It was after the day when she had met Evans in the Glen that Jane began to be haunted by ghosts.

There was a ghost who wandered through Sherwood on moonlights, a limping, hesitating ghost who said, “You’re wine, Jane. I must have my daily sip of you.”

And there was a ghost who came in a fog and said, “You are a lantern, Jane—held high.”

And that ghost in the glow of the hearth-fire—“You are food and drink to me, Jane. Do you know it?”

Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts; holding out appealing hands to her. And always she had turned away. But now she did not turn. Over and over again she lent her ears to those whispering words, “Jane, you are wine.... Jane, you are a lantern.... You are food and drink, Jane....”

Well, she was having her punishment. She had not loved him when he needed her. And now that she needed him, she must not love him.

She hardly knew herself. All the years of her life she had seen things straight, and she had tried to live up to that vision. She saw them straight now. She did not love Frederick Towne. She had no right to marry him. Yet she must. There was no way out.

Towne was aware of a difference in her when he returned from New York. She was more remote. A little less responsive. Yet these things caused him no disquiet. Her crisp coolness had always constituted one of her great charms. “You are tired, dearest,” he told her. “I wish you would marry me right away, and let me make you happy.”

They were lunching at the Capitol in the Senate restaurant. Frederick was an imposing figure and Jane was aware of his importance. People glanced at him and glanced again, and then told others who he was. Some day she would be his wife, and everybody would be telling everybody else that she was the wife of the great Frederick Towne.

The attentive waiter at her elbow laid toast on her plate, and served Maryland crab from a silver chafing-dish. Frederick knew what she liked and had ordered without asking her. But the delicious food was tasteless. She had been afraid Frederick would say something about an immediate marriage, and now he was saying it.

“Oh,” she told him, earnestly, “you promised I might wait until Judy could come on. In June.”

“I know. But it will be very hot, and you’ll have a whole lifetime in which to see Judy.”

“But not at my wedding. She’s my only sister.”

“I see,” but his voice showed his annoyance; “but it seems as if your family have demanded enough of you. Can’t you think a bit about yourself—and me?”

She pressed her point. “Judy is like my mother. I can’t be married without her and the babies.”

“If the babies come, you’ll be looking after them until the last moment, and it will be a great strain on you, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it won’t be. I adore babies.”

His quick jealousy flared. “I don’t,” he said, with a touch of sulkiness. “I’m not fond of children.”

She ate in silence. And presently he said repentantly, “You must think me a great boor, Jane. But you don’t know how much I want you.”

He was like a repentant boy. She made herself smile at him. “I think you are very patient, Mr. Towne.”

“I am not patient. I am most impatient. And when are you going to stop calling me Mr. Towne?”

“When I can call you—husband.”

“But I don’t want to wait until then, dearest.”

“But ‘Frederick’ is so long, and ‘Fred’ is so short, and ‘Ricky’ sounds like a highball.” She had thrown off her depression and was sparkling.

“Nobody calls me ‘Ricky’ but Adelaide. I always hated it.”

“Did you?” She was demure. “I might say ‘my love,’ like the ladies in the old-fashioned novels.”He laughed delightedly. “Say it.”

She acquiesced unexpectedly. “My love, we are invited to a week-end with the Delafield Simms, at their new country place, Grass Hills.”

“Are we?” Then in a sudden ardent rush of words, “Jane, I’d kiss you if the world wasn’t looking on.”

“The reporters would be ecstatic. Headlines.”

“I am tired of headlines. And what do you mean about going to Delafield Simms?”

“They are asking a lot of his friends. It is his wife’s introduction to his old crowd. Much will depend on whether you and Edith will accept. And it was Edith who asked me to—make you come——”

She gave him the truth, knowing it to be better than diplomacy. “I told her that I couldn’t make you. But perhaps if you knew I wanted it——” She paused inquiringly.

He leaned towards her across the table. “Ask me, prettily, and I’ll do it.”

“Really?” She laughed, blushed and did it. “Will you go—my love?”

“Could I say ‘no’ to that?” He radiated satisfaction. “Do you know how charming you are, Jane?”

“Am I? But it is nice of you to go. I know how you’ll hate it.”

“Not if you are there. And now, who else are asked?”“Oh, Mrs. Laramore and Eloise Harper and a lot of others. Lucy says she’ll be like a fish out of water, but Delafield has made up his mind that his friends shan’t think that he’s ashamed of her.”

When their ices came and their coffee, Frederick said, “I’ve got to spend a half-hour in a committee room. Shall I take you up to the Senate Gallery?”

“No—there’s nothing interesting, is there? I’ll wait in Statuary Hall.”

Jane loved the marble figures that circled the Hall. Years ago there had not been so many. They had been, then, perhaps, more distinctive. As a child, she had chosen as her favorites the picturesque Colonials, the frontiersmen in leather tunics and coonskin caps. She had never liked the statesmen in stiff shirts and frock coats, although she had admitted their virtues. Even the incongruous classic draperies were more in keeping with the glamour which the past flung over the men who had given their best to America.

But it was Fulton who had captured her imagination, with his little ship, and Pere Marquette with his cross, the peace-loving Quaker who had conquered; adventurer, pioneer, priest and prophet—builders all of the structure of the new world.

She wondered what future generations would add to this glorious company. Would the Anglo-Saxon give way to the Semite? Would the Huguenot yield to the Slav? And would these newcomers hold high the banner of national idealism? What would they give? And what would they take away?

There were groups of sightseers gathered about the great room—a guide placing them here and there on the marble blocks. The trick was to put someone behind a mottled pillar far away, and let him speak. Owing to some strange acoustic quality the sound would be telephoned to the person who stood on the whispering stone.

Years ago Jane had listened while a voice had come echoing across the hollow spaces of the great Hall, “My country—right or wrong—my country——”

Another ghost! The ghost of a boy, patriotic, passionately devoted to the great old gods. “Of course they were only men, Jane. Human. Faulty. But they blazed a path of freedom for those who followed....”

When Frederick came, he found her standing before the prim statue of Frances Willard.

“Tired, sweetheart?”

“No.”

“I stayed longer than I expected.”

“It didn’t seem long. I have had plenty of company.”

He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“All these.” Her hand indicated the marble men and women.

He laughed. “Great old freaks, aren’t they?”

Freaks!Gods!

Well, of course, it all depended absolutely on the point of view.

“I like them all,” she said, sturdily, “even the ones in the hideous frock coats.”

“Surely not, my dear.”

“Yes, I do. They may be bad art, but they’re good Americans.”

His laugh was indulgent. “After you’ve been abroad a few times, you won’t be so provincial.”

“If being provincial means loving my own, I’ll stay provincial.”

“Travel broadens the mind, changes the point of view.”

“But why should I love my country less? I know her faults. And I know Baldy’s. But I love him just the same.”

As they walked on, he fell into step with her. “We won’t argue. You are probably right, and if not, you’re too pretty for me to contradict.”

His gallantry was faultless, but she wanted more than gallantry. There had been the vivid give and take of her arguments with Evans. They had had royal battles, youth had crossed swords with youth. And from their disagreements had come convictions.

She had once more the illusion of Frederick as a feather cushion! He would perhaps agree with her always!

And her soul would be—smothered!