
 stone, the aquamarine, and, ah! — the colour of your 
 eyes." 
 
98 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 "What?" She was startled. 
 
 "Blue sky — that is to say, blue heavens — blue 
 birthstone, blue dress, blue eyes; gown and eyes a 
 perfect match ..." 
 
 "Mercy! I hope not," she burst out laughing. 
 "Whatever makes you think this frock is blue? 
 Or do my eyes look like lavender to you?" 
 
 Mr. Andrews's rather loose under jaw slipped down, 
 the smiles of rapt satisfaction faded. Slowly he 
 turned a purplish red that passed off in a chill. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely," he asked hoarsely. "Did you 
 say that gown is 1 — lavender?" 
 
 She shrieked joyously. Then, taking pity on his 
 plainly revealed agony of mind, tried to control her 
 laughter. 
 
 "Yes. At least, it is lilac; but they are much 
 alike. Lavender, lilac . . ." 
 
 "Stop!" he gasped. 
 
 "Mauve, heliotrope," she tipped them off merrily 
 on her digits. "Amethyst." She crooked her little 
 finger. 
 
 "Don't," he groaned. 
 
 "Wood-violet." She waggled the thumb of her 
 other hand. 
 
 "Lavender!" He sank back into the seat of the 
 cart like a stone into the sea. 
 
 "Or lilac. But it doesn't match my eyes, Mr. 
 Andrews; no, really, I haven't lavender eyes." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 99 
 
 She found his error too entertaining and, ceasing 
 her kind attempt at gravity, she bubbled gaily. 
 
 "Lavender," he muttered. He thought with 
 gruelling shame of how he had " bust out," and added : 
 **I have been indelicate." 
 
 "Oh, why take it so seriously?" she giggled. "I'm 
 not offended. Vm — I'm — laughing." 
 
 He could hear that she was! — but the ripples of her 
 mirth fell balmless upon his wound. His sober, 
 orderly, plodding mind was in a perilous whirl. 
 She had not lured him; she had not been waiting for 
 him, as the desirous feminine awaiteth the superior 
 being. Tradition itself, the perfect tradition of the 
 sexes, was exploding like firecrackers in the little 
 hisses and snickers that went off just above his hum- 
 bled head. He doubted that he would be able even 
 to "hover" in silence — ^with his wonted dignity 
 and optimism — for some time to come. 
 
 "Lavender," he repeated. He gathered up the 
 reins, hardly knowing that he did so, and motioned 
 the stocky pony away from the vine-clad walls of 
 Mockery's citadel. 
 
 "Don't forget to give my messages," she called 
 after him. "Cards at Villa Rose this evening. 
 Don't be later than seven." 
 
 He might still be muttering "Lavender" as he 
 went on his way; but there was just one colour, at 
 that moment, of which Mr. Albert Andrews was 
 
loo ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 positive, and that colour was gray. All the world 
 was gray, drab-gray. 
 
 Rosamond ran into the house to examine Dom 
 Paradises cake, but, while she poked a sprig from the 
 broom into its dough, she was still pondering Mr. 
 Andrews's odd behaviour. 
 
 "Good gracious!" she exclaimed as she found to be 
 satisfactory what the end of the bent straw revealed. 
 "Rosamond, dear, do you suppose that dubby thing 
 was making love to you ? Is that what will happen 
 to you, Rosamond, now that you have put off the 
 last black ribbon? Haven't you seen it coming.? 
 Proposals from the stupid men and gossip from the 
 catty women, till they make you marry somebody — 
 somebody old! Rosamond, dear, you simply must 
 go in search of that irredeemably bourgeois lover this 
 afternoon. And you have no time to lose." 
 
 However, she refused to be downcast. There 
 would still be six hours of sun in this day — even if 
 His Friggets came back to-morrow. 
 
 She was so busy in the kitchen and pantry that 
 she did not hear one o'clock ring from the tower bell 
 at twenty minutes past the hour. The toll-man, 
 being full of years and midday dinner, had fallen 
 asleep immediately after tucking away his meal. On 
 awaking he decided, very sensibly, to ignore the 
 occurrence, and to ring the hour as usual, no matter 
 what the time might be. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 DOM PARADISES cake, as modified by Rosamond 
 of Roseborough and twentieth century dietetic 
 caution, came from the oven a golden brown and 
 snowy white success. Its odour was unique and 
 delectable. Its weight was light as a pufF. Rosa- 
 mond surveyed it with a pride almost equal to that 
 which must have extended the cheeks and bosom of 
 its sybaritic inventor, LalHa y Poptu de Sillihofo 
 Sanza, Countess of Mountjoye, when she first saw the 
 glory she had evolved to deck the inner circles of 
 her beloved. She sniffed it in long-drawn delight. 
 
 "Mum-mum — ooh-h! No wonder he ate himself 
 to death for love of you, Contessa! I wonder if 
 Dom Jack, the Prince of Roseborough, is fat ?*' 
 
 She dropped herself into Amanda's apron again 
 and set about preparing the icing. Countess Lallia 
 had called it: 
 
 A stylle and stykkie sauce of the smoothe colour of a 
 pearle but lyke to a paste wych dydde covere my cake 
 about lyke a napkyn, as it were a mysterie. 
 
 "I think my icing will be nicer than yours, Con- 
 tessa — without all that oriental sweetmeat chopped 
 
 lOI 
 
i6.i ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 fine and beaten into it. There will be less anticipa- 
 tory excitement about my cake and more of the calm 
 satisfaction one feels when one knows what is coming 
 next. You had so many mixed spices and sweets and 
 flavours in your cake that Dom Paradis could not 
 possibly tell from one bite what the next would taste 
 like. There is a modern slang term that describes 
 the culinary tactics you employed on the prince's 
 appetite — you *kept him guessing."' 
 
 At first the whole conceit of the Countess of 
 Mountjoye's cake — "devysed and styrred first in the 
 yeare 171 5," and now reproduced in almost identical 
 mixture from the old recipe — had seemed to her 
 deliciously humorous. She had chuckled and chat- 
 tered over it to herself and extracted from it a larger 
 degree of the essence of mirth than had come to her 
 palate and nostrils in many weeks; for it cannot be 
 denied that life at Villa Rose lacked brightness. A 
 mansion full of antiques, with no human associates 
 but servants of the same vintage, did not provide the 
 kind of environment which spontaneously generates 
 happiness in the heart of youth. Hibbert Mearely's 
 widow had been a prisoner in her own grandeur, 
 daily acquainted with that state which, to the young, 
 is worse than sharp grief, namely, boredom. 
 
 To-day, with the departure of His Friggets, and the 
 new meeting with her young heart — ^which had taken 
 place when she regarded herself in the Orleans mirror 
 
*' GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 103 
 
 — a joy had awakened within her like the return of 
 her girlhood. So vivid a joy it was, so brave and 
 confident, that it had sent her forth singing salutations 
 to herself, as if she believed the whole sun-filled, 
 rose-scented earth were calling to her in that syren 
 phrase, "Good-morning, Rosamond!'' 
 
 How swiftly joy had unfolded hope! And how 
 naturally, inevitably, both had promised love! 
 Permeated with them, she had defied Villa Rose and 
 its antiquities to hold her spirit twenty-four hours 
 longer. Lo, a day was given her — a Wonderful Day. 
 In it she might recapture her lost heritage — romance. 
 
 Now, while she beat white of egg and powdered 
 sugar together to make the fundamental paste of the 
 icing for the Paradis cake, an indefinable sense of 
 sorrow descended upon her. Thought lost its elas- 
 ticity of hope — it lagged and drooped. A lassitude 
 crept over her whole person. Her eyelids felt hot and 
 heavy. There was a pressure on her head that kept 
 it from tossing in the air after its wonted fashion 
 like a proud hollyhock. 
 
 "Everything is going wrong," she whispered. "I 
 have a presentiment of it — ^just as if some dreadfully 
 unhappy thing had taken place and I was about to 
 hear of it." A tear fell, hit the rim of the soup plate 
 in which she was beating the icing, and, luckily, 
 rolled off instead of in. Both eyes filled again. She 
 wiped them on the back of her arm, and, by this 
 
I04 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 mournful gesture, sent a trail of icing across the wall 
 from the fork in her hand. 
 
 "I never felt so sad in all my life," was her inward 
 admission, as she set about filling the cake with the 
 cooked concoction of chopped figs, nuts, raisins, and 
 candied fruit that made two inches of lusciousness 
 between the layers. This fruity mixture, further 
 complicated with the oriental "sweets and spyces'' 
 of her period. Countess Lallia had poured into the 
 centre of the original cake and baked the whole 
 together. In Rosamond's day, fortunately for the 
 more nervous digestive apparatus of current human- 
 ity, wisdom has reduced weightiness in cookery — hence 
 the layer cake. 
 
 She proceeded to encase the whole — a large, im- 
 posing square of three layers — in the "stylle and 
 stykkie sauce of the smoothe colour of a pearle." 
 
 She went about it slowly and with downcast mien 
 — sighing and sniffing — tears welling over her lids. 
 When she had put the perfected achievement away 
 in the pantry to await its modern Dom Paradis, she 
 sank down in the kitchen rocker and let woe take its 
 way with her. She thought of her high hopes of the 
 morning and marvelled at the malevolent power of 
 fate, which could change those hopes, at the noon 
 hour, into vague, insidious griefs. Her body seemed 
 to have lost its substance, to be let out into space. 
 She felt vacant and psychic. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 105 
 
 "Something dreadful is going to happen/* she 
 whimpered. "I feel my heart sinking right out of 
 me. 
 
 She wished that she were not alone. The big 
 house, so silent and aloof, was oppressive. She ques- 
 tioned if it were safe for her to remain there, solitary, 
 and decided that she would have Blake sleep in the 
 house that night. 
 
 "Fd give anything right now to have His Friggets 
 walk in and say *It's a quarter to one, Mrs. Mearely. 
 I persoom you'll like your lunch.' That reminds 
 me," she added, "I suppose it must be almost that 
 time now." 
 
 Unable to see the clock from where she sat she 
 rose listlessly. 
 
 "Ten minutes past one? Why — no! It is the 
 long hand that is at one. Surely it can't be five 
 minutes past two ! " 
 
 She was still denying this when the bell rang from 
 the tower by the river. 
 
 " Two o'clock ! Two — and I haven't had my lunch. 
 Why, I — Fm starving .^" 
 
 Discovery of the true cause of her sudden malady 
 went far toward curing it. She ran to the larder, 
 to see what cold fare she could find there, all ready 
 to be devoured without delay in preparation. She 
 thought, with compunction, of the faithful Friggets, 
 always as punctual as time itself, who would never 
 
io6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 have let her fall into this pathos of the interior vac- 
 uum, had a greater grief not called them from her 
 service. 
 
 She found so many dishes, that she might have 
 wondered if His Friggets had not been secretly 
 preparing for a party, except that she knew well their 
 one extravagance. They would cook, when the 
 spirit moved them. They were proud of their 
 cooking; and they argued that what was uneaten 
 could always be given to the clergyman, whose 
 stipend was meagre, and what he did not devour he 
 could pass on to the thirteen McGuires, who em- 
 bodied Roseborough's poor. It must be confessed 
 not only that the vicar was tempted from spiritual 
 yearnings, by the tasty abundance of His Friggets' 
 art, but that the thirteen McGuires were fattening 
 like pigs. Their sleek looks mocked at sweet charity's 
 very name. Mrs. McGuire, herself, had given up 
 her random profession of charwoman, because, as she 
 said: "Sure an' I've got too heavy to be bendin' 
 me waist, and up and down on me knees, and the 
 loike." 
 
 It occurred to Rosamond that His Friggets' ex- 
 travagance in this one direction was fortunate for 
 her, to-day, since it not only provided her with 
 lunch but with refreshments for her guests of the 
 evening. There were two large trembling jellies, 
 bowls of cream, a junket, a whole roasted chicken 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 107 
 
 and a whole boiled one — ["FU turn the boiled one 
 into a salad for to-night," she thought] — cold ham, 
 which had been boiled in a pot of Amanda's own 
 brew of currant wine, and half a dozen quart bottles 
 of the parsnip wine, considered by Amanda, meta- 
 phorically speaking, as the diamond in her crown. 
 All Roseborough admitted that Amanda Frigget's 
 parsnip wine was so good, so golden, and so lively, 
 that it both looked and tasted "exactly like cham- 
 pagne, except that, instead of the regular cham- 
 pagne taste, it had the taste of parsnips." 
 
 Rosamond appropriated the roast chicken and 
 found bread and butter also for her needs. To these 
 she added a tall glass of foamy milk. A crock filled 
 with cookies was another pleasant discovery. 
 
 She pictured to herself, amid giggles, tlie expres- 
 sions that would adorn the faces of Amanda and 
 Jemima and all Roseborough if they could see the 
 distinguished Hibbert Mearely's widow perched on 
 the end of the kitchen table eating with her fingers. 
 
 **I suppose, if I were a born lady, Fd starve be- 
 cause there's no one here to set my lunch before me 
 properly," she thought, "well, there are advantages 
 in having a pedigree of butter pats." 
 
 As one second joint, followed by the other, was 
 nipped all around neatly to the bone, and the milk 
 followed the chicken fragments, Rosamond's inde- 
 finable sorrow vanished. She hung Amanda's apron 
 
io8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 on its hook, and ran upstairs to wash her face and 
 hands and catch up a loosened curl or two. 
 
 She had decided to spend the afternoon hours in a 
 nook she knew by the river, not a stone's throw from 
 the bell tower. It was the loveliest spot in the valley 
 and, unseen, one might watch the three roads that 
 crossed one another at the tower. She needed a 
 parasol, and ignoring the four black ones — one with 
 lavender flowers — and the two black and white ones 
 — the latest with a white chiffon frill — ^which, in 
 their appointed order, had screened her grieved 
 countenance during the last four years — she selected 
 a shot silk of a grass green, its brightness tempered 
 with silver gray. As she set out from the house 
 now, with its silken shade arched over her bright 
 hair and bringing out every bit of life there was in 
 her skin and her gown, even Mr. Albert Andrews 
 could not have doubted that the young widow's 
 mourning days were over. 
 
 With her hand on the latch of her gate, she paused. 
 Far down the road, just on the near side of the bridge, 
 she perceived Blake returning with the obstreperous 
 mare. Even while she looked, she saw Florence rear 
 and dart off down the road to Poplars. There was a 
 trotting on the gravel road immediately round the 
 curve of Villa Rose's line. In a moment the rider 
 had reined in at the gate and uncovered in salute to 
 her. 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 109 
 
 "I hope he doesn't think he has come to make a 
 special call — he looks all dressed up — because Fm not 
 going indoors again," was her mental greeting. 
 Aloud, she said, cordially, "Good afternoon, Judge 
 GifFen." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 IN ROSEBOROUGH, as has been remarked, Judge 
 GifFen was universally listed by the adjective 
 ** imposing." Those spinsters with clinging natures 
 preferred to describe him as "authoritative." Miss 
 Palametta Watts, who was suspected (to put it 
 mildly) of special leanings — not to say intentions — 
 in his direction, called him "masterful." Quite 
 recently Miss Palametta had boldly charged him 
 with this trait; and, with the daring of desperate 
 thirty-seven, had asked him if she were not correct in 
 deducing from his stern mien that his wife, when he 
 selected one, would be constrained to obey him; for 
 her own part she knew she would. 
 
 "Such is the scriptural injunction," he pronounced 
 after weighing the matter; but, to her disappoint- 
 ment, pursued the subject no further. To be sure, 
 not having his glasses on at the time, he may not 
 have seen her inviting looks. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby's dicta were taken as final in Rose- 
 borough, for it was conceded that she had "a wonder- 
 ful way of expressing herself," and Mrs. Witherby had 
 a vast admiration for Judge GiflFen and frequently 
 summed him up thus: 
 
 no 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' iii 
 
 "Well, it may be true that the Judge has had more 
 decisions reversed than any other judge in the land, 
 and that but for Hibbert Mearely's influence he 
 would never have been a judge at all; but what / 
 always say is, * Where in all Roseborough (or else- 
 where, either, for the matter of that) will you find a 
 man who has such an air about him?' Judge GifFen 
 is a gentleman who understands his own worth. 
 One can see that at a glance." 
 
 One could see it at a glance this afternoon as he 
 rode forward. It was emphatically a man with a 
 fine understanding of his own worth whom the large, 
 flea-bitten white horse brought to pause at Villa 
 Rose's gate. Though above medium stature, he 
 was still not so tall as he appeared, from the height of 
 his collar and the lofty manner of carrying his head. 
 It was this last habit in particular, no doubt, which 
 gave him the "air" so much admired. 
 
 His hair was graying with an even pepper-and-salt 
 sprinkling. He allowed it to grow long in front, 
 that his small, square forehead might be ornamented 
 with a "statesman's lock." His eyes were small and 
 brown and of no marked luminosity or keenness; his 
 pepper-and-salt eyebrows were short and highly 
 peaked at the outer corners — a sign, phrenologists 
 declare, of latent ferocity. Doubtless the eyebrows 
 assisted Miss Palametta Watts to her definition of 
 " masterful." He wore a short-cropped moustache 
 
112 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 naturally, and affected an imperial and goatee. His 
 morals, of course, like all Roseborough morals, were 
 above reproach. His hobbies were chess and the 
 Weekly Digest, which gave him the news of the world 
 in twelve pages of small paragraphs with inserts of 
 verse, fiction, humour, publisher's advertisements, 
 and editorials on all world-wide topics, from single 
 tax to the Oriental problem and back by way of the 
 clam middens of British Columbia to the Greek 
 schism and free verse. By Hngering and studious 
 perusal, he managed to make each week's Digest 
 last until the post brought the next. 
 
 For the rest, he dwelt in apartments in the house 
 of a Mrs. Taite, a gentlewoman fallen into adverse 
 circumstances, who was willing to take in and care 
 for a paying guest in order to eke out. He lived 
 in an economical and dignified style, and kept two 
 horses, on the means which could very much better 
 have been applied to the purchase of a neat cottage 
 to shelter a wife. At least such was the opinion of 
 Roseborough's spinsters. 
 
 Perhaps the Judge did not treat the Roseborough 
 spinsters quite fairly. The legal mind, by reason of 
 its professional habits, becomes versed in subtleties, 
 evasions, and the like — "technicalities" as they are 
 called. The judge's apartments were sincerely and 
 solidly furnished by Mrs. Taite; but they were dec- 
 orated with technicalities and evasions. In this 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 113 
 
 wise: on the slippery horsehair sofa (supplied by 
 Mrs. Taite) there was a row of cushions contributed 
 by hungry hearts. They were stuffed with rags, 
 excelsior, goose feathers, or ducks' down, according 
 to the financial rating of Miss Hopeful; and covered 
 with crochet, tatting, crazy-quilt patches, sampler, 
 or crewel work, according to her taste and her pro- 
 ficiency with the embroidery needle, the bobbin, or 
 the small steel hook. One sampler-topped pillow 
 bore the legend, tidily cross-stitched in a circle: 
 "When here you rest your weary head, dream of the 
 Giver." The Judge had accepted the cushion and 
 highly complimented the workmanship, vaguely 
 maundered on the sweet thoughts that natively abide 
 in woman's breast, and set the pillow at the foot of 
 the sofa. As his stockinged or slippered pedal 
 extremities were not dreamers, he could use the 
 gift without troubling his weary head about the 
 giver. Thus, it will be seen, that the learned jurist 
 could appropriate the soft advantages of a tentative 
 contract, and escape the expected payment on a 
 technicality, as well as any man he ever solemnly 
 upbraided in court for the same act. 
 
 "I know what / should like to do with these 
 rooms," Miss Hopeful would say, with arch looks. 
 
 The Judge would answer promptly: 
 
 "What, for instance?^' 
 
 He was, in his way, a shrewd man as a man who 
 
114 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 knows a trifle about horses is apt to be. He asked 
 purposely, because, since the spinsters of Rose- 
 borough were each and all "homey" women, do- 
 mestic by training, he had found that their sugges- 
 tions, when followed out, added to the comfort of his 
 bachelor life. 
 
 Encouraged by his receptivity, the lady would 
 express her idea and even off*er to come and assist 
 **dear Mrs. Taite" in putting it into effect. More 
 than one damsel had spent her half hour mounted 
 on a kitchen stool, with her mouth full of tacks, while 
 dear Mrs. Taite handed the hammer back and forth 
 and made mental note of defects in the aspirant's 
 figure to retail later to the judge, who liked what he 
 called " a well-turned woman." To retain her paying 
 guest was Mrs. Taite's life-work. 
 
 To tell the truth, the Judge had been in no haste 
 to woo. He was not touched with Romeo's fever. 
 His temperament was judicial and calm. He was — 
 it may again be remarked — shrewd. He knew to a 
 penny exactly what his monthly income could do for 
 him in the way of providing a Roseborough gentle- 
 man's requisites, and he was in little danger of 
 deliberately seeking to curtail his small personal 
 luxuries by taking a dowerless wife. So he Hstened 
 the more appreciatively to his landlady's analyses 
 of the dispositions and physical characteristics of 
 Roseborough's spinsters. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 115 
 
 "Knowledge is power," he would aver with a 
 solemn sort of waggishness, when she had permitted 
 him to gather, from her discourse, that there was 
 not an ankle among the lot which would dare show 
 itself in a plain white stocking; or that a certain 
 melting-eyed one's shoulder blades or hip bones 
 were " at least no sharper than her temper,'' He knew 
 from other of Mrs. Taite's hints — dropped generally 
 while stirring a hot cup of chocolate for his nightcap 
 and buttering a toasted scone to accompany it, 
 that some young ladies who owned to twenty-six 
 would never see thirty-three again, and that a 
 baby-waisted white muslin frock was no longer the 
 badge of a guileless heart, as it had been in the days 
 when she wore one to induce that maiden's shock, 
 the first kiss. 
 
 What with Mrs. Taite's chocolate and subtlety 
 and the judge's legal technicalities, it will be seen 
 that the Roseborough spinsters were out-generalled. 
 They had once been a threat; but, nowadays, there 
 was scarcely the aroma of danger surrounding them. 
 Mrs. Taite felt that the menace to her came from 
 another quarter. It had (as she mentally phrased it) 
 "struck upon her bosom and fairly winded her" 
 one evening when Judge GifFen had remarked, be- 
 tween chocolate sips, that Mrs. Mearely had received 
 him that afternoon in a black-and-white striped 
 gown. Unlike Mr. Albert Andrews, the Judge 
 
ii6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 rather prided himself on having an eye for feminine 
 apparel. 
 
 "And she looked uncommonly well in it, too," he 
 added. "A very well-turned woman is Mrs. Mearely. 
 Yes, Mrs. Taite, I believe poor dear Mearely's 
 taste to have been as infallible in that case as in 
 every other." 
 
 "Mr. Hibbert Mearely had the large means neces- 
 sary to indulge a woman of such extravagant fancies." 
 In Mrs. Taite*s voice there was a tremolo as she shot 
 the only dart she could find at that moment, knowing, 
 alas, that it was unbarbed save to her own heart. 
 
 "And now she has the means, and none to please 
 but herself." 
 
 The landlady attempted to retrieve her error. 
 
 "Considering her humble origin, I should hope 
 she'd spend her life henceforth as an offering to her 
 distinguished husband's memory." This conversa- 
 tion had taken place on a winter's evening, but that 
 was not the reason why Mrs. Taite's teeth chattered. 
 
 "Ah, no doubt — for a year or so. Mearely, him- 
 self, was a great stickler for form, and he trained her 
 in the niceties of observance. Her origin — that is to 
 say, the butter pats and so on — is a forgotten myth 
 in Roseborough now." 
 
 "Among the men, perhaps." 
 
 "A forgotten myth, Mrs. Taite. Mearely put the 
 quietus on it by his will. He left her everything. I 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 117 
 
 drew it up, you know. Yes; he was in the pink of 
 condition at the time — the very pink. Whoever 
 thought he would go to his last account not three 
 months later?" He mused on this so long that Mrs. 
 Taite, anxious to get to the terms of the will and 
 learn the worst she had to fear, put in a remark to 
 bring him back to the theme. 
 
 *' Cholera Morpheus, was it not?" 
 
 ''Morbus, Mrs. Taite, morbus — a latin word mean- 
 ing — er. Yes. Poor dear Mearely said to me: *I am 
 a healthy man and the Mearelys are a long-lived 
 family. I except to see ninety and bury my wife a 
 dozen years earlier, as my grandfather did before me. 
 However, we are all mortal and subject to climate 
 and accident. I may die to-morrow and leave 
 Mrs. Mearely a widow. I wonder, ought I make 
 the proviso that she must lose all my fortune, if she 
 marries again? What would you advise?' " 
 
 "And what did you advise, Judge GifFen?" Mrs. 
 Taite trembled. 
 
 "Ah, a really remarkable thing! I advised against 
 it, and he didn't do it." 
 
 "What a calamity!" Mrs. Taite cried out in spite 
 of herself, and hastened to add: "Leaving her at the 
 mercy of fortune hunters." 
 
 "I said that, in the very unlikely event of her being 
 left a young widow, it would be better that she 
 should have the responsibility of living up to the 
 
ii8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Mearely name and estate. This duty would guide 
 her choice in re-marriage. Whereas, without re- 
 sponsibilities, she might hark back to the farm strain 
 and contract a union which would be a slur on the 
 Mearely honour. He perceived the point, and, after 
 providing for a few bequests to relatives, he left 
 her everything, on condition that she continued to 
 live in Villa Rose. *For,' said he, *I won't have her 
 running up and down Europe, spending money to 
 fatten a conscienceless army of waiters, guides, and 
 concierges. Let her remain quietly at home and 
 continue to carry out my artistic scheme, as the one 
 rustic and indigenous object of beauty in the midst 
 of my priceless antiques and ohjets d'art.' That was 
 his idea. A very superior man — ^was my dear friend, 
 Mearely." 
 
 " So Mrs. Mearely has control of her fortune and is 
 obliged to live in Roseborough? Then she is com- 
 pelled to choose a man from these parts.'' 
 
 "Yes. If she leaves Villa Rose and Roseborough, 
 she loses everything. Yes, it was I who drew up 
 that will, Mrs. Taite. I relate the facts to you now 
 in strict confidence, relying on your discretion. 
 You have been my confidante for a number of years, 
 Mrs. Taite, and I believe there is no woman in 
 Roseborough so discreet." 
 
 Whereupon, Mrs. Taite had besought him to 
 continue this reliance, as no word of his confidences 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 119 
 
 had ever passed, or should ever pass, her lips; but 
 she believed that the will's terms were not unknown 
 in Roseborough; she had heard rumours, indeed, 
 though she had not credited them. Perhaps, she 
 thought, Mr. Howard, being a distant cousin of Mr. 
 Mearely's, had felt privileged to inform Roseborough. 
 On the contrary, the Judge argued, Mr. Howard had 
 known nothing of this proviso. He was sure of that. 
 
 "Poor Howard would have been left out entirely 
 but for me. I got his little legacy for him. So 
 much per year, you know — ^just enough to keep him, 
 if prices don't soar. I pointed out to Mearely that 
 Howard is really an excellent chess player." 
 
 Mrs. Taite, of course, had never heard the terms 
 of the will as they affected Mrs. Mearely's re-mar- 
 riage. When she said she had heard rumours 
 she meant that she was about to set some afloat. 
 She put on her bonnet and took two pennies to the 
 Widower's Mite Society's treasurer, Mr. Albert 
 Andrews, and dropped the hint which, in due course, 
 matured into the aim of his Hfe. It was she who 
 told the news to Wilton Howard, amid sly compli- 
 ments; again sowing seed which, though ignored at 
 the time, was to bear fruit later. 
 
 Mrs. Taite saw that the Judge was deliberately 
 considering the pros and cons of a union with the 
 young widow when all her black should have been 
 put by, and she intended that he should not lack 
 
120 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 rivals. She knew that his legal mind would take its 
 time in coming to a decision, and that his self- 
 sufficient nature would neither anticipate rivals nor 
 that the widow might say him nay. Meanwhile, 
 there was the one chance in a hundred that Mrs. 
 Mearely might marry a faster moving admirer. 
 
 She racked her brains for schemes to balk him. 
 She even thought wildly of sending Mrs. Mearely 
 anonymous letters, or of poisoning Villa Rose's 
 well by dropping a murdered cat into it. She 
 nursed her fears in secret, copiously wept, prayed 
 nightly that a worthy gentlewoman might not be 
 brought to penury through the unnecessary matri- 
 mony of a paying guest, and took to walking at 
 midnight, shut-eyed, in her nainsook and curl rags. 
 
 Meanwhile the judge had handed down his deci- 
 sion, and he apprehended no reversal of it by the 
 higher court, i. e., by fair Rosamond herself. He felt 
 that he, of all men, deserved her fortune because it 
 was he who had prevented a pen-stroke from depriv- 
 ing her of it. Having accepted his decision, he began 
 to formulate a plan of procedure. He rode out to 
 Trenton churchyard and verified the date on the 
 headstone. From that he computed a proper date 
 for proposal, which appeared to be midsummer week, 
 a year and six months from the day on which Mrs. 
 Mearely had received him in black and white. He 
 would go to see her — say, on a Wednesday — and 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 121 
 
 inform her, in dignified yet adequate language, of 
 the part he had played in smoothing Hfe for her. 
 She would have until Sunday to regard him as a 
 benign fate and to become so mellowed with gratitude 
 that, when he returned on the Sabbath afternoon to 
 make formal offer of himself, she would answer with 
 blushing enthusiasm, "Oh, be my fate again — a 
 second time, and forever." 
 
 Unaware that this midsummer day was Rosamond's 
 "Wonderful Day" (though, if he had known, he 
 would have found the fact pleasantly apropos) or 
 that she had given up her last attenuation of mourn- 
 ing only a few hours before he set out to make this 
 preliminary and way-paving call — resolved upon, 
 even to the date, eighteen months previously — 
 Judge GifFen nosed his flea-bitten white horse up to 
 the gate post, removed and replaced his tall hat in 
 high and solemn salutation, slipped oflF his glove 
 (gray, with two pearl buttons), enclosed Rosamond's 
 rosy palm, and said in the tone of one who conveys 
 information of grave import : 
 
 "Good-afternoon, my dear Mrs. Mearely." 
 Almost simultaneously he noticed the green-gray 
 shot parasol and the lilac-bud silk gown and was 
 distinctly pleased by the omen. It was, indeed, as 
 if she had expected him. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 COURTESY commanded Rosamond to open the 
 gate and invite the Judge in. She disobeyed. 
 She leaned over the bar, so that he himself could not 
 eflPect entrance, and said sweetly: 
 
 "How fortunate that you arrived at this mo- 
 ment and not later. For I can at least exchange 
 a word of greeting with you ere I continue on my 
 way." 
 
 He pondered this unforeseen contingency. That 
 she might not be at home to receive him on the day 
 set had never occurred to him. 
 
 "You are going out?" 
 
 "I am obliged to go. It is an unescapable duty 
 that I must perform." 
 
 "Surely you are not going any distance on 
 foot?" 
 
 "Oh — er — the carriage will be here in a moment," 
 she said hastily. "Er — in fact — I think I hear it — 
 I mean, see it — down the hill. Isn't that Blake now, 
 driving in from the Poplars road?" She shaded her 
 eyes and peered, as if she were honestly trying to 
 distinguish the driver of a romping steed, which was 
 just then taking the lowest turn of the hill at a gallop. 
 
 122 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 123 
 
 By strategy and force, Blake had succeeded in driving 
 the mare round the tower and back to the Rose- 
 borough road. 
 
 "Ah, yes, Blake. You know I advised poor dear 
 Mearely to sell Florence; but he said she was such a 
 beautiful creature that he would rather risk his neck 
 with her than sit safely behind an ugly beast. I 
 should advise you to use Marquis, my dear lady. 
 That mare is not rehable." 
 
 "So Blake says. He threatened to take her to 
 the farm yesterday. But he also says he can manage 
 her; and, as he always does manage her I take his 
 word for my safety and don't worry.^ ' 
 
 The Judge had a happy thought. 
 
 "You may regard your own safety thus lightly, 
 fair lady. But will you not consider the place you 
 hold in our hearts? Can any gallant man in Rose- 
 borough think of your unprotected loveliness in 
 danger and keep his pulses steady?'* 
 
 Inwardly Rosamond registered another plaintive 
 and helpless protest against the misuse of her bright 
 gown which circumstance was making that day. 
 "They'll drive me back to crape," she said to her- 
 self, "in order to have my adventures free from perse- 
 cution." Aloud she said, veiHng her eyes till they 
 were only a peep of sparkling blue heavens through 
 clouds : 
 
 "I have begun to feel lately that Roseborough's 
 
124 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 gentlemen have indeed — so to speak — a perception 
 of my lonely state." 
 
 "Ah. As to the others I can't say. They would 
 hardly have the — ah — same interest as myself. 
 No, hardly, I have a personal responsibility regard- 
 ing you." 
 
 She interrupted quickly. 
 
 **Has your invitation reached you yet, for to- 
 night.?" 
 
 "Ah — yes. I thank you. I met Mrs. Witherby 
 on the bridge. Ah — I was about to say . . ." 
 
 "Can that possibly be Florence pounding up the 
 hill? Yes, it is. Dear me. Really, I wish she 
 were more sedate, to-day of all days." 
 
 Rosamond was talking against time; her words 
 meant nothing more than that she desired to keep 
 the Judge at bay until the carriage arrived, when she 
 would pretend she had visits to make and so dismiss 
 him. Not understanding this, the Judge was in- 
 spired by her last sentence to a very pretty belief; 
 namely, that Mrs. Mearely wished her mare to trot 
 sedately on this day, because she was on her way to 
 the cemetery; a visit to the Mearely plot being her 
 delicate method of assuring both the departed and 
 Roseborough that her return to colours betokened 
 no frivolity of spirit — that she was still a Mearely and 
 would maintain the Mearely dignity. This also, he 
 thought, was a good omen for him; since there could 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 125 
 
 be no question about his superfitness to assist her in 
 her loyal task. 
 
 "My dear lady . . ." He spoke with a slow 
 profundity which made the blinking, sparkling eyes 
 open wide at him. "You are on the way to his — ah 
 — grave. I understand. I may say I more than 
 understand. I will postpone until this evening — ah 
 — the communication I came here to make to you. 
 Um — ah — drop a posy — ah — on the poor fellow for 
 me, will you not?" 
 
 Rosamond stared at him as blankly as any milk- 
 maid. 
 
 ''What F" said she, with unmodified bluntness. 
 
 Whatever might have developed, in the course of 
 explanation, was prevented by a rival emissary of 
 fate, with less propriety and more force than Judge 
 GifFen. Florence rounded the curve. She had the 
 bit in her teeth and blood in her eye — and the devil 
 himself in her heels and her head. Blake was chiefly 
 occupied in administering punishment. If she would 
 bolt, she should do it under the whip, until discourage- 
 ment set in. 
 
 Florence, being dumb, could not explain what it 
 was about the stolid, large, high-backed, flea-bitten 
 white horse (and possibly his imposing master) 
 which irritated her beyond endurance; but she ex- 
 pressed herself after her temperament. She swerved 
 from the road and, charging upon the unsuspecting 
 
126 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 nag — whose back was toward her, his head sunk in 
 the timothy along the wall — bit him sharply on the 
 rump. The flea-bitten white was less stolid than 
 he looked. He emitted a shrill snort and kicked 
 with all his might; the Judge lost his hat and almost 
 lost his seat. Florence pranced in and nipped the 
 other side. Whereupon the flea-bitten white sounded 
 his protest to all the world, reared, turned and ran at 
 a racing gait down the hill. The Judge's pince-nez 
 flew off* in one direction and his crop in the other; 
 the bridle had already been jerked from his easy 
 hold, so that it is no slur on his horsemanship to say 
 that Judge Giff"en rode down the first two winds of 
 the hill cHnging to the pommel. 
 
 What of Florence? In sidling in to take her 
 second nip, she had swung the light vehicle half- 
 round, and now, ere Blake could get the mastery, she 
 swung it all the way and charged off" down the hill 
 again. The pounding of hoofs on the gravel brought 
 more rthan one Roseborough dweller to her front 
 windows. Presumably Mrs. Mearely's were not 
 the only eyes to see the finale. The judge's horse, 
 ignoring the shouts of the toll-man and the closing 
 of the bridge to let a tow go by, leaped the gates and 
 the towline and galloped over the bridge and dis^ 
 appeared in a cloud of dust. 
 
 Blake's experience was less happy. Florence did 
 not include the carriage in her calculations, but at- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 127 
 
 tempted to perform the same feat. She got through 
 the barrier, by taking it with her; but the wheels 
 were tipped by the fence rails, the vehicle rose upon 
 its side and Blake dived, as if from a springboard, 
 into the river. His aquatics seemed to satisfy 
 Florence's passion for excitement for that day at 
 least. She righted herself deftly and began to crop 
 the clover beside the path, all mildness now as to 
 mien. 
 
 The men on the barge fished Blake out with ropes 
 and a hook. He was none the worse evidently, for 
 he climbed to his seat and started Florence home- 
 ward under a harsh hand. 
 
 Until then Mrs. Mearely had had the grace to 
 resist the temptation to laugh. Now the storm took 
 her, and shook her the worse for her repression. 
 She laughed until she was so limp that she was 
 obliged to hang on to the gate to keep from falling, 
 and then she laughed until she was so limp that she 
 could no longer hold to the gate. She collapsed in a 
 bed of mignonette and sweet alyssum, green parasol 
 and all, exactly as if some one had broken ofF a big 
 bunch of Hlac and tossed it there. In the end, she 
 turned over on her side, laid her head on a white 
 close-growing pillow of alyssum and wept quietly, 
 because flesh and blood could bear no more. 
 
 Thus Blake found her, when dripping coachman 
 and foaming mare stopped at the gate. 
 
128 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "By the Lud! Mrs. Mearely, mum, are ye in a 
 swound ? The dundered 'oss '11 kill us all afore she's 
 contented." 
 
 "No, Blake. I — I'm all right now," Rosamond 
 answered weakly. "What — what do you suppose 
 is the matter with the mare.?" 
 
 "The mare," he exploded wrathfully. "Well, 
 mare she may be, an' mare she is; but a lady she 
 ain't, nor never will be! She's a wicious, a indecent, 
 an' a cavortin' female — an' 'eadstrong, also, like all 
 of her sect. I never saw a female of any specie that 
 was wuth her salt; an' they're that irksome they 
 wears a man out with chastisin' of 'em. Soon as 
 I've got a dry change on me, I'm a-goin' to take this 
 she-himp of Satan out to the farm; and I'll give her 
 such a what-for on the road as'll tone down her 
 'abits, or I'm but a ol' feeble Har." 
 
 "You'll bring Marquis back?" 
 
 "Ay, mum. Marquis is a gentleman. But I 
 won't be bringin' 'im till to-morrow afternoon, or 
 mebbe next day. It's accordin'. Look at her — 
 the deceiver! To see her now, you'd say she would- 
 n't steal oats. Ugh! You 'ap'azard critter! Did 
 you see what she done, mum.f* Did you see what 
 she done to his honour, the Jodge — to his honour, 
 Jodge GifFen.? 'As she got any rev'rence to her? 
 Not a penn'orth! She prances on to the werry 
 dignity of the Court, an' tares up an' bites his 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 129 
 
 Sycle-hops. Ugh! You 'eretic! Bitin' the werry 
 dignity of the Court in his Sycle-hops!" 
 
 "Bites? Blake, what on earth do you mean?'^ 
 She asked the question in trepidation, lest the 
 strange word prove a disguise for some indelicacy, 
 Blake being simple and rustic of speech. 
 
 "His Sycle-hops. His 'oss, mum. His brown 
 'oss is named *Seep-yer' — for the colour, he says; 
 w'ich is some sort of a 'igh-tone joke befittin* a 
 Jodge, no doubt. An' the flea-bitten w'ite he calls 
 Sycle-hops, says he, account of him bein' sech a 'uge 
 'oss an' one eye a bit better'n t'other." Mrs. 
 Mearley's recently acquired knowledge of mythology 
 came to her aid. 
 
 "Oh! Cyclops!" She was relieved. 
 
 "Jes' wot I said. An' that's wot this wicious 
 an' wulgar female of her sect's gone an' bit! I'm 
 mortyfied, mum, plumb mortyfied. I'll drive round 
 now an' get a dry change, afore the five teeth I've 
 got drops out from chill; an' then I'll be off till to- 
 morrow — or next day. It's accordin'. Ugh! You 
 shameless, wile, an' himproper hanimal, you! I'll 
 learn ye to respect the Courts o' the land." 
 
 "So you won't be here to-night. Very well. 
 Hurry off at once, before you get more rheumatism. 
 But I hope you won't whip Florence any more. I'm 
 particularly fond of her. You must not be cruel to 
 her, Blake." 
 
I30 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "She's a female; an' wot else can ye do with a 
 female? They're cavorters, from the first one down 
 the line. If I'd a-ben Adam, I'd a-seen wot the 
 A'mighty meant when he called it the tree o' knowl- 
 edge — a tree full o' switches, that's wot! An' I'd 
 a-stopped the cavortin' of the sect right there where 
 it started. Yes, mum; H'eve would a-ben a different 
 'ooman if Timothy Blake had 'ad her. It would 
 a-ben the makin' of her," he added regretfully. 
 "Good-day, mum." 
 
 He did not turn his head as he drove off and, there- 
 fore, was not affronted by the sight of his mistress 
 rocking with laughter. 
 
 "I wonder if the Judge's horse has stopped run- 
 ning yet?" she said to herself, and danced up and 
 down on her toes with delight. "I shall always love 
 Florence for that. I think she postponed a declara- 
 
 tion." 
 
 Three o'clock did not sound from the stone 
 tower. The toll-man became so interested in re- 
 lating to a farmer, who was taking a load of live fowls 
 to Trenton, the exciting story of Florence's achieve- 
 ments — ^with historical references to the Giffen and 
 Mearely famihes, and notes on Blake's pedigree, also 
 Florence's, besides digressions as to his own age, 
 health, and episodic life-story — that three passed to 
 four without interrupting his train of thought. 
 When the farmer and his squawking equipage passed 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 131 
 
 on, the toll-man went into the tower to fill his pipe 
 from the cut plug in his coat pocket, planning to take 
 a few pleasant puffs before repeating the story all 
 over again to a black-suited, black-whiskered stranger 
 he saw reaching the bridge on the Trenton side. 
 His coat hung under the clock; and, since the clock 
 ticked at ten after four, he rang the hour. When 
 he stepped out again, the stranger had disappeared. 
 He did not observe an abnormal trembling of the tall 
 rushes and sedges by the Roseborough slough, as 
 if a large body were crawling among them. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 SINCE Blake would not be on the premises that 
 night, Rosamond asked herself whether she ought 
 not to go to Mrs. Lee's and engage Bella Greenup to 
 stay the night at Villa Rose. She had never spent a 
 night alone in the large house and questioned whether 
 she cared to do so. In the end she dismissed the 
 idea of a companion; for, as she reminded herself, 
 the community had never had a burglar or even a 
 burglar scare, and, while an occasional tramp might 
 stray to the Trenton road, none had been known to 
 climb the hill into the sacred precincts of Rose- 
 borough. 
 
 Like the toll-man, she was unaware that nearly an 
 hour had sHpped by in the combined delay of the 
 Judge's call and Florence's manoeuvres. Still under 
 the impression that the afternoon was hers to spend 
 by the river, she went into the house for more hair 
 pins to catch up the curls, shaken loose by laughter 
 and the mignonette's fingers. She satisfied herself 
 that the Orleans mirror reflected a vision both fair 
 and neat enough to entrance Love at sight, if he should 
 come riding by where the rushes divided and made a 
 peephole to the slough. Then she ran downstairs 
 
 132 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 133 
 
 again, but her gay song ceased in the shock of hearing 
 four o'clock ring out — a shock by no means modified 
 when she asked the kitchen clock for denial and saw 
 the long hand at eleven minutes past the hour. 
 
 "Four o'clock! If Amanda were here she would 
 be bringing me tea to the summer-house. It seems 
 very late to go to the river; because, of course, I 
 must have my supper at five-thirty as usual. Oh, 
 dear! I ought to have it at five to-night; because 
 they will all be here by seven, and I shall take so 
 much longer than His Friggets would to get my own 
 supper and wash up, and then set out all the things 
 for them on the dining-room table . . . And, of 
 course, if I don't have my tea now, I shall be hungry 
 before five-thirty. Oh, dear! It would seem that 
 His Friggets have their uses in my life, after 
 all." 
 
 Another wave of indignation swept over her, to 
 cool in despair, as she realized how her Wonderful 
 Day had vanished, hour by hour, leaving her only 
 the distressful discovery that colours were not going 
 to free her. From now on she would risk a proposal 
 from some tiresome man every time she stepped 
 abroad, alone. As for the women . . . ! she 
 trembled to think of the gossip that might gush forth 
 as soon as they saw her. Tittle-tattle and unwel- 
 come proposals! Were these to be her lot until, in 
 desperation, she allowed herself to be persuaded by 
 
134 "GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 one or other of Roseborough's gentlemen? Angry, 
 helpless tears filled her eyes. 
 
 *'If I were smothered in crape I could go anywhere 
 alone, and do whatever I wanted to, without stupid, 
 silly men intruding. I didn't know when I was well 
 off," she whimpered. "Fve never once got outside 
 the gates of Villa Rose all this day!" 
 
 Barely one hour left! What should she do with 
 it? 
 
 The question as to this hour, as with all the pre- 
 vious hours, was settled for her by Roseborough. 
 A sound of wheels on the road ceased at her carriage- 
 gate. In a trice, she saw the gate unlatched and 
 borne inward by a short, stout woman in a white 
 mull dress, and a white hat covered with a green 
 mosquito-netting veil, which served to keep the dust 
 from her broad, pink countenance. She wore also 
 a very wide tartan sash with a large bunchy bow at 
 the back, the worse for being much and heavily sat 
 upon. 
 
 "Whatever on earth are The Kilties coming here 
 for?" Rosamond asked herself with another rush of 
 anger. "Isn't this just too awful?" She stamped 
 her foot in vexation. 
 
 She did not need to see the cart come through to 
 know that all three of the Misses MacMillan were 
 about to honour her with a visit. Wherever one 
 MacMillan went, all MacMillans went. While Miss 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 135 
 
 Elspeth held the gate open, a broken-kneed gray 
 nag wobbled into the grounds, drawing a loose- 
 wheeled, scratched cart, with one seat that could 
 comfortably hold two, but always squeaked protest- 
 ingly under three. Two more short, stubby, green- 
 netted, white-frocked maids crowned the cart; both, 
 like their eldest sister, displayed the MacMillan plaid. 
 
 To Rosamond's dismay, their cart was followed by 
 a four-wheeler laden with furbelows. The spinsters 
 of Roseborough always wore white fluffy frocks with 
 bright ribbon sashes, in the summer, because they 
 were "so young-looking" (the frocks, not the 
 spinsters). The four-wheeler held two seats, one 
 stool, and seven girls. Only two could sit on each 
 narrow seat; but there was a stool wedged in be- 
 tween the seats and one sat on that, holding the sixth 
 girl on her lap. The seventh stood partly on her 
 own and partly on the fifth girl's feet, and held on 
 with all her might to the back of the front seat to 
 keep from toppling into the road. When the vehicle 
 stopped and they all tried to get out, the whole 
 looked more like a wrecked ice-cream cart than any- 
 thing else, with the white flounces spilling and 
 tumbling over the edge in every direction. These 
 were the Misses Pelham-Hew. 
 
 Dr. Wells, Roseborough's highly trusted physician 
 — a doctor of the old school and a man who loved his 
 joke (no matter who else loved it not) — ^was fond of 
 
136 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 saying that the difference between Jacob Pelham- 
 Hew and his namesake in the Old Testament was 
 that Jacob of the Bible waited seven years for one 
 damsel whereas Jacob Pelham-Hew had seven dam- 
 sels waiting for one man — a witticism considered 
 very funny by everyone in Roseborough but the 
 Pelham-Hews. 
 
 In the wake of the ice-cream cart came a scrawny 
 sorrel, drawing a sulky. Miss Graham sat in the one 
 bowl-shaped seat, very erect and mannish in de- 
 meanour with a tan coat over her white duck dress 
 and sporting a "choker" with a gold horseshoe pin. 
 Miss Imogen Graham let it be known that she was 
 well able to take care of herself and despised men; 
 indeed, she would not look at one, save to be cour- 
 teous. That courtesy was the keystone of her 
 character was at once made evident if there was a 
 man in the room, for he never lacked her company. 
 
 Miss Palametta Watts and her mother in their 
 phaeton brought up the rear. Miss Palametta was 
 small — "a lean, simpering wisp of a thing," Mrs. 
 Witherby called her. She possessed two brown eyes, 
 with fairly good possibilities in the Hne of flirtation, 
 and a bang of curly, brown hair that had received 
 its first baptism of walnut tea — what is called 
 "touching up" — ^just above the ears and at the long 
 ends. Miss Palametta was arch. Some one had 
 once told her that there was something birdlike in 
 
*' GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 137 
 
 the little tosses and dartings of her head on her 
 long throat, with the unfortunate result that her 
 head was now never still a moment and she twittered 
 incessantly. Her mother, who was very fat and 
 nearly stone deaf, accompanied her everywhere; 
 for, as Miss Palametta said, she would not for worlds 
 be classed with forward, modern women who showed 
 themselves in public, unchaperoned. Under cover 
 of her mother's deafness, the modest creature had 
 practically proposed to every ehgible man in Rose- 
 borough; and had so compromised one poor fellow 
 that he fled to Trenton, and became a bank clerk, to 
 escape the condemnation Roseborough heaped on 
 any man who went so far and then refused his destiny. 
 
 Rosamond's surprise had turned to alarm by the 
 time the Watts' chariot hove in sight. 
 
 "I'm not at home," she muttered, blankly. "/ 
 am not at home'' 
 
 What could be the cause of this white-starched 
 avalanche descending upon her out of four creaking 
 rigs ? She was not left long in doubt. 
 
 "We've come to hear all about the new man!" 
 they chorused, in running up the steps to her. 
 "Mrs. Witherby says a new man is coming to Rose- 
 borough and you know all about him." 
 
 "I — er — I — I don't know anything about him," 
 she stammered to the eager, glittered-eyed ones, 
 cramming her in on every side. 
 
138 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do! You've been told everything,'* 
 Elspeth MacMillan shrilled in her ear from be- 
 hind. 
 
 "His name is Jack Falcon and he used to go to 
 Charleroy," her sister, Jeanie Deans MacMillan, 
 supplemented from in front. "Mrs. Witherby says 
 
 so." 
 
 "You needn't tell me anything about him," said 
 Imogen Graham, in her deep voice, and giving her 
 mannish choker a tug. "I despise men — in fact 
 nothing — nothing — disgusts me like a man!" Any 
 one of the group might have completed the sentence 
 for her; they had all heard it so often. 
 
 "He's done something /^mowj," Flora Macdonald 
 MacMillan shrieked. 
 
 "He's made a lot c£ money " Anabeth Pelham-Hew 
 called, pushing her head into Rosamond's ken under 
 Imogen Graham's elbow. Anabeth was short, and 
 Dr. Wells said her hair had grown thin on the top 
 from scraping against her taller sisters' angles in 
 order to thrust herself into notice. 
 
 "A lot of money," Anabel, her twin, echoed. 
 
 "A lot — a lot of money!" Justinia Pelham-Hew 
 stuttered. 
 
 "Oh, yes! he's made a lot oi money'' Constanza 
 Pelham-Hew came in with the longer repetition — 
 the whole line — exactly as if the thing were a glee 
 and she were concluding the first round. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 139 
 
 "Oh! isn't it interesting?" Maravene Pelham-Hew 
 trebled, taking up the second verse. 
 
 "Yes! wn'Mt interesting?" . . . 
 
 "Oh! so interesting /"^ 
 
 Claribel and Berthalin Pelham-Hew generally 
 expressed their view in duet form. 
 
 "But I don't know anything about Mr. Falcon. 
 I really don't. He's a friend of Mrs. Lee's — I mean 
 he was a pupil of the Professor's — years ago. He — 
 he . . ." Rosamond stammered on, innocent 
 that she was arousing the worst suspicions in the 
 breast of the one silent maiden in the group, the 
 chaperoned Palametta. "He — er — is coming home 
 to-morrow — from Europe." 
 
 "Europe?" 
 
 "Europe?" 
 
 "Europe?" the MacMillans. 
 
 "For my part," Miss Graham boomed, "if you 
 don't stop talking about that man I shall go home. 
 Nothing," said she, putting her arms akimbo and 
 nudging into the verandah rail — "Nothing disgusts 
 me Hke a man!" 
 
 "I'd be so glad to — to — er — offer you tea," Rosa- 
 mond said hastily, glad of a chance to change this 
 embarrassing conversation, "only Amanda and 
 Jemima are away for the day; and I've — er been 
 out to tea myself — and — er — the fire's out. But I 
 hope you've all had your tea." 
 
140 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby wouldn't tell us a thing about 
 the man." 
 
 "No! she didn't tell us, either." 
 
 "No! she thinks, if he has money, she'll get him 
 for Corinne or her precious niece." 
 
 "We tried to get Mabel Crewe to come with us, 
 but she said she didn't care whether the man came 
 to Roseborough, or not!" 
 
 'Tve always claimed that Mabel Crewe is insin- 
 
 cere." 
 
 "It will be so nice to have another man at parties." 
 
 "Did you hear how much money he has?" a 
 Pelham-Hew queried. At the word "money" the 
 chatter ceased; they all drew up at attention. 
 
 "I — that is — Mrs. Lee didn't say anything about 
 money. No, really, she didn't." Rosamond felt 
 as cruel as if she had wantonly run her hat pin into 
 seven palpitating Pelham-Hew hearts. Income was 
 so pinched and painful a strain in their home. 
 
 "Noth — ing — about — mon — ey?" 
 
 "You're either mistaken or you are amusing your- 
 self at our expense, Mrs. Mearely ! " A MacMillan's 
 nerves were snapping and her voice was so sharp 
 that it stung. 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby said positively he'd made a great 
 
 success." 
 
 "Positively!" 
 ^'Grea-at success!" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 141 
 
 "Yes — ^yes, Mrs. Lee said something of success," 
 Rosamond admitted, but I — er — gathered that it was 
 an artistic success." 
 
 "Ugh! the brute!" Miss Graham snarled. The 
 others looked blank. 
 
 One cold titter broke the silence. It emerged from 
 Palametta's thin lips. Everyone looked at her. 
 They knew that titter of Palametta's. 
 
 "Why — of course," said Palametta as if she had 
 discerned what should have been obvious to every 
 one. "Why — of — course." She drawled it. 
 
 "Of course what?" Rosamond, the sometimes 
 blunt, demanded. 
 
 "IVe been noticing your gown and wondering 
 why you won't tell us anything really about Mr. 
 Falcon," she twittered archly, darting her head from 
 side to side; but there was rather more of the snake 
 than of the bird in her, as she did it. 
 
 "Miss Watts, what on earth do you mean?" 
 
 "Why, yes!" a MacMillan shrilled. "She's in 
 colours!" 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely's in colours,' the Pelham-Hew 
 septet sounded the tocsin. 
 
 Rosamond's face blazed. 
 
 "There's no change in my dress," she asserted 
 violently, "except that there are no black ribbons. 
 I've often worn white — ^with flowers — in the evening. 
 Why, the colour of this dress is" — she caught Pala- 
 
142 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 metta's glittering gaze, then a Pelham-Hew's ap- 
 praising eye, and, realizing that this feline bevy was 
 not composed of the colour-bHnd, finished weakly — 
 "well — it's a sort of lavender." 
 
 Miss Palametta tittered coldly. 
 
 "It's a sort that never grew in ia border of fragrant 
 remembrance round a last resting-place," the eldest 
 and Scotchest of the MacMillans bur-r-red at her, 
 sternly. 
 
 Anabeth Pelham-Hew's eyes filled with tears; not 
 only did her lip tremble, but her chin wagged, with 
 the volume and velocity of the fear that seized 
 her. 
 
 "You — ^you — ^you've had one husband, you — ^you 
 greedy thing!" She flung herself on Anabel's 
 breast and cried hysterically. 
 
 "W^ell! I never!" Rosamond exclaimed hotly. 
 
 "Anabeth is su-subject to hys-s-teria," Justinia 
 explained, as if all Roseborough did not know it. 
 Roseborough held pronounced views regarding Ana- 
 beth's hysteria; views which coincided with Blake's 
 on the cavorting of Eve and the remedy for it. 
 
 Never since she had come to reside in Villa Rose 
 as milady, had a Roseborough spinster shown Mrs. 
 Mearely anything but an almost sycophantic homage. 
 But never until to-day had Mrs. Mearely clashed 
 with a Roseborough spinster's hopes. Words and 
 breath left her as she saw herself — so recently an 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 143 
 
 object of adulation — confronted with one dozen 
 enemies. 
 
 "For my part, I'd be astounded if there were any- 
 thing in this/' Miss Graham averred, with another 
 tug at her choker; "because I can't see how a widow 
 could be induced to hang herself a second time. 
 Nothing — nothing disgusts me like . 
 
 "It's a great shock to all of us to see you in colours 
 again," Flora Macdonald MacMillan broke in. 
 "In all your days of mourning, no other hearts have 
 beaten in such unison with yours as ours. We, the 
 girls of Roseborough, have felt almost as if we were 
 widows with you." 
 
 "Yes," her sister, Jeanie Deans, chimed in, "the 
 girls of Roseborough loved to think of you as so 
 beautiful and so sad, and forever alone." 
 
 "Oh, yes! forever alone I" Elspeth concurred em- 
 phatically. 
 
 "We girls have often talked about it," Maravene 
 informed her; "we just love to picture you Hke a 
 mourning dove . . ." 
 
 "A fading rose is what / always say, Maravene. 
 I think it's more appropriate, besides sweeter,'* 
 Constanza interrupted. 
 
 "I know you do, sister; but I like the mourning 
 dove idea better. It's lonesomer" 
 
 Rosamond emitted an indignant sound nearly 
 related to a snort. 
 
144 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense! If that is the silly way you 
 think about me, you can just give it up right now. 
 It is time for me to put on ordinary colours and I 
 intend to wear them — ^just as other people do. I 
 am not in the least eager to meet Mr. Falcon, except 
 for my dear Mrs. Lee's sake. You can have him, for 
 all I care and — and tear him to bits among you! 
 I forgot to tell you that he is quite an old man — 
 with a gray beard — and a bald head." 
 
 "Oh— h! No— o!" 
 
 "Naturally — ^what I expected," Miss Graham 
 began. "Nothing — nothing . . ." She paused 
 a fraction of a second to give her choker the usual 
 masculine tug, and Berthalin and Claribel burst in 
 with: 
 
 "Old .? — gray ? — bald ? — ^who says so .? " 
 
 "Mrs. Lee says so." 
 
 "And she hasn't seen him for nearly twenty years," 
 Palametta ruminated. "Oh, come now, Mrs. 
 Mearely! Why can't you be as frank about your 
 interest in the newcomer as we are.f* Tell us his 
 real age," she tittered icily. 
 
 Rosamond's bosom swelled and her hands clenched 
 as the flame of anger scorched her. It burned the 
 more fiercely because she was, for the moment, 
 wholly at the mercy of the spinsterial dozen. She 
 could not force them to believe her: nay, it would 
 appear that the only way to change the "girls" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 145 
 
 of Roseborough from foes into friends again was to 
 return to the raiment of Niobe. 
 
 "I am sorry, but I must ask you to excuse me.'* 
 She tried to say it with the dignity of the Mearely 
 name and Villa Rose behind her; "Mrs. Witherby 
 and the Wellses and Mrs. Lee are coming in for 
 cards this evening. And I must prepare for them. 
 Amanda and Jemima are away for the day, and I 
 have everything to ;.'o." 
 
 *' Shall you wear colours at Mrs. Lee's breakfast 
 to-morrow?" a MacMillan demanded. 
 
 "Yes! That is what we all want to know," a 
 Pelham-Hew added. 
 
 As usual Rosamond's sense of humour overcame 
 her anger. 
 
 "I will compromise the matter if you will only run 
 away now, like good girls," she answered, laughing a 
 little in spite of herself. "I will wear white — no 
 ribbons. So put on your fanciest sashes and catch 
 the poor old chap fast in the bow knots." 
 
 "Oh! Mrs. Mearely!" Elspeth MacMillan ejacu- 
 lated, catching the infection of Rosamond's mirth, 
 and smiling. "Of course — ^we only meant — we 
 think it would be so nice to have another man at 
 parties." 
 
 "So that we won't always have to dance together 
 all our lives," the Pelham-Hews choired. 
 
 "Make a circle around him and pin your sash 
 
146 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 ends to him as if he were a maypole; then, at the 
 signal, all run in different directions and see which 
 gets him — or the biggest piece of him." 
 
 '*0h! Mrs. Mearely!" every one but Palametta 
 (and, of course, her deaf mother) exclaimed at once. 
 Rosamond's bold speech had made them feel sHghtly 
 absurd; they thought it best to laugh it off and 
 make a joke of the whole affair. 
 
 "Anabeth is su-subject to hys-s-teria so that 
 wh-hen she makes a je-jest she always c-cries," 
 Justinia elucidated tactfully. 
 
 **Yes," Constanza amended, "we are not really 
 all trying to catch a man we've never seen." 
 
 **And may not like when we have seen him!" 
 Claribel concluded. 
 
 **Come on, girls," Imogen boomed. "Mrs. 
 Mearely wants to get rid of us. Let's go down to 
 Dollop's. I'll stand treat for one ginger syrup all 
 around." 
 
 "Oh, goody!" "Oh, come on!" "Hooray!" 
 "Imogen's going to treat." Her offer was greeted 
 with the shouts of joy that generally follow on a 
 treat, especially in communities like Roseborough. 
 The seven Pelham-Hews, who never had pennies to 
 spend in Dollop's, rushed, giggling, down the steps 
 and scrambled over one another into their rig for all 
 the world like a pan of dough "raising." The Mac- 
 Millans followed as fast as was consistent with the 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 147 
 
 dignity of the clan's tartan. Palametta made a 
 point of lingering to offer a limp handshake and, as 
 her fingers slipped away and her head tossed and 
 perked, she tittered faintly. 
 
 "If she te-he-hes Uke that at me again Til box her 
 ears," Rosamond vowed inwardly. An inspiration 
 came to her, from the springs of her naturally im- 
 pulsive generosity, which went far to restore her to 
 her former position in the hearts of Roseborough's 
 spinsters. 
 
 **Wait, wait," she called. "I'll give you some 
 bottles of Amanda's parsnip wine. That will be 
 better than Dollop's syrup. And a basket full of 
 glasses and some ginger cookies, and you can pic- 
 nic down by the tower in that little nook of the 
 slough." 
 
 Not delaying for more than the first "hooray," she 
 caught up her flower basket from the porch and ran 
 into the kitchen. To fill the basket with glasses, 
 cookies, and the three quart bottles was the work 
 of only a few minutes. She confided the precious 
 cargo to the MacMillans and smilingly waved off 
 her now friendly guests, who departed amid subdued 
 and genteel cheering. Imogen even baritoned the 
 first fine of "For he's a jolly good fellow," (substi- 
 tuting "she" of course); but the Pelham-Hews, 
 turning crimson in an agony of hurt refinement, 
 begged her to desist. 
 
148 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 The gate clicked behind the spinsterical cortege; 
 and five o'clock rang from the tower. 
 
 Rosamond went indoors and set out the plates for 
 her supper. 
 
 By the slough, where the spinsters of Rosebor- 
 ough picnicked, the reeds and rushes were now silent 
 and still, save where the light breeze passed; though 
 there was a trail of freshly crushed and broken ones, 
 where something heavier than the breeze had made 
 its way through. One individual besides the toll- 
 man saw the black-suited, black-whiskered stranger 
 that afternoon. Johnson, the butcher's boy, en- 
 countered him in a lane almost directly behind the 
 two neighbouring cottages where lived Mr. Horace 
 Ruggle and Miss Jenny's mother, Mrs. Hackensee. 
 Mrs. Hackensee occupied the front of her cottage and 
 rented the two back rooms, overlooking the river, 
 to Dr. Frei, the young musician who had come to 
 Roseborough within the last few weeks. "Dr. 
 Frei, Violin Instructor" said the written placard 
 on his door. 
 
 Johnson nursed an intense dislike for aliens; he 
 ** suspected 'em of plottin' agin the guver-mint." 
 Dr. Frei was an alien, and Johnson told Mrs. Wither- 
 by's day maid, Hannah Ann, that he suspected the 
 black-whiskered man of being in a plot with Dr. 
 Frei to blow up the Roseborough gaol or the bell 
 tower "or sump'n"; because, when he turned about 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 149 
 
 at the end of the lane for a second look, the stranger 
 had disappeared ! After he had left her, Hannah 
 Ann was in a seriously overwrought condition; and 
 so Mrs. Witherby found her when she returned from 
 her drive. Such was Mrs. Witherby's own tempera- 
 ment, that it was not long before mistress and maid 
 were in the same state of mind. Indeed, Mrs. 
 Witherby was obHged to forego her customary glass 
 of stout at dinner, because Hannah Ann refused to 
 descend alone to the cellar for it and Mrs. Witherby 
 would not allow her daughter Corinne to accom- 
 pany her. Mabel Crewe, her niece, was not afraid, 
 but she had turned sulky and bitter under her aunt's 
 jibes on Wilton Howard's account. She revenged 
 herself, therefore, by mocking at Mrs. Witherby's 
 fears and by making her go without her ale. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ROSAMOND brought out the roast chicken again 
 and made another meal of it with milk and bread 
 and butter. His Friggets would have raised a great 
 to-do if they had known how slimly their distin- 
 guished master's widow had lunched and dined during 
 their absence. She cleared away her own few dishes 
 quickly and put the contents of her larder on the 
 dining-room table. It looked a very respectable 
 collation when set off with the Mearely crockery and 
 silver. 
 
 "I shan't lay the table," she decided, "because 
 they never want to sit down at the same time. They 
 can wander in and out as they like between games, 
 and help themselves to plates and forks and so on." 
 
 Blake, who was gardener as well as coachman, 
 except in the seeding season, had brought in fresh 
 lettuce already before he had set out to Trenton; 
 and, as His Friggets kept a supply of their very excel- 
 lent mayonnaise always on hand, the big bowl of 
 chicken salad was soon made. She took another 
 peep at Dom Paradis's cake, and felt a just pride in 
 its smooth, snow-white beauty. 
 
 "If I can't stand Villa Rose, in the end I can al- 
 
 150 
 
''GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMOND!'' 151 
 
 ways go and be somebody's cake-maker." She 
 consoled herself with this thought as she ran up- 
 stairs to dress herself in one of the costliest gowns in 
 her wardrobe. 
 
 This was the rose-and-silver garment taken from 
 the chest in the morning and hung upon the Louis 
 chair under linen covers. She disposed the lilac- 
 bud silk in the carved mahogany closet, against the 
 morrow. As she exchanged her embroidery petti- 
 coat for one of organdie and Valenciennes, it did not 
 occur to her to ask herself how she would like to have 
 to dress in future on a cake-maker's wages. Her 
 rapid fingers, removing hair pins, let down the massy 
 bright waves of her hair which separated into ring- 
 lets just above her waist. It was not a pure yellow 
 gold, that thick waving fall of hair; it was mingled 
 with Hght brown and reddish tints, which made the 
 whole, when pyramided in curls on her small head, 
 as vital, brilliant, alluring, and indefinable as the 
 inner nature of its owner. It was hair that in its 
 variety of shades was truly indicative of milady's 
 mercurial spirit; for even her occasional sobriety of 
 mood resembled the sober brown strands that 
 twisted in with the auburn and gold threads; it was 
 a sobriety inclined to curl. Her own complaint 
 about her hair was that it never look combed. Five 
 minutes after she had demurely parted it in the centre 
 the parting would disappear and the glistening waves. 
 
152 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 mocking the damp brush's authority, would rise 
 and undulate and interlace again at their pleasure. 
 
 She was in a hurry this evening and so let her 
 curls please themselves, looping the ends through 
 an antique circular Spanish comb of pale gold and 
 seed pearls. She shook the dress out lovingly. 
 She had never worn it. 
 
 Slowly, so that none of the small raptures of sliding 
 silk should be missed, she let it descend, enveloping 
 her, carefully keeping it from touching her hair, till 
 it skirted her ankles evenly and her face looked over 
 the top and flushed with pleasure to see itself so 
 framed. 
 
 The material was a stifF silk of a quality too old 
 for her if the colour and make of the gown had been 
 different; but the rich shade, that was a rose-old- 
 rose — neither so placid as old rose nor so positive 
 as pink — and the semi-pompadour fashion combined 
 with the weave (which would "stand by itself") 
 made her look quaint. She was neither of one 
 period nor another, nor was her gown old or young. 
 The picture presented was radiant young woman- 
 hood of all time in its perfection. The gown had a 
 partial overdress of dull silver gossamer, finished in a 
 broad silver lace, in which the vine figure was worked 
 in a brighter silver, toned again by gray-green leaves 
 in the clusters. The short sleeves were of the 
 gossamer over rose net, fitted sheerly and smoothly 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 153 
 
 to the arm. A cufF of the lace turned back from the 
 elbow. A gossamer and lace collar stood up from 
 the back of the bodice, which was cut in a narrow 
 low square in front. There were touches of rose in 
 the pattern of the lace of the collar; reversely, the 
 narrow, smooth, stiff, rose girdle had silver eyelet 
 holes and a hint of the vine tracery. Rose stockings 
 and silver shoes, with buckles made of clusters of 
 tiny roses, completed her costume. 
 
 She surveyed herself for some time with a delight 
 that needed no formulated thought to express it. 
 When she could endure parting with the vision the 
 Orleans mirror gave her, she tossed a white wrap over 
 her and went downstairs. Presently she giggled. 
 
 "Oh, wouldn't the Pelham-Hews and Palametta 
 and The Kilties" (her name for the MacMillans) 
 "rave if I were to go to Mr. Falcon's breakfast in 
 this glorious thing! They needn't worry. I shall 
 be a dowd to-morrow. But to-night! The shock 
 may kill Mrs. Witherby — and incite Mr. Andrews 
 and the Judge — but I'll end my Wonderful Day in 
 splendour, even if it must be lonely splendour." 
 Whatever rashness her gown proclaimed, she would 
 refuse censure for it; it was her right to dare all 
 things on her Wonderful Day, which could not be 
 said to have passed until midnight struck. 
 
 The six o'clock bell, the last one to toll for the 
 day, had rung ere she left the mirror. 
 
154 "GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 The fall of gold light through the clear air of the 
 valley, with the western sky giving just a hint of 
 sunset and the river shining Hke molten glass, wooed 
 her to the garden again. Some of the little annuals 
 had already closed their eyes for the night. The 
 insects and birds were on homeward flight. She 
 went on, to the incline where the orchard began. 
 From a point, here, she could look down at the 
 gleaming river with the picture framed in arching 
 boughs. She found something mystical in this 
 view and loved it above all others, especially at this 
 hour, when the last yellow rays fell like a slanting 
 mist and the shadowed spaces under the huge apple 
 trees were cool and dark. 
 
 She stood there for some time in deep, calm enjoy- 
 ment. It came to her then, as it had done before on 
 such evenings, that the few small-minded inhabit- 
 ants, with their petty jealousies, were less than the 
 gravel on the hillroad that rattled to the passing 
 wheel. There was indeed a spirit of Roseborough, 
 but the communal spirit was only a poor counterfeit 
 of it. Professor Lee and his wife had found that 
 pure and perfect spirit and translated it into human 
 life. It was here for her also to find and make her 
 own. It grew out of Roseborough's earth with 
 its abundant flowers and trees. It was in its clear 
 air, with the radiance of its light and of the wings 
 that darted and floated and bathed themselves in 
 
" Regarding each other and yielding to the charm of the 
 sunset and the music, they did not observe a black-whiskered 
 man who was crawling through the orchard " 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 155 
 
 it. The river bore it upon its waters, and the moving 
 reeds sang of it by night and day. When the valley 
 and hills slept, that spirit soared to the domain of 
 the moon and the stars and kept watch with them. 
 
 "I couldn't be happy anywhere else," Rosamond 
 said to herself. ** There is something about this 
 valley that is a part of me. But it is hard to Hve 
 here, so close to earth, without love. Roseborough 
 was made for love. That is what ails us all — 
 Palametta, and The Kilties and the Pelham-Hews 
 and — and — Rosamond Mearely! Well, I hope the 
 old bald thing will marry Anabeth and then she'll 
 stop that crying every time a man is mentioned." 
 
 The change to humour was only momentary, for 
 the spell of Roseborough at this hour was too pro- 
 found to be put off with Hghtness. Rosamond 
 yielded to it, because she must. That mood was 
 hers which only Nature, or a pure art, can give — a 
 yearning that blended peace and sadness, and which 
 made rich by what it withheld — a desire that was a 
 deeper happiness than completion could be. 
 
 Into her silent reverie strains of music crept. 
 Soft, thin, but mellow under a lover's touch, they 
 came from the muted strings of a violin. The player 
 was coming nearer, and from the upper end of the 
 orchard. It was no surprise to her now to find 
 Dr. Frei using her orchard as his concert hall. 
 Dr. Frei had tested Roseborough's communal 
 
156 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 spirit from the first day of his arrival; for he chose 
 to consider that all Roseborough shared with him 
 whatever it possessed — gladly, lovingly. Rose- 
 borough, taken off guard by the quixotic confidence 
 reposed in her, had responded in kind. Instead of 
 looking the stranger over through her lorgnettes 
 ad lib., she had returned his instant greeting and 
 opened her heart to him with a warmth that amazed 
 herself, though the recipient of her favour appeared 
 to see nothing unusual in it. 
 
 "I wonder if he has been playing to Mrs. Lee.?" 
 was Rosamond's mental query. 
 
 In playing to Mrs. Lee, Dr. Frei had first intro- 
 duced himself to Roseborough. One bright spring 
 morning, hearing strange, delectable sounds, Mrs. 
 Lee had hastened into her tiny garden and — 
 found a young man sitting by the well playing a 
 violin. A Trenton carter sat on his wagon beyond 
 the gate, eating his way through a loaf of bread. 
 The cart was piled high with small luggage. The 
 violinist had risen, at sight of her, bowed profoundly, 
 kissed her hand with emotion, explained himself as 
 a concert violinist whose health had failed under the 
 strain of public appearance, and begged leave to 
 live in her cottage. This she finally convinced him, 
 to his great annoyance, was not to be. 
 
 **But I honour you when I say I wish to live in 
 your home!" he had exclaimed, autocratically. **It 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 157 
 
 is not to be argued. I have decided." He pointed 
 to the carter and the portmanteaux. 
 
 He was not insane, she had become comfortably 
 assured of that, though he was undeniably eccen- 
 tric. In the end she had sent him with a note to 
 Mrs. Hackensee, asking that he be cared for as a 
 dear young stranger who had brought to Rose- 
 borough, not only his great talent, but also his 
 beautiful faith in human goodness. 
 
 From that moment Dr. Frei had waited for no 
 introductions or invitations. If a Roseborough door 
 stood open, he entered it; and told those within 
 that he was rejoiced to be among them. If the 
 inmates were breakfasting, lunching, or supping, he 
 pulled a chair up to the table and waited to be 
 served as naturally as if he were a member of the 
 family. 
 
 "Would you believe that this is the one spot on 
 earth where I could do this?" he would say. **Yet 
 it is so. It is your spirit. It is Roseborough. 
 Roseborough restores my soul." 
 
 VioHn in hand, he had walked in upon their mother 
 and the seven Pelham-Hews at eight o^clock one 
 morning in house-cleaning time. Some of the 
 septet were on ladders and on chairs with mops 
 and with dusters, rubbing the paper down or clean- 
 ing the pictures; and others were beating cushions 
 or mattresses and generally translating the word 
 
158 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 home into horror. Thinking that nothing but 
 financial ruin or a death from infectious disease 
 could make such an upheaval necessary, and eager 
 to offer the only consolation in his power — a tender, 
 wordless sympathy — he had seated himself on a 
 rolled mattress and played to them for two hours 
 without cessation; then, with tender looks, taken 
 his departure. 
 
 "I, too, have the spirit. I, too, belong to Rose- 
 borough," was all that he said, as he waved them 
 a majestic farewell from the door. Thinking him 
 mad, not a Pelham-Hew had dared to move or 
 speak during the recital. Anabeth, whose foot 
 had gone to sleep, fell off the ladder as soon as he 
 had gone and struck her funny-bone, the accident 
 resulting in severe hysterics. 
 
 He had made himself equally free of the house and 
 grounds of Villa Rose. Though, before others, his 
 manner to the Villa's lady was formal, he expressed, 
 in private, the intimate affection of a brother. Her 
 widowhood appealed to his chivalry; and her black 
 ribbons, he said, put out the sun for him; how 
 had the anomaly of grief entered Roseborough and 
 how had it attached itself to her? 
 
 "In me you have always a brother, a friend, a 
 protector," he would say. "What privilege of 
 manhood is more to be envied than the right to 
 shelter women?" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 159 
 
 She saw him now, and perceived that he had 
 already seen her and was playing to her — the minuet 
 she loved. He came slowly down the path, his 
 dark eyes fixed on her, a smile about the lips that 
 were too finely and sensitively formed for a man's 
 mouth. 
 
 Regarding each other and yielding to the charm 
 of the sunset and the music, they did not observe 
 a black-whiskered man who was crawling through 
 the orchard and hiding from time to time behind 
 the broad tree trunks. He was observing them, 
 however, minutely. 
 
 Frei paused beside her. They did not speak 
 until the exquisite melody was ended. He took 
 her hand and kissed it. 
 
 "Rosamond." It was his habit to address her 
 so, because — so he said — the sound of her name was 
 like music. 
 
 "Your music supplies the only thing that this 
 wonderful scene lacked," she said — "melody!" 
 
 "You are moved. How beautiful your eyes and 
 lips are when feeling stirs you! I have often re- 
 marked it. It is Hke a wind in the rose garden 
 to-night, because you are a rose. I can see rose 
 petals under that white cloud. Remove your cloak." 
 
 She slipped it oflT and hung it on the gate. Not 
 until she had done so, did it occur to her that she 
 had obeyed a command, given with an authority 
 
i6o ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 which was inborn and unconscious that such a thing 
 as opposition existed in the human breast. 
 
 "If I could compose a melody noble, tender, 
 wistful. . . . Ah! I lack the words to describe it! 
 But if I could compose it I would call it * Rosamond.' " 
 
 "And dedicate it to me as if I were a royal high- 
 ness.'' 
 
 He frowned. 
 
 "Not at all!" he asserted almost with violence. 
 **I compose no masterpieces for royal highnesses. 
 Royal highnesses are ugly and artificial. But you! 
 Fair Rosamond, they tell me — Miss Watts, I think 
 it was, told me last — that you were born on the 
 farm. 'Farm product,' she called you. Your 
 mother. . ." 
 
 "Made and sold butter! I am sure all Rose- 
 borough has informed you of that!" 
 
 "Ah, yes!" eagerly. "Almost every lady here — 
 knowing by intuition how I would regard it — has 
 told me this. And to each I have expressed my 
 delight. Butter! how fragrant — how mellow! It is 
 for you the perfect origin. Clover and hay and the 
 sweet things of earth! Butter! It enraptures me 
 to think your childish hands played in the churn 
 with what Nature alone had produced." He caught 
 her hands and kissed them fervently. 
 
 "So that is how you think of it?" she smiled. 
 
 "Hush; I wish to play you the little Tschaikowsky." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' i6i 
 
 He leaned his head over the instrument again 
 and began to play. Watching him, she noted the 
 whitening temple-locks against the coal black of 
 his hair where it had not turned, and the lines in his 
 thin, dark-skinned face, and wondered what sorrow had 
 written these marks of age upon so young a man. 
 
 "I am thirty-five," he had once said to her. "I 
 tell you only what all the world knows." This last 
 was a pet phrase of his in relating details about 
 himself. She understood by it that, in some bril- 
 liant circle far from Roseborough, he had been a 
 concert artist of note. 
 
 When the little air was ended, she said: 
 
 "I have learned the accompaniment to that. 
 We will play it this evening. You have heard from 
 Mrs. Lee that I am having a few guests for an hour or 
 so this evening." 
 
 "No! I have not heard. I went just now to 
 play for Mrs. Lee, whom I love with a reverent af- 
 fection. But I saw through the windows that 
 she had a woman there, and oh, such a running 
 hither and thither with towels and candles and so 
 forth! So I stole silently away. I will come, dear 
 Rosamond, and we will play. But now I must go 
 home to Miitterlein Hackensee, who will have made 
 a simple but perfect meal for me. She will be so 
 distressed that I am not there to eat it fresh from 
 her hands." 
 
i62 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "I see Mr. Andrews coming over the top of the 
 hill. If you wait a moment you will just catch him 
 below the wall here, and he will drive you home." 
 
 **Ah! So? That is excellent. Rosamond, to- 
 day, an hour ago, perhaps, I made a wonderful 
 discovery. I felt like some poor simple-minded 
 peasant who finds a sacred relic. I, also, wished to 
 kneel, in awe and joy, before a holy thing which I 
 could not understand because my mind could not 
 grasp it. You are my dear sister and my spiritual 
 kin, and to you I will tell what I found." 
 
 "What? Tell me," she said gently. 
 
 "I discovered that I am Richard Frei — a man, 
 like any other man; and that I may love and marry 
 — Hke any man. The amazement of it has over- 
 whelmed me." 
 
 The rapt intensity in his eyes forbade her to smile. 
 With a spontaneous movement of sympathy she 
 slipped her hand into his arm. 
 
 "But why does that amaze you? The right to 
 love is given to every man — to all the world. It has 
 always been so." 
 
 He looked at her in silence for a few moments; 
 a sensitive quiver passed over his face and his eyes 
 filled. 
 
 "It is true," he said at last, slowly. "It is true — 
 that strange, wonderful thing you have said there. 
 It is given to every man to love one woman and to 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 163 
 
 be loved by her. Oh, marvellous! I can no longer 
 believe that once I saw men who had not known the 
 feehng of gratitude." 
 
 She pressed his arm kindly, but did not try to 
 speak. 
 
 Mr. Andrews' cart wheels sounded near by. Rosa- 
 mond withdrew her hand then, and smiHngly re- 
 minded him: 
 
 "You'll have to run to catch him. His nag 
 always canters down hill. It has cast-iron knees." 
 
 "Adieu. Till to-night." He ran through the 
 slanting orchard toward the wall, calling back to her 
 twice : 
 
 "To-night," and, "later, I come." 
 
 She watched him disappear among the trees, and 
 presently heard the cart stop, then go on again. 
 
 The last russet gold of sunset and the gray and 
 purple of oncoming twilight mingled over the gleam- 
 ing river. One star shone high above Villa Rose. 
 
 "It is night now," she thought, as she looked at 
 the star. "My Wonderful Day is ended. And he 
 never came to say, *Good-morning, Rosamond!'" 
 
 Turning, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lee's 
 dove-gray dress. She went up the path to meet 
 her. Together they walked across the garden 
 and into Villa Rose. 
 
 The black-whiskered man, stooping among the 
 shadows, stole to the gate and watched Rosamond 
 
i64 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 until she disappeared. Then he disposed himself 
 comfortably on the grass under a pear tree and 
 covered his face with his hat. Anon his heavy 
 breathing and zizz-z-zing told the rival locusts and 
 crickets that he slept. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 INDUSTRIOUS lady! You have brought fancy 
 work of some kind!" Rosamond pointed to the 
 little crocheted bag hanging from the older woman's 
 wrist. 
 
 **0h, no. Just a bit of lace I'm mending. What 
 an exquisite twilight. It seems a pity to turn on 
 artificial light. Your lighting scheme is very beau- 
 tiful; but, nevertheless, I've always wondered that 
 Mr. Mearely did not keep to candles. They seem 
 more harmonious with his antiques. Electricity is 
 so modern." 
 
 "Mr. Mearely thought that electric light was a 
 great protection. He used to say that a burglar 
 might come into the house, and clear out with the 
 most priceless of his antiques, while he himself was 
 hunting for the intruder with a candle, and that a 
 draught, or even the burglar himself, might blow 
 out the candle; but that, with electric light, one 
 need only turn a button and the guilty party would 
 be discovered and confounded. It was his theory 
 that a sudden blaze of light always frightens wrong- 
 doers." 
 
 Mrs. Lee was composing herself on the large settee 
 
 165 
 
i66 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 
 
 near the fireplace. She exchanged her ordinary 
 glasses for her "fine work" spectacles and, setting 
 thimble, scissors, and thread on the little table at 
 the end of the settee, she drew out of the bag a small, 
 circular frame holding the kerchief she was darn- 
 ing. 
 
 "Personally, I think he really wanted his art ob- 
 jects properly lit up at night, so that he could sit 
 in his swivel chair and look at them all in turn." 
 Rosamond turned on the last of the Httle, separate 
 lamps. Then she opened a drawer in her inlaid 
 desk at the back of the room, near the door to the 
 music room, and took out a pack of cards. 
 
 "I think this is the pack they had last. Mrs. 
 Witherby is very hard on cards — especially when 
 she is losing. She tears the edges with her teeth." 
 
 "An intense nature, poor dear woman. Her 
 married life, though otherwise ideal, I fear was 
 stormy. She was wildly jealous, poor soul; without 
 cause, I'm sure. I know Mr. Witherby came to my 
 husband for advice about it. *Tell me, for heaven's 
 sake, what to do with Emma,' he said. He was 
 distracted." 
 
 Rosamond giggled. 
 
 "He should have asked Blake. Blake has very 
 practical ideas." 
 
 "Has he? I can hear you laughing, so I know 
 you're at some mischief. But I will say, never- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 167 
 
 theless, that I believe humble peasant folk, like 
 Blake and his kind, have many simple, natural 
 ideas that would benefit all of us. Peasant unions 
 are frequently happier than the marriages of intel- 
 lectuals. For all your laughing, I dare say Blake 
 could have given Mr. Witherby good advice." 
 
 Rosamond giggled again. 
 
 **He could! excellent advice! *Hemma ud a-ben 
 a different 'ooman if Timothy Blake had 'ad 'er,' " 
 she concluded, in fair mimicry of the discipHnarian's 
 dialect. 
 
 "My dear husband told him there was nothing he 
 could do with Emma, but let time and patience prove 
 her own folly to her. The poor man did not live 
 long, and I dare say she has often regretted her 
 tantrums. I'm afraid a good many married couples 
 do have these times with each other. The only 
 things I ever scolded Professor Lee for were giving 
 so much money away, and being so unpunctual 
 at meals; and that was only because these were 
 both so bad for him. But though his generosity 
 did bring us to very slender means and a tiny cot- 
 tage, we had enough for our needs after all; and I 
 wouldn't really have changed his nature, in this 
 respect, if I could. It is something of a problem to 
 be both liberal and cautious at the same time; and 
 I confess the Lees never solved that problem." 
 She laughed. 
 
i68 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Rosamond, finding that a ten-spot was so torn 
 that its identity could not be hidden from any 
 player who had once held it, was seeking through the 
 desk for another pack. 
 
 "Look, Mrs. Lee!" she called; "Look and tremble." 
 
 "Dear me, what is it.?" Mrs. Lee turned and tried 
 to peer across the room through her "fine work" 
 spectacles. "It's all a blur to me." 
 
 "This!" Rosamond came over and stood beside 
 her with something gleaming in her hand. "An 
 engine of destruction." 
 
 "Good heavens, child! a revolver? I do hope it is 
 not loaded." She drew back in trepidation from 
 the shining toy with its mother-of-pearl handle. 
 Rosamond laughed. 
 
 "It's a kind of revolver. It's a pistol. And it 
 is loaded ! " 
 
 "Dear, dear. What for? Are you afraid of 
 marauders? Perhaps having all these valuable 
 art objects in the house makes you nervous; but I 
 am sure there is no need of pistols. Roseborough 
 never has experiences of that sort." 
 
 "No," she laughed. "I'm not afraid. I remem- 
 ber I took it with me two weeks ago, when Wilton 
 and I went riding with Miss Crewe and Corinne into 
 the other valley beyond Charleroy. I wanted to 
 prove to him that I could hit objects at a certain 
 distance. And I did. Mr. Mearely taught me to 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' i6g 
 
 shoot and he said I had a straight eye. He was a 
 crack shot himself, you know. I remember now 
 that I put it in that drawer when we all came in 
 for tea. Amanda made such a fuss about my keeping 
 it upstairs. She seemed to think I would get up 
 and commit suicide in my sleep. I wanted to teach 
 the two girls to fire it, but they wouldn't learn, and 
 they screamed every time I popped it off. So it 
 wasn't a very successful shooting-party." 
 
 She returned to the desk and slipped the pistol 
 back into its drawer. 
 
 "I think ril put this new pack in an envelope and 
 write on the outside * Losers should not bite.' If I 
 indulged in Mrs. Witherby's manners, she'd be the 
 first to say that nothing else was to be expected from 
 a farm urchin! But, in her, they are a sign of the 
 aristocrat's fiery soul! Pooh!" She put the cards 
 in the centre of the large table. 
 
 "It is incredible to me how any one so beautiful 
 as you are to-night can be so naughty! I had 
 
 almost said " Mrs. Lee paused and looked with 
 
 mock severity over her glasses. 
 
 "What?" with airy defiance. 
 
 "'Spiteful,' was the word I almost said." 
 
 "I thought you did say it!" The unrepentant 
 one tiptoed over and kissed her. 
 
 "Well, if I did, I might better have kept my breath 
 to cool my porridge, as the country folk say. My 
 
I70 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 wise rebukes do not seem to benefit you in the least 
 to-day." 
 
 "Well, you mustn't scold, for I baked Dom — I 
 mean, Mr. Falcon's cake, and it is a marvel of fla- 
 voured architecture. It looks like a new Parthenon — 
 with raisin and fig filling." 
 
 "Then no wonder you will not take reproof from 
 me! And I suppose you would say I am an ungrate- 
 ful old woman to attempt to scold you. Very well. 
 You shall be as wicked as ever you please." 
 
 "And when I have set all Roseborough by the ears, 
 you will come and straighten things out for me?" 
 
 "Oh, surely!" She smiled. 
 
 "Hark! The first carriage wheels. It will be the 
 Wellses. They always arrive first because they have 
 farthest to come." Rosamond ran to the verandah. 
 "They are not very far ahead this evening, though; 
 because Mrs. Witherby's barouche is just behind." 
 
 In a moment Mrs. Lee heard her exchanging good- 
 evenings with the arrivals. Then Dr. Wells's 
 deliberate but hearty voice greeted her from the 
 steps. 
 
 "Ah! there is Mrs. Lee. Well! Well! What an 
 honour! Though, as the one man in Roseborough 
 who is responsible for the health of the community — 
 even as our Mrs. Witherby is responsible for its 
 morals here, and the vicar for its status hereafter, 
 te-he-he — I ought to order you home to bed at once. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 171 
 
 Anyone of your young years should be asleep at this 
 hour, especially when you keep up the habit of 
 rising at daybreak." 
 
 Dr. Wells seldom spoke without making a little 
 oration. He was wont to say that he took his own 
 time about everything because, the time being his 
 own, he knew he had plenty of it, and no one else had 
 the right to call him to account for his expenditure 
 of it. That he frequently forced others to spend a 
 great deal of their own time, in Hstening to him wind 
 away from exordium to peroration, was a point he 
 did not take into his consideration. He was a fine 
 specimen of a fine type, namely the country doctor 
 of the old school who was constantly to be seen in 
 all weathers carrying hope and pills, human affection 
 and gray powders, camomile and cheer, into anxious 
 homes, and caring far less about his fee than about 
 the patient's relief. He was short and stocky — a 
 deep-chested, stout, sound, and roll-shaped body, 
 every hard layer of fat-protected gristle daring 
 weather and disease to come on and see what would 
 happen to them. Nature had formed him to be a 
 country physician; for country folk put their faith 
 only in doctors who are never ill themselves. A 
 doctor's health is a country superstition. 
 
 It is the sadder, therefore, to be obliged to relate 
 that Dr. Wells — and his wife, also, for she was, in 
 this temptation, even weaker morally than himself — 
 
172 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 had become addicted to dyspepsia. There was not a 
 thing the matter with their interior mechanisms, really, 
 but some strain of notoriety-love had led him and his 
 spouse to affect this delicacy of constitution in order 
 to remind people perpetually that he was a cousin of 
 Dr. Mayhew Pipp of London who had discovered a 
 remedy for the burning aftermath of the sin of 
 gluttony — a pellet that extinguished the fires of the 
 inferno within. It must also be stated that this pose 
 was losing for Dr. Wells some of that confidence in 
 his immunity without which no medicine man can 
 treat persons to their profit or his own — in the 
 country. 
 
 He took off his light topcoat, hat, and thin, white 
 silk scarf, [of the old school, he believed in bundling 
 up for driving, at night, regardless of the weather,] 
 and laid them on a bamboo seat on the verandah. 
 His outer coverings removed, there emerged an apple- 
 rosy, rotund face, with white hair, moustache, and 
 whiskers about it, every hirsute atom crisp and electri- 
 cal with health. The very man, one would say, to 
 enter a sick room; for the patient would inevitably 
 cry: "No matter what it is, give me the dose you 
 take!" 
 
 "And where is Mrs. Wells?" Mrs. Lee inquired, 
 as the doctor came down, leaving the ladies still 
 unwinding their wraps, with Mrs. Mearely*s aid. 
 
 "Ah! in bed. Yes, the dear soul. In bed. An- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 173 
 
 other dyspeptic attack. But she insisted on my 
 coming without her. She knows that whist is my 
 weakness, and, being glad that I have no worse vices, 
 she encourages it. It is most satisfactory, my dear 
 lady, to indulge in vices approved of by one's wife." 
 SmiHng, he seated himself beside her. 
 
 "Well! There is our dear Mrs. Lee!" Mrs. 
 Witherby sailed down upon her. "What a surprise! 
 I had no idea we should find you here!" 
 
 What more she might have said, in this vein, was 
 curbed by a supercilious glance from her niece, who 
 bent to kiss Mrs. Lee's left cheek as soon as her aunt 
 had completed her osculations on the other one. 
 Mrs. Witherby knew that Mabel was in a dangerous 
 humour; and she recalled that, at times, on far less 
 provocation, Miss Crewe had succeeded in conveying 
 to an assembly her doubts of her aunt's truthfulness. 
 Avoiding danger, therefore, she drew away from the 
 settee and seated herself at the table. 
 
 "Cards!" she cooed. "Isn't that delightful? 
 And a new pack, too! How thoughtful of you, dear 
 Mrs. Mearely, to get us a new pack. The others 
 were really rather spoiled. Men are so rough in 
 their handHng of cards." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was, like Dr. Wells, less an individ- 
 ual than a type. She was symbolic of efficiency, as 
 the village understood the term. That is, never 
 having been obHged to do anything herself to satisfy 
 
174 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 others, she felt completely competent to give any- 
 one directions about any task whatsoever. She 
 knew how she wanted things done, and had a rooted 
 conviction that she was the only person in the com- 
 munity whose pleasure or approval mattered in the 
 least. She was rather overwhelming in appearance, 
 being of more than medium height, and decidedly 
 more than medium breadth. Furthermore, she wore 
 both those anatomical protuberances cited by the 
 ancient Hebraic scribes as perilous next-door neigh- 
 bours for a humble and a contrite heart — ^namely, 
 the proud bosom and the high stomach. 
 
 Her two chins reposed between the upper folds 
 of her fichu, for she held her head haughtily with 
 chins in, brow high, eyebrows elevated, eyes alert 
 and ready to snap with indignation at the stupidity 
 and impropriety constantly affronting them, and 
 mouth slightly open, prepared to exclaim the scathing 
 contempt surging within her for anyone and every- 
 one whose views on any subject differed from Emma 
 Crewe Witherby's. 
 
 Her hair was but slightly touched with gray and 
 she was still doing all she could to conceal the 
 blanched tendrils. She made an erection of her 
 tresses, after the tongs had crimped every strand, 
 till the formation suggested an overturned cornu- 
 copia; she then inset it with tortoiseshell pins. Her 
 dress was a plum-coloured brocade with black velvet 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 175 
 
 train, and elbow sleeves of brocade. Her fichu and 
 her sleeves were trimmed with Honiton lace. "A 
 gentlewoman should adorn her station," was one of 
 her favourite axioms. Three fourths of the money 
 spent on dress in her household went to assist her 
 in living up to the saying. The rest was sufficient 
 to buy gidish muslins for Corinne, who was "too 
 young for silks," being barely eighteen. 
 
 Mabel Crewe, who was twenty-five — and hand- 
 some, in a slim, dusky, reserved fashion (with sul- 
 phurous suggestions underneath it) — was provided 
 for with her aunt's cast-oflTs, which her own clever 
 fingers converted into passable, though not suitable, 
 raiment for her comely young body. She was in 
 black silk to-night. The long skirt hid the fact 
 that her hose were not silk and that her slippers 
 were rubbed in places. Her well-shaped white arms 
 and slender throat were oddly set in Aunt Emma's 
 old peau de soie, but perhaps whiter by contrast. 
 
 This last was Wilton Howard's opinion as his 
 gaze sought and lingered on her. He had driven 
 up so closely upon the other two vehicles that the 
 sound of his wheels had not been heard. He stood 
 on the verandah, divesting himself of his topcoat. 
 Anticipation of the only happiness she knew — her 
 few words and stolen moments with this man — 
 made Mabel Crewe keener than the others to detect 
 his noiseless presence. She turned and saw him. 
 
176 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 this handsome, well-bred, shallow young gentle- 
 man, surveying her with admiration in his eyes and 
 a frown between his brows. Perchance the frown 
 meant that he was resentful of her power to stir 
 him, since nothing could come of it but disappoint- 
 ment. In Roseborough, persons of his and Miss 
 Crewe's birth and kindred could not marry on 
 nothing but love. Their families, and Roseborough, 
 demanded of them that they settle themselves 
 properly in Hfe, to keep up appearances. 
 
 Her eyes met his and a movement went through 
 her, like the slightest swaying of a tree; but, after 
 the first instant, her face revealed nothing. It was 
 proud, indifferent — cold, one might almost have 
 said, but for the undercurrents tingling through her 
 and stirring the depths of her eyes. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Howard," she called in her 
 leisurely voice — a voice refined and musical in 
 quality and indiflPerent in its inflections. She turned 
 her back on him and moved to the settee where 
 Dr. Wells and Mrs. Lee were still in conversation. 
 
 "Mr. Howard has arrived, and I am sure Judge 
 GifFen and Mr. Andrews cannot be far off. Doctor, 
 you will presently be rejoicing in beating Aunt 
 Emma at cards. That is, if she is not your partner. 
 If she is your partner, then you can rejoice in being 
 beaten for her sake, with many stripes." 
 
 "I heard every word of that, Mabel," Mrs. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 177 
 
 Witherby declared, with a little more asperity than 
 usual. "You delight to undermine my intellect in 
 the ears of my friends. As to cards, I frequently 
 say, and without egotism, that there is not a woman 
 in Roseborough who plays a better hand than I." 
 
 Corinne Witherby giggled at this. 
 
 "I heard the Judge say one evening that no doubt 
 there is no woman in Roseborough who plays a 
 better hand than some he has seen you hold. Mamma; 
 and that he is positive no other woman in the world 
 would play a good hand in the way he's seen you play 
 some of yours." 
 
 "Corinne!" 
 
 "Oh, it's no use reproving me ! If I am old enough 
 to play cards with you, I'm old enough to criticise 
 the way you play your hands." 
 
 "Corinne, be quiet. I am speaking to Mrs. 
 Mearely. I fear I've spoiled you by making such a 
 companion of you. You should be in the school- 
 room." 
 
 "But, I'm not!" Corinne cried, merrily. She 
 was thinking little of what she said; for her eyes, 
 round as saucers, were devouring Rosamond in her 
 rose-and-silver trappings. 
 
 "Isn't Mrs. Mearely too beautiful for words to- 
 night.?" she whispered into her cousin's ear. 
 
 "Who is she to have everything.? Any one could 
 be beautiful in such a frock," was the bitter reply. 
 
178 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Corinne's arm went round Mabel's slim waist. 
 She whispered again: 
 
 "You look beautiful, too — even if your dress is 
 plainer than hers. When I am twenty-one, and 
 mamma gives me some of the handsome things out 
 of the big box, Vm going to divide everything half 
 and half with you." 
 
 "Oh, Corinne!" she smiled. "Perhaps, when 
 you're twenty-one, you won't want to divide." 
 
 "I'll want to, more! Because I'll be three and a 
 half years fonder of you than I am now." 
 
 Seeing Mr. Howard manoeuvring his greetings so 
 that he could conclude them naturally at Mabel's 
 side, Corinne withdrew. She was a pretty little 
 creature, plump, rosy, and lively. Her white muslin 
 frock, the work of her cousin's clever fingers, set 
 off her black, curly hair and big, bright brown eyes. 
 Mrs. Taite could never have cast her doubts upon 
 Corinne in her muslins, for the guileless heart made 
 itself evident in all her words and acts. One sur- 
 mised — from her buoyancy and sweetness of temper, 
 and a native thoughtfulness she had for the sensi- 
 bilities of others — that her father, the late Jameson 
 Witherby, Esquire, had taken a good disposition 
 away from earth with him when he had quitted the 
 side of his Emma — until that day when an over- 
 worked Providence (meaning only to be systematic, 
 not unkind) should re-unite them for all eternity. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 179 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely, do come aside a moment. I must 
 ask you something." Mrs. Witherby took Rosa- 
 mond firmly by the arm. 
 
 "It is my dress she is after!" Rosamond thought. 
 "Ask; Fm all attention," she said. 
 
 "Your gown. Do tell me now, have you put off all — 
 even the smallest hint — of mourning? . . . Perman- 
 ently ? " She added the last word with heavy emphasis. 
 
 "Yes. Even to the last, smallest hint. Per- 
 manently." 
 
 "Indeed.? Indeed.?" 
 
 "Yes. Indeed and indeed!" 
 
 "Of course, I felt sure you would not resent my 
 questions. Though if any one else asked you, you 
 might ask, in return, what business it was of theirs. 
 And I, for one, should back you up in that; for, if 
 there is one thing above another which I neither can 
 nor will tolerate, it is inquisitiveness. Why pry 
 into the affairs of others ? Whose business is it but 
 their own? That is what I say. All Roseborough 
 knows what I think about busybodying and gossip." 
 
 "Yes; that is very true. All Roseborough knows. 
 . . . By the way, Roseborough has behaved 
 beautifully to my mourning, never resenting that it 
 shadowed the pleasure of teas and little gatherings, 
 when — er — ^joy should have been unconfined. I 
 am showing Roseborough how well I understand 
 it, and how grateful I am for its forbearance, by 
 
i8o ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 returning to colours — the brightest and cheeriest I 
 can select.'* She beamed sweetly. 
 
 '^Oh!— oh-h? Really.?" Mrs. Witherby felt her 
 sails slacken as the wind was taken out of them. 
 
 ** To-morrow, at Mrs. Lee's breakfast, I shall 
 wear white — a very simple frock. But to-night I 
 have put this one on, to introduce myself in my new 
 character — first, to you and Mrs. Lee and our closest 
 intimates. You can understand how I would nat- 
 urally do so?'* She smiled again, more sweetly. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Oh-h, ye-es! I understand it perfectly. 
 Oh, perfectly ! Are you sure, my dear Mrs. Mearely, 
 that you do not intend to make a little announce- 
 ment ere we leave to-night?" 
 
 "An announcement?" 
 
 "Judge GifFen is to be here — ah, he is here! I 
 didn't see him come in. It is very sweet of you to 
 say that you have dressed yourself so charmingly, 
 to-night, to give pleasure to my eyes, but are you 
 sure — are you sure'' (she wagged a forefinger play- 
 fully) "that you didn't put on that ineffable gown to 
 charm a lover ?" 
 
 In spite of herself, Rosamond's eyes snapped 
 and the red flamed in her cheeks. 
 
 "Not only sure, but certain and positive," she said 
 tartly. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, much pleased to see the flush 
 and discomposure, smiled, bridled, and said: 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' i8i 
 
 "Well, we shall see what we shall see! and I feel 
 confident we shall know a great deal more about our 
 dear Mrs. Mearely to-morrow. The sweet blush is 
 most becoming." 
 
 Knowing that she had the worst of the encounter 
 and could not easily recover, Rosamond was glad 
 to be obliged to give her attention to the Judge. 
 She showed a proper soHcitude regarding his mis- 
 adventures on horseback and made gracious response 
 to his compliments. 
 
 Presently Mr. Andrews and Dr. Frei arrived. 
 The latter, violin-case in hand, loitered by Miss 
 Crewe and Wilton Howard, who had seated them- 
 selves on the verandah to observe the young moon 
 rise over the river, defiant of the wrath their tete- 
 d-tetes always aroused in Mrs. Witherby's breast. 
 While it could be said of even the stocky doctor 
 that he wore evening dress naturally, and looked 
 as if the coat — ^which classifies all who wear it as 
 either gentlemen or waiters — belonged to him, yet 
 it must be admitted that Dr. Frei brought a greater 
 distinction to the garment than did any other man 
 in Roseborough. 
 
 Rosamond thought he carried his head like some 
 mcBstro receiving the homage of an enraptured public. 
 As to features, he was less handsome than Howard, 
 and he lacked the smooth and respectfully caressing 
 manner which was the latter's greatest charm to 
 
1 82 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 women; but there was "an elegance about him" — 
 as all Roseborough echoed Mrs. Witherby in say- 
 ing — that set him apart. Even Mrs. Witherby 
 was baffled by his manner. It stopped her ques- 
 tions before they were completed, making her 
 change their tenor and give them the semblance of 
 innocent and uninquisitive remarks. 
 
 Mr. Albert Andrews stood back surveying his 
 hostess with a stare more pop-eyed than usual. He 
 knew pink when he saw it; and he was seeing pink. 
 The silver overdress, however, raised a row of inter- 
 rogation points across the blank spaces of his mind. 
 Mrs. Bunny had not shown him silver's place in 
 the emotional scale. He was a cautious, sensitive 
 soul, and desired to avoid making himself ridiculous 
 a second time. He looked about for aid and anon 
 decided that Dr. Wells, whose profession brought 
 him into intimate relations with death, was the man 
 who should know whether a silver overdress was a 
 condition of mourning or not. He drew him aside 
 and asked the important question. 
 
 "Silver? Silver? God bless my soul, man, I 
 don't know. One sees a good deal of it about." 
 
 "I think I recall seeing silver wreaths on caskets?" 
 Mr. Andrews ruminated with questioning inflection. 
 
 "No doubt. No doubt. And on wedding cakes, 
 too! Many a man wishes the wreath that topped 
 his wedding cake had adorned his casket instead." 
 
''GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMOND!'' 183 
 
 Dr. Wells was not interested in the subject, so he 
 chuckled at his own joke, gave Andrews a dig in the 
 ribs, and made off to the whist table, mentally resolv- 
 ing to have Corinne instead of her mother for his 
 partner. In this he was disappointed. Andrews 
 had already asked Corinne to play with him. He 
 was practising gallantry, as well as colour selection, to 
 fit himself for the role he wished to enact as the 
 master of the mistress of Villa Rose. 
 
 "I am eager to try the Tschaikowsky with you," 
 Frei said to Rosamond, taking his violin from its 
 case. "May we not play now.^" 
 
 "Yes, certainly. We shall not be missed.'* 
 
 She looked about at her guests and saw that they 
 were all apparently in contentment. Dr. Wells 
 was dealing the cards, and the four at the table were 
 engrossed already with the pleasure to come. How- 
 ard and Mabel, chatting in low tones on the ver- 
 andah, had forgotten all the world but each other. 
 Mrs. Lee was absorbed in a difficult moment of her 
 lace-mending. The Judge had seated himself at the 
 other end of the long settee and descended into the 
 profundities of the latest Digest. 
 
 Rosamond, lifting herself on tiptoe, put one finger 
 on her laughing lips and the other hand into Frei's. 
 
 "Come," she whispered. 
 
 Smiling delightedly at her prankishness, he clasped 
 her fingers and tiptoed with her into the music room. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE musicians were not missed, and it is safe to 
 say that, for some time, their melody was un- 
 heard; not even the lovers on the verandah lent ear 
 to it, for Mabel was gathering her forces for an attack 
 upon all the conventions of maidenly reserve, while 
 Howard was seeking through the shallows of his diplo- 
 macy for some acceptable method of writing "finis" 
 across their romance. Each felt the secret strain and 
 battle within the other. They became silent, each 
 waiting and guarding against the other's first move. 
 
 At the card table, as usual, the first rounds were 
 played in silence. The players were, as the saying is, 
 ** feeling one another out." Judge Giffen was not dis- 
 tracted, therefore, from the opening columns which 
 the Digest had allotted to an "exclusive" bit of 
 information supplied by the young gentleman who 
 acted as its special correspondent on the Balkan 
 peninsula. There was a page and a half of it. The 
 Judge took off his glasses — rubbed, and was replacing 
 them, when Mrs. Lee addressed him. 
 
 "I do hope you will find some charming item to 
 regale us with. Judge Giffen. I saw you tear off the 
 wrapper so I know it is a new Digest J' 
 
 184 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 185 
 
 "Ah, yes — ah — ^just come, you know. A remark- 
 able paper, the Digest. Gives one the — ah — news 
 of the world every week without a superfluous word — 
 ah — ^journalism in these days has become — ah — 
 debauched. The simplest events are distorted for 
 sensationalism — ah — to wring tears from the senti- 
 mentalists." 
 
 "Fve heard others say the same thing. What a 
 pity, is it not?" 
 
 Mrs. Lee, finding that she could not turn a corner 
 successfully, took the kerchief out of the frame and 
 drew the point of lace taut over her thumb. Her 
 motion attracted the judge's attention and he 
 watched her deft fingers as he continued his strictures 
 on journalism. 
 
 "A pity? A scandal! Does a celebrity die? 
 We are intruded into the most intimate details of 
 his family history; what — ah — shaving soap he 
 used and whether he — ah — preferred to kiss his lady 
 love on the — ah — nose or behind the ear; and — ah — 
 who cried, and how many, when he — ah — in vulgar 
 phrase — ah — 'kicked the bucket.' And, mind you, 
 not a word of truth in the whole story! Whereas 
 the Digest merely states with terseness and accuracy: 
 *the — ah — Emperor of China died on Sunday, of — ah 
 — an overdose of — ah — bird's-nest soup.' It leaves 
 you to infer that, in the case of the death of a cele- 
 brated personage who met thousands of people in 
 
1 86 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 his public life, there were some who cried and some 
 who — ah — did not. Any fool knows that, so why 
 waste print on it ? " 
 
 "My husband used to tell his students that, in 
 literary composition, sincerity was more important 
 than rhetoric and that only a ^no, feeling could dictate 
 the making of a truly fine phrase. He said that pure 
 English had come with the spiritual development of 
 the rac^; and that a forceful and intimate use of it 
 must come about through the individual writer's 
 spiritual evolution. Otherwise he claimed no man 
 could write with real power." 
 
 **Ah. Um, very true. But all wasted on the — 
 ah — young cubs, I dare say." The Judge wisely 
 made no attempt to follow Professor Lee's analyses. 
 Metaphysics was several points beyond him. He 
 found the movements of Mrs. Lee's tiny needle, 
 with its almost imperceptible gossamer thread, more 
 interesting. 
 
 "Ah. I have become quite absorbed in your work. 
 It seems to be so — ah — marvellously intricate. 
 May I ask what, precisely, you are doing?" 
 
 "I am mending a rare old cobweb of lace," she 
 answered — spreading the white fragment across her 
 palm for him to look at — "and, at the same time, 
 transferring it from its worn-out cambric to a new 
 piece of linen. A very delicate operation, judge; 
 and a labour of love." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 187 
 
 "Ah! indeed?" 
 
 **Yes. It is for my granddaughter's trousseau. 
 She marries in December, and — we feel confident — 
 very happily. Yes, her intended seems a thoroughly 
 settled young man. She met him in Scotland." 
 
 "It is a labour requiring both patience and skill, 
 I should say." 
 
 "I think that patience and skill are the two quali- 
 ties required most in any labour of love," she an- 
 swered, with gentle pleasure in the subject. He 
 peered at the dainty fabric as she cleverly set it into 
 the frame again. 
 
 "Now do find us some delicious item," she urged. 
 
 "Ah. To be sure. Here's something on the 
 first page. I've just begun — and it — ah — promises 
 to be exciting, too, which is — ah — rather unusual 
 for the Digest.'' 
 
 He had just found the place, preparatory to read- 
 ing, when hubbub burst about the card-taKle. 
 
 "Now, Mamma!" Corinne's vigorous young voice 
 broke in. "You simply cannot lead every time I 
 take a trick. It's — it's ridiculous. This is my 
 
 play." 
 
 "If the Witherbys are going to have a set to, 
 there'll be no use in my reading aloud till they've 
 fought it out," the Judge said to himself, and lost 
 himself as promptly as possible in the "exclusive." 
 
 "Corinne! You are speaking to your mother!" 
 
i88 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Mrs. Witherby so informed her daughter, when she 
 could get her breath. Dr. Wells hastened to inter- 
 vene. 
 
 "I think," he said, "that on the whole it might 
 be as well to play in turn. Of course, I make no 
 rule" — a deprecating gesture toward his bristling 
 partner forbade her to think he would presume to 
 make rules for her — *^but it is generally done, I 
 believe." tJe rose, beamed benignly. "Your card." 
 He passed it to her. 
 
 Corinne tossed her head at her mother and led 
 the round. 
 
 When her turn came, Mrs. Witherby threw down 
 the knave of hearts and gathered up the cards. 
 
 "Trumps! Our trick, doctor," she cried vic- 
 toriously. Her success was greeted with a profound 
 silence, broken at last by Dr. Wells; he coughed. 
 Andrews, seeing that Corinne was about to express 
 herself with her customary frankness, flung himself 
 into the breach. 
 
 "Er — you overlooked — oh, quite by accident, of 
 course — er — you have the three of clubs in your 
 hand." 
 
 "I refuse to play with any one — any one — ^who is 
 capable of looking at my hand." 
 
 The sensitive Mr. Andrews turned the peony-red 
 which is specially inflicted upon sandy, blond men. 
 
 "I did not look at your hand," he protested, with 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 189 
 
 mild heat. "You played the three of clubs when you 
 led off, just now, in your daughter's place — oh, 
 by mistake, of course. It is still in your hand." 
 
 "Your card," the doctor murmured, politely 
 handing it to her. Corinne gathered up the trick. 
 
 "Another round finishes the game. Come on, 
 Mrs. Witherby. You must put your best foot for- 
 ward and cast these young people into the shade," 
 Dr. Wells urged in his cheeriest tones, obviously 
 endeavouring to banish the sour gloom that had 
 settled on his partner's spirit. A darting, knifelike 
 glance of her eyes told that he had failed. 
 
 "My foot is not of such dimensions as to cast a 
 shade over two persons," sourly. "I don't under- 
 stand your allusion." 
 
 Again the peace-loving Andrews flew like the dove 
 upon the storm. 
 
 "Of course, Mrs. Witherby, you will be one of 
 Mrs. Lee's breakfast party to-morrow.?" he said, 
 and thus gave Mrs. Lee the opportunity she needed. 
 She had begun to wonder how she was to introduce 
 her topic sympathetically in the discordant atmos- 
 phere of one of Mrs. Witherby's "card-game hu- 
 mours." 
 
 " Did I hear my name ? " she asked, turning to them. 
 
 "I mentioned your breakfast party," Andrews 
 repHed quickly. "It is to be at eleven o'clock, is it 
 not?" 
 
I90 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Yes. But everyone is to be there by a quarter 
 to eleven, so that we can be prompt in beginning." 
 
 *'To be sure. Ah. The breakfast party." The 
 Judge looked over his paper. 
 
 "Do tell us about it," Mrs. Witherby interjected. 
 "I am simply bored with these cards." 
 
 " Mr. Falcon will arrive at Trenton Waters on the 
 morning train, and I am sure he will prefer to ramble 
 across the fields to Roseborough. I suppose I am a 
 little old-fashioned, but I wished him to feel that all 
 the town was welcoming him home — not only the 
 widow of his old professor." She sighed and smiled. 
 
 ''Dear Mrs. Lee," Mrs. Witherby exclaimed, effu- 
 sively. "That is so like you." 
 
 Encouraged by this responsiveness, Mrs. Lee con- 
 tinued more hopefully: 
 
 "You see, there was a good deal of comment when 
 Jack left college so abruptly. There had just come 
 the opportunity, through Professor Lee, to teach 
 languages — for which Jack had a rare gift — and 
 certain classes in Hterature also. That was quite 
 an honour for a young man of twenty-one. And to 
 think he threw it all away just to go out into the 
 world and see what was to be seen!" 
 
 "Well, well," Mr. Andrews said, as she paused; 
 "Fd never have done that. But, then, it isn't my 
 nature." 
 
 "Roseborough was inclined to be indignant," 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 191 
 
 Mrs. Lee admitted. "But my husband felt — and 
 said openly — that there might be wisdom in his wan- 
 dering. Indeed he was the only one who stood the 
 boy's friend in the matter. Sixteen years ago. Ah, 
 me!" She bent over her lace, because her eyes were 
 wet. 
 
 The Judge looked over the edge of his paper again. 
 
 "I can't place him. Falcon, do you say?" 
 
 "Yes, Jack Falcon." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "I don't think I ever knew him." 
 
 Dr. Wells had just dealt for a new game, but he 
 lingered in picking up his cards to say: 
 
 "Doubtless I treated him for measles, in his turn 
 — along with every other child in the district — but 
 I have not a clear remembrance of him as a young 
 man. Was he on any of the athletic teams, do you 
 remember?" 
 
 "Oh, he was past the measles stage when he came 
 to Roseborough! He would trudge for miles through 
 the woods; but I remember that he hated sports." 
 
 "That accounts for my very hazy recollection of 
 him. I was never called from my Thanksgiving 
 turkey to set his collarbone." 
 
 He laughed cosily at his own repartee, and played, 
 since Mrs. Witherby had opened the game and his 
 turn had come. His ruddy brow was rolled up in 
 furrows, though, because it was difficult to follow 
 
192 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 his partner's play at any time — more than difficult 
 while conversing upon an alien subject. 
 
 "The boy wasn't one to — to *mix/ as they say. 
 He was devoted to my dear husband. Professor 
 Lee had a wonderful understanding of all growing 
 things — he loved them. Ah, well," she sighed 
 tenderly. **Jack was much with us. He had his 
 room here — the music room it is now — for of course 
 he knew us in our palmy days when we lived here, 
 before Mr. Mearely's time. We loved him dearly 
 and he never forgot us. He always wrote to my 
 husband at least twice a year, and — afterward — 
 to me. When I decided to publish the professor's 
 manuscripts, the boy wrote — he was in the Balkans 
 then — offering his services as editor, out of gratitude 
 and love for him who is gone. So you see why my 
 heart is very tender toward him, and why I am ask- 
 ing you all, dear friends, to join me to-morrow in 
 his welcome home." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Lee," Corinne cried, clapping her 
 hands, "I think it's lovely!" 
 
 "Such a sweet notion!" her mother opined, and 
 to show that her interest was genuine, asked, with 
 point: "Has he made any money ?" 
 
 "Ah, I fancy he has," Mrs. Lee said. "A little; 
 though for years his was a hand-to-mouth exist- 
 ence. Recently, I know, he was handsomely paid 
 by a wealthy gentleman of title . . ." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 193 
 
 **Title?" Mrs. Witherby interrupted excitably. 
 
 "Yes, indeed — if my failing memory serves me — 
 I believe he was almost if not quite a r.oyal per- 
 sonage." 
 
 ''Royal?'' 
 
 "But that reminds me of something that will stir 
 your pride, I know, as it stirred mine. There was a 
 little prose poem of Professor Lee's, about Rose- 
 borough." She beamed at them all. 
 
 "Quite a good subject for a poem, I dare say,'* 
 the Judge remarked. "Personally, I never read a 
 poem — though even the Digest prints them, to fill 
 
 in." 
 
 "I sent it to Jack," Mrs. Lee hastened on — to 
 forestall any discussion, pro and con poetry — "hop- 
 ing that it might revivify his memories and lead him 
 home from his wanderings. He showed it to this 
 titled gentleman, who was so charmed with it that 
 he begged for a copy and asked many question, about 
 our dear old town." 
 
 There were pleased and reverent murmurs from 
 every one, and Howard, who had also been listen- 
 ing, said: 
 
 "Very flattering." 
 
 Miss Crewe kept her shoulder turned, and refused 
 to let her thoughts leave their main purpose to 
 sympathize with her natal hamlet's pride. 
 
 "It begins so beautifully," Mrs. Lee continued. 
 
194 "'GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Listen: 'Here where all hearts are tender and 
 sincere."* 
 
 ** * Here where all hearts are tender and sincere," Mrs. 
 Witherby echoed, rolHng her eyes. "How lovely! 
 One would know at once that meant Roseborough." 
 
 The phrase had caught Andrews's ear. In playing, 
 he parroted vacantly: 
 
 "*Here where all hearts are tender and sincere!' 
 Very nice. Trumps." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby returned to the item of greatest 
 interest to her. 
 
 "But, dear Mrs. Lee, you spoke just now of his 
 being handsomely paid for something. What was 
 he paid for, and how much was it?" 
 
 **0h, yes. For designing a great pleasure garden 
 for the peasants of that place. But I don't know 
 the amount." 
 
 '^Oh, he is a landscape gardener now?" Andrews 
 asked. He was an amateur horticulturist, in a very 
 smair way, himself, and enjoyed gardening details. 
 The judge, whose interest in Mr. Falcon was ex- 
 hausted, had returned to his paper. Mrs. Lee 
 laughed. 
 
 "No. Not a gardener. He is a writer. But one 
 who can write on the earth, if pencil and pad fail him. 
 A practical poet — if you can call * practical' a man 
 who roams the world in search of beauty, or 
 of conditions which will allow him to make them 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 195 
 
 beautiful. The professor delighted in saying — oh, 
 figuratively, of course — that one could easily recog- 
 nize the true artist, because his fingers are always 
 knuckle-deep in earth-dust; whereas the dilettante's 
 fingers are chiefly remarkable for nail-polish." 
 
 "And, there, I entirely agree with him! As I am 
 constantly telling Corinne, I consider the way people 
 polish their nails, nowadays, is positively vulgar." 
 Mrs. Witherby spoke emphatically and played her 
 card with a righteous flourish. 
 
 "Mamma! It's my lead." There was more than 
 a suggestion of anger in Corinne's voice. 
 
 Bowing, Dr. Wells handed his partner her card, 
 saying politely: 
 
 "Your card." 
 
 "Corinne, you watch me like a hawk; as if you 
 thought your own mother would cheat you if you 
 weren't looking." 
 
 "Ah! but I always am looking," that young lady 
 cried gayly. 
 
 There was a lull at the table after this family tilt, 
 and the Judge seized the occasion to share the "ex- 
 clusive," which had proved too thrilling to be kept 
 to himself. 
 
 "Ah — give me your attention a moment. I have 
 just read in my Digest, here, such a peculiar tale. A 
 reigning prince of some little European state has 
 run off." 
 
196 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Dear, dear," Mrs. Lee said. "Was it a love- 
 afFair?" 
 
 "Ah — ^not precisely: though a princess had been 
 arranged for him." 
 
 Even Miss Crewe felt a degree of interest in a 
 run-away prince, or perhaps she felt that she had 
 challenged her aunt's wrath long enough. She rose,, 
 as her cousin called to her: 
 
 "Oh, Mabel, come and hear about the prince. 
 Do tell us more, Judge GiflFen." 
 
 The Judge consulted his paper. 
 
 "Um — ah — here it is. Um — ah — odd chap. Very 
 chivalrous and — ah — romantic; eccentric; fond of 
 wandering about, incognito, and entering humble 
 people's houses and — ah — making friends with them. 
 Artistic. No love-affair suspected, but — ah — it seems 
 he has never enjoyed ruling. Too sensitive. Been 
 missing for months. The Court tried to — ah — hide 
 the fact, but it is out now, and the whole world is 
 aware that His Highness — wait a minute till I find 
 the place, for it's a fearful name. Ah — here it is. 
 His Highness, Prince Adam Lapid, reigning Duke 
 of Woodseweedsetisky" — he stumbled over it 
 badly. 
 
 "Good gracious!" Mabel said. 
 
 "Ah — His Highness has abdicated and run away 
 in disguise, leaving a letter. Ah — ^this is the letter. 
 Listen" : 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 197 
 
 Dear Subjects, Councillors, and neighbouring Princes, 
 including Her Highness Princess Olga" of Damala-Binoot- 
 shia, to whom processes of state have affianced me although 
 I have never seen her. I herewith and hereby abdicate 
 and renounce my hereditary right to the throne of Wood- 
 seweedsetisky. I am too sensitive to endure the criticisms 
 aimed at royalty by heartless radicals. Recently I 
 have received harsh words from a visiting, untitled 
 stranger, whom I had employed in executing a beneficent 
 and beautiful plan for my ungrateful subjects. It was 
 not my fault that it was, later, found to be impossible to 
 bring the water to the top of the mountain, where I had 
 insisted that the fountain — a memorial to my father — be 
 erected. Criticism of me on that account was unjust 
 and cruel. It was not I who failed, but the water. I 
 abdicate. I go to a place where there is no criticism. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Adam Lapid. 
 
 "Well! What a . . . " 
 The Judge silenced the interrupting chorus. "A 
 postscript." 
 
 p. s. People who criticise me are ignorant. If they 
 knew as much as I do they would act as I do. As for 
 the visiting stranger — a person of no antecedents — ^who 
 criticised me because of the fountain, I have put him in 
 prison. Let him see whether his pointed criticisms are sharp 
 enough to pick my prison locks. The top of the mountain 
 was the proper place for the memorial fountain to my hon- 
 oured father. It was not my fault that the water did not 
 arrive there to spout. But when this stranger of humble 
 birth said to me, " I told you water will not run uphill, 
 even to oblige a prince," I put him in the prison. Farewell. 
 
198 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND T' 
 
 "Now, that's a remarkable tale, eh?" 
 
 "He's quite mad, of course," Howard said. Dr. 
 Wells wanted to know what became of the man who 
 designed the fountain where the water would not 
 arrive to spout. 
 
 "Oh — ah — he escaped." 
 
 " So his criticisms were sharp enough to pick locks," 
 the doctor chuckled, as joyfully as if the original jest 
 had been his. 
 
 "Ah. Quite so. The Councillors suspected at 
 first that the prince's disappearance and — ah — the 
 whole thing was an anarchistic plot. But they are 
 satisfied now that he really ran off of his own ac- 
 cord." 
 
 "Oh, isn't it thrilling.?" Corinne clapped her hands 
 again. Her large, round eyes had been growing 
 larger and larger, throughout the recital, till it was 
 impossible for them to stretch any more. 
 
 "I hope he'll keep his freedom, poor dear, and let 
 the kingdom rage," Mabel said. There was a bitter- 
 ness in her intonation, which always drew her aunt's 
 anger, for Mrs. Witherby held that Mabel should 
 feel humbled under the weight of gratitude. 
 
 "No doubt you feel so, Mabel," she said, acidly. 
 " But most of us recognize duty and the importance 
 of the world's opinion. Ah! there is our sweet 
 hostess." 
 
 "Did v/e disturb you with our melodic outcries?" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 199 
 
 Rosamond asked, blithely. Her cheeks were flushed 
 and her eyes shining. 
 
 "We heard you, of course," Andrews remarked — 
 meaning to be polite. He was leading a new round. 
 
 "You made criticisms ?'' the violinist asked, 
 darkly. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Dr. Frei, we were charmed — utterly 
 charmed." 
 
 Frei acknowledged Mrs. Witherby's impressive 
 compliment with a low bow. He was very grave. 
 
 "Dr. Frei plays so beautifully." Rosamond 
 thought she saw his sad mood coming upon him, 
 and was eager to ward it off with sympathetic 
 eulogies. Mrs. Lee, unawares, abetted her. 
 
 " Dear Dr. Frei, how much you have added to the 
 natural charm of our dear old town by bringing your 
 violin, and opening your little studio among us." 
 
 Frei bent and kissed her hand. 
 
 "You have a kind heart," he said, gratefully. 
 "You criticise no one." 
 
 "Oh, I hope not," she replied. "The Judge has 
 just been telling us about a poor dear man out in the 
 great world — ah, well! Life must be very different 
 in the vast cities, where people are strangers instead 
 of neighbours. Think of that! Strangers instead 
 of neighbours! How fortunate I am to live in Rose- 
 borough, where everybody is so interested in every- 
 body else. Dear Mrs. Witherby, in particular. 
 
200 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 takes such an interest." She patted that lady's arm. 
 Mrs. Witherby, having lost the last round, had left 
 the table. "Ah, well, that is the spirit of Rose- 
 borough." 
 
 "Some might call it a meddlesome spirit," Miss 
 Crewe suggested. 
 
 "Oh, my dear child," Mrs. Lee reproved her, 
 affectionately. 
 
 "I think we will not allow Mabel to interpret the 
 spirit of Roseborough." Mrs. Witherby was smilingly 
 spiteful. 
 
 "Where did you learn to play?" Judge GifFen 
 drew Frei aside. 
 
 "In Warsaw." 
 
 "Ah! Indeed? I know Warsaw." He began to 
 relate to Dr. Frei whatever incidents remained in 
 his mind of his visit to the Polish capital, twenty-five 
 years before. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was assisting Mrs. Lee in gathering 
 up her fancywork, scissors, spools and so forth, and 
 was receiving in return that lady's ardent thanks for 
 her help in notifying guests without telephones of 
 Mr. Falcon's home-coming breakfast. Mabel lifted 
 the old lady's white wool shawl and wrapped it about 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, do come here, Mrs. Mearely!" cried Corinne, 
 who was now alone at the card table. She caught 
 Rosamond's hand and began excitedly, "Oh, Mrs. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 201 
 
 Mearely, Judge GifFen has just read such a thrilling 
 thing in the Digest. Just think! a real prince has run 
 away from his throne, and taken a different name, 
 but they don't know what it is and — and — he's gone 
 looking for a real romance — and they think he has 
 hidden himself in some little town. Oh! think; if 
 he'd only come to Roseborough ! Oh, Mrs. Mearely," 
 she panted, **all my life I've wanted something 
 wonderful to happen in Roseborough!" 
 
 Rosamond laughed, noting Corinne's breathless ex- 
 citement rather than her news. 
 
 "My dear Corinne, nothing will ever happen in 
 Roseborough." 
 
 Corinne almost wailed her protest at this hard 
 saying. 
 
 "Oh, it might happen! Think if the prince came 
 here. Oh, he might, Mrs. Mearely," she pleaded. 
 ''He might." 
 
 Rosamond, smiling, shook her head, Seeing that 
 Mrs. Lee was ready to leave, she threw her own wrap 
 around her. 
 
 "Now, I must be off to bed. I have overstayed." 
 Mrs. Lee was rejecting Mrs. Witherby's efforts to 
 keep her **just another half hour." "One must go to 
 sleep when the twilight ends, if one would really enjoy 
 early rising. I think I may almost say I have 
 not missed a sunrise for twenty years." 
 
 "Sunrise?" Howard repeated, "I often wonder 
 
202 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 how you do it! I find half-past eight almost too 
 early." 
 
 "Dr. Frei and I will go with you," Rosamond said. 
 Frei, hearing his name, turned. The Judge followed 
 him for the purpose of concluding his arguments. 
 
 **As I was saying," he insisted, "I have only one 
 criticism to make of Beethoven's sonatas . . . " 
 
 Frei wheeled upon him, and silenced him with a 
 commanding gesture. 
 
 "Do not make it!" he said, frowning fiercely as at 
 the most hated of enemies. " Beethoven is not here 
 to defend himself. Ach! I detest criticism. It is 
 the speech of those who do not understand." 
 
 The judge, feeling aggrieved at this public snub- 
 bing, walked off, muttering under his breath: 
 "Touchy fiddler!" Frei gave his arm to Mrs. Lee. 
 
 "Good-bye, for the present." Rosamond waited 
 an instant to offer cheer to her remaining guests, before 
 joining Mrs. Lee and Frei on the verandah. "Some 
 of you will have time for another game before we 
 return. The chess board is just as you and Wilton 
 left it, Judge. When cards and chess pall, you will 
 find sandwiches and salad, with perhaps a jelly or 
 two and some of Amanda's parsnip wine on the din- 
 ing-room table. I know we can't persuade Mrs. Lee." 
 
 "No, dear, not in the evening. Good-night, dear 
 friends. I shall see you all at breakfast, to-morrow. 
 A quarter to eleven. Don't fail me." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 203 
 
 "We won't!" Corinne called to her, above the 
 calmer promises of the older folk. 
 
 "Oh, joy! A new man is coming to Roseborough! 
 Though I suppose he's pretty old," she added, after 
 Mrs. Lee and her two escorts had disappeared. 
 "Mrs. Lee calls men of fifty *dear boys,' if they ever 
 went to Charleroy." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, Wells, and Andrews seated them- 
 selves at the card table. For the moment, Mrs. 
 Witherby's mind was occupied with something more 
 important than cards. Assuring herself that her 
 niece could not hear her, she said: 
 
 " Mrs. Barton is not coming from Poplars Vale till 
 next week, so I shall try to persuade Mrs. Mearely 
 to let me leave our Thomas to sleep in the house here, 
 to-night. With her sister absent, she is quite alone. 
 You know, I consider it suspicious that her two maids 
 should have been called to their sick mother's bed- 
 side the same day that her coachman was obliged to 
 take the gray mare out to the farm. It leaves Mrs. 
 Mearely quite alone. I consider it very suspicious. 
 I think Mrs. Barton should have been sent for. I 
 think it pecuHar that Mrs. Mearely herself did not 
 tell me about it." 
 
 Wells, who was dealing, replied humorously: 
 
 "But — the maids being sisters — naturally, if Je- 
 mima's mother is ill, so is Amanda's mother, te- 
 he-he." 
 
204 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 He was rewarded with a frosty glance. 
 
 "It pleases you to be facetious. Corinne, come— 
 we are having another game." 
 
 Corinne came, none too willingly. The Judge, 
 who had had enough of the Digest for that evening, 
 nodded to Wilton. 
 
 " Er — shall we try the chessmen to-night, Howard ? 
 Perhaps Miss Crewe will sit by and inspire us." 
 
 Howard, anxious to avoid another tete-a-tete with 
 Mabel, answered with alacrity, " By all means." 
 
 Mabel, yawning, sank among the cushions of the 
 settee. She was not interested in chess, but she 
 could watch her lover's profile from this position. 
 
 "Oh, I wish there were something young to do," 
 Corinne protested. "Cards aren't young." 
 
 "I don't consider it safe for Mrs. Mearely to re- 
 main alone to-night," Mrs. Witherby resumed. "A 
 most villainous-appearing man with a multitude of 
 black whiskers has been seen lurking about. John- 
 son, the butcher's boy, told my maid, Hannah Ann, 
 about it. He saw him .^" 
 
 "I don't think Mrs. Mearely is timid," Andrews 
 said. 
 
 "In my day, Mr. Andrews, it was not considered 
 well-bred for women to make an exhibition of cour- 
 age. They had it, but they suppressed it under a 
 mask of timidity and sensitiveness. And the girls 
 married easily at eighteen. And the widows were 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 205 
 
 wives again before they had reached the lavender 
 stage of their mourning. I shall try to insist on Mrs. 
 Mearely's keeping our Thomas to-night, and I do 
 think it rash of her to don such a rich and conspicu- 
 ous gown when she is entirely alone . . ." 
 
 "Oh, my trick again! Oh, goody!" Corinne broke 
 in enthusiastically. 
 
 "Congratulations, fair partner." Andrews thought 
 he had done very well with that speech. So did 
 Corinne. 
 
 "Oh, you say such lovely things, Mr. Andrews!" 
 
 "Losing as usual, aunt.?" Mabel's tone was deli- 
 cately unpleasant. It angered her aunt. 
 
 "Not at all! I doubt if there is a woman in Rose- 
 borough who plays a better hand." 
 
 In turning to make her speech more impressive 
 and to give Miss Crewe a broadside, as it were, of her 
 displeasure, she had a full view of the verandah, and 
 was in the nick of time to see a swarthy, black-whisk- 
 ered face, topped by a soft, black felt hat, slowly 
 raised over the verandah rail. She panted twice 
 from terror's cold shock; then screamed with all her 
 might. The apparition disappeared. 
 
 " Eh ? What ? " Dr. Wells looked up, jerkily, from 
 his cards. Howard had half risen, from habit, at 
 the feminine cry of distress. The Judge, peering over 
 his pince-nez, offered a practical explanation. 
 
 "A beetle .? The summer bugs do bite." 
 
2o6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Mamma! I wish you wouldn't shriek when 
 there's no need." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was angry now as well as fright- 
 ened. She gestured frantically and gasped. 
 
 "There — there! I saw him! Oh! the terrible 
 man! Oh, quick — catch him — a man!" 
 
 She continued to point and wave and gasp at such 
 a rate, that Judge GifFen and Wilton Howard, con- 
 cealing their mirth as best they could, went to the 
 verandah and made a perfunctory investigation. 
 The movement of their shoulders suggested that 
 they were not looking over the verandah rail so much 
 as laughing over it. Miss Crewe gave herself up to 
 an almost hysterical hilarity. 
 
 "You have so much imagination. Aunt Emma." 
 
 Dr. Wells cackled with dehght, "Te-he-he! 
 The cry of the eternal feminine — * Catch him! 
 Catch the man !' Te-he-he." 
 
 "You must have seen him!" Mrs. Witherby's face 
 was crimson with fury. She would have liked to tear 
 out all the mocking eyes now regarding her. 
 
 "Not even a tiger," Howard informed her cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 "Nary cannibal," the Judge added, with facetious 
 looks and stepping about on tiptoe as if in mortal 
 fear of bogies. 
 
 "I saw him! I saw . . ." Words failed her. 
 She played her card blindly, and took the trick. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 207 
 
 This was the last straw, as far as Corinne was con- 
 cerned. 
 
 "Mamma! It's my trick!" She snatched it 
 away from her mother with trembHng hands. Her 
 nerves were taut from the scare she had received, for 
 the wild shriek had been sent almost into her ear. 
 It proved the last straw for Mrs. Witherby also. 
 
 "Corinne!" she thundered. ''This is too much! 
 Do you suppose your mother is going to sit here the 
 whole evening and not take a single trick.? How 
 dare you assert yourself so .? " 
 
 Corinne threw down her cards and burst into ex- 
 plosive sobs. 
 
 "I don't — I didn't — I never did. It was my 
 trick." Wells patted her shoulder affectionately. 
 
 "There, there, dear child. Don't cry." 
 
 "What's this?" the Judge asked. "Our merry 
 Corinne in tears \ " 
 
 "No one thinks of w^, the mother!" Mrs. Witherby 
 whimpered. 
 
 "She — she — is always like that when she plays 
 cards. What has — a — mother to do with trumps — 
 and things.?" 
 
 "Oh, you heartless child! And after the terrible 
 fright I've had! Judge GifFen, your arm. I am not 
 well." 
 
 "Eh, what?" The Judge resented nothing so 
 much as being asked to leave his chess. "Oh — yes 
 
2o8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 — with pleasure. Let us seek the — ah — sympathetic 
 seclusion of the dining room, eh? Mrs. Mearely 
 spoke of sandwiches. Yes — ah — a sustaining sand- 
 wich." 
 
 "I couldn't eat a mouthful. Fm so upset. Co- 
 rinne's behaviour — and — oh, Judge — that dreadful 
 face! Oh, if you'd seen the villainous whiskers!" 
 
 "Yes — yes — a little — ah — salad. A glass of 
 Amanda's parsnip wine." He guided her into the 
 dining room. 
 
 "Shall we also refresh the inner soul. Miss Co- 
 rinne?" Mr. Albert Andrews asked, with gallantry. 
 
 "Now I am quite sure that Mrs. Mearely has pro- 
 vided creams and a fine array of iridescent jellies 
 to delight the youthful palate. Go with Andrews, 
 dear child." 
 
 Corinne threw her arms around Dr. Wells's neck. 
 
 "I think you are just too dear for anything, Dr. 
 Wells. I wish I could have you for a father." 
 
 "Heaven forbid!" he answered absently. "Er — 
 that is — thank you, my dear. You are a very sweet 
 girl, Corinne. Yes — considering the circumstances 
 — a remarkably sweet girl," he added as the dining- 
 room door closed behind the couple. He rose, taking 
 his pipe from his pocket. 
 
 "Do you find Aunt Emma wearing, doctor?" 
 Mabel inquired flippantly. "Some do." 
 
 "Oh, no, no! What a sad idea. I shall go out 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 209 
 
 now and have a pipe in the moonlight, and all the 
 little cares will blow away with the smoke." 
 
 "Don't let Mrs. Witherby's wild man get you," 
 Howard urged, laughing. 
 
 "Te-he-he! the good lady is so excitable; but 
 she means well. I leave you to the pleasant task of 
 dispelling pessimistic ideas from Miss Crewe's lovely 
 head." He went out on tiptoe, with extravagant 
 antics of mock caution. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HE'S a nice old chap," Howard remarked. She did 
 not answer. He desired, at all hazards, to avoid 
 an intimate talk so stepped quickly toward the supper 
 room as if to open the door. "Let me conduct you to 
 the crackers and cheese," he said with forced lightness. 
 
 "No. I want to speak to you." 
 
 "This is hardly a good opportunity," he pleaded. 
 
 "Come here, please." He hesitated only briefly; 
 something new in her to-night warned him that it 
 would be unwise to gainsay her. 
 
 "Wilton, I am being talked about — too much. 
 Talk does things, after awhile. When is this going 
 to end .? " Her voice was strained with her effort to 
 control herself. 
 
 " What .^ " His face was turned from her. 
 
 "When can I go to my aunt and tell her that you 
 have asked me to marry you.? She persecutes me 
 about it." 
 
 "When you can answer your aunt's first question 
 — *what are you and your husband going to live 
 on?' " he replied glumly. 
 
 "Oh, the same old story. I'm sick of it. When a 
 man loves he doesn't think of money." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 211 
 
 Her tone cut into him. Her contempt was not 
 easy to bear. 
 
 "I do love you," he asserted hotly, "but how could 
 I support you? Fve never worked. I can't earn a 
 round sum at anything. But for cousin Hibbert 
 Mearel'y's little legacy, Fd have been on the parish 
 long ago. You and I can't live any life but this. 
 We're not pioneer stuflF. If we eloped to the swamps, 
 the gnats would eat us — that's all." 
 
 "Don't talk Uke that! It sounds so cowardly. 
 You must think of me. I can't face any more talk, 
 and Aunt Emma's sneers . . ." 
 
 " I've been thinking of that. Mabel, we must face 
 facts squarely." 
 
 "What do you mean.?" tremulously. 
 
 "Our situation is hopeless. We can't marry. 
 The only thing for us to do . . ." 
 
 "I know," she broke in bitterly. "I've heard you 
 say that before, but I didn't believe you meant it. 
 We must separate and marry money; if we can." 
 
 "Has society provided any other way of life for 
 merely useless men like me, and merely ornamental 
 women like you .? " 
 
 She did not speak at once, but studied his face to 
 find the reason for a mood so positive and malign. 
 Across the screen of her thoughts floated a rose-andr 
 silver gown — and she cried out as if she had been 
 struck. 
 
212 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "I've been blind! I see it now. You mean to 
 marry Rosamond." 
 
 " What an idea ! " awkwardly, his eyes avoiding hers. 
 
 "Don't try to deceive me. You may as well ad- 
 mit it. You've told me you mean to throw me aside 
 for some rich woman. Is it Rosamond? Yes, of 
 course, it is! What has she done to make you think 
 you have a chance with her?" She caught hold of 
 his arm and turned him to her. 
 
 "Nothing," he sneered; "but I suspect it works 
 both ways — this benign social law with its talk. 
 It won't let us marry — because we're poor. Well, 
 it won't let her alone, either — because she's rich. 
 This is Rosamond's fourth year of widowhood. 
 Gossip has its eye on her. She'll have to marry. 
 I am a kinsman — being a distant cousin of her de- 
 parted husband's. That gives me a more familiar 
 footing here. Gossip will naturally pick me out as 
 the most likely bridegroom. In other words, don't 
 let their miserable, superwise social code crush you, 
 but twist it round and use it to your own advantage." 
 
 The passion in her face seemed to blend all the 
 bitter emotions — scorn, jealousy, deep anger — ^with 
 a fierce resolve. 
 
 "I see," she answered presently, "I haven't any 
 illusions about you, Wilton. I had once, of course. 
 You're selfish. You don't really care what happens 
 to anybody but yourself. While this thing has 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 213 
 
 dragged on and you have put ofF making it an open 
 engagement, Fve hoped and suffered everything — 
 and you've let me. You know that we couldn't 
 walk along the river-path three times together with- 
 out all Roseborough chattering about it and wonder- 
 ing whether you would marry me — and then sneering 
 at me because there was no announcement. You do 
 care for me — more than you can ever care for any 
 one but yourself. I'm not afraid of poverty — or 
 work. Merely ornamental you called me! I do 
 everything at Aunt Emma's — excepting the roughest 
 work. I wouldn't mind if she'd be fair enough to 
 say that I am not living on her charity, but that I 
 earn what she gives me. Don't you suppose I could 
 drudge for you and myself as I do for her and Co- 
 rinne.^ And I'd have my own home — even if it was 
 only two rooms, and not be slighted and treated con- 
 temptuously as a poor hanger-on." A hard, dry 
 sob shook her. "I wont go back to that awful Hfe 
 with aunt — ^without you — without any hope. You 
 can't be so cruel to me." 
 
 Howard winced. He had natural feeling enough 
 to be ashamed of himself; and his emotion for her was 
 stirred by her intensity. 
 
 " Mabel, dear, need you say all this .? You know I 
 love you. You have said so. But — it's hopeless. 
 I haven't enough to keep us even in the poorest com- 
 fort. We've got to end it." 
 
214 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMONDT 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Don't delude yourself. I will not be given up. 
 You came and sought me and paid me atten- 
 tions. You let me think you meant to marry me. 
 And I've let you kiss me. I suppose that doesn't 
 mean anything to a man. But it does to a girl. 
 I kissed you as the man I was going to belong to. 
 I'd feel degraded if I could change. No, Wilton. 
 You have brought something into power in me that 
 you will have to reckon with. It controls me ut- 
 terly; and I mean that it shall govern you, too. 
 You shall never marry Rosamond or any one but me. 
 I will stop it somehow. I'll give Aunt Emma some- 
 thing worth while to talk about!" 
 
 "Hush! Don't talk so wildly. If there were 
 really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, don't 
 you suppose I'd rather set off with you to find it?'* 
 
 He took her into his arms suddenly. She yielded 
 to his embrace, as if it soothed the wound he had 
 dealt her love and her faith. 
 
 "Oh, Mabel, I've ceased to feel responsibility 
 about anything. I'm simply a product of this 
 bloodless, stagnant little village. Conditions rule 
 individuals. Accept the facts, dear, and be wise." 
 
 She put her arms round his neck. If her resolu- 
 tion did not falter, tenderness overflowed it for the 
 moment. She recognized that what he said of him- 
 self was true — "the product of a bloodless, stagnant 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 215 
 
 village." She thought that he did not love her less 
 than she loved him, but that he believed that the 
 Roseborough which had shaped him must conquer 
 him; whereas, she, of more rebellious clay, had thrown 
 down the gauntlet to Roseborough. They clung to 
 each other recklessly, then tore apart, because they 
 heard Rosamond's voice in the garden and the doc- 
 tor's answering. 
 
 Regaining a show of composure, they went 
 into the dining room. The doctor — entering with 
 Rosamond and Frei — was induced by his hostess's 
 urging to risk his digestion with "one small sand- 
 wich and a thimbleful of wine." 
 
 Frei was humming, with a bland and childlike 
 look on his face. He picked up his violin from the 
 desk where he had laid it and put it into its case. 
 
 "Will you not sup, too.f"' she asked him. 
 
 "No, I thank you." He came toward her. "My 
 body needs no salads, for my soul is satisfied. I have 
 found a place where there is no criticism; where the 
 memorial fountains of kindness are unsealed — and the 
 waters do arrive. Here, in Roseborough — *here, 
 where all hearts are tender and sincere' — surely I 
 shall find at last a beautiful woman to love me for 
 myself alone." 
 
 "Why not?" she said kindly. "It is given to 
 every man . . .' 
 
 She stopped in quoting what she, herself, had said 
 
2i6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 to him in the orchard, because of the change in his 
 face. He strode forward and gazed intently into 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Ach!" he cried, as if she had now burst upon his 
 sight for the first time. ''You are beautiful!" He 
 seized hen hand. "Could you love me for myself 
 alone?" 
 
 "Oh — oh!" She was startled. "I think your 
 music would share in any love given to you," she 
 parried. 
 
 "That I permit. My music is me." 
 
 "Oh, yes; but — it is also Tschaikowsky, Beet- 
 hoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin . . ." 
 
 Instantly his head drooped and his face was over- 
 cast with gloom. 
 
 "True. I am nothing — but to play the tunes of 
 others." He sighed heavily. Then, recovering from 
 this humour, he drew himself up with a regal air. 
 "I will overlook your birth and station, because 
 you are beautiful and good. Here — here in Rose- 
 borough — ^with your devotion to console me; here — 
 in this peaceful village — is my journey's end. Later, 
 when you have won my confidence by your service- 
 able affection, I will reveal to you certain matters. 
 These may prevent our marriage " 
 
 (C 
 
 Er — oh — I mean aren't you a little precipi- 
 tate . . . ?" 
 
 He waved her to silence. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 217 
 
 "If our union be prevented, I shall still regard you 
 with a noble and platonic affection. And you will 
 be forever faithful and devoted to me." He was 
 obliged to conclude abruptly, for the other guests 
 came in from the supper room. 
 
 "Mercy!" Rosamond said, under her breath, and 
 removed herself from the impetuous musician's prox- 
 imity as quickly as possible. 
 
 "Well, we're off," the Judge announced. "Our 
 lovely ladies must not lose their beauty sleep. It 
 must be far along after nine." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby plucked at her hostess's sleeve. 
 
 "Now, are you sure there's to be no interesting 
 little item given out, to match that gown .? I find it 
 almost impossible to believe it was put on only for 
 us. Well," as she saw Rosamond frown, "keep 
 your secret." She was half way to the door, when 
 she turned back and said : "Oh, do — do let me leave 
 our Thomas. I can drive myself home. I feel so 
 alarmed about you. I can't endure the thought of 
 your being alone. I wonder you didn't tell me about 
 it. Blake told the toll-man and the toll-man told 
 Johnson, the butcher's boy. So it's publicly known 
 that you are alone in this house to-night!" She 
 was working herself up to a lively pitch, ignoring 
 attempts at interruption from the Judge, who had had 
 quite enough of her and her fears for one evening. 
 "I assure you that just now I saw ..." 
 
2i8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Mabel led the burst of laughter which put an end 
 to her discourse. It was useless to talk against such 
 a gale of hilarity. Rosamond caught the infection 
 and laughed as unrestrainedly as the rest. 
 
 "It is so good to laugh/' she said;/* I never miss 
 the opportunity. But please tell me what I am 
 laughing at." 
 
 Dr. Wells with little snickers, and glancing side- 
 wise at Mrs. Witherby to see how far he dared pro- 
 voke her — that he might go just one step further — 
 undertook to enlighten her. 
 
 "Te-he — our dear Mrs. Witherby saw a spotted 
 cannibal peering in at the window; te-he-he." 
 
 "'Twas — ah — Oolabaloo, the — ah — Matabele wild 
 man." The Judge was airily facetious. 
 
 "He wore a battle club and a wreath of daisies, 
 the evening being cool," Wilton Howard supple- 
 mented, whereupon every one roared again; except 
 Dr. Frei, whose foreign intellect did not adapt it- 
 self readily to Anglo-Saxon humour. He was re- 
 garding the infuriated lady with sympathy and 
 credence. 
 
 "But if she says she saw something . . ." he 
 protested in her behalf, only to draw forth another 
 peal of mirth. 
 
 He turned to Rosamond solicitously. "There is 
 danger to you?" 
 
 "Oh, no! none. Tramps never come to Rosebor- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 219 
 
 ough. Besides, I — I have a pistol — though IVe 
 never shot anything but bottles and rabbits, and 
 never expect to!" 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was not easily overborne at any 
 time, less than ever when she knew she was not in- 
 venting. 
 
 "I tell you, I saw distinctly . . ." She 
 took a few steps toward the verandah, in order to 
 point out the exact spot where the face had appeared. 
 It happened, unfortunately, that every one was look- 
 ing at her and laughing, instead of following the di- 
 rection of her pointing finger. Once again, hers were 
 the only eyes to see the swarthy face raised, this 
 time till the tip of its nose was level with the rail. She 
 screamed in long, piercing wails. The face withdrew. 
 
 "There! — there! — again! — I saw . . . !" 
 
 Every one laughed again except Frei. Mrs. 
 Mearely, forgetful of her acquired deportment, put 
 her hands on her hips and swayed with the ripples of 
 her joy. Dr. Wells doubled up and choked, till the 
 Judge was obliged to pat him on the back with a hand 
 weak from his own mirth. The farewells were lost 
 in the echoes of laughter. 
 
 "You think you really saw something?" Frei 
 asked, as he offered his arm to Mrs. Witherby, who 
 was trembhng from alarm and insult. 
 
 "I shall notify the authorities. I am quite posi- 
 tive I saw him — absolutely positive!'' 
 
220 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 ** Don't let mamma frighten you, Dr. Frei. 
 Wait till you know her as well as I do ! '' Corinne sup- 
 pressed her giggles long enough to kiss her hostess 
 good-night. She ran out after her mother. 
 
 "Coming, Howard ?" asked Wells over his shoulder. 
 
 "ril catch up with you at the foot of the hill. I 
 think ril satisfy myself that my cousin's bolts and 
 bars are all in working order." 
 
 "Te-he — our poor, dear Mrs. Witherby — such 
 imagination!" The doctor waved his hand, smiling, 
 and went out. 
 
 "Good-night, Mrs. Mearely." 
 
 Rosamond had gone to the verandah rail to wave 
 her guests down the hill. She was slightly startled 
 to come upon Miss Crewe standing in the shadow, 
 and evidently watching Howard. 
 
 "Good-night," she said. "I hear your aunt call- 
 ing you." She was aware of a sombre flash from 
 Mabel's dark eyes; then the slender figure moved 
 oflF with leisurely pace and the bearing of a princess — 
 at least, so Rosamond, in her own mind, described 
 Miss Crewe's walk. One by one, the carts and bug- 
 gies started round the gravel drive to the hill-road. 
 As they passed just under the jut where the house 
 stood, Mrs. Mearely leaned over the rail and called 
 her good-nights. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SHE loitered on the step, even after the sound of 
 wheels grew dim. Her eyes feasted on the 
 golden river and her ears caught the pleasant notes of 
 insects and night birds; but her mind was alert and 
 practical to the moment. Out of the corner of her 
 eye she could see Howard, standing by the chimney- 
 piece and leaning upon it in a handsome and famihar 
 attitude. He could not have looked more at home if 
 he had owned the house. A sense of anger stirred in 
 her. 
 
 "If he were old I could understand it. Old men 
 naturally want a snug home to die in!" Then, as 
 was habitual with her, amusement took the place of 
 indignation. "To-morrow Til hang a crape bow and 
 streamers between my shoulder-blades and go my 
 way in lonesome peace." 
 
 Thinking that she might as well have it over with, 
 she went indoors slowly. She looked quizzically at 
 Howard as she said, with pointed emphasis on the 
 degree of relationship : 
 
 "Well, Mr. Fifth-Cousin-by-Marriage, what is 
 this legend about my bolts and bars.f* I shall leave 
 my windows open as usual, I suppose." 
 
 221 
 
222 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Oh! that was an excuse, of course — and a thin 
 one. Dear Rosamond, I wonder if you have any 
 idea why I have lingered ?" 
 
 His assumption of tenderness did not please her. 
 She sank into the big chair by the settee, making her- 
 self comfortable with cushions and footstool. If she 
 must hear another proposal of marriage that day, 
 she would at least hear it at her ease. 
 
 "Fve seen it taking shape, but I did hope you 
 wouldn't," she said shortly. 
 
 "Wouldn't what.?" in surprise, for no indication 
 of her humour had reached him. 
 
 "Propose. That is what you are about to do, 
 isn't it.?" She let him see that she felt a maHcious 
 enjoyment in his embarrassment. 
 
 Howard had been totally unprepared for her sally 
 and he resented being made to look foolish; but, 
 after the first hesitation, he decided to go on, accord- 
 ing to his plan. Rosamond must marry; if she did 
 not know that she must marry, he would soon con- 
 vince her that a prolonged and colourful widowhood, 
 with honour, could not be her portion in Rosebor- 
 ough. She must marry, and where could she find a 
 more suitable husband than himself? (Like Judge 
 GifFen and Mr. Albert Andrews, he also consid- 
 ered himself her inevitable choice.) 
 
 "Perhaps I ought hardly to go so far without 
 more preparation; but — er — Rosamond, jealousy 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 22s 
 
 of your friendship with the musical newcomer to 
 Roseborough has made me seem precipitate. But 
 I have desired to say all this to you for a long 
 time." 
 
 He was young, magnetic, and of her own race, and 
 suddenly her longing for comradeship went out to 
 him. 
 
 "Oh, Wilton," she almost pleaded, "I don't want 
 to marry you. I won't say that I never mean to 
 marry, because some one might come. Yet, if he were 
 interesting enough to love, why would he ever come 
 to Roseborough .f* No, I couldn't love Dr. Frei. 
 But I wish I could marry the song of his fiddle and be 
 blown off on the wind with my bridegroom a thou- 
 sand leagues from here." 
 
 **My dear girl, have you not lived happily here, 
 where you are beloved by all?" 
 
 She made a wry face. 
 
 "Can't even you understand me a little? You're 
 young.'* 
 
 "I wish to understand you, above everything." 
 
 "Can't you guess what it's been like, underneath 
 the — the — velvet surface ? When I was a poor young 
 girl in Poplars Vale I longed for a finished education 
 and a high station. Hibbert Mearely was fifty-three 
 when my ingenuous countenance met his collector's 
 eye. He put me here — as a living ornament — 
 among his paintings and his books and antiques where 
 
224 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 everything is old and stable and has a set value. 
 Look at the chairs; when you sit down, you feel you 
 are settled there for life — and will not move again 
 till some one carries you to the churchyard. I came 
 here so proudly — to be the wife of such a fine, dis- 
 tinguished gentleman. I thought it would be a 
 wonderful life — ^with all this, " she waved her hands 
 to indicate the furnishings of Mr. Mearely's museum. 
 **But it wasn't. It was dreadful. In its heart, 
 Roseborough still regards me as an alien and an 
 upstart. My mother once sold butter. They re- 
 member that. They are waiting for a chance to 
 rub it in. Now that my crape is two years behind 
 me, the three or four bachelors and the five widow- 
 ers are eager to pounce on me with marriage. And 
 all the women are ready to destroy me with gossip." 
 
 She ceased abruptly, holding out her hands to him 
 with a plea for help, for friendship and an open door 
 of escape that should not bear the sign "Matri- 
 mony" on the centre panel. Howard took her 
 hands and bent over them, giving her the benefit, 
 too, of his magnetic and confident smile. He saw 
 in her appeal exactly the opportunity he needed. 
 
 "That, partly, is what hastens my oflPer. Gossip 
 is inevitable. Why not forestall it.? As a matter 
 of fact, a young woman cannot remain alone — 
 more especially if she is a widow, and beautiful." 
 He kissed her hand. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 225 
 
 "And rich," she said dryly — as if completing his 
 sentence for him — and withdrew her hand. 
 
 "I — er — I hope you do not do me that injus- 
 tice." He spoke with hurt dignity. 
 
 "Oh, certainly not," she answered flippantly. 
 "That is always understood in offers of this kind." 
 
 Howard was becoming angry He told himself 
 that he had not given up Mabel, whom he loved, and 
 done the butter-maker's daughter the honour to 
 offer her himself in marriage, in order to let her in- 
 sult him as the mood swayed her. He spoke calmly 
 but with the accents of a superior. 
 
 "You are cynical, my dear. Are you worldly- 
 wise enough to realize that Roseborough will make 
 you marry?" 
 
 She walked away from him across the room. 
 
 "Yes, I know it. One Hnk after another in the 
 chain about me till Fm crushed flat," desperately—^ 
 "and oXd^old!" A sob escaped her. She picked 
 up the pack of cards and tossed them loose over the 
 table, as if her last chance of happiness were proved 
 no more than bits of pasteboard and she had cast it 
 from her as worthless. Wilton, thinking her agita- 
 tion in his favour, went to her. 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, eyeing him resentfully, "it 
 might as well be you as any one." 
 
 "Might it not better be I than any one?" he de- 
 manded, capturing her hand again. 
 
226 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," she replied, considering it 
 impersonally. "You're young." 
 
 "Then it is *yes'.?" ardently. 
 
 She pulled her hand away and came out of her 
 abstraction. 
 
 "Good gracious, no!" bluntly. "Not so fast, 
 cousin. I am much too sleepy to decide anything 
 so important to-night. Besides, to-night I am in 
 love with the song of the fiddle. And you are not 
 that song!" She sighed. 
 
 "A much more substantial lover," he answered 
 laughingly. 
 
 "Stupid thing!" she thought. "I suppose you 
 think your 'substantial* person has more power to 
 stir me than the echoes of Tschaikowsky!" 
 
 "And when.?" he began. 
 
 "Do say good-night, like a good fellow. I am so 
 tired. I want to go to bed at once — and sleep for- 
 ever." She walked out to the verandah, compelHng 
 him to follow. "I'll think you over." 
 
 "I hope you'll think kindly," he said, with a soft- 
 ness in his voice and his eyes that he had not shown 
 her before. But Mabel could have told her how one 
 woman, at least, yearned to him because of that 
 note in his gamut, for which he deserved as little 
 credit as for the shape of his nose. 
 
 "Oh, Wilton! I am so — so tired!" Her lip quiv- 
 ered. "Nothing but this same narrow little life, 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 227 
 
 over and over — daily — yearly! Oh! Look at the 
 river, running away so swiftly and freely; it is the 
 only thing that ever came to Roseborough and got 
 away again! Every time I look at it, I think it is 
 laughing at me. It laughed at me down there in 
 Poplars Vale. It mocks me more cruelly here, with 
 its swift journeying to — somewhere.'' 
 
 Turning to him, in her irrepressible longing for 
 sympathy, she saw that he did not understand her 
 in the least, but was studying how he might best 
 impress her by a loverlike pose. 
 
 " ril think you over," she promised airily. " Good- 
 night. Go, before I fall asleep at your feet," she 
 added, with the rather cruel intimation that there 
 was nothing about his wooing which could conquer 
 her boredom. By a quick, vigorous handshake she 
 prevented him from kissing her fingers again. She 
 caught up his cap and gloves from the settle and 
 pressed them into his arms. He went out, smiling; 
 for he beHeved this haste to be rid of him was in 
 reality a tribute to his irresistible powers of fascina- 
 tion. 
 
 ** Good-night, dear Rosamond. Good-night. 
 
 Sleep soundly," he called from below the wall, as 
 his dog-cart went by. 
 
 Rosamond made no reply. She stood by the rail, 
 looking at the ** velvety star-veined night" and the 
 river. The noise of wheels died down; the only 
 
228 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 sound was the chirring of crickets. She turned off 
 the verandah Hght. She came into the room and 
 went about, methodically putting out all the individ- 
 ual lamps but one. This she left on for a purpose, 
 it appeared; because, presently, she found a little 
 leather-bound book on the flower-stand by the 
 fireplace, and slid up into a corner of the settee with 
 it. In settling herself she almost knocked a paper 
 off the arm-piece. 
 
 "Dear me,'' she said aloud. "The Judge's sacred 
 Digest ! How could he have forgotten it .? I suppose 
 Mrs. Witherby's hysterics must have put it out of 
 his head." 
 
 She glanced at it idly and her eye was caught by 
 the first column. 
 
 "Corinne's runaway prince!" She smiled, and 
 began to read. When she had perused the story she 
 laid the Digest aside, musing on the Royal Highness 
 whose heart was so oddly in tune with her own. 
 
 "Eccentric — romantic — artistic," she repeated. 
 " Fond of wandering about incognito — and entering 
 humble dwellings — and making friends. Making 
 friends." She dwelt wistfully on the last words. 
 
 The little copy of Browning opened naturally at 
 the place she sought; and she need not have opened 
 it at all, for she knew by heart the lines she loved. 
 This, it may be pointed out, was not her late master's 
 "first edition," autographed by Princess Victoria 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 229 
 
 for sale at the Indian Famine Relief Bazaar. She 
 had bought this copy for herself and loved it for its 
 contents, not for its binding nor for a scrawl on its 
 fly-leaf. Softly, she said the lines: 
 
 "* While not a man of them broke rank and spoke, 
 Or wrote me a vulgar letter all of love, 
 Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand. 
 There have been moments if the sentinel, 
 Lowering his halbert to salute the queen, 
 Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees, 
 I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul.'" 
 
 She laid the book on the stand and sat quite still 
 and silent for some time, then she murmured : 
 
 "We're all alike, the queen and I, Corinne and her 
 runaway prince. I wonder if all the world is long- 
 ing just for — something different.?" 
 
 The large room was almost dark; its only light 
 came from the one Httle lamp on the mantel, which 
 cast its dim halo upon her, and from the open door 
 of the music room. Outside, the moon, the stars, 
 and the river shed their mystic radiance over and 
 through the slumbering valley. 
 
 "If there could only have been one word from 
 some one — one note out of the earth or the sky — to 
 promise me something . . ." 
 
 Clear, mellow, and resonant, one note rang out 
 from the tower and rolled like an invisible golden 
 wheel up the hills and down the valley. 
 
230 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 Rosamond sat up, straining her ears. 
 
 **The tower bell!" she whispered. "It rang! — 
 once! And it never rings after six!'' 
 
 The sound was not repeated, and, after a time, she 
 began to ask herself if perhaps she had not nodded 
 for a second and dreamed that she heard the bell. 
 She rose and went into the dining room to turn off 
 the lights. Then she put out the little lamp on the 
 chimney-piece and passed into the music room where 
 she busied herself in replacing the Tschaikowsky 
 album in the music rack and in closing the piano. 
 The last duty here was to turn out the tall stand- 
 lamp. 
 
 "I wonder did I dream that bell.?" she queried, as 
 she came back to the living room. 
 
 If she had not been wondering so absorbedly about 
 the bell, she might have heard another and slighter 
 noise much closer at hand. That noise was the 
 sound of a light-footed creature terminating a leap 
 in the centre of her verandah. Just prior to that 
 sound, a man's figure had been silhouetted against 
 the moonlit sky, as he climbed nimbly and stood an 
 instant on the railing. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 WHEN Rosamond stepped over the threshold 
 she was conscious of motion in the Hving room. 
 She stood still and strained her eyes into the dusk 
 of the room. She saw a figure emerge from the 
 shadows and, feeling its way about, arrive at the 
 table behind the settee which supported one of Mr. 
 Hibbert Mearely's genuine antiques — a bronze vase. 
 
 "Ah! What's this.?" he muttered, as his fingers 
 felt about its design. 
 
 Rosamond knew now that the impossible had oc- 
 curred: a burglar had come to Roseborough. Her 
 knees evinced a tendency to fold up and let her shak- 
 ing body find support upon the floor; but her soul 
 was not a coward. She held her breath and tiptoed 
 to the desk. Noiselessly, she pulled out the drawer 
 and closed her clammy fingers about the pistol. 
 The dining room and quarters beyond provided the 
 best channels of escape, if she must flee, so she crept 
 across the room behind the marauder, just as he 
 moved toward the chimney-piece, where the Louis 
 XV snufF-boxes were set all in a row and ticketed. 
 
 "Stop! — stop!" She quavered sternly, pointing 
 the pistol at him. 
 
 231 
 
232 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 He wheeled sharply and exclaimed in surprise: 
 
 **0h! Are you up? er— I beg . . ." 
 
 "''Who are you?" she demanded, with an access of 
 courage due to the fact that he had not immediately 
 murdered her. She recalled that, in books, one 
 always firmly and at once asked a masked assassin 
 or highwayman to disclose his identity. 
 
 "Ah!" said he, **that is what I was about to ask 
 you." 
 
 ''Who — are — you?'* She wondered if that high, 
 wavering voice was hers. 
 
 A sound came from him which she could not asso- 
 ciate with any emotion of fear or shame, proper to a 
 burglarious tramp caught in the act. He removed 
 his hat with a sweep, and bowed. 
 
 ** Madam, I am a bird of the air, seeking my meat 
 from God." 
 
 Noting his accent, which was that of an educated 
 man, Mrs. Mearely's alarm decreased, but she did 
 not relax vigilance. 
 
 'That is poetic, but vague. Who are you, and 
 what are you doing here ? " 
 
 "My biography, in short. Briefly, then, I am a 
 poet out of a job. Second stanza, I entered your 
 home in the hope of finding food. Refrain, I am a 
 hungry, hungry, hungry man." 
 
 This, she thought, was obviously insincere and 
 merited rebuke. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 233 
 
 **I do not believe you!" 
 
 **Well, perhaps not/' cheerfully. "Neverthe- 
 less I am hungry. I always prefer to tell the truth, 
 irrespective of people's beliefs. Allow rne to turn 
 on the light." 
 
 " Don't move! Stay where you are." She waved 
 the pistol at him, as she saw his hand reach to the 
 mantel. 
 
 "I don't need to move. The globe is here. Allow 
 me." He turned on the light. In its soft small gleam 
 they regarded each other, and for the first few mo- 
 ments had nothing to say. 
 
 Rosamond saw a man who was presumably in his 
 "middle thirties" — a strong, well-built man, with 
 breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, and with 
 face and hands tanned by years of turning them, un- 
 protected, toward all weathers. He had no beard 
 or moustache. His face was lean, and broad at the 
 brow and chin; his eyes large, deep-set, and dark; 
 and his mouth wide-^with firmness, humour, and 
 sympathy in the lines about it. His hat was a large 
 battered felt, of weather-stained hue, trimmed with 
 a long, slender feather, dropped on the fields by a 
 pheasant and appropriated by this tramp who had 
 an eye for ornamentation. He wore in his belt a 
 spray of pine, with small cones forming on it. His 
 clothes were brown, rough, and spattered with burrs. 
 The coat — a loose thing, held in by a dark, carved 
 
234 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 leather belt, must have had half a dozen deep pockets 
 in it. His trouser-legs were rolled up and it was 
 evident that his thick socks and his boots were wet 
 through. His black hair gleamed about his forehead, 
 suggesting that he had had his head, as well as his 
 feet, in the brooks that coursed the fields to spill their 
 crystal into the river. The light was behind him, 
 and she could not see whether his physiognomy bore 
 the marks of a life of crime, as his raiment bore the 
 marks of his profession — a gentleman of the road. 
 Though his speech was peculiar, she noticed, grate- 
 fully, that it was clear. While the double pockets on 
 both sides of his coat bulged, their irregular con- 
 vexity, she saw, was not due to bottles. 
 
 In the matter of view, he had the advantage; 
 for the globe sent its rays directly upon her, 
 and she bloomed out of the shadows like some leg- 
 endary princess arriving from the Kingdom of No- 
 where on a shaft of light, wrapped in the silver 
 radiance of the moon and the petals of a rose. 
 
 "Why, you are young!'' he said at last, in a low 
 tone of such charmed wonder as a wet and burr- 
 bedecked vagabond might naturally feel at the appa- 
 rition of a fairy princess. "Only a girl. From your 
 voice, so sweet and cold and prim, I judged you to be 
 as old as — as my heart." 
 
 She was unprepared for this mode of address and 
 did not know how to answer it; but she kept promi- 
 
" Rosamond saw a man who was presumably in his 'middle 
 thirties' — a strong, well-built man. with face and hands tanned 
 by years of turning them, unprotected, toward all weathers ** 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 235 
 
 nently in her mind the rules for deaHng with bandits, 
 as she had gathered them from her reading, namely, 
 to avoid angering them unduly, and never to show 
 fear. She waggled the pistol at him and said with 
 dignity : 
 
 "You see I am not afraid of you." 
 
 She saw that he smiled. 
 
 "Are you not? H'm — I am afraid of you." He 
 looked about him for some time before he spoke 
 again, then said, "Since I have answered your 
 questions so satisfactorily, will you reciprocate by 
 telling what relation you are to this house?" 
 
 "I own it." 
 
 He stared about again before answering. 
 
 " Do you ? Do you indeed ? That is very pecuHar. 
 Now, if you had said you owned a corner in heaven, 
 or a bit of fairyland, I should have said : * Naturally. 
 I believe you.' But when * a rare and radiant maiden' 
 appears by magic at midnight, in the midst of — of — 
 er — the village museum, and says *I own it' — ^well, 
 you won't think me impolite, I hope, if I say you are 
 mistaken?" 
 
 "This is not the 'village museum ' ! It is my home, 
 and I own it all myself." She spoke heatedly, be- 
 cause the museum character of Villa Rose was se- 
 cretly a sore subject with her. 
 
 "How interesting. Won't you be seated? No? 
 As you please. No doubt you feel safer standing — 
 
236 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 with three doors to escape by. And I dare say if I 
 said *booh!' you'd try to dash through all three of 
 'em at once." He walked about slowly, taking 
 different views of the museum's contents. "Some 
 very good things — and some . . . not " he 
 murmured. 
 
 "You — you must understand that I — I do not 
 wish to shoot you unless it is quite necessary," she 
 stammered. "But if it is necessary, I — I do know 
 how to shoot. I — I am not helpless." She drew 
 herself up and straightened her pistol arm. "I have 
 killed — rabbits!" 
 
 "Have you.f"' He chuckled. "Call me Bunny, 
 but, oh, do not shoot!" At that moment his gaze 
 fell upon the landscape hanging over the desk. 
 "Ah!" he cried, "a Turner— a real Turner!" He 
 strode forward to get a better look at it. His 
 movement brought him close to Rosamond, and, 
 suspecting attack, she thrust her weapon at him 
 with a violent gesture. He threw his hands up over 
 his head but continued to enjoy the picture. 
 
 "A beautiful thing. A poem in colour. Turner 
 is the poet's painter. He not only saw Nature, he 
 listened to her and communed with her, as a poet; 
 then he translated what he heard through colour. 
 Can't you hear the scarlet trumpets blowing across 
 that sunset?" In speaking he moved back and side- 
 wise, trying different angles of vision, still dutifully 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 237 
 
 keeping his hands up. Presently he turned to her. 
 The Hght was on his face and she saw how warm 
 and merry his smile was. "That is the only real 
 beauty after all — the beauty of truth. Dear lady, 
 I am sorry I alarm you so. Just see how thoroughly 
 at home / feel:" 
 
 "I am not alarmed," she protested. 
 
 "It is only terror that is evil enough — or mad 
 enough — to point death at a brother human." 
 
 He put his hand over the pistol, looked into her 
 face, smiling whimsically, then coolly took the pistol 
 from her and tossed it on the table. 
 
 "You — you are the strangest tramp I ever saw," 
 she gasped. 
 
 " Tramp .f* Oh! Am I.^ Then look well at me — 
 that noble and pathetic figure, the tramp! Madam, 
 the rich world you live in occasionally produces a 
 man like me, but it soon casts him out!" He sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 Like most persons who have been lifted above their 
 original station in life, Mrs. Mearely thought others 
 should keep to theirs. So she said, with a degree 
 of pride: 
 
 "What do you know of the world I live in.?" 
 
 " Lady," he whined, " FlI tell you my secret. Once 
 I, too, was respectable; but I have lived it down." 
 He sat down on the arm of an old mahogany chair, 
 as casually as if it were a stump by the woodside, 
 
238 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 and picked burrs from his stockings. Evidently 
 they had pricked him as his ankles swung together. 
 
 "Why did you leave my world — if, indeed, you 
 were ever in it ? " 
 
 "My biography, revised edition. I left your world 
 because I had no affinity with it. I was born to be a 
 poet. I found, however, that society felt no need 
 of me and my verses. Society does not need poets. 
 Society's great need is chauffeurs! And I could 
 never stomach the smell of gasolene." 
 
 "But, even so, need you have become a tramp— 
 an outcast? A — a vagabond who enters houses at 
 night for food.? Frightening people!" Her indig- 
 nation rose. "Why don't you work?'' 
 
 He looked at her keenly, pointing at her with the 
 burr he had just caught between forefinger and 
 thumb. 
 
 "Madam, do you work? Is this house — that 
 gown — a charming gown, too — the result of your 
 labour?" 
 
 "No," she admitted; and, after a brief pause, 
 answering the unworded question she felt those keen 
 eyes were asking, she added: "I married for this 
 house and this gown." 
 
 "Ah! then you, too, do cowardly things. You 
 dared not face life without wealth, so you sold 
 yourself at so much per inch of beauty. Dear lady, 
 you are a parasite — and selfish, withal! What right 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 239 
 
 have you, who married for food, to blame me for 
 taking food without the preHminary of a church 
 ceremony?" 
 
 Rosamond's tone was plaintive and offended. 
 
 " You say very unpleasant things. You make very 
 severe criticisms. You have no right to enter my 
 house in the middle of the night and criticise.'' 
 
 He made a gesture of alarm, and laughed. 
 
 "No, no! Heaven forbid! I make no more 
 criticisms. I've suffered too much from my critical 
 tongue. Do you know there are places where they 
 put critics in prison.?" 
 
 **You said you came for food. Did you find it.?" 
 
 "Not yet," hopefully. "Occasionally, in my 
 wanderings, I have lived on the back porches of the 
 charitable in the great cities. Also I have dined 
 with princes — at great cost!" He smothered a 
 laugh. 
 
 There was a silence; then she asked, a little wist- 
 fully: 
 
 "Who are you.?" 
 
 He leaned forward, smiling, frankly charmed by 
 her. 
 
 "I've told you. I am a bird of passage and I skim 
 over the cities, on my way to places where no cities 
 are. In passing, I stopped but an instant to sup 
 with you. Only an instant, for summer is fleeing, 
 and I must away with her." 
 
240 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "And whither are you and summer going?" 
 
 "With summer I turn my back on the crowded 
 marts of men. In the heart of a forest is a hut, built 
 over a stream that laughs and sings to me through 
 storm and sun. And there I live till the snows drive 
 me to the place of humans again. There I write 
 and dream — and dream and write — with none to 
 say me nay. Some day I shall buy that hut — so 
 that others may share my knowledge that it is 
 mine." 
 
 "And never have anything more than that.?" 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "What more does a man need.? See how your 
 world — ^with its gowns and houses you married for 
 — has deluded you. You have never found out that 
 it is not things vfhich make one's life rich and radiant." 
 
 She heard the tone of sympathy for which, it 
 seemed to her, she had waited a very long lifetime, 
 and her answer came with a little outburst of feel- 
 ing. 
 
 "I have found it out. My life is one long boredom. 
 In that respect it is not so different from the other 
 lives I see lived around me." 
 
 "Only other people deceive themselves more suc- 
 cessfully.?" 
 
 "Yes. How you understand !'' She smiled, and 
 made a movement of confidence toward him. "Is 
 it true that you are hungry.?" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 241 
 
 ''Very true." He rose and stood beside her, smil- 
 ing down into her upturned face. "Are you about 
 to offer the vagabond a few crumbs from the rich 
 man's table.?" 
 
 "The rich man is gone. But his goods remain; 
 and I can offer you the food that is necessary even 
 to a dreamer. Sit down. I will get it for you." 
 She went to the tall lamp behind the card table 
 and turned it on. 
 
 "The Lord bless ye, kind leddy. It's a good deed 
 ye are doin' this day." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "It's a fair exchange. You give me a new ex- 
 perience. I give you food." 
 
 "A rare experience to me, if not exactly a new 
 one," he retorted cheerily. "It will be very 
 wonderful to be waited on by you — to eat your supper 
 — surrounded by these — er — beautiful and priceless 
 — that is to say, high-priced — ohjets d'art/' 
 
 In following her toward the dining-room door, he 
 passed the bookcase with its central ornament, the 
 jade-and-gold Buddha. 
 
 "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed. " Here tV something!" 
 Catching it up he ran toward the nearest light with it, 
 and thereby re-awakened Rosamond's fears. She 
 flew for her weapon. He put the Buddha back in its 
 place and came to her. 
 
 "And still you fear and doubt," he chided. "Well, 
 
242 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 take your little gun, since you believe that your 
 goods are safe only when you have death in your 
 hand." 
 
 "I can't help it!" She looked at him, ashamed, 
 pathetic, defiant. 
 
 "Too bad — too bad." His eyes twinkled. 
 
 The colour flamed to her brow. Her eyes wavered 
 from his. With a sudden, reckless motion, she tossed 
 the little weapon on the table toward him. 
 
 "There! And I don't know who you are!" 
 
 Smiling, with open dehght in her, he reached for 
 the pistol, drew the charges, and dropped them into 
 a vase on the bookcase. 
 
 "Much safer on the whole; don't you think so, 
 child ? " 
 
 "Oh!" she cried passionately. "You make me 
 feel like — like — so foolish!" Avoiding his merry 
 eyes, she dashed into the dining room. 
 
 "It's extraordinary," he muttered, moving about 
 the room. "It should be the house. But, of course, 
 it can't be. And where did she come from — the 
 little lady curator of the museum.?" 
 
 He was hampered in his investigations by his 
 hostess. She was in and out with table-cloth, nap- 
 kins, trays of bread and butter, sandwiches, salad, 
 and whatever she felt would appease a hungry, 
 though refined, tramp's appetite. At one turn in 
 his peregrinations about the apartment he arrived 
 
''GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMOND!'' 243 
 
 at the flower-stand behind the settee, and saw the 
 small volume lying there. 
 
 "What, Browning?" he exclaimed. "Does she 
 read him? or does he only ornament her tal)le?" 
 He opened it at the flyleaf. "*From Rosamond 
 Mearely to herself.' How delicious!" He explored 
 further, unaware that the owner of the book was 
 watching him and straining her ears to hear his self- 
 communings. "Yes, she reads him, and marks her 
 
 favourite passages like a girl in her teens . What's 
 
 this?" 
 
 There is no good of life but love — but love. 
 Never you cheat yourself one instant! Love, 
 Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest. 
 
 "Ah ha! 'Never you cheat yourself.' With 
 her little pencil she underscores the line, and so 
 confesses to any one who opens the book that she 
 cheated herself when she married Mr. Money-Bags 
 Mearely." He looked for more self-revelations, 
 and found the passage she had said aloud to herself, 
 there, just before the one bell-note had rolled through 
 the valley. 
 
 There have been moments if the Sentinel, 
 
 Lowering his halbert to salute the queen, 
 
 Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees, 
 
 I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul. 
 
244 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Who could have comprehended? 
 Why no one — but this one who did. 
 even now perhaps it comes too late. 
 
 "Oh, Rosamond Mearely! Oh, merely Rosa- 
 mond! * Who could have comprehended.?'" 
 
 He laid the book down, saying her name softly to 
 himself. 
 
 "It — it's all ready,'' she called, timidly, hoping 
 that her blush would not be noticed. She did not 
 wish even so charming a vagabond as this midnight 
 visitor to see how his reading of her favourite pass- 
 ages had stirred her. In her own heart, she always 
 held that it was the queen of Villa Rose and not the 
 queen of Browning's "In a Balcony," who had first 
 uttered those lines. 
 
 "The vagabond thanks Mrs. Mearely profoundly 
 for her kindness. You see I have discovered your 
 name among the treasures of this room." He helped 
 her take the dishes off the tray and arrange them on 
 the table. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely accepts no thanks for pleasing 
 herself," she replied, colouring again and refusing 
 to let her eyes meet his, lest he should look through 
 them into her mind and find confirmation of what 
 the pencil marks in the book had told him. She 
 pointed to a chair. "Eat, Vagabond!" 
 
 "Will you not share the beggar's crust?" whimsi- 
 cally. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 245 
 
 "It does make me feel hungry." 
 
 "Good! Sit, then, and Til serve you: for, mind 
 you, you are only a guest at this wayside meal. I 
 see just one slice of bread and butter I think I can 
 spare." 
 
 "Oh, stingy!" she cried. A happy little laugh 
 bubbled from her as she slipped into a chair at his 
 side. He helped her; then, proving his earlier asser- 
 tions, fell to with a will. 
 
 "Not stingy," he mumbled, through bread and 
 butter. "But you have already eaten three big, 
 fat meals to-day." 
 
 "I haven't!" she protested. This was a most 
 unfair charge. He went on: 
 
 "Eating now is a mere — a Mearely — ^woman's 
 whim with you. You want this supper just because 
 it is mine!" He attacked the salad, hungrily. 
 
 " Well ! / gave it to you, didn't I ? " she demanded 
 indignantly. 
 
 "And now, womanlike, you want to take it back. 
 Never! — while I have teeth!" — biting into the sand- 
 wich he had been waving to emphasize his remarks. 
 "Don't plume yourself on your charity, either, dear 
 young Baroness of Castle de Junk " 
 
 "Oh!" she scolded. 
 
 "Because you know you had to give me something 
 to keep me from robbing the museum." 
 
 "It's not a museum!" She stamped her foot. 
 
246 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 He laughed. They supped in silence for several 
 
 minutes. 
 
 You know," he said, as he held his cup for coffee, 
 "after all, there is a certain satisfaction in food. 
 Nothing else gives one quite the same feeling of 
 completeness." She nodded. "By the way, you 
 can probably tell me if this is the only little hillside 
 town like this in the neighbourhood with houses like 
 this. Even a tramp sometimes Hkes to know where 
 he is — on a dark night." 
 
 "There are the two towns, Roseborough and 
 Poplars Vale. Roseborough is the older. Poplars 
 Vale used to be just a farm and a corner store. Now, 
 you see, it is quite a place. Almost like Roseborough." 
 
 "Well, well; that accounts for it! Poplars Vale, 
 eh?" he muttered. "And I thought it was Rose- 
 borough." Busy with the coffee-pot she did not 
 hear him. He leaned toward her. "Are the two 
 towns comfortably close to each other?" 
 
 "What? Oh, yes. An hour's ride." 
 
 "Only an hour's separation? What a charming 
 arrangement," surveying her with pleasure as she 
 dropped two lumps into his cup. "What a queer 
 sugar-bowl?" he lifted it. "Sterling?" 
 
 "Oh — no — o. I suppose not." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Shame on you for a fibster! you are still a wee 
 mite afraid I may put it in my pocket. And what 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 247 
 
 would I do with a monstrous thmg like that — 
 all top-heavy with a row of little deformed cupids. 
 Tis cumbersome and unsightly — and quite useless. 
 It reminds me of a royal tea-service Fve seen — than 
 which nothing could be uglier. A white china bowl 
 would be prettier — and cleaner." He set it down. 
 "If I took it I would not do so ill as the thief, Ambi- 
 tion, who came into your house of life before me, 
 and robbed you of your faith and the ability to be 
 glad. Believe me, faith — ^joyous faith — is worth 
 more than many silver bowls — and deformed little 
 cupids," he smiled. 
 
 "True, perhaps," she said, thoughtfully. Sud- 
 denly she was stirred to resentment at life and at him 
 also; for his joyous, impudent freedom seemed to 
 make her feel her caged condition more 'than ever 
 before. She pushed her plate away, and rose. 
 "And yet — do you suppose I could have been robbed 
 of it if Fd ever possessed a glad faith ? It is not for 
 you t9 criticise me, is it \ " She spoke with a trace of 
 haughtiness. " Let us think no more of serious things. 
 Eating, drinking, comfort, and ease — there's my 
 definition of life. Vagabond. And it seems to agree 
 with yours." She pointed to his plate. He turned 
 on her suddenly. 
 
 "Why do you lie to me and to yourself?" 
 
 The severity in his tone startled her. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
248 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 He went on, more gently, but not inclined to spare 
 her a wholesome truth or two. 
 
 "How can you face life if you are insincere? And 
 that pitiful little air of authority — because, forsooth, 
 you still have the money you married for! Fie, for 
 shame! That is not your definition of life. Did I 
 not tell you that I am a poet.? Do you think a poet 
 means only a writer of rhymes.? The poet is one 
 who sees God walking wherever there is a foothold 
 of earth ! What is your poor little mask to me .? It 
 is shaped like a dollar-sign and I can see your eyes — 
 and nose — through it. Yes, and more: your heart. 
 And I tell you that your place is not here. Every 
 hour that you lurk here in the shadows, you cheat 
 yourself of life." 
 
 "Why do you say such things to me.?" She was 
 perturbed to the point of resistance. "You — a 
 vagabond — and outcast! This is my life." 
 
 "Why do you throw vagabond in my teeth, eh.?" 
 
 "From scorn!" 
 
 "From envy. You envy me because I have dared 
 to be a vagabond. I had my choice once — as you 
 had yours. I could have forsworn my liberty and 
 my poetry and — written the usual magazine trash. 
 Oh, yes, I had an * opening,' as they call it, into the 
 world of spurious literature. But, oh, how quickly 
 I shut up that opening! I could also have taught 
 nice young lads to say S'il vous plait, madame — or 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 249 
 
 La donna e mobile — and Nein, das will Ich nicht 
 machen ! Not me. I have been ridiculed, con- 
 demned. I have known poverty and hunger — and 
 despair. But let me tell you, when men cast me 
 out, God received me. Earth took me to her infinite 
 embrace. She has fed me even in her deserts. She 
 has sheltered me among her hills. She has made 
 me little brother to her rains and her winds. And my 
 despair — do you know what she has done to that? 
 She has taught me to make songs of it! And you — 
 poor coward — how you envy me!" 
 
 "Stop," she commanded, hotly. "How dare you 
 compare me with . . ." 
 
 "With a vagabond.'' Because you are like me. 
 Yes, you are! You hate the shams as I do. You 
 long for a real life, for a true love — ^just the emotions 
 and passions of common earth." 
 
 "Be silent." 
 
 He pursued his advantage relentlessly. 
 
 "Underneath that air of Madam Rich-and- 
 Haughty, you are as romantic as a schoolgirl, you 
 who think you are cold and shallow! You, who 
 . . . Are you crying .f*" She had dropped into 
 her nook of the settee, with her face hidden on her 
 arm. He went to her. 
 
 "I — I — oh, you are very cruel." 
 
 "Yes. It is torture, to really see oneself." She 
 resisted this, feebly. 
 
250 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Oh, no — Vm not like that. Why should you 
 think . . . ?" 
 
 "Because I have read your heart in a book." He 
 lifted the volume. "How you are longing for love — 
 for a common, warm, human love. If some man, 
 no matter who or what he was, came to you — if even 
 a vagabond were to forget 'the queen' and throw 
 himself boldly at your feet — you would * stoop and 
 kiss him with your soul.'" 
 
 She turned her face up to him, then hid her eyes 
 again from the look in his — a look, searching and 
 tender, that seemed to envelop her like a caress, and 
 to deny the trivialities of station and degree and the 
 opulent solidity of the Mearely house. It spoke from 
 the life in him to the life in her, with promise. He 
 leaned over, near her, but not touching her. "Who 
 could have comprehended V he whispered, wondering 
 at his own emotion for her, but accepting it with the 
 same faith and reverence with which he accepted 
 sunrise, the falling of a star, or the fragrance of the 
 beneficent pines. 
 
 She looked up again and no longer hid the need 
 she felt. 
 
 "Oh, don't — don't just trifle with me! You are 
 the only man who has ever understood : the only man 
 who has ever . . ." She could not go on, but 
 her eyes and quivering mouth mutely besought him 
 to say what she longed to hear. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 251 
 
 "Who has ever loved you?" 
 
 The tears filled her eyes again. 
 
 "Since you're only a — a vagabond, and I don't 
 know you — and you will go away like — like a make- 
 believe prince — it couldn't be very wrong for you 
 to say you love me — ^just once? I'll never have 
 anything real, so can't we just pretend?" 
 
 "Just pretend — you think? No. It couldn't be 
 very wrong for you to hear me say just once that I 
 love you. Only don't repent to-morrow that you 
 heard love to-night from the lips of a vagabond." 
 
 "Love will never come again," sadly. 
 
 "I tell you it will. The very same love will come 
 — not as a vagabond in the night, but a love that you 
 can accept." 
 
 "Will it really come again?" wistfully. 
 
 "Yes. Now — good-night and good-bye." 
 
 "Good-bye?" blankly. "You are going now? 
 Oh— where?" 
 
 He picked up his hat and smoothed its pheasant's 
 feather, while he smiled at her and said, mysteri- 
 ously: 
 
 "Who knows? On through the woods, over the 
 hills. Autumn is coming, and the vagabond takes 
 the road again." 
 
 She went to him and put her hand in his. So, 
 hand in hand, they walked toward the verandah. 
 
 "I shall never forget you." 
 
252 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 **That is good," he said. He stopped her as she 
 was stepping out on the verandah. "Wait. Go 
 back. There is too much Hght behind you. Who 
 knows what curious eyes may lurk in the darkness 
 below.?" He leaped back nimbly and turned off the 
 light from the tall lamp. Pointing to the valley 
 and the river flooded with moonlight, he said, "See 
 how my golden path winds before me. Now, I 
 leave you." With another nimble movement he 
 had climbed to the railing. 
 
 "Oh — not that way," she urged. 
 
 "It's a quick way. A leap, and I am in the road 
 below. Farewell, Rosamond Mearely. Till love 
 comes again, my merely Rosamond, say good-night, 
 and wish me well." 
 
 "Good-night! I — I do not know your name!" 
 
 "A vagabond has no name." he answered. He 
 bent and swiftly kissed the hand still trying to hold 
 him, unclasped its fingers, and jumped to the road. 
 
 "Good-bye, forever and ever, my vagabond." 
 Rosamond tried to call the words to him, but a sob 
 stopped them. 
 
 "Here!" "There!" "Get him!" Two rough 
 voices shouted from below, and there was the noise of 
 tramping feet. 
 
 "Nay, nay! Good-night to you!" the vagabond 
 called; his voice sounded as if he were running. 
 
 "Hey! he's oflF!" One of the rough voices roared. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 253 
 
 "Halt!" A shot snapped through the air, followed 
 quickly by another. 
 
 Rosamond stood motionless, stupefied by terror. 
 
 "I winged him," she heard the same voice say. 
 Then she threw off the spell in which fear had gripped 
 her and rushed out into the garden and down the 
 drive, calling wildly. Guns were as little known 
 in Roseborough as tramps. She had no idea what 
 she should find in the road, or who the men were who 
 had shot at her vagabond and perhaps killed him. 
 No thought of danger to herself crossed her mind. 
 She dashed on recklessly, crying: 
 
 "Vagabond! My vagabond! Answer me!" 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE first sound she heard was a horse's trotting 
 as some one rode away down the hill. There 
 was a jumble of interjections, groans, and arguments, 
 amid which she distinguished her vagabond's voice. 
 He was at least not slain! She sent up a swift 
 prayer of grateful joy, and called him again. He 
 replied with a guarded question. 
 
 "Who's calling?" 
 
 "I— I," she answered. "What is it.?" 
 
 "An accident. Nobody hurt." 
 
 Following the direction of his voice, she came upon 
 "him seated on a stone, with another man standing 
 beside him. He addressed her formally. 
 
 "Madam, do not be alarmed. There has been an 
 accident. This gentleman is a constable. He was — 
 er — under the impression that he ought to shoot me, 
 and did so without waiting for explanations." 
 
 "Oh, dear— oh . . ." 
 
 He interrupted again, as quickly as he could get his 
 breath. 
 
 "I presume the shots wakened you, or, if you were 
 not asleep, alarmed you. It was most charitable of 
 you to run to the assistance of the wounded." 
 
 254 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 255 
 
 "Wounded!" 
 
 "Slightly. One favour only — let me ask. May 
 we come in for a moment and find out the extent of 
 the damage .f* I am sure the officer will assist in 
 binding up the wounds he has made. We will 
 trouble you for only a few moments." 
 
 She understood that she was to moderate her 
 anxiety. Her vagabond did not mean to let their 
 former acquaintance be known to the village sleuth 
 who might gossip it about the valley. 
 
 "Can the constable carry you in.^" 
 
 "iVo, ma'am! nor hi wouldn't try it!" came out of 
 the night, with indignant emphasis and a cockney 
 accent as thick as the darkness. 
 
 "No need, officer. It's my shoulder that is hit. 
 If I may come in . . ." 
 
 "Hi might as well tell yer that, w'erever you go, 
 Hi goes with yer, as Ruth she says to Nay-homy in 
 the Scriptur'; cos w'y? Cos you're hunder arrest, 
 that's w'y." 
 
 "Thank you for the explanation. I might have 
 thought you were following me from sheer affection." 
 
 "Oh, don't jest!" Rosamond pleaded. "It may 
 be dreadfully serious. I will run in ahead and find 
 some linen to make bandages — and telephone for the 
 doctor." She ran up the road toward her gate, not 
 heeding his protests against the doctor. 
 
 Dr. Wells's office- and horse-boy, Peter, answered 
 
256 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 the telephone almost immediately. He slept in the 
 office downstairs for that purpose. Dr. Wells was 
 wont to say that while Peter never woke up, when the 
 bell rang, he always got up and took the name fairly 
 correctly, stumbled to his master's door and repeated 
 it, and then, after harnessing the horse, rolled back 
 to bed without knowing that he had been up. When 
 vagabond and constable entered Villa Rose, Peter 
 was even then rapping on the doctor's chamber door 
 and saying the name of "Mearely." 
 
 Rosamond scurried hither and thither producing 
 soft Hnen and lotions, safety pins and needle and 
 thread, cotton batting and smelHng salts, until the 
 end of the big table looked like a peep into a hospital. 
 To all protests she answered : 
 
 "Don't talk! Don't talk! Save your strength." 
 
 The ball had furrowed the fleshy part of his left 
 arm just below the shoulder. Rosamond was obliged 
 to remove his coat, cut the sleeve of his shirt, and 
 bathe and dress the wound herself without assistance 
 from the constable. That worthy stood by, twirling 
 a battered straw hat and staring open-eyed and open- 
 mouthed at the contents of the Hving room. He re- 
 fused point blank to take any surgical responsibility. 
 
 "Hi'm a constable, and Hi ain't no bloomin' 
 doctor. Hi drills 'oles in yer; Hi don't stop 'em 
 hup again," was his pithy and definite retort, when 
 besought to put the pins in the bandage while Mrs. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 257 
 
 Mearely held it secure. In the end she was obHged 
 to tie it, achieving quite a pretty bow-knot which she 
 spread out daintily and patted into place, feeling a 
 natural pride in it which she was not inclined to 
 conceal. 
 
 While refusing to put a finger to the business, 
 himself, the constable was willing to make remarks 
 and to offer criticisms, such as : 
 
 "HiVe 'eard of gangrene a-settin' in hafter a shot. 
 Hi shouldn't be surprised if 'e'd take to gangrene, 
 'im bein' of that dark, bilious complexion. A dark- 
 skinned man is bound to be a bilious man. Hi 
 never knowed it to fail." 
 
 Or: 
 
 "If Hi'd ben doin' the job, Hi'd 'ave done it very 
 different. But hit's not my place to nuss. Wot's 
 your name (*nyme' he called it), by the w'y?" 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely." shortly. She already detested 
 that constable. 
 
 He was a broad, slow person of forty or more, 
 with a dragging walk that, at first sight, seemed to be 
 lameness; but save for self-importance and a weary 
 disgust at the world, his limbs were whole. His 
 head was as large as the average headstone, and of 
 somewhat the same shape; and though it was not of 
 the same material, it was thicker and looked as hard. 
 He wore a gray linen duster, soiled and much crum- 
 pled, from which he occasionally filliped bits of dried 
 
258 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 mud with his thumb nail. He spoke in the dehberate, 
 very positive accents of a man who knows he has 
 never made a mistake of any kind, even by accident, 
 in all his life. He forbore to argue with Mrs. Mearely 
 when she accused him of a callous soul, anent the 
 bandaging. He simply put back the flap of his 
 duster and polished his badge with his ciifF. The 
 inference was plain. She might have riches; but he 
 zvas the Law. 
 
 ** Why doesn't Dr. Wells come .? I am so frightened 
 about you!" She burst out presently, after the Law 
 had expressed more of his uncomforting views. 
 
 "But it's nothing," the victim protested. 
 
 "Oh, yes it is — it is I It's a dreadful wound. 
 It— it bled!" 
 
 " It's only a graze on the shoulder. You have done 
 everything needful." 
 
 "Oh, no — I don't know how to attend to it 
 properly. If only the doctor would come! Don't 
 they c-cauterize — ^wounds?" She stammered over 
 the word, as she was not sure of it. "I — I — think 
 I've read of that. And sew them up with silk? — 
 to — to prevent people from bleeding to death?" 
 
 Her eyes were big and tearful with alarm. 
 
 "Please don't be so troubled. It is only a trifle. 
 You need not have sent for the doctor at all." He 
 turned his head to hide the flicker of amusement 
 which he could not restrain. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 259 
 
 "Oh, don't talk!" she urged. "You haven't the 
 strength to waste. Ought I to telephone again? 
 Oh, dear! Dr. Wells's boy is so stupid. Perhaps he 
 hasn't told the doctor the right name — sent him off 
 somewhere else. And — and — you'll bleed to death 
 before he — he — comes to sew you up with silk." 
 She wept. 
 
 "No — no, dear lady. Don't be distressed. I'm 
 all right." 
 
 "Aw! 'E'll do, I guess. Nuthin' more'n a scratch; 
 but wot a goin'-on habout it!" The constable was 
 disgusted. 
 
 Rosamond turned on him, angrily. 
 
 "What do you know about it ? It is all your fault! 
 You might have killed him!" 
 
 This had far from the desired effect. 
 
 The constable replied proudly, looking from one to 
 the other for admiration: 
 
 "Hif it was my juty Hi'd 'ave 'ad ter kill 'im." 
 He put the straw hat on his head with an air. 
 
 "Duty! How dare you shoot a man just because 
 you see him alone on the road at night!" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. But, you see, ma'am, constable 
 Gardner and me, we was sent out to-night to look 
 for a tramp. That's hon account of some busybody 
 thinkin' they seen 'im 'ereabouts this very hevenin'. 
 So they tells the chief, and 'e sends us, me an' 
 Gardner, — my nyme bein' Marks, Halfred Marks, 
 
26o ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Halfred Marks" (he touched his hat-brim to each 
 in turn). "An' so we comes beatin' hit along hup the 
 valley. An* w'en Hi seen 'im on the porch . . ." 
 
 Rosamond made an exclamation of alarm. 
 
 "You — you saw . . . ?" 
 
 "Be careful," her patient whispered. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. I seen 'im standin' on the railin' as 
 I come up the road. And, considerin' the time o' 
 night, hit looked queer — to me.'' His expression 
 defied them to criticise his angle of vision. 
 
 "Why— why . . ." Mrs. Mearely began, feel- 
 ing for words that eluded her. The vagabond came 
 to her aid. 
 
 "Naturally — naturally — sergeant . . ." 
 
 The Law's regard became more affable 
 
 "Hi hain't the sergeant, sir — thankin' you kindly 
 jest the same. Seein' a man on the railin' at that 
 time o' night . . ." 
 
 She interrupted, nervously: 
 
 "It couldn't have been so very late ..." 
 
 "Sh!" came the warning from behind her. 
 
 Slowly and laboriously, Mr. Marks took from his 
 pocket a large, open-faced silver watch, attached 
 to a short loop and bow of bright, cherry-coloured 
 ribbon. 
 
 "Three-twelve; nigh on three-fifteen," he said, 
 after a prolonged examination. 
 
 "But it was not three, then /" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 261 
 
 "Hi didn't say three, ma'am. Hi said three- 
 twelve. Three-thirteen it is now, bein' as time an' 
 tide waits for no man. Must a'ben two-thirty, 
 any'ow — nearer two forty-five." Preparing to re- 
 turn the watch to his pocket, he noticed the other 
 man gazing at its cherry bow. "Hi see you're had- 
 mirin' of this. It's one of Mrs. Marks's 'appy 
 touches. She 'as a good bit of sentiment, Mrs. 
 Marks 'as — on haccount of marryin' late in Hfe. 
 Hi recommends Mrs. Marks as a wife; or hany 
 spinster that's standin', so to speak, hon the doorsill 
 of the lonesome forties, for, w'en they gets took up 
 by a man, they're very grateful an' supine. So as 
 Hi was sayin', seein' 'im on the railin' at that time 
 of night, Hi thought Hi'd see wot was hup!" 
 
 "Naturally, officer: of course." 
 
 "So Hi starts hup the bank with Gardner; an' 
 jest then — bump! — the feller jumps an' lands on my 
 'ead, and we goes down a-rollin' into the road, with 
 Gardner hafter us. Gardner, 'e picks 'isself hup 
 an' 'oofs it for the station, never carin' for me; 
 but that's hall reg'lar, 'cause 'e goes hoff juty at 
 two-thirty. That's 'ow Hi knowed wot time it wos 
 — haccount of Gardner leavin' me in the ditch an' 
 'oofin' it for the station. Hi'd jest come hon juty; 
 so Hi 'as to pick myself hup — an' make it 'ot for 
 'm," indicating the wounded man in the chair. 
 "So Hi spits hout a mouthful of sand-pebbles back 
 
262 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 hon to the road (where they'd houghter of stayed hin 
 the first place) an' I yells at 'im: ^'Altl' says Hi. 
 But ofF 'e goes," His wooden face took on an 
 aggrieved look like a boy's when left behind in a 
 race. 
 
 Rosamond exclaimed angrily: 
 
 "You should have let him go. You had no right 
 to shoot!" 
 
 "Hi'U shoot hany man wot jumps on my 'ead — 
 'specially at that time o night T' He spoke as one 
 positively within his rights. " 'Ow was Hi to know 
 'e was your 'usband, ma'am?" 
 
 "My — my . . ..f*" she gasped. 
 
 " 'Specially as hit was in the dark. But hi wouldn't 
 a-knowed if hit 'ad ben in the Hght. Now, if you'll 
 give me the nyme, ma'am, Hi'U be hofF and make my 
 report to the chief." He brought a large tablet 
 notebook and pencil out of his pocket. Rosamond 
 looked at the vagabond, her face blank with dismay. 
 
 "Report.'' Oh-h — you mustn't ..." 
 
 "You needn't report this, officer," — quickly com- 
 ing to her rescue — "I have no complaint to make. 
 It was purely an accident." 
 
 "Oh yes! purely an accident; not of the least im- 
 portance!" she emphasized, snatching gratefully at 
 the straw. 
 
 "Thank you kindly, ma'am. Hi'U take his nyme 
 jes' the syme, as a matter of juty." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 263 
 
 There was a pause in which two disconcerted 
 persons faced each other with perplexed looks. 
 
 "Certainly — certainly — er — but I am not this 
 lady's husband . . ." 
 
 *'Then — ^wot is she makin' such a goin' hon habout 
 yer for?" severely. 
 
 "Well— I— er— Fm— her chaufFeur." 
 
 "Yes!" she echoed, almost sobbing in her relief. 
 "Yes! he's the chauflFeur." 
 
 The impromptu motorist continued: 
 
 "You see — er — there was a party this evening and 
 I drove some of the guests home — er — I had just 
 returned. So — er — that was how it happened I was 
 so late — two-forty-five I think you said, by the 
 cherry-ripe timepiece." 
 
 "Yes! that was it," Rosamond assisted cheerfully. 
 Her chauffeur! Wonderful vagabond ! How cleverly 
 he had extricated her from a problem which, in Rose- 
 borough, could have had but one — and that a fatal — • 
 termination. 
 
 "Wot Hi'd like to know is, w'y was you standin' 
 on the porch railin' w'en Hi was comin' hup the road V 
 Mr. Marks, it appeared, had an unfortunate memory 
 for details. 
 
 "Oh, that.?" with a degage air. "When you 
 were coming up the road? — er — . Was that what 
 I heard? I was in here to — er — to get a bite of 
 supper — see, there are the plates on the table — 
 
264 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 when — hist! — I heard something — something sus- 
 picious. I Hstened." He paused dramatically. 
 Marks nodded, all agog. "Er — it was a noise!'' 
 He felt his inventive powers weakening. Marks 
 nodded again, wisely. 
 
 " 'Earin' a noise^ is wot makes hany man suspic- 
 ious." 
 
 "Er — I thought it might be a tramp. So I 
 climbed on the railing — er — to see better. I thought 
 I saw a man — a tramp — climbing up the bank. So — 
 of course — I jumped on him ! " His manner declared 
 that to leap from a high rail down upon the heads 
 of tramps, was a tenet he had held from childhood. 
 
 "Wen you saw hit were a horfcer of the law — ^w'y 
 didn't you 'alt w'en Hi said 'alt?" 
 
 "Oh — that.f"' casually; he considered: "Well, 
 you see, I was so frightened when I saw that I had 
 apparently attacked a constable — I lost my head 
 and . . ." 
 
 "You nearly lost me my 'ead — a-jumpin' on it 
 like a fancy 'igh diver on a rollin' wave." He ac- 
 costed Rosamond, formally, pointing his pencil at her. 
 "And your nyme's 'Mearely,' you say, ma'am .f* 
 Hi'd oughter know but Hi hain't been on the county 
 force more'n three years an' it takes me a whiles 
 to get hacquainted. My motto, as Hi says hit to 
 myself a 'undred times a day, is 'Slow and careful, 
 Halfred.' 'Mrs, Mearely,' you said?" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 265 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Mearely. Hawthorne Road." 
 
 He bit his pencil carefully and indited. 
 
 **Hi knows the road hall right — an' hafter this 
 Hi'll stick to it — if hall the King's 'orses an' hall the 
 King's men is a-standin' on the porch railin'. Let 
 'em stand there, Hi say. And see 'ow they like it! 
 Good-night, ma'am." He put away his note book 
 and pencil and started slowly toward the door. The 
 vagabond waved him a pleasant farewell. 
 
 "There'll be no complaint from me. Good-night 
 sergeant." 
 
 Mr. Marks retraced his few deliberate steps. 
 
 "Hi hain't the sergeant, thankin' you kindly. Hi 
 ought to be. But to hought hain't to is — as Hi tells 
 Mrs. Marks — she bein' hambitious. Beggin' your 
 pardon, there's a little matter Hi'd like to arsk your 
 hadvice about. An' that his: Might you 'ave 'ad 
 a confederate houtside?" He gestured with his 
 thumb. 
 
 "A confederate?" in surprise. 
 
 "No. Hi suppose not" disappointedly. "You 
 bein' the shoofer, Hi couldn't say wot you'd want of 
 a confederate. But Hi could a-swore Hi saw a 'eavy- 
 set lookin' man hon the 'illside habove me w'en Hi 
 started hup to inquire wot you was doin* hon that 
 there railin'. That's wot I fired the second shot for, 
 w'en I got hup from hunder your boots. But my 
 eyes not bein' the best, Hi couldn't swear hif it was 
 
266 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 a man hor a strayed cow, hor a jumper bush. But 
 Hi took a pot shot at wot Hi thought it was; and hit 
 seemed to me like Hi 'eard a groan. Hit might 
 'ave been a cow. Did you groan?" 
 
 "Moo— oo. Like that?" 
 
 Marks studied the sound. 
 
 "Hi carn't say Hi recognize hit. Hi do wish Hi 
 was a better 'and at 'ittin wot Hi shoots at. That's 
 halways been a faihn' o' mine. Look, in your hown 
 case — just a hit of a scratch, that's hall — and me 
 a-'oldin' on to your coat-tails at the time. It'ud 
 count for a miss. Hit's very 'umiliatin' to a horfcer. 
 At that, it might 'ave been a juniper bush. Good- 
 night, sir." 
 
 He surveyed his victim from the doorway in a 
 peevish fashion and muttered: 
 
 " Hi do wish my aim was better. Hi do wish that." 
 
 "Oh, good-night !'' Rosamond cried in uncontroll- 
 able exasperation. 
 
 Constable Marks took out his watch. 
 
 "Good-wornm', Hi should say." Without undue 
 haste he put his watch away, touched his hat, first 
 to one, then to the other, and moved off along the 
 verandah. 
 
 "Thank heaven he's gone! Oh Vagabond, I wish 
 the doctor would come! If only Blake were here to 
 help you to bed." 
 
 The vagabond was on his feet, rocking in a gale of 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 267 
 
 laughter which only main force had silenced until the 
 constable's exit. 
 
 "Fm not going to bed! For a bit of a scratch 
 like this ? Never. Besides, I might miss something. 
 Oh, human nature! How rich it is, how glorious!" 
 
 "Oh! don't laugh like that. It exerts you too 
 much. You must be so weak." She tried to induce 
 him to sit down again among the pillows of the arm- 
 chair. 
 
 "Fm not weak!" — he denied the charge as if it 
 affronted him — "only perishing for a drink of water." 
 
 "There is ice-water in the cooler on the dining- 
 room table. FU bring you a glass." She was 
 flitting away to get it, but he intercepted her. 
 
 "Indeed, you shall not! You must not wait on 
 me any more. Fm neither a cripple — nor royalty. 
 Oh, by the way" — he closed the dining room door 
 again and came back to her — "Who is Blake? 
 You mentioned a Blake just now." 
 
 "He's the coachman. Why?" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "You are sure he's not the chauffeur?" 
 
 "No," she smiled. 
 
 "To think I should have to be a chauffeur after 
 all!" He threw out his hands with the surrendering 
 gesture of one who has ceased to defy destiny. 
 "Didn't I tell you society's greatest need was 
 chauffeurs? See how I arose, instinctively, to meet 
 
268 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMONDr 
 
 the demand. Your chauffeur, madam — I mean 
 
 ma'am.' 
 
 "It is so lucky that you thought of that!" she 
 replied; then they both laughed again, in delight, as 
 well as mirth, because they shared so entertaining a 
 secret unknown to all the world. 
 
 **But I warn you, never let me drive your auto- 
 mobile if you value your life. I am a chauffeur in 
 name only." 
 
 "Never fear," she answered gaily. "I don't re- 
 quire your services. I have no automobile — except 
 a little electric; and I drive that myself." 
 
 "Wise woman!. If you could only drive your 
 'little electric' of life as cleverly!" 
 
 She tossed her head, spiritedly. 
 
 'Tve never had an accident!" 
 
 He challenged this. 
 
 "Because you never turn any other roads than 
 the smooth paths of Mrs. Mearely's walled enclosure 
 — where there are no fascinating dangers. At least, 
 not for you" 
 
 Though she smiled, her answer was only half 
 humorous. 
 
 "But what happens to people who try to escape 
 from the safe enclosures ? — Those, I mean, who won't 
 live the way others want them to?" 
 
 "Ah!" he cried. "They make one glorious blind 
 leap for freedom ..." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 269 
 
 "And land on — *the 'ead of the Law/" she re- 
 torted. 
 
 ''Break its head! The sooner the better" smil- 
 ingly. 
 
 **They can't," she replied, gravely; though the 
 light his coming had put into her eyes, like new 
 candles, was still there. "The law is too strong. 
 It brings them back again — ^wounded ! " She pointed 
 to the bandage. 
 
 When he answered, there was a defiant ring in his 
 voice that was not all pretence. All his gypsying 
 past was calling to him to guard himself against the 
 unconscious power of the little lady of the museum 
 whose shining eyes told so frankly that her heart had 
 set out on the great search. 
 
 "A pin-scratch on the skin of my shoulder! 
 That's all that the talons of social law have been able 
 to do to this vagabond. I go to drink to liberty — 
 and the open road — in a bumper of ice-water." 
 
 He departed with a dramatic flourish. As the 
 door closed behind him, Rosamond indulged in a 
 long, delicious sigh, thinking what a marvellous end 
 her Wonderful Day was coming to, and slipped into 
 the big chair he had vacated. On the stand just 
 beside the chair, which was placed close to the end 
 of the settee, the bowl and linen strips were still in 
 view. She rose and gathered them up. The bowl 
 still held some water. She ran to the verandah rail 
 
270 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 
 
 and emptied it. Seeing a towel, another sponge and 
 a roll of batting on the big table, she picked up these 
 various items, and patted them into the bowl pre- 
 paratory to putting them safely out of sight until the 
 doctor should arrive and perhaps need chem. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 SUDDENLY she started, in alarm, and ran to 
 the dining room door. She had heard a loud 
 groan. Even while she reached to turn the handle 
 she heard it again; but not from the direction of the 
 dining room. If sound indicated truly, there was 
 someone outside — someone in distress. Immediately, 
 she heard a heavy tread on the verandah and a large 
 swarthy, black-whiskered man in black clothes 
 Hmped upon her horizon. She emitted a pathetic 
 little moan of fright, turned pale and dropped every- 
 thing but the bowl. Her fingers clung to that, 
 mechanically. 
 
 The intruder removed his hat, and bowed very low. 
 
 **Guten Morgen, meine Dame, Verstehen Sie ?*' 
 
 "Oh — oh!" She breathed out her interjections 
 as a sort of windy, wordless prayer to be spared 
 more excitement even on her Wonderful Day. Until 
 this day nothing had ever happened in Roseborough. 
 Now, too much was happening. The swarthy man 
 bowed again profoundly. 
 
 ** J'espere que je ne vous derange pas, madame, 
 Comprenez-vous ? " 
 
 "Oh — h! What is he saying?" Then, losing the 
 
 271 
 
272 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 last remnants of her poise she waved him off wildly> 
 chattering: "I don't wish any, thank you. No, 1 
 don't want anything to-day. Oh — h ! go-o away." 
 
 He was unmoved by her explosion. Bowing 
 again, he said : 
 
 "Ah, you speak the English. I cannot complain. 
 It is your language. I also speak it perfectly — as 
 you hear." 
 
 She did not venture to inform him that his accent 
 was execrable. She only stared, and her pale lips 
 silently shaped the words "go away." 
 
 "I speak it perfectly, but I detest it. The whole 
 world must speak their abominable language be- 
 cause they will not learn any other. Even the Irish 
 must learn English before they can curse it for 
 sympathy. I detest the English. When I meet a 
 stranger, I address him first in German; next" — he 
 enumerated them rapidly — "in the French, Italian, 
 Spanish, Russ, Magyar, Turkish and the Chinese. 
 Then if he will not . . ." — with a shrug — "I con- 
 descend to speak the English — but always against 
 my will. I detest the English." 
 
 If Rosamond thought at all during this address, she 
 must have thought the man mad. She was afraid to 
 speak or move; she stared, hoping perhaps to conquer 
 the maniac, if such he were, by the power of her 
 fixed eye. 
 
 "Ah! — pardon'' He gave the word the French 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 273 
 
 pronunciation; and stooping painfully, picked up the 
 towel and handed it to her. Since she did not take 
 it, he draped it over her arm, seemingly unaware that 
 she backed away from him. 
 
 ^^ Pardon." He picked up the two sponges, one in 
 each hand, and put them into the bowl. ''Pardon" 
 and the roll of batting followed the sponges. '' Par^ 
 don" and ''pardon,^ et cetera, and one by one the 
 Hnen strips were hung over the towel on her arm. 
 Then he withdrew a few steps and bowed. 
 
 "What — ^what are you doing here?'' She man- 
 aged to ask at length. "Who are you?" 
 
 "Madam, my mission in your detestable country, 
 for a few hours longer, is a secret. But my name I 
 disclose: it is to comfort your alarms. How can one 
 better comfort the alarms than to introduce to you 
 Teodor Carl Peter Lassanavatiewicz, of the diploma- 
 tic secret service of Woodseweedsetisky ? I have 
 been wounded in that service. Not my word alone, 
 but my murdered leg, introduces me to you as a 
 patriot." 
 
 "Wounded?" she repeated automatically. 
 
 "/^, meine Dame. I have been execrably, abomi- 
 nably wounded in the leg. My. secret business — 
 and, believe, it is of a most international importance 
 — has brought me to your country. I can explain 
 no more. I am a believer not in the discretion of 
 woman." He bowed. 
 
274 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 
 
 "What are you doing in my garden?" She de- 
 manded with an effort to master her fears. 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 " Bitte. That is the concern of my secret business. 
 I wish to meet a certain person very quietly, and 
 induce that person to return with me very quietly — 
 to — shall I say? — yes? — his family? Yes. I wish 
 to take a certain great person home. Why I now 
 make myself known to you, that I will explain. In 
 the peaceful and very secret pursuit of my duties, I 
 have been perceived by a lady of some age and much 
 excitement, who screams like a parrot because she 
 sees me looking, very gently, over your balcony. 
 I wish to give no alarms. Therefore I look no more 
 over your balcony. Instead, I hide in the river-grass 
 till the guests have departed and the lights you have 
 put out. Then I return. But it becomes unsafe in 
 your garden. There are bandits. I have been shot 
 in the leg. Donnerzvetter ! I have been detestably 
 shot in the leg! Therefore, I make myself known 
 and request your permission to continue to watch, 
 in the road below your garden, for the arrival of a 
 certain person — ^without attacks from bandits. I 
 will sit upon a stone under the cypress trees. I will 
 alarm no one. I request only that I be no more 
 attacked.^' 
 
 "Oh yes! oh, please go now. No one will attack 
 you." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 275 
 
 He bowed again, twice. 
 
 "Grazia, grazia, signora. It is most important 
 that my business remain secret. Be at ease. You, 
 also, are safe while Teodor Carl Peter Lassanavatie- 
 wicz is in your garden. Comfort your alarms. I 
 request it as a charity, madam, — ^will you of your 
 goodness give me of the linen, with which you have 
 doubtless tended the wounds of the man of your 
 household, who has been attacked by the violent 
 savages who infest this road. I heard the terrible 
 battle in the darkness. I tried to escape. Psst! 
 / was shot!'' 
 
 Holding out her arm on which he had hung the 
 strips, and keeping herself literally *at arm's length' 
 from his touch, she indicated that he was to help 
 himself. He took three pieces, bowed after each 
 taking, and thanked her in three languages. 
 
 ''Danke schon. Grazia. Je vous remercie mille 
 fois, madame.'' Then, with an expression and ges- 
 ture of dislike, he added, "But I forget! you speak 
 only this desolating and dolorific EngHsh — ^which I 
 detest. Adios. Farewell." On the verandah, he 
 paused. "When my secret business is accomplished, 
 I rejoice to return to Europe and my own country, 
 where there are no dangers to the distinguished official 
 high in the secret police. I give a gold coin to the 
 brigands of Poland or to the anarchists of our Balkans. 
 ^^,De donde bueno? Si, Senor.' So it is happily 
 
276 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 arranged. Here, no! They wait not for * good- 
 evening.' They shoot — in the leg ! Donnerwetter I 
 I, who have fought close to all the rebellions in 
 Woodseweedsetisky without a match-burn, I have 
 here been execrably wounded in the leg. It is 
 insult ! " His voice trembled and tears of humiliation 
 wetted his cheeks. Drawing himself up, he put on 
 his hat and gestured to her with the formality of a 
 military salute. '' Je vous rends graces, madame.^* 
 He limped out, with groans that grew fainter as he 
 progressed into the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Mearely stared after him, still in doubt that 
 he had really occurred. She tiptoed, fearfully, to 
 the door and peeped out, to satisfy herself that he 
 was not loitering on her verandah. What had he 
 said in explanation of his presence? She tried to 
 recall his words, but remembered only the phrases 
 about taking a certain great person home, diplomatic 
 service of some country, or city, hitherto unheard of, 
 and that he had looked over the balcony before and 
 been screamed at by a lady of some age and much 
 excitement. So it was he and not the vagabond 
 who had looked over her balcony, alarming Mrs. 
 Witherby. Then who was the vagabond and why 
 had he also come to Villa Rose? Was there any 
 connection between the two? Were they both dark 
 and secret "gentlemen burglars,'' about to strip 
 Villa Rose of all its antiques? She rejected this 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 277 
 
 suspicion firmly, as soon as it rose. Romance forbade 
 it. 
 
 In putting the bowl back on the stand she knocked 
 off the Digest and the Browning. Automatically, 
 she picked them up. The caption "A Runaway 
 Prince" caught her eye and held it. Gradually her 
 expression changed. The colour burned in her 
 cheeks again, as the thrill of amazement and excite- 
 ment palpitated through her. She scanned the 
 article feverishly, muttering snatches of it aloud. 
 
 "*The Runaway Prince! Secret search through 
 Europe, Britain, and America.' The Prince is 
 * eccentric, romantic, artistic, a connoisseur.' — Of 
 course! He picked out the Turner at once! and the 
 Buddha! Oh, can it be . . . .?" She con- 
 sulted the paper again. "'The prince is fond of 
 entering, incognito, the homes of humble folk — 
 frequently attired like a vagabond.'" The paper 
 fell from her hand. "*Fond of entering the homes' — 
 'secret search' — *to bring a certain great person 
 home' — ? Oh, it is — it is the prince! A prince has 
 come to me, on my Wonderful Day!" 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A VOICE broke in upon her blissful musings, in a 
 strain both matter-of-fact and gently reproach- 
 ful. 
 
 "You never gave me any jelly. I found one out 
 there; it was delicious. Also a truly amazing cake. 
 I think I may deduce from the state of my appetite 
 that I forgot to eat a dinner to-night. Yes, I remem- 
 ber now. I wrote a poem instead. All but the 
 last verse. That didn't seem to come. So I wound 
 up with coflFee and cheese." 
 
 The Incognito sauntered in from the dining room 
 with a comforted look on his countenance. 
 
 "That farther compartment of your museum, the 
 kitchen, seemed familiar. I was led to explore it. 
 I do not despise kitchens — nor pantries. I have a 
 fancy for them. Nothing delights me like entering 
 a pantry — unobserved." 
 
 Noting Mrs. Mearely's absorbed gaze, he became 
 self-conscious. He looked at her; then endeavoured, 
 by looking directly from her eyes to his own person, to 
 discern what it was that had inspired her fixed stare. 
 
 "Is anything the matter with me? I mean, any- 
 thing more than usual?" 
 
 278 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 279 
 
 "Oh no, Your Hi " She checked the reverent 
 
 utterance quickly. "Oh — oh — no!" 
 
 "I thought, perhaps . . . Nevermind. What 
 I was about to tell you is, that I explored your pantry 
 with better success than you did when you prepared 
 my supper. You overlooked a cake fit for a prince — 
 Eh.? What? Oh, merely an exclamation.? It is 
 a miracle of beauty to look at — and, to eat! Who 
 made it? I ask, because the cooker of that cake has 
 the soul of an artist. I wish to spend my days in 
 the shadow of her wing." 
 
 "I made it." She blushed, happily, under the 
 royal praise. 
 
 "You? Put a raisin in your diadem, as its central 
 jewel!" 
 
 "You will not mock at the 'museum' any more 
 when I tell you that I found the recipe for that cake 
 in an old parchment. The Countess of Mountjoye 
 invented the cake first in 171 5 for the Prince of 
 Paradis: and history says she was the only one of his 
 sweethearts who never lost his aflFection. So, you 
 see, it was always a ..." (she paused, changed 
 the phrase she was about to use, namely, "a prince's 
 cake" into) "a cake fit for a prince." 
 
 "And she never lost his affection? I can well 
 believe it! For I feel tender toward her, even two 
 hundred years later. But, since I cannot lay my 
 royal heart at her feet, I consign it to that spot on the 
 
28o "GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 rug just between your two silver-toed slippers. 
 Ah!" he sighed. 
 
 "Are you feeling any pain now?" respectfully. 
 He was vaguely conscious of a change in her manner 
 but, being ignorant of the cause, attached no im- 
 portance to it, as yet. 
 
 "From the cake? By no means!" 
 
 "From your wound." Her manner reproached 
 him for his flippancy. Then she remembered that he 
 did not know how close his would-be captor lay; 
 and that, even if he were not wounded, it would be 
 almost impossible for him to slip away from Villa 
 Rose, to pursue his glad, free wanderings, unless 
 perhaps she could devise some subtle disguise to aid 
 him — even as the medieval ladies, in Hibbert 
 Mearely's old books, passed their gentlemen, royal 
 and otherwise, out of compromising situations. 
 
 "Oh none, — none" he answered. "IVe forgotten 
 I was ever at the wrong end of a gun." 
 
 She pushed the big chair toward him. 
 
 "Will you not sit down?" 
 
 "By no means. Allow me to place the chair for 
 you'' He laid hold of its other arm to push it 
 toward her, and she resisted with all the etiquette 
 at her command. 
 
 "Oh no!" she was shocked. "You must allow 
 me to place it for you," He, in his turn, resisted as 
 firmlv. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!*' 281 
 
 "Because I am a poor, sick, helpless creature? 
 Is that why you insist on waiting on me ? " He had a 
 sturdy masculine objection to this view of him. She 
 blushed. 
 
 "Oh, no! That is not the reason." 
 
 The expression in her shining eyes contented him. 
 He sank among the cushions; and, closing his hand 
 over hers, drew her to the broad, square stool beside 
 his chair. 
 
 "There! I will sit; and you shall sit beside me and 
 tell me wherefore you have changed your ways with 
 me — holding chairs for me and so forth." 
 
 The whimsical air left him. His black eyes grew 
 grave. He was touehed by the look of awe and 
 wonder she turned up to him, and his feeling for her 
 was deepening and taking possession of him. 
 
 "One waits on — princes," she said, with a little 
 catch of her breath. He laughed softly. 
 
 "Oh, Madam Make-Believe! Will you crown the 
 vagabond now and make a prince of him — thou 
 cooker of prince's cakes? If I were a prince, do you 
 know what my name would be? Fd be Prince 
 Run- Away." 
 
 "Yes!" she cried. "Prince Run-Away!" 
 
 "There are several kinds of vagabonds, my dear; 
 and neither palace nor cottage walls can hold them! 
 Nor catch and cage them again, once they have 
 escaped." Even as he said it, he knew that it 
 
282 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 was less true, at that moment, than it had been before 
 he entered the strange house and encountered the 
 fairy princess in the museum. 
 
 '*If he knew that his own Secret Service is lurking 
 just outside, to snatch him back into his palace- 
 prison'/' she thought. Aloud she said, timidly: 
 
 "But there's the law." 
 
 "What law is there that can't be broken?" he de- 
 manded. 
 
 "Don't you know," she answered, "that there is a 
 law that can't be broken? It was made for us, by 
 something stronger than we are; and it says that 
 human beings must live together, in families and 
 groups. Because the need of brotherhood is the 
 strongest thing in them. And that need is the law. 
 Have you never felt it. Prince Run-Away?" 
 
 He looked at her in silence for a moment. Then 
 he said, seriously; 
 
 **There is always need of love — true love. But 
 there is so much counterfeit love in the world, Rosa- 
 mond. To pass all the little waving false hands 
 safely— losing no grain of faith, nor drop of tenderness 
 by the way — and come, at last, and fold your heart's 
 wings softly in two tender, loyal hands, which will 
 never weary and never unclasp " 
 
 She surrendered her hands, willingly. It would be 
 something sweet to remember all her life, how a 
 prince had held them tenderly. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 283 
 
 **Do you know — in the twilight, as I came along 
 through the rushes of the river-path — I made a little 
 poem to you ? I did not know it was to you." 
 
 He drew a small note book from one of his pockets, 
 and turned its pages. 
 
 "There it is, you see — all zigzagged across the 
 paper — like the little zigzag path in the dusk. 
 But both came straight to you." 
 
 "Oh! is this your book of poems .f"" eagerly. 
 
 "It is one of them. I have others. Six, to be 
 exact. Two are with a friend in St. Petersburg. 
 He is translating them. One is in my hut. Another 
 is in London, where it will soon be published. And 
 the best — the first, the youngest, and dearest — the 
 one Fm proudest of — is buried in a biscuit tin in 
 Idaho." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, thrilled. "To think you've 
 wandered through all those places — Prince Run- 
 Away." 
 
 "To come at last to you — Madam Make-Believe." 
 
 He looked at her so long that her lashes drooped 
 and her colour came and went. 
 
 "Read it to me — my poem" — she said softly, and 
 leaned over the manuscript. Her hair touched his 
 cheek, as he also leaned over to descry the words he 
 had pencilled in the dark. 
 
 "If I were a ship on the deep seas flowing, 
 If I were a ship on the waters blue, 
 
284 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 rd go sailing round the world of women 
 To the harbour lights and the ports of You. 
 
 "If I were a cloud in the high air blowing, 
 If I were a cloud in the sapphire skies, 
 Oh, rd break my rest in the orbs of heaven, 
 To be the mist in your young, blue eyes. 
 
 " If I were the grass in the green earth growing, 
 If I were the grass where the wild flowers meet, 
 I would leave my peace in the morning meadows. 
 To deck life's road for your eager feet." 
 
 He ceased, and she looked up, wistfully. 
 
 "Isn't there any more? Oh, make it up!" she 
 pleaded. "Make it up, now!" The book dropped 
 back into the big pocket. 
 
 "Make it up now?" he echoed. He put his arm 
 gently about her shoulders, as if he meant to say 
 that he would not hold her against her wish. Then, 
 hesitating, here and there, for the words, he went on : 
 
 "Oh, would I were Love — Love's true art knowing: 
 Would I were Love — I would wrap you round ! 
 My faith for your home, and my songs for your wending, 
 And my heart, my heart, for your garden-ground." 
 
 Then, since love and youth must have their way, he 
 kissed her; and found, with her, that her lips had 
 waited for his. In that instant principalities and 
 powers — his kingdom and her village — melted into 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 285 
 
 mist. There were no countries, no degrees, no secret 
 service nor scandal-mongers, no differences of race 
 and place: love had met with love. 
 
 They were recalled to Roseborough by the noise 
 of wheels on the gravel drive. Rosamond sprang 
 up in alarm. 
 
 " Someone coming here ? " he queried. She stopped 
 him. 
 
 "Don't go to the verandah. If you should be 
 seen! Oh, hide!" She ran to the door. "Oh-h." 
 It was a gasp of relief. "Of course; it is the doctor." 
 She smiled. Her smile faded, however, instantly; 
 and she interjected again. 
 
 "What's the matter now.?" the prince asked. 
 
 "You can't tell Dr. Wells you are my chauffeur. 
 He knows I haven't one!" 
 
 The doctor's footsteps were coming along the 
 porch. 
 
 "Leave it to me," hastily. "I'll tell him some- 
 thing." 
 
 Dr. Wells, entering hurriedly, with his little black 
 bag in his hand and neighbourly anxiety in his heart, 
 encountered Mrs. Mearely on her threshold, and saw 
 no farther. He was astounded. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely!" he exclaimed. "You are able 
 to' be up ? " 
 
 Rosamond was taken aback by this greeting, not 
 understanding for the moment that the doctor had 
 
286 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 come to her home under the impression that she her- 
 self was ill. 
 
 "Yes, certainly. — Oh, I see. But it is not I who 
 need your services." 
 
 "Well, I am glad of that! My boy, Peter, who 
 answered the telephone, said I must come to you at 
 once. I feared you had been taken seriously ill. 
 So I hastened, as fast as possible — considering that 
 my own indigestion was acute. I delayed only to 
 awaken Mrs. Wells, and tell her that I had received 
 an urgent call to your home. Dear, dear! she was 
 greatly alarmed. Indeed, she almost insisted on 
 coming with me, knowing that you are alone. But 
 I couldn't permit it. She was seized with such a fit 
 of hiccoughs and heart-burn, poor thing, that I pre- 
 vailed upon her to remain warmly in bed." 
 
 Even his capacious lungs needed refilling with air 
 at times, so that his phiHppics must eventually come 
 to a period. Rosamond had made several useless 
 efforts to interrupt him; now she said quickly, to 
 prevent him from launching another fleet of paren- 
 theses: 
 
 "How kind. But, as you see, I am perfectly well. 
 It is this gentleman who requires your services." 
 She led the way to the big chair, where the vagabond 
 had settled again, perhaps because he thought that a 
 wounded man should not appear too brisk, consider- 
 ing the hour and place. 
 
"GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMONDT 287 
 
 "The accident . . ." she began. 
 
 "Accident?" Dr. Wells repeated. "Dear, dear. 
 We have so few accidents, fortunately. Is it a 
 fracture ? " 
 
 "Accidental shooting, doctor," the prince in- 
 formed him. "The wound is in the shoulder." He 
 must have removed her bowknot bandage in the 
 dining room, because it was no longer there when he 
 slipped his coat off. Dr. Wells produced a huge pair 
 of horn-rimmed spectacles, which he put on over his 
 small gold-rimmed ones. 
 
 "Tst — tst — tst," he muttered, peering, first from 
 one side, then from the other; "dear, dear. Yes, yes. 
 It might very well have caused your death, if it had 
 been in some other part of the body. Yes, indeed, 
 not so slight as it appears, Mr. — " He paused, 
 looking from one to the other, inquiringly. Thinking 
 his tentative query had not been heard he repeated 
 it, loudly, "Mr. ?" 
 
 "Er — Mr. " Rosamond stammered, quickly. 
 
 "Dr. Wells didn't quite catch your name." 
 
 "My name.? Er— Mills. Yes. Mr. Mills. With 
 two I's," he added; as though to prove the name his 
 own, by showing that he could spell it; or, as inept 
 liars always overdo matters, by adding a second fib 
 to throw suspicion on the first. "I was passing along 
 the road from Trenton. Some constables were out 
 hunting a tramp who had alarmed the neighbourhood. 
 
288 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND 
 
 a 
 
 Some one shouted 'halt.' I supposed it was an 
 attempted hold-up. So I spurred on; and got a 
 bullet in my shoulder." 
 
 In the pleasant relief of this plausible tale, Mrs. 
 Mearely embarked upon prevaricating ventures of 
 her own. 
 
 "I — I had been sitting here reading, and just as I 
 was — er — about to retire — I heard voices — and a 
 shot. So — so — I ran out. And when I saw what 
 had happened — er — I had Mr. Woods ..." 
 
 ** Mills," he corrected her, quickly, "with two I's." 
 
 "Mr. Mills— with two Ts Thank you. I had 
 Mr. Mills brought here. Then I sent for you." 
 
 The vagabond prince added another touch of real- 
 ism to the fiction. He bowed formally, as if he had 
 only now perceived that there was a lady present, 
 and said: 
 
 "I shall never forget your kindness, Mrs. ?" 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely." She took the cue promptly and, 
 imitating his method, painstakingly spelled the name 
 out: "M-e-a-r-e-1-y." 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely," he repeated, and bowed again. 
 
 Even innocent-hearted Dr. Wells might have 
 questioned the wherefore of this spelling bee, if he 
 had not been wholly occupied with the contents of his 
 bag. 
 
 "Now, if Dr. Wells will kindly patch me up so that 
 I can set out on my way . . ." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 289 
 
 "No, no! You daren't go on now." In spite of 
 herself, her glance went to the verandah. Had the 
 Secret Service come creeping up from the road again, 
 to see that His Highness did not escape in the doctor's 
 trap ? 
 
 "Go on? To-night?" Dr. Wells shook his head. 
 He never approved of rapid convalescence. "Oh, 
 dear no. I couldn't advise it. Bed and rest, my 
 dear sir; bed and rest, till the shock is abated. Yes." 
 
 "My sister's room is ready," Mrs. Mearely urged. 
 
 "Mrs. Mearely is kindness itself." The vagabond 
 bowed again. " But I dare not lose the time. I am 
 obliged to keep an appointment to-morrow. Impor- 
 tant business." 
 
 "At least let me dress the wound properly — if 
 we may use your sister's room for that purpose?" 
 
 "Certainly," Rosamond said quickly, silencing the 
 protest she saw coming. "You must submit Mr. 
 Wood — er — Mills. You know the way, doctor?" 
 
 She opened the door, at the right of the music 
 room, where the stairs began their windings to the 
 upper stories. The patient, supported by the doctor, 
 and still protesting about his appointment elsewhere 
 the next morning, mounted Slowly. Rosamond 
 waited to gather up her bowl, linen and sponges; 
 then she closed the door behind her and ran up the 
 stairs, to render aid in the bandaging, if necessary. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE room to which the wounded gentleman was 
 conducted, was at the back of the house looking 
 toward the peak of the hill and over a corner of the 
 orchard. Ordinary sounds from the road and the 
 front of the house did not reach it. 
 
 Dr. Wells, washed, treated, and dressed the scratch, 
 amid dissertations and reminiscences, while Rosa- 
 mond assisted in the capacity of surgical nurse, and 
 the patient stifled yawns and mirth and the desire 
 to embrace the beautiful nurse; all three being bliss- 
 fully unaware that there weJ-e anxious guests in the 
 living room. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, bearing all the marks of * half- 
 asleep,' sat in the big chair, looking about from door 
 to door with barely suppressed excitement. Corinne 
 stood near her, with gaping mouth and eyes, and a 
 restless alarm that kept her standing, first on one 
 foot, then on the other. Mrs. Witherby punched a 
 cushion at her back, and said in a gusty whisper: 
 
 "I suppose we'd better sit down and wait till the 
 nurse comes." 
 
 "Has she a nurse.?" Corinne whispered back. 
 
 "Of course. Dr. Wells would see to that. I ex- 
 
 290 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 291 
 
 pect he brought Jane Hinch with him. He always 
 foists Jane Hinch on his patients. / wouldn't have 
 her in the house. I don't consider her efficient. The 
 fact that she is Mrs. Wells's cousin is no recommenda- 
 tion to me.'' 
 
 "Mrs. Wells didn't seem to know what was the 
 matter with Mrs. Mearely, did she?" 
 
 "How could she know till the doctor got here? 
 How stupid you are, Corinne!" 
 
 "I'm so sleepy." The big, round eyes blinked. 
 
 "Well!" irritatedly. "Is your mother not sleepy 
 too? I do think Mrs. Wells might have waited till 
 morning to telephone. It always upsets me to be 
 waked suddenly like that." 
 
 " But she knew Mrs. Mearely was alone. It must 
 be dreadful to be ill and all alone." 
 
 "You needn't expatiate on it, Corinne," sharply. 
 **She has only herself to thank for it. I did my best 
 to prevent her from remaining here alone. But 
 she was ridiculously obstinate about it. She even 
 joined Dr. Wells and the rest of them, in jeering and 
 snickering at my caution. Well, you see what 
 has come of it. That tramp returned and half 
 murdered her with fright. I hope she has learned 
 her lesson." 
 
 "But, mamma, Mrs. Wells, said it was something 
 she ate. At least, she thought it was." 
 
 "Humph!" her mother interrupted. Her tone 
 
292 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 made "humph" a silencing argument to most 
 opponents. 
 
 "Yes, mamma. Because, she said Dr. Wells 
 himself had an attack of indigestion, when he came 
 home; and he hardly ate anything — -only some salad 
 and a cheese sandwich." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby sniffed in a superior manner. 
 This was a subject on which she had opinions. 
 
 "My dear. The Wellses have dyspepsia on the 
 brain — as well as elsewhere. Ever since that cousin 
 of Dr. Wells, Dr. Mayhew Pipp, in London, dis- 
 covered his famous cure for dyspepsia, the Wellses 
 have had nothing else, and talked of nothing else. 
 If they aren't careful, they'll die of it, just like Dr. 
 Pipp did. I say that dyspepsia is not a disease at all. 
 It's a habit. Whenever my mother saw any of us' 
 looking yellow, she made us stick a feather down our 
 throats — and that was the end of it. I will say, 
 though, that I never tasted worse parsnip wine in 
 my life. Such a slaughter of good parsnips. I had a 
 little salad — and I thought it tasted very peculiar, 
 now I come to think of it. Well — if it's ptomaine 
 poisoning, there's probably very little hope for 
 her." 
 
 Corinne, who had only partly persuaded herself 
 that there was nothing in the tramp theory, found 
 herself unprepared for the even more serious poison 
 theory. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 293 
 
 "Oh, mamma, don't!" she wailed. 
 
 "We may as well face the worst, Corinne. Be- 
 cause, until her sister can get back, we shall be obliged 
 to stay here and oversee things. I shall, at least. 
 It'll be my duty." 
 
 Corinne stiffened with fright. 
 
 "I wonder whether they've sent for Mrs. Barton," 
 she whispered. 
 
 "I certainly hope so. Every moment counts in 
 ptomaine poisoning." 
 
 Corinne recalled vaguely something she had read 
 once about bodies turning blue from poison; she 
 thought of beautiful Mrs. Mearely turning blue, and 
 pleaded: 
 
 " But, mamma — it may not be ptomaine poisoning. 
 Mrs. Wells didn't exactly know . . ." 
 
 Her mother sniffed again. 
 
 "Mrs. Wells never knows anything^ my dear,'* 
 Feeling Corinne's fingers in her hair presently, she 
 snapped: 
 
 "What are you doing?" 
 
 "You left some of your curl-papers in. They look 
 so funny. And your bonnet is crooked." 
 
 "I don't stop to think of my appearance when a 
 friend needs my help. But you can laugh in the 
 house of a dying woman you pretend to care 
 for." 
 
 This was so unjust that Corinne burst into tears. 
 
294 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "She's not dying! I just love Mrs. Mearely. She 
 shan't die," she cried, between her sobs; and threw 
 herself face downward on the settee to weep in 
 comfort. Her mother was not disturbed by the salt 
 storm, but, on patting her hair and finding one curl- 
 paper still there, she became furious. 
 
 "Corinne! stop that nonsense and fix my hair. 
 What in the world are you crying about? Do be 
 cheerful. Your mother has enough to bear." 
 
 Corinne, weeping heavily, dragged herself up from 
 the settee and went to her parent. She removed 
 the last paper spiral obediently and straightened the 
 little turban, which had been sitting on its wearer's 
 head at an impossible angle. Mrs. Witherby, mean- 
 while, pursued her own train of thought. 
 
 "I do hope she has made her will." 
 
 "She isn't going to die!" 
 
 "I wonder if Wilton Howard will inherit much. I 
 wish, sometimes, we had made more of him. I dare 
 say he's not a bad fellow at heart; but a man is very 
 easily led astray by a silly girl. However, if he 
 inherits any of Rosamond's money, it will put an 
 end to that nonsense." 
 
 Corinne was so shocked by this allusion to her 
 cousin's love-afFair, which she herself felt to be a 
 wonderful romance, that her tears ceased. 
 
 "You mean Mabel.? Why, Mamma! I should 
 think, if Mr. Howard ever gets any money, he'd want 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 295 
 
 to marry Mabel. Tm sure Mabel loves him terribly. 
 I always wish she'd tell me about it. But she never 
 does." She sighed. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, furious at this sentimentality, 
 slapped her daughter. 
 
 "Corinne! be quiet! Do you suppose I could 
 afford to have Mabel leave me and marry? I need 
 her. Who'd do the marketing and the errands, and 
 see to your clothes ? After my giving her a home, too. 
 I hope she wouldn't be so selfish and ungrateful. 
 Besides she wouldn't be a suitable match at all for a 
 man with money. If Mr. Howard does inherit any 
 of Rosamond's money, he will be obliged to make a 
 fitdng marriage. It will be his duty to all of us. 
 Roseborough will expect it. Oh, you make me furi- 
 ous! You'd give Mabel everything you own, or 
 that you might own, if your mother didn't watch 
 you." 
 
 Subdued by her mother's hand and her torrents of 
 talk, Corinne whispered : 
 
 "I wonder if he is upstairs? Do you think he 
 could have got here before we did ?" 
 
 "I don't know. He hadn't heard anything about 
 it till I telephoned him. He has farther to come." 
 Then she added — to herself, rather than to the 
 daughter who seemed to have so little natural instinct 
 for the main chance — "I wonder if he knows what 
 she has left him in her will? Villa Rose, of course. 
 
296 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 Well, IVe always wanted to take hold of this room 
 and make it . . ." 
 
 "Mamma! I hear wheels! It must be Mr. 
 Howard." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby rose importantly and went to 
 meet Howard, who came in swiftly, looking about him 
 in apprehension. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Howard," she said, emotionally, 
 taking his hand in both hers, "this is terribly sad for 
 you." 
 
 "How is she?" he queried, in a sick-room whisper. 
 She patted his hand. 
 
 "You must prepare yourself — we must all prepare 
 ourselves. My dear, sensitive, tender-hearted Co- 
 rinne is beside herself." 
 
 Corinne, feeling better now that her mother had 
 discontinued her theories and prophecies, said cheer- 
 fully: 
 
 "We don't know anything. We haven't seen any- 
 body yet. We've only just come. We hope it's all 
 right." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was annoyed. 
 
 "Corinne! how you interrupt! Oh, I fear it is 
 very serious, Mr. Howard. The doctor is still with 
 her. But of course, we hope . . ." She broke 
 off and murmured sentimentally: "Ah well, we 
 always hope — ^we always hope." 
 
 Howard's tone reflected hers. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 297 
 
 "Yes, indeed. I can't understand it. Rosamond 
 has always been the embodiment of health. For her 
 to be struck down suddenly in this way . . ." 
 
 "Dreadful! But rely on me, Mr. Howard. I 
 shall remain here and take charge of things, till her 
 sister arrives." 
 
 "Mrs. Barton has been sent for.^" he asked, 
 quickly. 
 
 "We suppose so. But, in the excitement, it is 
 possible no one has thought of it." 
 
 He appeared to think rapidly. 
 
 "It should be done at once. I hardly know how. 
 It will have to be by telegraph in some way — because 
 Mrs. Barton's mother has no telephone. Of course 
 old Ruggle, of the telegraph office, is in bed, and the 
 office closed. The office in Poplars Vale will be 
 closed too . . ." He mused awhile. "Someone 
 will have to get Ruggle up, and make him telegraph 
 to the station agent at Trenton Waters, to send a 
 man over to Poplars Vale, on horseback. Whom can 
 we ask to wake Ruggle?" 
 
 "Oh, Mabel will go!" Corinne said. "She'll be 
 sitting up all dressed. She wanted to come, but 
 Mamma wouldn't let her." She ran to the door of 
 the anteroom, where was the instrument which 
 afflicted His Friggets. "I'll 'phone her." She 
 closed the door, so that the bell should not be heard. 
 
 "If Mrs. Lee had a telephone, I'd have had her 
 
298 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 here by now. But Fm certainly not going all that 
 dark way to the cottage," Mrs. Witherby remarked, 
 seating herself again. Howard had followed Corinne 
 to the door to impress on her the details of the mes- 
 sage she was to telephone. In returning, he arrived 
 at the large table and, almost immediately, discovered 
 the supper-tray. 
 
 "I see you have had something to eat," he said. 
 **That was wise. You'll need all your strength." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, in great excitement, joined him at 
 the table. 
 
 "No! I haven't. I wonder who has been eating? 
 Two persons evidently. How odd!" 
 After a pause, Howard suggested: 
 "The doctor and the nurse, perhaps." 
 "Well! It seems queer for Dr. Wells to sit down 
 calmly and eat, when poor Rosamond is dying! 
 Still, as I always say, it is amazing how much those 
 dyspeptic people can eat, when there's no one by to 
 see them stuff." 
 
 In moving the tray, she, in her turn, made a dis- 
 covery; it was the pistol. 
 
 "Oh! Look! Oh! what does it mean?" 
 "What is it now, mamma?" Corinne asked, ner- 
 vously, coming in at the moment. Howard picked 
 up the weapon. 
 
 "Rosamond's pistol. That's strange." 
 "Is it loaded?" Mrs. Witherby asked. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 299 
 
 "Yes, I expect so. No, it's not." 
 
 "Not loaded!" 
 
 "No. The chambers are empty." 
 
 She caught at his arm. 
 
 "Do you suppose she could have been attacked — 
 fought wildly to protect herself — and then been 
 overpowered?" 
 
 "No — no" he answered, not paying attention to 
 her, but trying to recall whether his cousin had re- 
 loaded the pistol before putting it into her desk 
 after their ride. He thought she had; therefore, 
 the empty chambers puzzled him. Corinne was 
 walking about, aimlessly, clasping and unclasping 
 her hands. 
 
 "Ifeelasif — oh. Til go crazy if something . . ." 
 She caught hold of the big chair, and instantly 
 screamed, "Look! Look! Blood on the chair!" 
 
 Her mother, with Howard close after her, rushed 
 to the chair. 
 
 "Suicide!" Mrs. Witherby hissed dramatically. 
 "Do you know of her secret sorrow? To think she 
 may have been preparing to take her own life in the 
 midst of all our gayety! Oh! Mr. Howard." She 
 broke down, emotionally, grasping his shoulder to 
 weep upon. "Oh ! Mr. Howard, that is what comes 
 of taking people out of their proper station. Our 
 dear Rosamond was never quite one of us. Her 
 mother — the butter — ! She must have felt it her- 
 
300 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 self — felt poignantly her inability to live up to her 
 station among us. Oh Mr. Howard — oh — dear!'' 
 
 Howard freed himself, rather ungently, and started 
 toward the door opening on the stairs. 
 
 "Fm going up there/' he said. 
 
 "Too late!" she cried, throwing her hands up over 
 her head. " She's killed herself I " 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE door opened and Dr. Wells entered. They 
 rushed at him, all speaking at once. 
 
 "How is she?" Howard asked. 
 
 "Is she alive.?'' Corinne quavered. 
 
 "Is she dead ?^^ her mother demanded. 
 
 "There, there, good people; one at a time. Yes. 
 One at a time." 
 
 "Don't hum and haw!" Mrs. Witherby shrieked 
 at him. 
 
 "Is the wound fatal?" Howard asked, more de- 
 finitely this time. 
 
 "Fatal? Oh dear me, no. Oh no, certainly not. 
 Only a flesh-wound. A mere trifle." 
 
 "A trifle?" Mrs. Witherby could not believe her 
 ears. 
 
 "How did it happen?" Howard was trying to has- 
 ten the explanation by keeping rigidly to the point. 
 
 "Well — er — as nearly as I can make out — er — 
 the constable — yes, it was the constable — mistook 
 Mr. — er — the man for a tramp, and immediately 
 fired." 
 
 "And nearly killed Mrs. Mearely?" Corinne's 
 impatience broke bounds. 
 
 301 
 
302 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Eh? What?" The doctor had removed his 
 horn-rimmed glasses and was poHshing them. 
 
 Howard, with a supreme effort, mastered his irri- 
 tation. 
 
 "The bullet struck my cousin? — how?" 
 
 "Oh, dear me, no. Oh dear, no." He breathed 
 on the lenses and rubbed them back and forth through 
 a silk handkerchief. "Ah, I see. You also are 
 under the impression that Mrs. Mearely is the in- 
 vaUd." 
 
 "Is she all right?" Corinne shook his arm. 
 
 "Oh quite, quite. Never better in her life, the 
 sweet lady. Quite so. But — er — Mr. — er — Mills. 
 Yes; Mills. Mr. Mills . . ." 
 
 ''Who is Mr. Mills?" Mrs. Witherby almost 
 screamed the question, in her unendurable exaspera- 
 tion. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Mills is— er— well, I fear I can't tell you 
 who he is, because I don't know. But his name is 
 Mills — ^with two Ts. Perhaps you know him? He 
 was travelling along the road, and a constable, mis- 
 taking him for a tramp, shot at him — er — ^just out- 
 side Mrs. Mearely's house. She, with great courage, 
 ran out to see what had happened — er — had the 
 wounded gentleman brought in here and telephoned 
 at once for me." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, so far from being relieved, was 
 indignant. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 303 
 
 " But Mrs. Wells said, " she began accusingly. . . 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. Dyspepsia. So we thought — 
 until I arrived. But I must hasten. I left Mrs. 
 Wells feeling quite an invalid. Heartburn. For- 
 tunately, we have a perfect cure for it. Our cousin. 
 Dr. Mayhew Pipp's, remedy. You know, the poor 
 fellow discovered an infallible cure a few years before 
 he died of the disease. Very sad. No doubt he 
 would have been knighted, had he lived. We feel 
 very secure as long as we have cousin Mayhew 
 Pipp's May-Piplets." 
 
 He swallowed a small pink pellet from a phial, 
 snapped his bag to, and hurried out, saying "good- 
 night" over his shoulder. 
 
 The three, looking blankly at one another, heard 
 the trap drive away. Mrs. Witherby dropped into 
 the big chair. 
 
 "Well! of all things!" she. said. "What time is 
 it.?" 
 
 "Fm so relieved and happy I could shout!'' Co- 
 rinne exclaimed, laughing and crying a little at the 
 same time. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," Howard agreed; "I cannot be 
 thankful enough for poor Rosamond's safety." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby gave him an acid look, and sniffed. 
 
 "Yes! I dare say your gratitude is deep, Mr. 
 Howard. As for me, I don't appreciate being 
 dragged out of bed at three in the morning, and 
 
304 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 frightened out of my senses, for any Mr. Mills I 
 never saw in all my life." 
 
 "Tm sure the realization of your purely disin- 
 terested intention must compensate for the loss of 
 your beauty-sleep, Mrs. Witherby." His manner 
 was courteous, even courtly; yet, in some subtle way, 
 he succeeded in implying that she was a meddler. 
 She bristled. 
 
 "As I am not a relative of Mrs. Mearely's, I 
 think my disinterestedness may be taken for granted, 
 Mr. Howard. The sad occasion would not have 
 benefited me." 
 
 Corinne, anxious to ward off strife, said hastily: 
 
 "Hadn't we better go, mamma? Mrs. Mearely 
 won't need you to take charge of things now." 
 
 This fact, alas, was not soothing to a lady with 
 Mrs. Witherby's passion for taking charge of things. 
 She snapped: 
 
 "I know that without your telling me. Where on 
 earth did you learn to be such a busybody? Of 
 course, now I'm here, I shall wait to see Mrs. Mearely." 
 
 There was a short, uncomfortable silence, w^hile 
 she twisted about and tossed her head, smiled dis- 
 agreeably and very knowingly, and tapped her 
 fingers on the arm of the chair. Her motions pres- 
 ently focussed the gaze of the other two upon her 
 with a sort of fascination. She turned, sharply, 
 on Howard: 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 305 
 
 "Mr. Howard, do you believe that story about the 
 constable?" 
 
 "Believe it?" in surprise. "Certainly — er — why 
 not?" 
 
 "Does it explain the empty pistol I found on the 
 table?" 
 
 He considered briefly. 
 
 "No — o. But very possibly it needs no explana- 
 tion. Rosamond may have drawn the charges 
 herself." 
 
 "Oh, mamma, please don't invent any more horrors 
 to-night. I — I — ^just can't stand it." Corinne's 
 voice indicated that she had borne too much. She 
 was smothering an hysterical desire to cry. 
 
 "Corinne!" angrily. 
 
 "First, Mrs. Mearely had a terrible fright; then 
 she had ptomaine poisoning; next she had been nearly 
 murdered; and the last thing was she had shot her- 
 self!" 
 
 "Well! everything pointed . . ." her mother 
 commenced, indignantly. 
 
 Corinne's last vestige of control flew from her. 
 She waved her hands about, in a very fair imitation 
 of her mother's favourite emotional gesticulations, 
 and cried: 
 
 "No, it didn't! it didn't! But when you don't 
 know anything, you always have to make up things^ 
 And half the time you're all wrong. I wish you'd 
 
3o6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 come home now. Next, you'll be saying she shot 
 him ! " 
 
 "Ah ha!" Mrs. Witherby was triumphant. **It 
 does look like it, doesn't it '^. And I intend to remain 
 here until I find out why she shot him — this Mr. 
 Mills " 
 
 Corinne gave a little moan and burst into tears. 
 Howard rose abruptly and went to the verandah. 
 He almost collided with Constable Marks, who 
 pushed him aside and marched indoors. 
 
 '*Here! What are you doing?" Howard asked 
 the intruder, severely, and gripped him by the coat. 
 
 **'Ands orf!" Mr. Marks exhibited his badge 
 **Horfcer of the law." 
 
 **What is your business here?" 
 
 **Hi came about the shoofer as was shot." 
 
 "How do you know the man was shot?" Mrs. 
 Witherby wanted to know. 
 
 Constable Marks looked at her, as a brilliant in- 
 tellect may regard a sample of crass stupidity. 
 
 "Who'd know better, Hi'd Hke to know, than me 
 wot shot 'im? But Hi didn't get 'is nyme." 
 
 "His name is Mills," Howard supplied. 
 
 Mr. Marks brought out his tablet, wetted his 
 purple pencil, and wrote the name as he conceived 
 it. 
 
 "Mills— with two hells?" 
 
 "Two hells— I mean, I's! I's!" Mrs. Witherby was 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 307 
 
 out of patience. "How else on earth would you 
 spell it?" 
 
 Howard, with an authoritative gesture, restrained 
 her. 
 
 "Two Ts. I can't tell you anything more about 
 him. He is a complete stranger to Mrs. Mearely 
 and to all of us. I must say, officer, that you have 
 made a lot of trouble for Mrs. Mearely and all of us, 
 by your reckless shooting — firing at a gentleman, who 
 was riding peaceably along the road!" 
 
 Mr. Marks looked up from his note book and stared* 
 at Howard in stupefaction. 
 
 "Wot d'yer say? Gentleman ridin' peaceable 
 halong the road. Hi likes to know hif you calls 
 that peaceable — a-jumpin* on my 'ead." 
 
 ** Jumping on? What do you mean?" 
 
 "Hi mean jumpin hon my ' ead — ikaC s wot Hi 
 mean. Dived hofF the porch railin' right on to my 
 'ead! at two-forty-five in the mornin', too. No 
 wonder Hi takes 'im for a 'ousebreaker." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby's eyes glittered. She closed in and 
 plucked him by the sleeve. 
 
 "Jumped off the railing, you say ? What railing ? " 
 
 He withdrew the raiment of the law from her 
 desecrating touch, and replied, witheringly. 
 
 " That railin'. Hi don't see no hother — hunless you 
 think Hi means the pearl an' goldin' railin's of 
 'eaven! — ivich Hi dont! The lady comes runnin' 
 
3o8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 hout, an' we brings 'im in 'ere. An' 'e turns hout 
 to be the shoofer wot's jest got \)me, an' was 'avin' 
 'is bite." 
 
 He jerked his thumb toward the supper-tray. 
 
 "Chauffeur," Howard repeated. "What made 
 you think he was the chauffeur.?" 
 
 "Say! Hi'm gettin' provoked with you! 'Ow 
 do Hi know 'e's the shoofer.'' Cos 'e says so! An' 
 she says so! An' Hi makes my excuses an' takes 'er 
 nyme but forgets to take 'is nyme. An' that's w'y 
 the chief sends me back 'ere — if you wants to know. 
 Hit's always reg'lar to get the nyme of a shot party. 
 Tain't hoften Hi shoots a man. Wen Hi do, they 
 likes to 'ave 'is hidentity." He touched his hat. 
 "Halfred Marks is my hidentity." 
 
 "But Mrs. Mearely hasnt any chauffeur. What 
 else . . . ?" 
 
 Howard stopped her firmly. 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby, this is not the time for — that is 
 to say, the constable has made a stupid mistake. 
 Er — constable, you have made an error. The man's 
 name is Mills, and he is an entire stranger to all of 
 us. You will please report that to your chief." 
 
 Mr. Marks set his jaw obstinately. 
 
 "Jest as you say. But w'en hentire strangers takes to 
 divin' hoff porch railin's — at that time o' night! — hall 
 Hi feel Hi can say his : hit may be the carefree, heasy 
 manners of the rich, but it haint pretty he'aviour!" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 309 
 
 Howard guided him out, with slight but positive 
 shoves. 
 
 "That will do, officer. Fve given you the facts. 
 Make your report in accordance with them." 
 
 "Hall right, sir,'' ofFendedly. On the porch he 
 paused to find out the hour. Ere replacing the 
 watch in his pocket he waved it on its cherry loop 
 before Howard's eyes. 
 
 "Hi see you're hadmirin' o' this," he began. 
 
 "Not at all," curtly. Howard turned his back. 
 Constable Marks gave every sign of a sensitive man 
 under acute insult. 
 
 "Ho, very well!'' he said at last, with great dig- 
 nity, not unmixed with contempt. "There's some 
 as will be 'aughty to their gryve." With this 
 crushing rebuke he withdrew. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE sombre silence in which the constable de- 
 parted endured for some time. Mr. Howard 
 folded his arms and stared at the cornice. Mrs. With- 
 erby gleamed upon him, in a mocking triumph which 
 he affected neither to see nor to comprehend the 
 reason for. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Howard," she said presently, being no 
 longer able to contain herself, "the plot thickens." 
 
 Howard coughed, artificially it must be admitted. 
 
 "Er — the fellow's statement — er . . ." he 
 sought to waive it with a waving hand. 
 
 "I am very sorry that I brought Corinne. But 
 how could I imagine such a thing of Mrs. Mearely?" 
 
 At this there was another wail from Corinne, who 
 was in the dark concerning the cause of this strained 
 situation. To her young mind, the constable's tale 
 brought no black suspicions. 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! Are you going to invent something 
 
 "Corinne, be silent. You shall come home with 
 me at once." 
 
 Howard saw that something definite must be done 
 immediately. After all, he said to himself, he was the 
 
 310 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 311 
 
 deceased husband's kinsman and, in an emergency 
 like this, his should be the voice of authority in Villa 
 Rose. No master at Villa Rose — there was the whole 
 trouble. 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby, kindly listen to me. You are 
 jumping to — er — conclusions hastily and with in- 
 sufficient grounds. This apparent — tangle — is due 
 to stupidity, of course. It will be cleared up. The 
 important thing is, that this absurd story should 
 not be repeated outside this house." 
 
 She raised her eyebrows in simulated amazement 
 at his implied charge. 
 
 "Of course / shall say nothing. I hope gossip is 
 the last thing I shall ever be guilty of. But such things 
 reveal themselves, Mr. Howard.'' 
 
 He tried another tack. 
 
 "You will please consider Mrs. Mearely's standing 
 in the community. Any aspersions cast on her will 
 ultimately reflect on you and on all her friends." 
 
 This was a new view to her. Did she really wish 
 to lead a boycott against Villa Rose? She calculated 
 swiftly. 
 
 "We must prevent that at all hazards," she decided. 
 
 "We ought to wire to her sister not to come," 
 Corinne suggested. "Mrs. Mearely is not sick." 
 
 "No indeed! It is more necessary than ever that 
 she should come at once. Until she arrives, / will 
 stay here — in a position of authority — then nothing 
 
312 ''GOOD-MORNING, RQSAMOND!'' 
 
 can possibly be said. I shall go home now and 
 gather up such things as I may need for my brief 
 visit, and return immediately. Corinne, of course, 
 will remain at home.'* 
 
 Howard bowed formally. 
 
 "I shall appreciate it. So will Rosamond." 
 
 Corinne's face had gone glum at the prospect of 
 being left at home. 
 
 "Mamma!" she protested, "/ want to be in it, 
 too." 
 
 "Come, Corinne," solemnly, "and don't argue.' 
 
 "I will remain to get the — er — real facts from 
 Rosamond," Howard said pointedly. She nodded. 
 
 "Of course. I'm sure you'll hit upon some ex- 
 planation that will do. You're so intelligent. 
 And / shall stand by you. Depend on me." 
 
 "Mamma, mamma, zvhy must I remain at home.?" 
 Corinne's voice could be heard, still protesting, as 
 the two women disappeared. After waiting till 
 he heard them drive off, he walked resolutely to the 
 stairway door and rapped on it smartly. He repeated 
 the raps until a voice answered him, joyfully. 
 
 "Yes. In a moment. Prince Run-Away." 
 
 Howard left the door open and returned to his 
 former position. From the centre of the room, with 
 one hand resting on the solid antique table, and the 
 portrait of Hibbert Mearely behind him, he felt that 
 he should be able to dominate the situation. He 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 313 
 
 glanced at the painting and his own lip curled thinly. 
 How he had secretly hated that old man, while 
 openly doing him homage! Because of the trivial 
 legacy, how he hated him still! 
 
 "You would marry a farmer's daughter!" he 
 thought. "Well, blood will tell. How the disgrace 
 would have stung you ! IVe no love for you, you cal- 
 lous old skinflint, but Tm a Mearely; and FU save the 
 family honour from being smeared by buttery fingers.'* 
 
 "Wilton!" Mrs. Mearely was astounded at the 
 sight of him. She hesitated an instant on the thres- 
 hold, staring at him; then, closing the door, came 
 swiftly toward him. 
 
 "What is it? Why are you here?" 
 
 He did not answer immediately. His gaze dwelt 
 on her, noting the fact that she still wore her rose-and- 
 silver gown. Before he spoke she had discerned the 
 change in him. In manner he was a replica of Hib- 
 bert Mearely. 
 
 "Sit down, please." He waited for her to do so. 
 "I have something to say; and it must be said quickly 
 before Mrs. Witherby returns. 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby.? — returns?" she repeated me- 
 chanically. 
 
 "Please hear me out. It appears that a man has 
 been shot and brought in here. You sent for the 
 doctor, but omitted to say why. Mrs. Wells sup- 
 posed that you were seriously ill. Knowing that 
 
314 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 you were alone, she telephoned Mrs. Witherby, ask- 
 ing her to come to you. Mrs. Witherby, in her turn, 
 called me up, and I came as quickly as I could. I 
 may add, she has also wired for your sister." 
 
 She gasped. 
 
 ** Wilton! What an absurd — what an impertinent 
 thing to do!" 
 
 He motioned for silence. 
 
 "While we were waiting we found your pistol, 
 then, blood-stains on that chair — ^which are now 
 explained of course; then — those dishes — plates for 
 two — which are not yet explained. Wait, if you 
 please. Dr. Wells informed us that a Mr. Mills had 
 been shot, accidentally, by a constable, as he was 
 riding along the road . . ." 
 
 "Well, surely that is sufficient explanation," she 
 interrupted haughtily, recovering herself. His lids 
 narrowed, and his speech became more incisive and 
 more familiar, without the usual tinge of respect and 
 kinship that, until now, had coloured his accents in 
 converse with her. 
 
 "It would be, my dear cousin, but for the entrance 
 of the constable, who gives quite a different version 
 of the affair." 
 
 This last piece of information took her off her 
 guard completely. She flattened perceptibly. 
 
 "The constable! He came back.? Oh dear — oh 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 315 
 
 Howard thought she was carrying the affair off 
 very clumsily — quite like a butter-girl, without 
 hereditary finesse. 
 
 "He came back — and recited, for Mrs. Witherby's 
 benefit, how he had seen the man on your verandah 
 and fired; how you had run out and brought him in 
 here and told this same constable that the man was 
 your chauffeur. This was plainly — er — an — evasion, 
 as you have no automobile. The Mr. Mills story 
 does not explain the presence of the man on your 
 verandah, at that hour of the morning; nor the supper 
 for two; nor the fact that you are still in the gown 
 you wore last evening, and therefore did not retire 
 immediately after we all took leave, although you 
 complained of fatigue and hurried me away on that 
 account." He paused to let these points sink in. 
 Rosamond began to realize that matters were serious 
 for her, but more so for the prince, who was now in 
 double danger of discovery. 
 
 "With Roseborough within, and the Woodse-all- 
 the-rest-of-it secret service outside Villa Rose, how 
 can I save him from arrest.?" her anxious thought 
 ran. Howard, knowing naught of His Highness and 
 his vagabond joys, saw that he had made a profound 
 impression and he hastened to follow up his ad- 
 vantage. 
 
 "Now, I think I need not impress upon you, the 
 necessity of finding some explanation to cover all 
 
3i6 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 these points before Mrs. Witherby returns, or she 
 will spread a scandal that will ruin you. You know 
 her as well as I do." 
 
 She looked at him, growing consternation in her 
 face. 
 
 "What can I do.? His identity must be kept a 
 secret at any cost. You have no idea of the sensa- 
 tion — the upheaval . . . !" 
 
 Howard avoided her pleading eyes, with painful 
 delicacy. 
 
 " Indeed .f* He is well known among us, then.f' a 
 man of position in Roseborough .f* Married, I pre- 
 sume, or there would be no necessity for this clan- 
 destine . . ." 
 
 Slowly she rose, staring at him, horrified. Until 
 that moment, she had taken it for granted that only 
 Mrs. Witherby interpreted the prince's midnight 
 advent as a scandal. She had supposed that How- 
 ard's whole concern was to prevent the Roseborough 
 gossip from misinterpreting an occurrence which he, 
 as well as his cousin's widow, knew to be innocent. 
 By a word he had awakened her, and she realized 
 that he, too, put the worst construction on the affair. 
 
 ** Wilton! you can't mean that you — that you who 
 know me . . . ! What are you thinking of me?" 
 she demanded passionately. 
 
 He was unmoved by this outburst, which he had 
 expected at an earlier stage of their interview; women 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 317 
 
 always cried "insult," when caught. He replied, 
 coldly, avoiding her eyes, and picking his words with 
 the care and delicate innuendo of a gentleman un- 
 fortunately compelled to discuss unseemly matters 
 with a beautiful but obtuse young woman from the 
 peasant sphere: 
 
 "I hope you will absolve me from trying to pry 
 into your secrets from any personal motives. My 
 sole aim is to protect your reputation, as far as 
 possible after this indiscretion. The prominence of 
 your position in Roseborough makes it doubly my 
 duty — not only for your sake, but for the community. 
 I can understand that a girl — young and beautiful 
 but not rich — might have a friend — some childhood's 
 sweetheart — who still retained her affection, even 
 after she had married prosperously and above her 
 own station. I can understand that, once having 
 been lifted to a position of importance, she might well 
 hesitate to lose that elevation by marrying the early 
 sweetheart, who has probably remained in his humble 
 sphere — and yet, might yield to her affection for this 
 individual. All that is natural. The thing I de- 
 plore is, that you should have been so thoughtless as 
 to send for Dr. Wells. Mrs. Wells and Mrs. Wither- 
 by, between them, have notified everyone who 
 possesses a telephone. And, in addition, we have 
 the damning fact to get over, of one story about the 
 gentleman's identity told to the doctor and another 
 
3i8 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 told to the constable. Your friends naturally de- 
 mand a convincing explanation of a very compromis- 
 ing situadon." 
 
 She strode toward him, as if she would have en- 
 joyed walking over him and stamping on him, and 
 almost shouted her repudiation of the whole hideous 
 suggestion. 
 
 **0h! this is an outrage! / never saw this man he- 
 fore in all my life !'' 
 
 "What!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. He had 
 thought himself prepared for any and all excuses, but 
 the novelty of this one took him by surprise. 
 
 "Oh! Is this what you think of me in Rose- 
 borough ? But, you'll be punished for it — all of you 
 — when the truth is known. You — you — oh ! Well, 
 ril tell you nothing. There! I never saw the man 
 before. He came in here, like a tramp, and I fed him. 
 I couldn't tell that to Dr. Wells, or to the constable, 
 could I ? They wouldn't have believed it !" 
 
 "Exactly," he answered, dryly. "And who else 
 will believe it? No one. I regret that my offer of 
 assistance has not been met with sincerity." 
 
 "You can all think what you please," furiously. 
 "I will not sacrifice him. Til tell you nothing. He 
 entered my house like a tramp. I had never seen 
 him before." 
 
 Mr. Howard felt justified in becoming seriously 
 angry. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 319 
 
 "You can hardly complain if I refuse to allow you 
 to sacrifice your honour, and my cousin's name, and 
 the feelings of Roseborough, for a man you yourself 
 say you never saw before to-night!" he asserted, 
 dictatorially. 
 
 She stamped her foot. 
 
 "Fll tell you nothing of him! He shall not be dis- 
 covered, and dragged back to his prison. He shall 
 be free." 
 
 Howard started. Prison, did she say? Some 
 poaching "rough" from Poplars Vale, perhaps? 
 This threatened to be a scandal indeed, unless he 
 crushed it under an iron heel. 
 
 "Prison. Ah. Very well. Now I think I under- 
 stand this matter." 
 
 He walked quickly to the anteroom. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" she asked, in new 
 alarm. He gave her a stern look under gathered 
 brows. 
 
 "I am going to telephone to the police, and give 
 this fellow in charge as a common housebreaker. If 
 he has been in prison before, let him have another 
 taste of it." 
 
 "Wilton!" In the shock of this move she was 
 wordless. 
 
 "With the man in gaol, your story may be be- 
 lieved." He closed the door behind him. She ran 
 to it and listened. He was having the usual mid- 
 
320 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 night trouble in waking Central. There was only- 
 one thing to do; she must get the prince out of the 
 house before stupid, gossiping Roseborough forced 
 him either to declare his identity or go to gaol! If 
 he revealed his name here, he could no longer mas- 
 querade as a vagabond and roam the world at will. 
 He would be forced back to his palatial prison in 
 Woodseweedsetisky. It was still dark outside. 
 There was a bare chance that he might elude the 
 black-whiskered secret service, if he could only slip 
 out of the house undetected. 
 
 Central still refused to answer. 
 
 "Oh, sleep, sleep, Maria Potts!" she invoked. 
 She ran halfway up the stairs, calling softly, "Prince 
 Run-away." 
 
 "What is it. Madam Make-Believe?" She caught 
 his hand in hers and made him run down the stairs, 
 chattering confusedly to him the while. 
 
 "You must get away, for both our sakes. There 
 isn't time to explain." 
 
 "I don't understand. Has anything occurred 
 to . . . ?" 
 
 "No time to tell you. Things have happened. 
 Oh ! how things have happened 1 You must go — go — 
 and be free." 
 
 "All right, ril *go— go— and be free;' but Til 
 come back to-morrow and hear all about it." 
 
 Together they tiptoed rapidly to the porch — and 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 321 
 
 almost collapsed upon the broad bosom of Constable 
 Alfred Marks. 
 
 "No, you don't, me 'earty!" said the Law. "Hi 
 wants Hm" he said to Rosamond, jerking his thumb 
 at the prince. "The Chief don't feel contented-Hke 
 with this affair. There's too many stories habout 
 'im wot don't hagree. So 'e sends me back 'ere 
 to take charge of 'im, and to make a hinvestigation 
 all official and reg'lar." 
 
 "/'// answer any questions," she pleaded desper- 
 ately, "but this gentleman must go . . ." The 
 constable silenced her, impressively. 
 
 "Hi 'opes 'e wont make no more trouble; cos, if 
 Hi gets to shootin' — wHch Hi would'' — he glared to 
 enforce this — "Hi might 'it some of your fondest 
 nicknacks." He pointed his revolver about at the 
 antiques on the walls. 
 
 "That is well, officer." Howard stood in the 
 doorway. "The fellow must remain here." 
 
 "But, I'm delighted," the Incognito asserted. 
 He addressed Howard, gayly. "You know, this is 
 my second attempt to leave this house. It's an 
 adventure! A house with four doors and seven 
 windows, and yet I absolutely can't get out of it!" 
 
 It was plain to Rosamond that, all unaware of 
 his danger, his whimsical nature was delighted with 
 the new and odd turn his fortunes had taken. 
 
 "By your leave, ma'am," Mr. Marks pulled the 
 
322 ''GOOD^MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 long bamboo settle across the open width of the 
 double French doors, and sat down, a war-like speck 
 in the centre of it, toying significantly with his 
 weapon. 
 
 "Oh, Your Highness, I did my best to save you!" 
 Rosamond whispered, despairingly. She dropped 
 into the nearest chair and softly wept. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IT TRANSPIRED that Miss Maria Potts had not 
 been asleep, save possibly for a few weary winks. 
 Howard's inability to reach her ear was due not to 
 her slumbers but to the fact that half a dozen other 
 Roseborough citizens were demanding to be con- 
 nected with Mrs. Mearely's residence. For the 
 first hour of the doctor's absence, Mrs. Wells, muffled 
 in an eider-down wrapper, and topped with a frilled 
 nightcap, had sat at the telephone and called every- 
 one whose number she could remember. There 
 were several whom she did not call, because Peter 
 had mislaid the book. The book in Mrs. Witherby's 
 home, however, was not mislaid; and, as she made 
 Mabel and Corinne do all the packing of her small 
 trunk and her several bandboxes, she herself had time 
 to spend in notifying the persons Mrs. Wells omitted 
 that Mrs. Mearely had been "taken ill and of course 
 sent at once for me to come and oversee things." 
 
 So it was that Mr. Howard had less than five min- 
 utes in which to bend his stern, menacing, contemp- 
 tuous gaze on the interloper, who was not only a 
 poacher in the emotional realm, but, judging by his 
 eccentric attire, was also something of the sort by 
 
 323 
 
324 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 field and stream. The instrument behind him tin- 
 kled. For the next hour, indeed, it tinkled inces- 
 santly. Howard ran back and forth telling soothing 
 fictions to first one and then another; sometimes 
 pausing to upbraid the somnolent constable because 
 he had not caught the gaol-bird and put leg-irons on 
 him before ever he entered Villa Rose. Constable 
 Marks, sleeping and waking by jerks, mumbled 
 protests. Mrs. Mearely and her guest, discreetly 
 seated at opposite sides of the room, were unable to 
 exchange more than a whispered word or two. His 
 amused cheerfulness stabbed her to the heart; be- 
 cause he did not know his danger. Straining her ears 
 nervously, at times she believed she could hear 
 groans outside — the rumbhngs of Woodseweedsetis- 
 ky's secret service, Teodor Carl Peter Lassanava- 
 tiewicz, shot in the leg by Roseborough's human 
 watchdog. Constable Alfred Marks. 
 
 Another tinkle drew Howard from his chaperoning 
 station, just within the doorway. He always left 
 the door open when the bell called him upon these 
 excursions. The guilty pair could see the back of 
 his head — and be reminded that he had two ears, 
 and that only one of them was required for the 
 receiver. 
 
 The prince leaned as far out of his chair as he 
 could, without falling out, and whispered across the 
 room: 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 325 
 
 "Where does he come in? And why doesn't he 
 like me?" 
 
 " Ssh — ! " She held on to the arm of her chair and 
 stretched out her neck and alarmed countenance, for 
 all the world as though she expected to be guillotined 
 **He's a relative — of Mr. Mearely's, and — and — '' 
 she stopped, and gestured for silence, thinking that 
 what he overheard of Howard's conversation might 
 enlighten him. 
 
 **No, thank you." Howard was repeating what 
 had become a formula; his tones were still unfailingly 
 polite, but weary and suggestive of nerves straining 
 thin under the surface. "Mrs. Mearely is not ill. 
 Just a fright. Mrs. Witherby is most kind and con- 
 siderate, but it was really unnecessary to call you up 
 about it. No. Thank you." He came to the door 
 and addressed Mrs. Mearely, coldly, "That was Mrs. 
 Field. She says she has been trying for half an hour 
 to get this line. Between them, I don't think Mrs. 
 Wells and Mrs. Witherby have overlooked anybody." 
 
 Ting-a-ling-a-Zmg ! With a barely suppressed 
 sigh Mr. Howard went back to the instrument; 
 absent-mindedly, he closed the door. This time it 
 was Central herself who desired speech with him. 
 
 "Land to goodness! Mr. Howard, I'm tuckered 
 out!" she complained, bitterly. "What in creation's 
 happened up to Villa Rose, anyhow? Never, in all 
 my days in this office, have I heard subscribers ramp 
 
326 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 round like they been doin' this night. I ain't had a 
 wink of sleep; and maw's jest come and stuck a 
 Dollop's stickem headache plaster on to the back of 
 my neck. I declare I'm weak as a plucked chicken. 
 I give all Roseborough fair warning, right now, that 
 I ain't a-goin' to stand much more of it. Here, hold 
 on. Don't ring ofF. There's your party." Anon, 
 Howard was answering the same questions in the 
 same wearily courteous manner. 
 
 Seeing that the door was closed Rosamond glanced 
 at Marks and knew, by his rhythmic snores, that he 
 was resting peacefully. She whispered: 
 
 "There is just one chance . . ." 
 
 "I wish you'd tell me what has happened. Why 
 are all these people here ? Why are you so distressed ?" 
 
 "Mrs. Wells telephoned everybody that I had 
 been taken ill. Then when Mr. Howard came — and 
 found you — and the constable — goodness knows 
 what they think. They want to have you arrested 
 as a housebreaker." 
 
 "How charming! This is an adventure." He 
 looked at her, keenly. "Are they gossiping? Ah — 
 I see. Then the best thing, I suppose, is to give up 
 this fun, and tell them who I am." 
 
 Forgetting caution in the thrill of his words, she 
 exclaimed aloud: 
 
 "Oh Prince! You would make that sacrifice for 
 me .'" His eyes twinkled with amusement. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 327 
 
 "Yes, dear Madam Make-Believe. 'Tis no sacri- 
 fice. Their tongues can't hurt me.'' 
 
 She shook her head. Not at any price would she 
 sell his dear liberty. 
 
 "You can't. It is too dangerous. If you were to 
 confess who you are — now — here — with that awful 
 man in the garden . . ." 
 
 He looked as crestfallen as a boy whose long-planned 
 trick deceives no one. 
 
 "You know who I am then? You only pretended 
 you didn't?" 
 
 "I didn't know, at first. I thought you were just 
 the — the tramp — the vagabond you said you were, 
 till that awful man in the garden came and told me 
 your real name." 
 
 "An awful man in the garden told you my 
 real name?" he asked, puzzled. He, too, forgot 
 caution and the whisper. He rose and crossed the 
 room to her, unaware that his moving shadow 
 had flickered upon the screen of Constable Marks's 
 dream. 
 
 "Yes; a foreign, guttural, blackish man. He speaks 
 all sorts of languages. He says his name is Lass — 
 Lass — ass — an — a — ^wiz." 
 
 "Lassanavatiewicz?" he exclaimed, in great aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 "Yes. He has come for you." 
 
 "Oh! but that's ridiculous!" he asserted, indig- 
 
328 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 nantly. "I've committed no crime. He has no 
 right to follow me here. Of all . . . V 
 
 She interrupted him, thinking altogether of the 
 gravity of his situation and the need of haste. 
 
 "You must get away secretly, if you can, before 
 the light comes — ^without his seeing you. I can give 
 some explanation — temporarily. And when the 
 truth comes out, you will be safely out of that man's 
 reach, and everything will be all right for me. Then 
 they will all look fooHsh, and it will serve them right." 
 
 She led him, both tiptoeing, in front of Constable 
 Marks toward the music room. 
 
 " You will find a little alcove window at the end of 
 the music room. Raise it very softly and . . ." 
 
 "I have no faith in either your doors or your win- 
 dows as a means of escape. But I will make the 
 third and last attempt." He whispered this in her 
 ear, with a return of his natural and whimsical 
 manner. They reached the door and opened it 
 with a faint click, since their hands met on the handle. 
 They did not see the Law unveiling its eyes. 
 
 "Will it make it better for you if I get away now.f^" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Yes, yes! do it for my sake!" 
 
 "Then ril go." He bent toward her. 
 
 "Good-bye, Prince Run-Away." she said, and 
 added wistfully, "Oh, will you ever come again.?" 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 329 
 
 "This afternoon/* he answered; and slipped into 
 the music room quickly, lest she should rebuke him. 
 
 " 'Alt! 'alt!" Mr. Alfred Marks, it appeared could 
 move suddenly when duty called. He went after 
 the vagabond at a heavy jog-trot, waving his weapon 
 in circles that threatened not only his prisoner, but 
 the lady of the villa and the antiques as well, not to 
 mention portions of Mr. Marks's own anatomy. 
 
 "Anything to oblige," the prince said, politely. 
 
 "W'ere's the lights in 'ere? If they ain't on in a 
 jifF, Hi shoots, and there's no tellin' wot Hi'll ^it — 
 mayhe nuthin !" 
 
 Rosamond ran to the switch and turned it. Her 
 vagabond was sitting on the window-sill, laughing. 
 
 "I suppose there was a pass-word once, to get out 
 of this house ? " 
 
 "Oh! how can you joke?" She burst into tears. 
 
 "That's wot Hi say," the constable concurred. 
 *'Wot's frisky habout it? A blamed botheration is 
 wot you are; and HiVe 'arf a mind to tell you so; 'arf 
 a mind and mebbe a bit more! Come horf o' that 
 there winder-sill and sit hon the piany-stool. Come 
 horf, now. Hi'll sit right 'ere. Hit'U be heasier to 
 hoversee yer 'ere. Ma'am, shut the door. Not 
 honly for syfety's syke — 'im bein' such a slipp'ry 
 customer — but the hearly mornin' hair is bad for a 
 sensitive man like wot Hi am hin a draught." 
 
 "Rosamond!" She heard Howard's voice, with a 
 
330 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' ' 
 
 sharpness of authority in it that made her wince. 
 As she returned to the living room, she was mutely- 
 imploring that some means might be put into her 
 hands for the adequate and sufficient punishment of 
 this man. She sank down upon the settee and turned 
 her profile to him. 
 
 "I grieve to see you in distress," he began very 
 formally. The telephone tinkled. "Ringing off — 
 can't be another connection so soon," he muttered. 
 "For your own sake you must corroborate the story 
 I shall tell." The bell rang again, a longer tinkle. 
 He frowned, but continued. "I have been thinking 
 that it may be best" — the bell was ringing loudly 
 now, Miss Potts losing her patience at the delay— 
 "it may behest to tell Mrs. Witherby . . ." He 
 surrendered and went to answer the call. 
 
 Rosamond heard wheels coming up the gravel road 
 but she did not move. All hope of the prince's escape 
 was lost now, and with it all fear for herself. She 
 sat still and limp, humped upon the settee, a sym- 
 bolic figure of Dejection. Howard, having disposed 
 of the last kind inquirer with less poHte circumlocu- 
 tion than usual, re-entered. 
 
 "I want to make you understand, my dear 
 Cousin . . ." (Miss Maria Potts inserted the 
 plug again. He scowled, glanced toward the tele- 
 phone then endeavoured to continue, regardless of the 
 thin but insistent tinkle), "er — that you can rely 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 331 
 
 on me, to any extent. I am in no haste personally 
 to put the worst construction on this event." 
 
 "Oh, really? No?" she hissed at him. 
 
 He hesitated, slightly flustered by her accents of 
 scorn and the angry flashing of her eyes. He had 
 thought of her as submissive and ashamed, and pre- 
 pared to show a proper gratitude to those who were 
 rescuing her from the consequence of her folly. The 
 bell no longer tinkled. It pealed — in long and short 
 rhythm, loudly, without punctuation or pause. 
 Howard dashed at the telephone and began a counter 
 ringing to get Central's ear. 
 
 "Central. This is Villa Rose. Mr. Howard 
 speaking. This incessant ringing is becoming a 
 nuisance. I must request you not to ring this 
 number again to-night, no matter who asks for it." 
 
 "Oh is that so?" Miss Potts snapped back at him. 
 "I guess Fm to sit here forever wrapped round in 
 gran'maw's crazy quilt off" my bed, which was the 
 first thing handy when I had to grab somethin* to 
 run in here when that ringing first started to get the 
 doctor. My! land! Nobody into our rooms has 
 had a wink of sleep — maw, nor Susannah nor the 
 dawg neither — he's been growling somethin' fierce. 
 I'm going to switch every last one of them crazy 
 subscribers on to your line, when they asks for it. 
 If you think Maria Potts is the only person that's 
 going to be rung up and pestered you're badly mis- 
 
332 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 took. 'Twas Villa Rose's line that started the ruc- 
 tions that's got all Roseborough on the jig, and I 
 figger on keepin' you jest as busy as subscribers keeps 
 me. At that, you're fixed a lot more comfortable 
 than I be. I'll bet you've got more on to you than 
 a crazy quilt." 
 
 "Very well, Central," harshly. "In that case, 
 I shall leave the receiver off the hook." 
 
 " You re no gent' man /" she screamed at him. 
 
 Howard fulfilled his threat, notwithstanding, and 
 returned to the downcast but disdainful lady on the 
 settee. 
 
 "I was about to say that we must offer Mrs. 
 Witherby a convincing explanation — thoroughly con- 
 vincing. Therefore, I say, rely on me wholly and 
 corroborate what I say." 
 
 She gave him a long, cool glance and asked con- 
 temptuously: 
 
 "What of another woman's reputation — ^which it is 
 you who have injured } Why not protect her ? " 
 
 This unexpected counter-stroke took him aback 
 completely. 
 
 "I — er — I fail to apprehend your meaning," he 
 stammered. 
 
 "Oh, people are always ready to sneer at a 
 girl, when a man's attentions don't come to mar- 
 riage." 
 
 He felt the red deepening in his face and said — the 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 333 
 
 more awkwardly because he was trying to appear 
 serene and dominant: 
 
 "You said nothing of this to me before." 
 
 "No," she answered, reflectively. ''Then I could 
 have sneered with the rest. I was getting to be like 
 them." 
 
 Feeling more at ease immediately, because she had 
 abandoned the subject of Miss Crewe to speak of 
 herself, he attempted a return to his former man- 
 ner. 
 
 "The events of this evening have unstrung you." 
 
 She leaped to her feet as if she were about to attack 
 him. 
 
 "Unstrung!" she cried. "They've opened my 
 eyes, and the thing I see most clearly is that / am 
 nothing. Yes, nothing. A few hours ago I was a 
 much-flattered hostess, the courted mistress of this 
 house, the woman whose word was law in the fashions 
 and entertainments of this community . . ." 
 
 "Dear Rosamond, that is your position in Rose- 
 borough." 
 
 "Not any longer . . ." 
 
 Whatever she intended to say was forgotten for the 
 moment in the emotions that surged upon her at the 
 spectacle of Thomas Hogworthy, Mrs. Witherby's 
 man-of-all-jobs, with his employer's trunk on his 
 shoulders. It was a small yellow-panelled, tin- 
 plated trunk, with a rounded lid, and well corded 
 
334 'GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 with Hannah Ann's clothesline. He waited on the 
 threshold. 
 
 ** Good-evening, Thomas. Er — let me see . . ." 
 Howard debated whether to send the trunk imme- 
 diately to one of the guest rooms, then he thought 
 it would please Mrs. Witherby better to select her 
 own chamber. "You had better put the trunk in 
 the dining room just now. That way." 
 
 Thomas, a silent man, merely nodded and, setting 
 the trunk on the floor, dragged and bumped it over 
 polished wood and rare rugs and into the dining room. 
 Then, with a curt nod, he silently departed. 
 
 Rosamond's cheeks flamed again with indignation. 
 
 *^ You see! This is no longer my house. / am not 
 mistress here. You have taken authority over my 
 life. Against my orders, you command the arrest of 
 a man you beheve I love; Mrs. Witherby sends her 
 trunk into my house, without asking my leave, and 
 comes here herself to stay as long as it pleases her — 
 and you tell her old Thomas where the trunk is to 
 go!" Her anger grew with the enumeration of her 
 wrongs. ** And why are you so anxious to save me — 
 all of you? For my sake.? Oh no! Not at all. 
 Because of all this — the money and the position. If 
 it were Mabel Crewe who had given food to a man 
 during the hours and under the conditions which 
 society deems improper, would some Mrs. Busybody's 
 trunk be dragged across her floors — or would you be 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 335 
 
 offering all your fine talents of invention for her 
 protection?" 
 
 She had made him wince again, and he was angry; 
 but, by an effort, he controlled himself. 
 
 "I have not denied that your position makes it 
 more imperative . . ." 
 
 Her rage rose hysterically. 
 
 "Yes! The position! The woman is nothing. 
 The woman is just a human being, and doesn't count. 
 Tm the — the — axle in Roseborough's wheel. So 
 you'll keep me in my position for your own benefit. 
 The moment I do something which is outside your 
 rules, you seize on my house and my life and — and — 
 force me to save my good name — for you — for you .'" 
 pointing an accusing forefinger at him. "But you'll 
 regret it! Send him to prison and see what comes 
 of it! It's wicked — wicked. He was so happy and 
 free. And — and . . ." Hot tears, the result 
 of strained nerves and gusts of fury, gushed from her 
 eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She sobbed, 
 "You'll look per — perfect f-fools!" 
 
 Mrs. Witherby now came into view. She was 
 scarcely discernible among leaning towers of band- 
 boxes, and carried a black handbag of the size and 
 shape of a young gondola. Leaning over the veran- 
 dah railing she admonished the silent Mr. Hog- 
 worthy. 
 
 "Drive home quickly, Thomas. Miss Corinne 
 
336 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 and Miss Mabel are alone. And do not forget a 
 single one of my instructions." 
 
 **Mrs. Witherby/* Howard warned. 
 
 Mrs. Mearely was past caution. 
 
 "She is your guest, not mine!" She tossed her 
 head, and started for the music room. Alarmed and 
 now thoroughly angry also, at what he considered 
 her stupid and wilful disregard of a delicate situation, 
 he strode forward to intercept her. 
 
 "Control yourself," he ordered her, severely. 
 "Control yourself. You can't afford to ignore Mrs. 
 Witherby. I certainly would not advise you to go 
 in there for a tete-a-tete at this stage of the proceed- 
 ings." 
 
 This latest caution was the last straw. 
 
 "I don't care!" she cried, with rising shrillness. 
 "You — you — have wicked thoughts. You're horrid, 
 horrid people /'' She rushed out, and slammed the 
 door so vigorously that the antiquities of a thousand 
 years rattled. 
 
 "Well!" Mrs. Witherby said, when she could get 
 her breath. "Well! and what have you to say to 
 that, Mr. Howard.?" 
 
 "Er — my cousin is not quite herself — hysterical — 
 er . . ." He lapsed into silence. No one ever 
 maintained an argument against Mrs. Witherby 's 
 sniffs. 
 
 **You may call it hysteria. I call it ingratitude — 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 337 
 
 and bad manners But, really! why should one 
 expect Rosamond Cort, of Poplars Vale, to have 
 innate manners ? (She emphasized ** innate " with an 
 inflection all her own.) Where was she to learn 
 them? From her mother — at the butter-tubs?" 
 
 **0h no, Mrs. Witherby, I assure you Rosamond 
 is most grateful — in fact, I might say, almost too 
 grateful. You mistake." 
 
 She put an end to his tremulous mumblings, 
 sharply. 
 
 "Instead of contradicting me, I'd be obliged if 
 you'd relieve me of my bundles. I've carried them 
 all the way up the hill. No one came to meet me or 
 assist me in any way." 
 
 Bowing nervously, Howard seized, from her col- 
 lection, one bandbox — the largest — and the hand- 
 bag. 
 
 "I apologize a thousand times. My cousin was 
 giving me a description of — er — the events that 
 occurred here to-night. And . . ." 
 
 "Kindly be careful with that bandbox," she 
 snapped. 
 
 He bowed again, smiling foolishly. 
 
 "I beg your pardon. I believe you will find that I 
 have not injured it " He handed it back to her. 
 
 "/ don't want it! The string has cut my fingers. 
 I carried it all the way up the hill. Set it down." 
 
 "I beg your — set it down, I believe you said?" 
 
338 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 He put the bandbox on the floor, directly between 
 them, in the middle of the room. "As I was about 
 to relate, my cousin has . . ." 
 
 "Not there — to be stepped on! Set it under the 
 table." 
 
 "Oh, to be sure! Yes. How odd I didn't think 
 of the table! My cousin . . ." 
 
 "Give me my bag again. I need it." 
 
 "To be sure!" He bowed and handed her the 
 desired object. She pulled it open, took out a hand- 
 kerchief, dabbed at her nose, put the handkerchief 
 back and handed the bag again to Howard, who was 
 receiving and surrendering her property mechanically 
 now. 
 
 "My cousin has revealed . . ." 
 
 She saw his embarrassment and his anxiety to 
 conciliate her and she scorned them. 
 
 "Well, I hope she has invented some sort of a 
 story that people can believe. That's all I ask of her. 
 As the mother of Corinne, I think I have the right 
 to ask that." 
 
 He dropped her bag on the bandbox and began 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Indeed you have, my dear, kind lady. And 
 you'll be glad to hear that the true story removes all 
 the — the — doubtful appearances." 
 
 " Don't put my bag there ! Put it on the table." 
 
 He obeyed hastily. 
 
''GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMOND!" 339 
 
 "I beg your pardon. As I was saying, the true 
 story, removes ..." 
 
 She interrupted him impatiently. 
 
 "I heard you! Of course I knew your intelHgence 
 would be equal to the occasion. I suppose youVe 
 got the man out of the way?" 
 
 She had removed her wrap and bonnet, and was 
 moving about the room fussily, with little touches at 
 this and little dabs at that, indicating unmistakably 
 that at last a mistress of quality and authority had 
 come to Villa Rose. She turned the Buddha about 
 from one position to another, and finally transferred 
 him to the stand by the settee; she pulled a piece of 
 Sweet William out of the vase of old-fashioned 
 garden flowers, standing there, and draped it over 
 the image's shoulder. She carried an antique copper 
 vase from the mantel to the bookcase, and was 
 obliged to make room for it there by scattering a 
 group of small objects. She managed to crowd them 
 all about the vase, with the exception of a foxhound 
 in green bronze. She finally deposited this animal 
 at the feet of the Buddha. 
 
 **ril have a smart talk with those two lazy maids 
 to-morrow, and find out why they both left the same 
 day as the coachman. Fm more than ever convinced 
 now, that there's something queer about that. Of 
 course it would be a dreadful shame to wake Mrs. 
 Lee, yet, if she had a telephone I really would have 
 
340 ''GOOD-MORN I NX), ROSAMOND T 
 
 called her. SJie should know about this. Oh, I 
 knew all along that that gaudy frock had not been 
 put on for my benefit!" She turned abruptly. 
 "Why don't you tell me what youVe done with 
 the man F'^ 
 
 Howard, who had several times attempted to 
 speak, and had also been following her spasmodic 
 dashes about the room as best he could, caught up 
 with her now and, making much of the chance to 
 create a sensation, said, with slow impressiveness. 
 
 "The man is under arrest." 
 
 ''Under arrest!" An ivory warrior, of the Dy- 
 nasty of Bing, jumped out of her slackening hand 
 and rolled under the bookcase unheeded. "Under 
 arrest! Good gracious. You must tell me all about 
 it at once. Come into the dining room. I must 
 make myself a pot of tea or I shall be faint. Come 
 at once and tell me." 
 
 "Certainly. You must be in possession of all the 
 facts," he said, soothingly. 
 
 Dawn was sending opalescent flushes across the 
 horizon and the bird life in the gardens of Rosebor- 
 ough was waking with musical murmurs. Rosamond 
 entered the living room and walked about, dejectedly, 
 turning off the lights. A white mist lay over the 
 river. The air was damp and sweet. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ROSAMOND heard wheels and the rattling of 
 milk-pails. 
 
 "It must be nearly five," she said. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Mearely." 
 
 She looked up to see Corinne tiptoeing in, with 
 glances daring, mischievous and fearful too; for this 
 most delicious act of disobedience was sure of its 
 tragic sequel. Mabel followed her. There was 
 nothing playful in Miss Crewe's demeanour. She 
 v/as pale and tense. Her prettily modelled rose-pink 
 lips were compressed into a narrow chalky line. 
 She stood in the doorway, staring at Rosamond as if 
 the lady of Villa Rose were some strange being she 
 had never seen before. 
 
 "Oh Mrs. Mearely, I'm so glad you're all right. 
 We have been so frightened about you. Mamma 
 ordered me to stay at home — and she wouldn't let 
 Mabel come at all — but we've disobeyed. It'll be 
 awful! But Mamma was so mysterious. I felt that 
 you must be in some trouble and I wanted to be here, 
 even if I couldn't do anything. You know, I . . ." 
 she looked down, shyly, "I think you so beautiful. 
 You mustn't be in trouble." 
 
 341 
 
342 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND r 
 
 Rosamond's eyes filled. 
 
 "You dear Corinne!" She embraced her warmly. 
 The young girl's childlike tenderness and confidence 
 were very welcome to her in this hour of condemna- 
 tion. 
 
 "We came on the milk-wagon," Corinne explained. 
 
 "I heard it — more wheels from Roseborough ! " 
 
 "We had to shout and run across the field to catch 
 it." She giggled. "Mabel has been all stirred up 
 too. You see we telephoned her, when we thought 
 you were dying, to wire to your sister. Then I told 
 her about Mr. Mills; and what the stupid poHceman 
 said about the chauffeur. And she got as excited as 
 I was. Then mamma . . ." She laughed heartily, 
 then stopped herself with two fingers over her mouth, 
 as if she had been guilty of sad irreverence. "Well, 
 you know mamma. She has such an imagination. 
 And she never can wait to know things. She had 
 you poisoned, murdered, shot, and then she thought 
 you had shot Mr. Mills. And now she says — ^what do 
 you think?" 
 
 "I — I can't imagine," Mrs. Mearely stammered. 
 She tried to smile at Corinne, but she was too con- 
 scious of Miss Crewe's hostile gaze and tense mouth. 
 Corinne shrieked joyously at the word. 
 
 "Can't imagine ! No. It takes mamma to ima- 
 gine ! She said: *No doubt Mrs. Mearely will 
 announce her engagement to Mr. Howard at once. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 343 
 
 He'll see his opportunity, and Fll trust him to make 
 the most of it/ Now, can you think of anybody 
 but mamma imagining you'd choose the middle of 
 the night to announce an engagement — even if 
 Mr. Howard's heart wasn't very much engaged 
 elsewhere." She glanced archly over her shoulder 
 at her cousin. "But that's mamma. She imagines 
 wonderfully; but she doesn't see things that really 
 happen — right under her nose. Where is she?" 
 
 "In the dining room, I think." Rosamond said 
 aloud. Inwardly she was connecting Corinne's 
 repetitions with Mabel's appearance, and question- 
 ing, in trepidation, just what Miss Crewe had come 
 there to do. 
 
 "I'd better go in and get my scolding now," 
 Corinne rattled on. "Poor mamma. It's naughty 
 of me to laugh at her. But she was so excited. Of 
 course, you can't blame mamma for making the 
 most of this. Because it's the first time anything 
 has really happened in Roseborough." 
 
 She ran to the door then back to her cousin. 
 
 "I won't tell on you," she promised. "You'll 
 get a worse wigging than I shall." She scampered 
 off on her tiptoes, giggling. 
 
 Rosamond decided, presently, that it was unbear- 
 able to be stared at as Miss Crewe was staring at her. 
 She would break the silence, no matter what might 
 come afterwards. 
 
344 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 **It is very kind of you to come, Miss Crewe. I 
 am sure that . . ." 
 
 "Oh what is the use of talking like that! Vm not 
 Corinne. Don't you suppose / know the meaning 
 of Aunt Emma's innuendoes and sneers — and her 
 nods and winks ? Vve had years of them. Do you 
 think / don't know why she is here — and why she 
 expects the immediate announcement of your engage- 
 ment ? " 
 
 "Miss Crewe!" 
 
 Ignoring Mrs. Mearely's indignant interruption, 
 Mabel rushed on: 
 
 "She'll chaperon and stand by you; and you'll 
 tempt him with your money, to marry you, so that 
 the rich Mrs. Mearely shall not be disgraced. I 
 know!" 
 
 Rosamond did not take kindly to criticism at any 
 time. In the last twelve hours she had received 
 enough of it, she felt, to last her a life time. There 
 was something more than offended protest rising in 
 her now. It was battle that beat its drums in her 
 temples and her pulses. 
 
 "How dare you.?" She stepped forward, with her 
 head high. 
 
 "Yes! I dare. But don't think it will be so 
 easy." Of a sudden her insolence and derision melted 
 away in suffering. She pleaded. "Oh how can you 
 do it — if you love this other man ? You have money. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 345 
 
 You can force people to accept him, even if he is a 
 nobody. You don't need to marry Wilton. And 
 you know — everybody knows — that he'd have married 
 me long ago, if we'd had any money." Then she 
 cried out, defiantly: "Don't think you can do it, 
 though! I'll stop it somehow." 
 
 The charge that somebody must do something 
 desperate to prevent her from throwing herself into 
 Wilton's arms in order to maintain her standing in 
 Roseborough, set another match to Mrs. Mearely's 
 temper. 
 
 "Oh — it's insufferable ! How dare you and your 
 aunt and such people slander me.? The man who 
 entered my house to-night is under arrest." 
 
 This was said to wither Mabel. Mrs. Mearely 
 did not think it necessary, therefore, to add that she 
 had tried, by a dozen tricks, to let the prisoner escape. 
 The effect of her dramatic coup was the reverse of 
 what she had expected. 
 
 "Under arrest! I thought it was only men who 
 were cowards in love. If you'll send him to gaol, 
 no wonder you'll try to 'steal the man I love." 
 
 Mrs. Mearely could not believe her ears. 
 
 "What? Oh! Oh-h!" She wrung her hands. 
 "Do I have to bear this.?" she asked of the twittering 
 dawn. 
 
 "I came here — I hardly know what I hoped. I 
 thought perhaps I could appeal to you, because 
 
346 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 you were brave. Yes, even if you were wicked, 
 you were brave, I thought. To dare so much — 
 but . . ." Mabel looked at Rosamond Mearely 
 with the sly, shocked admiration the very correct feel 
 for those who venture to be incorrect in the sphere of 
 morals. Rosamond comprehended the look, and it 
 put her into a fury. 
 
 "Oh! I know what you thought. You remem- 
 bered that I was Rosamond Cort, of Poplars Vale — 
 whose mother sold butter. It was to be expected 
 that I should do something dreadful — and impolite. 
 I suppose Roseborough does consider that amorous 
 midnight escapades are impolite? But Roseborough 
 isn't surprised at me. Oh, no! All along Rose- 
 borough knew that, some time or other, Td show the 
 butter strain." 
 
 Miss Crewe did not know what to make of this. 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Mearely!" 
 
 Rosamond's rage mounted. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Roseborough knew that one day my 
 bran-fed morals would fail, and — and — Fd go to the 
 devil in my own common. Milky Way, Moo-o! 
 Moo-o! That's all I care for Roseborough. It can't 
 cow me." 
 
 "Oh— Mrs. Mearely!" 
 
 It was one thing to have a sly admiration for 
 Hibbert Mearely's widow's brave and farm-like 
 improprieties — not ,to use a harsher word — but one 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 347 
 
 could only be affronted when she forgot that she had 
 left farm manners behind her, and put her arms 
 akimbo! 
 
 It seemed that Mrs. Mearely had still a great deal 
 to say, with clear, raised voice and hands on her hips. 
 
 "I'd rather be descended from good, sweet butter 
 . — than — than — be the silly, braying donkeys you II 
 all be to-morrow. I must say I'm surprised at you, 
 Miss Crewe — who have had the advantages of high 
 birth, denied to me, not to mention the wonderful 
 opportunity of moral training under Mrs. Witherby 
 — that you should come here and expose your tender 
 feelings for a gentleman, who proposed to me this 
 very evening — before all this happened. Where's 
 your ancestral pride? Before it happened, he pro- 
 posed to me." 
 
 "He told me he was going to," Mabel answered 
 quietly. She sank into the big chair and leaned her 
 face against the cushioned back. Rosamond stared 
 at her speechlessly. 
 
 **He told you?" she repeated, presently. 
 
 "Yes. He said we must give up our hopes — and 
 marry money." 
 
 "I — / was — Money ?** she gasped. 
 
 "Yes. And I said I'd do something to stop it. 
 And I have I " She broke down, suddenly, and wept. 
 "Oh, Mrs. Mearely. You don't know what it is 
 to almost have things, and then be pushed aside. 
 
348 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 It makes you desperate and wicked. To think that 
 just because we're poor, we can't marry." 
 
 Rosamond stared at her. 
 
 "Of course I knew he paid you attentions — but I 
 had no idea there was really an understanding." 
 Her blankness disappeared before a humiliating 
 sense of outrage. 
 
 "Oh! the insufferable — the wretched, false, in- 
 sulting man. To dare to offer himself to me! Oh 
 the— the . . ." She turned on Mabel. "What 
 are you crying about ? I should think you'd be glad 
 of your escape." 
 
 She strode the length of the room and back again, 
 breaking out in interjections and tumbled phrases. 
 
 "/ was Money! How dare he humble me in this 
 fashion.? Oh! But I'll be even with him. Oh yes! 
 I'll find a revenge. I was to be his dear little 
 Money, eh?" 
 
 Mabel's helpless sobbing was reaching her sym- 
 pathies and making her doubly angry, because she 
 did not want her sympathies reached. She stamped 
 her foot. 
 
 "Stop that crying. Do you hear me? Do you 
 mean to say you can still love the wretch? You 
 can't respect him." 
 
 Mabel wiped her eyes, and looked at her curiously. 
 
 "Oh — respect! I wonder if women ever respect 
 men a great deal. Perhaps that is what makes 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 349 
 
 them love so much — to make up for the lack. I 
 think men have to respect women. But women 
 just have to love. I love him. I don't know why. 
 Maybe just because he is a man and I'm a woman. 
 One must love somebody." 
 
 Rosamond sank down on the settee. During 
 Mabel's words she had been moved increasingly; her 
 heart echoing that the words were true — tragic, but 
 true. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she said. "One must love somebody. 
 Oh, yes, Mabel." Tears welled over her own lids. 
 
 " It's all over, now," Mabel sobbed. " Even if you 
 don't take Wilton. It's hopeless." 
 
 Rosamond's lips quivered. 
 
 "Oh, it's very sad to be just a lonely woman in 
 this dreadful little place. And to be young — young I 
 Oh, Mabel, dear!" 
 
 "Yes. Yes. Oh, Rosamond!" 
 
 "Love only comes in at the window and — and — 
 kisses you — once — and flies away again." 
 
 "Flies away again," Mabel echoed. They found, 
 first each other's hands, then each other's arms, 
 and finally grieved upon each other's bosoms con- 
 tentedly. 
 
 "He'll never forgive me for telling," Mabel said. 
 "Oh, Rosamond, you — ^you — don't want to marry 
 him, do you.? Perhaps I ought to try to give him 
 up.?" 
 
3 so ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Mrs. Mearely's injured pride leaped again into 
 wrathy flames. 
 
 "Not to me! The wretch! The deceitful, de- 
 luding — deluding — de — de — deceitful thing. Yes, 
 thing. I'd like to make him pay, with his whole life, 
 for the insults he has heaped on me to-night." 
 Even as she wished, the way to realize her desire 
 suggested itself to her. "Ah! I can do it! Cer- 
 tainly I can. And you shall help me. He and your 
 aunt are so nice and smug and busy over my affairs — 
 eh? ril give them a bit of scandal of their own to take 
 care of. Fll make her writhe. I'll avenge myself. I'll 
 make him pay — all his life long. I'll show them all 
 who's who in Roseborough. Let them see if the butter- 
 maker's daughter isn't a match for them!" She 
 marched — sailed is perhaps the better word — to the 
 door, threw it open and called with a great authority 
 to the tea-drinking conspirators in the dining room: 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby, kindly put my cups down on my 
 table and come out of my dining room." 
 
 She walked swiftly to the stand by the settee and 
 picked up the Digest. She stood there holding the 
 paper, waiting. Mrs. Witherby looked flustered but 
 belligerent. Howard was patently apprehensive. 
 Corinne, who had received a terrible scolding, was 
 excited and scared, but not too much so, for she 
 clung to one of Jemima's fresh cookies and occa- 
 sionally nibbled at it. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 MRS. WITHERBY stared the hostess of Villa 
 Rose up and down; but the latter did not quail. 
 She pointed toward a chair with the folded Digest. 
 
 Now, many a time, while flattering and "my- 
 dearing" the lady of the villa, Mrs. Witherby — 
 secretly chafing because she dared not call her by her 
 Christian name, and patronize her — had wished that 
 an opportunity might arise to enable her to "put 
 the farmer's daughter in her place." In a pitched 
 battle, Mrs. Witherby always won, no matter who 
 her opponent might be, because her tongue and spite 
 were tireless. 
 
 "Well! I wondered when you were going to 
 greet me," she began. Her top-knot waved and her 
 silks rustled as she plumed and girded herself for the 
 fray. But the Digest, gracefully manipulated, waved 
 her to silence. 
 
 "I do not wish to hear you talk. / am mistress 
 here, and / shall do the talking." She moved, and 
 Mrs. Witherby caught sight of her niece. She darted 
 at her in a fury. At the moment she was at least 
 capable of boxing her ears, whether such was her 
 specific intent or not. 
 
 351 
 
352 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Mabel! how dare you disobey me?" she began. 
 
 Mrs. Mearely stepped in between and languidly 
 shooed the warlike woman ofF with the periodical. 
 
 "Be silent, if you please. Mabel is my guest. 
 She is under my protection." She patted Mabel's 
 head. " Don't cry, dear, Don't be afraid. Corinne 
 come and sit by your cousin." She drew Corinne 
 to the spot indicated, despite maternal hands thrust 
 out to prevent. "You may sit there — and there." 
 She filHped the Digest to point out the chairs where 
 she desired to see Mrs. Witherby and Mr. Howard 
 deposit themselves. Howard sank into his chair 
 quickly, making himself as small as possible to escape 
 the high winds which he saw were about to sweep 
 over the landscape. Mrs. Witherby, by no means 
 subdued as yet, but temporarily nonplussed, sat 
 down; but she watched her antagonist with baleful 
 eye, waiting for an opening. Mrs. Mearely's justified 
 wrath burned high and she let the flames spread. 
 
 Since Roseborough would have it that she was 
 not a Mearely, nor a legitimate child of Roseborough, 
 she would let them all experience the encounter they 
 sought with little Rosamond Cort, the farmer's 
 daughter, of Poplars Vale, who could fill her two 
 hands with earth and declare "this is my earth — the 
 earth I sprang from!" and throw both handfuls at 
 anyone who was unnatural enough to look down upon 
 her. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 353 
 
 "So? You'll come into my house — with your 
 trunks — and take possession, eh? You'll be busy 
 here, will you ? You'll tell the whole of Roseborough 
 that Rosamond Cort, whose mother made butter, 
 has gone wrong at last ! Yes ; the unworthy widow of 
 the distinguished Hibbert Mearely had a lover in 
 her house in the middle of the night." She even 
 went so far as to mimic Mrs. Witherby's unique 
 intonations, as she quoted what that lady might be 
 expected to say in the village. 
 
 "*0h, yes, my dear. Of course I did what I could 
 to protect her. They arrested the man — but, of 
 course,'" — with nods and shrugs — "*Well, my dear, 
 after all — who was she ? Butter, my dear, butter!' 
 Butter, butter!" she hissed it, furiously. 
 
 "Oh, I know you — hypocrite! Now I shall give 
 you a lesson. I shall give Roseborough a lesson. 
 The joke will last this community for fifty years. 
 And maybe it will cure you of scandal-mongering, 
 though I doubt it. The man — is in there! As long 
 as there was a chance of his escape, I would have 
 protected his incognito.'' She paused to let the word 
 take effect. Then she floated to the music room door, 
 flung it wide and said, with deliberate impressiveness, 
 
 "Will you come here, if you please — Prince ?" 
 
 Corinne and Mabel turned and looked at each 
 other. Mrs. Witherby and Howard sat up and looked 
 at Rosamond. 
 
354 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Prince!" Mrs. Witherby repeated mechanically. 
 
 "What is it, Madam Make-Believe?" the prince 
 appeared in the doorway, with the watchful Marks 
 a step behind. 
 
 "Come, please — Prince.'* She led him toward the 
 group, taking care to keep slightly aside, and not 
 directly in front of him; for she knew, from Mr. 
 Mearely's dissertations on form, that one must never 
 turn one's back squarely upon royalty. 
 
 "Mrs. Witherby — Mr. Howard — this gentleman 
 whom you have insulted as grossly as you have in- 
 sulted me — is" (she consulted the paper). "Wait — 
 here it is. This gentleman is His Highness, Prince 
 Adam Lapid, reigning Duke of Woodseweedsetisky." 
 She addressed the Prince, diffidently: "I trust I have 
 pronounced Your Highness correctly?" 
 
 "Er — the pronunciation is perfect. The w's are 
 generally v's — that is, approximately — but to the 
 Saxon mind, of course, that is mere fussiness." He 
 drew near and murmured for her ear alone. " What's 
 the idea.?" 
 
 She did not hear his query; because she was in the 
 medium stage of a perfect curtsy. He saw her silver 
 draperies spread, like a moonht breaker flowing to 
 his feet; and he put a hand over his heart and bowed, 
 as a prince should — a low and stately bow it was; but 
 it may have been done to hide the mirth in his eyes. 
 
 Except to clasp each other's hands, Mabel and 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 355 
 
 Corinne had not moved. Howard stared. Mrs. 
 Witherby sat rigid, still muttering "prince." The 
 etiquette for the occasion was to be defined by a 
 humbler than they. 
 
 Constable Marks moved into the circle, and 
 took up his position a little to the left of His 
 Highness — as the tradition is, for armed guardians 
 of the Crown, the left side being the weaker, because 
 farther from the right arm and, possibly, also, because 
 nearer the heart (so the history of royal love-affairs, 
 with attendant political catastrophes, would suggest). 
 Slowly he removed his broken straw hat and held it 
 stiffly in front of him on his thumb. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby half rose, hesitated, got up, and 
 bowed twice. Dissatisfied with that, she attempted 
 a curtsy. Howard was on his feet now, with head 
 inclined in a respectful attitude. The prince hon- 
 oured Mrs. Witherby by returning her salutations. 
 She shook Corinne's arm. 
 
 "Get up. Commoners must rise when princes 
 are about. Haven't you any etiquette .f* " 
 
 A master of ceremonies seemed to have been 
 miraculously provided in the obsequious person of 
 Mr. Alfred Marks, a citizen of a land where such as 
 he eat their bread and cheese with a Hthographed 
 group of the Royal Family beside the God-Bless- 
 Our-Home motto, over the kitchen table and where 
 the lowliest Whitechapel pushcart man knows the 
 
356 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 King's taste in Court procedure and is free to agree 
 with it or not. He spoke now with reproof. 
 
 "Somebody ought to give 'Is 'Ighness a seat. 
 'Twouldn't be reg'lar for me, — bein' on juty an' 
 hactin' as the Royal Guard, so to speak." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, Howard, Corinne, and her cousin, 
 all ran to pull up the nearest chair they could lay 
 their hands on. 
 
 "Oh, really — I beg of you. Just one, thank you. 
 Won't you be seated again.?" 
 
 Seeing them hastening to obey, Mr. Marks inter- 
 posed again. He spoke severely. 
 
 ''H after 'Is 'Ighness!" 
 
 Heedless of the general awkwardness of four 
 persons, thus sharply arrested in half-sitting postures, 
 the Royal Guard pulled his kerchief out of his coat 
 pocket and dusted the throne, before assisting the 
 prince to seat himself by shoving it against his knee- 
 joints. Then, with a casual gesture, he permitted 
 the others to collapse all the way into their several 
 chairs. 
 
 It is customary for royalty, when not incognito, 
 to be discreet and infrequent of utterance. This 
 might explain the silence now maintained by the 
 prince, who had shown himself, earlier in the evening, 
 to be not only talkative but even merry and prankish. 
 His eyes still twinkled occasionally; but he no longer 
 took the initiative in introducing subjects of con- 
 
"GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 357 
 
 versation. He seemed to prefer to follow Mrs. 
 Mearely's lead. Possibly this was in accordance 
 with some old custom of providing a Talking Woman 
 to do the talking for princes, even as there were once 
 Whipping Boys, who received the princely deserts 
 for bad conduct. He affected not to hear questions, 
 or — murmuring, "Certainly," or ** Oh, to be sure " — he 
 referred the query to his Talking Woman for answer. 
 
 "I believe you read, earlier in the evening of 
 Prince Adam's adventures." She tapped the Digest 
 with her forefinger. 
 
 Corinne, unable to contain herself any longer, cried 
 out: 
 
 "Prince! Oh, Tm so glad you came here! But I 
 just felt sure you would. I said so to Mrs. Mearely."' 
 He smiled at her. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby*s suspicions were awake again. 
 
 "May I ask how you knew he was the prince.? Of 
 course I don't doubt Your Highness at all. But 
 may we not know how Mrs. Mearely was able to 
 corroborate . . . ?" 
 
 The prince bowed to her affably. "Oh, to be sure. 
 Naturally." He looked at Rosamond. 
 
 "When His Highness first entered I supposed he 
 was a vagabond. It was dark. When His Highness 
 spoke, of course I recognized that he was not a tramp, 
 but a gentleman." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby could not resist a dig. 
 
358 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "/ should have known that at once. Naturally, 
 from my station in life." 
 
 "Then — ^when I served the supper, His Highness 
 went into the dining room for a glass of water. Dur- 
 ing his absence, Captain Lass-an-a-vatiewicz'' (she 
 struggled over the name, but achieved it,) "of the Dip- 
 lomatic Secret Service of Woodseweedsetisky, came in. 
 He had been watching about here all the evening. 
 Mrs. Witherby saw him looking over the railing." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby sprang up. 
 
 "There! There!" she declared, triumphantly. 
 "I told you . . ." She pointed at Howard. 
 
 Constable Marks rebuked her sternly: 
 
 " 'Ere, 'ere, now! Less hexcitement and more 
 hetiquette before 'Is 'Ighness." 
 
 When she had subsided, Rosamond continued : 
 
 "He told me the real identity of my supposed 
 vagabond . . ." 
 
 "The real identity .f*" the prince questioned. 
 
 "I should say he suggested it to me, guardedly, 
 by telling me that he was here from — from Woodse- 
 weedsetisky." 
 
 Her eyes besought him to confirm her trembling 
 accents. 
 
 "Perfectly pronounced," he murmured. "Ex- 
 cept the w's, of course, as I said before. And the 
 o's and double e's being quite different." 
 
 She smiled happily. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 359 
 
 **rm so glad I say it right, now. He said he had 
 come to induce a certain great person to go home to 
 his duties — meaning Prince Adam and his throne." 
 
 The prince repeated, in quick surprise: 
 
 "To take a certain great person home?" 
 
 "Yes. That's how I knew who you were. And 
 he said that he knew the prince would come here 
 to-night, because of His Highness's chivalrous, ro- 
 mantic nature — to protect me, because I was alone." 
 
 The prince rose, in his growing astonishment. 
 
 "He expected His Highness here? To-night?" 
 
 "Yes; and here you are." She beamed. 
 
 He sat down again. "I pass," he muttered. 
 
 "How wonderful for His Highness to be so under- 
 stood," Howard commented. 
 
 "It must be. It is," His Highness answered. 
 He appeared to be in a brown study. 
 
 "I think even Mrs. Witherby must admit that 
 there is no longer a suspicion attached to me. And 
 that the fact that my midnight visitor is PrinceAdam 
 Lapid explains everything perfectly, and clears me." 
 
 With a gracious, condescending smile, Mrs. 
 Witherby received her again into the fold. 
 
 "Oh, yes. Certainly. Oh, yes, the fact that 
 His Highness is a prince clears up — everything,'' 
 
 "Ah, then I am royal with reason. I confer 
 reputation on lovely woman — rather reversing his- 
 torical precedent in that matter." 
 
36o ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "But, indeed, our dear Mrs. Mearely has given 
 Your Highness quite an erroneous idea of my friendly 
 ministrations in this house. She is so sensitive. 
 Of course, no one in this dear old town, where she is 
 so well known, would think for a moment that — 
 that . . .'' finding the sentence difficult to 
 complete, she wound up very emphatically — "Er — 
 No one ! Why don't you say something, Mr. 
 Howard ? You are our dear Rosamond's cousin." 
 
 Mrs. Mearely noted the use of her Christian name, 
 but forbore to administer a snub, knowing that she 
 would soon have a better revenge. 
 
 "You seemed to — um — be so full of the right 
 ideas, I could hardly contribute anything," he replied 
 lamely. 
 
 "Ah! But there is even a greater surprise in store 
 for our dear, active Mrs. Witherby. His Highness 
 is like a fairy prince. He brings romance to light 
 wherever he goes. Only to-night, Mrs. Witherby 
 said she had a premonition that an engagement 
 would be announced here, before she left this house. 
 How wonderful to have such a prophetic vision! 
 She discerned — in the crystal of her own pure 
 thoughts — that Mr. Howard's bachelor days were 
 
 over." 
 
 She saw that both Mrs. Witherby and Howard 
 started but she gave them no time to interrupt. 
 "Yes. It is my pride and pleasure, to announce 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 361 
 
 the engagement of my dear, considerate fifth cousin 
 — by marriage — to my friend and confidante, Miss 
 Mabel Crewe. How we have talked secrets to-night, 
 haven't we, Mabel? There! That is a surprise, 
 isn't it, Mrs. Witherby? But, think! How dis- 
 tinguished to have your niece's espousals blessed by 
 royalty! That will give you something to talk 
 about for the next fifty years ! " 
 
 She had waited a long night for this moment and 
 she made the most of it. MaHcious triumph shot 
 electrical sparks from her person. "Call me Rosa- 
 mond again! Cat!" was in her mind. 
 
 One cannot make scenes before royalty. Mrs. 
 Witherby's claws were clipped. She smiled a vine- 
 gary smile. 
 
 "It is a surprise — indeed. I am glad to learn that 
 the young people are in such affluent circumstances. 
 I hadn't known of their windfall." 
 
 Howard cleared his throat. 
 
 "I had not expected the — announcement. It is a 
 great honour — er — doubly so — er — under the cir- 
 cumstances." 
 
 Corinne embraced her cousin ecstatically. 
 
 "Oh, Mabel! Oh— I'm so glad! Oh, Your High- 
 ness, it must be wonderful to do such lovely things 
 for people. Perhaps that's why you are called 
 Prince Adam — because you make all things lovely, 
 like the Garden of Eden." 
 
362 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "Dear young lady," he responded; "it is my fond- 
 est aim to make this world once more an Eden for 
 everyone." He bowed to Mrs. Witherby, and 
 amended. "Of course, with certain restrictions — 
 chiefly in the matter of drapery." 
 
 Corinne sighed with extreme joy. 
 
 "Oh, it does change everythingv^htn a Prince comes ! " 
 
 " For a wedding gift to my dear cousin," Rosamond 
 said, "I am adding to his future wife's dower. As 
 Corinne says, it does change everything when a 
 prince comes. I never thought before how much I 
 might give. Come here, Wilton and sit beside her — 
 and thank your lucky stars. She wants you" she 
 muttered, as he passed her, "well, she shall own you." 
 
 "I do thank my lucky stars, cousin Rosamond," 
 he answered as he took Mabel's hand. His face 
 was dark with the flush of his own contempt. "I 
 am the gainer in every way. I am utterly unworthy 
 of her." Then, as her cold fingers clung tightly to 
 his, he added — speaking to her only, as if he were 
 determined to put behind him everything else that 
 had been said and thought in that room during the 
 night — "perhaps the coming of the prince may 
 change that, too." 
 
 "Oh, dear!" Corinne sighed again, "Mr. Howard, 
 / think you're perfectly nice. But that part doesn't 
 matter. Everybody will be so glad to see Mabel 
 get what she wants.'^ 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A SILENCE of acute embarrassment was happily 
 broken by Mr. Marks. Saluting, he said: 
 
 "If Hi may make so bold before Ts Tghness — 
 there'll be no 'oldin' Mrs. Marks w'en she hears of 
 Ts Tghness a-jumpin' on my 'ead, she bein' ham- 
 bitious." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby, who felt dissatisfied with the 
 opportunities accorded her hitherto for impressing 
 His Highness with her character as a gentlewoman all 
 Roseborough delighted to honour, settled herself 
 fussily in her chair and began to discourse, with an 
 air of one who has dwelt much, if not in palaces, at 
 least around the corner. 
 
 "Your Highness of course is only on a little in- 
 cognito journey — I presume, to study the conditions 
 of humbler folk. Your Highness will shortly return 
 to his throne, with all its royal splendours ? " 
 
 He bowed, and in a manner more royally aloof 
 than he had used before — a manner that proclaimed 
 the crowned Ruler — he condescended to converse with 
 her. 
 
 "We left our throne somewhat suddenly, because 
 our royal splendours had rather wearied us. Con- 
 
 3^ 
 
364 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 ceive, my dear madam, of having one's every step 
 attended by a score of uniformed menials. Con- 
 ceive of the infinite ceremony of — let us say — boot- 
 lacing, under the royal system. Contrast it with the 
 ease and privacy with which you, for instance, draw 
 on your fine prunella boots. You are alone. You sit. 
 There is the difficult stoop to bring the boot and the 
 foot into friendly focus. Then the valiant tussle, the 
 gasp, perhaps the stitch in the side — if the weather 
 is warm, the drop of moisture — and the thing is 
 accomplished." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby twitched as if she were about to 
 protest sharply, but a cold, lofty look and gesture 
 restrained her. 
 
 "If Hi may make so bold as to s'y so, Ts Tghness 
 is a wonderful 'and to describe things. Hi can see 
 'er doin' of it," Officer Marks snickered reverentially, 
 "beggin' 'Is 'Ighness's pardon." 
 
 The prince, regardless of the lady's bristles, eluci- 
 dated further: 
 
 "Whereas, with us, the matter is not so simple. 
 Conceive of a half battalion in livery to find the 
 boots — under the regulations of the Secret Service 
 Department. Two detectives to unravel the laces. 
 Two gentlemen, from the Interstate Commission of 
 Harmony-Producers, to bring the royal feet and 
 royal boots into juxtaposition. Four to incase the 
 feet in the boots. And, say, half a dozen more to 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 365 
 
 attend to lacing and polishing. So with everything. 
 An army of chemists to test one's toilet waters and 
 perfumes every time one desires a snifF — for fear 
 some anarchist spy may have dropped poison into 
 them. It becomes irksome. And, at times, we 
 steal forth secretly, climb the palace palings, leap 
 across the orchard, open the front gate of our king- 
 dom and stroll forth, incognito — as you see." 
 
 Corinne gasped "Isn't it thrilling.?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," Rosamond breathed. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was anxious cO retrieve herself, 
 feeling that her first essay had not resulted greatly 
 to her honour. She smiled respectfully and began 
 again. 
 
 "I hope Your Highness will not think me imperti- 
 nent — but is Your Highness not related to most of 
 the crowned heads of Europe?" 
 
 "You perceive resemblances?" 
 
 "Oh, strong ones ! " She tossed her head, delighted 
 with herself for this show of intelligence. " Particu- 
 larly to the Czar of Russia — and the King of Spain. 
 Also Emperor WilHam — about the eyes. Those are 
 the royalties who are most often photographed in 
 the papers. But I daresay Your Highness resembles 
 all the others, too. I beheve you are all related.? 
 One hears that said." 
 
 "We sprang from a common parent, madam." 
 
 Mr. Marks looked about, proudly, and said: 
 
366 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 ''Hi think 'e looks like the King of Hengland.'^ 
 After a brief pause, he added patronizingly, "though 
 the hothers is well enough in their way." 
 
 "I trust Your Highness does not find us deficient 
 in etiquette," said Mrs. Witherby. "My late 
 husband's mother once knew a London lady who had 
 been to Court." 
 
 "Oh mamma, Fm sure His Highness doesn't care 
 about etiquette, or he wouldn't run away incog," 
 Corinne expostulated. 
 
 "Every Court has its rules of etiquette, my dear, 
 and even royalty must conform to them." 
 
 Corinne looked disappointed. 
 
 "Oh, does Your Highness have to do just so — as we 
 do?" 
 
 He gave her an affectionate, whimsical glance, and 
 said: 
 
 "Yes; but when I put on my crown and climb upon 
 my throne, I write my own rules of Just So. And, 
 what is more, I make everyone conform to them. It 
 is not difficult. Because, when they once understand, 
 they wish to conform; and no other rules will do for 
 them at all." 
 
 "They must be wonderful laws that people zuant to 
 keep," Mabel thought. 
 
 Rosamond, asking for more fairy tales, said : 
 
 "Oh, won't Your Highness tell us about your 
 •countrv?" 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 367 
 
 He took her hands lightly, smiling into her eager 
 eyes : 
 
 " Trince, Prince, how does your garden grow ? ' It 
 is a great thing to be the prince of one's own little 
 country. There are no prisons; because there are 
 no criminals. That is because everything is freely 
 given. Our financial rating is according to what a 
 man has given." He looked pointedly at the heiress 
 of the Mearely fortune, and added, "No one is proud 
 of being merely rich." She blushed faintly and looked 
 down, accepting the suggested rebuke. His regard, 
 with its whimsical seriousness — its blend of humorous 
 comprehension, and confident love, of human nature 
 — sought Mabel's, next. "There are no poor ; because 
 they have learned to love while they serve — and that 
 makes them rich." He looked at Howard and per- 
 haps he, too, recognized the ** product of a bloodless, 
 stagnant village" — bhnd only because it had not 
 been shown light; for there was no sting in his words: 
 "Love is valued above everything. The love of a 
 girl's heart is more precious to her lover than much 
 gold." The lovers' fingers tightened on each other's. 
 "And no one frowns on young chatterboxes or says 
 'hush! hush!'" 
 
 "Oh — h," Corinne sighed again in ecstasy. 
 
 "There are no gossips in my country. That is 
 because every child is taught to recite, in its cradle, 
 the articles of the country's Constitution. Every 
 
368 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 infant can say *Oo — goo-goo — goog-ly ' — ^which, when 
 translated, means * Mind your own business ! ' " Mrs. 
 Witherby became as flustered as if everyone in 
 Roseborough did not know (from hearing her oft 
 asseverate it) how she despised gossip. The Prince 
 continued: "Observance of this one law has given 
 perfect domestic, social, religious, political, and inter- 
 national harmony.'' 
 
 There was silence for some time after this, while 
 the younger folk, at least, tried to visualize a country 
 where all these things were true. Even Mr. Marks 
 was in dreamland, absent-mindedly chewing his 
 hat-brim and spufiing out the straw chips. 
 
 "Hit must be a 'appy neighbour 'ood," he said 
 at last, plaintively. His Highness gave him a 
 merry look over his shoulder. 
 
 "It is," he said. "All the police are sergeants. 
 They have no weapons. But the government sup- 
 plies them with a new cherry ribbon for their watch- 
 fobs every Sunday." 
 
 Marks saluted, grinning bashfully. 
 
 "Oh, tell some more," Corinne urged. "Please 
 Prince, tell some more — about you'' 
 
 "Yes," Rosamond echoed. "Tell some more 
 about you." 
 
 "About me?" He looked past the little group, 
 whose limited and selfish ideas of human joy and the 
 means to happiness had brought them into Villa 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 369 
 
 Rose to know envy and suspicion and to call one 
 another names; and he saw the river and its valley 
 painted by the dawn. Earth and sky were agleam 
 with the fires that precede the rising sun. The 
 rhythms of earth's beauty, flowing to meet and heal 
 the human need, came to his ear in the Hit of a verse 
 such as a child's lips might shape, as it went dancing, 
 barefoot, through the radiant valley. 
 "I.? Why— lam . . ." 
 
 I am Prince of the Nameless Land. 
 
 I have set my throne on the azure steep, 
 And rimmed it round with a starry band, 
 
 For the hearts that stray and the eyes that weep. 
 
 Faith rears my walls o'er a garden slope; 
 My dreams are camped on the hills of Hope; 
 
 White stone is my castle crest. 
 Peace is my sentry and Mirth my guard, 
 My gates are wide and my doors unbarred 
 
 For the feet of the human guest. 
 
 Joy is my sceptre, and Tenderness 
 
 The crown on my august brow; 
 The ring on my finger is Gratitude 
 
 To God, who has sealed my vow. 
 And set his song in my waiting lips, 
 
 His love in my writing hand. 
 And made me Lord of the Things Men Dream — 
 
 The Prince of their Nameless Land! 
 
 The rosy glow from the sky stole into the room; 
 and, to the Nature-man and song-maker, it came like 
 music. So Love had come to him there: at last. 
 
370 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 the song with words, fitting the measures of its plain 
 telling to the old rhythms of his daily faith and desire. 
 She — the woman — ^was the gift to him of all the dawns 
 he had watched alone. 
 
 A crashing of hoofs on the hill-road called the 
 singer and his companions back to Roseborough. 
 
 "What rapid riding!" Mrs. Witherby exclaimed. 
 She went to the verandah, followed by Howard. 
 "Can it be someone coming here?" 
 
 "Oh dear!" Corinne sighed. "Roseborough will 
 never see a night like this again." 
 
 The prince turned to her abruptly. 
 
 "What did you say?" 
 
 She looked at him, in surprise at his tone. 
 
 "I said we'd never have another wonderful night 
 like this in Roseborough." 
 
 "In Roseborough F " he repeated, plainly astonished. 
 "This — ^this is not Roseborough?" 
 
 "But certainly it is," Rosamond answered. "I 
 told you so." 
 
 "You told me it was Something Vale. Rose- 
 borough!" He stared at her, blankly. "Fve been 
 wondering for hours how a house in Something Vale 
 could look down on just the same bit of the river. 
 How is it that you . . . ? Really" — he looked 
 in amazement from one to the other — "you know, 
 it's very odd to find that I have realjy been here all 
 the time!" 
 
''GOOD-MORNTNG, ROSAMOND!" 371 
 
 "Quite so," Howard replied, kindly. To Mrs. 
 Witherby he whispered, tapping his brow signifi- 
 cantly, "Charming fellow — His Highness — but 
 touched." 
 
 "Oh yes!" She agreed, excitedly. "Of course, I 
 saw that at once. But royalty is, you know. 
 They're all insane. I've always heard tliat." 
 
 The galloping pounded into the driveway and up 
 to the verandah. 
 
 "It's Dr. Frei," Howard said. 
 
 Frei strode rapidly across the porch, his gaze seek- 
 ing Rosamond. He wore a long, black, military 
 cloak and a soft black hat. As he swept off his hat, 
 and let the cloak fall back from his arm, he suggested 
 a staff-officer in uniform. A sword-glance was 
 flashed in scathing contempt over all but Mrs. 
 Mearely and the prince. These two were exempt 
 from his anger, because he could feel nothing but 
 tenderness for Rosamond; and the prince he had not 
 yet perceived. That distinguished personage had 
 caught sight of Frei on the verandah and immediately 
 hidden himself behind the door. 
 
 "Rosamond!" He called her name feehngly and 
 made his way rapidly to her. He kissed her hand. 
 "Fear no longer. / am here." 
 
 "Ah, you have heard of the excitement," Mrs. 
 Witherby began. 
 
 He silenced her with a gesture so commanding, 
 
372 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' . 
 
 that she continued to stare at his hand for several 
 seconds afterward. His eyes blazed, his whole body 
 quivered with the excess of his emotion. 
 
 "Yes! I have heard it! First from Herr Ruggle, 
 of the telegraph, when together we reach for our 
 milk pails on the back of the porch. Then from 
 Dr. Wells. Finally from everybody! I have heard 
 how this beautiful Rosamond, of Roseborough, has 
 been suspected, maligned; her reputation slandered, 
 ruined — criticized — criticized^' — he hissed out the 
 word with uncontrollable fury — " by you — and you — 
 and you," snapping his fingers right and left. "Yes, 
 criticized! and why.? why.?" Glaring, he paused 
 for emphasis. " Because a gentleman calls upon her, 
 at his convenience! What is more natural?" scorn- 
 fully. "Two — three o'clock in the morning — these 
 are not your hours for visiting .? No ! I can believe 
 that!" with seething contempt. "With you — 
 with you — it must be just so. Bah! With me, if I 
 am wakeful and I wish to visit some friend at three 
 o'clock in the morning, immediately I ring my bell, I 
 wake everybody, I am dressed, I demand the carriage 
 or the automobile, or the aeroplane, and I go to visit 
 my friend. I wish to visit, and I visit! What is 
 more natural ? Does the clock rule the inclinations 
 or the reputations.? Absurdity!" 
 
 While he drew breath, Rosamond said quickly: 
 "They know now. It's all explained." 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 373 
 
 ** Certainly. / have come to make the explana- 
 tion. For your sake only. I detest criticism. I do 
 nothing for people who criticize. If I can make 
 great trouble for them, I do so. Always. But for 
 you, whose heart is torn, bleeding, from their criti- 
 cisms, I make the great sacrifice. I renounce my 
 incognito. I take you under my protection." 
 
 The word "incognito" is an unusual one to hear 
 bandied about in a peaceful village like Roseborough, 
 and would be sure to produce its effect at any time; 
 but hardly such an effect as was produced by Dr. 
 Frei^s use of it now. Everyone stared at him, then 
 at one another and back at him; that is, everyone 
 but Mrs. Mearely, who had long ago convinced her- 
 self that Dr. Frei was some noted violin virtuoso who 
 had come to peaceful Roseborough to recover his 
 health. 
 
 His manner changed. The feverish excitement 
 of the furious avenger (on critics) faded. With 
 lifted head — yet not assertively lifted, but held high 
 with an hereditary and inbred dignity — and the quiet 
 accents of habitual and unquestioned authority, he 
 said: 
 
 "I am Adam, Prince of Woodseweedsetisky.'* 
 He pronounced it as if it were written Vode-s'-vade- 
 s'-teesky. 
 
 There is a common phrase for describing a blank 
 silence after a shock; "one could have heard a pin 
 
374 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 drop." In the silence that filled Villa Rose, one could 
 feel the temperature drop. In time, Rosamond 
 found her faculties of speech. 
 
 "Er — er — it's very good of you. Dr. Frei, to at- 
 tempt this — er — masquerade for my sake. But 
 my reputation has already been saved — by Prince 
 Adam of — Woodse ..." 
 
 " Vode-s'-vade-s'-teesky." 
 
 "Ye — es. The real Prince Adam is here." She 
 looked about for her prince. 
 
 "Hi found 'im. 'Ere's 'Is 'Ighness — 'idin' up 'ere." 
 
 His Highness, the Vagabond, perforce stepped out 
 of his concealment into Dr. Frei's ken. He bowed 
 to him ceremoniously, respectfully, yet with a sparkle 
 of mirth in his eye. 
 
 "This is Prince Adam," Mrs. Mearely said. 
 
 "At your service," he said, to Frei. 
 
 "Ach! no! This is too much!" Frei stormed at 
 him. '*The fountain! You criticized me because 
 the water did not arrive to spout. I put you in the 
 prison and now you come out and say you are me. 
 Oh no! You are not me. Who you are, I forget. 
 I purposely forget, because you are of no importance 
 whatever. But you are not me." He stopped, 
 breathing heavily and glaring. 
 
 "This needs clearing up," Mrs. Witherby said. 
 She looked at Mrs. Mearely and her vagabond, and 
 said it very positively. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 375 
 
 As if in answer, the thickset figure of Teodor Carl 
 Peter Lassanavatiewicz stumbled across the porch 
 and into the room. He burst into sobs at the near 
 view of his Sovereign. He rushed to Frei, fell on his 
 knees — despite the wound he groaned at — and kissed 
 his hands. 
 
 *'Ach/ Ich hahe Sie gefunden. It is thou. All 
 night have I in the wet grass and hard roads waited. 
 But I have fallen asleep.'' He caught sight of the 
 vagabond and exploded, in angry astonishment, 
 ^^ Der Anarchist ! der Teufel !'' 
 
 Frei, deeply moved, looked down upon him. 
 
 "Ah — 'is it thou, my faithful Teodor?" Emotion- 
 ally, with wet eyes, he indicated the kneeling figure 
 to the silent group in Villa Rose. "Always he is 
 searching the world for me! Ah — ah — so faithful! 
 Faithful Teodor." He observed a white linen strip 
 about the faithful one's nether limb. "You are 
 wounded ? " he cried, in dismay. 
 
 Indignation sounded through the kneeling man's 
 sobs. 
 
 "I — I have been abominably — execrably wounded 
 in the leg." 
 
 "Ah— ah! Poor Teodor." 
 
 "You will go home with me? You will at last 
 marry the Princess Olga, who adores you ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes," soothingly. "We will go home. 
 We will marry her." He sighed. "She will say she 
 
376 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!" 
 
 adores me. She has been well brought up." He 
 turned his attention once more to Roseborough and 
 the present. "Farewell," he said — his expression 
 was grieved and disdainful — "I go — ^without regrets. 
 Here, where I thought was my journey's end, I have 
 heard most cruel criticism. It is the world. Every- 
 where the same. I go back to my own country, 
 where I can put the critics in the prison !" 
 
 The vagabond asked meekly: 
 
 "If Your Highness will be so kind as to introduce 
 me and vouch for my respectability — for Mrs. 
 Mearely's sake . . ." 
 
 Prince Adam bent upon him imperious looks of 
 intense dislike. 
 
 "For Mrs. Mearely, nothing is needed. You — 
 and you" — pointing at the offenders, chief of whom 
 he rightly considered to be Mrs. Witherby — "de- 
 stroyed her reputation. But I have given her a new 
 one. She needs no more. Now, those, who ab- 
 surdly criticized her, are at her feet in apologies. 
 They will humble themselves before her always." 
 
 "Nay, Your Highness," replied the vagabond, 
 who had read the signs more clearly. In spite of 
 himself, the whimsical strain came uppermost. 
 "Here also, water will not run uphill — not even to 
 oblige a prince." 
 
 "I say, I do not know you!" Prince Adam thun- 
 dered, "You are an anarchist and a critic. From 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 377 
 
 you I have received this false tale of a place where 
 *all hearts are tender and sincere.' Roseborough! 
 Ah! bah! You are my evil genius. I repudiate 
 you. Before all, I say I do not know this man." 
 
 He took Rosamond's hand and, with profound 
 reverence, kissed it. "Rosamond," he repeated her 
 name feelingly, "I cannot take you where I am going. 
 Besides, now I shall marry Princess Olga, and it is 
 even possible she would not wish you to be with me. 
 You will remain forever in my memory — my one 
 true dream, the perfect melody I heard but could not 
 keep. Farewell." 
 
 He saluted the others distantly. ** Madame. 
 Ladies. Herr Howard." He marched out with 
 swift step, but stopped suddenly on the verandah, 
 remembering the wounded Lassanavatiewicz limping 
 behind. "Come, my Teodor. Come my Teodor. 
 Ah — ah — so faithful." He put his arm about his 
 Teodor's shoulder an instant, as the latter Hfted his 
 bandaged leg over the threshold, an act of condescen- 
 sion which caused Lassanavatiewicz to weep de- 
 votedly. Prince Adam crossed the verandah and 
 passed from view without a backward glance. 
 
 Mr. Marks, alone of those in the living room of 
 Villa Rose, had comments to make immediately, 
 and his were personal. He was divided between 
 pleasure at having actually hit Lassanavatiewicz and 
 chagrin at having only grazed him. 
 
378 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 "That's wot 'appens w'en foreigners goes hup 
 against Henglish guns," he said proudly; and, at 
 once, added disappointedly "But Hi do wish my 
 aim was better. Hi do wish that.'' 
 
 Thought in Roseborough usually moved like 
 molasses below zero, even when Roseborough had 
 not been up all night. It should have been easy, 
 otherwise, for Mrs. Witherby or Mrs. Mearely to 
 identify the pseudo prince from some of the phrases 
 in the real prince's tirade against him. One or 
 two phrases uttered by Prince Adam, however, could 
 not make Mrs. Mearely forget that she had been de- 
 ceived; nor could they enlighten Mrs. Witherby, who 
 found it more enjoyable to revive all her old 
 suspicions — which dated, and gathered momentum 
 from the absence of Amanda, Jemima and Blake, 
 and the simultaneous appearance of the rose-and- 
 silver gown. She recalled the sly jibes she had been 
 obliged to bear submissively rather than offend 
 Royalty, and her temper flew to the masthead like a 
 regatta display — all primary colours, and chiefly red. 
 She hurled her fury first upon the vagabond: 
 
 "Oh, the miserable upstart! The thief! The 
 villain! As to you, Mrs. Mearely, let us see if you'll 
 hold your head high in Roseborough after the tale 
 I'll tell. You'll make a fool of me, will you, with 
 your 'prince*? Oh, indeed! Let me tell you, you'll 
 never have a reputation again. I know you. Try- 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 379 
 
 ing to escape with such tales. You villain! You 
 counterfeiter! Oh! When I think how I've scraped 
 and kow-towed to you!" She concluded with a 
 direct attack upon the mock prince, even as she had 
 begun. 
 
 " 7w thinkin' 'e looks like the King of Hengland f 
 Officer Marks was bellicose about that delusion, 
 **'E's a himpostor !'' 
 
 The vagabond was prevented from offering a third 
 interpretation of himself by Mrs. Lee's advent. She 
 came in, all tender distress, and put her arms about 
 Rosamond as if to protect something precious to 
 herself. 
 
 "Oh, my dear. You are all right, unhurt? Su- 
 sannah Potts stopped just now, and told me of your 
 fright — the excitement — and, oh, such a tale! She 
 was on her way to do a day's cleaning at the Kilroys, 
 and saw me in my garden, and told me that Maria 
 had sat up in a bedquilt all night at the telephone, 
 and had rung your number twenty-nine times! 
 When one has no telephone one misses a great deal. 
 But you should have sent someone to wake me. It 
 was just your sweet thoughtfulness, not to break an 
 old woman's sleep." She patted Rosamond's cheek. 
 
 The vagabond had watched her, from the moment 
 of her appearance, with affectionate eyes. He 
 stepped forward now. Sixteen years had changed 
 him — turned a long, slender boy into a compact 
 
38o ''GOOD-MORN I NGy ROSAMOND!" 
 
 broad-shouldered man, written in his face much more 
 than the simple tales of the First Primer. Had they 
 met on the road, she might not have known him. 
 It was not his outward person that she recognized 
 now; but she knew that attitude of head held forward 
 and bent in humility; hands thrust deep into coat 
 pockets, and black eyes, apparently downcast, but 
 in reality gleaming through half-closed lids, while he 
 mutely asked pardon for some outrageous prank, 
 and at the same time flashed the impudent news that 
 he would not undo it if he could, no, not for a wilder- 
 ness of monkeys. 
 
 "Who was the dreadful man," Mrs. Lee was ask- 
 ing when she caught sight of him. "Why — ^who — 
 who.f* Jack! Jack, my dear boy — Oh, my dear 
 boy." She went to him with open arms and em- 
 braced him and crooned over him. 
 
 "Yes, Mother Lee. Fm home again." He kissed 
 her cheek. " But you didn't tell me that you don't 
 live here any more! So it was I, Mother Lee. I was 
 the tramp." 
 
 "Oh Jack!" she laughed happily, though her eyes 
 were wet. "And then you told some story and kept 
 it up. Just the same, naughty Jack." She held his 
 arm in hers as she beamed delightedly at the others. 
 "So now you all know one another, and I needn't 
 make any introductions. And see how wonderfully 
 it came about, too — ^just as I longed to have it, Mrs. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 381 
 
 Mearely! My Jack and Roseborough met without 
 knowing that they were Jack Falcon and Rosebor- 
 ough, and so they found out each other's true selves 
 at once. How beautiful! " 
 
 She was leaning to gaze into his face with loving 
 look, and so did not see that everyone, but Corinne, 
 sought some spot for view where eyes would not be 
 encountered. Constable Marks, having no cause 
 for moral sensitiveness, put his battered straw hat 
 on and took it off again in punctilious greeting to the 
 new arrival. 
 
 "Hi'm 'appy to welcome you 'ome. Sir. Hi'U 
 be goin' along, now, to tell Mrs. Marks as 'ow Hi 
 was almost the first to greet you. She halways 'as 
 a 'ankerin' to see me prominent." He drew out his 
 watch. "Nigh on my breakfast time." 
 
 "Good day, sergeant" Falcon called after him, 
 good humouredly. Constable Halfred Marks grinned 
 sheepishly and departed. 
 
 Presently Mabel gave words to the thought in 
 everyone's mind, but Mrs. Lee's and Corinne's. She 
 said: 
 
 "And we've all got to live here knowing each 
 other!'' 
 
 ""Won't that be wholesome?" Falcon said cheerily. 
 
 Corinne could contain herself no longer. 
 
 "Oh Goody! Oh, to think the prince is going to 
 stay in Roseborough! Prince Falcon! And, oh. 
 
382 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 Mrs. Lee, Mabel's going to marry Mr. Howard — at 
 last!'' 
 
 "Oh, how glad I am!" Mrs. Lee embraced Mabel. 
 "Two dear young people. Such an unselfish girl, 
 always labouring for dear aunt Emma and Corinne. 
 How often I've prayed, *May that sweet, unselfish 
 girl get a good husband. ' " She shook hands with 
 Howard. 
 
 "I — I didn't know anybody ever noticed me," 
 Mabel answered, with quivering lip. 
 
 "How glad our dear Mrs. Witherby must be. I 
 know what joy she feels. She is always more in- 
 terested in others than in her own affairs." 
 
 Mrs. Witherby hunted for her handkerchief, 
 snifHing with unexpected emotion, and faltered : 
 
 "Her father was my favourite brother — my 
 favourite." 
 
 "And now you'll all meet at breakfast as dear 
 friends, and not strangers. But that is the spirit of 
 Roseborough. Jack, perhaps you'll find that all 
 your wandering has only led you safely home. 
 ^Somewhere, dear boy, even you must find your end- 
 ♦of-journeying. You remember the words: 'Dear 
 lloseborough, to every seeker of harmony thou art 
 his end-of-journeying; to every wanderer, his home' ?' 
 
 "My *end-of-journeying'!"he repeated, and looked 
 at Rosamond, who had stolen away from the room 
 to the verandah. 
 
''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 383 
 
 The golden light of the risen sun filled the open 
 spaces of the garden and sought for chinks and win- 
 dow holes in the great elms, through which to send its 
 warm yellow shafts into Villa Rose. Falcon went 
 out to the railing, and looked down. The sun was 
 splashing all the hillside with glory; and the river 
 flowed hke golden glass. 
 
 Mrs. Witherby was repeating something she had 
 evolved, at last, as the perfect explanation of "all 
 our Httle mistakes last night." 
 
 "If only it hadn't happened in the night! I'm 
 sure / would never have thought — I'm the last 
 person to. . . . But when things happen in the 
 night .'" 
 
 Mrs. Lee had joined her boy on the verandah. 
 She pointed to the sunlight that now burst through 
 the elms in a dozen places. 
 
 " But the night is past," she said comfortingly. 
 
 Rosamond, lifting her face to let the midsummer 
 morning sky shower its splendour on her, echoed 
 softly : 
 
 "Yes — the night is past." 
 
 Falcon turned to her. He heard the secret call 
 in her low note, the human undertone of the high 
 wind-swung song of the nests. 
 
 Their eyes met. Their youth — and the joy and 
 the hope of it — leaped in them, and they smiled 
 wonderingly at each other. 
 
384 ''GOOD-MORNING, ROSAMOND!'' 
 
 With a buoyant, compelling movement Falcon 
 went to her, under her golden leaf-laced veil of sun, 
 and gripped her hand in the firm, warm clasp of a 
 comrade who has sought long and will never let go of 
 the mate he has found. 
 
 "Night is past — Good-morning, Rosamond !" 
 
 They laughed for sheer gladness. 
 
 THE END 
 
THE COUNTRY LITE PSESS 
 GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 
 
iflffi^'ft-J^ltA   
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borrowed. 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
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THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA UBRARY