Project Gutenberg's By the Light of the Soul, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: By the Light of the Soul
       A Novel

Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Illustrator: Harold M. Brett

Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #17564]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BY THE LIGHT OF THE SOUL ***




Produced by Jeff Kaylin and Andrew Sly






By the Light of the Soul

A Novel

By
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman


Author of
"The Debtor" "The Portion of Labor"
"Jerome" "A New England Nun"
Etc. etc.


Illustrations by
Harold M. Brett


New York and London
Harper & Brothers Publishers
1907



Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothers.
All rights reserved.
Published January, 1907.



To Harriet and Carolyn Alden



Chapter I


Maria Edgham, who was a very young girl, sat in the church vestry
beside a window during the weekly prayer-meeting.

As was the custom, a young man had charge of the meeting, and he
stood, with a sort of embarrassed dignity, on the little platform
behind the desk. He was reading a selection from the Bible. Maria
heard him drone out in a scarcely audible voice: "Whom the Lord
loveth, He chasteneth," and then she heard, in a quick response, a
soft sob from the seat behind her. She knew who sobbed: Mrs. Jasper
Cone, who had lost her baby the week before. The odor of crape came
in Maria's face, making a species of discordance with the fragrance
of the summer night, which came in at the open window. Maria felt
irritated by it, and she wondered why Mrs. Cone felt so badly about
the loss of her baby. It had always seemed to Maria a most
unattractive child, large-headed, flabby, and mottled, with ever an
open mouth of resistance, and a loud wail of opposition to existence
in general. Maria felt sure that she could never have loved such a
baby. Even the unfrequent smiles of that baby had not been winning;
they had seemed reminiscent of the commonest and coarsest things of
life, rather than of heavenly innocence. Maria gazed at the young man
on the platform, who presently bent his head devoutly, and after
saying, "Let us pray," gave utterance to an unintelligible flood of
supplication intermingled with information to the Lord of the state
of things on the earth, and the needs of his people. Maria wondered
why, when God knew everything, Leon Barber told him about it, and she
also hoped that God heard better than most of the congregation did.
But she looked with a timid wonder of admiration at the young man
himself. He was so much older than she, that her romantic fancies,
which even at such an early age had seized upon her, never included
him. She as yet dreamed only of other dreamers like herself,
Wollaston Lee, for instance, who went to the same school, and was
only a year older. Maria had made sure that he was there, by a
glance, directly after she had entered, then she never glanced at him
again, but she wove him into her dreams along with the sweetness of
the midsummer night, and the morally tuneful atmosphere of the place.
She was utterly innocent, her farthest dreams were white, but she
dreamed. She gazed out of the window through which came the wind on
her little golden-cropped head (she wore her hair short) in cool
puffs, and she saw great, plumy masses of shadow, themselves like the
substance of which dreams were made. The trees grew thickly down the
slope, which the church crowned, and at the bottom of the slope
rushed the river, which she heard like a refrain through the
intermittent soughing of the trees. A whippoorwill was singing
somewhere out there, and the katydids shrieked so high that they
almost surmounted dreams. She could smell wild grapes and pine and
other mingled odors of unknown herbs, and the earth itself. There had
been a hard shower that afternoon, and the earth still seemed to cry
out with pleasure because of it. Maria had worn her old shoes to
church, lest she spoil her best ones; but she wore her pretty pink
gingham gown, and her hat with a wreath of rosebuds, and she felt to
the utmost the attractiveness of her appearance. She, however, felt
somewhat conscience-stricken on account of the pink gingham gown. It
was a new one, and her mother had been obliged to have it made by a
dress-maker, and had paid three dollars for that, beside the
trimmings, which were lace and ribbon. Maria wore the gown without
her mother's knowledge. She had in fact stolen down the backstairs on
that account, and gone out the south door in order that her mother
should not see her. Maria's mother was ill lately, and had not been
able to go to church, nor even to perform her usual tasks. She had
always made Maria's gowns herself until this pink gingham.

Maria's mother was originally from New England, and her conscience
was abnormally active. Her father was of New Jersey, and his
conscience, while no one would venture to say that it was defective,
did not in the least interfere with his enjoyment of life.

"Oh, well, Abby," her father would reply, easily, when her mother
expressed her distress that she was unable to work as she had done,
"we shall manage somehow. Don't worry, Abby." Worry in another
irritated him even more than in himself.

"Well, Maria can't help much while she is in school. She is a
delicate little thing, and sometimes I am worried about her."

"Oh, Maria can't be expected to do much while she is in school," her
father said, easily. "We'll manage somehow, only for Heaven's sake
don't worry."

Then Maria's father had taken his hat and gone down street. He always
went down street of an evening. Maria, who had been sitting on the
porch, had heard every word of the conversation which had been
carried on in the sitting-room that very evening. It did not alarm
her at all because her mother considered her delicate. Instead, she
had a vague sense of distinction on account of it. It was as if she
realized being a flower rather than a vegetable. She thought of it
that night as she sat in meeting. She glanced across at a girl who
went to the same school--a large, heavily built child with a
coarseness of grain showing in every feature--and a sense of
superiority at once exalted and humiliated her. She said to herself
that she was much finer and prettier than Lottie Sears, but that she
ought to be thankful and not proud because she was. She felt vain,
but she was sorry because of her vanity. She knew how charming her
pink gingham gown was, but she knew that she ought to have asked her
mother if she might wear it. She knew that her mother would scold
her--she had a ready tongue--and she realized that she would deserve
it. She had put on the pink gingham on account of Wollaston Lee, who
was usually at prayer-meeting. That, of course, she could not tell
her mother. There are some things too sacred for little girls to tell
their mothers. She wondered if Wollaston would ask leave to walk home
with her. She had seen a boy step out of a waiting file at the vestry
door to a blushing girl, and had seen the girl, with a coy readiness,
slip her hand into the waiting crook of his arm, and walk off, and
she had wondered when such bliss would come to her. It never had. She
wondered if the pink gingham might bring it to pass to-night. The
pink gingham was as the mating plumage of a bird. All unconsciously
she glanced sideways over the fall of lace-trimmed pink ruffles at
her slender shoulders at Wollaston Lee. He was gazing straight at
Miss Slome, Miss Ida Slome, who was the school-teacher, and his young
face wore an expression of devotion. Maria's eyes followed his; she
did not dream of being jealous; Miss Slome seemed too incalculably
old to her for that. She was not so very old, in her early thirties,
but the early thirties to a young girl are venerable. Miss Ida Slome
was called a beauty. She, as well as Maria, wore a pink dress, at
which Maria privately wondered. The teacher seemed to her too old to
wear pink. She thought she ought wear black like her mother. Miss
Slome's pink dress had knots of black velvet about it which
accentuated it, even as Miss Slome's face was accentuated by the
clear darkness of her eyes and the black puff of her hair above her
finely arched brows. Her cheeks were of the sweetest red--not pink
but red--which seemed a further tone of the pink of her attire, and
she wore a hat encircled with a wreath of red roses. Maria thought
that she should have worn a bonnet. Maria felt an odd sort of
instinctive antagonism for her. She wondered why Wollaston looked at
the teacher so instead of at herself. She gave her head a charming
cant, and glanced again, but the boy still had his eyes fixed upon
the elder woman, with that rapt expression which is seen only in the
eyes of a boy upon an older woman, and which is primeval, involving
the adoration and awe of womanhood itself. The boy had not reached
the age when he was capable of falling in love, but he had reached
the age of adoration, and there was nothing in little Maria Edgham in
her pink gingham, with her shy, sidelong glances, to excite it. She
was only a girl, the other was a goddess. His worship of the teacher
interfered with Wollaston's studies. He was wondering as he sat there
if he could not walk home with her that night, if by chance any _man_
would be in waiting for her. How he hated that imaginary man. He
glanced around, and as he did so, the door opened softly, and Harry
Edgham, Maria's father, entered. He was very late, but he had waited
in the vestibule, in order not to attract attention, until the people
began singing a hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul," to the tune of "When
the Swallows Homeward Fly." He was a distinctly handsome man. He
looked much younger than Maria's mother, his wife. People said that
Harry Edgham's wife might, from her looks, have been his mother. She
was a tall, dark, rather harsh-featured woman. In her youth she had
had a beauty of color; now that had passed, and she was sallow, and
she disdained to try to make the most of herself, to soften her stern
face by a judicious arrangement of her still plentiful hair. She
strained it back from her hollow temples, and fastened it securely on
the top of her head. She had a scorn of fashions in hair or dress
except for Maria. "Maria is young," she said, with an ineffable
expression of love and pride, and a tincture of defiance, as if she
were defying her own age, in the ownership of the youth of her child.
She was like a rose-bush which possessed a perfect bud of beauty, and
her own long dwelling upon the earth could on account of that be
ignored. But Maria's father was different. He was quite openly a vain
man. He was handsome, and he held fast to his youth, and would not
let it pass by. His hair, curling slightly over temples boyish in
outlines, although marked, was not in the least gray. His mustache
was carefully trimmed. After he had seated himself unobtrusively in a
rear seat, he looked around for his daughter, who saw him with
dismay. "Now," she thought, her chances of Wollaston Lee walking home
with her were lost. Father would go home with her. Her mother had
often admonished Harry Edgham that when Maria went to meeting alone,
he ought to be in waiting to go home with her, and he obeyed his
wife, generally speaking, unless her wishes conflicted too
strenuously with his own. He did not in the least object to-night,
for instance, to dropping late into the prayer-meeting. There were
not many people there, and all the windows were open, and there was
something poetical and sweet about the atmosphere. Besides, the
singing was unusually good for such a place. Above all the other
voices arose Ida Slome's sweet soprano. She sang like a bird; her
voice, although not powerful, was thrillingly sweet. Harry looked at
her as she sang, and thought how pretty she was, but there was no
disloyalty to his wife in the look. He was, in fact, not that sort of
man. While he did not love his Abby with utter passion, all the women
of the world could not have swerved him from her.

Harry Edgham came of perhaps the best old family in that vicinity,
Edgham itself had been named for it, and while he partook of that
degeneracy which comes to the descendants of the large old families,
while it is as inevitable that they should run out, so to speak, as
flowers which have flourished too many years in a garden, whose soil
they have exhausted, he had not lost the habit of rectitude of his
ancestors. Virtue was a hereditary trait of the Edghams.

Harry Edgham looked at Ida Slome with as innocent admiration as
another woman might have done. Then he looked again at his daughter's
little flower-like head, and a feeling of love made his heart warm.
Maria could sing herself, but she was afraid. Once in a while she
droned out a sweet, husky note, then her delicate cheeks flushed
crimson as if all the people had heard her, when they had not heard
at all, and she turned her head, and gazed out of the open window at
the plumed darkness. She thought again with annoyance how she would
have to go with her father, and Wollaston Lee would not dare accost
her, even if he were so disposed; then she took a genuine pleasure in
the window space of sweet night and the singing. Her passions were
yet so young that they did not disturb her long if interrupted. She
was also always conscious of the prettiness of her appearance, and
she loved herself for it with that love which brings previsions of
unknown joys of the future. Her charming little face, in her
realization of it, was as the untried sword of the young warrior
which is to bring him all the glory of earth for which his soul longs.

After the meeting was closed, and Harry Edgham, with his little
daughter lagging behind him with covert eyes upon Wollaston Lee, went
out of the vestry, a number inquired for his wife. "Oh, she is very
comfortable," he replied, with his cheerful optimism which solaced
him in all vicissitudes, except the single one of actually witnessing
the sorrow and distress of those who belonged to him.

"I heard," said one man, who was noted in the place for his
outspokenness, which would have been brutal had it not been for his
naivete--"I heard she wasn't going to get out again."

"Nonsense," replied Harry Edgham.

"Then she is?"

"Of course she is. She would have come to meeting to-night if it had
not been so damp."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said the man, with a curious
congratulation which gave the impression of disappointment.

Little Maria Edgham and her father went up the village street; Harry
Edgham walked quite swiftly. "I guess we had better hurry along," he
observed, "your mother is all alone."

Maria tagged behind him. Her father had to stop at a grocery-store on
the corner of the street where they lived, to get a bag of peaches
which he had left there. "I got some peaches on my way," he
explained, "and I didn't want to carry them to church. I thought your
mother might like them. The doctor said she might eat fruit." With
that he darted into the store with the agility of a boy.

Maria stood on the dusty sidewalk in the glare of electric light, and
waited. Her pink gingham dress was quite short, but she held it up
daintily, like a young lady, pinching a fold between her little thumb
and forefinger. Mrs. Jasper Cone, with another woman, came up, and to
Maria's astonishment, Mrs. Cone stopped, clasped her in her arms and
kissed her. As she did so, she sobbed, and Maria felt her tears of
bereavement on her cheek with an odd mixture of pity and awe and
disgust. "If my Minnie had--lived, she might have grown up to be like
her," she gasped out to her friend. "I always thought she looked like
her." The friend made a sympathetic murmur of assent. Mrs. Cone
kissed Maria again, holding her little form to her crape-trimmed
bosom almost convulsively, then the two passed on. Maria heard her
say again that she always had thought the baby looked like her, and
she felt humiliated. She looked after the poor mother's streaming
black veil with resentment. Then Miss Ida Slome passed by, and
Wollaston Lee was clinging to her arm, pressing as closely to her
side as he dared. Miss Slome saw Maria, and spoke in her sweet, crisp
tone. "Good-evening, Maria," said she.

Maria stood gazing after them. Her father emerged from the store with
the bag of peaches dangling from his hand. He looked incongruous. Her
father had too much the air of a gentleman to carry a paper bag. "I
do hope your mother will like these peaches," he said.

Maria walked along with her father, and she thought with pain and
scorn how singular it was for a boy to want to go home with an old
woman like Miss Slome, when there were little girls like her.



Chapter II


Maria and her father entered the house, which was not far. It was a
quite new Queen Anne cottage of the better class, situated in a small
lot of land, and with other houses very near on either side. There
was a great clump of hydrangeas on the small smooth lawn in front,
and on the piazza stood a small table, covered with a dainty white
cloth trimmed with lace, on which were laid, in ostentatious
neatness, the evening paper and a couple of magazines. There were
chairs, and palms in jardinieres stood on either side of the flight
of wooden steps.

Maria's mother was, however, in the house, seated beside the
sitting-room table, on which stood a kerosene lamp with a singularly
ugly shade. She was darning stockings. She held the stocking in her
left hand, and drew the thread through regularly. Her mouth was
tightly closed, which was indicative both of decision of character
and pain. Her countenance looked sallower than ever. She looked up at
her husband and little girl entering. "Well," she said, "so you've
got home."

"I've brought you some peaches, Abby," said Harry Edgham. He laid the
bag on the table, and looked anxiously at his wife. "How do you feel
now?" said he.

"I feel well enough," said she. Her reply sounded ill-humored, but
she did not intend it to be so. She was far from being ill-humored.
She was thinking of her husband's kindness in bringing the peaches.
But she looked at the paper bag on the table sharply. "If there is a
soft peach in that bag," said she, "and there's likely to be, it will
stain the table-cover, and I can never get it out."

Harry hastily removed the paper bag from the table, which was covered
with a white linen spread trimmed with lace and embroidered.

"Don't you feel as if you could eat one to-night? You didn't eat much
supper, and I thought maybe--"

"I don't believe I can to-night, but I shall like them to-morrow,"
replied Mrs. Edgham, in a voice soft with apology. Then she looked
fairly for the first time at Maria, who had purposely remained behind
her father, and her voice immediately hardened. "Maria, come here,"
said she.

Maria obeyed. She left the shelter of her father's broad back, and
stood before her mother, in her pink gingham dress, a miserable
little penitent, whose penitence was not of a high order. The
sweetness of looking pretty was still in her soul, although Wollaston
Lee had not gone home with her.

Maria's mother regarded her with a curious expression compounded of
pride and almost fierce disapproval. Harry went precipitately out of
the room with the paper bag of peaches. "You didn't wear that new
pink gingham dress that I had to hire made, trimmed with all that
lace and ribbon, to meeting to-night?" said Maria's mother.

Maria said nothing. It seemed to her that such an obvious fact
scarcely needed words of assent.

"Damp as it is, too," said her mother.

Mrs. Edgham extended a lean, sallow hand and felt of the dainty
fabric. "It is just as limp as a rag," said she, "about spoiled."

"I held it up," said Maria then, with feeble extenuation.

"Held it up!" repeated her mother, with scorn.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't care."

"Wouldn't care! That was the reason why you went out the other door
then. I wondered why you did. Putting on that new pink gingham dress
that I had to hire made, trimmed with all that lace and ribbon, and
wearing it out in the evening, damp as it is to-night! I don't see
what you were thinking of, Maria Edgham."

Maria looked down disconsolately at the lace-trimmed ruffles on her
skirt, but even then she thought how pretty it was, and how pretty
she must look herself standing so forlornly before her mother. She
wondered how her mother could scold her when she was her own
daughter, and looked so sweet. She still felt the damp coolness of
the night on her cheeks, and realized a bloom on them like that of a
wild rose.

But Mrs. Edgham continued. She had the high temper of the women of
her race who had brought up great families to toil and fight for the
Commonwealth, and she now brought it to bear upon petty things in
lieu of great ones. Besides, her illness made her irritable. She
found a certain relief from her constant pain in scolding this child
of her heart, whom secretly she admired as she admired no other
living thing. Even as she scolded, she regarded her in the pink dress
with triumph. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself, Maria
Edgham," said she, in a high voice.

Harry Edgham, who had deposited the peaches in the ice-box, and had
been about to enter the room, retreated. He went out the other door
himself, and round upon the piazza, when presently the smoke of his
cigar stole into the room. Then Mrs. Edgham included him in her wrath.

"You and your father are just alike," said she, bitterly. "You both
of you will do just what you want to, whether or no. He will smoke,
though he knows it makes me worse, besides costing more than he can
afford, and you will put on your best dress, without asking leave,
and wear it out in a damp night, and spoil it."

Maria continued to stand still, and her mother to regard her with
that odd mixture of worshipful love and chiding. Suddenly Mrs. Edgham
closed her mouth more tightly.

"Stand round here," said she, violently. "Let me unbutton your dress.
I don't see how you fastened it up yourself, anyway; you wouldn't
have thought you could, if it hadn't been for deceiving your mother.
You would have come down to me to do it, the way you always do. You
have got it buttoned wrong, anyway. You must have been a sight for
the folks who sat behind you. Well, it serves you right. Stand round
here."

"I am sorry," said Maria then. She wondered whether the wrong
fastening had showed much through the slats of the settee.

Her mother unfastened, with fingers that were at once gentle and
nervous, the pearl buttons on the back of the dress. "Take your arms
out," said she to Maria. Maria cast a glance at the window. "There's
nobody out there but your father," said Mrs. Edgham, harshly, "take
your arms out."

Maria took her arms out of the fluffy mass and stood revealed in her
little, scantily trimmed underwaist, a small, childish figure, with
the utmost delicacy of articulation as to shoulder-blades and neck.
Maria was thin to the extreme, but her bones were so small that she
was charming even in her thinness. Her little, beautifully modelled
arms were as charming as a fairy's.

"Now slip off your skirt," ordered her mother, and Maria complied and
stood in her little white petticoat, with another glance of the
exaggerated modesty of little girlhood at the window.

"Now," said her mother, "you go and hang this up in the kitchen where
it is warm, on that nail on the outside door, and maybe some of the
creases will come out. I've heard they would. I hope so, for I've got
about all I want to do without ironing this dress all over."

Maria gazed at her mother with sudden compunction and anxious love.
After all, she loved her mother down to the depths of her childish
heart; it was only that long custom had so inured her to the loving
that she did not always realize the warmth of her heart because of
it. "Do you feel sick to-night mother?" she whispered.

"No sicker than usual," replied her mother. Then she drew the
delicate little figure close to her, and kissed her with a sort of
passion. "May the Lord look out for you," she said, "if you should
happen to outlive me! I don't know what would become of you, Maria,
you are so heedless, wearing your best things every day, and
everything."

Maria's face paled. "Mother, you aren't any worse?" said she, in a
terrified whisper.

"No, I am not a mite worse. Run along, child, and hang up your dress,
then go to bed; it's after nine o'clock."

It did not take much at that time to reassure Maria. She had
inherited something of the optimism of her father. She carried her
pink dress into the kitchen, with wary eyes upon the windows, and
hung it up as her mother had directed. On her return she paused a
moment at the foot of the stairs in the hall, between the dining-room
and sitting-room. Then, obeying an impulse, she ran into the
sitting-room and threw her soft little arms around her mother's neck.
"I'm real sorry I wore that dress without asking you, mother," she
said. "I won't again, honest."

"Well, I hope you will remember," replied her mother. "If you wear
the best you have common you will never have anything." Her tone was
chiding, but the look on her face was infinitely caressing. She
thought privately that never was such a darling as Maria. She looked
at the softly flushed little face, with its topknot of gold, the
delicate fairness of the neck, and slender arms, and she had a
rapture of something more than possession. The beauty of the child
irradiated her very soul, the beauty and the goodness, for Maria
never disobeyed but she was sorry afterwards, and somehow glorified
faults seem lovelier than cold virtues. "Well, run up-stairs to bed,"
said she. "Be careful of your lamp."

When Maria was in her own room she set the lamp on the dresser and
gazed upon her face reflected in the mirror. That was her nightly
custom, and might have been regarded as a sort of fetich worship of
self. Nothing, in fact, could have been lovelier than that face of
childish innocence and beauty, with the soft rays of the lamp
illuminating it. Her blue eyes seemed to fairly give forth light, the
soft pink on her cheeks deepened until it was like the heart of a
rose. She opened her exquisitely curved lips, and smiled at herself
in a sort of ecstasy. She turned her head this way and that in order
to get different effects. She pulled the little golden fleece of hair
farther over her forehead. She pushed it back, revealing the bold yet
delicate outlines of her temples. She thought how glad she should be
when her hair was grown. She had had an illness two years before, and
her mother had judged it best to have her hair cut short. It was now
just long enough to hang over her ears, curving slightly forward like
the old-fashioned earlocks. She had her hair tied back from her face
with a pink ribbon in a bow on top of her head. She loosened this
ribbon, and shook her hair quite loose. She peeped out of the golden
radiance of it at herself, then she shook it back. She was charming
either way. She was undeveloped, but as yet not a speck of the mildew
of earth had touched her. She was flawless, irreproachable, except
for the knowledge of her beauty, through heredity, in her heart,
which was older than she herself.

Suddenly Maria, after a long gaze of rapture at her face in the
glass, gave a great start. She turned and saw her mother standing in
the door looking at her.

Maria, with an involuntary impulse of concealment, seized her brush,
and began brushing her hair. "I was just brushing my hair," she
murmured. She felt as guilty as if she had committed a crime.

Her mother continued to look at her sternly. "There isn't any use in
your trying to deceive me, Maria," said she. "I am ashamed that a
child of mine should be so silly. To stand looking at yourself that
way! You needn't think you are so pretty, because you are not. You
don't begin to be as good-looking as Amy Long."

Maria felt a cold chill strike her. She had herself had doubts as to
her superior beauty when Amy Long was concerned.

"You don't begin to be as good-looking as your aunt Maria was at your
age, and you know yourself how she looks now. Nobody would dream for
a minute of calling her even ordinary-looking," her mother continued
in a pitiless voice.

Maria shuddered. She seemed to see, instead of her own fair little
face in the glass, an elderly one as sallow as her mother's, but
without the traces of beauty which her mother's undoubtedly had. She
saw the thin, futile frizzes which her aunt Maria affected; she saw
the receding chin, indicative at once of degeneracy and obstinacy;
she saw the blunt nose between the lumpy cheeks.

"Your aunt Maria looked very much as you do when she was your age,"
her mother went on, with the calm cruelty of an inquisitor.

Maria looked at her, her mouth was quivering. "Did I look like Mrs.
Jasper Cone's baby that died last week when I was a baby?" said she.

"Who said you did?" inquired her mother, unguardedly.

"She did. She came up behind me with Mrs. Elliot when I was waiting
for father to get the peaches, and she said her baby that died looked
just like me; she had always thought so."

"That Cone baby look like you!" repeated Maria's mother. "Well, one's
own always looks different to them, I suppose."

"Then you don't think it did?" said Maria. Tears actually stood in
her beautiful blue eyes.

"No, I don't," replied her mother, abruptly. "Nobody in their sober
senses could think so. I am sorry poor Mrs. Cone lost her baby. I
know how I felt when my first baby died, but as for saying it looked
like you--"

"Then you don't think it did, mother?"

"It was one of the homliest babies I ever laid my eyes on, poor
little thing, if it did die," said Maria's mother, emphatically. She
was completely disarmed by this time. But when she saw Maria glance
again at the glass she laid hold of her moral weapons, the wielding
of which she believed to be for the best spiritual good of her child.
"Your aunt Maria was very much better looking than you at her age,"
she repeated, firmly. Then, at the sight of the renewed quiver around
the sensitive little mouth her heart melted. "Get out of your clothes
and into your night-gown, and get to bed, child," said she. "You look
well enough. If you only behave as well as you look, that is all that
is necessary."



Chapter III


Maria fell asleep that night with the full assurance that she had not
been mistaken concerning the beauty of the little face which she had
seen in the looking-glass. All that troubled her was the
consideration that her aunt Maria, whose homely face seemed to glare
out of the darkness at her, might have looked just as she did when
she was her age. She hoped, and then she hoped that the hope was not
wicked, that she might die young rather than live to look like her
aunt Maria. She pictured with a sort of pleasurable horror, what a
lovely little waxen-image she would look now, laid away in a nest of
white flowers. She had only just begun to doze, when she awoke with a
great start. Her father had opened her door, and stood calling her.

"Maria," he said, in an agitated voice.

Maria sat up in bed. "Oh, father, what is it?" said she, and a vague
horror chilled her.

"Get up, and slip on something, and go into your mother's room," said
her father, in a gasping sort of voice. "I've got to go for the
doctor."

Maria put one slim little foot out of bed. "Oh, father," she said,
"is mother sick?"

"Yes, she is very sick," replied her father. His voice sounded almost
savage. It was as if he were furious with his wife for being ill,
furious with Maria, with life, and death itself. In reality he was
torn almost to madness with anxiety. "Slip on something so you won't
catch cold," said he, in his irritated voice. "I don't want another
one down."

Maria ran to her closet and pulled out a little pink wrapper. "Oh,
father, is mother very sick?" she whispered again.

"Yes, she is very sick. I am going to have another doctor to-morrow,"
replied her father, still in that furious, excited voice, which the
sick woman must have heard.

"What shall I--" began Maria, but her father, running down the
stairs, cut her short.

"Do nothing," said he. "Just go in there and stay with her. And don't
you talk. Don't you speak a word to her. Go right in." With that the
front door slammed.

Maria went tiptoeing into her mother's room, still shaking from head
to foot, and her blue eyes seeming to protrude from her little white
face. Even before she entered her mother's room she became conscious
of a noise, something between a wail and a groan. It was
indescribably terrifying. It was like nothing which she had ever
heard before. It did not seem possible that her mother, that anything
human, in fact, was making such a noise, and yet no animal could have
made it, for it was articulate. Her mother was in fact both praying
and repeating verses of Scripture, in that awful voice which was no
longer capable of normal speech, but was compounded of wail and
groan. Every sentence seemed to begin with a groan, and ended with a
long-drawn-out wail. Maria went close to her mother's bed and stood
looking at her. Her poor little face would have torn her mother's
heart with its piteous terror, had she herself not been in such agony.

Maria did not speak. She remembered what her father had said. As her
mother lay there, stretched out stiff and stark, almost as if she
were dead, Maria glanced around the room as if for help. She caught
sight of a bottle of cologne on the dresser, one which she had given
her mother herself the Christmas before; she had bought it out of her
little savings of pocket-money. Maria went unsteadily over to the
dresser and got the cologne. She also opened a drawer and got out a
clean handkerchief. She became conscious that her mother's eyes were
upon her, even although she never ceased for a moment her cries of
agony.

"What--r you do--g?" asked her mother, in her dreadful voice.

"Just getting some cologne to put on your head, to make you feel
better, mother," replied Maria, piteously. She thought she must
answer her mother's question in spite of her father's prohibition.

Her mother seemed to take no further notice; she turned her face to
the wall. "Have--mercy upon me, O Lord, according to Thy loving
kindness, according to the multitude of Thy tender mercies," she
shrieked out. Then the words ended with a long-drawn-out "Oh--oh--"

Had Maria not been familiar with the words, she could not have
understood them. Not a consonant was fairly sounded, the vowels were
elided. She went, feeling as if her legs were sticks, close to her
mother's bed, and opened the cologne bottle with hands which shook
like an old man's with the palsy. She poured some cologne on the
handkerchief and a pungent odor filled the room. She laid the wet
handkerchief on her mother's sallow forehead, then she recoiled, for
her mother, at the shock of the coldness, experienced a new and
almost insufferable spasm of pain. "Let--me alone!" she wailed, and
it was like the howl of a dog.

Maria slunk back to the dresser with the handkerchief and the cologne
bottle, then she returned to her mother's bedside and seated herself
there in a rocking-chair. A lamp was burning over on the dresser, but
it was turned low; her mother's convulsed face seemed to waver in
unaccountable shadows. Maria sat, not speaking a word, but quivering
from head to foot, and her mother kept up her prayers and her verses
from Scripture. Maria herself began to pray in her heart. She said it
over and over to herself, in unutterable appeal and terror, "O Lord,
please make mother well, please make her well." She prayed on,
although the groaning wail never ceased.

Suddenly her mother turned and looked at her, and spoke quite
naturally. "Is that you?" she said.

"Yes, mother. I'm so sorry you are sick. Father has gone for the
doctor."

"You haven't got on enough," said her mother, still in her natural
voice.

"I've got on my wrapper."

"That isn't enough, getting up right out of bed so. Go and get my
white crocheted shawl out of the closet and put it over your
shoulders."

Maria obeyed. While she was doing so her mother resumed her cries.
She said the first half of the twenty-third psalm, then she looked
again at Maria seating herself beside her, and said, in her own
voice, wrested as it were by love from the very depths of mortal
agony. "Have you got your stockings on?" said she.

"Yes, ma'am, and my slippers."

Her mother said no more to her. She resumed her attention to her own
misery with an odd, small gesture of despair. The cries never ceased.
Maria still prayed. It seemed to her that her father would never
return with the doctor. It seemed to her, in spite of her prayer,
that all hope of relief lay in the doctor, and not in the Lord. It
seemed to her that the doctor must help her mother. At last she heard
wheels, and, in her joy, she spoke in spite of her father's
injunction. "There's the doctor now," said she. "I guess he's
bringing father home with him."

Again her mother's eyes opened with a look of intelligence, again she
spoke in her natural voice. She looked towards the clothes which she
had worn during the day, on a chair. "Put my clothes in the closet,"
said she, but her voice strained terribly on the last word.

Maria flew, and hung up her mother's clothes in the closet just
before her father and the doctor entered the room. As she did so, the
tears came for the first time. She had a ready imagination. She
thought to herself that her mother might never put on those clothes
again. She kissed the folds of her mother's dress passionately, and
emerged from the closet, the tears streaming down her face, all the
muscles of which were convulsed. The doctor, who was a young man,
with a handsome, rather hard face, glanced at her before even looking
at the moaning woman in the bed. He said something in a low tone to
her father, who immediately addressed her.

"Go right into your own room, and stay there until I tell you to come
out, Maria," said he, still in that angry voice, which seemed to have
no reason in it. It was the dumb anger of the race against Fate,
which included and overran individuals in its way, like Juggernaut.

At her father's voice, Maria gave a hysterical sob and fled. A sense
of injury tore her heart, as well as her anxiety. She flung herself
face downward on her bed and wept. After a while she turned over on
her back and looked at the room. Not one little thing in the whole
apartment but served to rack her very soul with the consideration of
her mother's love, which she was perhaps about to lose forever. The
dainty curtains at the windows, the scarf on the dresser, the chintz
cover on a chair--every one her mother had planned. She could not
remember how much her mother had scolded her, only how much she had
loved her. At the moment of death the memory of love reigns
triumphant over all else, but she still felt the dazed sense of
injury that her father should have spoken so to her. She could hear
the low murmur of voices in her mother's room across the hall.
Suddenly the cries and moans ceased. A great joy irradiated the
child. She said to herself that her mother was better, that the
doctor had given her something to help her.

She got off the bed, wrapped her little pink garment around her, and
stole across the hall to her mother's room. The whole hall was filled
with a strange, sweet smell which made her faint, but along with the
faintness came such an increase of joy that it was almost ecstasy.
She turned the knob of her mother's door, but, before she could open
it, it was opened from the other side, and her father's face, haggard
and resentful as she had never seen it, appeared.

"Go back!" he whispered, fiercely.

"Oh, father, is mother better?"

"Go back!"

Maria went back, and again the tempest of woe and injury swept over
her. Why should her father speak to her so? Why could he not tell her
if her mother were better? She sat in her little rocking-chair beside
the window, and looked out at the night. She was conscious of a
terrible sensation which seemed to have its starting-point at her
heart, but which pervaded her whole body, her whole consciousness.
She was conscious of such misery, such grief, that it was like a
weight and a pain. She knew now that her mother was no better, that
she might even die. She heard no more of the cries and moans, and
somehow now, the absence of them seemed harder to bear than they
themselves had been. Suddenly she heard her mother's door open. She
heard her father's voice, and the doctor's in response, but she still
could not distinguish a word. Presently she heard the front door open
and close softly. Then her father hurried down the steps, and got
into the doctor's buggy and drove away. It was dark, but she could
not mistake her father. She knew that he had gone for another doctor,
probably Dr. Williams, who lived in the next town, and was considered
very skilful. The other doctor was remaining with her mother. She did
not dare leave her room again. She sat there watching an hour, and a
pale radiance began to appear in the east, which her room faced. It
was like dawn in another world, everything had so changed to her. The
thought came to her that she might go down-stairs and make some
coffee, if she only knew how. Her father might like some when he
returned. But she did not know how, and even if she had she dared not
leave her room again.

The pale light in the east increased, suddenly rosy streamers, almost
like northern lights, were flung out across the sky. She could
distinguish things quite clearly. She heard the rattle of wheels, and
thought it was her father returning with Dr. Williams, but instead it
was the milkman in his yellow cart. He carried a bottle of milk
around to the south door. There was something horribly ghastly in
that every-day occurrence to the watching child. She realized the
interminable moving on of things in spite of all individual
sufferings, as she would have realized the revolution of a wheel of
torture. She felt that it was simply hideous that the milk should be
left at the door that morning, just as if everything was as it had
been. When the milkman jumped into his wagon, whistling, it seemed to
her as if he were doing an awful thing. The milk-wagon stopped at the
opposite house, then moved on out of sight down the street. She
wished to herself that the milkman's horse might run away while he
was at some door. The rancor which possessed her father, the kicking
against the pricks, was possessing her. She felt a futile rage, like
that of some little animal trodden underfoot. A boy whom she knew ran
past whooping, with a tin-pail, after the milkman. Evidently his
mother wanted some extra milk. The sun was reflected on the sides of
the swinging pail, and the flash of light seemed to hurt her, and she
felt the same unreasoning wrath against the boy. Why was not Willy
Royce's mother desperately sick, like her mother, instead of simply
sending for extra milk? The health and the daily swing of the world
in its arc of space seemed to her like a direct insult.

At last it occurred to her that she ought to dress herself. She left
the window, brushed her hair, braided it, and tied it with a blue
ribbon, and put on her little blue gingham gown which she commonly
wore mornings. Then she sat by the window again. It was not very long
after that that she saw the doctor coming, driving fast. Her father
was with him, and between them sat a woman. She recognized the woman
at once. She was a trained nurse who lived in Edgham. "They have got
Miss Bell," she thought; "mother must be awful sick." She knew that
Miss Bell's wages were twenty-five dollars a week, and that her
father would not have called her in except in an extreme case. She
watched her father help out the woman, who was stout and middle-aged,
and much larger than he. Miss Bell had a dress-suit case, which her
father tugged painfully into the house; Miss Bell followed him. She
heard his key turn in the lock while the doctor fastened his horse.

She saw the doctor, who was slightly lame, limp around to the buggy
after his horse was tied, and take out two cases. She hated him while
he did it. She felt intuitively that something terrible was to come
to her mother because of those cases. She watched the doctor limp up
the steps with positive malevolence. "If he is such a smart doctor,
why doesn't he cure himself?" she asked.

She heard steps on the stairs, then the murmur of voices, and the
sound of the door opening into her mother's room. A frightful sense
of isolation came over her. She realized that it was infinitely worse
to be left by herself outside, suffering, than outside happiness. She
tried again to pray, then she stopped. "It is no good praying," she
reflected, "God did not stop mother's pain. It was only stopped by
that stuff I smelled out in the entry." She could not reason back of
that; her terror and misery brought her up against a dead wall. It
seemed to her presently that she heard a faint cry from her mother's
room, then she was quite sure that she smelled that strange, sweet
smell even through her closed door. Then her father opened her door
abruptly, and a great whiff of it entered with him, like some ghost
of pain and death.

"The doctors have neither of them had any breakfast, and they can't
leave her," he said, with a jerk of his elbow, and speaking still
with that angry tone towards the unoffending child. "Can you make
coffee?"

"I don't know how."

"Good for nothing!" said her father, and shut the door with a subdued
bang.

Maria heard him going down-stairs, and presently she heard a rattle
in the kitchen, a part of which was under her room. She went out
herself and stole softly down the stairs. Her father, with an air of
angry helplessness, was emptying the coffee-pot into her mother's
nice sink. Maria stood trembling at his elbow. "I don't believe
that's where mother empties it," she ventured.

"It has got to be emptied somewhere," said her father, and his tone
sounded as if he swore. Maria shrank back. "They've got to have some
coffee, anyhow."

Maria's father carried the coffee-pot over to the stove, in which a
freshly kindled fire was burning, and set it on it, in the hottest
place. Maria stealthily moved it back while he was searching for the
coffee in the pantry. She did not know much, but she did know that an
empty coffee-pot on such a hot place would come to ruin.

Her father emerged from the pantry with a tin-canister in his hand.
"I've sent a telegram to our aunt Maria for her to come right on,"
said he, "but she can't get here before afternoon. I don't suppose
you know how much coffee your mother puts in. I don't suppose you
know about anything."

Maria realized dimly that she was a scape-goat, but there was such
terrible suffering in her father's face that she had no impulse to
rebel. She smelled of the canister which her father held out towards
her with a nervously trembling hand. "Why, father, this is tea; it
isn't coffee," said she.

"Well, if you don't know anything that a big girl like you ought to
know, I should think you might know enough not to try to make coffee
with tea," said her father.

Maria looked at her father in a bewildered sort of way. "I guess the
coffee is in the other canister," said she, meekly.

"Why didn't you say so then?" demanded her father.

Maria was silent. It seemed to her that her father had gone mad.
Harry Edgham made a ferocious stride across the kitchen to the
pantry. Maria followed him. "I guess that is the coffee canister,"
said she, pointing.

"Why didn't you say so, then?" asked her father, viciously, and again
Maria made no reply. Her father seized the coffee canister and
approached the stove. "I don't suppose you know how much she puts in.
I don't suppose you know anything," said he.

"I guess she puts in about a cupful," said Maria, trembling.

"A cupful! with coffee at the price it is now? I guess she doesn't,"
said her father. He poured the coffee-pot full of boiling water from
the tea-kettle, then he tipped the coffee canister into his hand, and
put one small pinch into the pot.

"Oh, father," ventured Maria. "I don't believe--"

"You don't believe what?"

"I don't believe that is enough."

"Of course it's enough. Don't you suppose your father knows how to
make coffee?"

Her father set the coffee-pot on the stove, where it immediately
began to boil. Then he carried back the canister into the pantry, and
returned with a panful of eggs. "You can set the table, I suppose,
anyhow?" said he. "You know enough to do as much as that?"

"Yes, I can do that," replied Maria, with alacrity, and indeed she
could. Her mother had exacted some small household tasks from her,
and setting the table was one of them. She hurried into the
dining-room and began setting the table with the pretty blue-flowered
ware that her mother had been so proud of. She seemed to feel tears
in her heart when she laid the plates, but none sprang to her eyes.
Somehow, handling these familiar inanimate things was the acutest
torture. Presently she smelled eggs burning. She realized that her
father was burning up the eggs, in his utter ignorance of cookery.
She thought privately that she didn't believe but she could cook the
eggs, but she dared not go out in the kitchen. Her father, in his
anxiety, had actually reached ferocity. He had always petted her, in
his easy-going fashion, now he terrified her. She dared not go out
there.

All at once, as she was getting the clean napkins from the sideboard,
she heard the front door open, and one of the neighbors, Mrs. Jonas
White, entered without knocking. She was a large woman and carelessly
dressed, but her great face was beaming with kindness and pity.

"I just heard how bad your ma was," she said, in a loud whisper, "an'
I run right over. I thought mebbe--How is she?"

"She is very sick," replied Maria. She felt at first an impulse to
burst into tears before this broadside of sympathy, then she felt
stiff.

"You are as white as a sheet," said Mrs. White. "Who is burnin' eggs
out there?" She pointed to the kitchen.

"Father."

"Lord! Who's up-stairs?"

"Miss Bell and the doctors. They've sent for Aunt Maria, but she
can't come before afternoon."

Mrs. White fastened a button on her waist. "Well, I'll stay till
then," said she. "Lillian can get along all right." Lillian was Mrs.
White's eighteen-year-old daughter.

Mrs. White opened the kitchen door. "How is she?" she said in a
hushed voice to Harry Edgham, frantically stirring the burned eggs,
which sent up a monstrous smoke and smell. As she spoke, she went
over to him, took the frying-pan out of his hands, and carried it
over to the sink.

"She is a very sick woman," replied Harry Edgham, looking at Mrs.
White with a measure of gratitude.

"You've got Dr. Williams and Miss Bell, Maria says?"

"Yes."

"Maria says her aunt is coming?"

"Yes, I sent a telegram."

"Well, I'll stay till she gets here," said Mrs. White, and again that
expression of almost childish gratitude came over the man's face.
Mrs. White began scraping the burned eggs off the pan.

"They haven't had any breakfast," said Harry, looking upward.

"And they don't dare leave her?"

"No."

"Well, you just go and do anything you want to, Maria and I will get
the breakfast." Mrs. White spoke with a kindly, almost humorous
inflection. Maria felt that she could go down on her knees to her.

"You are very kind," said Harry Edgham, and he went out of the
kitchen as one who beats a retreat before superior forces.

"Maria, you just bring me the eggs, and a clean cup," said Mrs.
White. "Poor man, trying to cook eggs!" said she of Maria's father,
after he had gone. She was one of the women who always treat men with
a sort of loving pity, as if they were children. "Here is some nice
bacon," said she, rummaging in the pantry. "The eggs will be real
nice with bacon. Now, Maria, you look in the ice-chest and see if
there are any cold potatoes that can be warmed up. There's plenty of
bread in the jar, and we'll toast that. We'll have breakfast in a
jiffy. Doctors do have a hard life, and Miss Bell, she ought to have
her nourishment too, if she's goin' to take care of your mother."

When Maria returned from the ice-box, which stood out in the
woodshed, with a plate of cold potatoes, Mrs. White was sniffing at
the coffee-pot.

"For goodness sake, who made this?" said she.

"Father."

"How much did he put in?"

"He put in a little pinch."

"It looks like water bewitched," said Mrs. White. "Bring me the
coffee canister. You know where that is, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Maria watched Mrs. White pour out the coffee which her father had
made, and start afresh in the proper manner.

"Men are awful helpless, poor things," said Mrs. White. "This sink is
in an awful condition. Did your father empty all this truck in it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, I must clean it out, as soon as I get the other things goin',
or the dreen will be stopped up." Mrs. White's English was not
irreproachable, but she was masterful.

Maria continued to stand numbly in the middle of the kitchen,
watching Mrs. White, who looked at her uneasily.

"You must be a good girl, and trust in the Lord," said she, and she
tried to make her voice sharp. "Now, don't stand there lookin' on;
just fly round and do somethin'. I don't believe but the dinin'-room
needs dustin'. You find somethin' and dust the dinin'-room real nice,
while I get the breakfast."

Maria obeyed, but she did that numbly, without any realization of the
task.

The morning wore on. The doctors, one at a time came down, and the
nurse came down, and they ate a hearty breakfast. Maria watched them,
and hated them because they could eat while her mother was so ill.
Miss Bell also ate heartily, and she felt that she hated her. She was
glad that her father refused anything except a cup of coffee. As for
herself, Mrs. White made her drink an egg beaten up with milk. "If
you won't eat your breakfast, you've got to take this," said she.

Mrs. White took her own breakfast in stray bites, while she was
clearing away the table. She stayed, and put the house in order,
until Maria's aunt Maria arrived. One of the physicians went away.
For a short time Maria's mother's groans and wailings recommenced,
then the smell of chloroform was strong throughout the house.

"I wonder why they don't give her morphine instead of chloroform?"
said Mrs. White, while Maria was wiping the dishes. "It is dreadful
dangerous to give that, especially if the heart is weak. Well, don't
you be scart. I've seen folks enough worse than your mother git well."

In the last few hours Maria's face had gotten a hard look. She no
longer seemed like a little girl. After a while the doctors went away.

"I don't suppose there is much they can do for a while, perhaps,"
remarked Mrs. White; "and Miss Bell, she is as good as any doctor."

Both physicians returned a little after noon, and previously Mrs.
Edgham had made her voice of lamentation heard again. Then it ceased
abruptly, but there was no odor of chloroform.

"They are giving her morphine now, I bet a cooky," Mrs. White said.
She, with Maria, was clearing away the dinner-table then. "What time
do you think your aunt Maria will get here?" she asked.

"About half-past two, father said," replied Maria.

"Well, I'm real glad you've got some one like her you can call on,"
said Mrs. White. "Somebody that 'ain't ever had no family, and 'ain't
tied. Now I'd be willin' to stay right along myself, but I couldn't
leave Lillian any length of time. She 'ain't never had anything hard
put on her, and she 'ain't any too tough. But your aunt can stay
right along till your mother gits well, can't she?"

"I guess so," replied Maria.

There was something about Maria's manner which made Mrs. White
uneasy. She forced conversation in order to make her speak, and do
away with that stunned look on her face. All the time now Maria was
saying to herself that her mother was going to die, that God could
make her well, but He would not. She was conscious of blasphemy, and
she took a certain pleasure in it.

Her aunt Maria arrived on the train expected, and she entered the
house, preceded by the cabman bearing her little trunk, which she had
had ever since she was a little girl. It was the only trunk she had
ever owned. Both physicians and the nurse were with Mrs. Edgham when
her sister arrived. Harry Edgham had been walking restlessly up and
down the parlor, which was a long room. He had not thought of going
to the station to meet Aunt Maria, but when the cab stopped before
the house he hurried out at once. Aunt Maria was dressed wholly in
black--a black mohair, a little black silk cape, and a black bonnet,
from which nodded a jetted tuft. "How is she?" Maria heard her say,
in a hushed voice, to her father. Maria stood in the door. Maria
heard her father say something in a hushed tone about an operation.
Aunt Maria came up the steps with her travelling-bag. Harry forgot to
take it. She greeted Mrs. White, whom she had met on former visits,
and kissed Maria. Maria had been named for her, and been given a
silver cup with her name inscribed thereon, which stood on the
sideboard, but she had never been conscious of any distinct affection
for her. There was a queer, musty odor, almost a fragrance, about
Aunt Maria's black clothes.

"Take the trunk up the stairs, to the room at the left," said Harry
Edgham, "and go as still as you can." The man obeyed, shouldering the
little trunk with an awed look.

Aunt Maria drew Mrs. White and Maria's father aside, and Maria was
conscious that they did not want her to hear; but she did
overhear--"...one chance in ten, a fighting chance," and "Keep it
from Maria, her mother had said so." Maria knew perfectly well that
that horrible and mysterious thing, an operation, which means a duel
with death himself, was even at that moment going on in her mother's
room. She slipped away, and went up-stairs to her own chamber, and
softly closed the door. Then she forgot her lack of faith and her
rebellion, and she realized that her only hope of life was from that
which is outside life. She knelt down beside her bed, and began to
pray over and over, "O God, don't let my mother die, and I will
always be a good girl! O God, don't let my mother die, and I will
always be a good girl!"

Then, without any warning, the door opened and her father stood
there, and behind him was her aunt Maria, weeping bitterly, and Mrs.
White, also weeping.

"Maria," gasped out Harry Edgham. Then, as Maria rose and went to
him, he seized upon her as if she were his one straw of salvation,
and began to sob himself, and Maria knew that her mother had died.



Chapter IV


Without any doubt, Maria's self-consciousness, which was at its
height at this time, helped her to endure the loss of her mother, and
all the sad appurtenances of mourning. She had a covert pleasure at
the sight of her fair little face, in her black hat, above her black
frock. She realized a certain importance because of her grief.

However, there were times when the grief itself came uppermost; there
were nights when she lay awake crying for her mother, when she was
nothing but a bereft child in a vacuum of love. Her father's
tenderness could not make up to her for the loss of her mother's.
Very soon after her mother's death, his mercurial temperament jarred
upon her. She could not understand how he could laugh and talk as if
nothing had happened. She herself was more like her mother in
temperament--that is, like the New-Englander who goes through life
with the grief of a loss grown to his heart. Nothing could exceed
Harry Edgham's tenderness to his motherless little girl. He was
always contriving something for her pleasure and comfort; but Maria,
when her father laughed, regarded him with covert wonder and reproach.

Her aunt Maria continued to live with them, and kept the house. Aunt
Maria was very capable. It is doubtful if there are many people on
earth who are not crowned, either to their own consciousness or that
of others, with at least some small semblance of glories. Aunt Maria
had the notable distinction of living on one hundred dollars a year.
She had her rent free, but upon that she did not enlarge. Her married
brother owned a small house, of the story-and-a-half type prevalent
in New England villages, and Maria had the north side. She lived,
aside from that, upon one hundred dollars a year. She was openly
proud of it; her poverty became, in a sense, her riches. "Well, all I
have is just one hundred a year," she was fond of saying, "and I
don't complain. I don't envy anybody. I have all I want." Her little
plans for thrift were fairly Machiavellian; they showed subtly. She
told everybody what she had for her meals. She boasted that she lived
better than her brother, who was earning good wages in a
shoe-factory. She dressed very well, really much better than her
sister-in-law. "Poor Eunice never had much management," Maria was
wont to say, smoothing down, as she spoke, the folds of her own gown.
She never wore out anything; she moved carefully and sat carefully;
she did a good deal of fancy-work, but she was always very
particular, even when engaged in the daintiest toil, to cover her
gown with an apron, and she always held her thin-veined hands high.
She charged this upon her niece Maria when she had her new black
clothes. "Now, Maria," said she, "there is one thing I want you to
remember, here is nothin'--" (Aunt Maria elided her final "g" like
most New-Englanders, although she was not deficient in education, and
even prided herself upon her reading.) "Black is the worst thing in
the world to grow shiny. Folks can talk all they want to about black
bein' durable. It isn't. It grows shiny. And if you will always
remember one thing when you are at home, to wear an apron when you
are doin' anything, and when you are away, to hold your hands high,
you will gain by it. There is no need of anybody gettin' the front
breadths of their dresses all shiny by rubbin' their hands on them.
When you are at school you must remember and hold your school-books
so they won't touch your dress. Then there is another thing you must
remember, not to move your arms any more than you can help, that
makes the waist wear out under the arms. There isn't any need of your
movin' your arms much if any when you are in school, that I can see,
and when you come home you can change your dress. You might just as
well wear out your colored dresses when you are home. Nobody is goin'
to see you. If anybody comes in that I think is goin' to mind, you
can just slip up-stairs, and put on your black dress. It isn't as if
you had a little sister to take your things--they ought to be worn
out."

It therefore happened that Maria was dressed the greater part of the
time, in her own home, where she missed her mother most, in
bright-colored array, and in funeral attire outside. She told her
father about it, but he had not a large income, and it had been
severely taxed by his wife's almost tragic illness and death.
Besides, if the truth were known, he disliked to see Maria in
mourning, and the humor of the thing also appealed to him.

"You had better wear what your aunt says, dear. You feel just the
same in your heart, don't you?" asked Harry Edgham, with that light
laugh of his, which always so shocked his serious little daughter.

"Yes, sir," she replied, with a sob.

"Well, then, do just as your aunt says, and be a good little girl,"
said Harry, and he went hastily out on the porch with his cigar.

Nothing irritated him so much as to see Maria weep for her mother. He
was one of those who wrestle and fight against grief, and to see it
thrust in his face by the impetus of another heart exasperated him,
although he could say nothing. It may be that, with his temperament,
it was even dangerous for him to cherish grief, and, for that very
reason, he tried to put his dead wife out of his mind, as she had
been taken out of his life.

"Well, men are different from women," Aunt Maria said to her niece
Maria one night, when Harry had gone out on the piazza, after he had
talked and laughed a good deal at the supper-table.

Harry Edgham heard the remark, and his face took on a set expression
which it could assume at times. He did not like his sister-in-law,
although he disguised the fact. She was very useful. His meals were
always on time, the house was as neatly kept as before, and Maria was
being trained as she had never been in household duties.

Maria was obedient, under silent protest, to her aunt. Often, after
she had been bidden to perform some household task, and obeyed, she
had gone to her own room and wept, and told herself that her mother
would never have put such things on her. She had no one in whom to
confide. She was not a girl to have unlimited intimates among other
girls at school. She was too self-centred, and, if the truth were
told, too emulative.

"Maria Edgham thinks she's awful smart," one girl would say to
another. They all admitted, even the most carping, that Maria was
pretty. "Maria Edgham is pretty enough, and she knows it," said they.
She was in the high school, even at her age, and she stood high in
her classes. There was always a sort of moral strike going on against
Maria, as there is against all superiority, especially when the
superiority is known to be recognized by the possessor thereof.

In spite of her prettiness, she was not a favorite even among the
boys. They were, as a rule, innocent as well as young, but they would
rather have snatched a kiss from such a pretty, dainty little
creature than have had her go above them in the algebra class. It did
not seem fitting. Without knowing it, they were envious. They would
not even acknowledge her cleverness, not even Wollaston Lee, for whom
Maria entertained a rudimentary affection. He was even rude to her.

"Maria Edgham is awful stuck up," he told his mother. He was of that
age when a boy tells his mother a good deal, and he was an only child.

"She's a real pretty little girl, and her aunt says she is a good
girl," replied his mother, who regarded the whole as the antics of
infancy.

The Lees lived near the Edghams, on the same street, and Mrs. Lee and
Aunt Maria had exchanged several calls. They were, in fact, almost
intimate. The Lees were at the supper-table when Wollaston made his
deprecatory remark concerning Maria, and he had been led to do so by
the law of sequence. Mrs. Lee had made a remark about Aunt Maria to
her husband. "I believe she thinks Harry Edgham will marry her," she
said.

"That's just like you women, always trumping up something of that
kind," replied her husband. His words were rather brusque, but he
regarded, while speaking them, his wife with adoration. She was a
very pretty woman, and looked much younger than her age.

"You needn't tell me," said Mrs. Lee. "She's just left off bonnets
and got a new hat trimmed with black daisies; rather light mourning,
I call it, when her sister has not been dead a year."

"You spiteful little thing!" said her husband, still with his adoring
eyes on his wife.

"Well, it's so, anyway."

"Well, she would make Harry a good wife, I guess," said her husband,
easily; "and she would think more of the girl."

It was then that Wollaston got in his remark about poor Maria, who
had herself noticed with wonder that her aunt had bought a new hat
that spring instead of a bonnet.

"Why, Aunt Maria, I thought you always wore a bonnet!" said she,
innocently, when the hat came home from the milliner's.

"Nobody except old women are wearing bonnets now," replied her aunt,
shortly. "I saw Mrs. Rufus Jones, who is a good deal older than I, at
church Sunday with a hat trimmed with roses. The milliner told me
nobody of my age wore a bonnet."

"Did she know how old you really are, Aunt Maria?" inquired Maria
with the utmost innocence.

Harry Edgham gave a little chuckle, then came to his sister-in-law's
rescue. He had a thankful heart for even small benefits, and Aunt
Maria had done a good deal for him and his, and it had never occurred
to him that the doing might not be entirely disinterested. Besides,
Aunt Maria had always seemed to him, as well as to his daughter, very
old indeed. It might have been that the bonnets had had something to
do with it. Aunt Maria had never affected fashions beyond a certain
epoch, partly from economy, partly from a certain sense of injury.
She had said to herself that she was old, she had been passed by; she
would dress as one who had. Now her sentiments underwent a curious
change. The possibility occurred to her that Harry might ask her to
take her departed sister's place. She was older than that sister,
much older than he, but she looked in her glass and suddenly her
passed youth seemed to look forth upon her. The revival of hopes
sometimes serves as a tonic. Aunt Maria actually did look younger
than she had done, even with her scanty frizzes. She regarded other
women, not older than herself, with pompadours, and aspiration seized
her.

One day she went to New York shopping. She secretly regarded that as
an expedition. She was terrified at the crossings. Stout, elderly
woman as she was, when she found herself in the whirl of the great
city, she became as a small, scared kitten. She gathered up her
skirts, and fled incontinently across the streets, with policemen
looking after her with haughty disapprobation. But when she was told
to step lively on the trolley-cars, her true self asserted its
endurance. "I am not going to step in front of a team for you or any
other person," she told one conductor, and she spoke with such
emphasis that even he was intimidated, and held the car meekly until
the team had passed. When Aunt Maria came home from New York that
particular afternoon, she had an expression at once of defiance and
embarrassment, which both Maria and her father noticed.

"Well, what did you see in New York, Maria?" asked Harry, pleasantly.

"I saw the greatest lot of folks without manners, that I ever saw in
my whole life," replied Aunt Maria, sharply.

Harry Edgham laughed. "You'll get used to it," he said, easily.
"Everybody who comes from New England has to take time to like New
York. It is an acquired taste."

"When I do acquire it, I'll be equal to any of them," replied Aunt
Maria. "When I lose my temper, they had better look out."

Harry Edgham laughed again.

It was the next morning when Aunt Maria appeared at the early
breakfast with a pompadour. Her thin frizzes were carefully puffed
over a mystery which she had purchased the afternoon before.

Maria, when she first saw her aunt, stared open-mouthed; then she ate
her breakfast as if she had seen nothing.

Harry Edgham gave one sharp stare at his sister-in-law, then he said:
"Got your hair done up a new way, haven't you, Maria?"

"Yes, my hat didn't set well on my head with my hair the way I was
wearing it," replied Aunt Maria with dignity; still she blushed. She
knew that her own hair did not entirely conceal the under structure,
and she knew, too, why she wore the pompadour.

Harry Edgham recognized the first fact with simple pity that his
sister-in-law's hair was so thin. He remembered hearing a hair-tonic
recommended by another man in the office, and he wondered privately
if Maria would feel hurt if he brought some for her. Of the other
fact he had not the least suspicion. He said: "Well, it's real
becoming to you, Maria. I guess I like it better than the other way.
I notice all the girls seem to wear their hair so nowadays."

Aunt Maria smiled at him gratefully. When her sister had married him,
she had wondered what on earth she saw in Harry Edgham; now he seemed
to her a very likeable man.

When Maria sat in school that morning, her aunt's pompadour diverted
her mind from her book; then she caught Gladys Mann's wondering eyes
upon her, and she studied again.

While Maria could scarcely be said to have an intimate friend at
school, a little girl is a monstrosity who has neither a friend nor a
disciple; she had her disciple, whose name was Gladys Mann. Gladys
was herself a little outside the pale. Most of her father's earnings
went for drink, and Gladys's mother was openly known to take in
washing to make both ends meet, and keep the girl at school at all;
moreover, she herself came of one of the poor white families which
flourish in New Jersey as well as at the South, although in less
numbers. Gladys's mother was rather a marvel, inasmuch as she was
willing to take in washing, and do it well too, but Gladys had no
higher rank for that. She was herself rather a pathetic little soul,
dingily pretty, using the patois of her kind, and always at the fag
end of her classes. Her education, so far, seemed to meet with no
practical results in the child herself. Her brain merely filtered
learning like a sieve; but she thought Maria Edgham was a wonder, and
it was really through her, and her alone, that she obtained any
education.

"What makes you always say 'have went'?" Maria would inquire, with a
half-kindly, half-supercilious glance at her satellite.

"What had I ought to say," Gladys would inquire, meekly--"have came?"

"Have gone," replied Maria, with supreme scorn.

"Then when my mother has came home shall I say she has gone?"
inquired Gladys, with positive abjectness.

"Gladys, you are such a ninny," said Maria. "Why don't you remember
what you learn at school, instead of what you hear at home?"

"I guess I hear more at home than I learn at school," Gladys replied,
with an adoring glance at Maria.

Maria half despised Gladys, and yet she had a sort of protective
affection for her, as one might have for a little clinging animal,
and she confided more in her than in any one else, sure, at least, of
an outburst of sympathy. Maria had never forgotten how Gladys had
cried the first morning she went to school after her mother died.
Every time Gladys glanced at poor little Maria, in her black dress,
her head went down on a ring of her little, soiled, cotton-clad arms
on her desk, and Maria knew that she was sorrier for her than any
other girl in school.

Gladys had a sort of innocent and ignorant impertinence; she asked
anything which occurred to her, with no reflection as to its effect
upon the other party.

"Say, is it true?" she asked that very morning at recess.

"Is what true?"

"Is your father goin' to marry her?"

"Marry who?" Maria turned quite pale, and forgot her own grammar.

"Why, your aunt Maria."

"My aunt Maria? I guess he isn't!" Maria left Gladys with an offended
strut. However, she reflected on Aunt Maria's pompadour. A great
indignation seized her. After this she treated Aunt Maria stiffly,
and she watched both her and her father.

There was surely nothing in Harry Edgham's behaviour to warrant a
belief that he contemplated marrying his deceased wife's sister.
Sometimes he even, although in a kindly fashion, poked fun at her, in
Maria's presence. But Aunt Maria never knew it; she was, in fact,
impervious to that sort of thing. But Maria came to be quite sure
that Aunt Maria had designs on her father. She observed that she
dressed much better than she had ever done; she observed the fairly
ostentatious attention which she bestowed upon her brother-in-law,
and also upon herself, when he was present. She even used to caress
Maria, in her wooden sort of way, when Harry was by to see. Once
Maria repulsed her roughly. "I don't like to be kissed and fussed
over," said she.

"You mustn't speak so to your aunt," said Harry, when Aunt Maria had
gone out of the room. "I don't know what we should have done without
her."

"You pay her, don't you, father?" asked Maria.

"Yes, I pay her," said Harry, "but that does not alter the fact that
she has done a great deal which money could not buy."

Maria gazed at her father with suspicion, which he did not recognize.

It had never occurred to Harry Edgham to marry Aunt Maria. It had
never occurred to him that she might think of the possibility of such
a thing. It was now nearly a year since his wife's death. He himself
began to take more pains with his attire. Maria noticed it. She saw
her father go out one evening clad in a new, light-gray suit, which
he had never worn before. She looked at him wonderingly when he
kissed her good-bye. Harry never left the house without kissing his
little daughter.

"Why, you've got a new suit, father," she said.

Harry blushed. "Do you like it, dear?" he asked.

"No, father, I don't like it half as well as a dark one," replied
Maria, in a sweet, curt little voice. Her father colored still more,
and laughed, then he went away.

Aunt Maria, to Maria's mind, was very much dressed-up that evening.
She had on a muslin dress with sprigs of purple running through it,
and a purple ribbon around her waist. She made up her mind that she
would stay up until her father came home, in that new gray suit, no
matter what Aunt Maria should say.

However, contrary to her usual custom, Aunt Maria did not mention, at
half-past eight, that it was time for her to go to bed. It was
half-past nine, and her father had not come home, and Aunt Maria had
said nothing about it. She appeared to be working very interestedly
on a sofa-cushion which she was embroidering, but her face looked, to
Maria's mind, rather woe-begone, although there was a shade of wrath
in the woe. When the little clock on the sitting-room shelf struck
one for half-past nine, Maria looked at her aunt, wondering.

"Why, I wonder where father has gone so late?" she said.

Aunt Maria turned, and her voice, in reply, was both pained and
pitiless. "Well, you may as well know first as last," said she, "and
you'd better hear it from me than outside: your father has gone
courtin'."



Chapter V


Maria looked at her aunt with an expression of almost idiocy. For the
minute, the term Aunt Maria used, especially as applied to her
father, had no more meaning for her than a term in a foreign tongue.
She was very pale. "Courtin'," she stammered out vaguely, imitating
her aunt exactly, even to the dropping of the final "g."

Aunt Maria was, for the moment, too occupied with her own personal
grievances and disappointments to pay much attention to her little
niece. "Yes, courtin'," she said, harshly. "I've been suspectin' for
some time, an' now I know. A man, when he's left a widower, don't
smarten up the way he's done for nothin'; I know it." Aunt Maria
nodded her head aggressively, with a gesture almost of butting.

Maria continued to gaze at her, with that pale, almost idiotic
expression. It was a fact that she had thought of her father as being
as much married as ever, even although her mother was dead. Nothing
else had occurred to her.

"Your father's thinkin' of gettin' married again," said Aunt Maria,
"and you may as well make up your mind to it, poor child." The words
were pitying, the tone not.

"Who?" gasped Maria.

"I don't know any more than you do," replied Aunt Maria, "but I know
it's somebody." Suddenly Aunt Maria arose. It seemed to her that she
must do something vindictive. Here she had to return to her solitary
life in her New England village, and her hundred dollars a year,
which somehow did not seem as great a glory to her as it had formerly
done. She went to the parlor windows and closed them with jerks, then
she blew out the lamp. "Come," said she, "it's time to go to bed. I'm
tired, for my part. I've worked like a dog all day. Your father has
got his key, an' he can let himself in when he gets through his
courtin'."

Maria crept miserably--she was still in a sort of daze--up-stairs
after Aunt Maria.

"Well, good-night," said Aunt Maria. "You might as well make up your
mind to it. I suppose it had to come, and maybe it's all for the
best." Aunt Maria's voice sounded as if she were trying to reconcile
the love of God with the existence of hell and eternal torment. She
closed her door with a slam. There are, in some New England women,
impulses of fierce childishness.

Maria, when she was in her room, had never felt so lonely in her
life. A kind of rage of loneliness possessed her. She slipped out of
her clothes and went to bed, and then she lay awake. She heard her
father when he returned. The clock on a church which was near by
struck twelve soon after. Maria tried to imagine another woman in the
house in her mother's place; she thought of every eligible woman in
Edgham whom her father might select to fill that place, but her
little-girl ideas of eligibility were at fault. She thought only of
women of her mother's age and staidness, who wore bonnets. She could
think of only two, one a widow, one a spinster. She shuddered at the
idea of either. She felt that she would much rather have had her
father marry Aunt Maria than either of those women. She did not
altogether love Aunt Maria, but at least she was used to her.
Suddenly it occurred to her that Aunt Maria was disappointed, that
she felt badly. The absurdity of it struck her strongly, but she felt
a pity for her; she felt a common cause with her. After her father
had gone into his room, and the house had long been silent, she got
up quietly, opened her door softly, and crept across the hall to the
spare room, which Aunt Maria had occupied ever since she had been
there. She listened, and heard a soft sob. Then she turned the knob
of the door softly.

"Who is it?" Aunt Maria called out, sharply.

Maria was afraid that her father would hear.

"It's only me, Aunt Maria," she replied. Then she also gave a little
sob.

"What's the matter?"

Maria groped her way across the room to her aunt's bed. "Oh, Aunt
Maria, who is it?" she sobbed, softly.

Aunt Maria did what she had never done before: she reached out her
arms and gathered the bewildered little girl close, in an embrace of
genuine affection and pity. She, too, felt that here was a common
cause, and not only that, but she pitied the child with unselfish
pity. "You poor child, you are as cold as ice. Come in here with me,"
she whispered.

Maria crept into bed beside her aunt, but she would rather have
remained where she was. She was a child of spiritual rather than
physical affinities, and the contact of Aunt Maria's thin body, even
though it thrilled with almost maternal affection for her, repelled
her.

Aunt Maria began to weep unrestrainedly, with a curious passion and
abandonment for a woman of her years.

"Has he come home?" she whispered. Aunt Maria's hearing was slightly
defective, especially when she was nervously overwrought.

"Yes. Aunt Maria, who is it?"

"Hush, I don't know. He hasn't paid any open court to anybody, that I
know of, but--I've seen him lookin'."

"At whom?"

"At Ida Slome."

"But she is younger than my mother was."

"What difference do you s'pose that makes to a man. He'll like her
all the better for that. You can thank your stars he didn't pitch on
a school-girl, instead of the teacher."

Maria lay stretched out stiff and motionless. She was trying to bring
her mind to bear upon the situation. She was trying to imagine Miss
Ida Slome, with her pink cheeks and her gay attire, in the house
instead of her mother. Her head began to reel. She no longer wept.
She became dimly conscious, after a while, of her aunt Maria's
shaking her violently and calling her by name, but she did not
respond, although she heard her plainly. Then she felt a great jounce
of the bed as her aunt sprang out. She continued to lie still and
rigid. She somehow knew, however, that her aunt was lighting the
lamp, then she felt, rather than saw, the flash of it across her
face. Her aunt Maria pulled on a wrapper over her night-gown, and
hurried to the door. "Harry, Harry Edgham!" she heard her call, and
still Maria could not move. Then she also felt, rather than saw, her
father enter the room with his bath-robe slipped over his pajamas,
and approach the bed.

"What on earth is the matter?" he said. He also laid hands on Maria,
and, at his touch, she became able to move.

"What on earth is the matter?" he asked again.

"She didn't seem able to speak or move, and I was scared," replied
Aunt Maria, with a reproachful accent on the "I"; but Harry Edgham
was too genuinely concerned at his little daughter's white face and
piteous look to heed that at all.

He leaned over and began stroking her soft little cheeks, and kissing
her. "Father's darling," he whispered. Then he said over his shoulder
to Aunt Maria, "I wish you would go into my room and get that flask
of brandy I keep in my closet."

Aunt Maria obeyed. She returned with the flask and a teaspoon, and
Maria's father made her swallow a few drops, which immediately warmed
her and made the strange rigidity disappear.

"I guess she had better stay in here with you the rest of the night,"
said Harry to his sister-in-law; but little Maria sat up
determinately.

"No, I'm going back to my own room," she said.

"Hadn't you better stay with your aunt, darling?"

Harry Edgham looked shamefaced and guilty. He saw that his
sister-in-law and Maria had been weeping, and he knew why, in the
depths of his soul. He saw no good reason why he should feel so
shamed and apologetic, but he did. He fairly cowered before the
nervous little girl and her aunt.

"Well, let father carry you in there, then," he said; and he lifted
up the slight little thing, carried her across the hall to her room,
and placed her in bed.

It was a very warm night, but Maria was shivering as if with cold. He
placed the coverings over her with clumsy solicitude. Then he bent
down and kissed her. "Try and keep quiet, and go to sleep, darling,"
he said. Then he went out.

Aunt Maria was waiting for him in the hall. Her face, from grief and
consternation, had changed to sad and dignified resignation.

"Harry," said she.

Harry Edgham stopped.

"Well, sister," he said, with pleasant interrogation, although he
still looked shamefaced.

Aunt Maria held a lamp, a small one, which she was tipping
dangerously.

"Look out for your lamp, Maria," he said.

She straightened the lamp, and the light shone full upon her swollen
face, at once piteous and wrathful. "I only wanted to know when you
wanted me to go?" she said.

"Oh, Lord, Maria, you are going too fast!" replied Harry, and he
fairly ran into his own room.

The next morning when Maria, in her little black frock--it was made
of a thin lawn for the hot days, and the pale slenderness of her arms
and neck were revealed by the thinness of the fabric--went to school,
she knew, the very moment that Miss Ida Slome greeted her, that Aunt
Maria had been right in her surmise. For the first time since she had
been to school, Miss Slome, who was radiant in a flowered muslin,
came up to her and embraced her. Maria submitted coldly to the
embrace.

"You sweet little thing," said Miss Slome.

There was a man principal of the school, but Miss Slome was first
assistant, and Maria was in most of her classes. She took her place,
with her pretty smile as set as if she had been a picture instead of
a living and breathing woman, on the platform.

"You are awful sweet all of a sudden, ain't you?" said Gladys Mann in
Maria's ear.

Maria nodded, and went to her own seat.

All that day she noted, with her sharp little consciousness, the
change in Miss Slome's manner towards her. It was noticeable even in
class. "It is true," she said to herself. "Father is going to marry
her."

Aunt Maria was a little pacified by Harry's rejoinder the night
before. She begun to wonder if she had been, by any chance, mistaken.

"Maybe I was wrong," she said, privately, to Maria. But Maria shook
her head.

"She called me a sweet little thing, and kissed me," said she.

"Didn't she ever before?"

"No, ma'am."

"Well, she may have taken a notion to. Maybe I was mistaken. The way
your father spoke last night sort of made me think so."

Aunt Maria made up her mind that if Harry was out late the next
Sunday, and the next Wednesday, that would be a test of the
situation. The first time had been Wednesday, and Wednesday and
Sunday, in all provincial localities, are the acknowledged courting
nights. Of course it sometimes happens that an ardent lover goes
every night; but Harry Edgham, being an older man and a widower,
would probably not go to that extent.

He soon did, however. Very soon Maria and her aunt went to bed every
night before Harry came home, and Miss Ida Slome became more loving
towards Maria.

Wollaston Lee, boy as he was, child as he was, really suffered. He
lost flesh, and his mother told Aunt Maria that she was really
worried about him. "He doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive," said
she.

It never entered into her heart to imagine that Wollaston was in love
with the teacher, a woman almost if not quite old enough to be his
mother, and was suffering because of her love for Harry Edgham.

One afternoon, when Harry's courtship of Ida Slome had been going on
for about six weeks, and all Edgham was well informed concerning it,
Maria, instead of going straight home from school, took a cross-road
through some woods. She dreaded to reach home that night. It was
Wednesday, and her father would be sure to go to see Miss Slome.
Maria felt an indefinable depression, as if she, little, helpless
girl, were being carried so far into the wheels of life that it was
too much for her. Her father, of late, had been kinder than ever to
her; Maria had begun to wonder if she ought not to be glad if he were
happy, and if she ought not to try to love Miss Slome. But this
afternoon depression overcame her. She walked slowly between the
fields, which were white and gold with queen's-lace and golden-rod.
Her slender shoulders were bent a little. She walked almost like an
old woman. She heard a quick step behind her, and Wollaston Lee came
up beside her. She looked at him with some sentiment, even in the
midst of her depression. The thought flashed across her mind, what is
she should marry Wollaston at the same time her father married Miss
Slome? That would be a happy and romantic solution of the affair. She
colored sweetly, and smiled, but the boy scowled at her.

"Say?" he said.

Maria trembled a little. She was surprised.

"What?" she asked.

"Your father is the meanest man in this town, he is the meanest in
New Jersey, he is the meanest man in the whole United States, he is
the meanest man in the whole world."

Again the boy scowled at Maria, who did not understand; but she would
not have her father reviled.

"He isn't, so there!" she said.

"He's going to marry teacher."

"I don't see as he is mean if he is," said Maria, forced into justice
by injustice.

"I was going to marry her myself, if she'd only waited, and he hadn't
butted in," said Wollaston.

The boy gave one last scowl at the little girl, and it was as if he
scowled at all womanhood in her. Then he gave a fling away, and ran
like a wild thing across the field of golden-rod and queen's-lace.
Maria, watching, saw him throw himself down prone in the midst of the
wild-flowers, and she understood that he was crying because the
teacher was going to marry her father. She went on, walking like a
little old woman, and she had a feeling as if she had found a road in
the world that led outside all love.



Chapter VI


Maria felt that she no longer cared about Wollaston Lee, that she
fairly scorned him. Then, suddenly, something occurred to her. She
turned, and ran back as fast as she could, her short fleece of golden
hair flying. She wrapped her short skirts about her, and wormed
through the barbed-wire fence which skirted the field--the boy had
leaped it, but she was not equal to that--and she hastened, leaving a
furrow through the white-and-gold herbage, to the boy lying on his
face weeping. She stood over him.

"Say?" said she.

The boy gave a convulsive wriggle of his back and shoulders, and
uttered an inarticulate "Let me alone"; but the girl persisted.

"Say?" said she again.

Then the boy turned, and disclosed a flushed, scowling face among the
flowers.

"Well, what do you want, anyway?" said he.

"If you want to marry Miss Slome, why don't you, instead of my
father?" inquired Maria, bluntly, going straight to the point.

"I haven't got any money," replied Wollaston, crossly; "all a woman
thinks of is money. How'd I buy her dresses?"

"I don't believe but your father would be willing for you to live at
home with her, and buy her dresses, till you got so you could earn
yourself."

"She wouldn't have me," said the boy, and he fairly dug his flushed
face into the mass of wild-flowers.

"You are a good deal younger than father," said Maria.

"Your father he can give her a diamond ring, and I haven't got more'n
forty cents, and I don't believe that would buy much of anything,"
said Wollaston, in muffled tones of grief and rage.

Maria felt a shock at the idea of a diamond ring. Her mother had
never owned one.

"Oh, I don't believe father will ever give her a diamond ring in the
world," said she.

"She's wearing one, anyhow--I saw it," said Wollaston. "Where did she
get it if he didn't give it to her, I'd like to know?"

Maria felt cold.

"I don't believe it," she said again. "Teacher is all alone in the
school-house, correcting exercises. Why don't you get right up, and
go back and ask her? I'll go with you, if you want me to."

Wollaston raised himself indeterminately upon one elbow.

"Come along," urged Maria.

Wollaston got up slowly. His face was a burning red.

"You are a good deal younger and better looking than father," urged
Maria, traitorously.

The boy was only a year older than Maria. He was much larger and
taller, but although she looked a child, at that moment he looked
younger. Both of his brown hands hung at his sides, clinched like a
baby's. He had a sulky expression.

"Come along," urged the girl.

He stood kicking the ground hesitatingly for a moment, then he
followed the girl across the field. They went down the road until
they came to the school-house. Miss Slome was still there; her
graceful profile could be seen at a window.

Both children marched in upon Miss Slome, who was in a
recitation-room, bending over a desk. She looked up, and her face
lightened at sight of Maria.

"Oh, it's you, dear?" said she.

Maria then saw, for the first time, the white sparkle of a diamond on
the third finger of her left hand. She felt that she hated her.

"He wants to speak to you," she said, indicating Wollaston with a
turn of her hand.

Miss Slome looked inquiringly at Wollaston, who stood before her like
a culprit, blushing and shuffling, and yet with a sort of doggedness.

"Well, what is it, Wollaston?" she asked, patronizingly.

"I came back to ask you if--you would have me?" said Wollaston, and
his voice was hardly audible.

Miss Ida Slome looked at him in amazement; she was utterly dazed.

"Have you?" she repeated. "I think I do not quite understand you.
What do you mean by 'have you,' Wollaston?"

"Marry me," burst forth the boy.

There was a silence. Maria looked at Miss Slome, and, to her utter
indignation, the teacher's lips were twitching, and it took a good
deal to make Miss Slome laugh, too; she had not much sense of humor.

In a second Wollaston stole a furtive glance at Miss Slome, which was
an absurd parody on a glance of a man under similar circumstances,
and Miss Slome, who had had experience in such matters, laughed
outright.

The boy turned white. The woman did not realize it, but it was really
a cruel thing which she was doing. She laughed heartily.

"Why, my dear boy," she said. "You are too young and I am too old.
You had better wait and marry Maria, when you are both grown up."

Wollaston turned his back upon her, and marched out of the room.
Maria lingered, in the vain hope that she might bring the teacher to
a reconsideration of the matter.

"He's a good deal younger than father, and he's better looking," said
she.

Miss Slome blushed then.

"Oh, you sweet little thing, then you know--" she began.

Maria interrupted her. She became still more traitorous to her father.

"Father has a real bad temper, when things go wrong," said she.
"Mother always said so."

Miss Slome only laughed harder.

"You funny little darling," she said.

"And Wollaston has a real good disposition, his mother told my aunt
Maria so," she persisted.

The room fairly rang with Miss Slome's laughter, although she tried
to subdue it. Maria persisted.

"And father isn't a mite handy about the house," said she. "And Mrs.
Lee told Aunt Maria that Wollaston could wipe dishes and sweep as
well as a girl."

Miss Slome laughed.

"And I've got a bad temper, too, when I'm crossed; mother always said
so," said Maria. Her lip quivered.

Miss Slome left her desk, came over to Maria, and, in spite of her
shrinking away, caught her in her arms.

"You are a little darling," said she, "and I am not a bit afraid of
your temper." She hesitated a moment, looking at the child's averted
face, and coloring. "My dear, has your father told you?" she
whispered; then, "I didn't know he had."

"No, ma'am, he hasn't," said Maria. She fairly pulled herself loose
from Miss Slome and ran out of the room. Her eyes were almost blinded
with tears; she could scarcely see Wollaston Lee on the road, ahead
of her, also running. He seemed to waver as he ran. Maria called out
faintly. He evidently heard, for he slackened his pace a little; then
he ran faster than ever. Maria called again. This time the boy
stopped until the girl came up. He picked a piece of grass, as he
waited, and began chewing it.

"How do you know that isn't poison?" said Maria, breathlessly.

"Don't care if it is; hope it is," said the boy.

"It's wicked to talk so."

"Let it be wicked then."

"I don't see how I am to blame for any of it," Maria said, in a
bewildered sort of way. It was the cry of the woman, the primitive
cry of the primitive scape-goat of Creation. Already Maria began to
feel the necessity of fitting her little shoulders to the blame of
life, which she had inherited from her Mother Eve, but she was as yet
bewildered by the necessity.

"Ain't it your father that's going to marry her?" inquired Wollaston,
fiercely.

"I don't want him to marry her any more than you do," said Maria. "I
don't want her for a mother."

"I told you how it would come out, if I asked her," cried the boy,
still heaping the blame upon the girl.

"I would enough sight rather marry you than my father, if I were the
teacher," said Maria, and her blue eyes looked into Wollaston's with
the boldness of absolute guilelessness.

"Hush!" responded Wollaston, with a gesture of disdain. "Who'd want
you? You're nothing but a girl, anyway."

With that scant courtesy Wollaston Lee resumed his race homeward, and
Maria went her own way.

It was that very night, after Harry Edgham had returned from his call
upon Ida Slome, that he told Maria. Maria, as usual, had gone to bed,
but she was not asleep. Maria heard his hand on her door-knob, and
his voice calling out, softly: "Are you asleep, dear?"

"No," responded Maria.

Then her father entered and approached the child staring at him from
her white nest. The room was full of moonlight, and Maria's face
looked like a nucleus of innocence upon which it centred. Harry
leaned over his little daughter and kissed her.

"Father has got something to tell you, precious," he said.

Maria hitched away a little from him, and made no reply.

"Ida, Miss Slome, tells me that she thinks you know, and so I made up
my mind I had better tell you, and not wait any longer, although I
shall not take any decisive step before--before November. What would
you say if father should bring home a new mother for his little girl,
dear?"

"I should say I would rather have Aunt Maria," replied Maria,
decisively. She choked back a sob.

"I've got nothing to say against Aunt Maria," said Harry. "She's been
very kind to come here, and she's done all she could, but--well, I
think in some ways, some one else--Father thinks you will be much
happier with another mother, dear."

"No, I sha'n't."

Harry hesitated. The child's voice sounded so like her dead mother's
that he felt a sudden guilt, and almost terror.

"But if father were happier--you want father to be happy, don't you,
dear?" he asked, after a little.

Then Maria began to sob in good earnest. She threw her arms around
her father's neck. "Yes, father, I do want you to be happy," she
whispered, brokenly.

"If father's little girl were large enough to keep his house for him,
and were through school, father would never think of taking such a
step," said Harry Edgham, and he honestly believed what he said. For
the moment his old love of life seemed to clutch him fast, and Ida
Slome's radiant visage seemed to pale.

"Oh, father," pleaded Maria. "Aunt Maria would marry you, and I would
a great deal rather have her."

"Nonsense," said Harry Edgham, laughing, with a glance towards the
door.

"Yes, she would, father; that was the reason she got her pompadour."

Harry laughed again, but softly, for he was afraid of Aunt Maria
overhearing. "Nonsense, dear," he said again. Then he kissed Maria in
a final sort of way. "It will be all for the best," he said, "and we
shall all be happier. Father doesn't think any the less of you, and
never will, and he is never going to forget your own dear mother; but
it is all for the best, the way he has decided. Now, good-night,
darling, try to go to sleep, and don't worry about anything."

It was not long before Maria did fall asleep. Her thoughts were in
such a whirl that it was almost like intoxication. She could not seem
to fix her mind on anything long enough to hold herself awake. It was
not merely the fact of her father's going to marry again, it was
everything which that involved. She felt as if she were looking into
a kaleidoscope shaken by fate into endless changes. The changes
seemed fairly to tire her eyes into sleep.

The very next afternoon Aunt Maria went home. Harry announced his
matrimonial intentions to her before he went to New York, and she
said immediately that she would take the afternoon train.

"But," said Harry, "I thought maybe you would stay and be at
the--wedding, Maria. I don't mean to get married until the November
vacation, and it is only the first of September now. I don't see why
you are in such a hurry."

"Yes," replied Aunt Maria, "I suppose you thought I would stay and
get the house cleaned, and slave here like a dog, getting ready for
you to be married. Well, I sha'n't; I'm tired out. I'm going to take
the train this afternoon."

Harry looked helplessly at her.

"I don't see what Maria and I are going to do then," said he.

"If it wasn't for taking Maria away from school, I would ask her to
come and make me a visit, poor child," said Aunt Maria, "until you
brought her new ma home. I have only a hundred dollars a year to live
on, but I'd risk it but I could make her comfortable; but she can't
leave her school."

"No, I don't see how she can," said Harry, still helplessly. "I
thought you'd stay, Maria. There is the house to be cleaned, and some
painting and papering. I thought--"

"Yes, I'll warrant you thought," said Aunt Maria, with undisguised
viciousness. "But you were mistaken; I am not going to stay."

"But I don't see exactly--"

"Oh, Lord, you and Maria can take your meals at Mrs. Jonas White's,
she'll be glad enough to have you; and you can hire the cleaning
done," said Aunt Maria, with a certain pity in the midst of her
disappointment and contempt.

It seemed to Maria, when her aunt went away that afternoon, as if she
could not bear it. There is a law of gravitation for the soul as well
as for the body, and Maria felt as one who had fallen from a known
quantity into strangeness, with a horrible shock.

"Now, if she don't treat you well, you send word, and I'll have you
come and stay with me," whispered Aunt Maria at the last.

Maria loved Aunt Maria when she went away. She went to school late
for the sake of seeing her off; and she was late in the geography
class, but Miss Slome only greeted her with a smile of radiant
reassurance.

At recess, Gladys Mann snuggled up to her.

"Say, is it true?" she whispered.

"Is what true?"

"Is your father goin' to get married to teacher?"

"Yes," said Maria. Then she gave Gladys a little push. "I wish you'd
let me alone," she said.



Chapter VII


Extreme youth is always susceptible to diversion which affords a
degree of alleviation for grief. Many older people have the same
facility of turning before the impetus of circumstances to another
view of life, which serves to take their minds off too close
concentration upon sorrow, but it is not so universal. Maria,
although she was sadly lonely, in a measure, enjoyed taking her meals
at Mrs. Jonas White's. She had never done anything like it before.
The utter novelty of sitting down to Mrs. White's table, and eating
in company with her and Mr. Jonas White, and Lillian White, and a son
by the name of Henry, amused her. Then, too, they were all very kind
to her. They even made a sort of heroine of her, especially at noon,
when her father was in New York and she, consequently, was alone.
They pitied her, in a covert sort of fashion, because her father was
going to get married again, especially Mrs. White and Lillian.
Lillian was a very pretty girl, with a pert carriage of blond head,
and a slangy readiness of speech.

"Well, she's a dandy, as far as looks and dress go, and maybe she'll
make you a real good mother-in-law," she said to Maria. Maria knew
that Lillian should have said step-mother, but she did not venture to
correct her.

"Looks ain't everything," said Mrs. White, with a glance at her
daughter. She had thought of the possibility of Harry Edgham taking a
fancy to her Lillian.

Mr. Jonas White, who with his son Henry kept a market, thereby
insuring such choice cuts of meat, spoke then. He did not, as a rule,
say much at table, especially when Maria and her father, who in his
estimation occupied a superior place in society, were present.

"Guess Mr. Edgham knows what he's about," said he. "He's going to
marry a good-looking woman, and one that's capable of supportin'
herself, if he's laid up or anything happens to him. Guess she's all
right."

"I guess so, too," said Henry White. Both nodded reassuringly at
Maria, who felt mournfully comforted.

"Shouldn't wonder if she'd saved something, too," said Mr. White.

When he and his son were on their way back to the market, driving in
the white-covered wagon with "J. White & Son" on the sides thereof,
they agreed that women were queer.

"There's your mother and Lillian, they mean all right," said Jonas
White, "but they were getting that poor young one all stirred up."

Maria never settled with herself whether the Whites thought she had a
pleasant prospect before her or the reverse, but they did not
certainly influence her to love Miss Ida Slome any more.

Miss Slome was so kind to Maria, in those days, that it really seemed
to her that she ought to love her. She and her father were invited to
take tea at Miss Slome's boarding-house, and after tea they sat in
the little parlor which the teacher had for her own, and Miss Slome
sang and played to them. She had a piano. Maria heard her and her
father talking about the place in the Edgham parlor where it was to
stand. Harry stood over Miss Slome as she was singing, and Maria
observed how his arm pressed against her shoulder.

After the song was done, Harry and Miss Slome sat down on the sofa,
and Harry drew Maria down on the other side. Harry put his arm around
his little daughter, but not as if he realized it, and she peeked
around and saw how closely he was embracing Miss Slome, whose cheeks
were a beautiful color, but whose set smile never relaxed. It seemed
to Maria that Miss Slome smiled exactly like a doll, as if the smile
were made on her face by something outside, not by anything within.
Maria thought her father was very silly. She felt scorn, shame, and
indignation at the same time. Maria was glad when it was time to go
home. When her father kissed Miss Slome, she blushed, and turned away
her head.

Going home, Harry almost danced along the street. He was as
light-hearted as a boy, and as thoughtlessly in love.

"Well, dear, what do you think of your new mother?" he asked, gayly,
as they passed under the maples, which were turning, and whose
foliage sprayed overhead with a radiance of gold in the electric
light.

Then Maria made that inevitable rejoinder which is made always, which
is at once trite and pathetic. "I can't call her mother," she said.

But Harry only laughed. He was too delighted and triumphant to
realize the pain of the child, although he loved her. "Oh, well,
dear, you needn't until you feel like it," he said.

"What am I going to call her, father?" asked Maria, seriously.

"Oh, anything. Call her Ida."

"She is too old for me to call her that," replied Maria.

"Old? Why, dear, Ida is only a girl."

"She is a good deal over thirty," said Maria. "I call that very old."

"You won't, when you get there yourself," replied Harry, with another
laugh. "Well, dear, suit yourself. Call her anything you like."

It ended by Maria never calling her anything except "you," and
referring to her as "she" and "her." The woman, in fact, became a
pronoun for the child, who in her honesty and loyalty could never put
another word in the place which had belonged to the noun, and feel
satisfied.

Maria was very docile, outwardly, in those days, but inside she was
in a tumult of rebellion. She went home with Miss Slome when she was
asked, but she was never gracious in response to the doll-like smile,
and the caressing words, which were to her as automatic as the smile.
Sometimes it seemed to Maria that if she could only have her own
mother scold her, instead of Miss Slome's talking so sweetly to her,
she would give the whole world.

For some unexplained cause, the sorrow which Maria had passed through
had seemed to stop her own emotional development. She looked at
Wollaston Lee sometimes and wondered how she had ever had dreams
about him; how she had thought she would like him to go with her,
and, perhaps, act as silly as her father did with Miss Slome. She
remembered how his voice sounded when he said she was nothing but a
girl, and a rage of shame seized her. "He needn't worry," she
thought. "I wouldn't have him, not if he was to go down on his knees
in the dust." She told Gladys Mann that she thought Wollaston Lee was
a very homely boy, and not so very smart, and Gladys told another
girl whose brother knew Wollaston Lee, and he told him. After a
little, Wollaston and Maria never spoke when they met. The girl did
not seem to see the boy; she was more delicate in her manner of
showing aversion, but the boy gazed straight at her with an insolent
stare, as at one who had dared him. He told the same boy who had told
him what Maria had said, that he thought Amy Long was the prettiest
girl in school, and Maria was homely enough to crack a looking-glass,
and that came back to Maria. Everything said in the school always
came back, by some mysterious law of gravitation.

There was one quite serious difficulty involved in Aunt Maria's
deserting her post, and that was, Maria was too young to be left
alone in the house every night while her father was visiting his
fiancee. She could not stay at Mrs. White's, because it was obviously
unfair to ask them to remain up until nearly midnight to act as her
guardian every, or nearly every, night in the week. However, Harry
submitted the problem to Miss Slome, who solved it at once. She had,
in some respects, a masterly brain, and her executive abilities were
somewhat thrown away in her comparatively humble sphere.

"You must have the house cleaned," said she. "Let the woman you get
to clean stay over until you come home. She won't be afraid to go
home alone afterwards. Those kind of people never are. I suppose you
will get Mrs. Addix?"

"They tell me she is about the best woman for house-cleaning," said
Harry, rather helplessly. He was so unaccustomed to even giving a
thought to household details, that he had a vague sense of self-pity
because he was now obliged to do so. His lost Abby occasionally, he
believed, had employed this Mrs. Addix, but she had never troubled
him about it.

It thus happened that every evening little Maria Edgham sat guarded,
as it were, by Mrs. Addix. Mrs. Addix was of the poor-white race,
like the Manns--in fact, she was distantly related to them. They were
nearly all distantly related, which may have accounted for their
partial degeneracy. Mrs. Addix, however, was a sort of anomaly.
Coming, as she did, of a shiftless, indolent family, she was yet a
splendid worker. She seemed tireless. She looked positively radiant
while scrubbing, and also more intelligent. The moment she stopped
work, she looked like an automatic doll which had run down: all
consciousness of self, or that which is outside self, seemed to leave
her face; it was as if her brain were in her toiling arms and hands.
Moreover, she always went to sleep immediately after Harry had gone
and Maria was left alone with her. She sat in her chair and breathed
heavily, with her head tipped idiotically over one shoulder.

It was not very lively for Maria during those evenings. She felt
afraid to go to bed and leave the house alone except for the heavily
sleeping woman, whom her father had hard work to rouse when he
returned, and who staggered out of the door, when she started home,
as if she were drunk. She herself never felt sleepy; it was even hard
for her to sleep when at last her father had returned and she went to
bed. Often after she had fallen asleep her heart seemed to sting her
awake.

Maria grew thinner than ever. Somebody called Harry Edgham's
attention to the fact, and he got some medicine for her to take. But
it was not medicine which she needed--that is, not medicine for the
body, but for the soul. What probably stung her most keenly was the
fact that certain improvements, for which her mother had always
longed but always thought she could not have, were being made in the
house. A bay-window was being built in the parlor, and one over it,
in the room which had been her father's and mother's, and which Maria
dimly realized was, in the future, to be Miss Ida Slome's. Maria's
mother had always talked a good deal about some day having that
bay-window. Maria reflected that her father could have afforded it
just as well in her mother's day, if her mother had insisted upon it,
like Miss Slome. Maria's mother had been of the thrifty New England
kind, and had tried to have her husband save a little. Maria knew
well enough that these savings were going into the improvements, the
precious dollars which her poor mother had enabled her father to save
by her own deprivations and toil. Maria heard her father and Miss
Slome talk about the maid they were to have; Miss Slome would never
dream of doing her own work, as her predecessor had done. All these
things the child dwelt upon in a morbid, aged fashion, and,
consequently, while her evenings with Mrs. Addix were not enjoyable,
they were not exactly dull. Nearly every room in the house was being
newly papered and painted. Maria and Mrs. Addix sat first in one
room, then in another, as one after another was torn up in the
process of improvement. Generally the room which they occupied was
chaotic with extra furniture, and had a distracted appearance which
grated terribly upon the child's nerves. Only her own room was not
touched. "You shall have your room all fixed up next year," her
father told her. "I would have it done now, but father is going to
considerable expense as it is." Maria assured him, with a sort of
wild eagerness, that she did not want her room touched. It seemed to
her that if the familiar paper which her mother had selected were
changed for something else, and the room altered, that the last
vestige of home would disappear, that she could not bear it.

"Well," said Harry, easily, "your paper will do very well, I guess,
for a while longer; but father will have your room fixed up another
year. You needn't think you are going to be slighted."

That night, Maria and Mrs. Addix sat in Maria's room. The parlor was
in confusion, and so was the dining-room and the guest-chamber;
indeed, the house was at that time in the height of its repairs. That
very day Maria's mother's room had been papered with a beautiful
paper with a sheenlike satin, over which were strewn garlands of pink
roses. Pink was Miss Slome's favorite color. They had a new hard-wood
floor laid in that room, and there was to be a pink rug, and white
furniture painted with pink roses; Maria knew that her father and
Miss Slome had picked it out. That evening, after her father had
gone, and she sat there with the sleeping Mrs. Addix, a sort of
frenzy seized her, or, rather, she worked herself up to it. She
thought of what her mother would have said to that beautiful new
paper, and furniture, and bay-window. Her mother also had liked pink.
She thought of how much her mother would have liked it, and how she
had gone without, and not made any complaint about her shabby old
furnishings, which had that very day been sold to Mrs. Addix for an
offset to her wages, and which Maria had seen carried away. She
thought about it all, and a red flush deepened on her cheeks, and her
blue eyes blazed. For the time she was abnormal. She passed the limit
which separates perfect sanity from mania. She had some fancy-work in
her hands. Mrs. White had suggested that she work in cross-stitch a
cover for the dresser in her new mother's room, and she was engaged
upon that, performing, as she thought, a duty, but her very soul
rebelled against it. She made some mistakes, and whenever she did she
realized with a sort of wicked glee that the thing would not be
perfect, and she never tried to rectify them.

Finally, Maria laid her work softly on the table, beside which she
was sitting. She glanced at Mrs. Addix, whose heavy, measured
breathing filled the room, then she arose. She took the lamp from the
table, and tiptoed out. Maria stole across the hall. The room which
had been her father's and mother's was entirely empty, and the roses
on the satiny wall-paper gleamed out as if they were real. There was
a white-and-silver picture-moulding. Maria set her lamp on the floor.
She looked at the great bay-window, she looked at the roses on the
walls. Then she did a mad thing. The paper was freshly put on; it was
hardly dry. Maria deliberately approached the wall near the
bay-window, where the paper looked somewhat damp; she inserted her
slender little fingers, with a scratching of her nails under the
edge, and she tore off a great, ragged strip. Then she took up her
lamp and returned to her room.

Mrs. Addix was still asleep. She had begun to snore, in an odd sort
of fashion, with deep, regular puffs of breath; it was like the
beating of a drum to peace and rest, after a day of weary and
unskilled labor unprofitable to the soul. Maria sat down again. She
took up her work. She felt very wicked, but she felt better.



Chapter VIII


When Maria's father returned that night, he came, as usual, straight
to the room wherein she and Mrs. Addix were sitting. Maria regarded
her father with a sort of contemptuous wonder, tinctured with
unwilling admiration. Her father, on his return from his evenings
spent with Miss Ida Slome, looked always years younger than Maria had
ever seen him. There was the humidity of youth in his eyes, the flush
of youth on his cheeks, the triumph of youth in his expression. Harry
Edgham, in spite of lines on his face, in spite, even, of a shimmer
of gray and thinness of hair on the temples, looked as young as youth
itself, in this rejuvenation of his affection, for he was very much
in love with the woman whom he was to marry. He had been faithful to
his wife while she lived, even the imagination of love for another
woman had not entered his heart. His wife's faded face had not for a
second disturbed his loyalty; but now the beauty of this other woman
aroused within him long dormant characteristics, like some wonderful
stimulant, not only for the body, but for the soul. When he looked in
Ida Slome's beautiful face he seemed to drink in an elixir of life.
And yet, down at the roots of the man's heart slept the memory of his
wife; for Abby Edgham, with her sallow, faded face, had possessed
something which Ida Slome lacked, and which the man needed, to hold
him. And always in his mind, at this time, was the intention to be
more than kind to his motherless little daughter, not to let her
realize any difference in his feeling for her.

When he came to-night, he looked at the sleeping Mrs. Addix, and at
Maria, taking painful stitches in her dresser cover, at first with a
radiant smile, then with the deepest pity.

"Poor little soul," he said. "You have had a long evening to
yourself, haven't you?"

"I don't mind," replied Maria. She was thinking of the torn
wall-paper, and she did not look her father fully in the eyes.

"Has she been asleep ever since I went?" inquired Harry, in a whisper.

"Yes, sir."

"Poor little girl. Well, it will be livelier by-and-by for you. We'll
have company, and more going on." Harry then went close to Mrs.
Addix, sitting with her head resting on her shoulder, still snoring
with those puffs of heavy breath. "Mrs. Addix," he said.

Mrs. Addix did not stir; she continued to snore.

"Mrs. Addix!" repeated Harry, in a louder tone, but still the
sleeping woman did not stir.

"Good Lord, what a sleeper!" said Harry, still aloud. Then he shook
her violently by the shoulder. "Come, Mrs. Addix," said he, in a
shout; "I've got home, and I guess you'll want to be going yourself."

Mrs. Addix moved languidly, and glanced up with a narrow slit of eye,
as dull as if she had been drugged. Harry shook her again, and
repeated his announcement that he was home and that she must want to
go. At last he roused her, and she stood up with a dazed expression.
Maria got her bonnet and shawl, and she gazed at them vaguely, as if
she were so far removed from the flesh that the garments thereof
perplexed her. Maria put on her bonnet, standing on tiptoe, and Harry
threw the shawl over her shoulders. Then she staggered out of the
room with a mumbled good-night.

"Take care of the stairs, and do not fall," Harry said.

He himself held the light for her, until she was safely down, and the
outer door had closed after her.

"The fresh air will wake her up," he said, laughing. "Not very lively
company, is she, dear?"

"No, sir," replied Maria, simply.

Harry looked lovingly at her, then his eyes fell on the door of the
room which had been papered that day. It occurred to him to go in and
see how the new paper looked.

"Come in with father, and let's see the improvements," he said, in a
gay voice, to Maria.

Maria followed him into the room. It would have been difficult to say
whether triumphant malice and daring, or fear, prevailed in her heart.

Harry, carrying the lamp, entered the room, with Maria slinking at
his heels. The first thing he saw was the torn paper.

"Hullo!" said he. He approached the bay-window with his lamp.
"Confound those paperers!" he said.

For a minute Maria did not say a word. She was not exactly struggling
with temptation; she had inherited too much from her mother's Puritan
ancestry to make the question of a struggle possible when the duty of
truth stared her, as now, in the face. She simply did not speak at
once because the thing appeared to her stupendous, and nobody, least
of all a child, but has a threshold of preparation before stupendous
things.

"They haven't half put the paper on," said her father. "Didn't half
paste it, I suppose. You can't trust anybody unless you are right at
their heels. Confound 'em! There, I've got to go round and blow 'em
up to-morrow, before I go to the city."

Then Maria spoke. "I tore that paper off, father," said she.

Harry turned and stared at her. His face went white. For a second he
thought the child was out of her senses.

"What?" he said.

"I tore that paper off," repeated Maria.

"You? Why?"

The double question seemed to hit the child like a pistol-shot, but
she did not flinch.

"Mother never had paper as pretty as this," she said, "nor new
furniture." Her eyes met her father's with indescribable reproach.

Harry looked at her with almost horror. For the moment the child's
eyes looked like her dead mother's, her voice sounded like her's. He
continued gazing at her.

"I couldn't bear it," said Maria. "She" [she meant Mrs. Addix] "was
asleep. I was all alone. I got to thinking. I came in here and tore
it off."

Harry heaved a deep sigh. He did not look nor was he in the least
angry.

"I know your poor mother didn't have much," said he. He sighed again.
Then he put his arm around Maria and kissed her. "You can have your
room newly papered now, if you want it," said he, in a choking voice.
"Father will send you over to Ellisville to-morrow with Mrs. White,
and you can pick out some paper your own self, and father will have
it put right on."

"I don't care about any," said Maria, and she began to sob.

"Father's baby," said Harry.

She felt his chest heave, and realized that her father was weeping as
well as she.

"Oh, father, I don't want new paper," she sobbed out, convulsively.
"Mother picked out that on my room, and--and--I am sorry I tore this
off."

"Never mind, darling," said Harry. He almost carried the child back
to her own room. "Now get to bed as soon as you can, dear," he said.

After Maria, trembling and tearful, had undressed and was in bed, her
father came back into the room. He held a small lamp in one hand, and
a tumbler with some wine in the other.

"Here is some of the wine your mother had," said Harry. "Now I want
you to sit right up and drink this."

"I--don't want it, father," gasped Maria.

"Sit right up and drink it."

Maria sat up. The tumbler was a third full, and the wine was an old
port. Maria drank it. Immediately her head began to swim; she felt in
a sort of daze when her father kissed her, and bade her lie still and
go right to sleep, and went out of the room. She heard him, with
sharpened hearing, enter her mother's room. She remembered about the
paper, and the new furniture, and how she was to have a new mother,
and how she had torn the paper, and how her own mother had never had
such things, but she remembered through a delicious haze. She felt a
charming warmth pervade all her veins. She was no longer unhappy.
Nothing seemed to matter. She soon fell asleep.

As for Harry Edgham, he entered the empty room which he had occupied
with his dead wife. He set the lamp on the floor and approached the
paper, which poor little Maria, in her fit of futile rebellion, had
torn. He carefully tore off still more, making a clean strip of the
paper where Maria had made a ragged one. When he had finished, it
looked as if the paper had in reality dropped off because of
carelessness in putting on. He gathered up the pieces of paper and
stood looking about the room.

There is something about an empty room, empty except of memories, but
containing nothing besides, no materialities, no certainties as to
the future, which is intimidating to one who stops and thinks. Harry
Edgham was not, generally speaking, of the sort who stop to think;
but now he did. The look of youth faded from his face. Instead of the
joy and triumph which had filled his heart and made it young again,
came remembrance of the other woman, and something else, which
resembled terror and dread. For the first time he deliberated whether
he was about to do a wise thing: for the first time, the image of Ida
Slome's smiling beauty, which was ever evident to his fancy, produced
in him something like doubt and consternation. He looked about the
room, and remembered the old pieces of furniture which had that day
been carried away. He looked at the places where they had stood. Then
he remembered his dead wife, as he had never remembered her before,
with an anguish of loss. He said to himself that if he only had her
back, even with her faded face and her ready tongue, that old,
settled estate would be better for him than this joy, which at once
dazzled and racked him. Suddenly the man, as he stood there, put his
hands before his face; he was weeping like a child. That which Maria
had done, instead of awakening wrath, had aroused a pity for himself
and for her, which seemed too great to be borne. For the instant, the
dead triumphed over the living.

Then Harry took up the lamp and went to his own room. He set the lamp
on the dresser, and looked at his face, with the rays thrown upward
upon it, very much as Maria had done the night of her mother's death.
When he viewed himself in the looking-glass, he smiled involuntarily;
the appearance of youth returned. He curled his mustache and moved
his head this way and that. He thought about some new clothes which
he was to have. He owned to himself, with perfect ingenuousness, that
he was, in his way, as a man, as good-looking as Ida herself.
Suddenly he remembered how Abby had looked when she was a young girl
and he had married her; he had not compared himself so favorably with
her. The image of his dead wife, as a young girl, was much fairer in
his mind than that of Ida Slome.

"There's no use talking, Abby was handsomer than Ida when she was
young," he said to himself, as he began to undress. He went to sleep
thinking of Abby as a young girl, but when once asleep he dreamed of
Ida Slome.



Chapter IX


Harry and Ida Slome were to be married the Monday before
Thanksgiving. The school would close on the Friday before.

Ida Slome possessed, along with an entire self-satisfaction, a vein
of pitiless sense, which enabled her to see herself as others might
see her, and which saved her from the follies often incident to the
self-satisfied. She considered herself a beauty; she thought, and
with reason, that she would be well worth looking at in her
wedding-clothes, but she also told herself that it was quite possible
that some remarks might be made to her disparagement if she had the
wedding to which her inclination prompted her. She longed for a white
gown, veil, bridesmaids, and the rest, but she knew better. She knew
that more could be made of her beauty and her triumph if she
curtailed her wish. She realized that Harry's wife had been dead only
a little more than a year, and that, although still a beauty, she was
not a young girl, and she steered clear of criticism and ridicule.

The ceremony was performed in the Presbyterian church Monday
afternoon. Ida wore a prune-colored costume, and a hat trimmed with
pansies. She was quite right in thinking that she was adorable in it,
and there was also in the color, with its shade of purple, a delicate
intimation of the remembrance of mourning in the midst of joy. The
church was filled with people, but there were no bridesmaids. Some of
Ida's scholars acted as ushers. Wollaston Lee was among them. To
Maria's utter astonishment, he did not seem to realize his trying
position as a rejected suitor. He was attired in a new suit, and wore
a white rosebud in his coat, and Maria glanced at him with mingled
admiration and disdain.

Maria sat directly in front of the pulpit, with Mrs. Jonas White and
Lillian. Mrs. White had a new gown of some thin black stuff,
profusely ornamented with jet, and Lillian had a new pink silk gown,
and wore a great bunch of roses. The situation, with regard to Maria,
in connection with the wedding ceremony and the bridal trip, had been
a very perplexing one. Harry had some western cousins, far removed,
both by blood and distance. Aunt Maria and her brother were the only
relatives on his former wife's side. Aunt Maria had received an
invitation, both from Harry and the prospective bride, to be present
at the wedding and remain in the house with Maria until the return of
the bridal couple from their short trip. She had declined in a few
stilted words, although Harry had sent a check to cover the expenses
of her trip, which was returned in her letter.

"The fact is, I don't know what to do with Maria," Harry said to Ida
Slome, a week before the wedding. "Maria won't come, and neither will
her brother's wife, and she can't be left alone, even with the new
maid. We don't know the girl very well, and it won't do."

Ida Slome solved the problem with her usual precision and promptness.

"Then," said she, "she will have to board at Mrs. White's until we
return. There is nothing else to do."

It was therefore decided that Maria was to board at Mrs. White's,
although it involved some things which were not altogether
satisfactory to Ida. Maria could not sit all alone in a pew, and
watch her father being married to his second wife, that was obvious;
and, since Mrs. Jonas White was going to take charge of her, there
was nothing else to do but to place herself and daughter in a
position of honored intimacy. Mrs. Jonas White said quite openly that
she was not in any need of taking boarders, that she had only taken
Mr. Edgham and Maria to oblige, and that she now was to take poor
little Maria out of pity. She, in reality, did pity Maria, for a good
many reasons. She was a shrewd woman, and she gauged Miss Ida Slome
pitilessly. However, she had to admit that she had shown some
consideration in one respect. In the midst of her teaching, and
preparations for her wedding, she had planned a lovely dress for
Maria. It was unquestionable but the realization of her own
loveliness, and her new attire had an alleviating influence upon
Maria. There was a faint buzz of admiration for her when she entered
the church. She looked as if enveloped in a soft gray cloud. Ida had
planned a dress of some gray stuff, and a soft gray hat, tied under
her chin with wide ribbons, and a long gray plume floating over her
golden-fleece of hair. Maria had never owned such a gown, and, in
addition, she had her first pair of kid-gloves of gray, to match the
dress, and long, gray coat, trimmed with angora fur. She was charming
in it, and, moreover, the gray, as her step-mother's purple,
suggested delicately, if one so chose to understand a dim yet
pleasing melancholy, a shade, as it were, of remembrance.

Maria had been dressed at home, under Mrs. White's supervision. Maria
had viewed herself in the new long mirror in her mother's room, which
was now resplendent with its new furnishings, and she admitted to
herself that she was lovelier than she had ever been, and that she
had Miss Ida Slome to thank for it.

"I will say one thing," said Mrs. White, "she has looked out for you
about your dress, and she has shown real good taste, too."

Maria turned herself about before the glass, which reflected her
whole beautiful little person, and she loved herself so much that for
the first time it seemed to her that she almost loved Ida. She was
blushing and smiling with pleasure.

Mrs. White sighed. "Well, maybe it is for the best," said she. "One
never knows about such things, how they will work out."

Maria listened, with a degree of indignation and awe, to the service.
She felt her heart swelling with grief at the sight of this other
woman being made her father's wife and put in the place of her own
mother, and yet, as a musical refrain is the haunting and
ever-recurrent part of a composition, so was her own charming
appearance. She felt so sure that people were observing her, that she
blushed and dared not look around. She was, in reality, much
observed, and both admired and pitied.

People, both privately and outspokenly, did not believe that the
step-mother would be, in a way, good to the child by the former
marriage. Ida Slome was not exactly a favorite in Edgham. People
acquiesced in her beauty and brilliancy, but they did not entirely
believe in her or love her. She stood before the pulpit with her same
perfect, set smile, displaying to the utmost the sweet curves of her
lips. Her cheeks retained their lovely brilliancy of color. Harry
trembled, and his face looked pale and self-conscious, but Ida
displayed no such weakness. She replied with the utmost self-poise to
the congratulations which she received after the ceremony. There was
an informal reception in the church vestry. Cake and ice-cream and
coffee were served, and Ida and Harry and Maria stood together. Ida
had her arm around Maria most of the time, but Maria felt as if it
were an arm of wood which encircled her. She heard Ida Slome
addressed as Mrs. Edgham, and she wanted to jerk herself away and
run. She lost the consciousness of herself in her new attire.

Once Harry looked around at her, and received a shock. Maria's face
looked to him exactly like her mother's, although the coloring was so
different. Maria was a blonde, and her mother had been dark. There
was something about the excitement hardly restrained in her little
face, which made the man realize that the dead wife yet lived and
reigned triumphant in her child. He himself was conscious that he
conducted himself rather awkwardly and foolishly. A red spot burned
on either cheek. He spoke jerkily, and it seemed to him that
everything he said was silly, and that people might repeat it and
laugh. He was relieved when it was all over and he and Ida were in
the cab, driving to the station. When they were rolling rapidly
through a lonely part of the road, he put his arm around his new
wife, and kissed her. She received his kiss, and looked at him with
her set smile and the set sparkle in her beautiful eyes. Again the
feeling of almost terror which he had experienced the night when
Maria had torn the paper off in her mother's room, came over him.
However, he made an effort and threw it off.

"Poor little Maria looked charming, thanks to you, dearest," he said,
tenderly.

"Yes, I thought she did. That gray suit was just the thing for her,
wasn't it? I never saw her look so pretty before," returned Ida, and
her tone was full of self-praise for her goodness to Maria.

"Well, she will be a great deal happier," said Harry. "It was a
lonesome life for a child to lead."

Harry Edgham had not an atom of tact. Any woman might have judged
from his remarks that she had been married on account of Maria; but
Ida only responded with her never-changing smile.

"Yes," said she, "I think myself that she will be much happier,
dear." Privately she rather did resent her husband's speech, but she
never lost sight of the fact that a smile is more becoming than a
frown.

Maria remained boarding at Mrs. Jonas White's until her father and
his new wife returned. She did not have a very happy time. In the
first place, the rather effusive pity with which she was treated by
the female portion of the White family, irritated her. She began to
consider that, now her father had married, his wife was a member of
her family, and not to be decried. Maria had a great deal of pride
when those belonging to her were concerned. One day she retorted
pertly when some covert remark, not altogether to her new mother's
laudation, had been made by Lillian.

"I think she is perfectly lovely," said she, with a toss of her head.

Lillian and her mother looked at each other. Then Lillian, who was
not her match for pertness, spoke.

"Have you made up your mind what to call her?" she asked. "Mummer, or
mother?"

"I shall call her whatever I please," replied Maria; "it is nobody's
business." Then she arose and went out of the room, with an absurd
little strut.

"Lord a-massy!" observed Mrs. Jonas White, after she had gone.

"I guess Ida Slome will have her hands full with that young one,"
observed Lillian.

"I guess she will, too," assented her mother. "She was real sassy.
Well, her mother had a temper of her own; guess she's got some of it."

Mr. Jonas White and Henry were a great alleviation of Maria's
desolate estate during her father's absence. Somehow, the men seemed
to understand better than the women just how she felt: that she would
rather be let alone, now it was all over, than condoled with and
pitied. Mr. Henry White took one of the market horses, hitched him
into a light buggy, and took Maria out riding two evenings, when the
market was closed. It was a warm November, and the moon was full.
Maria quite enjoyed her drive with Mr. Henry White, and he never said
one word about her father's marriage, and her new mother--her pronoun
of a mother--all the way. Mr. Henry White had too long a neck, and
too large a mouth, which was, moreover, too firmly set, otherwise
Maria felt that, with slight encouragement, she might fall in love
with him, since he showed so much delicacy. She counted up the
probable difference in their ages, and estimated it as no more than
was between her father and Her. However, Mr. Henry White gave her so
little encouragement, and his neck was so much too long above his
collar, that she decided to put it out of her mind.

"Poor little thing," Mr. Henry White said to his father, next day,
"she's about wild, with mother and Lill harping on it all the time."

"They mean well," said Mr. White.

"Of course they do; but who's going to stand this eternal harping? If
women folks would only stop being so durned kind, and let folks alone
sometimes, they'd be a durned sight kinder."

"That's so," said Mr. Jonas White.

Maria's father and his bride reached home about seven on the Monday
night after Thanksgiving. Maria re-entered her old home in the
afternoon. Miss Zella Holmes, who was another teacher of hers, went
with her. Ida had requested her to open the house. Ida's former
boarding-house mistress had cooked a large turkey, and made some
cakes and pies and bread. Miss Zella Holmes drove around for Maria in
a livery carriage, and all these supplies were stowed in beside them.
On the way they stopped at the station for the new maid, whose train
was due then. She was a Hungarian girl, with a saturnine, almost
savage visage. Maria felt an awe of her, both because she was to be
their maid, and they had never kept one, and because of her
personality.

When they reached home, Miss Zella Holmes, who was very lively and
quick in her ways, though not at all pretty, gave orders to the maid
in a way which astonished Maria. She was conscious of an astonishment
at everything, which had not before possessed her. She looked at the
kitchen, the dining-room, the sitting-room, the parlor, all the old
apartments, and it was exactly as if she saw old friends with new
heads. The sideboard in the dining-room glittered with the wedding
silver and cut-glass. New pictures hung on the sitting-room and
parlor walls, beside the new paper. Wedding gifts lay on the tables.
There had been many wedding gifts. Miss Zella Holmes flew about the
house, with the saturnine Hungarian in attendance. Maria, at Miss
Holmes's bidding, began to lay the table. She got out some new
table-linen, napkins, and table-cloth, which had been a wedding
present. She set the table with some new china. She looked, with a
numb feeling, at her mother's poor old blue-and-white dishes, which
were put away on the top shelves.

"I think it would be a very good idea to pack away those dishes
altogether, and put them in a box up in the garret," said Miss
Holmes. Then she noticed Maria's face. "They will come in handy for
your wedding outfit, little girl," she added, kindly and jocosely,
but Maria did not laugh.

Every now and then Maria looked at the clock on the parlor shelf,
that was also new. The old sitting-room clock had disappeared; Maria
did not know where, but she missed the face of it as if it had been
the face of a friend. Miss Holmes also glanced frequently at the new
clock. There arose a fragrant odor of warming potatoes and gravy from
the kitchen.

"It is almost time for them," said Miss Holmes.

She was very much dressed-up, Maria thought. She wore a red silk gown
with a good many frills about the shoulders. She was very slight, and
affected frills to conceal it. Out of this mass of red frills arose
her little, alert head and face, homely, but full of vivacity. Maria
thought her very nice. She would have liked her better for a mother
than Ida. When Miss Zella Holmes smiled it seemed to come from within.

At last a carriage came rapidly up to their door, and Miss Holmes
sprang to open it. Maria remained in the dining-room. Suddenly an
uncanny fancy had seized her and terrified her. Suppose her father
should look different, like everything else? Suppose it should be to
her as if he had a new head? She therefore remained in the
dining-room, trembling. She heard her father's voice, loud and merry.
"Where is Maria?" Still, Maria did not stir. Then her father came
hurrying into the room, and behind him she who had been Ida Slome,
radiant and triumphant, in her plum-colored array, with the same
smile with which she had departed on her beautiful face. Harry caught
Maria in his arms, rubbed his cold face against her soft little one,
and kissed her.

"How is father's little girl?" he asked, with a break in his voice.

"Pretty well, thank you," replied Maria. She gave a helpless little
cling to her father, then she stood away.

"Speak to your new mother, darling," said Harry.

"How do _You do_?" said Maria, obediently, and Ida said, "You
darling," and then kissed her exactly as if she had been an
uncommonly well-constructed doll, with a clock-work system which
fitted her to take such a part with perfect accuracy.

Harry watched his wife and daughter rather anxiously. He seized the
first opportunity to ask Maria, aside, if she had been well, and if
she had been happy and comfortable at Mrs. White's. Then he wound up
with the rather wistful inquiry:

"You are going to love your new mother, aren't you, darling? Don't
you think she is lovely?"

Ida had gone up-stairs with Miss Holmes, to remove her wraps.

"Yes, sir, I think She is lovely," replied Maria.



Chapter X


Ida Edgham was, in some respects, a peculiar personality. She was
as much stronger, in another way, than her husband, as her
predecessor had been. She was that anomaly: a creature of supreme
self-satisfaction, who is yet aware of its own limits. She was so
unemotional as to be almost abnormal, but she had head enough to
realize the fact that absolute unemotionlessness in a woman detracts
from her charm. She therefore simulated emotion. She had a spiritual
make-up, a panoply of paint and powder for the soul, as truly as any
actress has her array of cosmetics for her face. She made no effort
to really feel, she knew that was entirely useless, but she observed
all the outward signs and semblance of feeling more or less
successfully. She knew that to take up her position in Harry Edgham's
house like a marble bust of Diana, which had been one of her
wedding-presents, would not be to her credit. She therefore put
herself to the pace which she would naturally be expected to assume
in her position. She showed everybody who called her new possessions,
with a semblance of delight which was quite perfect. She was, in
reality, less deceptive in that respect than in others. She had a
degree of the joy of possession, or she would not have been a woman
at all, and, in fact, would not have married. She had wanted a home
and a husband; not as some women want them, for the legitimate desire
for love and protection, but because she felt a degree of
mortification on account of her single estate. She had had many
admirers, but, although no one ever knew it, not one offer of
marriage, the acceptance of which would not have been an absurdity,
before poor Harry Edgham. She was not quite contented to accept him.
She had hoped for something better; but he was good-looking, and
popular, and his social standing, in her small world, was good. He
was an electrical engineer, with an office in the city, and had a
tolerably good income, although his first wife's New England thrift
had compelled him to live parsimoniously.

Ida made up her mind from the first that thrift, after the plan of
the first woman, should not be observed in her household. Without
hinting to that effect, or without Harry's recognizing it, she so
managed that within a few weeks after her marriage he put an
insurance on his life, which would insure her comfort in case she
outlived him. He owned his house, and she had herself her little
savings, well invested. She then considered that they could live up
to Harry's income without much risk, and she proceeded to do so. It
was not long before the saturnine Hungarian, who could have provided
a regiment of her own countrymen with the coarse food of her race,
but seemed absolutely incapable of carrying out American ideas of
good cookery, was dismissed, and a good cook, at a price which at
first staggered Harry, installed in her place. Then a young girl was
found to take care of the bedrooms, and wait on table, attired in
white gowns and aprons and caps.

Ida had a reception two weeks after her return from her bridal trip,
and an elaborate menu was provided by a caterer from New York. Maria,
in a new white gown, with a white bow on her hair, sat at one end of
the dining-table, shining with cut-glass and softly lighted with
wax-candles under rose-colored shades in silver candlesticks, and
poured chocolate, while another young girl opposite dipped lemonade
from a great cut-glass punch-bowl, which had been one of the
wedding-presents. The table was strewn with pink-and-white
carnations. Maria caught a glimpse now and then of her new mother, in
a rose-colored gown, with a bunch of pink roses on her breast,
standing with her father receiving their guests, and she could
scarcely believe that she was awake and it was really happening. She
began to take a certain pleasure in the excitement. She heard one
woman say to another how pretty she was, "poor little thing," and her
heart throbbed with satisfaction. She felt at once beautiful and
appealing to other people, because of her misfortunes. She turned the
chocolate carefully, and put some whipped-cream on top of each dainty
cup; and, for the first time since her father's marriage, she was not
consciously unhappy. She glanced across the table at the other little
girl, Amy Long, who was dark, and wore a pink bow on her hair, and
she was sure that she herself was much prettier. Then, too, Amy had
not the sad distinction of having lost her mother, and having a
step-mother thrust upon her in a year's time. It is true that once
when Amy's mother, large and portly in a blue satin which gave out
pale white lights on the curves of her great arms and back, and whose
roseate face looked forth from a fichu of real lace pinned with a
great pearl brooch, came up behind her little daughter and
straightened the pink bow on her hair, Maria felt a cruel little
pang. There was something about the look of loving admiration which
Mrs. Long gave her daughter that stung Maria's heart with a sense of
loss. She felt that if her new mother should straighten out her white
bow and regard her with admiration, it would be because of her own
self, and the credit which she, Maria, reflected upon her. Still, she
reflected how charming she looked. Self-love is much better than
nothing for a lonely soul.

That night Maria realized that she was in the second place, so far as
her father was concerned. Ida, in her rose-colored robes, dispensing
hospitality in his home, took up his whole attention. She was really
radiant. She sang and played twice for the company, and her perfectly
true high soprano filled the whole house. To Maria it sounded as
meaningless as the trill of a canary-bird. In fact, when it came to
music, Ida, although she had a good voice, had the mortification of
realizing that her simulation of emotion failed her. Harry did not
like his wife's singing. He felt like a traitor, but he could not
help realizing that he did not like it. But the moment Ida stopped
singing, he looked at her, and fairly wondered that he had married
such a beautiful creature. He felt humble before her. Humility was
not a salutary condition of mind for him, but this woman inspired it
now, and would still more in the future. In spite of his first wife's
scolding, her quick temper, he had always felt himself as good as she
was. The mere fact of the temper itself had served to give him a
sense of equality and, perhaps, superiority, but this woman never
showed temper. She never failed to respond with her stereotyped smile
to everything that was said. She seemed to have no faults at all, to
realize none in herself, and not to admit the possibility of any one
else doing so.

Harry felt himself distinctly in the wrong beside such unquestionable
right. He even did not think himself so good-looking as he had
formerly done. It seemed to him that he looked much older than Ida.
When they went out together he felt like a lackey in attendance on an
empress. In his own home, it came to pass that he seldom made a
remark when guests were present without a covert glance at his wife
to see what she thought of it. He could always tell what she thought,
even if her face did not change and she made no comment neither then
nor afterwards, and she always made him know, in some subtle fashion,
when he had said anything wrong.

Maria felt very much in the same way at first, but she fought
involuntarily against it. She had a good deal of her mother in her.
Finally, she never looked at Ida when she said anything. She was full
of rebellion although she was quiet and obedient, and very
unobtrusive, in the new state of things.

Ida entertained every Tuesday evening. There was not a caterer as at
the first reception, but Ida herself cooked dainty messes in a silver
chafing-dish, and Maria and the white-capped little maid passed
things. It was not especially expensive, but people in Edgham began
to talk. They said Harry was living beyond his means; but Ida kept
within his income. She had too good a head for reckless extravagance,
although she loved admiration and show. When there were no guests in
the house, Maria used to go to her own room early of an evening, and
read until it was time to go to bed. She realized that her father and
Ida found her somewhat superfluous, although Ida never made any
especial effort to entertain her father that Maria could see. She was
fond of fancy-work, and was embroidering a silk gown for herself. She
embroidered while Harry read the paper. She did not talk much. Maria
used to wonder that her father did not find it dull when he and She
were alone together of an evening. She looked at him reading his
paper, with frequent glances of admiration over it at his beautiful
wife, and thought that in his place, she should much prefer a woman
like her mother, who had kept things lively, even without company,
and even in a somewhat questionable fashion. However, Harry and Ida
themselves went out a good deal. People in Edgham aped city society,
they even talked about the "four hundred." The newly wedded pair were
frequent guests of honor at dinners and receptions, and Ida herself
was a member of the Edgham's Woman's Club, and that took her out a
good deal. Maria was rather lonely. Finally the added state and
luxury of her life, which had at first pleased her, failed to do so.
She felt that she hated all the new order of things, and her heart
yearned for the old. She began to grow thin; she did not sleep much
nor sleep well. She felt tired all the time. One day her father
noticed her changed looks.

"Why, Maria is getting thin!" said he.

"I think it is because she is growing tall," said Ida. "Everybody
seems thin when they are growing tall. I did myself. I was much
thinner than Maria at her age." She looked at Maria with her
invariable smile as she spoke.

"She looks very thin to me," Harry said, anxiously.

He himself looked thin and older. An anxious wrinkle had deepened
between his eyes. It was June, and the days were getting warm. He was
anxious about Ida's health also. Ida was not at all anxious. She was
perfectly placid. It did not seem to her that an overruling
Providence could possibly treat her unkindly. She was rather annoyed
at times, but still never anxious, and utterly satisfied with herself
to that extent that it precluded any doubt as to the final outcome of
everything.

Maria continued to lose flesh. A sentimental interest in herself and
her delicacy possessed her. She used to look at her face, which
seemed to her more charming than ever, although so thin, in the
glass, and reflect, with a pleasant acquiescence, on an early death.
She even spent some time in composing her own epitaph, and kept it
carefully hidden away in a drawer of her dresser, under some linen.

Maria felt a gloomy pride when the doctor, who came frequently to see
Ida, was asked to look at her; she felt still more triumphant when he
expressed it as his opinion that she ought to have a change of air
the moment school closed. The doctor said Maria was running down,
which seemed to her a very interesting state of things, and one which
ought to impress people. She told Gladys Mann the next day at school.

"The doctor says I'm running down," said she.

"You do look awful bad," replied Gladys.

After recess Maria saw Gladys with her face down on her desk,
weeping. She knew that she was weeping because she looked so badly
and was running down. She glanced across at Wollaston Lee, and
wondered if he had noticed how badly she looked, and yet how
charming. All at once the boy shot a glance at her in return; then he
blushed and scowled and took up his book. It all comforted Maria in
the midst of her langour and her illness, which was negative and
unattended by any pain. If she felt any appetite she restrained it,
she became so vain of having lost it.

It was decided that Maria should go and visit her aunt Maria, in New
England, and remain there all summer. Her father would pay her board
in order that she should not be any restraint on her aunt, with her
scant income. Just before Maria went, and just before her school
closed, the broad gossip of the school came to her ears. She
ascertained something which filled her at once with awe, and shame,
and jealousy, and indignation. If one of the girls began to speak to
her about it, she turned angrily away. She fairly pushed Gladys Mann
one day. Gladys turned and looked at her with loving reproach, like a
chidden dog. "What did you expect?" said she. Maria ran away, her
face burning.

After she reached her aunt Maria's nothing was said to her about it.
Aunt Maria was too prudish and too indignant. Uncle Henry's wife,
Aunt Eunice, was away all summer, taking care of a sister who was ill
with consumption in New Hampshire; so Aunt Maria kept the whole
house, and she and Maria and Uncle Henry had their meals together.
Maria loved her uncle Henry. He was a patient man, with a patience
which at times turns to fierceness, of a man with a brain above his
sphere, who has had to stand and toil in a shoe-factory for his bread
and butter all his life. He was non-complainant because of a sort of
stern pride, and a sense of a just cause against Providence, but he
was very kind to Maria; he petted her as if she had been his own
child. Every pleasant night Uncle Henry took Maria for a
trolley-ride, or a walk, and he treated her to ice-cream soda and
candy. Aunt Maria also took good care of the child. She showed a sort
of vicious curiosity with regard to Maria's step-mother and all the
new household arrangements, which Maria did not gratify. She had too
much loyalty, although she longed to say all that she thought to her
aunt, being sure of a violent sympathizer.

"Well, I'll say one thing, she has fixed your clothes nice," said
Aunt Maria.

"She didn't do it, it was Miss Barnes," replied Maria. She could not
help saying that much. She did not want Aunt Maria to think her
step-mother took better care of her wardrobe than her own mother had
done.

"Good land! She didn't hire all these things made?" said Aunt Maria.

"Yes'm."

"Good land! I don't see how your father is going to stand it. I'd
like to know what your poor mother would have said?" said Aunt Maria.

Then Maria's loyalty came to the front. After all, she was her
father's wife, and to be defended.

"I guess maybe father is making more money now," said she.

"Well, I hope to the land he is," said Aunt Maria. "I guess if She
(Aunt Maria also treated Ida like a pronoun) had just one hundred
dollars and no more to get along with, she'd have to do different."

Maria regained her strength rapidly. When she went home, a few days
before her school begun, in September, she was quite rosy and
blooming. She had also fallen in love with a boy who lived next to
Aunt Maria, and who asked her, over the garden fence, to correspond
with him, the week before she left.

It was that very night that Aunt Maria had the telegram. She paid the
boy, then she opened it with trembling fingers. Her brother Henry and
Maria were with her on the porch. It was a warm night, and Aunt Maria
wore an ancient muslin. The south wind fluttered the ruffles on that
and the yellow telegram as she read. She was silent a moment, with
mouth compressed.

"Well," said her brother Henry, inquiringly.

Aunt Maria's face flushed and paled. She turned to Maria.

"Well," she said, "you've got a little sister."

"Good!" said Uncle Henry. "Ever so much more company for you than a
little brother would have been, Maria."

Maria was silent. She trembled and felt cold, although the night was
so warm.

"Weighs seven pounds," said Aunt Maria, in a hard voice.

Maria returned home a week from that day. She travelled alone from
Boston, and her father met her in New York. He looked strange to her.
He was jubilant, and yet the marks of anxiety were deep. He seemed
very glad to see Maria, and talked to her about her little sister in
an odd, hesitating way.

"Her name is Evelyn," said Harry.

Maria said nothing. She and her father were crossing the city to the
ferry in a cab.

"Don't you think that is a pretty name, dear?" asked Harry, with a
queer, apologetic wistfulness.

"No, father, I think it is a very silly name," replied Maria.

"Why, your mother and I thought it a very pretty name, dear."

"I always thought it was the silliest name in the world," said Maria,
firmly. However, she sat close to her father, and realized that it
was something to have him to herself without Her, while crossing the
city. "I don't know as I think Evelyn is such a very silly name,
father," she said, presently, just before they reached the ferry.

Harry bent down and kissed her. "Father's own little girl," he said.

Maria felt that she had been magnanimous, for she had in reality
never liked Evelyn, and would not have named a doll that.

"You will be a great deal happier with a little sister. It will turn
out for the best," said Harry, as the cab stopped. Harry always put a
colon of optimism to all his happenings of life.

The next morning, when Ida was arrayed in a silk negligee, and the
baby was washed and dressed, Maria was bidden to enter the room which
had been her mother's. The first thing which she noticed was a faint
perfume of violet-scented toilet-powder. Then she saw Ida leaning
back gracefully in a reclining-chair, with her hair carefully
dressed. The nurse held the baby: a squirming little bundle of soft,
embroidered flannel. The nurse was French, and she awed Maria, for
she spoke no English, and nobody except Ida could understand her. She
was elderly, small, and of a damaged blond type. Maria approached Ida
and kissed her. Ida looked at her, smiling. Then she asked if she had
had a pleasant summer. She told the nurse, in French, to show the
baby to her. Maria approached the nurse timidly. The flannel was
carefully laid aside, and the small, piteously inquiring and puzzled
face, the inquiry and the bewilderment expressed by a thousand
wrinkles, was exposed. Maria looked at it with a sort of shiver. The
nurse laid the flannel apart and disclosed the tiny feet seeming
already to kick feebly at existence. The nurse said something in
French which Maria could not understand. Ida answered also in French.
Then the baby seemed to experience a convulsion; its whole face
seemed to open into one gape of expostulation at fate. Then its
feeble, futile wail filled the whole room.

"Isn't she a little darling?" asked Ida, of Maria.

"Yes'm," replied Maria.

There was a curious air of aloofness about Ida with regard to her
baby, and something which gave the impression of wistfulness. It is
possible that she was capable of wishing that she had not that
aloofness. It did not in the least seem to Maria as if it were Ida's
baby. She had a vague impression, derived she could not tell in what
manner, of a rosebud laid on a gatepost. Ida did not seem conscious
of her baby with the woodeny consciousness of an apple-tree of a
blossom. When she gazed at it, it was with the same set smile with
which she had always viewed all creation. That smile which came from
without, not within, but now it was fairly tragic.

"Her name is Evelyn. Don't you think it is a pretty name?" asked Ida.

"Yes'm," replied Maria. She edged towards the door. The nurse,
tossing the wailing baby, rose and got a bottle of milk. Maria went
out.

Maria went to school the next Monday, and all the girls asked her if
the baby was pretty.

"It looks like all the babies I ever saw," replied Maria guardedly.
She did not wish to descry the baby which was, after all, her sister,
but she privately thought it was a terrible sight.

Gladys Mann supported her. "Babies do all look alike," said she.
"We've had nine to our house, and I had ought to know."

At first Maria used to dread to go home from school, on account of
the baby. She had a feeling of repulsion because of it, but gradually
that feeling disappeared and an odd sort of fascination possessed her
instead. She thought a great deal about the baby. When she heard it
cry in the night, she thought that her father and Ida might have
sense enough to stop it. She thought that she could stop its crying
herself, by carrying it very gently around the room. Still she did
not love the baby. It only appealed, in a general way, to her
instincts. But one day, when the baby was some six weeks old, and Ida
had gone to New York, she came home from school, and she went up to
her own room, and she heard the baby crying in the room opposite. It
cried and cried, with the insistent cry of a neglected child. Maria
said to herself that she did not believe but the French nurse had
taken advantage of Her absence, and had slipped out on some errand
and left the baby alone.

The baby continued to wail, and a note of despair crept into the
wail. Maria could endure it no longer. She ran across the hall and
flung open the door. The baby lay crying in a little pink-lined
basket. Maria bent over it, and the baby at once stopped crying. She
opened her mouth in a toothless smile, and she held up little, waving
pink hands to Maria. Maria lifted the baby out of her basket and
pressed her softly, with infinite care, as one does something very
precious, to her childish bosom, and at once something strange seemed
to happen to her. She became, as it were, illuminated by love.



Chapter XI


Maria had fallen in love with the baby, and her first impulse, as in
the case of all true love, was secrecy. Why she should have been
ashamed of her affection, her passion, for it was, in fact, passion,
her first, she could not have told. It was the sublimated infatuation
half compounded of dreams, half of instinct, which a little girl
usually has for her doll. But Maria had never had any particular love
for a doll. She had possessed dolls, of course, but she had never
been quite able to rise above the obvious sham of them, the cloth and
the sawdust and the paint. She had wondered how some little girls
whom she had known had loved to sleep with their dolls; as for her,
she would as soon have thought of taking pleasure in dozing off with
any little roll of linen clasped in her arms. It was rather singular,
for she had a vivid imagination, but it had balked at a doll. When,
as sometimes happened, she saw a little girl of her own age, wheeling
with solemnity a doll in a go-cart, she viewed her with amazement and
contempt, and thought privately that she was not altogether bright.
But this baby was different. It did not have to be laid on its back
to make its eyes close, it did not have to be shaken and squeezed to
make it vociferous. It was alive, and Maria, who was unusually alive
in her emotional nature, was keenly aware of that effect. This
little, tender, rosy thing was not stuffed with sawdust, it was
stuffed with soul and love. It could smile; the smile was not painted
on its face in a doll-factory. Maria was so thankful that this baby,
Ida's baby, did not have Her smile, unchanging and permanent for all
observers and all vicissitudes. When this baby smiled it smiled, and
when it cried it cried. It was honest from the crown of its fuzzy
head to the soles of its little pink worsted socks.

At the first reception which Ida gave after the baby came, and when
it was on exhibition in a hand-embroidered robe, it screamed every
minute. Maria was secretly glad, and proud of it. It meant much to
her that _her_ baby should not smile at all the company, whether it
was smiling in its heart or not, the way She did. Maria had no room
in her heart for any other love, except that for her father and the
baby. She looked at Wollaston Lee, and wondered how she could ever
have had dreams about him, how she could ever have preferred a boy to
a baby like her little sister, even in her dreams. She ceased
haunting the post-office for a letter from that other boy in New
England, who had asked her to correspond over the garden fence, and
who had either never written at all, or had misdirected his letter.
She wondered how she had thought for a moment of doing such a thing
as writing to a boy like that. She remembered with disgust how
overgrown that boy was, and how his stockings were darned at the
knees; and how she had seen patches of new cloth on his trousers, and
had heard her aunt Maria say that he was so hard on his clothes on
account of his passion for bird-nesting, that it was all his mother
could do to keep him always decent. How could she have thought for a
moment of a bird-nesting sort of boy? She was so thankful that the
baby was a girl. Maria, as sometimes happens, had a rather inverted
system of growth. With most, dolls come first, then boys; with her,
dolls had not come at all. Boys came first, then her little baby
sister, which was to her in the place of a doll, and the boys got
promptly relegated to the background.

Much to Maria's delight, the French nurse, whom she at once disliked
and stood in awe of, only remained until the baby was about two
months old, then a little nurse-girl was engaged. On pleasant days
the nurse-girl, whose name was Josephine, wheeled out the baby in her
little carriage, which was the daintiest thing of the kind to be
found, furnished with a white lace canopy lined with rose-colored
silk. It was on these occasions that Maria showed duplicity. On
Saturdays, when there was no school, she privately and secretly
bribed Josephine, who was herself under the spell of the baby, to go
home and visit her mother, and let her have the privilege of wheeling
it herself. Maria had a small sum every week for her pocket-money,
and a large part of it went to Josephine in the shape of chocolates,
of which she was inordinately fond; in fact, Josephine, who came of
the poor whites, like Gladys Mann, might have been said to be a
chocolate maniac. Maria used to arrange with Josephine to meet her on
a certain corner on Saturdays, and there the transfer was made:
Josephine became the possessor of half a pound of chocolates, and
Maria of the baby. Josephine had sworn almost a solemn oath to never
tell. She at once repaired to her mother's, sucking chocolates on the
way, and Maria blissfully wheeled the baby. She stood in very little
danger of meeting Her on these occasions, because the Edgham Woman's
Club met on Saturday afternoon. It often happened, however, that
Maria met some of the school-girls, and then nothing could have
exceeded her pride and triumph. Some of them had little brothers or
sisters, but none of them such a little sister as hers.

The baby had, in reality, grown to be a beauty among babies. All the
inflamed red and aged puckers and creases had disappeared; instead of
that was the sweetest flush, like that of just-opened rosebuds.
Evelyn was a compact little baby, fat, but not overlapping and
grossly fat. It was such a matter of pride to Maria that the baby's
cheeks did not hang the least bit in the world, but had only lovely
little curves and dimples. She had become quite a connoisseur in
babies. When she saw a baby whose flabby cheeks hung down and touched
its bib, she was disgusted. She felt as if there was something
morally wrong with such a baby as that. Her baby was wrapped in the
softest white things: furs, and silk-lined embroidered cashmeres, and
her little face just peeped out from the lace frill of a charming
cap. There was only one touch of color in all this whiteness, beside
the tender rose of the baby's face, and that was a little knot of
pale pink baby-ribbon on the cap. Maria often stopped to make sure
that the cap was on straight, and she also stopped very often to tuck
in the white fur rug, and she also stopped often to thrust her own
lovely little girl-face into the sweet confusion of baby and lace and
embroidery and fur, with soft kisses and little, caressing murmurs of
love. She made up little love phrases, which she would have been
inexpressibly ashamed to have had overheard. "Little honey love" was
one of them--"Sister's own little honey love." Once, when walking on
Elm Street under the leafless arches of the elms, where she thought
she was quite alone, although it was a very bright, warm afternoon,
and quite dry--it was not a snowy winter--she spoke more loudly than
she intended, and looked up to see another, bigger girl, the daughter
of the Edgham lawyer, whose name was Annie Stone. Annie Stone was
large of her age--so large, in fact, that she had a nickname of
"Fatty" in school. It had possibly soured her, or her over-plumpness
may have been due to some physical ailment which rendered her
irritable. At all events, Annie Stone had not that sweetness and
placidity of temperament popularly supposed to be coincident with
stoutness. She had a bitter and sarcastic tongue for a young girl.
Maria inwardly shuddered when she saw Annie Stone's fat, malicious
face surveying her from under her fur-trimmed hat. Annie Stone was
always very well dressed, but even that did not seem to improve her
mental attitude. Her large, high-colored face was also distinctly
pretty, but she did not seemed to be cognizant of that to the result
of any satisfaction.

"Sister's little honey love!" she repeated after Maria, with fairly a
snarl of satire.

Maria had spirit, although she was for the moment dismayed.

"Well, she is--so there," said she.

"You wait till you have a few more little honey loves," said Annie
Stone, "and see how you feel."

With that Annie Stone went her way, with soft flounces of her short,
stout body, and Maria was left. She was still defiant; her blood was
up. "Sister's little honey love," she said to the baby, in a tone so
loud that Annie Stone must have heard. "Were folks that didn't have
anything but naughty little brothers jealous of her?" Annie Stone
had, in fact, a notorious little brother, who at the early age of
seven was the terror of his sisters and all law-abiding citizens; but
Annie Stone was not easily touched.

"Sister's little honey love," she shouted back, turning a malignant
face over her shoulder. She had that very morning had a hand-to-hand
fight with her naughty little brother, and finally come out
victorious, by forcing him to the ground and sitting on him until he
said he was sorry. It was not very reasonable that she should be at
all sensitive with regard to him.

After Annie Stone had gone out of sight, Maria went around to the
front of the little carriage, adjusted the white fur rug carefully,
secured a tiny, white mitten on one of the baby's hands, and
whispered to the baby alone. "You _are_ sister's little honey love,
aren't you, precious?" and the baby smiled that entrancing smile of
honesty and innocence which sent the dimples spreading to the lace
frill of her cap, and reached out her arms, thereby displacing both
mittens, which Maria adjusted; then, after a fervent kiss, she went
her way.

However, she was not that afternoon to proceed on her way long
uninterrupted. For some time Josephine, the nurse-girl, had either
been growing jealous, or chocolates were palling upon her. Josephine
had also found her own home locked up, and the key nowhere in
evidence. There would be a good half-hour to wait at the usual corner
for Maria. The wind had changed, and blew cold from the northwest.
Josephine was not very warmly clad. She wore her white gown and
apron, which Mrs. Edgham insisted upon, and which she resented. She
had that day felt a stronger sense of injury with regard to it, and
counted upon telling her mother how mean and set up she thought it
was for any lady as called herself a lady to make a girl wear a
summer white dress in winter. She shivered on her corner of waiting.
Josephine got more and more wroth. Finally she decided to start in
search of Maria and the baby. She gave her white skirts an angry
switch and started. It was not very long after she had turned her
second corner before she saw Maria and the baby ahead of her.
Josephine then ran. She was a stout girl, and she plunged ahead
heavily until she came up with Maria. The first thing Maria knew,
Josephine had grabbed the handle of the carriage--two red girl hands
appeared beside her own small, gloved ones.

"Here, gimme this baby to once," gabbled Josephine in the thick
speech of her kind.

Maria looked at her. "The time isn't up, and you know it isn't,
Josephine," said she. "I just passed by a clock in Melvin & Adams's
jewelry store, and it isn't time for me to be on the corner."

"Gimme the baby," demanded Josephine. She attempted to pull the
carriage away from Maria, but Maria, although her strength was
inferior, had spirit enough to cope with any poor white. Her little
fingers clutched like iron. "I shall not give her up until four
o'clock," said she. "Go back to the corner."

Josephine's only answer was a tug which dislodged Maria's fingers and
hurt her. But Maria came of the stock which believed in trusting the
Lord and keeping the powder dry. She was not yet conquered. The right
was clearly on her side. She and Josephine had planned to meet at the
corner at four o'clock, and it was not quite half-past three, and she
had given Josephine half a pound of chocolates. She did not stop to
reflect a moment. Maria's impulses were quick, and lack of decision
in emergencies was not a failing of hers. She made one dart to the
rear of Josephine. Josephine wore her hair in a braided loop, tied
with a bow of black ribbon. Maria seized upon this loop of brown
braids, and hung. She was enough shorter than Josephine to render it
effectual. Josephine's head was bent backward and she was helpless,
unless she let go of the baby-carriage. Josephine, however, had good
lungs, and she screamed, as she was pulled backward, still holding to
the little carriage, which was also somewhat tilted by the whole
performance.

"Lemme be, you horrid little thing!" she screamed, "or I'll tell your
ma."

"She isn't my mother," said Maria in return. "Let go of my baby."

"She is your ma. Your father married her, and she's your ma, and you
can't help yourself. Lemme go, or I'll tell on you."

"Tell, if you want to," said Maria, firmly, actually swinging with
her whole weight from Josephine's loop of braids. "Let go my baby."

Josephine screamed again, with her head bent backward, and the
baby-carriage tilted perilously. Then a woman, who had been watching
from a window near by, rushed upon the scene. She was Gladys Mann's
mother. Just as she appeared the baby began to cry, and that
accelerated her speed. The windows of her house became filled with
staring childish faces. The woman, who was very small and lean but
wiry, a bundle of muscles and nerve, ran up to the baby-carriage, and
pulled it back to its proper status, and began at once quieting the
frightened baby and scolding the girls.

"Hush, hush," cooed she to the baby. "Did it think it was goin' to
get hurted?" Then to the girls: "Ain't you ashamed of yourselves, two
great girls fightin' right in the street, and most tippin' the baby
over. S'posin' you had killed him?"

Then Josephine burst forth in a great wail of wrath and pain. The
bringing down of the carriage had increased her agony, for Maria
still clung to her hair.

"Oh, oh, oh!" howled Josephine, her head straining back. "She's most
killin' me."

"An' I'll warrant you deserve it," said the woman. Then she added to
Maria--she was entirely impartial in her scolding--"Let go of her,
ain't you shamed." Then to the baby, "Did he think he was goin' to
get hurted?"

"He's a girl!" cried Maria in a frenzy of indignation. "He is not a
boy, he is a girl." She still clung desperately to Josephine's hair,
who in her turn clung to the baby-carriage.

Then Gladys came out of the house, in a miserable, thin, dirty gown,
and she was Maria's ally.

"Let that baby go!" she cried to Josephine. She tugged fiercely at
Josephine's white skirt.

"Gladys Mann, you go right straight into the house. What be you
buttin' in for!" screamed her mother. "You let that girl's hair
alone. Josephine, what you been up to. You might have killed this
baby."

The baby screamed louder. It wriggled around in its little, white fur
nest, and stretched out imploring pink paws from which the mittens
had fallen off. Its little lace hood was awry, the pink rosette was
cocked over one ear. Maria herself began to cry. Then Gladys waxed
fairly fierce. She paid no attention whatever to her mother.

"You jest go round an' ketch on to the kid's wagin," said she, "an'
I'll take care of her." With that her strong little hands made a
vicious clutch at Josephine's braids.

Maria sprang for the baby-carriage. She straightened the lace hood,
she tucked in the fur robe, and put on the mittens. The baby's
screams subsided into a grieved whimper. "Did great wicked girls come
and plague sister's own little precious?" said Maria. But now she had
to reckon with Gladys's mother, who had recovered her equilibrium,
lost for a second by her daughter's manoeuvre. She seized in her turn
the handle of the baby-carriage, and gave Maria a strong push aside.
Then she looked at all three combatants, like a poor-white Solomon.

"Who were sent out with him in the first place, that's what I want to
know?" she said.

"I were," replied Josephine in a sobbing shout. Her head was aching
as if she had been scalped.

"Shet up!" said Gladys's mother inconsistently.

"Did your ma send her out with him?" she queried of her.

"He is not a boy," replied Maria shiftily.

"Yes, she did," said Josephine, still rubbing her head.

Gladys, through a wholesome fear of her mother, had released her hold
on her braids, and stood a little behind.

Mrs. Mann's scanty rough hair blew in the winter wind as she took
hold of the carriage. Maria again tucked in the white fur robe to
conceal her discomfiture. She was becoming aware that she was being
proved in the wrong.

"Shet up!" said Mrs. Mann in response to Josephine's answer. There
was not the slightest sense nor meaning in the remark, but it was, so
to speak, her household note, learned through the exigency of being
in the constant society of so many noisy children. She told
everybody, on general principles, to "shet up," even when she wished
for information which necessitated the reverse.

Mrs. Mann was thin and meagre, and wholly untidy. The wind lashed her
dirty cotton skirt around her, disclosing a dirtier petticoat and
men's shoes. The skin of her worn, blond face had a look as if the
soil of life had fairly been rubbed into it. All the lines of this
face were lax, displaying utter lassitude and no energy. She,
however, had her evanescent streaks of life, as now. Once in a while
a bubble of ancestral blood seemed to come to the surface, although
it soon burst. She had come, generations back, of a good family. She
was the run out weed of it, but still, at times, the old colors of
the blossom were evident. She turned to Maria.

"If," said she, "your ma sent her out with this young one, I don't
see why you went to pullin' her hair fur?"

"I gave her a whole half-pound of chocolates," returned Maria, in a
fine glow of indignation, "if she would let me push the baby till
four o'clock, and it isn't four o'clock yet."

"It ain't more than half-past three," said Gladys.

"Shet up!" said her mother. She stood looking rather helplessly at
the three little girls and the situation. Her suddenly wakened mental
faculties were running down like those of a watch which has been
shaken to make it go for a few seconds. The situation was too much
for her, and, according to her wont, she let it drop. Just then a
whiff of strong sweetness came from the house, and her blank face
lighted up.

"We are makin' 'lasses candy," said she. "You young ones all come in
and hev' some, and I'll take the baby. He can get warm, and a little
of thet candy won't do him no harm, nuther." Mrs. Mann used the
masculine pronoun from force of habit; all her children with the
exception of Gladys were boys.

Maria hesitated. She had a certain scorn for the Manns. She eyed Mrs.
Mann's dirty attire and face. But she was in fact cold, and the smell
of the candy was entrancing. "She said never to take the baby in
anywhere," said she, doubtfully.

Josephine having tired of chocolate, realized suddenly an enormous
hunger for molasses candy. She sniffed like a hunting hound. "She
didn't say not to go into Mrs. Mann's," said she.

"She said anywhere; I heard her tell you," said Maria.

"Mrs. Mann's ain't anywhere," said Josephine, who had a will of her
own. She rushed around and caught up the baby. "She's most froze,"
said she. "She'll get the croup if she don't get warmed up."

With that, Josephine carrying the baby, Maria, Gladys, and Mrs. Mann
all entered the little, squalid Mann house, as hot as a conservatory
and reeking with the smell of boiled molasses.

When Josephine and Maria and the baby started out again, Maria turned
to Josephine.

"Now," said she, "if you don't let me push her as far as the corner
of our street, I'll tell how you took her into Mrs. Mann's. You know
what She'll say."

Josephine, whose face was smeared with molasses candy, and who was
even then sucking some, relinquished her hold on the carriage.
"You'll be awful mean if you do tell," said she.

"I will tell if you don't do what you say you'll do another time,"
said she.

When they reached home, Ida had not returned, but she came in radiant
some few minutes later. She had read a paper on a famous man, for the
pleasure and profit of the Edgham Woman's Club, and she had received
much applause and felt correspondingly elated. Josephine had taken
the baby up-stairs to a little room which had recently been fitted up
for a nursery, and, not following her usual custom, Ida went in there
after removing her outer wraps. She stood in her blue cloth dress
looking at the child with her usual air of radiant aloofness, seeming
to shed her own glory, like a star, upon the baby, rather than
receive its little light into the loving recesses of her own soul.
Josephine and also Maria were in a state of consternation. They had
discovered a large, sticky splash of molasses candy on the baby's
white embroidered cloak. They had washed the baby's sticky little
face, but they did not know what was to be done about the cloak,
which lay over a chair. Josephine essayed, with a dexterous gesture,
to so fold the cloak over that the stain would be for the time
concealed. But Ida Edgham had not been a school-teacher for nothing.
She saw the gesture, and immediately took up the cloak herself.

"Why, what is this on her cloak?" said she.

There was a miserable silence.

"It looks like molasses candy. It is molasses candy," said Ida.
"Josephine, did you give this child molasses candy?" Ida's voice was
entirely even, but there was something terrible about it.

Maria saw Josephine turn white. "She wouldn't have given her the
candy if it hadn't been for me," said she.

Ida stood looking from one to the other. Josephine's face was white
and scared, Maria's impenetrable.

"If you ever give this child candy again, either of you," said Ida,
"you will never take her out again." Then she went out, still smiling.

Josephine looked at Maria with enormous gratitude.

"Say," said she, "you're a dandy."

"You're a cheat!" returned Maria, with scorn.

"I'm awful sorry I didn't wait on the corner till four o'clock,
honest."

"You'd better be."

"Say, but you be a dandy," repeated Josephine.



Chapter XII


Maria began to be conscious of other and more vital seasons than
those of the old earth on which she lived--the seasons of the human
soul. Along with her own unconscious and involuntary budding towards
bloom, the warm rush of the blood in her own veins, she realized the
budding progress of the baby. When little Evelyn was put into short
frocks, and her little, dancing feet were shod with leather instead
of wool, Maria felt a sort of delicious wonder, similar to that with
which she watched a lilac-bush in the yard when its blossoms deepened
in the spring.

The day when Evelyn was put into short frocks, Maria glanced across
the school-room at Wollaston Lee, and her innocent passion, half
romance, half imagination, which had been for a time in abeyance,
again thrilled her. All her pulses throbbed. She tried to work out a
simple problem in her algebra, but mightier unknown quantities were
working towards solution in every beat of her heart. Wollaston shot a
sidelong glance at her, and she felt it, although she did not see it.
Gladys Mann leaned over her shoulder.

"Say," she whispered, "Wollaston Lee is jest starin' at you!"

Maria gave a little, impatient shrug of her shoulders, although a
blush shot over her whole face, and Gladys saw distinctly the back of
her neck turn a roseate color.

"He's awful stuck on you, I guess," Gladys said.

Maria shrugged her shoulders again, but she thought of Wollaston and
then of the baby in her short frock and she felt that her heart was
bursting with joy, as a bud with blossom.

Ida, meantime, was curiously impassive towards her child's
attainments. There was something pathetic about this impassiveness.
Ida was missing a great deal, and more because she did not even know
what she missed. However, she began to be conscious of a settled
aversion towards Maria. Her manner towards her was unchanged, but she
became distinctly irritated at seeing her about. When anything
annoyed Ida, she immediately entertained no doubt whatever that it
was not in accordance with the designs of an overruling Providence.
It seemed manifest to her that if anything annoyed her, it should be
removed. However, in this case, the way of removal did not seem clear
for a long time. Harry was undoubtedly fond of Maria. That did not
trouble Ida in the least, although she recognized the fact. She was
not a woman who was capable of jealousy, because her own love and
admiration for herself made her impregnable. She loved herself so
much more than Harry could possibly love her that his feeling for
Maria did not ruffle her in the least. It was due to no jealousy that
she wished Maria removed, at least for a part of the time. It was
only that she was always conscious of a dissent, silent and helpless,
still persistent, towards her attitude as regarded herself. She knew
that Maria did not think her as beautiful and perfect as she thought
herself, and the constant presence of this small element of negation
irritated her. Then, too, while she was not in the least jealous of
her child, she had a curious conviction that Maria cared more for her
than she herself cared, and that in itself was a covert reproach.
When little Evelyn ran to meet her sister when she returned from
school, Ida felt distinctly disturbed. She had no doubt of her
ultimate success in her purpose of ridding herself of at least the
constant presence of Maria, and in the mean time she continued to
perform her duty by the girl, to that outward extent that everybody
in Edgham pronounced her a model step-mother. "Maria Edgham never
looked half so well in her own mother's time," they said.

Lillian White spoke of it to her mother one Sunday. She had been to
church, but her mother had remained at home on account of a cold.

"I tell you she looked dandy," said Lillian. Lillian was still as
softly and negatively pretty as ever. She was really charming because
she was not angular, because her skin was not thick and coarse,
because she did not look anaemic, but perfectly well fed and
nourished and happy.

"Who?" asked her mother.

"Maria Edgham. She was togged out to beat the band. Everything looked
sort of fadged up that she had before her own mother died. I tell you
she never had anything like the rig she wore to-day."

"What was it?" asked her mother interestedly, wiping her rasped nose
with a moist ball of handkerchief.

"Oh, it was the handsomest brown suit I ever laid my eyes on, with
hand-embroidery, and fur, and a big picture hat trimmed with fur and
chrysanthemums. She's an awful pretty little girl anyhow."

"She always was pretty," said Mrs. White, dabbing her nose again.

"If Ida don't look out, her step-daughter will beat her in looks,"
said Lillian.

"I never thought myself that Ida was anything to brag of, anyway,"
said Mrs. White. She still had a sense of wondering injury that Harry
Edgham had preferred Ida to her Lillian.

Lillian was now engaged to be married, but her mother did not feel
quite satisfied with the man. He was employed in a retail clothing
establishment in New York, and had only a small salary. "Foster
Simpkins" (that was the young man's name) "ain't really what you
ought to have," she often said to Lillian.

But Lillian took it easily. She liked the young man very much as she
would have liked a sugar-plum, and she thought it high time for her
to be married, although she was scarcely turned twenty. "Oh, well,
ma," she said. "Men don't grow on every bush, and Foster is real
good-lookin', and maybe his salary will be raised."

"You ain't lookin' very high," said her mother.

"No use in strainin' your neck for things out of your own sky," said
Lillian, who had at times a shrewd sort of humor, inherited from her
father.

"Harry Edgham would have been a better match for you," her mother
said.

"Lord, I'd a good sight rather have Foster than another woman's
leavin's," replied Lillian. "Then there was Maria, too. It would have
been an awful job to dress her, and look out for her."

"That's so," said her mother, "and then the two sets of children,
too."

Lillian colored and giggled. "Oh, land, don't talk about children,
ma!" said she. "I'm contented as it is. But you ought to have seen
that young one to-day."

"What did Ida wear?" asked Mrs. White.

"She wore her black velvet suit, that she had this winter, and the
way she strutted up the aisle was a caution."

"I don't see how Harry Edgham lives the way he does," said Mrs.
White. "Black velvet costs a lot. Do you s'pose it is silk velvet?"

"You bet."

"I don't see how he does it!"

"He looks sort of worn-out to me. He's grown awful old, I noticed it
to-day."

"Well, all Ida cares for is herself. _She_ don't see he's grown old,
you can be sure of that," said Mrs. White, with an odd sort of
bitterness. Actually the woman was so filled with maternal instincts
that the bare dream of Harry as her Lillian's husband had given her a
sort of motherly solicitude for him, which she had not lost. "It's a
shame," said she.

"Oh, well, it's none of my funeral," said Lillian, easily. She took a
chocolate out of a box which her lover had sent her, and began
nibbling it like a squirrel.

"Poor man," said Mrs. White. Tears of emotion actually filled her
eyes and mingled with the rheum of her cold. She took out her moist
ball of handkerchief again and dabbed both her eyes and nose.

Lillian looked at her half amusedly, half affectionately. "Mother,
you do beat the Dutch," said she.

Mrs. White actually snivelled. "I can't help remembering the time
when his poor first wife died," said she, "and how he and little
Maria came here to take their meals, poor souls. Harry Edgham was
just the one to be worked by a woman, poor fellow."

Lillian sucked her chocolate with a full sense of its sweetness. "Ma,
you can't keep track of all creation, nor cry over it," said she.
"You've got to leave it to the Lord. Have you taken your pink pellet?"

"Poor little Maria, too," said Mrs. White.

"Good gracious, ma, don't you take to worryin' over her," said
Lillian. "Here's your pink pellet. A young one dressed up the way she
was to-day!"

"Dress ain't everything, and nothin' is goin' to make me believe that
Ida Slome is a good mother to her, nor to her own child neither. It
ain't in her."

Lillian, approaching her mother at the window with the pink pellet
and a glass of water, uttered an exclamation. "For the land's sake,
there she is now!" she said. "Look, ma, there is Maria in her new
suit, and she's got the baby in a little carriage on runners. Just
look at the white fur-tails hanging over the back. Ain't that a
handsome suit?"

Mrs. White gazed out eagerly. "It must have cost a pile," said she.
"I don't see how he does it."

"She sees you at the window," said Lillian.

Both she and her mother smiled and waved at Maria. Maria bowed, and
smiled with a sweet irradiation of her rosy face.

"She's a little beauty, anyhow," said Lillian.

"Dear child," said Mrs. White, and she snivelled again.

"Ma, either your cold or the stuff you are takin' is making you
dreadful nervous," said Lillian. "You cry at nothin' at all. How
straight she is! No stoop about her."

Maria was, in fact, carrying herself with an extreme straightness
both of body and soul. She was conscious to the full of her own
beauty in her new suit, and of the loveliness of her little sister in
her white fur nest of a sledge. She was inordinately proud. She had
asked Ida if she might take the child for a little airing before the
early Sunday dinner, and Ida had consented easily.

Ida also wished for an opportunity to talk with Harry about her
cherished scheme, and preferred doing so when Maria was not in the
house. For manifest reasons, too, Sunday was the best day on which to
approach her husband on a subject which she realized was a somewhat
delicate one. She was not so sure of his subservience when Maria was
concerned, as in everything else, and Sunday was the day when his
nerves were less strained, when he had risen late. Ida did not insist
upon his going to church, as his first wife had done. In fact, if the
truth was told, Harry wore his last winter's overcoat this year, and
she was a little doubtful about its appearance in conjunction with
her new velvet costume. He sat in the parlor when Ida entered after
Maria had gone out with Evelyn. Harry looked at her admiringly.

"How stunning you do look in that velvet dress!" he said.

Ida laughed consciously. "I rather like it myself," said she. "It's a
great deal handsomer than Mrs. George Henderson's, and I know she had
hers made at a Fifth Avenue tailor's, and it must have cost twice as
much."

Ida had filled Harry with the utmost faith in her financial
management. While he was spending more than he had ever done, and
working harder, he was innocently unconscious of it. He felt a sense
of gratitude and wonder that Ida was such a good manager and
accomplished such great results with such a small expenditure. He was
unwittingly disloyal to his first wife. He remembered the rigid
economy under her sway, and owned to himself, although with
remorseful tenderness, that she had not been such a financier as this
woman. "You ought to go on Wall Street," he often told Ida. He gazed
after her now with a species of awe that he had such a splendid,
masterful creature for his wife, as she moved with the slow majesty
habitual to her out of the room, the black plumes on her hat softly
floating, the rich draperies of her gown trailing in sumptuous folds
of darkness.

When she came down again, in a rose-colored silk tea-gown trimmed
with creamy lace, she was still more entrancing. She brought with her
into the room an atmosphere of delicate perfume. Harry had stopped
smoking entirely nowadays. Ida had persuaded him that it was bad for
him. She had said nothing about the expense, as his first wife had
been accustomed to do. Therefore there was no tobacco smoke to dull
his sensibilities to this delicate perfume. It was as if a living
rose had entered the room. Ida sank gracefully into a chair opposite
him. She was wondering how she could easily lead up to the subject in
her mind. There was much diplomacy, on a very small and selfish
scale, about Ida. She realized the expediency of starting from
apparently a long distance, to establish her sequences in order to
maintain the appearance of unpremeditativeness.

"Isn't it a little too warm here, dear?" said she, presently, in the
voice which alone she could not control. Whenever she had an entirely
self-centred object in mind, an object which might possibly meet with
opposition, as now, her voice rang harsh and lost its singing quality.

Harry did not seem to notice it. He started up immediately. The
portieres between the room and the vestibule were drawn. He had, in
fact, felt somewhat chilly. It was a cold day, and he had a touch of
the grip. "I will open the portieres, dear," he said. "I dare say you
are right."

"I noticed it when I first came in," said Ida. "I meant to draw the
portieres apart myself, but going out through the library I forgot
it. Thank you, dear. How is your cold?"

"It is nothing, dear," replied Harry. "There is only a little
soreness in my throat."

He resumed his seat, and noticed the fragrance of roasted chicken
coming through the parted portieres from the kitchen. Harry was very
fond of roasted chicken. He inhaled that and the delicate perfume of
Ida's garments and hair. He regarded her glowing beauty with
affection which had no taint of sensuality. Harry had more of a
poetic liking for sweet odors and beauty than a sensual one.

Harry Edgham in these days had a more poetic and spiritual look than
formerly. He had not lost his strange youthfulness of expression; it
was as if a child had the appearance of having been longer on the
earth. His hair had thinned, and receded from his temples, and the
bold, almost babyish fulness of his temples was more evident. His
face was thinner, too, and he had not much color. His mouth was drawn
down at the corner, and he frowned slightly, as a child might, in
helpless but non-aggressive dissent. His worn appearance was very
noticeable, in spite of his present happy mood, of which his wife
shrewdly took advantage.

Ida Edgham did not care for books, although she never admitted that
fact, but she could read with her cold feminine astuteness the moods
and souls of men, with unerring quickness. Those last were to her
advantage or disadvantage, and in anything of that nature she was
gifted by nature. Ida Edgham might have been, as her husband might
have been, a poet, an adventuress, who could have made the success of
her age had she not been hindered, as well as aided, by her
self-love. She had the shrewdness which prognosticates as well as
discerns, and saw the inevitableness of the ultimatum of all
irregularities in a world which, however irregular it is in practice,
still holds regularity as its model of conduct and progression. Ida
Edgham would, in the desperate state of the earth before the flood,
have made herself famous. As it was, her irregular talents had a
limited field; however, she did all she could. It always seemed to
her that, as far as the right and wrong of things went, her own
happiness was eminently right, and that it was distinctly wrong for
her, or any one else, to oppose any obstacle to it. She allowed the
pleasant influences of the passing moment to have their full effect
upon her husband, and she continued her leading up to the subject by
those easy and apparently unrelated sequences which none but a
diplomat could have managed.

"Thank you, dear," she said, when Harry resumed his seat. "The air is
cold but very clear and pleasant out to-day," she continued.

"It looks so," said Harry.

"Still, if I were you, I think I would not go out; it might make your
cold worse," said Ida.

"No, I think it would be full as well for me to stay in to-day,"
replied Harry happily. He hemmed a little as he spoke, realizing the
tickle in his throat with rather a pleasant sense of importance than
annoyance. He stretched himself luxuriously in his chair, and gazed
about the warm, perfumed, luxurious apartment.

"You have to go out to-morrow, anyway," said Ida, and she increased
his sense of present comfort by that remark.

"That is so," said Harry, with a slight sigh.

Lately it had seemed harder than ever before for him to start early
in the black winter mornings and hurry for his train. Then, too, he
had what he had never had before, a sense of boredom, of ennui, so
intense that it was almost a pain. The deadly monotony of it wearied
him. For the first time in his life his harness of duty chafed his
spirit. He was so tired of seeing the same train, the same commuters,
taking the same path across the station to the ferry-boat, being
jostled by the same throng, going to the same office, performing the
same, or practically the same, duties, that his very soul was
irritated. He had reached a point where he not only needed but
demanded a change, but the change was as impossible, without
destruction, as for a planet to leave its orbit.

Ida saw the deepening of the frown on his forehead and the
lengthening of the lines around his mouth.

"Poor old man!" said she. "I wish I had a fortune to give you, so you
wouldn't have to go."

The words were fairly cooing, but the tone was still harsh. However,
Harry brightened. He regarded this lovely, blooming creature and
inhaled again the odor of dinner, and reflected with a sense of
gratitude upon his mercies. Harry had a grateful heart, and was
always ready to blame himself.

"Oh, I should be lost, go all to pieces, if I quit work," he said,
laughing. "If I were left a fortune, I should land in an insane
asylum very likely, or take to drink. No, dear, you can't teach such
an old bird new tricks; he's been in one tree too long, summer and
winter."

"Well, after all, you have not got to go out to-day," remarked Ida,
skilfully, and Harry again stretched himself with a sense of present
comfort.

"That is so, dear," he said.

"I have something you like for supper, too," said Ida, "and I think
George Adams and Louisa may drop in and we can have some music."

Harry brightened still more. He liked George Adams, and the wife had
more than a talent for music, of which Harry was passionately fond.
She played wonderfully on Ida's well-tuned grand piano.

"I thought you might like it," said Ida, "and I spoke to Louisa as I
was coming out of church."

"You were very kind, sweetheart," Harry said, and again a flood of
gratitude seemed to sweeten life for the man.

Ida took another step in her sequence.

"I think Maria had better stay up, if they do come," said she. "She
enjoys music so much. She can keep on her new gown. Maria is so
careful of her gowns that I never feel any anxiety about her soiling
them."

"She is just like--" began Harry, then he stopped. He had been about
to state that Maria was just like her mother in that respect, but he
had remembered suddenly that he was speaking to his second wife.

However, Ida finished his remark for him with perfect good-nature.
She had not the slightest jealousy of Harry's first wife, only a sort
of contempt, that she had gotten so little where she herself had
gotten so much.

"Maria's own mother was very particular, wasn't she, dear?" she said.

"Very," replied Harry.

"Maria takes it from her, without any doubt," Ida said, smoothly.
"She looked so sweet in that new gown to-day, that I would like to
have the Adamses see her without her coat to-night; and Maria looks
even prettier without her hat, too, her hair grows so prettily on her
temples. Maria grows lovelier every day, it seems to me. I don't know
how many I saw looking at her in church this morning."

"Yes, she is going to be pretty, I guess," said Harry, and again his
very soul seemed warm and light with pleasure and gratitude.

"She _is_ pretty," said Ida, conclusively. "She is at the awkward
age, too. But there is no awkwardness about Maria. She is like a
little fairy."

Harry beamed upon her. "She is as proud as punch when she gets a
chance to take the little one out, and they made a pretty picture
going down the street," said he, "but I hope she won't catch cold. Is
that new suit warm?"

"Oh yes! it is interlined. I looked out for that."

"You look out for my child as if she were your own, bless you, dear,"
Harry said, affectionately.

Then Ida thought that the time for her carefully-led-up-to coup had
arrived. "I try to," said she, meekly.

"You _do_."

Ida began to speak, then she hesitated, with timid eyes on her
husband's face.

"What is it, dear?" asked he.

"Well, I have been thinking a good deal lately about Maria and her
associates in school here."

"Why, what is the matter with them?" Harry asked, uneasily.

"Oh, I don't know that there is anything very serious the matter with
them, but Maria is at an age when she is very impressible, and there
are many who are not exactly desirable. There is Gladys Mann, for
instance. I saw Maria walking down the street with her the other day.
Now, Harry, you know that Gladys Mann is not exactly the kind of girl
whom Maria's own mother would have chosen for an intimate friend for
her."

"You are right," Harry said, frowning.

"Well, I have been thinking over the number of pupils of both sexes
in the school who can be called degenerates, either in mind or
morals, and I must say I was alarmed."

"Well, what is to be done?" asked Harry, moodily. "Maria must go to
school, of course."

"Yes, of course, Maria must have a good education, as good as if her
own mother had lived."

"Well, what is to be done, then?"

Then Ida came straight to the point. "The only way I can see is to
remove her from doubtful associates."

"Remove her?" repeated Harry, blankly.

"Yes; send her away to school. Wellbridge Hall, in Emerson, where I
went myself, would be a very good school. It is not expensive."

Harry stared. "But, Ida, she is too young."

"Not at all."

"You were older when you went there."

"A little older."

"How far is Emerson from here?"

"Only a night's journey from New York. You go to sleep in your berth,
and in the morning you are there. You could always see her off. It is
very easy."

"Send Maria away! Ida, it is out of the question. Aside from anything
else, there is the expense. I am living up to my income as it is."

"Oh," said Ida--she gave her head a noble toss, and spoke
impressively--"I am prepared to go without myself to make it possible
for you to meet her bills. You know I spoke the other day of a new
lace dress. Well, that would cost at least a hundred; I will go
without that. And I wanted some new portieres for my room; I will go
without them. That means, say, fifty more. And you know the
dining-room rug looks very shabby. I was thinking we must have an
Eastern rug, which would cost at least one hundred and fifty; I
thought it would pay in the end. Well, I am prepared to give that up
and have a domestic, which only costs twenty-five; that is a hundred
and twenty-five more saved. And I had planned to have my seal-skin
coat made over after Christmas, and you know you cannot have
seal-skin touched under a hundred; there is a hundred more. There are
three hundred and seventy-five saved, which will pay for Maria's
tuition for a year, and enough over for travelling expenses." Nothing
could have exceeded the expression of lofty virtue of Ida Edgham when
she concluded her speech. As for her own selfish considerations,
those, as always, she thought of only as her duty. Ida established
always a clear case of conscience in all her dealings for her own
interests.

But Harry continued to frown. The childish droop of his handsome
mouth became more pronounced. "I don't like the idea," he said, quite
sturdily for him.

"Suppose we leave it to Maria," said Ida.

"I really think," said Harry, in almost a fretful tone, "that you
exaggerate. I hardly think there is anything so very objectionable
about her associates here. I will admit that many of the children
come from what we call the poor whites, but after all their main vice
is shiftlessness, and Maria is not very likely to become contaminated
with that."

"Why, Harry, my dear, that is the very least of their vices."

"What else?"

"Why, you know that they are notoriously light-fingered."

"My dear Ida, you don't mean to say that you think Maria--"

"Why, of course not, Harry, but aside from that, their morals."

Harry rose from his chair and walked across the room nervously.

"My dear Ida," he said, "you are exaggerating now. Maria is simply
not that kind of a girl; and, besides, I don't know that she does see
so much of those people, anyway."

"Gladys Mann--"

"Well, I never heard any harm of that poor little runt. On the other
side, Ida, I should think Maria's influence over her for good was to
be taken into consideration."

"I hope you don't mean Maria to be a home missionary?" said Ida.

"She might go to school for a worse purpose," replied Harry, simply.
"Maria has a very strong character from her mother, if not from her
father. I actually think the chances are that the Mann girl will have
a better chance of getting good from Maria than Maria evil from her."

"Well, dear, suppose we leave it to Maria herself," said Ida. "Nobody
is going to force the dear child away against her will, of course."

"Very well," said Harry. His face still retained a slightly sulky,
disturbed expression.

Ida, after a furtive glance at him, took up a sheet of the Sunday
paper, and began swaying back and forth gracefully in her
rocking-chair, as she read it.

"How foolish all this sentiment about that murderer in the Tombs is,"
said she presently. "They are actually going to give him a
Christmas-tree."

"He is only a boy," said Harry absently.

"I know that--but the idea!"

Just then Maria passed the window, dragging little Evelyn in her
white sledge. Ida rose with a motion of unusual quickness for her,
but Harry stopped her as she was about to leave the room.

"Don't go out, Ida," he said, with a peremptoriness which sat
strangely upon him.

Ida stared at him. "Why, why not?" she asked. "I wanted to take
Evelyn out. You know Josephine is not here."

"She is getting out all right with Maria's help; sit down, Ida," said
Harry, still with that tone of command which was so foreign to him.

Ida hesitated a second, then she sat down. She realized the grace and
policy of yielding in a minor point, when she had a large one in
view. Then, too, she was in reality rather vulnerable to a sudden
attack, for a moment, although she was always as a rule sure of
ultimate victory. She was at a loss, moreover, to comprehend Harry's
manner, which was easily enough understood. He wished to be the first
to ascertain Maria's sentiments with regard to going away to school.
Without admitting it even to himself, he distrusted his wife's
methods and entire frankness.

Presently Maria entered, leading little Evelyn, who was unusually
sturdy on her legs for her age. She walked quite steadily, with an
occasional little hop and skip of exuberant childhood.

She could talk a little, in disconnected sentences, with fascinating
mistakes in the sounds of letters, but she preferred a gurgle of
laughter when she was pleased, and a wail of woe when things went
wrong. She was still in the limbos of primitivism. She was young with
the babyhood of the world. To-day she danced up to her father with
her little thrill of laughter, at once as meaningless and as full of
meaning as the trill of a canary. She pursed up her little lips for a
kiss, she flung frantic arms of adoration around his neck. She clung
to him, when he lifted her, with all her little embracing limbs; she
pressed her lovely, cool, rosy cheek against his, and laughed again.

"Now go and kiss mamma," said Harry.

But the baby resisted with a little, petulant murmur when he tried to
set her down. She still clung to him. Harry whispered in her ear.

"Go and kiss mamma, darling."

But Evelyn shook her head emphatically against his face. Maria,
almost as radiant in her youth as the child, stood behind her. She
glanced uneasily at Ida. She held the white fur robes and wraps which
she had brought in from the sledge.

"Take those things out and let Emma put them away, dear," Ida said to
her. She smiled, but her voice still retained its involuntary
harshness.

Maria obeyed with an uneasy glance at little Evelyn. She knew that
her step-mother was angry because the baby would not kiss her. When
she was out in the dining-room, giving the fluffy white things to the
maid, she heard a shriek, half of grief, half of angry dissent, from
the baby. She immediately ran back into the parlor. Ida was removing
the child's outer garments, smiling as ever, and with seeming
gentleness, but Maria had a conviction that her touch on the tender
flesh of the child was as the touch of steel. Little Evelyn struggled
to get to her sister when she saw her, but Ida held her firmly.

"Stand still, darling," she said. It was inconceivable how she could
say darling without the loving inflection which alone gave the word
its full meaning.

"Stand still and let mamma take off baby's things," said Harry, and
there was no lack of affectionate cadences in his voice. He privately
thought that he himself could have taken off the child's wraps better
than his wife, but he recognized her rights in the matter. Harry
remembering his first wife, with her child, was in a state of
constant bewilderment at the sight of his second with hers. He had
always had the masculine opinion that women, in certain primeval
respects, were cut on one pattern, and his opinion was being rudely
shaken.

"Call Emma, please," said Ida to Maria, and Maria obeyed.

When the maid came in, Ida directed her to take the child up-stairs
and put on another frock.

Maria was about to follow, but Harry stopped her. "Maria," said he.

Maria stopped, and eyed her father with surprise.

"Maria," said Harry, bluntly, "your mother and I have been talking
about your going away to school."

Maria turned slightly pale and continued to stare at him, but she
said nothing.

"She thinks, and I don't know but she is right," said Harry, with
painful loyalty, "that your associates here are not just the proper
ones for you, and that it would be much better for you to go to
boarding-school."

"How much would it cost?" asked Maria, in a dazed voice. The question
sounded like her own mother.

"Father can manage that; you need not trouble yourself about that,"
replied Harry, hurriedly.

"Where?" said Maria, then.

"To a nice school where your mother was educated."

"My mother?"

"Ida--to Wellbridge Hall."

"How often should I come home and see you and Evelyn? Every week?"

"I am afraid not, dear," said Harry, uneasily.

"How long are the terms?" asked Maria.

"Only about twelve weeks," said Ida.

Maria stood staring from one to the other. Her face had turned deadly
pale, and had, moreover, taken on an expression of despair and
isolation. Somehow, although the little girl was only a few feet from
the others, she had a look as if she were leagues off, as if she were
outside something vital, which removed her, in fact, to immeasurable
distances. And, in fact, Maria had a feeling which never afterwards
wholly left her, of being outside the love of life in which she had
hitherto dwelt with confidence.

"Maybe you would like it, dear," Harry said, feebly.

"I will go," Maria said, in a choking voice. Then she turned without
another word and went out of the room, up-stairs to her own little
chamber. When there she sat down beside the window. She did not
think. She did not seem to feel her hands and feet. It was as if she
had fallen from a height. The realization that her father and his new
wife wanted to send her away, that she was not wanted in her home,
stunned her.

But in a moment the door was flung open and her father entered. He
knelt down beside Maria and pulled her head to his shoulder and
kissed her, and she felt with a sort of dull wonder his face damp
against her own.

"Father's little girl!" said Harry. "Father's own little girl!
Father's blessing! Did she think he wanted to send her away? I rather
guess he didn't. How would father get along without his own precious
baby, when he came home at night. She shan't go one step. She needn't
fret a bit about it."

Maria turned and regarded him with a frozen look still on her face.
"It was She that wanted me to go?" she said, interrogatively.

"She thought maybe it would be best for you, darling," said Harry.
"She means to do right by you, Maria; you must try to think so."

Maria said nothing.

"But father isn't going to let you go," said Harry. "He can't do
without his little girl."

Then Maria's strange calm broke up. She clung, weeping, to her
father, as if he were her only stay. Harry continued to soothe her.

"Father's blessing!" he whispered in her ear. "She was the best
little girl that ever was. She is just like her own dear mother."

"I wish mother was back," Maria whispered, her whisper stifled
against his ear.

"Oh, my God, so do I!" Harry said, with a half sob. For the minute
the true significance of his position overwhelmed him. He felt a
regret, a remembrance, that was a passion. He realized, with no
disguise, what it all meant: that he a man with the weakness of a
child in the hands of a masterly woman, had formerly been in the
leading-strings of love for himself, for his own best good, whereas
he was now in the grasp of the self-love of another who cared for him
only as he promoted her own interests. In a moment, however, he
recovered himself. After all, he had a sense of loyalty and duty
which amounted to positive strength. He put Maria gently from him
with another kiss.

"Well, this won't bring your mother back, dear," he said, "and God
took her away, you know, and what He does is for the best; and She
means to do her duty by you, you know, dear. She thought it would be
better for you, but father can't spare you, that's all there is about
it."



Chapter XIII


It was an utter impossibility for Ida Edgham to be entirely balked of
any purpose which she might form. There was something at once
impressive and terrible about the strength of this beautiful, smiling
creature's will, about its silence, its impassibility before
obstacles, its persistency. It was as inevitable and unswervable as
an avalanche or a cyclone. People might shriek out against it and
struggle, but on it came, a mighty force, overwhelming petty things
as well as great ones. It really seemed a pity, taking into
consideration Ida's tremendous strength of character, that she had
not some great national purpose upon which to exert herself, instead
of such trivial domestic ones.

Ida realized that she could not send Maria to the school which she
had proposed. Her strength had that subtlety which acknowledges its
limitations and its closed doors, and can look about for other means
and ways. Therefore, when Harry came down-stairs that Sunday
afternoon, his face working with emotion but his eyes filled with a
steady light, and said, with no preface, "It's no use talking, Ida,
that child does not want to go, and she shall never be driven from
under my roof, while I live," Ida only smiled, and replied, "Very
well, dear, I only meant it for her good."

"She is not going," Harry said doggedly.

Harry resumed his seat with a gesture of defiance which was absurd,
from its utter lack of any response from his wife. It was like
tilting with a windmill.

Ida continued to sway gently back and forth, and smile.

"I think if the Adamses do come in to-night we will have a little
salad, there will be enough left from the chicken, and some cake and
tea," she observed presently. "We won't have the table set, because
both the maids have asked to go out, but Maria can put on my India
muslin apron and pass the things. I will have the salad made before
they go, and I will make the tea. We can have it on the table in
here." Ida indicated, by a graceful motion of her shoulder, a pretty
little tea-table loaded with Dresden china.

"All right," replied Harry, with a baffled tone. He felt baffled
without knowing exactly why.

Ida took up another sheet of the Herald, a fashion page was
uppermost. She read something and smiled. "It says that gowns made
like Maria's new one are the most fetching ones of the season," she
said. "I am so glad I have the skirt plaited."

Harry made a gesture of assent. He felt, without in the least knowing
why, like a man who had been completely worsted in a hand-to-hand
combat. He felt humiliated and unhappy. His first wife, even with her
high temper and her ready tongue, had never caused him such a sense
of abjectness. He had often felt angry with her, but never with
himself. She had never really attacked his self-respect as this woman
did. He did not dare look up from his newspaper for a while, for he
realized that he should experience agony at seeing the beautiful,
radiant face of his second wife opposite him instead of the worn,
stern, but altogether loving and single-hearted face of his first. He
was glad when Maria came down-stairs, and looked up and greeted her
with a smile of reassuring confidence. Maria's pretty little face was
still tear-stained, although she had bathed it with cold water. She
also took up a sheet of the Sunday paper.

"Did you see Alice Lundy's new hat in church to-day, dear?" Ida
presently asked her, and her manner was exactly as if nothing had
occurred to disturb anybody.

Maria looked at her with a sort of wonder, which made her honest face
almost idiotic.

"No, ma'am," said she.

Maria had been taught to say "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am" by her own
mother, whose ideas of etiquette were old-fashioned, and dated from
the precepts of her own childhood.

"It is a little better not to say ma'am," said Ida, sweetly. "I think
that expression is not used so much as formerly."

Maria looked at her with a quick defiance, which gave her an almost
startling resemblance to her own mother.

"Yes, ma'am," said she.

Harry's mouth twitched behind his paper. Ida said no more. She
continued to smile, but she was not reading the paper which she held.
She was making new plans to gain her own ends. She was seeking new
doors of liberty for her own ways, in lieu of those which she saw
were closed to her, and by the time dinner was served she was quite
sure that she had succeeded.

The next autumn, Maria began attending the Elliot Academy, in
Wardway. The Elliot Academy was an endowed school of a very high
standing, and Wardway was a large town, almost a city, about fifteen
miles from Edgham. When this plan was broached by Ida, Maria did not
make any opposition; she was secretly delighted. Wollaston Lee was
going to the Elliot Academy that autumn, and there was another Edgham
girl and her brother, besides Maria, who were going.

"Now, darling, you need not go to the Elliot Academy any more than to
the other school she proposed, if you don't want to," Harry told
Maria, privately, one Saturday afternoon in September, shortly before
the term began.

Ida had gone to her club, and Harry had come home early from the
city, and he and Maria were alone in the parlor. Evelyn was having
her nap up-stairs. A high wind was roaring about the house. A
cherry-tree beside the house was fast losing its leaves in a yellow
rain. In front of the window, a hydrangea bush, tipped with
magnificent green-and-rosy plumes, swayed in all its limbs like a
living thing. Somewhere up-stairs a blind banged.

"I think I would like to go," Maria replied, hurriedly. Then she
jumped up. "That blind will wake Evelyn," she said, and ran out of
the room.

She had colored unaccountably when her father spoke. When she
returned, she had a demure, secretive expression on her face which
made Harry stare at her in bewilderment. All his life Harry Edgham
had been helpless and bewildered before womenkind, and now his little
daughter was beginning to perplex him. She sat down and took up a
piece of fancy-work, and her father continued to glance at her
furtively over his paper. Presently he spoke of the academy again.

"You need not go if you do not want to," he repeated.

Then again Maria's delicate little face and neck became suffused with
pink. Her reply was not as loud nor more intelligible than the murmur
of the trees outside in the wind.

"What did you say, darling?" asked Harry. "Father did not understand."

"I would like to go there," Maria replied, in her sweet, decisive
little pipe. A fresh wave of color swept over her face and neck, and
she selected with great care a thread from a skein of linen floss.

"Well, she thought you might like that," Harry said, with an air of
relief.

"Maud Page is going, too," said Maria.

"Is she? That will be nice. You won't have to go back and forth
alone," said Harry.

Maria said nothing; she continued her work.

Her father turned his paper and looked at the stock-list. Once he had
owned a hundred shares of one of the Industrials. He had long since
sold out, not at a loss, but the stock had risen since. He always
noted it with an odd feeling of proprietorship, in spite of not
owning any. He saw with pride that it had advanced half a point.

Maria worked silently; and as she worked she dreamed, and the dream
was visible on her face, had any one been astute enough to understand
it. She was working a lace collar to wear with a certain blue blouse,
and upon that flimsy keystone was erecting an air-castle. She was
going to the Elliot Academy, wearing the blue blouse and the lace
collar, and looking so lovely that Wollaston Lee worshipped her. She
invented little love-scenes, love-words, and caresses. She blushed,
and dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth, the blue light of
her eyes under her downcast lids was like the light of living gems.
She viewed with complacency her little, soft white hands plying the
needle. Maria had hands like a little princess. She cast a glance at
the toe of her tiny shoe. She remembered how somebody had told her to
keep her shoulders straight, and she threw them back with a charming
motion, as if they had been wings. She was entirely oblivious of her
father's covert glances. She was solitary, isolated in the crystal of
her own thoughts. Presently, Evelyn woke and cried, and Maria roused
herself with a start and ran up-stairs. Soon the two came into the
room, Evelyn dancing with the uncertain motion of a winged seed on a
spring wind. She was charming. One round cheek was more deeply
flushed than the other, and creased with the pillow. Her yellow hair,
fine and soft and full of electric life, tossed like a little crest.
She ran with both fat little hands spread palms outward, and pounced
violently upon her father. Harry rolled her about on his knee, and
played with her as if she had been a kitten. Maria stood by laughing.
The child was fairly screaming with mirth.

A graceful figure passed the window, its garments tightly wrapped by
the wind, flying out like a flag behind. Harry set the little girl
down at once.

"Here is mamma coming," said he. "Go to sister and she will show you
the pictures in the book papa brought home the other day."

Evelyn obeyed. She was a docile little thing, and she had a fear of
her mother without knowing why. She was sitting beside Maria, looking
demurely at the pictures which her sister pointed out to her, when
Ida entered.

"See the horsey running away," said Maria. Then she added in a
whisper, "Go and kiss mamma, baby."

The child hesitated, then she rose, and ran to her mother, who
stooped her radiant face over her and kissed her coolly.

"Have you been a good little girl?" asked she. Ida was looking
particularly self-satisfied to day, and more disposed consequently to
question others as to their behavior.

"Yeth," replied Evelyn, without the slightest hesitation. A happy
belief in her own merits was an inheritance from her mother. As yet
it was more charming than otherwise, for the baby had unquestionable
merits in which to believe. Harry and Maria laughed.

"Mamma is very glad," said Ida. She did not laugh; she saw no humor
in it. She turned to Harry. "I think I will go in on the early train
with you to-morrow, dear," she said. "I want to see about Maria's
new dress." Then she turned to Maria. "I have been in to see Miss
Keeler," said she, "and she says she can make it for you next week,
so you can have it when you begin school. I thought of brown with a
touch of blue and burnt-orange. How would you like that?"

"I think that would be perfectly lovely," said Maria with enthusiasm.
She cast a grateful look at her step-mother, almost a look of
affection. She was always very grateful to Ida for her new clothes,
and just now clothes had a more vital interest for her than ever. She
took another stitch in her collar, with Evelyn leaning against her
and kicking out first one chubby leg, then the other, and she
immediately erected new air-castles, in which she figured in her
brown suit with the touches of burnt-orange and blue.

A week later, when she started on the train for Wardway in her new
attire, she felt entirely satisfied with herself and life in general.
She was conscious of looking charming in her new suit of brown, with
the touches of blue and burnt-orange, and her new hat, also brown
with blue and burnt-orange glimpses in the trimmings. Wollaston Lee
got on the same car and sat behind her. Maud Page, the other Edgham
girl who was going to the academy, had a cousin in Wardway, and had
gone there the night before. There were only Maria, Wollaston, and
Edwin Shaw, who sat by himself in a corner, facing the other
passengers with a slightly shamed, sulky expression. He was very
tall, and had blacked his shoes well, and the black light from them
seemed to him obtrusive, the more so because his feet were very
large. He looked out of the window as the train left the station, and
saw a very pretty little child with a fluff of yellow hair, carrying
a big doll, climbing laboriously on a train on the other track, with
the tender assistance of a brakeman. She was in the wake of a very
stout woman, who stumbled on her skirts going up the steps. Edwin
Shaw thought that the child looked like Maria's little sister, but
that she could not be, because the stout woman was a stranger to him.
Then he thought no more about it. He gazed covertly at Maria, with
the black sparkles of his shoes continuing to disturb him. He admired
Maria. Presently he saw Wollaston Lee lean over the back of her seat
and say something to her, and saw her half turn and dimple, and
noticed how the lovely rose flushed the curve of her cheek, and he
scowled at his shiny shoes.

As for Maria, when she felt the boy's warm breath on her neck, her
heart beat fast. She realized herself on the portals of an air-castle.

"Well, glad you are going to leave this old town?" said Wollaston.

"I am not going to leave it, really," replied Maria.

"Oh, of course not, but you are going to leave the old school,
anyhow. I had got mighty tired of it, hadn't you?"

"Yes, I had, rather."

"It's behind the times," said the boy; and, as he spoke he himself
looked quite up to the times. He had handsome, clearly cut features
and black eyes, which seemed at the same time to demand and question.
He had something of a supercilious air, although the expression of
youthful innocence and honesty was still evident on his face. He wore
a new suit as well as Maria, only his was gray instead of brown, and
he wore a red carnation in his button-hole. Maria inhaled the clovy
fragrance of it. At the next station more passengers got into the
train, and Wollaston seized upon that excuse to ask to share Maria's
seat. They talked incessantly--an utterly foolish gabble like that of
young birds. An old gentleman across the aisle cast an impatient
glance at them from time to time. Finally he arose stiffly and went
into the smoker. Their youth and braggadocio of innocence and
ignorance, and the remembrance of his own, irritated him. He did not
in the least regret his youth, but the recollection of the first
stages of his life, now that he was so near the end, was like looking
backward over a long road, which had led to absurdly different goals
from what he had imagined. It all seemed inconceivable, silly and
futile to him, what he had done, and what they were doing. He cast a
furious glance at them as he passed out, but neither noticed it.
Wollaston said something, and Maria laughed an inane little giggle
which was still musical, and trilled through the car. Maria's cheeks
were burning, and she seldom looked at the boy at her side, but
oftener at the young autumn landscape through which they were
passing. The trees had scarcely begun to turn, but here and there one
flamed out like a gold or red torch among the green, and all the
way-sides were blue and gold with asters and golden-rod. It was a
very warm morning for the season. When they stopped at one of the
stations, a yellow butterfly flew in through an open window and
flitted airily about the car. Maria removed her coat, with the
solicitous aid of her companion. She cast a conscious glance at the
orange and blue on her sleeves.

"Say, that dress is a stunner!" whispered Wollaston.

Maria laughed happily. "Glad you like it," said she.

Before they reached Wardway, Wollaston's red carnation was fastened
at one side of her embroidered vest, making a discord of color which,
for Maria, was a harmony of young love and romance.

"That is the academy," said Wollaston, as the train rolled into
Wardway. He pointed to a great brick structure at the right--a main
building flanked by enormous wings. "Are you frightened?" he asked.

"I guess not," replied Maria, but she was.

"You needn't be a bit," said the boy. "I know some of the boys that
go there, and I went to see the principal with father. He's real
pleasant. I know the Latin teacher, Miss Durgin, too. My Uncle Frank
married her cousin, and she has been to my house. You'll be in her
class." Wollaston spoke with a protective warmth for which Maria was
very grateful.

She had a very successful although somewhat confused day. She was
asked this and that and led hither and yon, and so surrounded by
strange faces and sights that she felt fairly dizzy. She felt more
herself at luncheon, when she sat beside Maud Page in the
dining-hall, with Wollaston opposite. There was a restaurant attached
to the academy, for the benefit of the out-of-town pupils.

When Maria went down to the station to take her train for home, Maud
Page was there, and Wollaston. There was a long time to wait. They
went out in a field opposite and picked great bunches of golden-rod,
and the girls pinned them on their coats. Edwin Shaw was lingering
about the station when they returned, but he was too shy to speak to
them. When the train at last came in, Maria, with a duplicity which
shamed her in thinking of it afterwards, managed to get away from
Maud, and enter the car at the same time with Wollaston, who seated
himself beside her as a matter of course. It was still quite light,
but it had grown cold. Everything had a cold look--the clear cowslip
sky, with its reefs of violet clouds; even the trees tossed crisply,
as if stiffened with cold.

"Hope we won't have a frost," said Wollaston, as they got off at
Edgham.

"I hope not," said Maria; and then Gladys Mann ran up to her, crying
out:

"Say, Maria, Maria, did you know your little sister was lost?"

Maria turned deadly white. Wollaston caught hold of her little arm in
its brown sleeve.

"When was she lost?" he asked, fiercely, of Gladys. "Don't you know
any better than to rush right at anybody with such a thing as that?
Don't you be frightened, Maria. I'll find her."

A little knot of passengers from the train gathered around them.
Gladys was pale herself, and had a strong sense of the sadness of the
occasion, still she had a feeling of importance. Edwin Shaw came
lumbering up timidly, and Maud Page pressed quickly to Maria's side
with a swirl of her wide skirts.

"Gladys Mann, what on earth are you talking about?" said she,
sharply. "Who's lost?"

"Maria's little sister."

"Hm! I don't believe a word of it."

"She is, so there! Nobody has seen a sign of her since morning, and
Maria's pa's most crazy. He's been sending telegrams all round.
Maria's step-mother, she telegraphed for him to come home, and he
come at noon, and he sent telegrams all round, and then he went
himself an hour ago."

"Went where?"

"Back to New York. Guess he's gone huntin' himself. Guess he thought
he could hunt better than policemen. Maria's step-mother don't act
scared, but I guess she is, awful. My mummer says that folks that
bear up the best are the ones that feel things most. My mummer went
over to see if she could do anything and see how she took it."

"When was she lost?" gasped Maria. She was shaking from head to foot.

"Your step-mother went down to the store, and when she got back the
baby was gone. Josephine said she hadn't seen her after you had
started for Wardway. She took her doll with her."

"Where?" gasped Maria.

"Nobody knows where," said Gladys, severely, although the tears were
streaming down her own grimy cheeks. "She wouldn't be lost, would
she, if folks knew where she was? Nothin' ain't never lost when you
know where it is unless you drop it down a well, and you 'ain't got
no well, have you, Maria Edgham?"

"No," said Maria. She was conscious of an absurd thankfulness and
relief that she had no well.

"And there ain't no pond round here big enough to drown a baby
kitten, except that little mud-puddle up at Fisher's, and they've
dragged every inch of that. I see 'em."

All this time Edwin Shaw had been teetering on uncertain toes on the
borders of the crowd. He remembered the child with the doll whom he
had seen climbing into the New York train in the morning, and he was
eager to tell of it, to make himself of importance, but he was
afraid. After all, the child might not have been Evelyn. There were
so many little, yellow-haired things with dolls to be seen about, and
then there was the stout woman to be accounted for. Edwin never
doubted that the child had been with the stout woman whom he had seen
stumbling over her voluminous skirts up the car steps. At last he
stepped forward and spoke, with a moist blush overspreading his face,
toeing in and teetering with embarrassment.

"Say," he began.

The attention of the whole company was at once riveted upon him. He
wriggled; the blood looked as if it would burst through his face.
Great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. He stammered
when he spoke. He caught a glimpse of Maria's blue-and-orange
trimmings, and looked down, and again the black light of his shoes,
which all the dust of the day had not seemed to dim, flashed in his
eyes. He came of a rather illiterate family with aspirations, and
when he was nervous he had a habit of relapsing into the dialect in
common use in his own home, regardless of his educational
attainments. He did so now.

"I think she has went to New York," he said.

"Who?" demanded Wollaston, eagerly. His head was up like a hunting
hound; he kept close hold of Maria's little arm.

"Her."

"Who?"

"Her little sister-in-law." Edwin pointed to Maria.

Gladys Mann went peremptorily up to Edwin Shaw, seized his
coat-collar, and shook him. "For goodness sake! when did she went?"
she demanded. "When did you see her? If you know anythin', tell it,
an' not stand thar like a fool!"

"I saw a little girl jest about her size, a-carryin' of a doll, that
clim on the New York train jest as we went out this mornin'," replied
Edwin with a gasp, as if the information were wrung from him by
torture. "And she was with a awful fat woman. Leastways--"

"A fat woman!" cried Wollaston Lee. "Who was the fat woman?"

"I hadn't never saw her afore. She was awful fat, and was a steppin'
on her dress."

Wollaston was keen-witted, and he immediately grasped at the truth of
the matter.

"You idiot!" he said. "What makes you think she was with the stout
woman--just because she was climbing into the train after her?"

"Little girls don't never go to New York alone with dolls,"
vouchsafed Edwin, more idiotically than ever. "Leastways--"

"If you don't stop saying leastways, I'll punch your head," said
Wollaston. "Are you sure the child was Maria's little sister?"

"Looked like her," said Edwin, shrinking back a little. "Leastways--"

"What was she dressed in?" asked Maria, eagerly.

"I didn't see as she had nothin' on."

"You great gump!" said Gladys, shaking him energetically. "Of course
she had something on."

"She had a big doll."

"What did she have on? You answer me this minute!" said Gladys.

"She might have had on a blue dress," admitted Edwin, with a frantic
grasp at his memory, "but she didn't have nothin' on her, nohow.
Leastways--"

"Oh!" sobbed Maria, "she did wear her little blue dress this morning.
She did! Was her hair light?"

"Yes, it were," said Edwin, quite positively. "Leastways--"

"It was Evelyn," sobbed Maria. "Oh, poor little Evelyn, all alone in
New York! She never went but once with Her and me, and she wouldn't
know where to go. Oh, oh!"

"Where did she go when she went with your step-ma and you?" demanded
Gladys, who seemed to have suddenly developed unusual acumen. Her
face was streaming with tears but her voice was keen.

"She went to Her cousin's, who lives in an apartment in West
Forty-ninth Street," said Maria.

"She'd try to go there again," said Gladys. "Did she know the woman's
name?"

"Yes, she did."

"You bet she did. She was an awful bright kid," said Gladys. "Now, I
tell you what, Maria, I shouldn't a mite wonder if your step-ma had
had a telegram from her cousin by this time, that she was to her
house. You'd better jest run home an' see."

"She was only her third cousin," said Maria, "and She hardly ever
heard from her. It was only the other day I heard Her say that she
didn't know but she had left New York. I don't think Her cousin liked
her very well."

"What was the cousin's name?"

"She called her Alice, but her name was Mrs. George B. Edison."

"That's jest where the kid has went," said Gladys. "You go right
home, M'ria. We'll go with you, and I'll bet a cooky you'll find that
your step-ma has had a telegram."

Maria hesitated a moment; then she started, Wollaston Lee still
keeping close hold of her arm. Gladys was on the other side.



Chapter XIV


When Maria reached home, she pushed open the front door, which was
unlocked, and rushed violently in. Wollaston and Gladys followed her,
after a slight hesitation, but remained standing in the vestibule.
When Maria had come in sight of the house, she had perceived the
regular motion of a rocking female head past the parlor light, and
she knew that it was Ida. Ida nearly always occupied a rocking-chair,
and was fond of the gentle, swaying motion.

"There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn't lost," Maria
thought, with the bitterest revulsion and sarcasm. When she opened
the door she immediately smelled tea, the odor of broiling beefsteak
and fried potatoes. "Eating just as if the baby wasn't lost," she
thought. She rushed into the parlor, and there was Ida swaying back
and forth in her rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her.
One was Mrs. Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs.
Adams, perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; one
was the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs.
Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate--her husband had
a degree. Her sister had just died and she was dressed in the deepest
mourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she produced a curious
effect of a vacuum of grief. Mrs. Adams, who was quite young and very
pretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly; Mrs. Jonas White was
sniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was ponderously religious,
asked once in a while, in a subdued manner, if Mrs. Edgham did not
think it would be advisable to unite in prayer.

Ida made no reply. She continued to rock, and she had a curious set
expression. Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to restrain
that radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with her. She
looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a Tiffany vase
which stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold against a
skilful background of crimson velvet. It was as if she were having
her photograph taken and had been requested by the photographer to
keep her eyes fixed upon that vase.

"The detective system of New York is so lax," said Mrs. Adams. "I do
wish there was more system among them and among the police. One would
feel--" She heaved a deep sigh.

Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly.

"Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good plan to
offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear child's
return?" asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice, albeit somewhat
diffidently. She was a corpulent woman, and was richly dressed, in
spite of her deep mourning. A jet brooch rimmed with pearls, gleamed
out of the shadow where she sat.

Ida continued to rock.

"But," said Mrs. Adams, "a great many children are lost every year
and found. Sometimes the system does really work in a manner to
astonish any one. I should not be surprised at any minute to see Mr.
Edgham or a policeman walking in with her. But--well--there is so
much to be done. The other night, when Mr. Adams and I went in to
hear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight blocks after the performance without
seeing one policeman."

"I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a dozen would
have sprung out from somewhere," said Mrs. White, in a tearful voice.
Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself assailed without a word
in his defence, such was the maternal pity of her heart.

"That was what Mr. Adams said," retorted Mrs. Adams, with some
asperity, "and I told him that I would rather the dozen policemen
were in evidence before I was shot and robbed than after. I had on
all my rings, and my diamond sunburst."

"Do you not think, dear friend, that it would be a good plan to offer
up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the safe restoration of the
dear child?" asked Mrs. Applegate again. Her voice was sonorous, very
much like her husband's. She felt that, so far as in her lay, she was
taking his place. He was out of town.

It was then that Maria rushed into the room. She ran straight up to
her step-mother. The other women started. Ida continued to rock, and
look at the Tiffany vase. It seemed as if she dared not take her eyes
from it for fear of losing her expression. Then Maria spoke, and her
voice did not sound like her own at all. It was accusatory, menacing.

"Where is my little sister?" she cried. "Where is she?"

Mrs. Jonas White rose, approached Maria, and put her arms around her
caressingly. "You poor, dear child," she sobbed, "I guess you do feel
it. You did set a heap by that blessed little thing, didn't you?"

"She is in the hands of the Lord," said Mrs. Applegate.

"If the police of New York were worth anything, she would be in the
police station by this time," said Mrs. Adams, with a fierce toss of
her pretty blond head.

"We know not where His islands lift their fronded palms in air; we
only know we cannot drift beyond His love and care," said Mrs.
Applegate, with a solemn aside. Tears were in her own eyes, but she
resolutely checked her impulse to weep. She felt that it would show a
lack of faith. She was entirely in earnest.

"Mebbe she _is_ in the police-station," sobbed Mrs. White, continuing
to embrace Maria. But Maria gave her a forcible push away, and again
addressed herself to her step-mother.

"Where is she?" she demanded.

"Oh, you poor, dear child! Your ma don't know where she is, and she
is so awful upset, she sets there jest like marble," said Mrs. White.

"She isn't upset at all. You don't know her as well as I do," said
Maria, mercilessly. "She thinks she ought to act upset, so she sits
this way. She isn't upset."

"Oh, Maria!" gasped Mrs. White.

"The child is out of her head," said Mrs. Adams, and yet she looked
at Maria with covert approval. She was Ida's intimate friend, but in
her heart of hearts she doubted her grief. She had once lost by death
a little girl of her own. She kept thinking of her little Alice, and
how she should feel in a similar case. It did not seem to her that
she should rock, and look at a Tiffany vase. She inveighed against
the detectives and police with a reserve meaning of indignation
against Ida. It seemed to her that any woman whose child was lost
should be up and generally making a tumult, if she were doing nothing
else.

The Maria, standing before the beautiful woman swaying gently, with
her eyes fixed upon the pink and gold of the vase, spoke out for the
first time what was in her heart of hearts with regard to her.

"You are a wicked woman," said she; "that is what you are. I don't
know as you can help being wicked. I guess you were made wicked; but
you _are_ a wicked woman. Your mouth smiles, but your heart never
does. You act now as if you were sorry," said she, "but you are not
sorry, the way my mother would have been sorry if she had lost me,
the way she would have been sorry if Evelyn had been her little girl
instead of yours. You are a wicked woman. I have always known it, but
I have never told you so before. Now I am going to tell you. Your own
child is lost, you let her be lost. You didn't look out for her. Yes,
your own child is lost, and you sit there and rock!"

Ida for a moment made no reply. The other women, and Gladys and
Wollaston in the vestibule, listened with horror.

"You have had beefsteak and fried potatoes cooked, too," continued
Maria, sniffing, "and you have eaten them. You have been eating
beefsteak and fried potatoes when your own child was lost and you did
not know where she was!" It might have been ridiculous, this last
accusation in the thin, sweet, childish voice, but it was not. It was
even more terrible than anything else.

Ida turned at last. "I hate you," she said slowly. "I have always
hated you. You have hated me ever since I came into this house," she
said, "though I have done more than your own mother ever did for you."

"You have not!" cried Maria. "You have got nice clothes for me, but
my own mother loved me. What are nice clothes to love? You have not
even loved Evelyn. You have only got her nice clothes. You have never
loved her. Poor papa and I were the only ones that loved her. You
never even loved poor papa. You saw to it that he had things to eat,
but you never loved him. You are not made right. All the love in your
heart is for your own self. You are turned the wrong way. I don't
know as you can help it, but you are a dreadful woman. You are
wicked. You never loved the baby, and now you have let her be lost.
She is my own little sister, and papa's child, a great deal more than
she is anything to you. Where is she?" Maria's voice rang wild. Her
face was blazing. She had an abnormal expression in her blue eyes
fixed upon her step-mother.

Ida, after her one outburst, gazed upon her with a sort of fear as
well as repulsion. She again turned to the Tiffany vase.

Mrs. White, sobbing aloud like a child, again put her arms around
Maria.

"Come, come," she said soothingly, "you poor child, I know how you
feel, but you mustn't talk so, you mustn't, dear! You have no right
to judge. You don't know how your mother feels."

"I know how She doesn't feel!" Maria burst out, "and She isn't my
mother. My mother loves me more way off in heaven than that woman
loves Her own child on earth. She doesn't feel. She just rocks, and
thinks how She looks. I hate Her! Let me go!" With that Maria was out
of the room, and ran violently up-stairs.

When she had gone, the three visiting women looked at one another,
and the same covert expression of gratified malice, at some one
having spoken out what was in their inmost hearts, was upon all three
faces. Ida was impassive, with her smiling lips contracted. Mrs.
Applegate again murmured something about uniting in prayer.

Maria came hurrying down-stairs. She had in her hand her purse, which
contained ten dollars, which her father had given her on her
birthday, also a book of New York tickets which had been a present
from Ida, and which Ida herself had borrowed several times since
giving them to Maria. Maria herself seldom went to New York, and Ida
had a fashion of giving presents which might react to her own
benefit. Maria, as she passed the parlor door, glanced in and saw her
step-mother rocking and staring at the vase. Then she was out of the
front-door, racing down the street with Wollaston Lee and Gladys
hardly able to keep up with her. Wollaston reached her finally, and
again caught her arm. The pressure of the hard, warm boy hand was
grateful to the little, hysterical thing, who was trembling from head
to foot, with a strange rigidity of tremors. Gladys also clutched her
other sleeve.

"Say, M'ria Edgham, where be you goin'?" she demanded.

"I'm going to find my little sister," gasped out Maria. She gave a
dry sob as she spoke.

"My!" said Gladys.

"Now, Maria, hadn't you better go back home?" ventured Wollaston.

"No," said Maria, and she ran on towards the station.

"Come home with me to my mother," said Wollaston, pleadingly, but a
little timidly. A girl in such a nervous strait as this was a new
experience for him.

"She can go home with me," said Gladys. "My mother's a heap better
than Ida Slome. Say, M'ria, all them things you said was true, but
land! how did you darse?"

Maria made no reply. She kept on.

"Say, M'ria, you don't mean you're goin' to New York?" said Gladys.

"Yes, I am. I am going to find my little sister."

"My!" said Gladys.

"Now, Maria, don't you think you had better go home with me, and see
mother?" Wollaston said again.

But Maria seemed deaf. In fact, she heard nothing but the sound of
the approaching New York train. She ran like a wild thing, her
little, slim legs skimming the ground like a bird's, almost as if
assisted by wings.

When the train reached the station, Maria climbed in, Wollaston and
Gladys after her. Neither Wollaston nor Gladys had the slightest
premeditation in the matter; they were fairly swept along by the
emotion of their companion.

When the train had fairly started, Gladys, who had seated herself
beside Maria, while Wollaston was in the seat behind them, heaved a
deep sigh of bewilderment and terror. "My!" said she.

Wollaston also looked pale and bewildered. He was only a boy, and had
never been thrown much upon his own responsibility. All that had been
uppermost in his mind was the consideration that Maria could not be
stopped, and she must not go alone to New York. But he did not know
what to think of it all. He felt chaotic. The first thing which
seemed to precipitate his mentality into anything like clearness was
the entrance of the conductor. Then he thought instinctively about
money. Although still a boy, money as a prime factor was already
firmly established in his mind. He reflected with dismay that he had
only his Wardway tickets, and about three dollars beside. It was now
dark. The vaguest visions of what they were to do in New York were in
his head. The fare to New York was a little over a dollar; he had
only enough to take them all in, then what next? He took out his
pocket-book, but Gladys looked around quickly.

"She's got a whole book of tickets," she said.

However, Wollaston, who was proud, started to pay the conductor, but
he had reached Maria first, and she had said "Three," peremptorily.
Then she handed the book to Wollaston, with the grim little ghost of
a smile. "You please keep this," said she. "I haven't got any pocket."

Wollaston was so bewildered that the possession of pockets seemed
instantly to restore his self-respect. He felt decidedly more at his
ease when he had Maria's ticket-book in his innermost pocket. Then
she gave him her purse also.

"I wish you would please take this," said she. "There are ten dollars
in it, and I haven't any pocket." Wollaston took that.

"All right," he said. He buttoned his gray vest securely over Maria's
pretty little red purse. Then he leaned over the seat, and began to
speak, but he absolutely did not know what to say. He made an idiotic
remark about the darkness. "Queer how quick it grows dark, when it
begins," said he.

Maria ignored it, but Gladys said: "Yes, it is awful queer."

Gladys's eyes looked wild. The pupils were dilated. She had been to
New York but once before in her life, and now to be going in the
evening to find Maria's little sister was almost too much for her
intelligence, which had its limitations.

However, after a while, Wollaston Lee spoke again. He was in reality
a keen-witted boy, only this was an emergency into which he had been
surprised, and which he had not foreseen, and Maria's own abnormal
mood had in a measure infected him. Presently he spoke to the point.

"What on earth are you going to do when you get to New York, anyhow?"
said he to Maria.

"Find her," replied Maria, laconically.

"But New York is a mighty big city. How do you mean to go to work?
Now I--"

Maria cut him short. "I am going right up to Her cousin's, on West
Forty-ninth Street, and find out if Evelyn is there," said she.

"But what would make the child want to go there, anyhow?"

"It was the only place she had ever been in New York," said Maria.

"But I don't see what particular reason she would have for going
there, though," said Wollaston. "How would she remember the street
and number?"

"She was an awful bright kid," said Gladys, with a momentary lapse of
reason, "and kids is queer. I know, 'cause we've got so many of 'em
to our house. Sometimes they'll remember things you don't ever think
they would. My little sister Maud remembers how my mother drowned
five kittens oncet, when she was in long clothes. We knowed she did,
'cause when the cat had kittens next time we caught her trying to
drown 'em herself. Kids is awful queer. Maud can't remember how to
spell her own name, either, and she's most six now. She spells it
M-a-u-d, when it had ought to be M-a-u-g-h-d. I shouldn't be one mite
surprised if M'ria's little sister remembered the street and number."

"Anyway, she knew her whole name, because I've heard her say it,"
said Maria. "Her cousin's name is Mrs. George B. Edison. Evelyn used
to say it, and we used to laugh."

"Oh, well, if she knew the name like that she might have found the
place all right," said Wollaston. "But what puzzles me is why she
wanted to go there, anyway?"

"I don't know," said Maria.

"I don't know," said Wollaston, "but it seems to me the best thing to
do would be to go directly to a police-office and have the chief of
police notified, and set them at work; but then I suppose your father
has done that already."

Maria turned upon him with indignation. "Go to a police-station to
find my little sister!" said she. "What would I go there for?"

"Yes, what do you suppose that kid has did?" asked Gladys.

"What would I go there for?" demanded Maria, flashing the light of
her excited, strained little face upon the boy.

Maria no longer looked pretty. She no longer looked even young. Lines
of age were evident around her mouth, her forehead was wrinkled. The
boy fairly started at the sight of her. She seemed like a stranger to
him. Her innermost character, which he had heretofore only guessed at
by superficial signs, was written plainly on her face. The boy felt
himself immeasurably small and young, manly and bold of his age as he
really was. When a young girl stretches to the full height of her
instincts, she dwarfs any boy of her own age. Maria's feeling for her
little sister was fairly maternal. She was in spirit a mother
searching for her lost young, rather than a girl searching for her
little sister. Her whole soul expanded. She fairly looked larger, as
well as older. When they got off the train at Jersey City, she led
the little procession straight for the Twenty-third Street ferry. She
marched ahead like a woman of twice her years.

"You had better hold up your dress, M'ria," said Gladys, coming up
with her, and looking at her with wonder. "My, how you do race!"

Maria reached round one hand and caught a fold of her skirt. Her new
dress was in fact rather long for her. Ida had remarked that morning
that she would have Miss Keeler shorten it on Saturday. Ida had no
wish to have a grown-up step-daughter quite yet, whom people might
take for her own.

The three reached the ferry-boat just as she was about to leave her
slip. They sat down in a row midway of the upper deck. The heat
inside was intense. Gladys loosened her shabby little sacque. Maria
sat impassible.

"Ain't you most baked in here?" asked Gladys.

"No," replied Maria.

Both Gladys and Wollaston looked cowed. They kept glancing at each
other and at Maria. Maria sat next Gladys, Wollaston on Gladys's
other side. Gladys nudged Wollaston, and whispered to him.

"We've jest got to stick close to her," she whispered, in an alarmed
cadence. The boy nodded.

Then they both glanced again at Maria, who seemed quite oblivious of
their attention. When they reached the other side, Wollaston, with an
effort, asserted himself.

"We had better take a cross-town car to the Sixth Avenue Elevated,"
he said, pressing close to Maria's side and seizing her arm again.

Maria shook her head. "No," she said. "Where Mrs. Edison lives is not
so near the Elevated. It will be better to take a cross-town car and
transfer at Seventh Avenue."

"All right," said Wollaston. He led the way in the run down the
stairs, and aided his companions onto the cross-town car. He paid
their fares, and got the transfers, and stopped the other car. He was
beginning to feel himself again, at least temporarily.

"Well, I think the police-station is the best place to look, but have
your own way. It won't take long to see if she is there now," said
Wollaston. He was hanging on a strap in front of Maria. The car was
crowded with people going to up-town theatres. Some of the ladies, in
showy evening wraps, giving glimpses of delicate waists, looked
curiously at the three. There was something extraordinary about their
appearance calculated to attract attention, although it was difficult
to say just why. After they had left the car, a lady with a white
lace blouse showing between the folds of a red cloak, said to her
escort: "I wonder who they were?"

"I don't know," said the man, who had been watching them. "I thought
there was something unusual."

"I thought so, too. That well-dressed young woman, and that handsome
boy, and that shabby little girl." By the "young woman" she meant
Maria.

"Yes, a queer combination," said the man.

"It wasn't altogether that, but they looked so desperately in
earnest."

Meantime, while the lights of the car disappeared up the avenue,
Maria, Wollaston, and Gladys Mann searched for the house in which had
lived Ida Edgham's cousin.

At last they found it, mounted the steps, and rang the bell. It was
an apartment-house. After a little the door opened of itself.

"My!" said Gladys, but she followed Wollaston and Maria inside.

Wollaston began searching the names above the rows of bells on the
wall of the vestibule.

"What did you say the name was?" he asked of Maria.

"Edison. Mrs. George B. Edison."

"There is no such name here."

"There must be."

"There isn't."

"Let me see," said Maria. She searched the names. "Well, I don't
care," said she. "It was on the third floor, and I am going up and
ask, anyway."

"Now, Maria, do you think--" began Wollaston.

But Maria began climbing the stairs. There was no elevator.

"My!" said Gladys, but she followed Maria.

Wollaston pushed by them both. "See here, you don't know what you are
getting into," said he, sternly. "You let _me_ go first."

When they reached the third floor, Maria pointed to a door. "That is
the door," she whispered, breathlessly.

Wollaston knocked. Immediately the door was flung open by a very
pretty young woman in a rose-colored evening gown. Her white
shoulders gleamed through the transparent chiffon, and a comb set
with rhinestones sparkled in the fluff of her blond hair. When she
saw the three she gave a shrill scream, and immediately a very small
man, much smaller than she, but with a fierce cock of a black pointed
beard, and a tremendous wiriness of gesture, appeared.

"Oh, Tom!" gasped the young woman. "Oh!"

"What on earth is the matter, Stella?" asked the man. Then he looked
fiercely at the three. "Who are these people?" he asked.

"I don't know. I opened the door. I thought it was Adeline and
Raymond, and then I saw these strange people. I don't know how they
got in."

"We came in the door," said Gladys, with some asperity, "and we are
lookin' for M'ria's little sister. Be you her ma-in-law's cousin?"

"I don't know who these people are," the young woman said, faintly,
to the man. "I think they must be burglars."

"Burglars, nothin'!" said Gladys, who had suddenly assumed the
leadership of the party. Opposition and suspicion stimulated her. She
loved a fight. "Be you her ma-in-law's cousin, and have you got her
little sister?"

Wollaston looked inquiringly at Maria, who was very pale.

"It isn't Her cousin," she gasped. "I don't know who she is. I never
saw her."

Then Wollaston spoke, hat in hand, and speaking up like a man.
"Pardon us, sir," he said, "we did not intend to intrude, but--"

"Get out of this," said the man, with a sudden dart towards the door.

His wife screamed again, and put her hand over a little diamond
brooch at her throat. "I just know they are sneak-thieves," she
gasped. "Do send them away, Tom!"

Wollaston tried to speak again. "We merely wished to ascertain," said
he, "if a lady by the name of Mrs. George A.--"

"B." interrupted Gladys.

"B. Edison lived here. This young lady's little sister is lost, and
Mrs. Edison is a relative, and we thought--"

The man made another dart. "Don't care what you thought," he shouted.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself! Get out of here!"

"Do you know where Mrs. George B. Edison lives now?" asked Wollaston,
courteously, but his black eyes flashed at the man.

"No, I don't."

"No, we don't," said the young woman in pink. "Do make them go, Tom."

"We are perfectly willing to go," said Wollaston. "We have no desire
to remain any longer where people are not willing to answer civil
questions."

Maria all this time had said nothing. She was perfectly overcome with
the conviction that Ida's cousin was not there, and consequently not
Evelyn. Moreover, she was frightened at the little man's fierce
manner. She clung to Wollaston's arm as they retreated, but Gladys
turned around and deliberately stuck her tongue out at the man and
the young woman in rose. The man slammed the door.

The three met on the stoop of the house two people in gay attire.

"Go up and see your friends that don't know how to treat folks
decent," said Gladys. The woman looked wonderingly at her from under
the shade of a picture hat. Her escort opened the door. "Ten chances
to one they had the kid hid somewhere," said Gladys, so loudly that
both turned and looked at her.

"Hush up," said Wollaston.

"Well, what be you goin' to do now?" asked Gladys.

"I am going to a drug-store, and see if I can find out where Maria's
relatives have moved to," replied Wollaston. He walked quite alertly
now. Maria's discomfiture had reassured him.

They walked along a few blocks until they saw the lights of a
drug-store on the corner. Then Wollaston led them in and marched up
to the directory chained to the counter.

"What's that?" Gladys asked. "A Bible?"

"No, it's a directory," Maria replied, in a dull voice.

"What do they keep it chained for? Books don't run away."

"I suppose they are afraid folks will steal it."

"My!" said Gladys, eying the big volume. "I don't see what on earth
they'd do with it when they got it stole," she remarked, in a low,
reflective voice.

Maria leaned against the counter and waited.

Finally, Wollaston turned to her with an apologetic air. "I can't
find any George B. here," he said. "You are sure it was B?"

"Yes," replied Maria.

"Well, there's no use," said Wollaston. "There is no George B. Edison
in this book, anyhow."

He came forward, and stood looking at Maria. Maria gazed absently at
the crowds passing on the street. Gladys watched them both.

"Well," said Gladys, presently, "you ain't goin' to stand here all
night, be you? What be you goin' to do next? Go to the police-station?"

"I don't see that there is any use," replied Wollaston. "Maria's
father must have been there by this time. This is a wild-goose chase
anyhow." Wollaston's tone was quite vicious. He scowled
superciliously at the salesman who stepped forward and asked if he
wanted anything. "No, we don't, thank you," he said.

"What be you goin' to do?" asked Gladys, again. She looked at the
soda-fountain.

"I don't see anything to do but to go home," said Wollaston. "There
is no sense in our chasing around New York any longer, that I can
see."

"You can't go home to-night, anyhow," Gladys said, quite calmly.
"They've took off that last train, and there ain't more'n ten minutes
to git down to the station."

Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror. "What makes you
think they've taken off that last train?" he demanded.

"Ain't my pa brakeman when he's sober, and he's been real sober for
quite a spell now."

Wollaston seized Maria by the arm. "Come, quick!" he said, and
leaving the drug-store he broke into a run for the Elevated, with
Gladys following.

"There ain't no use in your runnin'," said she. "You know yourself
you can't git down to Cortlandt Street, and walk to the ferry in ten
minutes. I never went but oncet, but I know it can't be did."

Wollaston slackened his pace. "That is so," he said. Then he looked
at Maria in a kind of angry despair. He felt, in spite of his
romantic predilection for her, that he wished she were a boy, so he
could say something forcible. He realized his utter helplessness with
these two girls in a city where he knew no one, and he again thought
of the three dollars in his pocket-book. He did not suppose that
Maria had more than fifty cents in hers. Then, too, he was worldly
wise enough to realize the difficulty of the situation, the possible
danger even. It was ten o'clock at night, and here he was with two
young girls to look out for.

Then Gladys, who had also worldly wisdom, although of a crude and
vulgar sort, spoke. "Folks are goin' to talk like the old Harry if we
stay in here all night," said she, "and besides, there's no knowin'
what is a safe place to go into."

"That is so," said Wollaston, gloomily, "and I--have not much money
with me."

"I've got money enough," Maria said, suddenly. "There are ten dollars
in my pocket-book I gave you to keep."

"My!" said Gladys.

Wollaston brightened for a moment, then his face clouded again.
"Well, I don't know as that makes it much better," said he. "I don't
quite see how to manage. They are so particular in hotels now, that I
don't know as I can get you into a decent one. As for myself, I don't
care. I can look out for myself, but I don't know what to do with
you, Maria."

Gladys made a little run and stepped in front of them. "There ain't
but one thing you can do, so Maria won't git talked about all the
rest of her life, and I kin tell you what it is," said she.

"What is it?" asked Wollaston, in a burst of anger. "I call it a
pretty pickle we are in, for my part. Ten chances to one, Mr. Edgham
has got the baby back home safe and sound by this time, anyway, and
here we are, here is Maria!"

"There ain't but one thing you can do," said Gladys. Her tone was
forcible. She was full of the vulgar shrewdness of a degenerate race,
for the old acumen of that race had sharpened her wits.

"What! in Heaven's name?" cried Wollaston.

The three had been slowly walking along, and had stopped near a
church, which was lighted. As they were talking the lights went out.
A thin stream of people ceased issuing from the open doors. A man in
a clerical dress approached them, walking quite rapidly. He was
evidently bound, from the trend of his steps, to a near-by house,
which was his residence.

"Git married," said Gladys, abruptly. Then, before the others
realized what she was doing, she darted in front of the approaching
clergyman. "They want to git married," said she.

The clergyman stopped and stared at her, then at the couple beyond,
who were quite speechless with astonishment. He was inconceivably
young for his profession. He was small, and had a round, rollicking
face, which he was constantly endeavoring to draw down into lines of
asceticism.

"Who wants to get married?" asked the clergyman.

"Them two," replied Gladys, succinctly. She pointed magisterially at
Wollaston and Maria.

Wollaston was tall and manly looking for his age, Maria's dress
touched the ground. The clergyman had not, at the moment, a doubt as
to their suitable age. He was not a brilliant young man, naturally.
He had been pushed through college and into his profession by wealthy
relatives, and, moreover, with his stupidity, he had a certain spirit
of recklessness and sense of humor which gave life a spice for him.

"Want to get married, eh?" he said.

Then Wollaston spoke. "No, we do not want to get married," he said,
positively. Then he said to Gladys, "I wish you would mind your own
business."

But he had to cope with the revival of a wonderful feminine wit of a
fine old race in Gladys. "I should think you would be plum ashamed of
yourself," she said, severely, "after you have got that poor girl in
here; and if she stays and you ain't married, she'll git talked
about."

The clergyman approached Wollaston and Maria. Maria had begun to cry.
She was trembling from head to foot with fear and confusion.
Wollaston looked sulky and angry.

"Is that true--did you induce this girl to come to New York to be
married?" he inquired, and his own boyish voice took on severe tones.
He was very strong in moral reform.

"No, I did not," replied Wollaston.

"He did," said Gladys. "She'll get talked about if she ain't, too,
and the last train has went, and we've got to stay in New York all
night."

"Where do you come from?" inquired the young clergyman, and his tone
was more severe still.

"From Edgham, New Jersey," replied Gladys.

"Who are you?" inquired the clergyman.

"I ain't no account," replied Gladys. "All our folks git talked
about, but she's different."

"I suppose you are her maid," said the clergyman, noting with quick
eye the difference in the costumes of the two girls.

"Call it anything you wanter," said Gladys, indifferently. "I ain't
goin' to have her talked about, nohow."

"Come, Maria," said Wollaston, but Maria did not respond even to his
strong, nervous pull on her arm. She sobbed convulsively.

"No, that girl does not go one step, young man," said the clergyman.
He advanced closely, and laid a hand on Maria's other arm. Although
small in body and mind, he evidently had muscle. "Come right in the
house," said he, and Maria felt his hand on her arm like steel. She
yielded, and began following him, Wollaston in vain trying to hold
her back.

Gladys went behind Wollaston and pushed vigorously. "You git right in
there, the way he says, Wollaston Lee," said she. "You had ought to
be ashamed of yourself."

Before the boy well knew what he was doing he found himself in a
small reception-room lined with soberly bound books. All that was
clear in his mind was that he could not hinder Maria from entering,
and that she must not go into the house alone with Gladys and this
strange man.

A man had been standing in the doorway of the house, waiting the
entrance of the clergyman. He was evidently a servant, and his master
beckoned him.

"Call Mrs. Jerrolds, Williams," he said.

"What is your name?" he asked Maria, who was sobbing more wildly than
ever.

"Her name is Maria Edgham," replied Gladys, "and his is Wollaston
Lee. They both live in Edgham."

"How old are you?" the clergyman asked of Wollaston; but Gladys cut
in again.

"He's nineteen, and she's goin' on," she replied, shamelessly.

"We are neither of us," began Wollaston, whose mind was in a whirl of
anger of confusion.

But the clergyman interrupted him. "I am ashamed of you, young man,"
he said, "luring an innocent young girl to New York and then trying
to lie out of your responsibility."

"I am not," began Wollaston again; but then the man who had stood in
the door entered with a portly woman in a black silk tea-gown. She
looked as if she had been dozing, or else was naturally slow-witted.
Her eyes, under heavy lids, were dull; her mouth had a sleepy,
although good-natured pout, like a child's, between her fat cheeks.

"I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Jerrolds," said the clergyman, "but
I need you and Williams for witnesses." Then he proceeded.

Neither Wollaston nor Maria were ever very clear in their minds how
it was done. Both had thought marriage was a more complicated
proceeding. Neither was entirely sure of having said anything.
Indeed, Wollaston was afterwards quite positive that Gladys Mann
answered nearly all the clergyman's questions; but at all events, the
first thing he heard distinctly was the clergyman's pronouncing him
and Maria man and wife. Then the clergyman, who was zealous to the
point of fanaticism, and who honestly considered himself to have done
an exceedingly commendable thing, invited them to have some
wedding-cake, which he kept ready for such emergencies, and some
coffee, but Wollaston replied with a growl of indignation and
despair. This time Maria followed his almost brutally spoken command
to follow him, and the three went out of the house.

"See that you treat your wife properly, young man," the clergyman
called out after him, in a voice half jocular, half condemnatory, "or
there will be trouble."

Wollaston growled an oath, the first which he had ever uttered, under
his breath, and strode on. He had released his hold on Maria's arm.
Ahead of them, a block distant, was an Elevated station, and Maria,
who seemed to suddenly recover her faculties, broke into a run for it.

"Where be you goin'?" called out Gladys.

"I am going down to the Jersey City station, quick," replied Maria,
in a desperate voice.

"I thought you'd go to a hotel. There ain't no harm, now you're
married, you know," said Gladys, "and then we could have some supper.
I'm awful hungry. I ain't eat a thing sence noon."

"I am going right down to the station," repeated Maria.

"The last train has went. What's the use?"

"I don't care. I'm going down there."

"What be you goin' to do when you git there?"

"I am going to sit there, and wait till morning."

"My!" said Gladys.

However, she went on up the Elevated stairs with Maria and Wollaston.
Wollaston threw down the fares and got the tickets, and strode on
ahead. His mouth was set. He was very pale. He probably realized to a
greater extent than any of them what had taken place. It was
inconceivable to him that it had taken place, that he himself had
been such a fool. He felt like one who has met with some utterly
unexplainable and unaccountable accident. He felt as he had done once
when, younger, he had stuck his own knife, with which he was
whittling, into his eye, to the possible loss of it. It seemed to him
as if something had taken place without his volition. He was like a
puppet in a show. He looked at Maria, and realized that he hated her.
He wondered how he could ever have thought her pretty. He looked at
Gladys Mann, and felt murderous. He had a high temper. As the train
approached, he whispered in her ear,

"Damn you, Gladys Mann, it's a pretty pickle you have got us into."

Gladys was used to being sworn at. She was not in the least
intimidated.

"Do you s'pose I was goin' to have M'ria talked about?" she said.
"You can cuss all you want to."

They got into the train. Wollaston sat by himself, Gladys and Maria
together. Maria was no longer weeping, but she looked terrified
beyond measure, and desperate. A horrible imagination of evil was
over her. She never glanced at Wollaston. She thought that she wished
there would be an accident on the train and he might be killed. She
hated him more than he hated her.

They were just in time for a boat at Cortlandt Street. When they
reached the Jersey City side Wollaston went straight to the
information bureau, and then returned to Gladys and Maria, seated on
a bench in the waiting-room.

"Well, there _is_ a train," he said, curtly.

"'Ain't it been took off?" asked Gladys.

"No, but we've got to wait an hour and a half." Then he bent down and
whispered in Gladys's ear, "I wish to God you'd been dead before you
got us into this, Gladys Mann!"

"My father said it had been took off," said Gladys. "You sure there
is one?"

"Of course I'm sure!"

"My!" said Gladys.

Wollaston went to a distant seat and sat by himself. The two girls
waited miserably. Gladys had suffered a relapse. Her degeneracy of
wit had again overwhelmed her. She looked at Maria from time to time,
then she glanced around at Wollaston, and her expression was almost
idiotic. The people who were on the seat with them moved away. Maria
turned suddenly to Gladys.

"Gladys Mann," said she, "if you ever tell of this--"

"Then you ain't goin' to--" said Gladys.

"Going to what?"

"Live with him?"

"Live with him! I hate him enough to wish he was dead. I'll never
live with him; and if you tell, Gladys Mann, I'll tell you what I'll
do."

"What?" asked Gladys, in a horrified whisper.

"I'll go and drown myself in Fisher's Pond, that's what I'll do."

"I never will tell, honest, M'ria," said Gladys.

"You'd better not."

"Hope to die, if I do."

"You _will_ die if you do," said Maria, "for I'll leave a note saying
you pushed me into the pond, and it will be true, too. Oh, Gladys
Mann! it's awful what you've done!"

"I didn't mean no harm," said Gladys.

"And there's a train, too."

"Father said there wasn't."

"Your father!"

"I know it. There ain't never tellin' when father lies," said Gladys.
"I guess father don't know what lies is, most of the time. I s'pose
he's always had a little, if he 'ain't had a good deal. But I'll
never tell, Maria, not as long as I live."

"If you do, I'll drown myself," said Maria.

Then the two sat quietly until the train was called out, when they
went through the gate, Maria showing her tickets for herself and
Gladys. Wollaston had purchased his own and returned Maria's. He kept
behind the two girls as if he did not belong to their party at all.
On the train he rode in the smoking-car.

The car was quite full at first, but the passengers got off at the
way-stations. When they drew near Edgham there were only a few left.
Wollaston had not paid the slightest attention to the passengers. He
could not have told what sort of a man occupied the seat with him,
nor even when he got off. He was vaguely conscious of the reeking
smoke of the car, but that was all. When the conductor came through
he handed out his ticket mechanically, without looking at him. He
stared out of the window at the swift-passing, shadowy trees, at the
green-and-red signal-lights, and the bright glare from the lights of
the stations through which they passed. Once they passed by a large
factory on fire, surrounded by a shouting mob of men, and engines.
Even that did not arrest his attention, although it caused quite a
commotion in the car. He sat huddled up in a heap, staring out with
blank eyes, all his consciousness fixed upon his own affairs. He felt
as if he had made an awful leap from boyhood to manhood in a minute.
He was full of indignation, of horror, of shame. He was conscious of
wishing that there were no girls in the world. After they had passed
the last station before reaching Edgham he looked wearily away from
the window, and recognized, stupidly, Maria's father in a seat in the
forward part of the car. Harry was sitting as dejectedly hunched upon
himself as was the boy. Wollaston recognized the fact that he could
not have found little Evelyn, and realized wickedly and furiously
that he did not care, that a much more dreadful complication had come
into his own life. He turned again to the window.

Maria, in the car behind the smoker, sat beside Gladys, and looked
out of the window very much as Wollaston was doing. She also was
conscious of an exceeding horror and terror, and a vague shame. It
was, to Maria, as if she had fallen through the fairy cobweb of
romance and struck upon the hard ground of reality with such force
that her very soul was bleeding. Wollaston, in the smoker, wished no
more devoutly that there were no girls in the world, than Maria
wished there were no boys. Her emotions had been, as it were, thrust
back down her own throat, and she was choked and sickened with them.
She would not look at nor speak to Gladys. Once, when Gladys
addressed a remark to her, Maria thrust out an indignant shoulder
towards her.

"You needn't act so awful mad," whispered Gladys. "I ain't goin' to
tell, and I was doin' it on your account. My mother will give it to
me when I git home."

"What are you going to tell her?" asked Maria, with sudden interest.

"I'm goin' to tell her I've been out walkin' with Ben Jadkins. She's
told me not to, and she'll lick me for all she's wuth," said Gladys,
angrily. "But I don't care. It's lucky father 'ain't been through
this train. It's real lucky to have your father git drunk sometimes.
I'll git licked, but I don't care."

Maria, sitting there, paid no more attention. The shock of her own
plight had almost driven from her mind the thought of Evelyn, but
when a woman got on the train leading a child about her age, the old
pain concerning her came back. She began to weep again quietly.

"I don't see what you are cryin' for," said Gladys, in an accusing
voice. "You might have been an old maid."

"I don't believe she is found," Maria moaned, in a low voice.

"Oh, the kid! You bet your life she'll turn up. Your pa 'll find her
all right. I didn't know as you were cryin' about that."

When they reached Edgham, Maria and Gladys got off the train,
Wollaston Lee also got off, and Harry Edgham, and from a rear car a
stout woman, yanking, rather than leading, by the hand, a little girl
with a fluff of yellow hair. The child was staggering with sleep. The
stout woman carried on her other arm a large wax-doll whose face
smiled inanely over her shoulder.

Suddenly there was a rush and cry, and Maria had the little girl in
her arms. She was kneeling beside her on the dusty platform,
regardless of her new suit.

"Sister! Sister!" screamed the child.

"Sister's own little darling!" said Maria, then she began to sob
wildly.

"It's her little sister. Where did you get her?" Gladys asked,
severely, of the stout woman, who stood holding the large doll and
glowering, while Harry Edgham came hurrying up. Then there was
another scream from the baby, and she was in her father's arms. There
were few at the station at that hour, but a small crowd gathered
around. On the outskirts was Wollaston Lee, looking on with his
sulky, desperate face.

The stout woman grasped Harry vehemently by the arm. "Look at here,"
said she. "I want to know, an' I ain't got no time to fool around,
for I want to take the next train back. Is that your young one? Speak
up quick."

Harry, hugging the child to his breast, looked at the stout woman.

"Yes," he replied, "she is mine, and I have been looking for her all
day. Where--Did you?"

"No, I didn't," said the stout woman, emphatically. "_She_ did. I
don't never meddle with other folks' children. I 'ain't never been
married, and I 'ain't never wanted to be. And I 'ain't never cared
nothin' about children; always thought they was more bother than they
were worth. And when I changed cars here this mornin', on my way from
Lawsons, where I've been to visit my married sister, this young one
tagged me onto the train, and nothin' I could say made anybody
believe she wa'n't mine. I told 'em I wa'n't married, but it didn't
make no difference. I call it insultin'. There I was goin' up to
Tarrytown to-day to see my aunt 'Liza. She's real feeble, and they
sent for me, and there I was with this young one. I had a cousin in
New York, and I took her to her house, and she didn't know any better
what to do than I did. She was always dreadful helpless. We waited
till her husband got home. He runs a tug down the harbor, and he said
take her to the police-station, and mebbe I'd find out somebody had
been tryin' to find her. So my cousin's husband and me went to the
station, and he was so tuckered out and mad at the whole performance
that I could hear him growlin' cuss words under his breath the whole
way. We took her and this great doll down to the station, and we
found out there who she was most likely, and who she belonged to. And
my cousin's husband said I'd got to take her out here. He looked it
up and found out I could git back to New York to-night. He said he
wouldn't come nohow." Suddenly a light flashed on the woman. "Say,"
she said, "you don't mean to say you've been on the train yourself
all the way out from New York?"

"Yes, I came out on the train," admitted Harry, meekly. "I am sorry--"

"Well, you'd better be," said the woman. "Here I've traipsed out here
for nothin' this time of night. I call you all a set of numskulls. I
don't call the young one very bright, either. Couldn't tell where she
lived, nor what her father's name was. Jest said it was papa, and her
name was peshious, or some such tomfoolery. I advise you to tag her
if she is in the habit of runnin' away. Here I ought to have been up
in Tarrytown, and I've been foolin' round in New York all day with
your young one and this big doll." With that the stout woman thrust
the doll at Maria. "Here, take this thing," said she. "I've had
enough of it! There ain't any sense in lettin' a child of her size
lug around a doll as big as that, anyhow. When does my train come?
Hev I got to cross to the other side? My cousin's husband said it
would be about twenty minutes I'd have to wait."

"I'll take you round to the other side, and I cannot be grateful
enough for your care," began Harry, but the woman stopped him again.

"I suppose you'll be willin' to pay my fare back to New York; that's
all I want," said she. "I don't want no thanks. I 'ain't no use for
children, but I ain't a heathen."

"I'll be glad to give you a great deal more than your fare to New
York," Harry said, in a broken voice. Evelyn was already fast asleep
on his shoulder. He led the way down the stairs towards the other
track.

"I don't want nothin' else, except five cents for my car-fare. I can
get a transfer, and it won't be more'n that," said the woman,
following. "I've got enough to git along with, and I ain't a heathen."

Harry, with Evelyn asleep in his arms, and Maria and Gladys, waited
with the stout woman until the train came. The station was closed,
and the woman sat down on a bench outside and immediately fell asleep
herself.

When the train came, Harry thrust a bank-note into the woman's hand,
having roused her with considerable difficulty, and she stumbled on
to the train over her skirts just as she had done in the morning.

Harry knew the conductor. "Look out for that woman," he called out to
him. "She found my little girl that was lost."

The conductor nodded affably as the train rolled out.

Wollaston Lee had gone home when the others descended the stairs and
crossed to the other track. When Harry, with Evelyn in his arms, her
limp little legs dangling, and Maria and Gladys, were on their way
home, the question, which he in his confusion had not thought to put
before, came.

"Why, Maria, where did you come from?" he asked.

"From New York," replied Maria, meekly.

"Her and me went up to her ma-in-law's cousin's, on Forty-ninth
Street, to find the kid," Gladys cut in, glibly, "but the cousin had
moved."

Harry stared at them. "Why, how happened you to do such a thing?" he
asked.

"I couldn't wait home and not do anything," Maria sobbed, nervously.

"Her ma-in-law's cousin had moved," said Gladys.

"How did you find your way?"

"I had been there before," sobbed Maria. She felt for her father's
hand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and fear which he did
not understand.

"Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter what happens,"
he said, and held the poor little girl's hand firmly. "Thank God
father's got you both back safe and sound."

Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner.

"Good-night, M'ria!" she sung out, and was gone, a slim, flying
figure in the gloom.

"Are you afraid to go alone?" Harry called after her, in some
uncertainty.

"Land, no!" came cheerily back.

"How happened she to be with you?" asked Harry.

"She was down at the station when I came home from Wardway," replied
Maria, faintly. Her strength was almost gone. She could hardly
stagger up the steps of the house with her father, he bearing his
recovered child, she bearing her secret.



Chapter XV


Ida was still to be seen rocking when Harry, with Evelyn and Maria,
came in sight of the house. The visiting ladies had gone. Josephine,
with her face swollen and tear-stained, was standing watching at a
window in the dark dining-room. When she saw the three approaching
she screamed:

"Oh, Mis' Edgham, they've found her! They're comin'! They've got
her!" and rushed to open the door.

Ida rose, and came gracefully to meet them with a sinuous movement
and a long sweep of her rose-colored draperies. Her radiant smile lit
up her face again. She looked entirely herself when Harry greeted her.

"Well, Ida, our darling is found," he said, in a broken voice.

Ida reached out her arms, from which hung graceful pendants of lace
and ribbons, but the sleepy child clung to her father and whimpered
crossly.

"She is all tired out, poor little darling! Papa's poor little
darling!" said Harry, carrying her into the parlor.

"Josephine, tell Annie to heat some milk at once," Ida said, sharply.

Annie, whose anxious face had been visible peeping through the dark
entrance of the dining-room, hastened into the kitchen.

"Josephine, go right up-stairs and get Miss Evelyn's bed ready,"
ordered Ida. Then she followed Harry into the parlor and began
questioning him, standing over him, and now and then touching the
yellow head of the child, who always shrank crossly at her touch.

Harry told his story. "I had the whole police force of New York on
the outlook, although I did not really think myself she was in the
city, and there papa's precious darling was all the time right on the
train with him and he never knew it. And here was poor little Maria,"
added Harry, looking at Maria, who had sunk into a corner of a
divan--"here was poor little Maria, Ida, and she had gone hunting her
little sister on her own account. She thought she might be at your
cousin Alice's. If I had known that both my babies were wandering
around New York I should have been crazy. When I got off the train,
there was Maria and that little Mann girl. She was down at the
station when she got home from Wardway, Maria says, and those two
children went right off to New York."

"Did they?" said Ida, in a listless voice. She had resumed her seat
in her rocking-chair.

"Edwin Shaw said he thought he saw Evelyn getting on the New York
train this morning," said Maria, faintly.

"She is all used up," Harry said. "You had better drink some hot milk
yourself, Maria. Only think of that child and that Mann girl going
off to New York on their own accounts, Ida!"

"Yes," said Ida.

"Wollaston Lee went, too," Maria said, suddenly. A quick impulse for
concealment in that best of hiding-places, utter frankness and
openness, came over her. "He got off the train here. You know he
began school, too, at Wardway this morning, and he and Gladys both
went."

"Well, I'm thankful you had him along," said Harry. "The Lord only
knows what you two girls would have done alone in a city like New
York. You must never do such a thing again, whatever happens, Maria.
You might as well run right into a den of wild beasts. Only think of
that child going to New York, and coming out on the last train, with
that Mann girl; and Wollaston is only a boy, though he's bright and
smart. And your cousin has moved, Ida."

"I thought she had," said Ida.

"And to think of what those children might have got into," said
Harry, "in a city like New York, which is broken out all over with
plague spots instead of having them in one place! Only think of it,
Ida!"

Harry's voice was almost sobbing. It seemed as if he fairly appealed
to his wife for sympathy, with his consciousness of the dangers
through which his child had passed. But Ida only said, "Yes."

"And the baby might have fallen into the worst hands," said Harry.
"But, thank God, a good woman, although she was coarse enough, got
hold of her."

"Yes, we can't be thankful enough," Ida said, smoothly, and then
Josephine came in with a tray and a silver cup of hot milk for Evelyn.

"Is that all the milk Annie heated?" asked Harry.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, tell Annie to go to the sideboard and get that bottle of
port-wine and pour out a glass for Miss Maria; and, Josephine, you
had better bring her something to eat with it. You haven't had any
supper, have you, child?"

Maria shook her head. "I don't want any, thank you, papa," said she.

"Is there any cold meat, Josephine, do you know?"

Josephine said there was some cold roast beef.

"Well, bring Miss Maria a plate, with a slice of bread-and-butter,
and some beef."

"Have you had any supper yourself, dear?" Ida asked.

"I declare I don't know, dear," replied Harry, who looked unutterably
worn and tired. "No, I think not. I don't know when I could have got
it. No, I know I have not."

"Josephine," said Ida, "tell Annie to broil a piece of beefsteak for
Mr. Edgham, and make a cup of tea."

"Thank you, dear," poor Harry said, gratefully. Then he said to
Maria, "Will you wait and have some hot beefsteak and tea with papa,
darling?"

Maria shook her head.

"I think she had better eat the cold beef and bread, and drink the
wine, and go at once to bed, if she is to start on that early train
to-morrow," Ida said.

"Maybe you are right, dear," Harry said. "Hurry with the roast beef
and bread and wine for Miss Maria, Josephine, and Annie can see to my
supper afterwards."

All this time Harry was coaxing the baby to imbibe spoonfuls of the
hot milk. It was hard work, for Evelyn was not very hungry. She had
been given a good deal of cake and pie from a bakery all day.

However, at last she was roused sufficiently to finish her little
meal, and Maria drank her glass of wine and ate a little of the bread
and meat, although it seemed to her that it would choke her. She was
conscious of her father's loving, anxious eyes upon her as she ate,
and she made every effort.

Little Evelyn had recently had her own little room fitted up. It was
next to Maria's; indeed, there was a connecting door between the two
rooms. Evelyn's room was a marvel. It was tiny, but complete. Ida had
the walls hung with paper with a satin gloss, on which were strewn
garlands of rose-buds. There was a white matting and a white fur rug.
The small furniture was white, with rose-bud decorations. There was a
canopy of rose silk over the tiny bed, and a silk counterpane of a
rose-bud pattern.

After Evelyn had finished her hot milk, her father carried her
up-stairs into this little nest, and Josephine undressed her and put
her to bed. The child's head drooped as helplessly as a baby's all
the time, she was so overcome with sleep. When she was in bed, Ida
came in and kissed her. She was so fast asleep that she did not know.
She and Harry stood for a moment contemplating the little thing, with
her yellow hair spread over the white pillow and her round rose of a
face sunken therein. Harry put his arm around his wife's waist.

"We ought to be very thankful, dear," he said, and he almost sobbed.

"Yes," said Ida. To do her justice, she regarded the little
rosy-and-white thing sunk in slumber with a certain tenderness. She
was even thankful. She had been exceedingly disturbed the whole day.
She was very glad to have this happy termination, and to be able to
go to rest in peace. She bent again over the child, and touched her
lips lightly to the little face, and when she looked up her own was
softened. "Yes," she whispered, with more of womanly feeling than
Harry had ever seen in her--"yes, you are right, we have a great deal
to be thankful for."

Maria, in the next room, heard quite distinctly what Ida said. It
would once have aroused in her a contemptuous sense of her
step-mother's hypocrisy, but now she felt too humbled herself to
blame another, even to realize any fault in another. She felt as if
she had undergone a tremendous cataclysm of spirit, which had cast
her forever from her judgment-seat as far as others were concerned.
Was she not deceiving as never Ida had deceived? What would Ida say?
What would her father say if he knew that she was--? She could not
say the word even to herself. When she was in bed and her light out,
she was overcome by a nervous stress which almost maddened her. Faces
seemed to glower at her out of the blackness of the night, faces
which she knew were somehow projected out of her own consciousness,
but which were none the less terrific. She even heard her name
shouted, and strange, isolated words, and fragments of sentences. She
lay in a deadly fear. Now was the time when, if her own mother had
been alive, she would have screamed aloud for some aid. But now she
could call to no one. She would have spoken to her father. She would
not have told him--she was gripped too fast by her sense of the need
of secrecy--but she would have obtained the comfort and aid of his
presence and soothing words; but there was Ida. She remembered how
she had talked to Ida, and her father was with her. A dull wonder
even seized her as to whether Ida would tell her father, and she
should be allowed to remain at home after saying such dreadful
things. There was no one upon whom she could call. All at once she
thought of the maid Annie, whose room was directly over hers. Annie
was kindly. She would slip up-stairs to her, and make some excuse for
doing so--ask her if she did not smell smoke, or something. It seemed
to her that if she did not hear another human voice, come in contact
with something human, she should lose all control of herself.

Maria, little, slender, trembling girl, with all the hysterical
fancies of her sex crowding upon her, all the sufferings of her sex
waiting for her in the future, and with no mother to soften them,
slipped out of bed, stole across her room, and opened the door with
infinite caution. Then she went up the stairs which led to the third
story. Both maids had rooms on the third story. Josephine went home
at night, and Hannah, the cook, had gone home with her after the
return of the wanderers, and was to remain. She was related to
Josephine's mother. She knocked timidly at Annie's door. She waited,
and knocked again. She was trembling from head to foot in a nervous
chill. She got no response to her knock. Then she called, "Annie,"
very softly. She waited and called again. At last, in desperation,
she opened the door, which was not locked. She entered, and the room
was empty. Suddenly she remembered that Annie, kind-hearted as she
was, and a good servant, had not a character above suspicion. She
remembered that she had heard Gladys intimate that she had a
sweetheart, and was not altogether what she should be. She gazed
around the empty, forlorn little room, with one side sloping with the
slope of the roof, and an utter desolation overcame her, along with a
horror of Annie. She felt that if Annie were there she would be no
refuge.

Maria turned, and slipped as silently as a shadow down the stairs
back to her room. She looked at her bed, and it seemed to her that
she could not lie down again in it. Then suddenly she thought of
something else. She thought of little Evelyn asleep in the next room.
She opened the connecting door softly and stole across to the baby's
little bed. It was too small, or she would have crept in beside her.
Maria hesitated a moment, then she slid her arms gently under the
little, soft, warm body, and gathered the child up in her arms. She
was quite heavy. At another time Maria, who had slender arms, could
scarcely have carried her. Now she bore her with entire ease into her
own room and laid her in her own bed. Then she got in beside her and
folded her little sister in her arms. Directly a sense of safety and
peace came over her when she felt the little snuggling thing, who had
wakened just enough to murmur something unintelligible in her baby
tongue, and cling close to her with all her little, rosy limbs, and
thrust her head into the hollow of Maria's shoulder. Then she gave a
deep sigh and was soundly asleep again. Maria lay awake a little
while, enjoying that sense of peace and security which the presence
of this little human thing she loved gave her. Then she fell asleep
herself.

She waked early. The thought of the early train was in her mind, and
Maria was always one who could wake at the sub-recollection of a
need. Evelyn was still asleep, curled up like a flower. Maria raised
her and carried her back to her own room and put her in her bed
without waking her. Then she dressed herself in her school costume
and went down-stairs. She had smelled coffee while she was dressing,
and knew that Hannah had returned. Her father was in the dining-room
when she entered. He usually took an earlier train, but this morning
he had felt utterly unable to rise. Maria noticed, with a sudden
qualm of fear, how ill and old and worn-out he looked, but Harry
himself spoke first with concern for her.

"Papa's poor little girl!" he said, kissing her. "She looks tired
out. Did you sleep, darling?"

"Yes, after a while. Are you sick, papa?"

"No, dear. Why?"

"Because you did not go on the other train."

"No, dear, I am all right, just a little tired," replied Harry. Then
he added, looking solicitously at Maria, "Are you sure you feel able
to go to school to-day?--because you need not, you know."

"I am all right," said Maria.

She and her father had seated themselves at the table. Harry looked
at his watch.

"We shall neither of us go if we don't get our breakfast before
long," he said.

Then Hannah came in, with a lowering look, bringing the coffee-pot
and the chops and rolls.

"Where is Annie?" asked Harry.

"I don't know," replied Hannah, with a toss of her head and a
compression of her lips. She was a large, solid woman, with a cast in
her eyes. She had never been married.

"You don't know?" said Harry, helping Maria to a chop and a roll,
while Hannah poured the coffee.

"No," said Hannah again, and this time her face was fairly malicious.
"I don't know how long I can stand such doin's, and that's the
truth," she said.

Hannah had come originally from New England, and had principles, in
which she took pride, perhaps the more because they had never in one
sense been assailed. Annie was a Hungarian, and considered by Hannah
to have no principles. She was also pretty, in a rough, half-finished
sort of fashion, and had no cast in her eyes. Hannah privately
considered that as against her.

Harry began sipping his coffee, which Hannah had set down with such
impetus that she spilled a good deal in the saucer, and he looked
uneasily at her.

"What do you mean, Hannah?" he asked.

"I mean that I am not used to being throwed in with girls who stays
out all night, and nobody knows where they be, and that's the truth,"
said Hannah, with emphasis.

"Do you mean to say that Annie--"

"Yes, I do. She wa'n't in, and they do say she's married, and--"

"Hush, Hannah, we'll talk about this another time," Harry said, with
a glance at Maria.

Just then a step was heard in the kitchen.

"There she is now, the trollop," said Hannah, but she whispered the
last word under her breath, and she also gave a glance at Maria, as
one might at any innocent ignorance which must be shielded even from
knowledge itself.

Annie came in directly. Her pretty, light hair was nicely arranged;
she was smiling, but she looked doubtful.

Hannah went with a flounce into the kitchen. Annie had removed her
hat and coat and tied on a white apron in a second, and she began
waiting exactly as if she had come down the back stairs after a night
spent in her own room. Indeed, she did not dream that either Harry or
Maria knew that she had not, and she felt quite sure of Hannah's
ignorance, since Hannah herself had been away all night.

Maria from time to time glanced at Annie, and, although she had
always liked her, a feeling of repulsion came over her. She shrank a
little when Annie passed the muffins to her. Harry gave one keen,
scrutinizing glance at the girl's face, but he said nothing. After
breakfast he went up-stairs to bid Ida, who had a way of rising late,
good-bye, and he whispered to her, "Annie was out all last night."

"Oh, well," replied Ida, sleepily, with a little impatience, "it does
not happen very often. What are we going to do about it?"

"Hannah is kicking," said Harry, "and--"

"I can't help it if she is," said Ida. "Annie does her work well, and
it is so difficult to get a maid nowadays; and I cannot set up as a
moral censor, I really cannot, Harry."

"I hate the example, that is all," said Harry. "There Hannah said,
right before Maria, that Annie had been out."

"It won't hurt Maria any," Ida replied, with a slight frown. "Maria
wouldn't know what she meant. She is not only innocent, but ignorant.
I can't turn off Annie, unless I see another maid as good in
prospect. Good-bye, dear."

Harry and Maria walked to the station together. Their trains reached
Edgham about the same time, although going in opposite directions. It
was a frosty morning. There had been a slight frost the night before.
A light powder of glistening white lay over everything. The roofs
were beginning to smoke as it melted. Maria inhaled the clear air,
and her courage revived a little--still, not much. Nobody knew how
she dreaded the day, the meeting Wollaston. She could not yet bring
herself to call him her husband. It seemed at once horrifying and
absurd. The frosty air brought a slight color to the girl's cheeks,
but she still looked wretched. Harry, who himself looked more than
usually worn and old, kept glancing at her, as they hastened along.

"See here, darling," he said, "hadn't you better not go to school
to-day? I will write a note of explanation myself to the principal,
at the office, and mail it in New York. Hadn't you better turn around
and go home and rest to-day?"

"Oh no," replied Maria. "I would much rather go, papa."

"You look as if you could hardly stand up, much less go to school."

"I am all right," said Maria; but as she spoke she realized that her
knees fairly bent under her, and her heart beat loudly in her ears,
for they had come in sight of the station.

"You are sure?" Harry said, anxiously.

"Yes, I am all right. I want to go to school."

"Well, look out that you eat a good luncheon," said Harry, as he
kissed her good-bye.

Maria had to go to the other side to take her Wardway train. She left
her father and went under the bridge and mounted the stairs. When she
gained the platform, the first person whom she saw, with a grasp of
vision which seemed to reach her very heart, although she apparently
did not see him at all, was Wollaston Lee. He also saw her, and his
boyish face paled. There were quite a number waiting for the train,
which was late. Maud Page was among them. Maria at once went close to
her. Maud asked about her little sister. She had heard that she was
found, although it was almost inconceivable how the news had spread
at such an early hour.

"I am real glad she's found," said Maud. Then she stared curiously at
Maria. "Say, was it so?" she asked.

"Was what true?" asked Maria, trembling.

"Was it true that you and Wollaston Lee and Gladys Mann all went to
New York looking for your sister, and came out on the last train?"

"Yes, it is true," replied Maria, quite steadily.

"What ever made you?"

"I thought she might have gone to a cousin of Hers who used to live
on Forty-ninth Street, but we found the cousin had moved when we got
there."

"Gracious!" said Maud. "And you didn't come out till that last train?"

"No."

"I should think you would be tired to death, and you don't look any
too chipper." Maud turned and stared at Wollaston, who was standing
aloof. "I declare, he looks as if he had been up a week of Sundays,
too," said she. Then she called out to him, in her high-pitched
treble, which sounded odd coming from her soft circumference of
throat. Maud's voice ought, by good rights, to have been a rich,
husky drone, instead of bearing a resemblance to a parrot's. "Say,
Wollaston Lee," she called out, and the boy approached perforce,
lifting his hat--"say," said Maud, "I hear you and Maria eloped last
night." Then she giggled.

The boy cast a glance of mistrust and doubt at Maria. His face turned
crimson.

"You are telling awful whoppers, Maud Page," Maria responded,
promptly, and his face cleared. "We just went in to find Evelyn."

"Oh!" said Maud, teasingly.

"You are mean to talk so," said Maria.

Maud laughed provokingly.

"What made Wollaston go for, then?" she asked.

"Do you suppose anybody would let a girl go alone to New York on a
night train?" said Maria, with desperate spirit. "He went because he
was polite, so there."

Wollaston said nothing. He tried to look haughty, but succeeded in
looking sheepish.

"Gladys Mann went, too," said Maria.

"I don't see what makes you go with a girl like that anywhere?" said
Maud.

"She's as good as anybody," said Maria.

"Maybe she is," returned Maud. Then she glanced at Wollaston, who was
looking away, and whispered in Maria's ear: "They talk like fury
about her, and her mother, too."

"I don't care," Maria said, stoutly. "She was down at the station and
told me how Evelyn was lost, and then she went in with me."

Maud laughed her aggravating laugh again.

"Well, maybe it was just as well she did," she said, "or else they
would have said you and Wollaston had eloped, sure."

Maria began to speak, but her voice was drowned by the rumble of the
New York train on the other track. The Wardway train was late.
Usually the two trains met at the station.

However, the New York train had only just pulled out of sight before
the Wardway train came in. As Maria climbed on the train she felt a
paper thrust forcibly into her hand, which closed over it
instinctively. She sat with Maud, and had no opportunity to look at
it all the way to Wardway. She slipped it slyly into her Algebra.

Maud's eyes were sharp. "What's that you are putting in your
Algebra?" she asked.

"A marker," replied Maria. She felt that Maud's curiosity was such
that it justified a white lie.

She had no chance to read the paper which Wollaston had slipped into
her hand until she was fairly in school. Then she read it under cover
of a book. It was very short, and quite manly, although manifestly
written under great perturbation of spirit.

Wollaston wrote: "Shall I tell your folks to-night?"

Wollaston was not in Maria's classes. He was older, and had entered
in advance. She had not a chance to reply until noon. Going into the
restaurant, she in her turn slipped a paper forcibly into his hand.

"Good land! look out!" said Maud Page. "Why, Maria Edgham, you butted
right into Wollaston Lee and nearly knocked him over."

What Maria had written was also short, but desperate. She wrote:

"If you ever tell your folks or my folks, or anybody, I will drown
myself in Fisher's Pond."

A look of relief spread over the boy's face. Maria glanced at him
where he sat at a distant table with some boys, and he gave an almost
imperceptible nod of reassurance at her. Maria understood that he had
not told, and would not, unless she bade him.

On the train going home that night he found a chance to speak to her.
He occupied the seat behind her, and waited until a woman who sat
with Maria got off the train at a station, and also a man who had
occupied the seat with him. Then he leaned over and said,
ostentatiously, so he could be heard half the length of the car, "It
is a beautiful day, isn't it?"

Maria did not turn around at all, but her face was deadly white as
she replied, "Yes, lovely."

Then the boy whispered, and the whisper seemed to reach her inmost
soul. "Look here, I want to do what is right, and--honorable, you
know, but hang me if I know what is. It is an awful pickle."

Maria nodded, still with her face straight ahead.

"I don't know how it happened, for my part," the boy whispered.

Maria nodded again.

"I didn't say anything to my folks, because I didn't know how you
would feel about it. I thought I ought to ask you first. But I am not
afraid to tell, you needn't think that, and I mean to be honorable.
If you say so, I will go right home with you and tell your folks, and
then I will tell mine, and we will see what we can do."

Maria made no answer. She was in agony. It seemed to her that the
whisper was deafening her.

"I will leave school, and go to work right away," said the boy, and
his voice was a little louder, and full of pathetic manliness; "and I
guess in a year's time I could get so I could earn enough to support
you. I mean to do what is right. All is I want to do what you want me
to do. I didn't know how you felt about it."

Then Maria turned slightly. He leaned closer.

"I told you how I felt," she whispered back.

"You mean what you wrote?"

"Yes, what I wrote."

"You don't want me to tell at all?"

"Never, as long as you live."

"How about her?"

"Gladys?"

"Yes, confound her!"

"She won't tell. She won't dare to."

Wollaston was silent for a moment, then he whispered again. "Well,"
he said, "I want to do what you want me to and what is honorable. Of
course, we are both young, and I haven't any money except what father
gives me, but I am willing to quit school to-morrow and go to work.
You needn't think I mean to back out and show the white feather. I am
not that kind. We have got into this, and I am ready and willing to
do all I can."

"I meant what I wrote," whispered Maria again. "I never want you to
tell, and--"

"And what?"

"I wish you would go and sit somewhere else, and not speak to me
again. I hate the very sight of you."

"All right," said the boy. There was a slight echo of rancor in his
own voice, still it was patient, with the patience of a man with a
woman and her unreason. All his temper of the night before had
disappeared. He was quite honest in saying that he wished to do what
was right and honorable. He was really much more of a man than he had
been the day before. He was conscious of not loving Maria--his
budding boy-love for her had been shocked out of life. He was even
repelled by her, but he had a strong sense of his duty towards her,
and he was full of pity for her. He saw how pale and nervous and
frightened she was. He got up to change his seat, but before he went,
he leaned over her and whispered again: "You need not be a mite
afraid, Maria. All I want is what will please you and what is right.
I will never tell, unless you ask me to. You need not worry. You had
better put it all out of your mind."

Maria nodded. She felt very dizzy. She was glad when Wollaston not
only left his seat, but the car, going into the smoker. She heard the
door slam after him with a sense of relief. She felt a great relief
at his assurance that he would keep their secret. Wollaston Lee was a
boy whose promises had weight. She looked out of the window and a
little of her old-time peace seemed to descend upon her. She saw how
lovely the landscape was in the waning light. She saw the new moon
with a great star attendant, and reflected that it was over her right
shoulder. After all, youth is hard to down, and hope finds a rich
soil in it. Then, too, a temporization to one who is young means
eternity. If Wollaston did not tell, and Gladys did not tell, and she
did not tell, it might all come right somehow in the end.

She looked at the crescent of the moon, and the great depth of light
of the star, and her own affairs seemed to quiet her with their very
littleness. What was little Maria Edgham and her ridiculous and
tragic matrimonial tangle compared with the eternal light of those
strange celestial things yonder? She would pass, and they would
remain. She became comforted. She even reflected that she was hungry.
She had not obeyed her father's injunction, and had eaten very little
luncheon. She thought with pleasure of the good dinner which would be
awaiting her. Then suddenly she remembered how she had talked to Her.
How would she be treated? But she remembered that Ida could not have
said anything against her to her father, or, if she had done so, it
had made no difference to him. She considered Ida's character, and it
seemed to her quite probable that she would make no further reference
to the subject. Ida was averse even to pursuing enmities, because of
the inconvenience which they might cause her. It was infinitely less
trouble to allow birds which had pecked at her to fly away than to
pursue them; then, too, she always remained unshaken in her belief in
herself. Maria's tirade would not in the least have disturbed her
self-love, and it is only a wound in self-love which can affect some
people. Maria was inclined to think that Ida would receive her with
the same coldly radiant smile as usual, and she was right. That
night, when she entered the bright parlor, glowing with soft lights
under art-shades, Ida, in her pretty house-gown--scarlet cashmere
trimmed with medallions of cream lace--greeted her in the same
fashion as she had always done. Evelyn ran forward with those squeals
of love which only a baby can accomplish. Maria, hugging her little
sister, saw that Ida's countenance was quite unchanged.

"So you have got home?" said she. "Is it very cold?"

"Not very," replied Maria.

"I have not been out, and I did not know," Ida said, in her usual
fashion of making commonplaces appear like brilliances.

"There may be a frost, I don't know," Maria said. She was actually
confused before this impenetrability. Remembering the awful things
she had said to Her, she was suddenly conscience-stricken as she saw
Ida's calm radiance of demeanor. She began to wonder if she had not
been mistaken, if Ida was not really much better than she herself.
She knew that is she had had such things said to her she could not
have appeared so forgiving. Such absolute self-love, and self-belief,
was incomprehensible to her. She had accused Ida of more than she
could herself actually comprehend. She began to think Ida had a
forgiving heart, and that she herself had been the wicked one, not
She. She responded to everything which Ida said with a conciliatory
air. Presently Harry came in. He was late. He looked very worn and
tired. Ida sent Josephine up-stairs to get his smoking-jacket and
slippers, and Maria thought She was very kind to her father. Evelyn
climbed into his arms, but he greeted even her rather wearily. Ida
noticed it.

"Come away, darling," she said. "Papa is tired, and you are a heavy
little lump of honey," Ida smiled, entrancingly.

Harry looked at her with loving admiration, then at Maria.

"I tell you what it is, I feel pretty thankful to-night, when I think
of last night--when I realize I have you all home," said he.

Ida smiled more radiantly. "Yes, we ought to be very thankful," she
said.

Maria made up her mind that she would apologize to her if she had a
chance. She did not wish to speak before her father, not because she
did not wish him to know, but because she did not wish to annoy him,
he looked so tired. She had a chance after dinner, when Josephine was
putting Evelyn to bed, and Harry had been called to the door to speak
to a man on business.

"I am sorry I spoke as I did to you," she said, in a low voice, to
Ida.

They were both in the parlor. Maria had a school-book in her hand,
and Ida was embroidering. The rosy shade of the lamp intensified the
glow on her beautiful face. She looked smilingly at Maria.

"Why, my dear," she said, "I don't know what you said. I have
forgotten."



Chapter XVI


Now commenced an odd period of her existence for Maria Edgham. She
escaped a transition stage which comes to nearly every girl by her
experience in New York, the night when Evelyn was lost. There is
usually for a girl, if not for a boy, a stage of existence when she
flutters, as it were, over the rose of life, neither lighting upon it
nor leaving it, when she is not yet herself, when she does not
comprehend herself at all, except by glimpses of emotions, as one may
see one facet of a diamond but never the complete stone. Maria had,
in a few hours, become settled, crystallized, and she gave evidence
of it indisputably in one way--she had lost her dreams. When a girl
no longer dreams of her future she has found herself. Maria had
always been accustomed to go to sleep lulled by her dreams of
innocent romance. Now she no longer had them, it was as if a child
missed a lullaby. She was a long time in getting to sleep at all, and
she did not sleep well. She no longer stared over the page of a
lesson-book into her own future, as into a crystal well wherein she
saw herself glorified by new and strange happiness. She studied, and
took higher places in her classes, but she did not look as young or
as well. She grew taller and thinner, and she looked older. People
said Maria Edgham was losing her beauty, that she would not be as
pretty a woman as she had promised to make, after all. Maria no
longer dwelt so long and pleasurably upon her reflection in the
glass. She simply arranged her hair and neck-gear tidily and went her
way. She did not care so much for her pretty clothes. A girl without
her dreams is a girl without her glory of youth. She did not quite
realize what was the matter, but she knew that she was no longer so
fair to see, and that the combination of herself and a new gown was
not what it had been. She felt as if she had reached the last page of
her book of life, and the _ennui_ of middle age came over her. She
had not reached the last page; she was, of course, mistaken; but she
had reached a paragraph so tremendous that it seemed to her the
climax, as if there could be nothing beyond it. She was married--that
is, she had been pronounced a wife! There was, there could be,
nothing further. She was both afraid of, and disliked, the boy who
had married her. There was nothing ahead that she could see but a
commonplace existence without romance and without love. She as yet
did not dwell upon the possible complications which might arise from
her marriage. It simply seemed to her that she should always live a
spinster, although the marriage ceremony had been pronounced over
her. She began to realize that in order to live in this way she must
take definite steps. She knew that her father was not rich. The
necessity for work and earning her own living in the future began to
present itself. She made up her mind to fit herself for a teacher.

"Papa, I am going to teach," she told her father one afternoon.

Ida had gone out. It was two years after her marriage, and Maria
looked quite a woman. She and her father were alone. Evelyn had gone
to bed. Maria had tucked her in and kissed her good-night. Josephine
was no longer a member of the family. In a number of ways expenses
had been retrenched. Harry would not admit it, and Ida did not seem
aware of it, but his health was slowly but surely failing. That very
day he had consulted a specialist in New York, taking his turn in the
long line of waiting applicants in the office. When he came out he
had a curious expression on his face, which made more than one of the
other patients, however engrossed in their own complaints, turn
around and look after him. He looked paler than when he had entered
the office, but not exactly cast down. He had rather a settled
expression, as of one who had come in sight, not of a goal of
triumph, but of the end of a long and wearisome journey. In these
days Harry Edgham was so unutterably weary, he drove himself to his
work with such lashes of spirit, that he was almost incapable of
revolt against any sentence of fate. There comes a time to every one,
to some when young, to some when old, that too great a burden of
labor, or of days, renders the thought of the last bed of earth
unterrifying. The spirit, overcome with weariness of matter,
droops earthward with no rebellion. Harry, who had gotten his
death-sentence, went out of the doctor's office and hailed his
ferry-bound car, and realized very little difference in his attitude
from what he had done before. He had still time before him, possibly
quite a long time. He thought of leaving Ida and the little one and
Maria, but he had a feeling as if he were beginning the traversing of
a circle which would in the end bring him back, rather than of
departure. It was as if he were about to circumnavigate life itself.
Suddenly, however, his forehead contracted. Material matters began to
irritate him. He thought of Maria, and how slight a provision he had
made for her. His life was already insured for the benefit of Ida.
Ida would have that and her widow's share. Little Evelyn would also
have her share of his tiny estate, which consisted of nothing more
than his house and lot in Edgham and a few hundreds in the bank, and
poor Maria would have nothing except the paltry third remaining. When
Maria, sitting alone with him in the parlor, announced her intention
of fitting herself for a teacher, he viewed her with quick interest.
It was the evening of the very day on which he had consulted the
specialist.

"Let me see, dear," he returned; "how many years more have you at the
academy?"

"I can graduate next year," Maria replied, with pride. This last year
she had been taking enormous strides, which had placed her ahead of
her class. "At least, I can if I work hard," she added.

"I don't want you to work too hard," Harry said, anxiously.

"I am perfectly well," said Maria. And she did in reality look
entirely well, in spite of her thinness and expression of premature
maturity. There was a wiriness about her every movement which argued,
if not actual robustness, the elasticity of bending and not breaking
before the stresses of life.

"Let me see, you will be pretty young to teach, then," said Harry.

"I think I can get a school," Maria said.

"Where?"

"Aunt Maria said she thought I could get that little school near her
in Amity. The teacher is engaged, and she said she thought she would
get married before so very long. She said she thought she must have
almost enough money for her wedding outfit. That is what she has been
working for."

Harry smiled a little.

"Aunt Maria said she was to marry a man with means, and she was
working quite a while in order to buy a nice trousseau," said Maria.
"Aunt Maria said she was a very high-spirited young lady. But she
said she thought she had been engaged so long that she would probably
not wait more than a year longer, and she could get the school for
me. Uncle Henry is one of the committee, you know."

"You are pretty young to begin teaching," Harry said, thoughtfully.

"Aunt Maria said she thought I did not look as young as I really was,
and there wouldn't be any difficulty about it," said Maria. "She said
she thought I would have good government, and Uncle Henry thought so,
too, and Aunt Eunice."

Aunt Eunice was Maria's Uncle Henry's wife. Maria had paid a visit to
Amity the summer before, renewing her acquaintance with her relatives.

"Well, we will see," said Harry, after a pause. Then he added,
somewhat pitifully: "Father wishes there was no need for his little
girl to work. He wishes he had been able to put more by, but if--"

Maria looked at her father with quick concern.

"Father, what is the matter with you?" she asked. "I don't care about
the working part. I want to work. I shall like to go to Amity, and
board with Aunt Maria, and teach, except for leaving you and Evelyn,
but--what is the matter with you, father?"

"Nothing is the matter. Why?" asked Harry; and he tried to smile.

"What made you speak so, father?"

Maria had sprung to her feet, and was standing in front of her
father, with pale face and dilated eyes. Her father looked at her and
hesitated.

"Tell me, father; I ought to know," said Maria.

"There is nothing immediate, as far as I know," said Harry, "but--"

"But what?"

"Well, dear, nobody can live always, and of course you can't realize
it, young as you are, and with no responsibilities; but father is
older, and sometimes he can't help thinking. He wishes he had been
able to save a little more, in case anything happened to him, and he
can't help planning what you would do if--anything happened to him.
You know, dear," Harry hesitated a little, then he continued--"you
know, dear, that father had his life insured for--Ida, and I doubt
if--I am older, you know, now, and those companies don't like to
take chances. I doubt if I could, or I would have an additional
insurance put on my life for you. Then Ida would have by law her
share of this property, and Evelyn her share, and all you would have
would be a very little, and--Well, father can't help thinking that
perhaps it would be wise for you to make some plans so you can help
yourself a little, but--it almost breaks father's heart to think
that--his--little girl--" Poor Harry fairly broke down and sobbed.

Maria's arm was around his neck in a moment, and his poor gray head,
which had always been, in a way, the head of an innocent boy, was on
her young girl breast. She did not ask him any more questions. She
knew. "Poor father!" she said. Her own voice broke, then she steadied
it again with a resolute effort of her will. There was a good deal of
her mother in Maria. The sight of another's weakness always aroused
her own strength. "Father," she said, "now you just listen to me. I
won't hear any more talk of anything happening to you. You have not
eaten enough lately. I have noticed it. That is all that ails you.
You have not had enough nourishment. I want you to go to-morrow to
Dr. Wells and get some of that tonic that helped you so much before,
and, father, I want you to stop worrying about me. I honestly want to
teach. I want to be independent. I should, if you were worth a
million. It does not worry me at all to think I am not going to have
enough money to live on without working, not at all. I want you to
remember that, and not fret any more about it."

For answer, Harry sobbed against the girl's shoulder. "It seems as if
I might have saved more," he said, pitifully, "but--I have had heavy
expenses, and somehow I didn't seem to have the knack that some men
have. I made one or two investments that didn't turn out well. I
didn't say anything about them to--Ida."

"I sha'n't say a word, father," Maria responded, quickly.

"Well, I thought maybe--if they turned out all right, I might have
something to leave you, but--they didn't. There's never any counting
on those things, and I wasn't on the inside of the market. I thought
they were all right. I meant it for the best."

Maria stroked the gray head, as her mother might have done. "Of
course you did, father," said she. "Now, don't you worry one bit more
about it. You get that tonic. You don't look just right, and you need
something to give you an appetite; and don't you ever have another
thought as far as I am concerned. I have always wanted to teach, or
do something to make myself independent."

"You may marry somebody who will look out for you after father has
gone," half whimpered Harry. His disease and his distress were making
him fairly childish, now he realized a supporting love beside him.

Maria quivered a little. "I shall never marry, father," she said.

Harry laughed a little, even in the midst of his distress. "Well,
dear, we won't worry about that now," he said; "only, if you ever do
marry, I hope you will marry a good, honest man who can take care of
you."

"I never shall marry," Maria said again. There was an odd inflection
in her voice which her father did not understand. Her cheeks burned
hot against his, but it was not due to the modesty of young girlhood,
which flees even that which it secretly desires. Maria was reflecting
upon her horrible deception, how every day and every minute of her
life she was deceiving her father, but she dared not tell him. She
dared less now than ever, in the light of her sudden conviction
concerning his ill-health. Maria had been accustomed so long to
seeing her father look tired and old that the true significance of it
had not struck her. She had not reflected that her father was not in
reality an old man--but scarcely past middle age--and that there must
be some disease to account for his appearance. Now she knew; but
along with the knowledge came the conviction that he must not know
that she had it, that it would only add to his distress. She kissed
him, and took up the evening paper which had fallen from his knees to
the floor.

"Suppose I read to you, father?" she said.

Harry looked gratefully at her. "But you have to learn your lesson."

"Oh, I can finish that in school to-morrow. I don't feel like working
any more to-night, and I do feel like reading the paper."

"Won't it tire you, dear?"

"Tire me? Now, father, what do you take me for?" Maria settled
herself in a chair. Harry leaned back his head contentedly; he had
always like to be read to, and lately reading to himself had hurt his
eyes. "Now, what shall I read, father?" she said.

Poor Harry, remembering his own futile investments, asked for the
stock-list, and Maria read it very intelligently for a young girl who
knew nothing about stocks.

"Once I owned some of that stock," said Harry, proudly.

"Did you, father?" Maria responded, admiringly.

"Yes, and only look where it is now! If I could only have held on to
it, I might have been quite a rich man."

Harry spoke, oddly enough, with no regret. Such was the childishness
of the man that a possession once his never seemed wholly lost to
him. It seemed to him that he had reason to be proud of having made
such a wise investment, even if he had never actually reaped any
benefit from it.

"I don't see how you knew what to invest in," Maria said, fostering
his pride.

"Oh, I had to study the stock-lists and ask brokers," Harry replied.
He looked brighter. This little reinstatement in his self-esteem
acted like a tonic. In some fashion Ida always kept him alive to his
own deficiencies, and that was not good for a man who was naturally
humble-minded. Harry sat up straighter. He looked at Maria with
brighter eyes as she continued reading. "Now _that_ is a good
investment," said he--"that bond. If I had the money to spare I would
buy one of those bonds to-morrow morning."

"Are bonds better than stocks, father?" asked Maria.

"Yes," replied Harry, importantly. "Always remember that, if you have
any money to invest. A man can afford to buy stocks, because he has
better opportunities of judging of the trend of the market, but bonds
are always safer for a woman."

Maria regarded her father again with that innocent admiration for his
wisdom, which seemed to act like a nerve stimulant. A subtle
physician might possibly have reached the conclusion, had he been
fully aware of all the circumstances, that Ida, with her radiant
superiority, her voiceless but none the less positive self-assertion
over her husband, was actually a means of spiritual depression which
had reacted upon his physical nature. Nobody knows exactly to what
extent any of us are responsible for the lives of others, and how far
our mere existences may be derogatory to our fellow-beings. Harry was
visibly brighter.

"You don't look half as tired as you did, father," Maria said.

"I don't feel so tired," replied Harry. "It has rested me to hear you
read. Remember what I have told you, dear, about bonds--always bonds,
and never stocks, for a woman."

"Yes, father," said Maria. Then she added, "I am going to save all I
can when I begin to earn."

"Your aunt Maria will only ask you enough board to make it possible
for her to pay the bills? You know she has only a hundred a year to
live on. Of course your uncle Henry lets her have her rent free, or
she couldn't do it, but she is a fine manager. She manages very much
as your mother did." As he spoke, Harry looked around the luxurious
apartment and reflected that, had his first wife lived, he himself
could have saved, and there might have been no need for this little,
delicate girl to earn her own living. He sighed, and the weary look
settled over his face again.

Maria rose. "Father," said she, "Annie has gone out, and so has
Hannah, and I am going out in the kitchen and make a cup of that
thick chocolate that you like, for you."

"It is too much trouble, dear."

"Nonsense!" said Maria. "I would like to do it, and it won't take a
minute. There is a good fire in the range."

While Maria was gone, Harry sat gazing out of the window. He had
always now, when he looked out of a window, the sensation of a man
who was passing in rapid motion all the old familiar objects, all the
landmarks of his life, or rather--for one never rids one's self of
that particular optical delusion--it was as if they were passing. The
conviction of one's own transit is difficult to achieve. Harry gazed
out of the window, and it was to him as if the familiar trees which
bordered the sidewalk, the shrubs in the yard, the houses which were
within view, were flitting past him in a mad whirl. He was glad when
Maria entered with the chocolate, in his own particular cup, and a
dainty plate of cheese sandwiches.

"I thought perhaps you could eat a sandwich, father," she said. "I
don't believe you had anything decent for lunch in New York."

"I didn't have much," said Harry. He did not add, what was the truth,
that lately he had been stinting himself on his luncheons in the
effort to save a little more of his earnings. He ate nearly all the
sandwiches, and drank two cups of chocolate, and really looked much
better.

"You need more nourishment, father," said Maria, with a wise,
maternal air, which was also half accusatory, and which made Harry
think so strongly of his first wife that he regarded Maria as he
might have regarded her mother.

"You grow more and more like your own mother, dear," he said.

"Well, I am glad of that," replied Maria. "Mother was a good woman.
If I can only be half as good as mother was."

"Your mother _was_ a good woman," said Harry, reflectively; and as he
spoke he seemed to feel the arms of strong, almost stern, feminity
and faithfulness which had encompassed his childlike soul for so many
years. He owned to himself that Maria's mother had been a much more
suitable wife for him than this other woman. Then he had a little
qualm of remorse, for Ida came in sight, richly dressed and elegant,
as usual, with Evelyn dancing along beside her. Mrs. Adams was with
her. Mrs. Adams was talking and Ida was smiling. It was more becoming
to Ida to smile than to talk. She had discovered long since that she
had not so very much to say, and that her smiles were better coin of
her little realm; she therefore generally employed them in preference.

Maria got up hastily and took the tray and the chocolate-cups. "I
guess Mrs. Adams is coming in," said she.

"You didn't make enough chocolate to give them?" Harry said,
hesitatingly.

"No," replied Maria, and her tone was a little curt even to her
father. "And I used up the last bit of chocolate in the house, too."
Then she scudded out of the room with her tray and passed the front
door as the sound of Ida's latch-key was heard in the lock. Maria set
her tray on the kitchen-table and hurried up the back stairs to her
own room. She entered it and locked both doors, the one communicating
with the hall and the one which connected it with Evelyn's room. She
had no sooner done so than she heard the quick patter of little feet,
and the door leading into Evelyn's room was tried, then violently
shaken. "Let me in, sister; let me in," cried the sweet little flute
of a voice on the other side. Evelyn could now talk plainly, but she
still kept to her baby appellation for her sister.

"No, darling, sister can't let you in now," replied Maria.

"Why not? Let me in, sister."

"Sister is going to study," said Maria, in a firm voice. "She can't
have Evelyn. Run down-stairs, darling; run down to mamma."

"Evelyn don't want mamma. Evelyn wants sister."

"Papa is down there, too. Put on your clothes, like a nice girl, and
show papa how smart you can be; then run down."

"Evelyn can't button up her dress."

"Put everything on but that, then run down, and mamma can do it for
you."

"Let me in, sister."

"No, dear," Maria said again. "Evelyn can't come in now."

There came a little whimper of grief and anger which cut Maria's
heart, but she was firm. She could not have even Evelyn then. She had
to be alone with the knowledge she had just gained of her father's
state of health. She sat down in her little chair by the window; it
was her own baby chair, which she had kept all these years, and in
which she could still sit comfortably, she was so slender. Then she
put her face in her hands and began to weep. She had never wept as
she did then, not even when her mother died. She was so much younger
when her mother died that her sensibilities had not acquired their
full acumen; then, too, she had not had at that time the awful
foretaste of a desolate future which tinctured with bitter her very
soul. Somehow, although Maria had noticed for a long time that her
father did not look as he had done, it had never occurred to her that
that which had happened to her mother could happen to her father. She
had been like one in a house which has been struck by lightning, and
had been rendered thereby incredulous of a second stroke. It had not
occurred to her that whereas she had lost her mother, she could also
lose her father. It seemed like too heavy a hammer-stroke of
Providence to believe in and keep her reason. She had thought that
her father was losing his youth, that his hair turning gray had much
to do with his altered looks. She had never thought of death. It
seemed to her monstrous. A rage against Providence, like nothing
which she had known before, was over her. Why should she lose
everything? What had she done? She reviewed her past life, and she
defended herself like Job, with her summary of self-righteousness.
She had always done right, so far as she knew. Her sins had been so
petty as hardly to deserve the name of sins. She remembered how she
had once enjoyed seeing her face in her looking-glass, how she had
liked pretty, new dresses, and she could not make that seem very
culpable. She remembered how, although she had never loved her
step-mother, she had observed, except on that one occasion when
Evelyn was lost, the utmost respect and deference for her--how she
had been, after the first, even willing to love her had she met with
the slightest encouragement. She could not honestly blame herself for
her carefully concealed attitude of disapproval towards Ida, for she
said to herself, with a subtlety which was strange for a girl so
young, that she had merited it, that she was a cold, hard,
self-centred woman, not deserving love, and that she had in reality
been injurious for her father. She was convinced that, had her own
mother lived, with her half-censorious yet wholly loving care for
him, he might still have preserved his youth and his handsome
boyishness and health. She thought of the half-absurd, half-tragic
secret which underlay her life, and she could not honestly think
herself very much to blame for that. She always thought of that with
bewilderment, as one might think of some dimly remembered vagary of
delirium. Sometimes it seemed to her now that it could not be true.
Maria realized that she was full of self-righteousness, but she was
also honest. She saw no need for her to blame herself for faults
which she had not committed. She thought of the doctrine which she
had heard, that children were wholly evil from their birth, and it
did not seem to her true. She could _say_ that she had been wholly
evil from her birth, but she felt that she should, if she did say so,
tell a lie to God and herself. She honestly could not see why, for
any fault of hers, her father should die. Then suddenly her mind gave
a leap from her own standing-point to that of her father. She
suddenly reflected that it was not wholly her own grief for his loss
which was to be considered, but her father's grief at quitting the
world wherein he had dwelt so long, and his old loves of life. She
reflected upon his possible fear of the Unknown into which he was to
go. There was in Maria's love for her father, as there had been in
her mother's, a strong element of the maternal. She thought of her
father with infinite pity, as one might think of a little child about
to go on a long, strange journey to an unknown place, all alone by
himself. It seemed to her an awful thing for God to ask one like her
father to die a lingering death, to realize it all fully, what he had
to do, then to go off by himself, alone. She remembered what she had
heard from the pulpit on Sundays, but somehow that Unknown seemed so
frightfully wide and vast for a soul like her father's, which had
always been so like the soul of a child, to find her mother in. Then
she got some comfort from the memory of her mother, of her great
strength. It seemed to her that her mother, wherever she was, would
not let her father wander alone very long. That she would meet him
with that love and chiding which is sometimes the very concert-pitch
of love itself, its key-note, and lead him into those green pastures
and beside those still waters of the Psalmist. Maria, at that moment,
got more comfort from her memory of the masterliness of her mother,
whom she had known, than from her conception of God, towards whom her
soul reached out, it is true, but whom it no more comprehended than a
flower comprehends the sun. The very love of God needs a human
trellis whereby His creatures can reach Him, and Maria now climbed
towards a trust in Him, by the reflection of her mother's love, and
strength in spite of love.

Then racking pity for herself and her own loss, and rage because of
it, and a pity for her father which almost roused her to a fury of
rebellion, again swept away every other consideration.

"Poor father! poor father!" she sobbed, under her breath. "There he
is going to die, and he hasn't got mother to take care of him! _She_
won't do anything. She will try not to smile, that is all. And I
can't do anything, the way mother could. Father don't want me to even
act as if I knew it; but if mother were alive he would tell her, and
she would help him." Then Maria thought of herself, poor, solitary,
female thing travelling the world alone, for she never thought, at
that time, of her marriage being anything which would ever be a
marriage in reality, but as of something which cast her outside the
pale of possibilities and made her more solitary still, and she wept
silently, or as silently as she could; once in awhile a murmur of
agony or a sob escaped her. She could not help it. She got up out of
her little chair and flung herself on the floor, and fairly writhed
with the pain of her awful grief and sense of loss. She became deaf
to any sound; all her senses seemed to have failed her. She was alive
only to that sense of grief which is the primeval sense of the
world--the grief of existence itself and the necessity of death and
loss.

All at once she felt a little, soft touch, and another little,
weeping, human thing, born like herself to all the awful chances of
love and grief, flung itself down beside her.

Maria had locked her doors, but she had forgotten her window, which
opened on an upper balcony, and was easily accessible to any one
climbing out of the hall window. Evelyn had been listening at her
door and had heard her sobs. Knowing from experience that her sister
meant what she said, she had climbed out of the hall window, scudded
along the little balcony, and into Maria's window. She flung herself
down on the floor, and wept so violently that Maria was alarmed.

"Why, baby, darling, what is it? Tell sister," she said, hushing her
own sobs.

The child continued to sob. Her whole little frame was shaken
convulsively.

"Tell sister," whispered Maria.

"I'm cryin' 'cause--'cause--" panted the child.

"Because what, darling?"

"Because you are crying, and--and--"

"And what?"

"'Cause I 'ain't got anything to cry for."

"Why, you precious darling!" said Maria. She hugged the child close,
and all at once a sense of peace and comfort came over her, even in
the face of approaching disaster. She sensed the love and pity which
holds the world, through this little human key-note of it which had
struck in her ears.



Chapter XVII


Harry Edgham's disease proved to be one of those concerning which no
physician can accurately calculate its duration or termination. It
had, as diseases often have, its periods of such utter quiescence
that it seemed as if it had entirely disappeared. It was not a year
after Harry had received his indeterminate death sentence before he
looked better than he had done for a long while. The color came back
to his cheeks, his expression regained its youthful joyfulness.
Everybody said that Harry Edgham was quite well again. He had
observed a certain diet and taken remedies; then, in the summer, he
took, for the first time for years, an entire vacation of three
weeks, and that had its effect for the better.

Maria began to be quite easy with regard to her father's health. It
seemed to her that, since he looked so well, he must be well. Her
last winter at the Lowe Academy was entirely free from that
worriment. Then, too, Wollaston Lee had graduated and begun his
college course, and she no longer had him constantly before her eyes,
bringing to memory that bewildering, almost maddening experience of
theirs that night in New York. She was almost happy, in an odd,
middle-aged sort of fashion, during her last term at the academy
before her graduation. She took great pride in her progress in her
studies. She was to graduate first of her class. She did not even
have to work very hard to accomplish it. Maria had a mind of
marvellous quickness of grasp. Possibly her retentive powers were not
entirely in proportion, but, at all events, she accomplished much
with comparatively little labor.

Harry was very proud of her. The evening before her graduation Ida
had gone to New York to the theatre and Evelyn was in bed, and Maria
dressed herself in her graduation gown, which was charming--Ida had
never neglected her, in respect to dress, at least--and came down to
show herself to her father. He would not be able to be present at the
graduation on account of an unusual press of business. Maria came so
lightly that she almost seemed to float into the room, with her fine
white draperies trailing behind her and her knots of white ribbon
fluttering, and stood before her father.

"Father," said she, "I want you to see the way I'll look to-morrow.
Isn't this dress pretty?"

"Lovely," said Harry. "It is very becoming, too," he added.

Indeed, Maria really looked pretty again in this charming costume.
During the last few months her cheeks had filled out and she had
gotten some lovely curves of girlhood. Her eyes shone with a peculiar
brilliancy, her red lips trembled into a smile, her hair, in a fluff
above her high forehead, caught the light.

Maria laughed gayly. "Take care, father, or you will make me vain,"
she said.

"You have some reason to be," Harry said, honestly. "You are going to
graduate first in your class, and--well, you are pretty, dear--at
least you are to father, and, I guess, to other folks."

Maria blushed. "Only to father, because he is partial," she said.
Then she went up to him and rubbed her blooming cheek against his.
"Do you know what makes me happier than anything else?" she
said--"happier than graduating first, happier than my pretty dress,
happier than anything?"

"No. What, dear?"

"Feeling that you are well again."

There was an almost imperceptible pause before Harry replied. Then he
said, in his pleasant voice, which had never grown old, "Yes, dear; I
am better, dear, I think."

"Think," Maria said, gayly. "Why, you are well, father. Don't you
know you are well?"

"Yes, I think I am better, dear."

"Better? You are well. Nobody can look as young and handsome as you
do and be ill, possibly. You are well, father. I know you can't quite
get what that horrid old croaking doctor told you out of your mind,
but doctors don't know everything. You are well, and that makes me
happier than anything else in the world."

Harry laughed a little faintly. "Well, I dare say you are right,
dear," he said.

"Right?--of course I am right," said Maria. Then she danced off to
change her gown.

After she had gone, Harry rose from the chair; he had been sitting
beside the centre-table with the evening paper. He walked over to the
window and looked out at the night. It was bright moonlight. The
trees were in full leaf, and the shadows were of such loveliness that
they fairly seemed celestial. Harry gazed out at the night scene, at
the moon riding through the unbelievable and unfathomable blue of the
sky, like a crystal ball, with a slight following of golden clouds;
he gazed at the fairy shadows which transformed the familiar village
street into something beyond earth, and he sighed. The conviction of
his approaching dissolution had never been so strong as at that
moment. He seemed fairly to see his own mortality--that gate of death
which lay wide open for him. Yet, all at once, a sense of peace and
trust almost ineffable came over him. Death seemed merely the
going-out into the true open, the essence of the moonlight and the
beauty. It seemed the tasting and absorbing the food for his own
spiritual hunger, which had been upon him from birth, that which had
always been just out of his reach. When Maria returned in her pink
gingham school-gown, she found her father seated beside the table as
he had been when she left. He looked up at her with a bright smile
which somehow chilled her, although she tried to drive the conviction
of the chill from her mind. She got a new book from the case, and
proposed reading aloud to him.

"Hadn't you better go to bed, dear?" said Harry. "You will have a
hard day to-morrow."

"No; I am going to sit up with you till She comes home," said Maria,
"and we might as well amuse ourselves." She began to read, and Harry
listened happily. But Maria, whenever she glanced over her book at
her father's happy face, felt the same undefinable chill.

However, when Ida came home and they had a little supper of sardines
and crackers, she did not think any more of it. She went to bed with
her head full of the morrow and her new gown and the glories awaiting
her. She tried not to be vain, but was uncomfortably conscious that
she was glad that she was first in her class, instead of some other
girl or instead of a boy. Maria felt especially proud of ranking
ahead of the boys.

The next day was, as she had anticipated, one of happy triumph for
her. She stood on the stage in her lovely dress and read her
valedictory, which, although trite enough, was in reality rather
better in style than most valedictories. She received a number of
presents, a tiny gold watch from her father among them, and a ring
with a turquoise stone from Ida, and quantities of flowers. The day
after the graduation Maria had her photograph taken, with all her
floral offerings around her, with a basket of roses on her arm and
great bouquets in her lap and on a little photographic table beside
her. The basket of roses was an anonymous offering. It came with no
card. If Maria had dreamed that Wollaston Lee had sent it, she would
never have sat for her photograph with it on her arm. But she did not
think of Wollaston at all that day. He was completely out of her mind
for the time, swallowed up in her sense of personal joy and triumph.
Wollaston had not graduated first in his class in the academy the
year before. A girl had headed that class also. Maria had felt a
malicious joy at the fact, at the time, and it was entirely beyond
her imagination now that Wollaston, who had seemed to dislike her,
although she was forced to admit that he had been exceedingly
honorable, had sent roses to her. She suspected that one of the
teachers, a young man who had paid, in a covert and shamefaced way, a
little attention to her, had sent the basket. She thought the roses
lovely, and recognized the inadvisability of thanking this teacher,
since he had not enclosed his card. She did not like him very
well--indeed, she felt a certain repugnance to him--but roses were
roses, and she was a young girl.

"Who gave you the basket of roses, dear?" her father asked when she
was displaying her trophies the day after her graduation.

Maria blushed. "I don't know," said she; "there wasn't any card with
them." As she spoke she seemed to see the face of the young history
teacher, Mr. Latimer, with his sparse, sandy beard, and she felt how
very distasteful he was to her, even if gilded, so to speak, by roses.

"I think some enamoured boy in her class who was too shy to send his
card with his floral offering was the one," Ida said to Harry when
Maria had gone out. She laughed a softly sarcastic laugh.

Harry looked at her uneasily.

"Maria is too young to get such ideas into her head," he said.

"My dear," said Ida, "you forget that such ideas do not get into
girls' heads; they are born in them."

"I presume one of the other girls sent them," said Harry, almost
angrily.

"Perhaps," replied Ida, and again she laughed her soft, sarcastic
laugh, which grated terribly on Harry. It irritated him beyond
measure that any boy should send roses to this little, delicate, fair
girl of his. For all he had spoken of her marriage, the very idea of
confiding her to any other man than himself made him furious.
Especially the idea of some rough school-boy, who knew little else
than to tumble about in a football game and was not his girl's mental
equal, irritated him. He went over in his mind all the boys in her
class. The next morning, going to New York, Edwin Shaw, who had lost
much of his uncouthness and had divorced himself entirely from his
family in the matter of English, was on the train, and he scowled at
him with such inscrutable fierceness that the boy fairly trembled. He
always bowed punctiliously to Maria's father, and this morning Maria
was with her father. She was to have a day off: sit in her father's
office and read a book until noon, then go to lunch with him at a
French restaurant, then go to the matinee. She wore a festive silk
waist, and looked altogether lovely, the boy thought.

"Who is that great gawk of a fellow?" asked Harry of Maria.

"Edwin Shaw. He was in my class," replied Maria, and she blushed, for
no earthly reason except that her father expected her to do so. Young
girls are sometimes very ready, even to deceit, to meet the emotional
expectations of their elders. Harry then and there made up his mind
that Edwin Shaw was the sender of the basket of roses.

"He comes of a family below par, and he shows it," he said,
viciously, to Maria. He scowled again at Edwin's neck, which was
awkwardly long above his collar, but the boy did not see it. He sat
on the opposite side of the car a seat in advance.

Harry said again to Maria, when they had left the train, and Edwin,
conscious of his back, which he was straightening, was striding in
front of them, what a great gawk of a fellow he was, and how he came
of a family below par. Maria assented indifferently. She did not
dream of her father's state of mind, and, as for Edwin Shaw, he was
no more to her than a set of car-steps, not so much, because the
car-steps were of obvious use.

That very night, when Maria and her father reached home after a
riotous day in the city, there was a letter in the post-office from
Aunt Maria, to the effect that there was no doubt that Maria could
have the school in Amity in the fall. The teacher who had held the
position was to be married in a few weeks. The salary was not
much--Amity was a poor little country village--but Maria felt as if
she had expectations of untold wealth. She was sorry at the prospect
of leaving her father and Evelyn, but the idea of self-support and
independence, and taking a little of the burden from her father,
intoxicated her. Maria had the true spirit of the women of her race.
She liked the feel of her own muscles and nerves of individuality and
self-reliance. She felt a head taller after she had read her aunt's
letter.

"She says she will board me for four dollars a week," she said. "I
shall have quite a lot of money clear."

"Well, four dollars a week will recompense her, and help her, too,"
said Harry, a little gloomily. To tell the truth, he did not in the
least like the idea of Maria's going to Amity to teach. Nothing
except the inner knowledge of his own failing health could have led
him to consent to it. Ida was delighted at the news, but she
concealed her delight as well as her annoyance under her smiling
mask, and immediately began to make plans for Maria's wardrobe.

"Whatever I have new I am going to pay you back, father, now I am
going to earn money," Maria said, proudly.

After she went up-stairs to bed that night, Evelyn, who was now a
slim, beautiful little girl, rather tall for her age, and going to a
private school in the village, came into her room, and Maria told
Evelyn how much she was going to do with the money which she was to
earn. Maria, at this time, was wholly mercenary. She had not the
least ambition to benefit the young. She was, in fact, young herself,
but her head was fairly turned with the most selfish of
considerations. It was true that she planned to spend the money which
she would earn largely upon others, but that was, in itself, a
subtle, more rarefied form of selfishness.

"I remember Aunt Maria's parlor carpet was worn almost threadbare,
and I mean to buy her a new one with the very first money I earn,"
Maria said to little Evelyn; and she thought, as she met Evelyn's
beautiful, admiring eyes, how very kind and thoughtful she, Maria,
would be with her wealth.

"I suppose Aunt Maria is very poor," Evelyn remarked, in her charming
little voice.

"Oh, very. She lives on a hundred dollars a year."

"Will you get enough to eat?" asked Evelyn, anxiously.

"Oh yes. I shall pay her four dollars a week, and if she got along
with only a hundred a year, only think what she can do with that. I
know Aunt Eunice, Uncle Henry's wife, hasn't a good dress, either. I
think I shall buy a brown satin for her."

"How awful good you are, sister!" said little Evelyn, and Maria quite
agreed with her. The conviction of her own goodness, and her
forthcoming power to exercise it, filled her soul with a gentle,
stimulating warmth after she was in bed. The moonlight shone brightly
into her room. She gazed at the bright shaft of silver it made across
all her familiar possessions, and, notwithstanding her young girl
dreams were gone, she realized that, although she had lost all the
usual celestial dreams and rafters of romance which go to make a
young girl's air-castle, she had still left some material, even if of
less importance.

She spent, on the whole, a very happy summer. Her father looked
entirely well; she was busy in preparations for her life in Amity;
and, what relieved her the most, Wollaston Lee was not at home for
more than five days during the entire vacation. He went camping-out
with a party of college-boys. Maria was, therefore, not subjected to
the nervous strain of seeing him. During the few days he was at home
he had his chum with him, and Maria only saw him twice--once on the
street, when she returned his bow distantly and heard with no
pleasure the other boy ask who that pretty girl was, and once in
church. She gave only the merest side-glance at him in church, and
she was not sure that he looked at her at all, but she went home pale
and nervous. A secret of any kind is a hard thing for a girl to bear
about with her, and Maria's, which was both tragic and absurd, was
severer than most. At times it seemed to her, when she looked in her
glass, that all she saw was the secret; it seemed to her, when other
people looked at her, that it was all they saw. It was one reason for
her readiness to go to Amity. She would there be out of reach of
people who could in any way have penetrated her secret. She would not
run the risk of meeting Wollaston; of meeting his father and mother,
and wondering if he had, after all, told; of meeting Gladys Mann, and
wondering if she had told, and knowing that she knew.

Maria, in these last months, saw very little of Gladys, who had
sunken entirely into the lower stratum of society in which she
belonged. Gladys had left school, where she had not learned much, and
she went out cleaning and doing house-work, at seventy-five cents a
day. Sometimes Maria met her going to and fro from a place of
employment, and at such times there was fear in Maria's face and a
pathetic admiration and reassurance in the other girl's. Gladys had
grown hard and large as to her bones and muscles, but she did not
look altogether well. She had a half-nourished, spiritually and
bodily, expression, which did not belie the true state of affairs
with her. She had neither enough meat nor enough ideality. She was
suffering, and the more because she did not know. Gladys was of the
opinion that she was, on the whole, enjoying life and having a pretty
good time. She earned enough to buy herself some showy clothes, and
she had a lover, a "steady," as she called him. It is true that she
was at times a little harassed by jealousy concerning another girl
who had a more fully blown beauty than she, and upon whom she
sometimes suspected her lover was casting admiring eyes.

It was at this time that Gladys, whose whole literature consisted of
the more pictorial of the daily papers, wrote some badly spelled and
very pathetic little letters, asking advice as to whether a girl of
her age, who had been keeping steady company with a young man of her
lover's age, whom she dearly loved, should make advances if he seemed
to exhibit a preference for another girl, and she inquired pitifully
of the editor, as of some deity, as to whether she thought her lover
did really prefer the other girl to her. These letters, and the
answers, were a source of immense comfort to Gladys. Sometimes, when
she met Maria, they made her feel almost on terms of equality with
her. She doubted if Maria, smart as she was, had ever really appeared
in the papers. She wrote her letters under different names, and even
sent them from neighboring towns, and walked long distances, when she
felt that she wanted to save car-fare, to post them. Once Maria met
her as she was walking along with an evening paper in her hand,
reading the reply to one of her letters, and Maria wondered at the
expression on Gladys's face. She at once pitied, feared, and detested
Gladys. She doubted if she were a good girl; she herself, like a nun
without even dreams, seemed living in another sphere, she felt so far
removed. She was in reality removed, although Gladys, if the truth
were told, was not so bad, and she got some good advice from the
answers in response to her letters, which restrained her. Still, her
view of everything was different. She was different. Black was not as
black to her as to Maria; a spade was not so truly a spade. She
recognized immorality as a fact, but it did not seem to her of so
much importance. In one sense she was more innocent even than Maria,
for she had never felt the true living clutch of vice on her soul,
even in imagination; she could not. The devil to her was not of
enough consequence to enable her to sin in the truest sense of the
word. All her family were immoral, and a constant living in an
atmosphere of immorality may, in one sense, make one incapable of
spiritual sin. One needs to fully sense a sin in order to actually
commit it. Gladys could hardly sense sin as Maria could. Still she
had a sense of proud virtue after reading the paragraphs of good
advice in reply to her letters to the paper, and she felt that it
placed her nearer Maria's level. On the occasion when Maria met her
reading the paper, she even spoke.

"Hullo, M'ria!" said she.

"Good-evening," Maria replied, politely and haughtily.

But Gladys did not seem to notice the haughtiness. She pressed close
to Maria.

"Say!" said she.

"What?" asked Maria.

"Ain't you ever goin' to--?"

"No, I am not," replied Maria, deadly pale, and trembling from head
to foot.

"Why don't you write to this paper and ask what you had better do?"
said Gladys. "It's an awful good plan. You do git awful good advice."

"I don't wish to," replied Maria, trying to pass, but Gladys stood in
her way.

"But say, M'ria, you be in an awful box," said she. "You can't never
marry nobody else without you get locked up, you know."

"I don't want to," Maria said, shortly.

"Mebbe you will."

"I never shall."

"Well, if you do, you had better write to this paper, then you can
find out just what to do. It won't tell you to do nothin' wrong, and
it's awful sensible. Say, M'ria."

"Well, what?"

"I 'ain't never told a living soul, and I never shall, but I don't
see what you are goin' to do if either you or him wants to git
married to anybody else."

"I am not worrying about getting married," said Maria. This time she
pushed past Gladys. Her knees fairly knocked together.

Gladys looked at her with sympathy and the old little-girl love and
adoration. "Well, don't you worry about me tellin'," said she.



Chapter XVIII


Maria began her teaching on a September day. It was raining hard, but
there was all about an odd, fictitious golden light from the spray of
maple-leaves which overhung the village. Amity was a typical little
New England village--that is, it had departed but little from its
original type, although there was now a large plant of paper-mills,
which had called in outsiders. The outsiders were established by
themselves on a sort of Tom Tidler's ground called "Across the
River." The river was little more than a brook, except in spring,
when, after heavy snows, it sometimes verified its name of the Ramsey
River. Ramsey was an old family name in Amity, as Edgham was in
Edgham. Once, indeed, the little village had been called Ramsey Four
Corners. Then the old Ramsey family waned and grew less in popular
esteem, and one day the question of the appropriateness of naming the
village after them came up. There was another old family, by the name
of Saunders, between whom and the Ramseys had always been a dignified
New England feud. The Saunders had held their own much better than
the Ramseys. There was one branch especially, to which Judge Josiah
Saunders belonged, which was still notable. Judge Josiah had served
in the State legislature, he was a judge of the superior court, and
he occupied the best house in Amity, a fine specimen of the old
colonial mansion house, which had been in the Saunders family for
generations. Judge Saunders had made additions to this old mansion,
conservative, modern colonial additions, and it was really a noble
building. It was shortly after he had made the additions to his
house, and had served his first term as judge of the superior court,
that the question of changing the name of the village from Ramsey
Four Corners to Saunders had been broached. Meetings had been held,
in which the name of our celebrated townsman, the Honorable Josiah
Saunders, had been on every tongue. The Ramsey family obtained scant
recognition for past merits, but a becoming silence had been
maintained as to their present status. The only recognized survivors
of the old house of Ramsey at that time were the widow, Amelia
Ramsey, the wife of Anderson Ramsey, deceased, as she appeared in the
minutes of the meetings, and her son George, a lad of sixteen, and
the same who, in patched attire, had made love to Maria over the
garden fence when she was a child. It was about that time that the
meetings were taking place, and the name of the village had been
changed to Amity. It had been held to be a happy, even a noble and
generous thought, on the part of Josiah Saunders. "Would that in such
wise, by a combination of poetical aspirations and practical deeds,
all differences might be adjusted upon this globe," said the Amity
Argus, in an account of the meeting. Thenceforth, Ramsey Four Corners
became Amity, and the most genteel of the ladies had Amity engraved
on their note-paper.

Mrs. Amelia Ramsey and George, who had suffered somewhat in their
feelings, in spite of the poetical adjustment of the difference, had
no note-paper. They were poor, else Amity might never have been. They
lived in a house which had been, in its day, as pretentious as the
Saunders mansion. At the time of Maria's first visit to Amity it had
been a weather-beaten old structure, which had not been painted for
years, and had a curious effect as of a blur on the landscape, with
its roof and walls of rain and sun stained shingles and clapboards,
its leaning chimneys, and its Corinthian pillars widely out of the
perpendicular, supporting crazily the roofs of the double veranda.
When Maria went to Amity to begin teaching, the old house had
undergone a transformation. She gazed at it with amazement out of the
sitting-room window, which faced it, on the afternoon of her arrival.

"Why, what has happened to the old Ramsey house?" she asked her aunt
Maria.

"Well, in the first place, a cousin died and left them some money,"
replied Aunt Maria. "It was a matter of ten thousand dollars. Then
Amelia and George went right to work and fixed up the house. It was
none of my business, but it seemed dreadful silly to me. If I had
been in their place, I'd have let that old ramshackle of a place go
to pot and bought a nice little new house. There was one they could
have got for fifteen hundred dollars, on this side of the river; but
no, they went to work, and they must have laid out three thousand
clear on that old thing."

"It is beautiful!" said Maria, regarding it with admiration.

"Well, I don't think it's very beautiful, but everybody to their
liking," replied Aunt Maria, with a sniff of her high, transparent
nostrils. "For my part, I'd rather have a little, clean new house
before all the old ones, that folks have died in and worried in, in
creation."

But Maria continued to regard the renovated Ramsey house with
admiration. It stood close to the street, as is the case with so many
old houses in rural New England. It had a tiny brick strip of yard in
front, on which was set, on either side of the stoop, a great
century-plant in a pot. Above them rose a curving flight of steps to
a broad veranda, supported with Corinthian pillars, which were now
upright and glistening with white paint, as was the entire house.

"They had it all fixed up, inside and out," said Aunt Maria. "There
wasn't a room but was painted and papered, and a good many had to be
plastered. They did not get much new furniture, though. I should have
thought they'd wanted to. All they've got is awful old. But I heard
George Ramsey say he wouldn't swap one of those old mahogany pieces
for the best new thing to be bought. Well, everybody to their taste.
If I had had my house all fixed up that way, I should have wanted new
furniture to correspond."

"What is George Ramsey doing?" asked Maria, with a little, conscious
blush of which she was ashamed. Maria, all her life, would blush
because people expected it of her. She knew as plainly as if she had
spoken, that her aunt Maria was considering suddenly the advantages
of a possible match between herself and George Ramsey. What Aunt
Maria said immediately confirmed this opinion. She spoke with a sort
of chary praise of George. Aunt Maria had in reality never liked the
Ramseys; she considered that they felt above her, and for no good
reason; still, she had an eye for the main chance. It flashed swiftly
across her mind that her niece was pretty, and George might lose his
heart to her and marry her, and then Mrs. Amelia Ramsey might have to
treat her like an equal and no longer hold her old, aristocratic head
so high.

"Well," said she, "I suppose George Ramsey is pretty smart. They say
he is. I guess he favors his grandfather. His father wasn't any too
bright, if he was a Ramsey. George Ramsey, they say, worked his way
through college, used to be bell-boy or waiter or something in a
hotel summers, unbeknown to his mother. Amelia Ramsey would have had
a conniption fit if she had known that her precious boy was working
out. She used to talk as grand as you please about George's being
away on his vacation. Maybe she did know, but if she did she never
let on. I don't know as she let on even to herself. Amelia Ramsey is
one of the kind who can shut their eyes even when they look at
themselves. There never was a lookin'-glass made that could show
Amelia Ramsey anything she didn't want to see. I never had any
patience with her. I believe in being proud if you've got anything to
be proud of, but I don't see any sense in it otherwise. Anyhow, I
guess George is doing pretty well. A distant relation of his mother,
an Allen, not a Ramsey, got a place in a bank for him, they say, and
he gets good pay. I heard it was three thousand a year, but I don't
believe it. He ain't much over twenty, and it ain't likely. I don't
know jest how old he is. He's some older than you."

"He's a good deal older than I," said Maria, remembering sundry
confidences with the tall, lanky boy over the garden fence.

"Well, I don't know but he is," said Aunt Maria, "but I don't believe
he gets three thousand a year, anyhow."

The next morning Maria, on her way to school in the rain, passing
under the unconquerable golden glow of the maples, cast a
surreptitious glance at the old Ramsey house as she passed. It had
been wonderfully changed for the better. Even the garden at the side
next her aunt's house was no longer a weedy enclosure, but displayed
an array of hardy flowers which the frost had not yet affected.
Marigolds tossed their golden and russet balls through the misty wind
of the rain, princess-feathers waved bravely, and chrysanthemums
showed in gorgeous clumps of rose and yellow and white. As she
passed, a tidy maid emerged from the front door and began sweeping
out the rain which had lodged in the old hollows of the stone stoop,
worn by the steps of generations. The rain flew before her plying
broom in a white foam. The maid wore a cap and a wide, white apron.
Maria reflected that the Ramseys had indeed come into palmier days,
since they kept a maid so attired. She thought of George Ramsey with
his patched trousers, and again the old feeling of repulsion and
wonder at herself that she could have had romantic dreams about him
came over her. Maria felt unutterably old that morning, and yet she
had a little, childish dread of her new duties. She was in reality
afraid of the school-children, although she did not show it. She got
through the day very creditably, although that night she was tired as
she had never been in her life, and, curiously enough, her sense of
smell seemed to be the most affected. Many of her pupils came from
poor families, the families of operatives in the paper-mills, and
their garments were shabby and unclean. Soaked with rain, they gave
out pungent odors. Maria's sense of smell was very highly developed.
It seemed to her that her very soul was permeated, her very thoughts
and imagination, with the odor of damp, unclean clothing, of draggled
gowns and wraps and hats and wet leather. She could not eat her
supper; she could not eat the luncheon which her aunt had put up for
her, since the school being a mile away, it was too far to walk home
for the noonday dinner in the rain.

"You 'ain't eat hardly a mite of luncheon," Aunt Maria said when she
opened the box.

"I did not feel very hungry," Maria replied, apologetically.

"If you don't eat, you'll never hold out school-teaching in the
world," said Aunt Maria.

She repeated it when Maria scarcely tasted her supper, although it
was a nice one--cold ham, and scrambled eggs, scrambled with cream,
and delicious slabs of layer-cake. "You'll never hold out in the
world if you don't eat," said she.

"To tell the truth," replied Maria, "I can smell those poor
children's wet clothes so that it has taken away all my appetite."

"Land! you'll have to get over that," said Aunt Maria.

"It seems to me that everything smells and tastes of wet, dirty
clothes and shoes," said Maria.

"You'll have to learn not to be so particular," said Aunt Maria, and
she spoke with the same affectionate severity that Maria remembered
in her mother. "Put it out of your mind," she added.

"I can't," said Maria, and a qualm of nausea came over her. It was as
if the damp, unclean garments and the wet shoes were pressed close
under her nostrils. She looked pale.

"Well, drink your tea, anyhow," said Aunt Maria, with a glance at her.

After supper Aunt Maria, going into the other side of the house to
borrow some yeast, said to her brother Henry that she did not believe
that Maria would hold out to teach school. "She has come home sick on
account of the smells the very first day," said she, "and she hasn't
eat her supper, and she scarcely touched her luncheon."

Henry Stillman laughed, a bitter, sardonic laugh which he had
acquired of late years. "Oh, well, she will get used to it," he
replied. "Don't you worry, Maria. She will get used to it. The smell
of the poor is the smell of the world. Heaven itself must be full of
it."

His wife eyed him with a half-frightened air. "Why, don't talk so,
Henry!" she said.

Henry Stillman laughed, half sardonically, half tenderly. "It is so,
my dear," he said, "but don't you worry about it."

In these days Henry Stillman, although always maintaining his gentle
manner towards children and women, had become, in the depths of his
long-suffering heart, a rebel against fate. He had borne too long
that burden which is the heaviest and most ignoble in the world, the
burden of a sense of injury. He knew that he was fitted for better
things than he had. He thought that it was not his own personal fault
that he did not have them, and his very soul was curdling with a
conviction of wrong, both at the hands of men and God. In these days
he ceased going to church. He watched his wife and sister set out
every Sunday, and he stayed at home. He got a certain satisfaction
out of that. All who realize an injury have an amount of childishness
in acts of retaliation. He, Henry Stillman, actually had a conviction
that he was showing recrimination and wounding fate, which had so
injured him, if only with a pin-prick, by staying away from church.
After Maria came to live with them, she, too, went to church, but he
did not view her with the same sardonic air that he did the older
women, who had remained true to their faith in the face of disaster.
He looked at Maria, in her pretty little best gowns and hats, setting
forth, and a sweet tenderness for her love of God and belief
sweetened his own agnosticism. He would not for the world have said a
word to weaken the girl's faith nor to have kept her away from
church. He would have urged her to go had she manifested the
slightest inclination to remain at home. He was in a manner jealous
of the girl's losing what he had himself lost. He tried to refrain
from airing his morbid, bitter views of life to his wife, but once in
a while he could not restrain himself as now. However, he laughed so
naturally, and asked Maria, who presently came in, how many pupils
had been present, and how she liked school-teaching, that his wife
began to think that he had not been in earnest.

"They are such poor, dirty little things," Maria said, "and their
clothes were wet, and--and--" A look of nausea overspread her face.

"You will get used to that," said her uncle, laughing pleasantly.
"Eunice, haven't we got some cologne somewhere?"

Eunice got a bottle of cologne, which was seldom used, being a
luxury, from a closet in the sitting-room, and put some on Maria's
handkerchief. "You won't think anything about it after a little,"
said she, echoing her husband.

"I suppose the scholars in Lowe Academy were a different class," said
Aunt Maria, who had seated herself as primly as ever, with her hands
crossed but not touching the lap of her black gown. The folds of the
skirt were carefully arranged, and she did not move after having once
seated herself, for fear of creasing it.

"They were clean, at least," said Maria, with a little grimace of
disgust. "It does seem as if people might be clean, if they are poor."

"Some folks here are too poor to buy soap and wash-cloths and
towels," her uncle said, still not bitterly. "You must take that into
account, Maria. It takes a little extra money even to keep clean;
people don't get that into their heads, generally speaking, but it is
so."

"Well, I haven't had much money," said Aunt Maria, "but I must say I
have kept myself in soap and wash-rags and towels."

"You might not have been able to if you had had half a dozen children
and a drinking husband, or one who was out of work half the time,"
her brother said.

An elderly blush spread over his sister's face. "Well, the Lord knows
I'd rather have the soap and towels and wash-rags than a drunken
husband and half a dozen dirty children," she retorted, sharply.

"Lucky for you and the children that you have," said Henry. Then he
turned again to his niece, of whom he was very fond. "It won't rain
every day, dear," he said, "and the smells won't be so bad. Don't
worry."

Maria smiled back at him bravely. "I shall get used to it," she said,
sniffing at the cologne, which was cheap and pretty bad.

Maria was in reality dismayed. Her experience with children--that is,
her personal experience--had been confined to her sister Evelyn.
She compared dainty little Evelyn with the rough, uncouth,
half-degenerates which she had encountered that morning, sitting
before her with gaping mouths of stupidity or grins of impish
impudence, in their soiled, damp clothing, and her heart sank. There
was nothing in common except youth between these children, the
offspring of ignorance and often drunken sensuality, and Evelyn. At
first it seemed to her that there was absolutely no redeeming quality
in the whole. However, the next morning the sun shone through the
yellow maple boughs, and was reflected from the golden carpet of
leaves which the wind and rain of the day before had spread beneath.
The children were dry; some of them had become ingratiating, even
affectionate. She discovered that there were a number of pretty
little girls and innocent, honest little boys, whose mothers had made
pathetic attempts to send them clean and whole to school. She also
discovered that some of them had reasonably quick intelligence,
especially one girl, by name Jessy Ramsey. She was of a distant
branch of the old Ramseys, and had a high, spiritual forehead, from
which the light hair was smoothly combed in damp ridges, and a
delicate face with serious, intent blue eyes, under brows strangely
pent for a child. Maria straightway took a fancy to Jessy Ramsey.
When, on her way home at night, the child timidly followed in her
wake, she reached out and grasped her tiny hand with a warm pressure.

"You learned your lessons very well, Jessy," she said, and the
child's face, as she looked up at her, grew positively brilliant.

When Maria got home she enthused about her.

"There is one child in the school who is a wonder," said she.

"Who?" asked Aunt Maria. She was in her heart an aristocrat. She
considered the people of Amity--that is, the manufacturing people
(she exempted her own brother as she might have exempted a prince of
the blood drawn into an ignoble pursuit from dire necessity)--as
distinctly below par. Maria's school was across the river. She
regarded all the children below par. "I do wish you could have had a
school this side of the river," she added, "but Miss Norcross has
held the other ten years, and I don't believe she will ever get
married, she is so mortal homely, and they like her. Who is the child
you are talking about?"

"Her name is Ramsey, Jessy Ramsey."

Aunt Maria sniffed. "Oh!" said she. "She belongs to that Eugene
Ramsey tribe."

"Any relation to the Ramseys next door?" asked Maria.

"About a tenth cousin, I guess," replied Aunt Maria. "There was a
Eugene Ramsey did something awful years ago, before I was born, and
he got into state-prison, and then when he came out he married as low
as he could. They have never had anything to do with these Ramseys.
They are just as low as they can be--always have been."

"This little girl is pretty, and bright," said Maria.

Aunt Maria sniffed again. "Well, you'll see how she'll turn out," she
said. "Never yet anything good came of that Eugene Ramsey tribe. That
child's father drinks like a fish, and he's been in prison, and her
mother's no better than she should be, and she's got a sister that
everybody talks about--has ever since she was so high."

"This seems like a good little girl," said Maria.

"Wait and see," said Aunt Maria.

But for all that Maria felt herself drawn towards this poor little
offspring of the degenerate branch of the Ramseys. There was
something about the child's delicate, intellectual, fairly noble cast
of countenance which at once aroused her affection and pity. It was
in December, on a bitterly cold day, when Maria had been teaching in
Amity some two months, when this affection and pity ripened into
absolute fondness and protection. The children were out in the bare
school-yard during the afternoon recess, when Maria, sitting huddled
over the stove for warmth, heard such a clamor that she ran to the
window. Out in the desolate yard, a parallelogram of frozen soil
hedged in with a high board fence covered with grotesque, and even
obscene, drawings of pupils who had from time to time reigned in
district number six, was the little Ramsey girl, surrounded by a
crowd of girls who were fairly yelping like little mongrel dogs. The
boys' yard was on the other side of the fence, but in the fence was a
knot-hole wherein was visible a keen boy-eye. One girl after another
was engaged in pulling to the height of her knees Jessy Ramsey's
poor, little, dirty frock, thereby disclosing her thin, naked legs,
absolutely uncovered to the freezing blast. Maria rushed bareheaded
out in the yard and thrust herself through the crowd of little girls.

"Girls, what are you doing?" she asked, sternly.

"Please, teacher, Jessy Ramsey, she 'ain't got nothin' at all on
under her dress," piped one after another, in accusing tones; then
they yelped again.

Tears of pity and rage sprang to Maria's eyes. She caught hold of the
thin little shoulder, which was, beyond doubt, covered by nothing
except her frock, and turned furiously upon the other girls.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!" said she; "great girls like
you making fun of this poor child!"

"She had ought to be ashamed of herself goin' round so," retorted the
biggest girl in school, Alice Sweet, looking boldly at Maria. "She
ain't no better than her ma. My ma says so."

"My ma says I mustn't go with her," said another girl.

"Both of you go straight into the school-house," said Maria, at a
white heat of anger as she impelled poor little Jessy Ramsey out of
the yard.

"I don't care," said Alice Sweet, with quite audible impudence.

The black eye at the knot-hole in the fence which separated the
girls' yard from the boys' was replaced by a blue one. Maria's
attention was attracted towards it by an audible titter from the
other side.

"Every one of you boys march straight into the school-house," she
called. Then she led Jessy into a little room which was dedicated to
the teacher's outside wraps. The room was little more than a closet,
and very cold. Maria put her arm around Jessy and felt with horror
the little, naked body under the poor frock.

"For Heaven's sake, child, why are you out with so little on such a
day as this?" she cried out.

Jessy began to cry. She had heretofore maintained a sullen silence of
depression under taunts, but a kind word was too much for her.

"I 'ain't got no underclothes, teacher; I 'ain't, honest," she
sobbed. "I'd outgrowed all my last year's ones, and Mamie she's got
'em; and my mother she 'ain't got no money to buy any more, and my
father he's away on a drunk. I can't help it; I can't, honest,
teacher."

Maria gazed at the little thing in a sort of horror. "Do you mean to
say that you have actually nothing to put on but your dress, Jessy
Ramsey?" said she.

"I can't help it, honest, teacher," sobbed Jessy Ramsey.

Maria continued to gaze at her, then she led her into the school-room
and rang the bell furiously. When the scholars were all in their
places, she opened her lips to express her mind to them, but a
second's reflection seemed to show her the futility of it. Instead,
she called the geography class.

After school that night, Maria, instead of going home, went straight
to Jessy Ramsey's home, which was about half a mile from the
school-house. She held Jessy, who wore a threadbare little cape over
her frock, by the hand. Franky Ramsey and Mamie Ramsey, Jessy's
younger brother and sister, tagged timidly behind her. Finally, Maria
waited for them to come up with her, which they did with a cringing
air.

"I want to know," said Maria to Mamie, "if you are wearing all your
sister's underclothes this winter?"

Mamie whimpered a little as she replied. Mamie had a habitual whimper
and a mean little face, with a wisp of flaxen hair tied with a dirty
blue ribbon.

"Yes, ma'am," she replied. "Jessy she growed so she couldn't git into
'em, and mummer--"

The boy, who was very thin, almost to emaciation, and looked
consumptive, but who was impishly pert, cut in.

"I had to wear Jessy's shirts," he said. "Mamie she couldn't wear
them 'ere."

"So you haven't any flannel shirts?" Maria asked of Mamie.

"I'm wearin' mummer's," said Mamie. "Mummer's they shrunk so she
couldn't wear 'em, and Jessy couldn't nuther."

"What is your mother wearing?" asked Maria.

"Mr. John Dorsey he bought her some new ones," replied Mamie, and a
light of evil intelligence came into the mean little face.

"Who is Mr. John Dorsey?" asked Maria.

"Oh, he's to our house considerable," replied Mamie, still with that
evil light, which grew almost confidential, upon her face.

The boy chuckled a little and dug his toes into the frozen earth,
then he whistled.

The Ramsey house was the original old homestead of the family. It was
unspeakably decrepit and fallen from a former high estate. The old
house presented to Maria's fancy something in itself degraded and
loathsome. It seemed to partake actually of the character of its
inmates--to be stained and swollen and out of plumb with
unmentionable sins of degeneration. It was a very poisonous fungus of
a house, with blotches of paint here and there, with its front
portico supported drunkenly on swaying pillars, with its roof
hollowed about the chimney, with great stains here and there upon the
walls, which seemed like stains of sin rather than of old rains.
Maria marched straight to the house, leading Jessy, with Mamie and
Franky at her heels. She knocked on the door; there was no bell, of
course. But Franky pushed past her and opened the door, and sang out,
in his raucous voice:

"Hullo, mummer! Mummer!"

Mamie echoed him in her equally raucous voice, full of dissonances.
"Mummer! Mummer!"

A woman, large and dirty, but rather showily clad, with a brave
display of cheap jewelry, appeared in the doorway of a room on the
right, from which also issued a warm, spirituous odor, mingled with
onions and boiling meat. The woman, who had at one time been weakly
pretty, and even now was not bad-looking, stared with a sort of
vacant defiance at Maria.

"It's teacher, mummer," volunteered Mamie.

Franky chuckled again, and again whistled. Franky's chuckles and
whistles were characteristic of him. He often disturbed the school in
such fashion.

Maria had a vision of a man in his shirt-sleeves, smoking beside a
red-hot stove, on which boiled the meat and onions. She began at once
upon her errand.

"How do you do, Mrs. Ramsey?" said she.

The woman mumbled something inarticulate and backed a little. The man
in the room leaned forward and rolled bloodshot eyes at her. Maria
began at once. She had much of her mother's spirit, which, when it
was aroused, balked at nothing. She pointed at Jessy, then she
extended her small index-finger severely at Mrs. Ramsey.

"Mrs. Ramsey," said she, and she stood so straight that she looked
much taller, her blue eyes flashed like steel at the slinking ones of
the older woman, "I want to inquire why you sent this child to school
such a day as this in such a condition?"

Mrs. Ramsey again murmured something inarticulate and backed still
farther. Maria followed her quite into the room. A look of insolent
admiration became evident in the bloodshot eyes of the man beside the
stove. Maria had no false modesty when she was righteously incensed.
She would have said just the same before a room full of men.

"That child," she said, and she again pointed at Jessy, shivering in
her little, scanty frock--"that child came to school to-day without
any clothing under her dress; one of the coldest days of the year,
too. I don't see what you are thinking of, you, her own mother, to
let a child go out in such a condition! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself!"

Then the woman crimsoned with wrath and she found speech, the patois
of New England, instead of New Jersey, to which Maria was accustomed,
and which she understood. This woman, instead of half speaking, ran
all her words together in a coarse, nasal monotone.

"Hadn't nothin' to put on her," she said. "She'd outgrowed all she
had, hadn't nothin', mind your own business, go 'long home, where you
b'long."

Maria understood the last words, and she replied, fiercely, "I am not
going home one step until you promise me you'll get decent underwear
for this child to wear to school," said she, "and that you won't
allow her to go out-of-doors in this condition again. If you do, I'll
have you arrested."

The woman's face grew redder. She made a threatening movement towards
Maria, but the man beside the stove unexpectedly arose and slouched
between them, grinning and feeling in his pocket, whence he withdrew
two one-dollar notes.

"Here," he said, in a growling voice, which was nevertheless intended
to be ingratiating. "Go 'n' buy the young one somethin' to go to
school in. Don't yer mind."

Maria half extended her hand, then she drew it back. She looked at
the man, who exhaled whiskey as a fungus an evil perfume. She glanced
at Mrs. Ramsey.

"Is this man your father?" she asked of Jessy.

Immediately the boy burst into a peal of meaning laughter. The man
himself chuckled, then looked grave, with an effort, as he stood
extending the money.

"Better take 'em an' buy the young one some clothes," he said.

"Who is this man?" demanded Maria, severely, of the laughing boy.

"It's Mr. John Dorsey," replied Franky.

Then a light of the underneath evil fire of the world broke upon
Maria's senses. She repelled the man haughtily.

"I don't want your money," said she. "But"--she turned to the
woman--"if you send that child to school again, clothed as she is
to-day, I will have you arrested. I mean it." With that she was gone,
with a proud motion. Laughter rang out after her, also a scolding
voice and an oath. She did not turn her head. She marched straight on
out of the yard, to the street, and home.

She could not eat her supper. She had a sick, shocked feeling.

"What is the matter?" her aunt Maria asked. "It's so cold you can't
have been bothered with the smells to-day."

"It's worse than smells," replied Maria. Then she told her story.

Her aunt stared at her. "Good gracious! You didn't go to that awful
house, a young girl like you?" she said, and her prim cheeks burned.
"Why, that man's livin' right there with Mrs. Ramsey, and her husband
winking at it! They are awful people!"

"I would have gone anywhere to get that poor child clothed decently,"
said Maria.

"But you wouldn't take his money!"

"I rather guess I wouldn't!"

"Well, I don't blame you, but I don't see what is going to be done."

"I don't," said Maria, helplessly. She reflected how she had disposed
already of her small stipend, and would not have any more for some
time, and how her own clothing no more than sufficed for her.

"I can't give her a thing," said Aunt Maria. "I'm wearin' flannels
myself that are so patched there isn't much left of the first of 'em,
and it's just so with the rest of my clothes. I'm wearin' a petticoat
made out of a comfortable my mother made before Henry was married. It
was quilted fine, and had a small pattern, if it is copperplate, but
I don't darse hold my dress up only just so. I wouldn't have anybody
know it for the world. And I know Eunice ain't much better off. They
had that big doctor's bill, and I know she's patched and darned so
she'd be ashamed of her life if she fell down on the ice and broke a
bone. I tell you what it is, those other Ramseys ought to do
something. I don't care if they are such distant relations, they
ought to do something."

After supper Maria and her aunt went into the other side of the
house, and Aunt Maria, who had been waxing fairly explosive, told the
tale of poor little Jessy Ramsey going to school with no
undergarments.

"It's a shame!" said Eunice, who was herself nervous and easily
aroused to indignation. She sat up straight and the hollows on her
thin cheeks blazed, and her thin New England mouth tightened.

"George Ramsey ought to do something if he is earning as much as they
say he is," said Aunt Maria.

"That is so," said Eunice. "It doesn't make any difference if they
are so distantly related. It is the same name and the same blood."

Henry Stillman laughed his sardonic laugh. "You can't expect the
flowers to look out for the weeds," he said. "George Ramsey and his
mother are in full blossom; they have fixed up their house and are
holding up their heads. You can't expect them to look out for poor
relations who have gone to the bad, and done worse--got too poor to
buy clothes enough to keep warm."

Maria suddenly sprang to her feet. "I know what I am going to do,"
she announced, with decision, and made for the door.

"What on earth are you going to do?" asked her aunt Maria.

"I am going straight in there, and I am going to tell them how that
poor little thing came to school to-day, and tell them they ought to
be ashamed of themselves."

Before the others fairly realized what she was doing, Maria was out
of the house, running across the little stretch which intervened. Her
aunt Maria called after her, but she paid no attention. She was at
that moment ringing the Ramsey bell, with her pretty, uncovered hair
tossing in the December wind.

"She will catch her own death of cold," said Aunt Maria, "running out
without anything on her head."

"She will just get patronized for her pains," said Eunice, who had a
secret grudge against the Ramseys for their prosperity and their
renovated house, a grudge which she had not ever owned to her inmost
self, but which nevertheless existed.

"She doesn't stop to think one minute; she's just like her father
about that," said Aunt Maria.

Henry Stillman said nothing. He took up his paper, which he had been
reading when Maria and his sister entered.

Meantime, Maria was being ushered into the Ramsey house by a maid who
wore a white cap. The first thing which she noticed as she entered
the house was a strong fragrance of flowers. That redoubled her
indignation.

"These Ramseys can buy flowers in midwinter," she thought, "while
their own flesh and blood go almost naked."

She entered the room in which the flowers were, a great bunch of pink
carnations in a tall, green vase. The room was charming. It was not
only luxurious, but gave evidences of superior qualities in its
owners. It was empty when Maria entered, but soon Mrs. Ramsey and her
son came in. Maria recognized with a start her old acquaintance, or
rather she did not recognize him. She would not have known him at all
had she not seen him in his home. She had not seen him before, for he
had been away ever since she had come to Amity. He had been West on
business for his bank. Now he at once stepped forward and spoke to
her.

"You are my old friend, Miss Edgham, I think," he said. "Allow me to
present my mother."

Maria bowed perforce before the very gentle little lady in a soft
lavender cashmere, with her neck swathed in laces, but she did not
accept the offered seat, and she utterly disregarded the glance of
astonishment which both mother and son gave at her uncovered
shoulders and head. Maria's impetuosity had come to her from two
sides. When it was in flood, so to speak, nothing could stop it.

"No, thank you, I can't sit down," she said. "I came on an errand.
You are related, I believe, to the other Ramseys. The children go to
my school. There are Mamie and Franky and Jessy."

"We are very distantly related, and, on the whole, proud of the
distance rather than the relationship," said George Ramsey, with a
laugh.

Then Maria turned fiercely upon him. "You ought to be ashamed of
yourself," said she.

The young man stared at her.

Maria persisted. "Yes, you ought," she said. "I don't care how
distant the relationship is, the same blood is in your veins, and you
bear the same name."

"Why, what is the matter?" asked George Ramsey, still in a puzzled,
amused voice.

Maria spoke out. "That poor little Jessy Ramsey," said she, "and she
is the prettiest and brightest scholar I have, too, came to school
to-day without a single stitch of clothing under her dress. It is a
wonder she didn't die. I don't know but she will die, and if she does
it will be your fault."

George Ramsey's face suddenly sobered; his mother's flushed. She
looked at him, then at Maria, almost with fright. She felt really
afraid of this forcible girl, who was so very angry and so very
pretty in her anger. Maria had never looked prettier than she did
then, with her cheeks burning and her blue eyes flashing with
indignation and defiance.

"That is terrible, such a day as this," said George Ramsey.

"Yes; I had no idea they were quite so badly off," murmured his
mother.

"You ought to have had some idea," flashed out Maria.

"We had not, Miss Edgham," said George, gently. "You must remember
how very distant the relationship is. I believe it begins with the
fourth generation from myself. And there are other reasons--"

"There ought not to be other reasons," Maria said.

Mrs. Ramsey looked with wonder and something like terror and aversion
at this pretty, violent girl, who was espousing so vehemently, not to
say rudely, the cause of the distant relatives of her husband's
family. The son, however, continued to smile amusedly at Maria.

"Won't you sit down, Miss Edgham?" he said.

"Yes, won't you sit down?" his mother repeated, feebly.

"No, thank you," said Maria. "I only came about this. I--I would do
something for the poor little thing myself, but I haven't any money
now, and Aunt Maria would, and Uncle Henry, and Aunt Eunice, but
they--"

All at once Maria, who was hardly more than a child herself, and who
had been in reality frightfully wrought up over the piteous plight of
the other child, lost control of herself. She began to cry. She put
her handkerchief to her face and sobbed helplessly.

"The poor little thing! oh, the poor little thing!" she panted, "with
nobody in the world to do anything for her, and her own people so
terribly wicked. I--can't bear it!"

The first thing she knew, Maria was having a large, soft cloak folded
around her, and somebody was leading her gently to the door. She
heard a murmured good-night, to which she did not respond except by a
sob, and was led, with her arm rather closely held, along the
sidewalk to her own door. At the door George Ramsey took her hand,
and she felt something pressed softly into it.

"If you will please buy what the poor little thing needs to make her
comfortable," he whispered.

"Thank you," Maria replied, faintly. She began to be ashamed of her
emotion.

"You must not think that my mother and I were knowing to this,"
George Ramsey said. "We are really such very distant relations that
the name alone is the only bond between us; still, on general
principles, if the name had been different, I would do what I could.
Such suffering is terrible. You must not think us hard-hearted, Miss
Edgham."

Maria looked up at the young fellow's face, upon which an electric
light shone fully, and it was a good face to see. She could not at
all reconcile it with her memory of the rather silly little boy with
the patched trousers, with whom she had discoursed over the garden
fence. This face was entirely masterly, dark and clean-cut, with fine
eyes, and a distinctly sweet expression about the mouth which he had
inherited from his mother.

"I suppose I was very foolish," Maria said, in a low voice. "I am
afraid I was rude to your mother. I did not mean to be, but the poor
little thing, and this bitter day, and I went home with her, and
there was a dreadful man there who offered me money to buy things for
her--"

"I hope you did not take it," George Ramsey said, quickly.

"No."

"I am glad of that. They are a bad lot. I don't know about this
little girl. She may be a survival of the fittest, but take them all
together they are a bad lot, if they are my relatives. Good-night,
Miss Edgham, and I beg you not to distress yourself about it all."

"I am very sorry if I was rude," Maria said, and she spoke like a
little girl.

"You were not rude at all," George responded, quickly. "You were only
all worked up over such suffering, and it did you credit. You were
not rude at all." He shook hands again with Maria. Then he asked if
he might call and see her sometime. Maria said yes, and fled into the
house.

She went into her aunt Maria's side of the house, and ran straight
up-stairs to her own room. Presently she heard doors opening and
shutting and knew that her aunt was curiously following her from the
other side. She came to Maria's door, which was locked. Aunt Maria
was not surprised at that, as Maria always locked her door at
night--she herself did the same.

"Have you gone to bed?" called Aunt Maria.

"Yes," replied Maria, who had, indeed, hurriedly hustled herself into
bed.

"Gone to bed early as this?" said Aunt Maria.

"I am dreadfully tired," replied Maria.

"Did they give you anything? Why didn't you come into the other side
and tell us about it?"

"Mr. George Ramsey gave me ten dollars."

"Gracious!" said Aunt Maria.

Presently she spoke again. "What did they say?" she asked.

"Not much of anything."

"Gave you ten dollars?" said Aunt Maria. "Well, you can get enough to
make her real comfortable with that. Didn't you get chilled through
going over there without anything on?"

"No," replied Maria, and as she spoke she realized, in the moonlit
room, a mass of fur-lined cloak over a chair. She had forgotten to
return it to George Ramsey. "I had Mrs. Ramsey's cloak coming home,"
she called.

"Well, I'm glad you did. It's awful early to go to bed. Don't you
want something?"

"No, thank you."

"Don't you want me to heat a soapstone and fetch it up to you?"

"No, thank you."

"Well, good-night," said Aunt Maria, in a puzzled voice.

"Good-night," said Maria. Then she heard her aunt go away.

It was a long time before Maria went to sleep. She awoke about two
o'clock in the morning and was conscious of having been awakened by a
strange odor, a combined odor of camphor and lavender, which came
from Mrs. Ramsey's cloak. It disturbed her, although she could not
tell why. Then all at once she saw, as plainly as if he were really
in the room, George Ramsey's face. At first a shiver of delight came
over her; then she shuddered. A horror, as of one under conviction of
sin, came over her. It was as if she repelled an evil angel from her
door, for she remembered all at once what had happened to her, and
that it was a sin for her even to dream of George Ramsey; and she had
allowed him to come into her waking dreams. She got out of bed, took
up the soft cloak, thrust it into her closet, and shut the door. Then
she climbed shivering back into bed, and lay there in the moonlight,
entangled in the mystery of life.



Chapter XIX


The very next day, which was Saturday, and consequently a holiday,
Maria went on the trolley to Westbridge, which was a provincial city
about six miles from Amity. She proposed buying some clothing for
Jessy Ramsey with the ten dollars which George Ramsey had given her.
Her aunt Eunice accompanied her.

"George Ramsey goes over to Westbridge on the trolley," said Eunice,
as they jolted along--the cars were very well equipped, but the road
was rough--"and I shouldn't wonder if he was on our car coming back."

Maria colored quickly and looked out of the window. The cars were
constructed like those on steam railroads, with seats facing towards
the front, and Maria's aunt had insisted upon her sitting next to the
window because the view was in a measure new to her. She had not been
over the road many times since she had come to Amity. She stared out
at the trimly kept country road, lined with cheap Queen Anne houses
and the older type of New England cottages and square frame houses,
and it all looked strange to her after the red soil and the lapse
towards Southern ease and shiftlessness of New Jersey. But nothing
that she looked upon was as strange as the change in her own heart.
Maria, from being of an emotional nature, had many times considered
herself as being in love, young as she was, but this was different.
When her aunt Eunice spoke of George Ramsey she felt a rigid shiver
from head to foot. It seemed to her that she could not see him nor
speak to him, that she could not return to Amity on the same car. She
made no reply at first to her aunt's remark, but finally she said, in
a faint voice, that she supposed Mr. Ramsey came home after bank
hours at three o'clock.

"He comes home a good deal later than that, as a general thing," said
Eunice. "Oftener than not I see him get off the car at six o'clock. I
guess he stays and works after bank hours. George Ramsey is a worker,
if there ever was one. He's a real likely young man."

Maria felt Eunice's eyes upon her, and realized that she was
thinking, as her aunt Maria had done, that George Ramsey would be a
good match for her. A sort of desperation seized upon her.

"I don't know what you mean by likely," Maria said, impertinently, in
her shame and defiance.

"Don't know what I mean by likely?"

"No, I don't. People in New Jersey don't say likely."

"Why, I mean he is a good young man, and likely to turn out well,"
responded Eunice, rather helplessly. She was a very gentle woman, and
had all her life been more or less intimidated by her husband's and
sister-in-laws' more strenuous natures; and, if the truth were told,
she stood in a little awe of this blooming young niece, with her
self-possession and clothes of the New York fashion.

"I don't see why he is more _likely_, as you call it, than any other
young man," Maria returned, pitilessly. "I should call him a very
ordinary young man."

"He isn't called so generally," Eunice said, feebly.

They were about half an hour reaching Westbridge. Eunice by that time
had plucked up a little spirit. She reflected that Maria knew almost
nothing about the shopping district, and she herself had shopped
there all her life since she had been of shopping age. Eunice had a
great respect for the Westbridge stores, and considered them
distinctly superior to those of Boston. She was horrified when Maria
observed, shortly before they got off the car, that she supposed they
could have done much better in Boston.

"I guess you will find that Adams & Wood's is as good a store as any
you could go to in New York," said Eunice. "Then there is the Boston
Store, too, and Collins & Green's. All of them are very good, and
they have a good assortment. Hardly anybody in Amity goes anywhere
else shopping, they think the Westbridge stores so much better."

"Of course it is cheaper to come here," said Maria, as they got off
the car in front of Adams & Wood's.

"That isn't the reason," said Eunice, eagerly. "Why, Mrs. Judge
Saunders buys 'most everything here; says she can do enough sight
better than she can anywhere else."

"If the dress Mrs. Saunders had on at the church supper was a sample,
she dresses like a perfect guy," said Maria, as they entered the
store, with its two pretentious show-windows filled with waxen ladies
dressed in the height of the fashion, standing in the midst of
symmetrically arranged handkerchiefs and rugs.

Maria knew that she was even cruelly pert to her aunt, but she felt
like stinging--like crowding some of the stings out of her own heart.
She asked herself was ever any girl so horribly placed as she was,
married, and not married; and now she had seen some one else whom she
must shun and try to hate, although she wished to love him. Maria
felt instinctively, remembering the old scenes over the garden fence,
and remembering how she herself had looked that very day as she
started out, with her puffy blue velvet turban rising above the soft
roll of her fair hair and her face blooming through a film of brown
lace, and also remembering George Ramsey's tone as he asked if he
might call, that if she were free that things might happen with her
as with other girls; that she and George Ramsey might love each
other, and become engaged; that she might save her school money for a
trousseau, and by-and-by be married to a man of whom she should be
very proud. The patches on George Ramsey's trousers became very dim
to her. She admired him from the depths of her heart.

"I guess we had better look at flannels first," Eunice said. "It
won't do to get all wool, aside from the expense, for with that
Ramsey woman's washing it wouldn't last any time."

She and her aunt made most of their purchases in Adams & Wood's. They
succeeded in obtaining quite a comfortable little outfit for Jessy
Ramsey, and at last boarded a car laden with packages. Eunice had a
fish-net bag filled to overflowing, but Maria, who, coming from the
vicinity of New York, looked down on bags, carried her parcels in her
arms.

Directly they were seated in the car Eunice gave Maria a violent
nudge with her sharp elbow. "He's on this car," she whispered in her
ear, with a long hiss which seemed to penetrate the girl's brain.

Maria made an impatient movement.

"Don't you think you ought to just step over and thank him?"
whispered Eunice. "I'll hold your bundles. He's on the other side, a
seat farther back. He raised his hat to me."

"Hush! I can't here."

"Well, all right, but I thought it would look sort of polite," said
Eunice. Then she subsided. Once in a while she glanced back at George
Ramsey, then uneasily at her niece, but she said nothing more.

The car was crowded. Workmen smelling of leather clung to the straps.
One, in the aisle next Maria, who sat on the outside this time,
leaned fairly against her. He was a good-looking young fellow, but he
had a heavy jaw. He held an unlighted pipe in his mouth, and carried
a two-story tin dinner-pail. Maria kept shrinking closer to her aunt,
but the young man pressed against her all the more heavily. His eyes
were fixed with seeming unconsciousness ahead, but a furtive smile
lurked around his mouth.

George Ramsey was watching. All at once he arose and quietly and
unobtrusively came forward, insinuated himself with a gentle force
between Maria and the workman, and spoke to her. The workman muttered
something under his breath, but moved aside. He gave an ugly glance
at George, who did not seem to see him at all. Presently he sat down
in George's vacated seat beside another man, who said something to
him with a coarse chuckle. The man growled in response, and continued
to scowl furtively at George, who stood talking to Maria. He said
something about the fineness of the day, and Maria responded rather
gratefully. She was conscious of an inward tumult which alarmed her,
and made her defiant both at the young man and herself, but she could
not help responding to the sense of protection which she got from his
presence. She had not been accustomed to anything like the rudeness
of the young workman. In New Jersey caste was more clearly defined.
Here it was not defined at all. An employe in a shoe-factory had not
the slightest conception that he was not the social equal of a
school-teacher, and indeed in many cases he was. There were by no
means all like this one, whose mere masculine estate filled him with
entire self-confidence where women were concerned. In a sense his
ignorance was pathetic. He had honestly thought that the pretty,
strange girl must like his close contact, and he felt aggrieved that
this other young man, who did not smell of leather and carried no
dinner-pail, had ousted him. He viewed Maria's delicate profile with
a sort of angry tenderness.

"Say, she's a beaut, ain't she?" whispered the man beside him, with a
malicious grin, and again got a surly growl in response.

Maria finally, much to her aunt's delight, said to George that they
had been shopping, and thanked him for the articles which his money
had enabled them to buy.

"The poor little thing can go to school now," said Maria. There was
gratitude in her voice, and yet, oddly enough, still a tinge of
reproach.

"If mother and I had dreamed of the true state of affairs we would
have done something before," George Ramsey said, with an accent of
apology; and yet he could not see for the life of him why he should
be apologetic for the poverty of these degenerate relatives of his.
He could not see why he was called upon to be his brother's keeper in
this case, but there was something about Maria's serious, accusing
gaze of blue eyes, and her earnest voice, that made him realize that
he could prostrate himself before her for uncommitted sins. Somehow,
Maria made him feel responsible for all that he might have done wrong
as well as his actual wrong-doing, although he laughed at himself for
his mental attitude. Suddenly a thought struck him. "When are you
going to take all these things (how you ever managed to get so much
for ten dollars I don't understand) to the child?" he asked, eagerly.

Maria replied, unguardedly, that she intended to take them after
supper that night. "Then she will have them all ready for Monday,"
she said.

"Then let me go with you and carry the parcels," George Ramsey said,
eagerly.

Maria stiffened. "Thank you," she said, "but Uncle Henry is going
with me, and there is no need."

Maria felt her aunt Eunice give a sudden start and make an
inarticulate murmur of remonstrance, then she checked herself. Maria
knew that her uncle walked a mile from his factory to save car-fare;
she knew also that she was telling what was practically an untruth,
since she had made no agreement with her uncle to accompany her.

"I should be happy to go with you," said George Ramsey, in a boyish,
abashed voice.

Maria said nothing more. She looked past her aunt out of the window.
The full moon was rising, and all at once all the girl's sweet light
of youthful romance appeared again above her mental horizon. She felt
that it would be almost heaven to walk with George Ramsey in that
delicious moonlight, in the clear, frosty air, and take little Jessy
Ramsey her gifts. Maria was of an almost abnormal emotional nature,
although there was little that was material about the emotion. She
dreamed of that walk as she might have dreamed of a walk with a fairy
prince through fairy-land, and her dream was as innocent, but it
unnerved her. She said again, in a tremulous voice, that she was very
much obliged, and murmured something again about her uncle Henry; and
George Ramsey replied, with a certain sober dignity, that he should
have been very happy.

Soon after that the car stopped to let off some passengers, and
George moved to a vacant seat in front. He did not turn around again.
Maria looked at his square shoulders and again gazed past her aunt at
the full orb of the moon rising with crystalline splendor in the pale
amber of the east. There was a clear gold sunset which sent its
reflection over the whole sky.

Presently, Eunice spoke in her little, deprecating voice, which had a
slight squeak.

"Did you speak to your uncle Henry about going with you this
evening?" she asked.

"No, I didn't," admitted Maria, reddening, "but I knew he would be
willing."

"I suppose he will be," said Eunice. "But he does get home awful
tuckered out Saturday nights, and he always takes his bath Saturday
nights, too."

Eunice looked out of the window with a slight frown. She adored her
husband, and the thought of that long walk for him on his weary
Saturday evening, and the possible foregoing of his bath, troubled
her.

"I don't believe George Ramsey liked it," she whispered, after a
little.

"I can't help it if he didn't," replied Maria. "I can't go with him,
Aunt Eunice."

As they jolted along, Maria made up her mind that she would not ask
her uncle to go with her at all; that she would slip out unknown to
Aunt Maria and ask the girl who lived in the house on the other side,
Lily Merrill, to go with her. She thought that two girls need not be
afraid, and she could start early.

As she parted from her aunt Eunice at the door of the house, after
they had left the car (Eunice's door was on the side where the
Ramseys lived, and Maria's on the Merrill side), she told her of her
resolution.

"Don't say anything to Uncle Henry about going with me," said she.

"Why, what are you going to do?"

"I'll get Lily Merrill. I know she won't mind."

Maria and Lily Merrill had been together frequently since Maria had
come to Amity, and Eunice accounted them as intimate. She looked
hesitatingly a second at her niece, then she said, with an evident
air of relief:

"Well, I don't know but you can. It's bright moonlight, and it's late
in the season for tramps. I don't see why you two girls can't go
together, if you start early."

"We'll start right after supper," said Maria.

"I would," said Eunice, still with an air of relief.

Maria took her aunt's fish-net bag, as well as her own parcels, and
carried them around to her aunt Maria's side of the house, and
deposited them on the door-step. There was a light in the kitchen,
and she could see her aunt Maria's shadow moving behind the curtain,
preparing supper. Then she ran across the yard, over the frozen
furrows of a last year's garden, and knocked at the side-door of the
Merrill house.

Lily herself opened the door, and gave a little, loving cry of
surprise. "Why, is it you, dear?" she said.

"Yes. I want to know if you can go over the river with me to-night on
an errand?"

"Over the river? Where?"

"Oh, only to Jessy Ramsey's. Aunt Eunice and I have been to
Westbridge and bought these things for her, and I want to carry them
to her to-night. I thought maybe you would go with me."

Lily hesitated. "It's a pretty lonesome walk," said she, "and there
are an awful set of people on the other side of the river."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried Maria. "You aren't afraid--we two together--and
it's bright moonlight, as bright as day."

"Yes, I know it is," replied Lily, gazing out at the silver light
which flooded everything, but she still hesitated. A light in the
house behind gave her a background of light. She was a beautiful
girl, prettier than Maria, taller, and with a timid, pliant grace.
Her brown hair tossed softly over her big, brown eyes, which were
surmounted by strongly curved eyebrows, her nose was small, and her
mouth, and she had a fascinating little way of holding her lips
slightly parted, as if ready for a loving word or a kiss. Everybody
said that Lily Merrill had a beautiful disposition, albeit some
claimed that she lacked force. Maria dominated her, although she did
not herself know it. Lily continued to hesitate with her beautiful,
startled brown eyes on Maria's face.

"Aren't you afraid?" she said.

"Afraid? No. What should I be afraid of? Why, it's bright moonlight!
I would just as soon go at night as in the daytime when the moon is
bright."

"That is an awful man who lives at the Ramseys'!"

"Nonsense! I guess if he tried to bother us, Mrs. Ramsey would take
care of him," said Maria. "Come along, Lily. I would ask Uncle Henry,
but it is the night when he takes his bath, and he comes home tired."

"Well, I'll go if mother will let me," said Lily.

Then Lily called to her mother, who came to the sitting-room door in
response.

"Mother," said Lily, "Maria wants me to go over to the Ramseys',
those on the other side of the river, after supper, and carry these
things to Jessy."

"Aren't you afraid?" asked Lily's mother, as Lily herself had done.
She was a faded but still pretty woman who had looked like her
daughter in her youth. She was a widow with some property, enough for
her Lily and herself to live on in comfort.

"Why, it's bright moonlight, Mrs. Merrill," said Maria, "and the
Ramseys live just the other side of the river."

"Well, if Lily isn't afraid, I don't care," said Mrs. Merrill. She
had an ulterior motive for her consent, of which neither of the two
girls suspected her. She was smartly dressed, and her hair was
carefully crimped, and she had, as always in the evening, hopes that
a certain widower, the resident physician of Amity, Dr. Ellridge,
might call. He had noticed her several times at church suppers, and
once had walked home with her from an evening meeting. Lily never
dreamed that her mother had aspirations towards a second husband. Her
father had been dead ten years; the possibility of any one in his
place had never occurred to her; then, too, she looked upon her
mother as entirely too old for thoughts of that kind. But Mrs.
Merrill had her own views, which she kept concealed behind her
pretty, placid exterior. She always welcomed the opportunity of being
left alone of an evening, because she realized the very serious
drawback that the persistent presence of a pretty, well-grown
daughter might be if a wooer would wish to woo. She knew perfectly
well that if Dr. Ellridge called, Lily would wonder why he called,
and would sit all the evening in the same room with her fancy-work,
entirely unsuspicious. Lily might even think he came to see her. Mrs.
Merrill had a measure of slyness and secrecy which her daughter did
not inherit. Lily was not brilliant, but she was as entirely sweet
and open as the flower for which she was named. She was emotional,
too, with an innocent emotionlessness, and very affectionate. Mrs.
Merrill made almost no objection to Lily's going with Maria, but
merely told her to wrap up warmly when she went out. Lily looked
charming, with a great fur boa around her long, slender throat, and
red velvet roses nestling under the brim of her black hat against the
soft puff of her brown hair. She bent over her mother and kissed her.

"I hope you won't be very lonesome, mother dear," she said.

Mrs. Merrill blushed a little. To-night she had confident hopes of
the doctor's calling; she had even resolved upon a coup. "Oh no, I
shall not be lonesome," she replied. "Norah isn't going out, you
know."

"We shall not be gone long, anyway," Lily said, as she went out. She
had not even noticed her mother's blush. She was not very acute. She
ran across the yard, the dry grass of which shone like a carpet of
crisp silver in the moonlight, and knocked on Maria's door. Maria
answered her knock. She was all ready, and she had her aunt Eunice's
fish-net bag and her armful of parcels.

"Here, let me take some of them, dear," said Lily, in her cooing
voice, and she gathered up some of the parcels under her long, supple
arm.

Maria's aunt Maria followed her to the door. "Now, mind you don't go
into that house," said she. "Just leave the things and run right
home; and if you see anybody who looks suspicious, go right up to a
house and knock. I don't feel any too safe about you two girls going,
anyway."

Aunt Maria spoke in a harsh, croaking voice; she had a cold. Maria
seized her by the shoulders and pushed her back, laughingly.

"You go straight in the house," said she. "And don't you worry. Lily
and I both have hat-pins, and we can both run, and there's nothing to
be afraid of, anyway."

"Well, I don't half like the idea," croaked Aunt Maria, retreating.

Lily and Maria went on their way. Lily looked affectionately at her
companion, whose pretty face gained a singular purity of beauty from
the moonlight.

"How good you are, dear," she said.

"Nonsense!" replied Maria. Somehow all at once the consciousness of
her secret, which was always with her, like some hidden wound, stung
her anew. She thought suddenly how Lily would not think her good at
all if she knew what an enormous secret she was hiding from her, of
what duplicity she was guilty.

"Yes, you are good," said Lily, "to take all this trouble to get that
poor little thing clothes."

"Oh, as for that," said Maria, "Mr. George Ramsey is the one to be
thanked. It was his money that bought the things, you know."

"He is good, too," said Lily, and her voice was like a song with
cadences of tenderness.

Maria started and glanced at her, then looked away again. A qualm of
jealousy, of which she was ashamed, seized her. She gave her head a
toss, and repeated, with a sort of defiance, "Yes, he is good enough,
I suppose."

"I think you are real sweet," said Lily, "and I do think George
Ramsey is splendid."

"I don't see anything very remarkable about him," said Maria.

"Don't you think he is handsome?"

"I don't know. I don't suppose I ever think much about a man being
handsome. I don't like handsome men, anyway. I don't like men,
anyway, when it comes to that."

"George Ramsey is very nice," said Lily, and there was an accent in
her speech which made the other girl glance at her. Lily's face was
turned aside, although she was clinging close to Maria's arm, for she
was in reality afraid of being out in the night with another girl.

They walked along in silence after that. When they came to the
covered bridge which crossed the river, Lily forced Maria into a run
until they reached the other side.

"It is awful in here," she said, in a fearful whisper.

Maria laughed. She herself did not feel the least fear, although she
was more imaginative than the other girl. At that time a kind of rage
against life itself possessed her which made her insensible to
ordinary fear. She felt that she had been hardly used, and she was,
in a measure, at bay. She knew that she could fight anything until
she died, and beyond that there was nothing certainly to fear. She
had become abnormal because of her strained situation as regarded
society. However, she ran because Lily wished her to do so, and they
soon emerged from the dusty tunnel of the bridge, with its strong
odor of horses, and glimpses between the sides of the silver current
of the river, into the moon-flooded road.

After the bridge came the school-house, then, a half-mile beyond
that, the Ramsey house. The front windows were blazing with light,
and the sound of a loud, drunken voice came from within.

Lily shrank and clung closely to Maria.

"Oh, Maria, I am awfully afraid to go to the door," she whispered.
"Just hear that. Eugene Ramsey must be home drunk, and--and perhaps
the other man, too. I am afraid. Don't let's go there."

Maria looked about her. "You see that board fence, then?" she said to
Lily, and as she spoke she pointed to a high board fence on the other
side of the street, which was completely in shadow.

"Yes."

"Well, if you are afraid, just go and stand straight against the
fence. You will be in shadow, and if you don't move nobody can
possibly see you. Then I will go to the door and leave the things."

"Oh, Maria, aren't you afraid?"

"No, I am not a bit afraid."

"You won't go in, honest?"

"No, I won't go in. Run right over there."

Lily released her hold of Maria's arm and made a fluttering break for
the fence, against which she shrank and became actually invisible as
a shadow. Maria marched up to the Ramsey door and knocked loudly.
Mrs. Ramsey came to the door, and Maria thrust the parcels into her
hands and began pulling them rapidly out of the fish-net bag. Mrs.
Ramsey cast a glance behind her at the lighted room, through which
was visible the same man whom Maria had seen before, and also
another, and swung the door rapidly together, so that she stood in
the dark entry, only partly lighted by the moonlight.

"I have brought some things for Jessy to wear to school, Mrs.
Ramsey," said Maria.

"Thank you," Mrs. Ramsey mumbled, doubtfully, with still another
glance at the closed door, through which shone lines and chinks of
light.

"There are enough for her to be warmly clothed, and you will see to
it that she has them on, won't you?" said Maria. Her voice was quite
sweet and ingratiating, and not at all patronizing.

Suddenly the woman made a clutch at her arm. "You are a good young
one, doin' so much for my young one," she whispered. "Now you'd
better git up and git. They've been drinkin'. Git!"

"You will see that Jessy has the things to wear Monday, won't you?"
said Maria.

"Sure." Suddenly the woman wiped her eyes and gave a maudlin sob.
"You're a good young one," she whimpered. "Now, git."

Maria ran across the road as the door closed after her. She did not
know that Mrs. Ramsey had given the parcels which she had brought a
toss into another room, and when she entered the room in which the
men were carousing and was asked who had come to the door, had
replied, "The butcher for his bill," to be greeted with roars of
laughter. She did, indeed, hear the roars of laughter. Lily slunk
along swiftly beside the fence by her side. Maria caught her by the
arm. Curiously enough, while she was not afraid for herself, she did
feel a little fear now for her companion. The two girls hurried until
they reached the bridge, and ran the whole length. On the other side,
coming into the lighted main street of Amity, they felt quite safe.

"Did you see any of those dreadful men?" gasped Lily.

"I just caught a glimpse of them, then Mrs. Ramsey shut the door,"
said Maria.

"They were drunk, weren't they?"

"I shouldn't wonder."

"I do think it was an awful place to go to," said Lily, with a little
sigh of relief that she was out of it.

The girls went along the street until they reached the Ramsey house,
next the one where Maria lived. Suddenly a man's figure appeared from
the gate. It was almost as if he had been watching.

"Good-evening," he said, and the girls saw that he was George Ramsey.

"Good-evening, Mr. Ramsey," responded Maria. She felt Lily's arm
tremble in hers. George walked along with them. "I have been to carry
the presents which I bought with your money," said Maria.

"Good heavens! You don't mean that you two girls have been all alone
up there?" said George.

"Why, yes," said Maria. "Why not?"

"Weren't you afraid?"

"Maria isn't afraid of anything," Lily's sweet, little, tremulous
voice piped on the other side.

George was walking next Maria. There was a slight and very gentle
accusation in the voice.

"It wasn't safe," said George, soberly, "and I should have been glad
to go with you."

Maria laughed. "Well, here we are, safe and sound," she said. "I
didn't see anything to be much afraid of."

"All the same, they are an awful set there," said George. They had
reached Maria's door, and he added, "Suppose you walk along with me,
Miss Edgham, and I will see Lily home." George had been to school
with Lily, and had always called her by her first name.

Maria again felt that little tremor of Lily's arm in hers, and did
not understand it. "All right," she said.

The three walked to Lily's door, and had said good-night, when Lily,
who was, after all, the daughter of her mother, although her little
artifices were few and innocent, had an inspiration. She discovered
that she had lost her handkerchief.

"I think I took it out when we reached your gate, Mr. Ramsey," she
said, timidly, for she felt guilty.

It was quite true that the handkerchief was not in her muff, in which
she had carried it, but there was a pocket in her coat which she did
not investigate.

They turned back, looking along the frozen ground.

"Never mind," Lily said, cheerfully, when they had reached the Ramsey
gate and returned to the Edgham's, and the handkerchief was not
forthcoming, "it was an old one, anyway. Good-night."

She knew quite well that George Edgham would do what he did--walk
home with her the few steps between her house and Maria's, and that
Maria would not hesitate to say good-night and enter her own door.

"I guess I had better go right in," said Maria. "Aunt Maria has a
cold, and she may worry and be staying up."

Lily was entirely happy at walking those few steps with George
Ramsey. He had pulled her little hand through his arm in a school-boy
sort of fashion. He left her at the door with a friendly good-night,
but she had got what she wanted. He had not gone those few steps
alone with Maria. Lily loved Maria, but she did not want George
Ramsey to love her.

When Lily entered the house, to her great astonishment she found Dr.
Ellridge there. He was seated beside her mother, who was lying on the
sofa.

"Why, mother, what is it--are you sick?" Lily cried, anxiously, while
the doctor looked with admiration at her face, glowing with the cold.

"I had one of my attacks after supper, and sent Norah for Dr.
Ellridge. I thought I had better," Mrs. Merrill explained, feebly.
She sighed and looked at the doctor, who understood perfectly, but
did not betray himself. He was, in fact, rather flattered.

"Yes, your mother has been feeling quite badly, but she will be all
right now," he said to Lily.

"I am sorry you did not feel well, mother," Lily said, sweetly. Then
she got her fancy-work from her little silk bag on the table and
seated herself, after removing her wraps.

Her mother sighed. The doctor's mouth assumed a little, humorous
pucker.

Lily looked at her mother with affectionate interest. She was quite
accustomed to slight attacks of indigestion which her mother often
had, and was not much alarmed, still she felt a little anxious. "You
are sure you are better, mother?" she said.

"Oh yes, she is much better," the doctor answered for her. "There is
nothing for you to be alarmed about."

"I am so glad," said Lily.

She took another stitch in her fancy-work, and her beautiful face
took on an almost seraphic expression; she was thinking of George
Ramsey. She hardly noticed when the doctor took his leave, and she
did not in the least understand her mother's sigh when the door
closed. For her the gates of love were wide open, but she had no
conception that for her mother they were not shut until she should go
to heaven to join her father.



Chapter XX


The next evening Maria, as usual, went to church with her two aunts.
Henry Stillman remained at home reading the Sunday paper. He took a
certain delight in so doing, although he knew, in the depths of his
soul, that his delight was absurd. He knew perfectly well that it did
not make a feather's weight of difference in the universal scheme of
things that he, Henry Stillman, should remain at home and read the
columns of scandal and politics in that paper, instead of going to
church, and yet he liked to think that his small individuality and
its revolt because of its injuries at the hands of fate had its
weight, and was at least a small sting of revenge.

He watched his wife adjust her bonnet before the looking-glass in the
sitting-room, and arrange carefully the bow beneath her withered
chin, and a great pity for her, because she was no longer as she had
been, but was so heavily marked by time, and a great jealousy that
she should not lose the greatest of all things, which he himself had
lost, came over him. As she--a little, prim, mild woman, in her
old-fashioned winter cape and her bonnet, with its stiff tuft of
velvet pansies--passed him, he caught her thin, black-gloved hand and
drew her close to him.

"I'm glad you are going to church, Eunice," he said.

Eunice colored, and regarded him with a kind of abashed wonder.

"Why don't you come, too, Henry?" she said, timidly.

"No, I've quit," replied Henry. "I've quit begging where I don't get
any alms; but as for you, if you get anything that satisfies your
soul, for God's sake hold on to it, Eunice, and don't let it go."
Then he pulled her bonneted head down and kissed her thin lips, with
a kind of tenderness which was surprising. "You've been a good wife,
Eunice," he said.

Eunice laid her hand on his shoulder and looked at him a second. She
was almost frightened. Outward evidences of affection had not been
frequent between them of late years, or indeed ever. They were
New-Englanders to the marrow of their bones. Anything like an
outburst of feeling or sentiment, unless in case of death or
disaster, seemed abnormal. Henry realized his wife's feeling, and he
smiled up at her.

"We are getting to be old folks," he said, "and we've had more bitter
than sweet in life, and we have neither of us ever said much as to
how we felt to each other, but--I never loved you as much as I love
you now, Eunice, and I've taken it into my head to say it."

Eunice's lips quivered a little and her eyes reddened. "There ain't a
woman in Amity who has had so good a husband as I have all these
years, if you don't go to meeting," she replied. Then she added,
after a second's pause: "I didn't know as you did feel just as you
used to, Henry. I didn't know as any man did. I know I've lost my
looks, and--"

"I can seem to see your looks, brighter than ever they were, in your
heart," said Henry. He colored himself a little at his own sentiment.
Then he pulled her face down to his again and gave her a second kiss.
"Now run along to your meeting," he said. "Have you got enough on?
The wind sounds cold."

"Yes," replied Eunice. "This cape's real thick. I put a new lining in
it this winter, you know, and, besides, I've got my crocheted jacket
under it. I'm as warm as toast."

Eunice, after she had gone out in the keen night air with her
sister-in-law and her niece, reflected with more uneasiness than
pleasure upon her husband's unwonted behavior.

"Does it seem to you that Henry looks well lately?" she asked the
elder Maria, as they hurried along.

"Yes; why not?" returned Maria.

"I don't know. It seems to me he's been losing flesh."

"Nonsense!" said Maria. "I never saw him looking better than he does
now. I was thinking only this morning that he was making a better,
healthier old man than he was as a young man. But I do wish he would
go to meeting. I don't think his mind is right about some things.
Suppose folks do have troubles. They ought to be led to the Lord by
them, instead of pulling back. Henry hasn't had anything more to
worry him, nor half as much, as most men. He don't take things right.
He ought to go to meeting."

"I guess he's just as good as a good many who do go to meeting,"
returned Eunice, with unwonted spirit.

"I don't feel competent to judge as to that," replied Maria, with a
tone of aggravating superiority. Then she added, "'By their works ye
shall know them.'"

"I would give full as much for Henry's chances as for some who go to
meeting every Sunday of their lives," said Eunice, with still more
spirit. "And as for trials, they weigh heavier on some than on
others."

Then young Maria, who had been listening uneasily, broke in. She felt
herself a strong partisan of her Aunt Eunice, for she adored her
uncle, but she merely said that she thought Uncle Henry did look a
little thin, and she supposed he was tired Sunday, and it was the
only day he had to rest; then she abruptly changed the whole subject
by wondering if the Ramseys across the river would let Jessy go to
church if she trimmed a hat for her with some red velvet and a
feather which she had in her possession.

"No, they wouldn't!" replied her aunt Maria, sharply, at once
diverted. "I can tell you just exactly what they would do, if you
were to trim up a hat with that red velvet and that feather and give
it to that young one. Her good-for-nothing mother would have it on
her own head in no time, and go flaunting out in it with that man
that boards there."

Nothing could excel the acrimonious accent with which Aunt Maria
weighed down the "man who boards there," and the acrimony was
heightened by the hoarseness of her voice. Her cold was still far
from well, but Aunt Maria stayed at home from church for nothing
short of pneumonia.

The church was about half a mile distant. The meeting was held in a
little chapel built out like an architectural excrescence at the side
of the great, oblong, wooden structure, with its piercing steeple.
The chapel windows blazed with light. People were flocking in. As
they entered, a young lady began to play on an out-of-tune piano,
which Judge Josiah Saunders had presented to the church. She played a
Moody-and-Sankey hymn as a sort of prologue, although nobody sang it.
It was a curious custom which prevailed in the Amity church. A
Moody-and-Sankey hymn was always played in evening meetings instead
of the morning voluntary on the great organ.

Maria and her two aunts moved forward and seated themselves. Maria
looked absently at the smooth expanse of hair which showed below the
hat of the girl who was playing. The air was played very slowly,
otherwise the little audience might have danced a jig to it. Maria
thought of the meetings which she used to attend in Edgham, and how
she used to listen to the plaint of the whippoorwill on the
river-bank while the little organ gave out its rich, husky drone.
This, somehow, did not seem so religious to her. She remembered how
she had used to be conscious of Wollaston Lee's presence, and how she
had hoped he would walk home with her, and she reflected with what
shame and vague terror she now held him constantly in mind. Then she
thought of George Ramsey, and directly, without seeing him, she
became aware that he was seated on her right and was furtively
glancing at her. A wild despair seized her at the thought that he
might offer to accompany her home, and how she must not allow it, and
how she wanted him to do so. She kept her head steadfastly averted.
The meeting dragged on. Men rose and spoke and prayed, at intervals
the out-of-tune piano was invoked. A woman behind Maria sang
contralto with a curious effect, as if her head were in a tin-pail.
There were odd, dull, metallic echoes about it which filled the whole
chapel. The woman's daughter had some cheap perfume on her
handkerchief, and she was incessantly removing it from her muff. A
man at the left coughed a good deal. Maria saw in front of her Lily
Merrill's graceful brown head, in a charming hat with red roses under
the brim, and a long, soft, brown feather. Lily's mother was not with
her. Dr. Ellridge did not attend evening meetings, and Mrs. Merrill
always remained at home in the hope that he might call.

After church was over, Maria stuck closely to her aunts. She even
pushed herself between them, but they did not abet her. Both Eunice
and Aunt Maria had seen George Ramsey, and they had their own views.
Maria could not tell how it happened, but at the door of the chapel
she found herself separated from both her aunts, and George Ramsey
was asking if he might accompany her home. Maria obeyed her
instincts, although the next moment she could have killed herself for
it. She smiled, and bowed, and tucked her little hand into the crook
of the young man's offered arm. She did not see her aunts exchanging
glances of satisfaction.

"It will be a real good chance for her," said Eunice.

"Hush, or somebody will hear you," said Maria, in a sharp, pleased
tone, as she and her sister-in-law walked together down the moonlit
street.

Maria did not see Lily Merrill's start and look of piteous despair as
she took George's arm. Lily was just behind her. Maria, in fact, saw
nothing. She might have been walking in a vacuum of emotion.

"It is a beautiful evening," said George Ramsey, and his voice
trembled a little.

"Yes, beautiful," replied Maria.

Afterwards, thinking over their conversation, she could not remember
that they had talked about anything else except the beauty of the
evening, but had dwelt incessantly upon it, like the theme of a song.

The aunts lagged behind purposely, and Maria went in Eunice's door.
She thought that her niece would ask George to come in and she would
not be in the way. Henry looked inquiringly at the two women, who had
an air of mystery, and Maria responded at once to his unspoken
question.

"George Ramsey is seeing her home," she said, "and the front-door key
is under the mat, and I thought Maria could ask him in, and I would
go home through the cellar, and not be in the way. Three is a
company." Maria said the last platitude with a silly simper.

"I never saw anything like you women," said Henry, with a look of
incredulous amusement. "I suppose you both of you have been making
her wedding-dress, and setting her up house-keeping, instead of
listening to the meeting."

"I heard every word," returned Maria, with dignity, "and it was a
very edifying meeting. It would have done some other folks good if
they had gone, and as for Maria, she can't teach school all her days,
and here is her father with a second wife."

"Well, you women do beat the Dutch," said her brother, with a
tenderly indulgent air, as if he were addressing children.

Aunt Maria lingered in her brother's side of the house, talking about
various topics. She hesitated even about her stealthy going through
the cellar, lest she should disturb Maria and her possible lover. Now
and then she listened. She stood close to the wall. Finally she said,
with a puzzled look to Eunice, who was smoothing out her
bonnet-strings, "It's queer, but I can't hear them talking."

"Maybe he didn't come in," said Eunice.

"If they are in the parlor, you couldn't hear them," said Henry,
still with his half-quizzical, half-pitying air.

"She would have taken him in the parlor--I should think she would
have known enough to," said Eunice; "and you can't always hear
talking in the parlor in this room."

Maria made a move towards her brother's parlor, on the other side of
the tiny hall.

"I guess you are right," said she, "and I know she would have taken
him in there. I started a fire in there on purpose before I went to
meeting. It was borne in upon me that somebody might come home with
her."

Maria tiptoed into the parlor, with Eunice, still smoothing her
bonnet-strings, at her heels. Both women stood close to the wall,
papered with white-and-gold paper, and listened.

"I can't hear a single thing," said Maria.

"I can't either," said Eunice. "I don't believe he did come in."

"It's dreadful queer, if he didn't," said Maria, "after the way he
eyed her in meeting."

"Suppose you go home through the cellar, and see," said Eunice.

"I guess I will," said Maria. "I'll knock low on the wall when I get
home, if he isn't there."

The cellar stairs connected with the kitchen on either side of the
Stillman house. Both women flew out into the kitchen, and Maria
disappeared down the cellar stairs, with a little lamp which Eunice
lit for her. Then Eunice waited. Presently there came a muffled knock
on the wall.

"No, he didn't come in," Eunice said to her husband, as she
re-entered the sitting-room.

Suddenly Eunice pressed her ear close to the sitting-room wall. Two
treble voices were audible on the other side, but not a word of their
conversation. "Maria and she are talking," said Eunice.

What Aunt Maria was saying was this, in a tone of sharp wonder:

"Where is he?"

"Who?" responded Maria.

"Why, you know as well as I do--George Ramsey." Aunt Maria looked
sharply at her niece. "I hope you asked him in, Maria Edgham?" said
she.

"No, I didn't," said Maria.

"Why didn't you?"

"I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed."

"Wanted to go to bed? Why, it's only a little after nine o'clock!"

"Well, I can't help it, I'm tired." Maria spoke with a weariness
which was unmistakable. She looked away from her aunt with a sort of
blank despair.

Aunt Maria continued to regard her. "You do act the queerest of any
girl I ever saw," said she. "There was a nice fire in the parlor, and
I thought you could offer him some refreshments. There is some of
that nice cake, and some oranges, and I would have made some cocoa."

"I didn't feel as if I could sit up," Maria said again, in her weary,
hopeless voice. She went out into the kitchen, got a little lamp, and
returned. "Good-night," she said to her aunt.

"Good-night," replied Aunt Maria. "You are a queer girl. I don't see
what you think."

Maria went up-stairs, undressed, and went to bed. After she was in
bed she could see the reflection of her aunt's sitting-room lamp on
the ground outside, in a slanting shaft of light. Then it went out,
and Maria knew that her aunt was also in bed in her little room out
of the sitting-room. Maria could not go to sleep. She heard the clock
strike ten, then eleven. Shortly after eleven she heard a queer
sound, as of small stones or gravel thrown on her window. Maria was a
brave girl. Her first sensation was one of anger.

"What is any one doing such a thing as that for?" she asked herself.
She rose, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went straight to the
window next the Merrill house, whence the sound had come. She opened
it cautiously and peered out. Down on the ground below stood a long,
triangle-shaped figure, like a night-moth.

"Who is it?" Maria called, in a soft voice. She was afraid, for some
reason which she could not define, of awakening her aunt. She was
more afraid of that than anything else.

A little moan answered her; the figure moved as if in distress.

"Who is it? What do you want?" Maria asked again.

A weak voice answered her then, "It's I."

"Who's I? Lily?"

"Yes. Oh, do let me in, Maria." Lily's voice ended in a little,
hysterical sob.

"Hush," said Maria, "or Aunt Maria will hear you. Wait a minute."
Maria unlocked her door with the greatest caution, opened it, and
crept down-stairs. Then she unlocked and opened the front door.
Luckily Aunt Maria's room was some feet in the rear. "Come quick,"
Maria whispered, and Lily came running up to her. Then Maria closed
and locked the front door, while Lily stood trembling and waiting.
Then she led her up-stairs in the dark. Lily's slender fingers closed
upon her with a grasp of ice. When they were once in Maria's room,
with the door closed and locked, Maria took hold of Lily violently by
the shoulders. She felt at once rage and pity for her.

"What on earth is the matter, Lily Merrill, that you come over here
this time of night?" she asked. Then she added, in a tone of horror,
"Lily Merrill, you haven't a thing on but a skirt and your night-gown
under your shawl. Have you got anything on your feet?"

"Slippers," answered Lily, meekly. Then she clung to Maria and began
to sob hysterically.

"Come, Lily Merrill, you just stop this and get into bed," said
Maria. She unwound Lily's shawl, pulled off her skirt, and fairly
forced her into bed. Then she got in beside her. "What on earth is
the matter?" she asked again.

Lily's arm came stealing around her and Lily's cold, wet cheek
touched her face. "Oh, Maria!" she sobbed, under her breath.

"Well, what is it all about?"

"Oh, Maria, are--are you--"

"Am I what?"

"Are you going with him?"

"With whom?"

"With George--with George Ramsey?" A long, trembling sob shook Lily.

"I am going with nobody," answered Maria, in a hard voice.

"But he came home with you. I saw him; I did, Maria." Lily sobbed
again.

"Well, what of it?" asked Maria, impatiently. "I didn't care anything
about his going home with me."

"Didn't he come in?"

"No, he didn't."

"Didn't you--ask him?"

"No, I didn't."

"Maria."

"Well, what?"

"Maria, aren't you going to marry him if he asks you?"

"No," said Maria, "I am never going to marry him, if that is what you
want to know. I am never going to marry George Ramsey."

Lily sobbed.

"I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. I should think any
girl would, acting so," said Maria. Her voice was a mere whisper, but
it was cruel. She felt that she hated Lily. Then she realized how icy
cold the girl was and how she trembled from head to feet in a nervous
chill. "You'll catch your death," she said.

"Oh, I don't care if I do!" Lily said, in her hysterical voice, which
had now a certain tone of comfort.

Maria considered again how much she despised and hated her, and again
Lily shook with a long tremor. Maria got up and tiptoed over to her
closet, where she kept a little bottle of wine which the doctor had
ordered when she first came to Amity. It was not half emptied. A
wineglass stood on the mantel-shelf, and Maria filled it with the
wine by the light of the moon. Then she returned to Lily.

"Here," she said, still in the same cruel voice. "Sit up and drink
this."

"What is it?" moaned Lily.

"Never mind what it is. Sit up and drink it."

Lily sat up and obediently drank the wine, every drop.

"Now lie down and keep still, and go to sleep, and behave yourself,"
said Maria.

Lily tried to say something, but Maria would not listen to her.

"Don't you speak another word," said she. "Keep still, or Aunt Maria
will be up. Lie still and go to sleep."

It was not long before, warmed by the wine and comforted by Maria's
assertion that she was never going to marry George Ramsey, that Lily
fell asleep. Maria lay awake hearing her long, even breaths, and she
felt how she hated her, how she hated herself, how she hated life.
There was no sleep for her. Just before dawn she woke Lily, bundled
her up in some extra clothing, and went with her across the yard,
home.

"Now go up to your own room just as still as you can," said she, and
her voice sounded terrible even in her own ears. She waited until she
heard the key softly turn in the door of the Merrill house. Then she
sped home and up to her own room. Then she lay down in bed again and
waited for broad daylight.



Chapter XXI


When Maria dressed herself the next morning, she had an odd, shamed
expression as she looked at herself in her glass while braiding her
hair. It actually seemed to her as if she herself, and not Lily
Merrill, had so betrayed herself and given way to an unsought love.
She felt as if she saw Lily instead of herself, and she was at once
humiliated and angered. She had to pass Lily's house on her way to
school, and she did not once look up, although she had a conviction
that Lily was watching her from one of the sitting-room windows. It
was a wild winter day, with frequent gusts of wind swaying the trees
to the breaking of the softer branches, and flurries of snow. It was
hard work to keep the school-house warm. Maria, in the midst of her
perturbation, had a comforted feeling at seeing Jessy Ramsey in her
warm clothing. She passed her arm around the little girl at recess;
it was so cold that only a few of the boys went outside.

"Have you got them on, dear?" she whispered.

"Yes'm," said Jessy. Then, to Maria's consternation, she caught her
hand and kissed it, and began sobbing. "They're awful warm," sobbed
Jessy Ramsey, looking at Maria with her little, convulsed face.

"Hush, child," said Maria. "There's nothing to cry about. Mind you
keep them nice. Have you got a bureau-drawer you can put them
in?--those you haven't on? Don't cry. That's silly."

"I 'ain't got no bureau," sobbed Jessy. "But--"

"Haven't any," corrected Maria.

"Haven't any bureau-drawer," said the child. "But I got a box what
somethin'--"

"That something," said Maria.

"That something came from the store in, an' I've got 'em--"

"Them."

"Them all packed away. They're awful warm."

"Don't cry, dear," said Maria.

The other children did not seem to be noticing them. Suddenly Maria,
who still had her arm around the thin shoulders of the little girl,
stooped and kissed her rather grimy but soft little cheek. As she did
so, she experienced the same feeling which she used to have when
caressing her little sister Evelyn. It was a sort of rapture of
tenderness and protection. It was the maternal instinct glorified and
rendered spiritual by maidenhood, and its timid desires. Jessy
Ramsey's eyes looked up into Maria's like blue violets, and Maria
noticed with a sudden throb that they were like George Ramsey's.
Jessy, coming as she did from a degenerate, unbeautiful branch of the
family-tree, had yet some of the true Ramsey features, and, among
others, she had the true Ramsey eyes. They were large and very dark
blue, and they were set in deep, pathetic hollows. As she looked up
at Maria, it was exactly as if George were looking at her with
pleading and timid love. Maria took her arm sudden away from the
child.

"Be you mad?" asked Jessy, humbly.

"No, I am not," replied Maria. "But you should not say 'be you mad';
you should say are you angry."

"Yes'm," said Jessy Ramsey.

Jessy withdrew, still with timid eyes of devotion fixed upon her
teacher, and Maria seated herself behind her desk, took out some
paper, and began to write an exercise for the children to copy upon
the black-board. She was trembling from head to foot. She felt
exactly as if George Ramsey had been looking at her with eyes of
love, and she remembered that she was married, and it seemed to her
that she was horribly guilty.

Maria never once looked again at Jessy Ramsey, at least not fully in
the eyes, during the day. The child's mouth began to assume a piteous
expression. After school that afternoon she lingered, as usual, to
walk the little way before their roads separated, so to speak, in her
beloved teacher's train. But Maria spoke quite sharply to her.

"You had better run right home, Jessy," she said. "It is snowing, and
you will get cold. I have a few things to see to before I go. Run
right home."

Poor little Jessy Ramsey, who was as honestly in love with her
teacher as she would ever be with any one in her life, turned
obediently and went away. Maria's heart smote her.

"Jessy," she called after her, and the child turned back half
frightened, half radiant. Maria put her arm around her and kissed
her. "Wash your face before you come to school to-morrow, dear," she
said. "Now, good-bye."

"Yes'm," said Jessy, and she skipped away quite happy. She thought
teacher had rebuffed her because her face was not washed, and that
did not trouble her in the least. Lack of cleanliness or lack of
morals, when brought home to them, could hardly sting any scion of
that branch of the Ramseys. Lack of affection could, however, and
Jessy was quite happy in thinking that teacher loved her, and was
only vexed because her face was dirty. Jessy had not gone a dozen
paces from the school-house before she stopped, scooped up some snow
in a little, grimy hand, and rubbed her cheeks violently. Then she
wiped them on her new petticoat. Her cheeks tingled frightfully, but
she felt that she was obeying a mandate of love.

Maria did not see her. She in reality lingered a little over some
exercises in the school-house before she started on her way home. It
was snowing quite steadily, and the wind still blew. The snow made
the wind seem as evident as the wings of a bird. Maria hurried along.
When she reached the bridge across the Ramsey River she saw a girl
standing as if waiting for her. The girl was all powdered with snow
and she had on a thick veil, but Maria immediately knew that she was
Lily Merrill. Lily came up to her as she reached her with almost an
abject motion. She had her veiled face lowered before the storm, and
she carried herself as if her spirit also was lowered before some
wind of fate. She pressed timidly close to Maria when she reached her.

"I've been waiting for you, Maria," she said.

"Have you?" returned Maria, coldly.

"Yes, I wanted to see you, and I didn't know as I could, unless I met
you. I didn't know whether you would have a fire in your room
to-night, and I thought your aunt would be in the sitting-room, and I
thought you wouldn't be apt to come over to my house, it storms so."

"No, I shouldn't," Maria said, shortly.

Then Lily burst out in a piteous low wail, a human wail piercing the
wail of the storm. The two girls were quite alone on the bridge.

"Oh, Maria," said Lily, "I did want you to know how dreadfully
ashamed I was of what I did last night."

"I should think you would be," Maria said, pitilessly. She walked on
ahead, with her mouth in a straight line, and did not look at the
other girl.

Lily came closer to her and passed one of her arms through Maria's
and pressed against her softly. "I wanted to tell you, too," she
said, "that I made an excuse about--that handkerchief the other
night. I thought it was in my coat-pocket all the time. I did it just
so he would go home with me last."

Maria looked at her. "I never saw such a girl as you are, Lily
Merrill," she said, contemptuously, but in spite of herself there was
a soft accent in her voice. It was not in Maria's nature to be hard
upon a repentant sinner.

Lily leaned her face against Maria's snow-powdered shoulder. "I was
dreadfully ashamed of it," said she, "and I thought I must tell you,
Maria. You don't think so very badly of me, do you? I know I was
awful." The longing for affection and approbation in Lily's voice
gave it almost a singing quality. She was so fond of love and
approval that the withdrawal of it smote her like a frost of the
spirit.

"I think it was terribly bold of you, if you want to know just what I
think," Maria said; "and I think you were very deceitful. Before I
would do such a thing to get a young man to go home with me, I
would--" Maria paused. Suddenly she remembered that she had her
secret, and she felt humbled before this other girl whom she was
judging. She became conscious to such an extent of the beam in her
own eye that she was too blinded to see the mote in that of poor
Lily, who, indeed, was not to blame, being simply helpless before her
own temperament and her own emotions.

"I know I did do a dreadful thing," moaned Lily.

Then Maria pressed the clinging arm under her own.

"Well," said she, as she might have spoken to a child, "if I were you
I would not think any more about it, Lily, I would put it out of my
mind. Only, I would not, if I were you, and really wanted a young man
to care for me, let him think I was running after him."

As she said the last, Maria paled. She glanced at Lily's beautiful
face under the veil, and realized that it might be very easy for any
young man to care for such a girl, who had, in reality, a sweet
nature, besides beauty, if she only adopted the proper course to win
him, and that it was obviously her (Maria's) duty to teach her to win
him.

"I know it. I won't again," Lily said, humbly.

The two girls walked on; they had crossed the bridge. Suddenly Lily
plucked up a little spirit.

"Say, Maria," said she.

"What is it, dear?"

"I just happened to think. Mother was asked to tea to Mrs. Ralph
Wright's to-night, but she isn't going. Is your aunt going?"

"Yes, I believe she is," said Maria.

"She won't be home before eight o'clock, will she?"

"No, I don't suppose she will. They are to have tea at six, I
believe."

"Then I am coming over after mother and I have tea. I have something
I want to tell you."

"All right, dear," replied Maria, hesitatingly.

When Maria got home she found her aunt Maria all dressed, except for
her collar-fastening. She was waiting for Maria to attend to that.
Her thin gray-blond hair was beautifully crimped, and she wore her
best black silk dress. She was standing by the sitting-room window
when Maria entered.

"I am glad you have come, Maria," said she. "I have been standing
quite awhile. You are late."

"Yes, I am rather late," replied Maria. "But why on earth didn't you
sit down?"

"Do you suppose I am going to sit down more than I can help in this
dress?" said her aunt. "There is nothing hurts a silk dress more than
sitting down in it. Now if you will hook my collar, Maria. I can do
it, but I don't like to strain the seams by reaching round, and I
didn't want to trail this dress down the cellar stairs to get Eunice
to fasten it up." Aunt Maria bewailed the weather in a deprecating
fashion while Maria was fastening the collar at the back of her
skinny neck. "I never want to find fault with the weather," said she,
"because, of course, the weather is regulated by Something higher
than we are, and it must be for our best good, but I do hate to wear
this dress out in such a storm, and I don't dare wear my cashmere.
Mrs. Ralph Wright is so particular she would be sure to think I
didn't pay her proper respect."

"You can wear my water-proof," said Maria. "I didn't wear it to-day,
you know. I didn't think the snow would do this dress any harm. The
water-proof will cover you all up."

"Well, I suppose I can, and can pin my skirt up," said Aunt Maria, in
a resigned tone. "I don't want to find fault with the weather, but I
do hate to pin up a black silk skirt."

"You can turn it right up around your waist, and fasten the braid to
your belt, and then it won't hurt it," said Maria, consolingly.

"Well, I suppose I can. Your supper is all ready, Maria. There's
bread and butter, and chocolate cake, and some oysters. I thought you
wouldn't mind making yourself a little stew. I couldn't make it
before you came, because it wouldn't be fit to eat. You know how. Be
sure the milk is hot before you put the oysters in. There is a good
fire."

"Oh yes, I know how. Don't you worry about me," said Maria, turning
up her aunt's creaseless black silk skirt gingerly. It was rather
incomprehensible to her that anybody should care so much whether a
black silk skirt was creased or not, when the terrible undertone of
emotions which underline the world, and are its creative motive, were
in existence, but Maria was learning gradually to be patient with the
small worries of others which seemed large to them, and upon which
she herself could not place much stress. She stood at the window,
when her aunt at last emerged from the house, and picked her way
through the light snow, and her mouth twitched a little at the
absurd, shapeless figure. Her Aunt Eunice had joined her, and she was
not so shapeless. She held up her dress quite fashionably on one
side, with a rather generous display of slender legs. Aunt Maria did
not consider that her sister-in-law was quite careful enough of her
clothes. "Henry won't always be earning," she often said to Maria.
To-day she had eyed with disapproval Eunice's best black silk
trailing from under her cape, when she entered the sitting-room. She
had come through the cellar.

"Are you going that way, in such a storm, in your best black silk?"
she inquired.

"I haven't any water-proof," replied Eunice, "and I don't see what
else I can do."

"You might wear my old shawl spread out."

"I wouldn't go through the street cutting such a figure," said
Eunice, with one of her occasional bursts of spirit. She was
delighted to go. Nobody knew how this meek, elderly woman loved a
little excitement. There were red spots on her thin cheeks, and she
looked almost as if she had used rouge. Her eyes snapped.

"I should think you would turn your skirt up, anyway," said Aunt
Maria. "You've got your black petticoat on, haven't you?"

"Yes," replied Eunice. "But if you think I am going right through the
Main Street in my petticoat, you are mistaken. Snow won't hurt the
silk any. It's a dry snow, and it will shake right off."

So Eunice, at the side of Aunt Maria, went with her dress kilted
high, and looked as preternaturally slim as her sister-in-law looked
stout. Maria, watching them, thought how funny they were. She herself
was elemental, and they, in their desires and interests, were like
motes floating on the face of the waters. Maria, while she had always
like pretty clothes, had come to a pass wherein she relegated them to
their proper place. She recognized many things as externals which she
had heretofore considered as essentials. She had developed
wonderfully in a few months. As she turned away from the window she
caught a glimpse of Lily Merrill's lovely face in a window of the
opposite house, above a mass of potted geraniums. Lily nodded, and
smiled, and Maria nodded back again. Her heart sank at the idea of
Lily's coming that evening, a sickening jealous dread of the
confidence which she was to make to her was over her, and yet she
said to herself that she had no right to have this dread. She
prepared her supper and ate it, and had hardly cleared away the table
and washed the dishes before Lily came flying across the yard before
the storm-wind. Maria hurried to the door to let her in.

"Your aunt went, didn't she?" said Lily, entering, and shaking the
flakes of snow from her skirts.

"Yes."

"I don't see why mother wouldn't go. Mother never goes out anywhere,
and she isn't nearly as old as your aunts."

Lily and Maria seated themselves in the sitting-room before the
stove. Lily looked at Maria, and a faint red overspread her cheeks.
She began to speak, then she hesitated, and evidently said something
which she had not intended.

"How pretty that is!" she said, pointing to a great oleander-tree in
flower, which was Aunt Maria's pride.

"Yes, I think it is pretty."

"Lovely. The very prettiest one I ever saw." Lily hesitated again,
but at last she began to speak, with the red on her cheeks brighter
and her eyes turned away from Maria. "I wanted to tell you something,
Maria," said she.

"Well?" said Maria. Her own face was quite pale and motionless. She
was doing some fancy-work, embroidering a centre-piece, and she
continued to take careful stitches.

"I know you thought I was awful, doing the way I did last night,"
said Lily, in her sweet murmur. She drooped her head, and the flush
on her oval cheeks was like the flush on a wild rose. Lily wore a
green house-dress, which set her off as the leaves and stem set off a
flower. It was of some soft material which clung about her and
displayed her tender curves. She wore at her throat an old cameo
brooch which had belonged to her grandmother, and which had upon its
onyx background an ivory head as graceful as her own. Maria, beside
Lily, although she herself was very pretty, looked ordinary in her
flannel blouse and black skirt, which was her school costume.

Maria continued taking careful stitches in the petals of a daisy
which she was embroidering. "I think we have talked enough about it,"
she said.

"But I want to tell you something."

"Why don't you tell it, then?"

"I know you thought I did something awful, running across the yard
and coming here in the night the way I did, and showing you that
I--I, well, that I minded George Ramsey's coming home with you;
but--look here, Maria, I--had a little reason."

Maria paled perceptibly, but she kept on steadily with her work.

Lily flushed more deeply. "George Ramsey has been home with me from
evening meeting quite a number of times," she said.

"Has he?" said Maria.

"Yes. Of course we were walking the same way. He may not really have
meant to see me home." There was a sort of innate honesty in Lily
which always led her to retrieve the lapses from the strict truth
when in her favor. "Maybe he didn't really mean to see me home, and
sometimes he didn't offer me his arm," she added, with a childlike
wistfulness, as if she desired Maria to reassure her.

"I dare say he meant to see you home," said Maria, rather shortly.

"I am not quite sure," said Lily. "But he did walk home with me quite
a number of times, first and last, and you know we used to go to the
same school, and a number of times then, when we were a good deal
younger, he really did see me home, and--he kissed me good-night
then. Of course he hasn't done that lately, because we were older."

"I should think not, unless you were engaged," said Maria.

"Of course not, but he has said several things to me. Maybe he didn't
mean anything, but they sounded--I thought I would like to tell you,
Maria. I have never told anybody, not even mother. Once he said my
name just suited me, and once he asked me if I thought married people
were happier, and once he said he thought it was a doubtful
experiment for a man to marry and try to live either with his wife's
mother or his own. You know, if he married me, it would have to be
one way or the other. Do you think he meant anything, Maria?"

"I don't know," said Maria. "I didn't hear him."

"Well, I thought he spoke as if he meant it, but, of course, a girl
can never be sure. I suppose men do say so many things they don't
mean. Don't you?"

"Yes, I suppose they do."

"Do you think he did, Maria?" asked Lily, piteously.

"My dear child, I told you I didn't hear him, and I don't see how I
can tell," repeated Maria, with a little impatience. It did seem hard
to her that she should be so forced into a confidence of this kind,
but an odd feeling of protective tenderness for Lily was stealing
over her. She reached a certain height of nobility which she had
never reached before, through this feeling.

"I know men so often say things when they mean nothing at all," Lily
said again. "Perhaps he didn't mean anything. I know he has gone home
with Agnes Sears several times, and he has talked to her a good deal
when we have been at parties. Do you think she is pretty, Maria?"

"Yes, I think she is quite pretty," replied Maria.

"Do you think--she is better-looking than--I am?" asked Lily, feebly.

"No, of course I don't," said Maria. "You are a perfect beauty."

"Oh, Maria, do you think so?"

"Of course I do! You know it yourself as well as I do."

"No, honest, I am never quite sure, Maria. Sometimes it does seem to
me when I am dressed up that I am really better-looking than some
girls, but I am never quite sure that it isn't because it is I who am
looking at myself. A girl wants to think she is pretty, you know,
Maria, especially if she wants anybody to like her, and I can't ever
tell."

"Well, you can rest easy about that," said Maria. "You are a perfect
beauty. There isn't a girl in Amity to compare with you. You needn't
have any doubt at all."

An expression of quite innocent and naive vanity overspread Lily's
charming face. She cast a glance at herself in a glass which hung on
the opposite wall, and smiled as a child might have done at her own
reflection. "Do you think this green dress is becoming to me?" said
she.

"Very."

"But, Maria, do you suppose George Ramsey thinks I am so pretty?"

"I should think he must, if he has eyes in his head," replied Maria.

"But you are pretty yourself, Maria," said Lily, with the most open
jealousy and anxiety, "and you are smarter than I am, and he is so
smart. I do think he cares a great deal more for you than for me. I
think he must, Maria."

"Nonsense!" said Maria. "Just because a young man walks home with me
once you think he is in love with me." Maria tried to speak lightly
and scornfully, but in spite of herself there was an accent of
gratification in her tone. In spite of herself she forgot for the
moment.

"I think he does, all the same," said Lily, dejectedly.

"Nonsense! He doesn't; and if he did, he would have to take it out in
caring."

"Then you were in earnest about what you said last night?" said Lily,
eagerly. "You really mean you wouldn't have George Ramsey if he asked
you?"

"Not if he asked every day in the year for a hundred years."

"I guess you must have seen somebody else whom you liked," said Lily,
and Maria colored furiously. Then Lily laughed. "Oh, you have!" she
cried, with sudden glee. "You are blushing like anything. Do tell me,
Maria."

"I have nothing to tell."

"Maria Edgham, you don't dare tell me you are not in love with
anybody?"

"I should not answer a question of that kind to any other girl,
anyway," Maria replied, angrily.

"You are. I know it," said Lily. "Don't be angry, dear. I am real
glad."

"I didn't say I was in love, and there is nothing for you to be glad
about," returned Maria, fairly scarlet with shame and rage. She
tangled the silk with which she was working, and broke it short off.
Maria was as yet not wholly controlled by herself.

"Why, you'll spoil that daisy," Lily said, wonderingly. She herself
was incapable of any such retaliation upon inanimate objects. She
would have carefully untangled her silk, no matter how deeply she
suffered.

"I don't care if I do!" cried Maria.

"Why, Maria!"

"Well, I don't care. I am fairly sick of so much talk and thinking
about love and getting married, as if there were nothing else."

"Maybe you are different, Maria," admitted Lily, in a humiliated
fashion.

"I don't want to hear any more about it," Maria said, taking a fresh
thread from her skein of white silk.

"But do you mean what you said?"

"Yes, I do, once for all. That settles it."

Lily looked at her wistfully. She did not find Maria as sympathetic
as she wished. Then she glanced at her beautiful visage in the glass,
and remembered what the other girl had said about her beauty, and
again she smiled her childlike smile of gratified vanity and
pleasure. Then suddenly the door-bell rang.

Lily gave a great start, and turned white as she looked at Maria.
"It's George Ramsey," she whispered.

"Nonsense! How do you know?" asked Maria, laying her work on the
table beside the lamp, and rising.

"I don't know. I do know."

"Nonsense!" Still Maria stood looking irresolutely at Lily.

"I know," said Lily, and she trembled perceptibly.

"I don't see how you can tell," said Maria. She made a step towards
the door.

Lily sprang up. "I am going home," said she.

"Going home? Why?"

"He has come to see you, and I won't stay. I won't. I know you
despised me for what I did the other night, and I won't do such a
thing as to stay when he has come to see another girl. I am not quite
as bad as that." Lily started towards her cloak, which lay over a
chair.

Maria seized her by the shoulders with a nervous grip of her little
hands. "Lily Merrill," said she, "if you stir, if you dare to stir to
go home, I will not go to the door at all!"

Lily gasped and looked at her.

"I won't!" said Maria.

The bell rang a second time.

"You have got to go to the door," said Maria, with a sudden impulse.

Lily quivered under her hands.

"Why? Oh, Maria!"

"Yes, you have. You go to the door, and I will run up-stairs the back
way to my room. I don't feel well to-night, anyway. I have an awful
headache. You go to the door, and if it is--George Ramsey, you tell
him I have gone to bed with a headache, and you have come over to
stay with me because Aunt Maria has gone away. Then you can ask him
in."

A flush of incredulous joy came over Lily's face.

"You don't mean it, Maria?" she whispered, faintly.

"Yes, I do. Hurry, or he'll go away."

"Have you got a headache, honest?"

"Yes, I have. Hurry, quick! If it is anybody else do as you like
about asking him in. Hurry!"

With that Maria was gone, scudding up the back stairs which led out
of the adjoining room. She gained her chamber as noiselessly as a
shadow. The room was very dark except for a faint gleam on one wall
from a neighbor's lamp. Maria stood still, listening, in the middle
of the floor. She heard the front door opened, then she heard voices.
She heard steps. The steps entered the sitting-room. Then she heard
the voices in a steady flow. One of them was undoubtedly a man's. The
bass resonances were unmistakable. A peal of girlish laughter rang
out. Maria noiselessly groped her way to her bed, threw herself upon
it, face down, and lay there shaking with silent sobs.



Chapter XXII


Maria did not hear Lily laugh again, although the conversation
continued. In reality, Lily was in a state of extreme shyness, and
was, moreover, filled with a sense of wrong-doing. There had been
something about Maria's denial which had not convinced her. In her
heart of hearts, the heart of hearts of a foolish but loving girl,
who never meant anybody any harm, and, on the contrary, wished
everybody well, although naturally herself first, she was quite sure
that Maria also loved George Ramsey. She drooped before him with this
consciousness when she opened the door, and the young man naturally
started with a little surprise at the sight of her.

"Maria has gone to bed with a headache," she faltered, before George
had time to inquire for her. Then she added, in response to the young
man's look of astonishment, the little speech which Maria had
prepared for her. "Her aunt has gone out, and so I came over to stay
with her." Lily was a born actress. It was not her fault that a
little accent of tender pity for Maria in her lonely estate, with her
aunt away, and a headache, crept into her voice. She at the moment
almost believed what she said. It became quite real to her.

"I am sorry Miss Edgham has a headache," said George, after a barely
perceptible second of hesitation, "but, as long as she has, I may as
well come in and make you a little call, Lily."

Lily quivered perceptibly. She tried to show becoming pride, but
failed. "I should be very happy to have you," she said, "but--"

"Well, it _is_ asking you to play second fiddle, and no mistake,"
laughed George Ramsey, "for I did think I would make Miss Edgham a
little call. But, after all, the second fiddle is an indispensable
thing, and you and I are old friends, Lily."

He could not help the admiration in his eyes as he looked at Lily.
She carried a little lamp, and the soft light was thrown upon her
lovely face, and her brown hair gleamed gold in it. No man could have
helped admiring her. Lily had never been a very brilliant scholar,
but she could read admiration for herself. She regained her
self-possession.

"I don't mind playing second fiddle," said she. "I should be glad if
I could play any fiddle. Come in, Mr. Ramsey."

"How very formal we have grown!" laughed George, as he took off his
coat and hat in the icy little hall. "Why, don't you remember we went
to school together? What is the use?"

"George, then," said Lily. Her voice seemed to caress the name.

The young man colored. He was of a stanch sort, but he was a man, and
the adulation of such a beautiful girl as this touched him. He took
the lamp out of her hand.

"Come in, then," he said; "but it is rather funny for me to be
calling on you here, isn't it?"

"Funnier than it would be for you to call on me at my own house,"
said Lily, demurely, with a faint accent of reproach.

"Well, I must admit I am not very neighborly," George replied, with
an apologetic air. "But, you see, I am really busy a good many
evenings with accounts, and I don't go out very much."

Lily reflected that he had come to call on Maria, in spite of being
busy, but she said nothing. She placed Maria's vacant chair for him
beside the sitting-room stove.

"It is a hard storm," she said.

"Very. It is a queer night for Miss Edgham's aunt to go out, it seems
to me."

"Mrs. Ralph Wright has a tea-party," said Lily. "Maria's aunt Eunice
has gone, too. My mother was invited, but mother never goes out in
the evening."

After these commonplace remarks, Lily seated herself opposite George
Ramsey, and there was a little silence. Again the expression of
admiration came into the young man's face, and the girl read it with
delight. Sitting gracefully, her slender body outlined by the soft
green of her dress, her radiant face showing above the ivory cameo
brooch at her throat, she was charming. George Ramsey owned to
himself that Lily was certainly a great beauty, but all the same he
thought regretfully of the other girl, who was not such a beauty, but
who had somehow appealed to him as no other girl had ever done. Then,
too, Maria was in a measure new. He had known Lily all his life; the
element of wonder and surprise was lacking in his consciousness of
her beauty, and she also lacked something else which Maria had. Lily
meant no more to him--that is, her beauty meant no more to him--than
a symmetrical cherry-tree in the south yard, which was a marvel of
scented beauty, humming with bees every spring. He had seen that tree
ever since he could remember. He always looked upon it with pleasure
when it was in blossom, yet it was not to him what a new tree,
standing forth unexpectedly with its complement of flowers and bees,
would have been. It was very unfortunate for Lily that George had
known her all his life. In order really to attract him it would be
necessary for him to discover something entirely new in her.

"It was very good of you to come in and stay with Miss Edgham while
her aunt was gone," said George.

He felt terribly at a loss for conversation. He had, without knowing
it, a sense of something underneath the externals which put a
constraint upon him.

Lily had one of the truth-telling impulses which redeemed her from
the artifices of her mother.

"Oh," said she, "I wanted to come. I proposed coming myself. It is
dull evenings at home, and I did not know that Maria would go to bed
or that you would come in."

"Well, mother has gone to that tea-party, too," said George, "and I
looked over here and saw the light, and I thought I would just run in
a minute."

For some unexplained reason tears were standing in Lily's eyes and
her mouth quivered a little. George could not see, for the life of
him, why she should be on the verge of tears. He felt a little
impatient, but at the same time she became more interesting to him.
He had never seen Lily weeping since the time when she was a child at
school, and used to conceal her weeping little face in a ring of her
right arm, as was the fashion among the little girls.

"This light must shine right in your sitting-room windows," said
Lily, in a faint voice. She was considering how pitiful it was that
George had not had the impulse to call upon her, Lily, when she was
so lovely and loving in her green gown; and how even this little
happiness was not really her own, but another girl's. She had not the
least realization of how Maria was suffering, lying in her room
directly overhead.

Maria suffered as she had never suffered before. George Ramsey was
her first love; the others had been merely childish playthings. She
was strangling love, and that is a desperate deed, and the strangler
suffers more than love. Maria, with the memory of that marriage which
was, indeed, no marriage, but the absurd travesty of one, upon her,
was in almost a suicidal frame of mind. She knew perfectly well that
if it had not been for that marriage secret which she held always in
mind, that George Ramsey would continue to call, that they would
become engaged, that her life might be like other women's. And now he
was down there with Lily--Lily, in her green gown. She knew just how
Lily would look at him, with her beautiful, soft eyes. She hated her,
and yet she hated herself more than she hated her. She told herself
that she had no good reason for hating another girl for doing what
she herself had done--for falling in love with George Ramsey. She
knew that she should never have made a confidant of another girl, as
Lily had made of her. She realized a righteous contempt because of
her weakness, and yet she felt that Lily was the normal girl, that
nine out of ten would do exactly what she had done. And she also had
a sort of pity for her. She could not quite believe that a young man
like George Ramsey could like Lily, who, however beautiful she was,
was undeniably silly. But then she reflected how young men were
popularly supposed not to mind a girl's being silly if she was
beautiful. Then she ceased to pity Lily, and hated her again. She
became quite convinced that George Ramsey would marry her.

She had locked her door, and lay on her bed fully dressed. She made
up her mind that when Aunt Maria came she would pretend to be asleep.
She felt that she could not face Aunt Maria's wondering questions.
Then she reflected that Aunt Maria would be home soon, and a
malicious joy seized her that Lily would not have George Ramsey long
to herself. Indeed, it was scarcely half-past eight before Maria
heard the side-door open. Then she heard, quite distinctly, Aunt
Maria's voice, although she could not distinguish the words. Maria
laughed a little, smothered, hysterical laugh at the absurdity of the
situation.

It was, in fact, ludicrous. Aunt Maria entered the sitting-room, a
grotesque figure in her black skirt bundled up under Maria's
waterproof, which was powdered with snow. She wore her old black
bonnet, and the wind had tipped that rakishly to one side. She stared
at Lily and George Ramsey, who both rose with crimson faces.

"Good-evening," Lily ventured, feebly.

"Good-evening, Miss Stillman," George said, following the girl's
lead. Then, as he was more assured, he added that it was a very
stormy night.

George had been sitting on one side of the stove, Lily on the other,
in the chairs which Maria and Lily had occupied before the young
man's arrival. They had both sprung up with a guilty motion when Aunt
Maria entered. Aunt Maria stood surveying them. She did not return
their good-evenings, nor George's advance with regard to the weather.
Her whole face expressed severe astonishment. Her thin lips gaped
slightly, her pale eyes narrowed. She continued to look at them, and
they stood before her like culprits.

"Where's Maria gone?" said Aunt Maria, finally, in a voice which
seemed to have an edge to it.

Then Lily spoke with soft and timid volubility. "Maria said her head
ached so she thought she had better go to bed, Miss Stillman," she
said.

"I didn't hear anything about any headache before I went away. Must
have come on mighty sudden," said Aunt Maria.

"She said it ached very hard," repeated Lily. "And when the door-bell
rang, when Mr. Ramsey came--"

"It's mighty queer she should have had a headache when George Ramsey
rang the door-bell," said Aunt Maria.

"I guess it must have ached before," said Lily, faintly.

"I should suppose it must have," Aunt Maria said, sarcastically. "I
don't see any reason why Maria's head should begin to ache when the
door-bell rang."

"Of course," said Lily. "I suppose she just felt she couldn't talk,
that was all."

"It's mighty queer," said Aunt Maria. She stood quite immovable. She
was so stern that even her rakishly tipped bonnet did not seem at all
funny. She looked at Lily and George Ramsey, and did not make a
movement to remove her wraps.

Lily took a little, faltering step towards her. "You are all covered
with snow, Miss Stillman," she said, in her sweet voice.

"I don't mind a little snow," said Aunt Maria.

"Won't you take this chair?" asked George Ramsey, pointing to the one
which he had just vacated.

"No, thank you," replied Aunt Maria. "I ain't going to sit down. I've
got on my best black silk, and I don't ever sit down in it when I can
help it. I'm going to take it off and go to bed."

Then George Ramsey immediately made a movement towards his coat and
hat, which lay on the lounge beside Lily's wraps. "Well," he said,
with an attempt to laugh and be easy, "I must be going. I have to
take an early car to-morrow."

"I must go, too," said Lily.

They both hustled on their outer garments. They said good-evening
when they went out, but Aunt Maria did not reply. She immediately
took off Maria's water-proof and her bonnet, and slipped off her best
black silk gown. Then she took the little lamp which was lighted in
the kitchen and went up-stairs to Maria's room. She had an old shawl
over her shoulders, otherwise she was in her black quilted petticoat.
She stepped softly, and entered the spare room opposite Maria's. It
was icy cold in there. She set the lamp on the bureau and went out,
closing the door softly. It was then quite dark in the little
passageway between the spare room and Maria's. Aunt Maria stood
looking sharply at Maria's door, especially at the threshold, which
was separated from the floor quite a space by the shrinkage of the
years. The panels, too, had their crevices, through which light might
be seen. It was entirely dark. Aunt Maria opened the door of the
spare room very softly and got the little lamp off the bureau, and
tiptoed down-stairs. Then she sat down before the sitting-room stove
and pulled up her quilted petticoat till her thin legs were exposed,
to warm herself and not injure the petticoat. She looked unutterably
stern and weary. Suddenly, as she sat there, tears began to roll over
her ascetic cheeks.

"Oh, Lord!" she sighed to herself; "to think that child has got to go
through the world just the way I have, when she don't need to!"

Aunt Maria rose and got a handkerchief out of her bureau-drawer in
her little bedroom. She did not take the one in the pocket of her
gown because that was her best one, and very fine. Then she sat down
again, pulled up her petticoat again, put the handkerchief before her
poor face, and wept for herself and her niece, because of a
conviction which was over her that for both the joy of life was to
come only from the windows of others.



Chapter XXIII


Lily Merrill, going home across the yard through the storm, leaning
on George Ramsey's arm, gave a little, involuntary sob. It was a sob
half of the realization of slighted affection, half of shame. It gave
the little element of strangeness which was lacking to fascinate the
young man. He had a pitiful heart towards women, and at the sound of
the little, stifled sob he pressed Lily's arm more closely under his
own.

"Don't, Lily," he said, softly.

Lily sobbed again; she almost leaned her head towards George's
shoulder. She made a little, irresistible, nestling motion, like a
child.

"I can't help it," she said, brokenly. "She did look at me so."

"Don't mind her one bit, Lily," said George. He half laughed at the
memory of Aunt Maria's face, even while the tender tone sounded in
his voice. "Don't mind that poor old maid. Neither of us were to
blame. I suppose it did look as if we had taken possession of her
premises, and she was astonished, that was all. How funny she looked,
poor thing, with her bonnet awry!"

"I know she must think I have done something dreadful," sobbed Lily.

"Nonsense!" George said again, and his pressure of her arm tightened.
"I was just going when she came in, anyway. There is nothing at all
to be ashamed of, only--" He hesitated.

"What?" asked Lily.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Lily," he said then, "it does look to
me as if Miss Edgham's headache was only another way of telling me
she did not wish to see me."

"Oh, I guess not," said Lily.

"For some reason or other she does not seem to like me," George said,
with rather a troubled voice; but he directly laughed.

"I don't see any reason why she shouldn't like you," Lily said.

They had reached Lily's door, and the light from the sitting-room
windows shone on her lovely face, past which the snow drifted like a
white veil.

"Well, I think she doesn't," George said, carelessly, "but you are
mighty good to say you see no reason why she shouldn't. You and I
have always been good friends, haven't we, Lily