Neith Boyce

PART TWO

PART THREE

PROUD
LADY

NEW BORZOI NOVELS

SPRING 1923

Star of Earth
Morris Dallett

Downstream
Sigfrid Siwertz

Ralph Herne
W. H. Hudson

Gates of Life
Edwin BjÖrkman

Druida
John T. Frederick

The Long Journey
Johannes V. Jensen

The Bridal Wreath
Sigrid Undset

The Hill of Dreams
Arthur Machen

A Room with a View
E. M. Forster

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NEITH BOYCE

NEW YORK··ALFRED·A·KNOPF

1923

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc.

Published, January, 1923

Set up and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y.
Paper furnished by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York.
Bound by H. Wolff Estate, New York.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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PROUD
LADY

I

Across the ringing of the church bells came the whistle of the train. Mary Lavinia, standing in the doorway, watched her mother go down the walk to the gate. Mrs. Lowell's broad back, clad in black silk, her black bonnet stiffly trimmed with purple pansies, bristled with anger. She opened the gate and slammed it behind her. The wooden sidewalk echoed her heavy tread. She went down the street out of sight, without looking back.

The slow melancholy bells were still sounding, but now they stopped. Mrs. Lowell would be late to church. Mary listened, holding her breath. She heard the noise of the train. Now it whistled again, at the crossing, now it was coming into town—white puffs of smoke rose over the trees. The engine-bell clanked, and the shrill sound of escaping steam signalled its stopping.

Mary listened, but there was no cheering, though a number of people had gone to the depot to welcome the little knot of returning soldiers. She remembered the day, three years before, when the company raised in the town had marched to the train—there was plenty of cheering then. Now perhaps half a dozen of those men were coming back. The war was over, but the rest of them had been left on southern battle-fields.

Mary stood looking out at the light brilliant green of the trees in the yard. It was very quiet all around her. The house always seemed quiet when her mother was out of it, and now there was a lull after the storm. But she was breathing quickly, intent, listening, shivering a little in her light print dress. The spring sunlight had little warmth, the air was sharp, with a damp sweetness. In the silence, she heard the rustling of a paper and the sound of a slight cough, behind a closed door. Her father was there, in his office. He would have gone to meet the train, she knew, but that these were his office-hours. But she couldn't have gone—and neither could she go to church, however angry her mother might be. A light flush rose in her cheeks, as she stood expectant.

She was beautiful—tall, slender, but with broad shoulders and a straight proud way of holding herself. Her thick hair, of bright auburn, with a natural small ripple, parted in the middle, was drawn down over her ears into a heavy knot. She was dazzlingly fair, with a few freckles on her high cheek-bones, with large clear grey eyes, with scarlet, finely-cut lips. She looked mature for her twenty years and yet completely virginal, untouched, unmoved. But her face expressed very little of what she might be thinking or feeling. It was like a calm mask—there was not a line in it, there was no record to be read.

Footsteps began to echo down the wooden walk, and voices. She went into the house and shut the door. In the office she heard a chair pushed back, and as she did not want to speak to her father just then, she walked quickly and lightly out through the big bright kitchen into the garden at the back of the house, slipping on as she went a blue coat that she had taken from the hall.

The garden was long and narrow, bounded by rail fences along which was set close together lilac bushes and other flowering shrubs of twenty years' growth. It was carefully laid out, in neat squares or oblongs, separated by rows of currant and gooseberry bushes or by grass-paths. The fresh turned earth in the beds looked dark and rich. All the bushes and shrubs were covered with light-green leaves. Bordering the central path were two narrow beds of tulips, narcissus, jonquils, flowering in thick bands of colour. At the end of the garden was a small orchard of apple, cherry and peach trees, some of them in bloom. In summer there was shade and seclusion here, but now there was no place to hide. Mary stopped a moment, looking back at the house, then opened a gate and in a panic fled out into the pasture. She was well aware that she ought to be in the house, that the minister was coming to dinner, that the roast would probably burn, but above all that some one was coming for her, that they would be calling her any moment; so she hurried on, up a slight rise of ground, over the top of it, and there she was out of sight.

The pasture stretched all about her, dotted with cattle nibbling the short green grass. Below, the ground fell suddenly, and there was a large pond. It was very deep, with a treacherous mud bottom near the shores. Willows encircled it, and on the farther side marshes blended it with the land. The water had a colour of its own, almost always dark—now it was a dull blue, deeper than the light April sky. Beyond it on every side was the prairie, flat, unbroken to the skyline. Trees, fields, houses, scattered over it, seemed insignificant, did not interrupt its monotony. It rolled away in long low wavering lines, endless and sombre, like a dark sea.

---

A faint call from the direction of the house—that was her father's gentle voice. Then a shout, lusty and clear—her name, shouted out over the hill for the whole town to hear! Mary started, a confused cloud of feelings made her heart beat heavily. But she stood still. In another moment a man appeared at the top of the rise and came plunging down toward her. In his blue uniform—cap tilted over one eye—just the same! He caught her in his arms and kissed her, laughing, repeating her name over and over, and kissed her again and again. Mary did not return his kisses, but bowed her head to the storm. Released at last from the tight clasp against his breast, but still held by his hands on her shoulders, she looked at him, and he at her—their eyes were on a level. But his eyes were full of an intoxication of joy, excited, almost blinded, though they seemed to be searching her face keenly, from brow to lips. Mary's eyes were clear. She saw the sword-cut on his left cheek, a thin red scar—that was new to her. She saw that he was thinner and the brown of his face was paler—he had been wounded and in hospital since she had seen him. She saw what had always repelled her—what she thought of vaguely as weakness, in his mouth and chin. But then she saw too the crisp black hair brushed back from his square forehead, the black eyebrows, sharp beautiful curves—and the long narrow blue eyes—and these she loved, she did not know why, but they had some strange appeal to her, something foreign, come from far away. She never could look at those eyes without tenderness. Now she put up her hands on his shoulders and bent toward him, and tenderness glowed like a light through the mask. At that moment she did not look cold.

He could not say anything except, "Oh, Mary! Mary!" And Mary did not speak either, but only smiled. They sat down together on a stone in the pasture. The young soldier held her hands in his clasp, his arm around her, as though he could never let her go again. His heart was overflowing. He held her clasped against him and stared at the dull-blue water. This was like a dream. Many a time, on the bivouac, on the march when he dozed from fatigue in his saddle, he had dreamed vividly of Mary, he had felt her near him as now. He half expected to wake and hear again the tramp of marching men, the jingle of the chains of his battery behind him. The present, the future, were a dream, he was living in the past. He had thought of Mary when the shell burst among his guns. "This is death," he had thought too, wounded in the hip by a fragment of shell, deluged with blood from the man killed beside him. He had taken the place of the gunner and served his gun. That was at the Wilderness. Yes, he had held them back, and brought off his whole battery. "Distinguished gallantry." ...

He sighed, and touched Mary's bright hair with his lips, and was surprised that she did not vanish. Was it true, that life was over, "Daredevil Carlin" was no more, his occupation gone? Then he must begin the world at twenty-five, with empty hands. He turned and looked at the woman beside him. It was hard to realize that now his life would be with her, that what he had so longed for was his.

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II

The roast was burned. Dr. Lowell, at the head of the table, carved and dispensed it, with sly chuckles. His mild blue eyes beamed through his spectacles, and he kept up the slow flow of conversation, now addressing the minister, who sat alone on one side of the table, now Captain Carlin, who sat with Mary on the other side; and sending propitiatory glances at his wife, who loomed opposite, stonily indignant. She was outraged at having her dinner spoiled—in addition to everything else. And if looks could have done it, the whole company, except the minister, would have been annihilated.

Yes, her husband too. This was one of the times when he exasperated her beyond endurance. How ridiculous he was, with his perpetual good-humour, his everlasting jokes! As he carved the leathery beef he made a point of asking each person, "Will you have it well-done, or rare?" And then he would wink at her. She glared back at him, looking like a block of New England granite, as she was.

It was strange that in a long life together she had not been able to crush the light-mindedness out of that man. But she had not even made a church member of him. He treated the minister as he did anybody else, with gentle courtesy—beneath which, if you knew him well, you might suspect a sparkle of amusement. He laughed at everything, everybody! At times she suspected him of being an atheist. He had said that he was too busy correcting God's mistakes in people's bodies to think about their souls, or his own. Mrs. Lowell would not have dared repeat this remark to the minister, for if she had an atheist in the family she would conceal him to the last gasp, as she would a forger.

Whenever she spoke, during this meal, she addressed herself pointedly to the minister, for she was above being hypocritical or pretending that Captain Carlin's presence was welcome to her. From the deep respect of her manner toward the Reverend Mr. Robertson, he might have been a very venerable personage indeed. But he was a young man, under thirty and at first glance insignificant—slight and plain. His straw-coloured hair was smoothed back from a brow rather narrow than otherwise, his light eyebrows and lashes gave no emphasis to his grey-blue eyes, his complexion was sallow, his mouth straight and rather wide. Perhaps Mrs. Lowell's manner merely indicated respect to the cloth.

But when Hilary Robertson spoke, people listened to him—whether he was in his pulpit or in a chance crowd of strangers. Sometimes on the street, people would turn and look at him, at the sound of his voice. It had a deep, low-toned bell-like resonance. The commonest words, spoken in that rich voice, took on colour, might have an arresting power. Perhaps this remarkable organ accounted for Hilary Robertson as a minister of religion. No, it was only one of his qualifications.

A second glance was apt to dwell on his face with attention. There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth and across the forehead and between the eyebrows. The pale-coloured eyes had a luminous intensity, and the mouth a firm compression. A fiery irritable spirit under strong control had written its struggle there.

As he sat quietly, eating little, speaking less, but listening, glancing attentively at each of the family in turn and at Captain Carlin, only an uncommon pallor showed that he was feeling deeply. No one—not Mrs. Lowell, though she suspected much, not Mary—no one knew what the return of Carlin meant to Hilary Robertson. Two people at that table would have been glad if Carlin never had come back. Mrs. Lowell would have denied indignantly that she wished any ill to Laurence Carlin—only she did not want her daughter to marry a nobody, of unworthy foreign descent. But the minister faced the truth and knew that he, Hilary Robertson, sinner, had hoped that Laurence Carlin would die in battle; that when his imagination had shown him Carlin struck down by a bullet, he felt as a murderer feels. His heart had leaped and a deep feeling of solace had filled it, to think that Carlin might be out of his way. Why not, where so many better men had died? Why must just this man, whom his judgment condemned, come back to cross the one strong personal desire of his life, his one chance of happiness? Mary belonged to him already, in a sense—he shared the life of her soul, its first stirring was due to him. Not a word of love had ever been spoken between them. She was betrothed, he could not have spoken to her. But all the same he felt that only a frail bond held her to the other—the bond of her word and of a feeling less intense than the spiritual sympathy between her and himself.... But now it was all over—Carlin had come back and she would marry him. And a soul just beginning to be awakened to eternal things would perhaps slip back into the toils of the temporal and earthly....

Dr. Lowell asked questions about Washington city, the great review of the army, about General Grant, and Sherman and the new President. Carlin answered rather briefly, his natural buoyancy suppressed by the hostility of two of his auditors. But this he felt only vaguely, his happiness was like a bright cloud enfolding him, blurring his eyes. The other people were like shadows to him, he was really only conscious of Mary there beside him. He would have liked to be silent, as she was.

There was no lingering over the table. The doctor had his round of visits to make. The Indian pudding disposed of, he lit his pipe, put on his old felt hat and his cape, took his black medicine-chest, and went out to hitch up Satan, a fast trotter who had come cheap because of his kicking and biting habits. Gentle Dr. Lowell liked a good horse, and as he pointed out to his wife, he needed one, on his long country journeys at all hours of the day or night. The horse's name had provoked a protest, but as the doctor said, that was his name and it suited him, why change it? You might christen him the Angel Gabriel but it wouldn't change his disposition.

The minister took his leave, saying that he had work to do. At parting he asked if he should see them at evening meeting. Mary felt a reproach and blushed faintly and Mrs. Lowell said with asperity, "Certainly, that is all except the doctor, nobody ever knows when he'll be back." She escorted Mr. Robertson to the door, and then majestically began gathering up the dinner dishes. There were no servants in the household. Mary came to help, but her mother said sternly, "I'll attend to these, you can go along."

So Mary went along, to the parlour where Laurence Carlin was waiting. This room was bright now because of the sunlight and the potted plants in all the windows, between the looped-up lace curtains. But the furniture was black walnut and horse-hair, and marble-topped tables. On the walls were framed daguerreotypes and a wreath under glass, of flowers made from hair. It was not a genial room. The blue and purple hyacinths flowering in the south windows made the air sweet with rather a funeral fragrance.

Carlin turned to her with a tremulous wistful look. After the first joy of seeing her, as always, timidity came upon him. Each time that he had come back to her, during these four years, it seemed that he had to woo her all over again. Each time she had somehow become a stranger to him. Yet she had never repudiated the engagement made when she was seventeen. It was always understood that they were to be married. But it seemed almost as though she had accepted and then forgotten him. She took their future together for granted, but his passionate eagerness found no echo in her. So he always had to subdue himself to her calm, her aloofness, and his wistful hungry eyes expressed his unsatisfied yearning. Mary liked him best when only his eyes spoke, when his caress, as now, was timid and restrained. He touched her bright hair and looked adoringly at her untroubled face. They sat down together on the slippery horse-hair sofa.

"Captain!" said Mary, looking at the stripes on his sleeve with a pensive smile. "So now you're Captain Carlin!"

"That's all I am," he said ruefully. "I have to start all over again now."

"Yes."

"Nothing to show for these four years."

Mary smiled and touched with her square finger-tips the scar on his cheek.

"How did you get that?"

"Sabre-cut." He looked hurt. "I wrote you from the hospital, don't you remember?"

"Oh, yes, I remember," she said serenely. "Well, it doesn't look so bad. You aren't sorry, are you?"

"For what, the—"

"The four years."

"No, I couldn't help it. But—but—"

"I'm glad of it—I'm proud of you—and that you were promoted for bravery—"

"Oh, Mary, are you?... But bravery isn't anything, it's common. Why—"

"Yes, I know. But you must have been uncommonly brave, or they wouldn't have promoted you!"

He laughed and drew her near him, venturing a kiss.

"It seems strange that you have been through all that—battles, killing people—and you just a boy too, just Laurence," said Mary dreamily. "And wouldn't hurt a fly. I can remember yet what a fuss you made about a kitten—you remember the kitten the boys were—"

"Just Larry O'Carolan, the gossoon, divil a bit else," said Laurence.

"Oh, don't be Irish!... O'Carolan is pretty, though, prettier than Carlin, but it's too Irish!"

"You can have it either way you like, Mary darling," said he tenderly. "Just so you take it soon—will you?"

She could feel the strong beating of his heart as he held her close.

"And yet—I ought not to ask you, maybe! For I've got nothing in the world, only my two hands!... You know I was studying law when it came. Judge Baxter would take me back in his office, I think—but it would be years before—"

"He said you would be a good lawyer," pondered Mary.

"Would you like that? I could make some money at something else, perhaps, and be reading law too—at night or some time.... Or there's business—there are a lot of chances now, Mary, all over the country. I've heard of a lot of things.... Would you go away with me, Mary, go west, if—"

"West?"

She looked startled, rather dismayed.

"Well, we'll talk about that later, I'll tell you what I've heard," said Laurence hastily. "But I'll do exactly what you want, Mary, about everything. You shall have just what you want, always!"

She smiled, her pensive dreamy smile, and looked at his eyes so near her—blue mysterious eyes, radiant with love. This love, his complete devotion, she accepted calmly, as her right and due. Laurence belonged to her and she to him—that was settled, long ago. Her heart beat none the quicker at his touch—except now and then when he frightened her a little. Mary Lavinia was not in the least given to analysing her own feelings. She took it for granted that they were what they should be. And they remained largely below the threshold of consciousness.

But now she moved a little away from him and studied his face thoughtfully. This was not the handsome boy of four years ago, gay, tumultuous, demanding, full of petulant ardour. The lines of his mouth and jaw, which she had always thought too heavy, with a certain grossness, were now firmly set. He was thinner, that helped—the scar on his cheek, too. There was power in this face, and a look, sad, almost stern, that she had never seen before. Suffering, combat, the resolute facing of death, the habit of command, had formed the man. She had been used to command Laurence Carlin, she had held him in the palm of her hand. But here was something unfamiliar. Her instinct for domination suffered an obscure check.

III

The doctor returned earlier than usual, and was able to work for an hour in his garden, before dark. Mrs. Lowell, wrapped in a purple shawl, stood in the path, while he was turning over the soil with a pitchfork. She often objected to his working on Sunday. The doctor pointed out that his hedges were thick enough to conceal him from observation; she said that being seen wasn't what mattered, but breaking the Sabbath; whereupon the doctor alleged that he felt more religious when working in his garden than any other time, so that Sunday seemed a particularly appropriate day to work in it. This would reduce Mrs. Lowell to silence; she always looked scandalized when her husband referred to religion, suspecting blasphemy somewhere.

This old dispute was not in question now, however. In answer to a question about "the young folks," Mrs. Lowell had said curtly that they were out walking. Then she had stood silent, her broad pale face, with its keen eyes and obstinate mouth, expressing so plainly trouble and chagrin that the doctor spoke very gently.

"You mustn't worry about it, Mother."

Her chin trembled and she set her mouth more firmly.

"Of course I worry about it! I never liked it!"

"No, I know you didn't. But Laurence isn't a bad fellow."

"That's a high praise for a man that—that—!"

"Yes, I know, you think he isn't good enough for Mary. But you wouldn't think anybody good enough."

"I've seen plenty better than Laurence Carlin! Who is he, anyway—the son of a labourer, a man that worked for day-wages when he wasn't too drunk!"

"Oh, come now, Mother! Don't shake the family crest at us. Your father was a carpenter—and don't I work for wages?"

"My father was a master-carpenter and had his own shops and workmen, as you know very well!" cried Mrs. Lowell, flushing with wrath. "And if you like to say you work for wages, when it isn't true, you can, of course! Anyhow my people and yours too were good Americans for generations back and not bog-trotting Irish peasants!"

"Now, Mother, who told you Laurence's ancestors trotted in bogs? They may have been—"

"Didn't his father come over here with a bundle on his back, an immigrant?"

"Why, now, we're all immigrants, more or less, you know. Didn't your ancestors come over from England?"

"James Lowell—"

"Yes, I know, they came in the Mayflower, or pretty nearly ... that is, those that did come. Of course, on one side you're right, and we're all immigrants and foreigners, except you! You're the only real native American!"

And the doctor chuckled, while his wife started to walk into the house. A standing joke with him was Mrs. Lowell's aboriginal ancestry. Her grandfather, in Vermont, had married a French-Canadian, and the doctor pretended to have discovered that this grandmother was half Indian. He would point to her miniature portrait on the parlour-wall, her straight black hair and high cheek-bones, as confirmation. Mrs. Lowell and Mary too had the high cheek-bones, they had also great capacity for silence, which the doctor said was an Indian trait—not to mention the ferocity of which he sometimes accused his wife. Equally a jest with him was her undoubted descent from a genteel English family which actually did boast a crest and motto—and the fact that Mrs. Lowell treasured a seal with these family arms, and though she did not use it, she might, any day. And how did she reconcile her pride in that seal with her pride in the grandfather who had fought in the Revolution?

But the doctor, seeing his wife walk away, stuck his pitchfork in the ground and followed her, saying penitently:

"There, there, now, I was only joking."

"Yes, you'd joke if a person was dying!... But you know very well what I'm thinking about is his character, that's what worries me. His father drank. And he's got nothing to hold him anywhere, he's a rolling stone, I'm sure. I don't believe he has principles. And he's been roaming around for four years, getting into all sorts of bad habits, no doubt—"

The doctor sighed. It was useless to oppose his wife's idea that the life of a soldier was mainly indulgence, not to say license. Useless to point to Laurence's military record, for she did not approve of the war, her position being that people should be let alone and not interfered with. If they wanted to keep slaves, let them, they were responsible for their sins. If they wanted to secede, it was a good riddance. How did she reconcile this principle of non-resistance with the fact that she imposed her own will whenever she could on all around her? She didn't. That was her strength, she never tried to reconcile any of her ideas with one another—it was impossible to argue with her. So he sighed, for he knew she wanted comfort, her pride and her love for Mary were bleeding—and he couldn't give it. He was doubtful himself about this marriage. What he finally said was cold enough comfort:

"I don't think we can help it."

"You're her father!" cried Mrs. Lowell, angrily. "I've said all I can."

"I'll talk to Mary," he said.

"Oh—talk!"

With that she went into the house and banged the door. Well, what did she expect him to do—shut Mary up—or disinherit her? The doctor smiled ruefully as he returned to his gardening. It was growing dark, but he would work as long as he could see. There was no set meal on Sunday nights—people went to the pantry and helped themselves when they felt like it. He liked the smell of the fresh earth, even mixed with the manure he was turning in. The air was sharp and sweet, and over there above the lilacs with their little tremulous leaves, was a thin crescent moon. He stood looking at it, leaning on his pitchfork, thinking that tomorrow he would put in the rest of his seeds, if he had time. Thinking how sweet was the spring, how full of tenderness and melancholy, now as ever, though he was an old man....

He thought too of the murdered Lincoln, whom he had deeply admired; of the men now returning to their homes, the long struggle over; of the many he had known who would not return. He had wanted to serve also, had offered himself for the field-hospitals but had been rejected on the score of age. That might have been a good end, he thought. Now what was before him but old age, with lessening powers, the routine of life.... He sighed again, submissively, and darkness having come, went slowly in.

To his wife's surprise, he offered to accompany her to church. She was pleased, for now she could take his arm instead of Carlin's, who followed with Mary. Laurence had no particular desire to go to church, but as Mary was going, naturally he went also. They walked silently, arm in arm, down the quiet street. Mary had been very sweet and gentle to him, all day, and very serious—more so than ever before. She had changed, he felt, she was not a young girl any more, she was a woman. She had never been very gay—but yet she had had a glow of youth rather than sparkle, an enthusiasm, that he missed now. They had talked over plans for the future, gravely. She was ready to marry him at once, if he wished. She did not mind his being poor, she had said earnestly, she expected they would be, at first. She had not expected it to be a path of roses. There was a slight chill about this, to Laurence. Marriage with Mary was to him a rosy dream, a miracle—not a sober reality.

Still silently, they entered the church and took their seats. It was the "meeting-house," plain, austere—nothing to touch the senses. No mystery of shadowy lights or aspiring arches or appealing music. But the pews and benches were full, when the simple service began, there were even people standing at the back, as in a theatre.

Mary sat with her head bent forward. The broad rim of her bonnet hid her face from Laurence, but he felt this was the attitude of prayer. He watched her for what seemed many minutes, with a faint uneasiness. He had never thought Mary religious, and somehow her absorption seemed to set her away from him—it was one more change. She raised her head only when the minister stepped into the pulpit and gave out a hymn, and then she looked directly at him. She joined in the singing, with a deep, sweet alto, a little husky and tremulous.

Hilary Robertson in the pulpit had no pomp of office. With his black coat and black string tie he looked like any other respectable citizen, and his manner was perfectly simple. But when he began his prayer, there was an intense hush of attention in his audience. It was a brief prayer, for help in present trouble, for guidance in darkness, like the cry of a suffering heart. Many of the congregation were in mourning. This appeal was perhaps in their behalf, but it had the note of personal anguish.

There was the secret of Hilary's power. He never appeared the priest, set apart from the struggle of living—but a man like any other, a sinner, for so he felt himself to be. And then, he had true dramatic power, he could move and sway his hearers. His voice, his eloquence, his personality, created an atmosphere, in that bare room, like cathedral spaces, the colours of stained glass, deep organ melodies, incense—an atmosphere of mystic passion, thrilling and startling.

When the prayer ended and another hymn was sung, Carlin caught a glimpse of Mary's face, pale, exalted; her eyes, shining with fervour, fixed upon the minister. The mask for a moment had fallen, she was all feeling, illuminated. Carlin saw it, with a sharp jealous pang. Some strong emotion surely rapt her away from him, into a region where he could not follow. She was as unconscious of him now as though he had not existed, and so she remained through the service.

Carlin listened, sitting rigidly upright, his arms folded, his narrow blue eyes upon the speaker. He wanted to study and judge this man, for whom he suddenly felt a personal dislike.

He referred this dislike to Hilary's office—any assumption of spiritual authority was repugnant to him, perhaps partly from memories of his boyhood, when the priest had tried to direct him. His mood of sharp criticism was not softened by the beginning of Hilary's brief discourse. The first thing that struck his attention was a quotation from Lincoln's inaugural address:

"If God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn by the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so must it still be said, 'The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether'."

This blood and treasure had been paid, the preacher said, the whole nation had spent to cancel the debt incurred by our own and our father's guilt, the measure had been filled up by the death of Lincoln. In spite of himself, Carlin approved what was said about Lincoln. It was true also, he admitted, that though peace had been declared, the nation was still in the midst of turmoil arising out of past errors, the evil spirit, departing, had rent and torn it. Peace was not on the earth and never would be. Not peace but a sword had been given to men. Yes, that was true, probably. The world was an eternal battle-field, the field of a war without truce and without end, till man should subjugate his own nature. In the heart of man, full of pride, self-love and injustice, lay the root of all evil. He that could overcome himself was greater than he that should take a city. That was the true, the infinite struggle, of which all others were but ephemeral incidents—that was the end and aim of man's existence on earth. Not with earthly but with spiritual weapons must his battles be fought and his eternal conquests made.

Hilary spoke with curt simplicity, but with the fire of a spirit to whom these things were realities, indeed the only realities, all else being a shadow and a dream. There was nothing cold about his morality, nothing soft or sweet—it was intense, hard and burning.

A fanatic, Carlin thought, frowning—but all the same a man to be reckoned with.

IV

At the close of the service, the minister stood at the door, to shake hands with his departing congregation. Carlin, not disposed to shake his hand, went out and found himself joined by the doctor. They moved on with the crowd, and then stood on the edge of the sidewalk, under the maple trees, and waited.

"He's a good speaker," said the doctor pensively. "I like to come and hear him once in a while."

"Yes," said Carlin, coldly. "He's an able man."

"He's too mystical for me, though.... Seems to me you can think too much about salvation, you can look at your own soul so hard that you get cross-eyed ... that's the way it affects some of them. The women think a lot of him."

"Yes."

"I think some of his doctrine is rather dangerous," went on the doctor mildly. "It takes a strong head, you know, to keep it straight.... But he's all right, himself, he's a good man. Got into trouble preaching against slavery—he lost his first church that way, in Chicago—that was before the war. Oh, yes, he's plucky."

The doctor mused for a moment, while Carlin watched the church door for Mary, then he went on:

"He doesn't pay much attention to worldly affairs, though—doesn't care about political institutions and so on. We had a discussion when he first came here, about slavery. He thinks nothing is of importance except the human soul, but each soul is of infinite importance, the soul of the black slave is just as important as that of his white master. He said he hated slavery because of its effect on the master more than on the slave. He said the slave could develop Christian virtues, but the master couldn't."

The doctor paused and chuckled softly.

"I asked him," he resumed, "why, if the slaves outnumbered the masters, the sum of virtue might not be greater under slavery. But of course he had his answer, we were not to do evil that good might come.... Shall we walk on? The women-folks are probably consulting about something or other. They do a lot of church-work."

After a moment's hesitation, Carlin accompanied him.

"I didn't know Mary was so much interested in the church," he said moodily. "She wasn't, before."

"Well," said the doctor. "The war has made a difference, you know. Life has been harder—not many amusements—and lots of tragedies and suffering. We've had losses in our own family.... The church was about the only social thing that didn't seem wrong, to the women, you see. And they've done a lot of work, through it, for the soldiers and all that.... Yes, Mary's changed a good deal, she's very serious. I think the preacher has had a good deal of influence."

"How?" asked Carlin abruptly.

"Why, in getting her to think this world is vanity, a vale of tears, a place of trial, and so on.... It is, maybe, but she's too young to feel it so. I hope she'll get out of that and enjoy life a little," the doctor ended, with much feeling.

They walked on in silence. Carlin's heart was sore. The doctor had not mentioned his absence and peril as having anything to do with the change in Mary. Well, perhaps it hadn't had. He gave way to a sudden impulse.

"You're not against her marrying me, are you?" he asked tremulously. "I know your wife is. She doesn't like me."

"No, I like you, and I think well of you, Laurence," was the doctor's grave answer. "As far as you're concerned, I've no objection.... But sometimes I think Mary isn't ready to marry yet."

"She says she is," said Laurence quickly.

"I don't pretend to understand anything," said the doctor plaintively, and sighed.

"Perhaps—you think she doesn't care enough about me—is that it?"

"Sometimes I think she doesn't care about anybody," was the regretful answer.

When they reached the gate, Carlin did not go in.

"I'll walk on, for a bit," he said.

The doctor went into his office-study and lighted a lamp. This room was arranged to suit him, and he did as he pleased in it. It smelt very much of tobacco, though there were no curtains and no carpet, only a couple of small rugs on the painted floor. The furniture consisted of a large desk, a sofa and two chairs, besides some shelves full of books. Out of it opened his bedroom, which had an outside door with a night-bell.

The doctor established himself in his easy-chair, with a pipe and a medical review. But his attention wandered from the printed page, and twice he let his pipe go out. Half an hour passed before the women-folk returned, and he noted that they entered the house in silence.

He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she came in, she asked with surprise, "Where's Laurence?"

"He went off for a little walk.... Sit down, my dear, I want to talk to you."

Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on the sofa. She disliked the atmosphere of this room, not so much the tobacco-flavour as the flavour of the confessional. She was used to hearing low-toned murmurs coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes sounds of pain and weeping. And now she had an instant feeling that she was in the confessional, as had happened a few times before during her girlhood, occasions of which she retained a definite impression of fear.

"Mary, are you sure you're doing right?" asked the doctor abruptly, yet gently.

"Right?" she murmured, defensively.

"About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are ready to marry him, at once."

"Yes, I am ready," said Mary, with a forced calmness. "We have been engaged four years. I always expected to marry him when he came back."

"And you haven't changed your mind at all, in those four years? You were very young, you know—it would be natural that you should change."

"No—I haven't changed."

"In some ways, you have.... But you mean not in that way. You still love Laurence, as much as ever?"

"Yes," said Mary, her heart beating fast and sending a deep flush into her cheeks.

"Because, you know, you are not bound to marry him," said the doctor sharply.

"Don't you think that a promise is binding?" asked Mary.

"Certainly not—that kind of a promise! Are you going to marry him just because you promised?"

"I have no wish to break my promise," said Mary.

"Because it's a promise, or because you want to marry him anyway and would, if you hadn't promised? Come, Mary, answer me!"

"I want to keep my promise," said Mary clearly, with a look of the most perfect obstinacy in her fair eyes.

The doctor was hot-tempered, and banged a book on his desk with his fist. But instantly he controlled himself, for he loved this exasperating child of his, and there was no one but himself to stand between her and harm—so he felt it.

"You mean," he said tenderly, "that you haven't any reason not to keep it?"

Mary assented.

"And Laurence loves you and depends on you."

Her silence gave assent to this.

"You feel it would be wrong to disappoint him—desert him."

"Yes, of course it would be."

"And there's no one else you care about?"

The last question was sharp and sudden. Mary started slightly, and cast a troubled and angry glance at her inquisitor. But such was the personality of this little man with the gentle firm voice and pitying eyes, such was his relation to his daughter, that she never thought of denying his authority or right to question her. She felt obliged to answer him, and truthfully too.

"Nobody—in that way," she said faintly.

"You don't love anyone else."

"No."

"And you haven't thought of marrying any one else?"

There was just an instant's hesitation before she answered:

"No."

The doctor reflected, and Mary sat still, her long eyelids drooping—the image of maiden calm.

"Well, then, I was mistaken," said the doctor after a pause. "I thought you were interested in some one else—and I guess your mother thought so too.... But it wasn't that kind of interest."

"No, it wasn't," said Mary quickly.

"But it was—it is—an interest. I wish you could tell me what it is, why you think so much of Mr. Robertson as you do, what your feeling is about him."

"But—it isn't a personal feeling!" cried Mary, no longer calm, suddenly alert and on the defensive. "It has nothing to do with that!"

"But you admire him and look up to him—"

"Of course I do! But you don't understand, you don't believe—"

"It's religious, you mean, it's your feeling for religion, and he represents it—"

"Yes," said Mary angrily.

"Don't be vexed with me, my dear—perhaps I don't understand these things, as you say.... But he is something like a spiritual director, isn't he, now?"

"I don't know what you mean by that—"

"I mean, you talk to him about your religious feelings, and he gives you counsel," said the doctor gravely.

"Yes—yes, he does."

"Have you talked to him about your marriage?"

"I—why, no!"

"You don't talk about worldly affairs, then—is that it? Do you think marriage not important enough to talk about?"

"It isn't that! I haven't, because—"

Here was a pause, and the doctor asked:

"Perhaps because, Mary, you thought he had a feeling for you that—"

"No, it wasn't that! He hasn't—it isn't that at all!"

Disturbed, distressed, she got up.

"Wait a minute, Mary.... I wish you would talk to him about it," said the doctor in his most serious tone.

"But, why? Why should I?"

"Why? Because it's a most important thing to you, and mixed up with everything, or should be. Because you shouldn't keep your religion separate from your marriage. Because you shouldn't shut Laurence out from everything."

"I shut him out?"

"Now you do as I tell you, Mary," said the doctor quietly.

He sat looking out of the window, feeling her bewilderment and silent revolt. He hesitated whether he should tell Mary that he thought her religion erotic in origin and her feeling for the minister very personal indeed, but finally decided against it. She would deny it not only to him but to herself—women's minds were made like that. At last he said:

"I think at first you were in love with Laurence—but four years is a long time, and you were very young."

"I haven't changed," said Mary proudly.

"Yes, you have, but you don't want to admit it. You think there are higher things than being in love. You seem to think of marriage as a serious responsibility, a—sort of discipline."

"Isn't it?" she asked.

"Well, that isn't the way to go into it! Confound it, I tell you you had better not!"

He glared at her over his spectacles, then put out his hand and drew her toward him.

"What a child you are, Mary—with your airs of being a hundred and fifty!... I don't think you understand anything. The basis of marriage is physical, if that isn't right nothing is right—you want to think of that, Mary. It's flesh and spirit, but both, not divided. If your imagination is drawn away from Laurence to what you think are spiritual things, then you oughtn't to marry—or you ought to marry Hilary."

Mary stood like a stone—her fingers turned cold in his grasp. He saw the tears flood her eyes, and got up and led her to the door, and dismissed her with a kiss on her cold cheek.

V

She went out and stood at the gate, waiting for Laurence, uneasy about him, troubled by many thoughts, oppressed. She was still crying when she heard his step down the sidewalk, firm and quick. The thin little moon was already sinking behind the trees, but there was bright starlight, so that Laurence could see her face.

"What's the matter, Mary?" he cried.

"Where have you been? Why did you run off like that?" she demanded with a sob.

She swung the gate open for him, but he took her hand and drew her out.

"It's early yet—come, we don't want to go in yet. Come, let's get away from everybody!"

She was quite willing at the moment to get away from everybody. Out of a vague sense of injury she continued to weep, and to Laurence's anxious inquiries she returned a sobbing answer:

"I don't think older people ought to interfere!... It's our own business, isn't it?... What do they know about it?..."

Laurence agreed passionately that they knew nothing about it and had better not interfere, and kissed her tearful eyes till she protested that they must go on now or somebody would be coming. She said softly:

"Poor Laurence! This isn't very gay, for your first evening home!"

"Never mind about being gay!"

He drew her hand firmly through his arm and strode down the street with a feeling that he was bearing her off triumphantly from a legion of enemies. When she was near him, and in a troubled and melting mood, like this, he feared nothing, his doubts vanished, he felt sure of her, and that was all he cared about at present. As for anybody interfering, that was nonsense. His spirits rose with a bound out of the evening's depression. Soon he was talking light-heartedly and Mary was laughing. He was quick and fluent, when at ease, and full of careless, gay and witty turns of speech that amused and charmed her. No one had ever amused her so much as Laurence. With him life seemed really a cheerful affair, he was so rich in confidence—he had the brightest visions of the future. He was bubbling over now with plans, schemes of all sorts.... The vastness, the richness of the country, its endless opportunities, were in his imagination, a restless ambition in his veins. He had a feeling of his power, more than mere youthful self-confidence. Already he had been tried and proved in different ways, and had stood the test. So far he had always been successful. His mind was restless now because a definite channel for his activity was to be fixed. He wanted Mary's advice—rather, he wanted to know what she wanted. His own most marked bent was toward the law, with a vista of political power beyond. And there was money in the law, too. But if Mary wanted more money, a lot of money—well, she had only to say so! As his talk came back to this point, Mary said that she didn't care about money, and that he had better stick to the law and go into Judge Baxter's office.

"Not Chicago?... I thought you'd like to make a start in a big city," he suggested persuasively.

"Why not here?... You'd have a better start with Judge Baxter, and you know he's a good lawyer, he has a big practice.... And then we could live at home till you get started," Mary said practically.

No, Laurence didn't like that at all, it wouldn't do, living with Mary's parents!... She didn't press that point, but she was firm about not going away—not to Chicago, still less to some vague point "out west." Laurence argued. Why did she want to stay here, in this one-horse town? Why not the city? There was more life, there were more chances, in the city, she would like it better.... No! Mary couldn't explain why she wanted to stay, but with emotion she made it clear that she wanted to....

Laurence was silenced. He took her hand and kissed it, perhaps in acquiescence. But he meditated, puzzled, asking himself why, after all....

He looked at the town from the vantage-point of his four years' wanderings. By contrast with the great cities he had seen, the east, populous and civilized, the picturesque south, beautiful mountains and valleys, stately old houses, glimpses of a life that had been rich in colour and luxury—beside all this the little town, his birth-place, seemed like a mere mud-spot on the prairie.... A little square, with a few brick buildings, the bank, the courthouse, small shops—two or three streets set with frame dwelling-houses, straggling out into the prairie—what was the attraction, the interest of this place?... His absence had broken all his own associations with it except as to Mary. His mother, the last remaining member of his family, had died the year before; his only brother had been killed at Shiloh. The friends of his youth had scattered, most of them in the army. He could not see himself settling here.... Perhaps, for a little while, till he had finished his law-reading, if he decided on the law—they might stay till then, since Mary wanted it. But why did she? To be sure, she knew no other place, what friends and interests she had were here—but she was young, she must want to see something of the world! He shook his head, in pensive bewilderment. Women were queer, decidedly! He made no pretence of understanding the sex—in fact never had had time or occasion to make an exhaustive study of it.

They had come to the end of the board sidewalk; beyond was only a path by the roadside. They went a little distance along this, but it was muddy; a stream, dividing the road from the pasture, had overflowed. Mary thought they had better turn back, but Laurence protested. So they sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, among a clump of willows that hung over the stream.

The lights of the town were faintly visible on one side; on the other, the prairie stretched out dark and silent, with the starry sky bright by contrast. A slight breeze swayed the long fronds of the willows, the stream gurgled softly along its mud-bed, and from a pond out in the pasture rose the musical bassoon of an amorous bull-frog.... The damp heavy air, hardly stirring, had a sweet oppression, a troubled languor, the pulse of the spring....

Laurence sighed deeply. Turning, he took Mary gently in his arms, and kissed her lowered eyelids and her lips, first lightly, then lingeringly, then as she began to resist, with passionate possession.

"Don't—don't push me away," he begged. "Come near to me...."

But she was frightened, and struggled against his strong clasp, till she slipped down, bent backward over the tree-trunk, and cried out with pain and anger. Laurence released her suddenly, roughly.

"You don't love me," he said.

She got to her feet, trembling, but Laurence sat still, turning away from her.

"You don't love me," he repeated bitterly. "You'd better leave me—go back."

Without a word she moved away, her head bent, stumbling a little on the dark path. He looked after her sullenly. Yes, she would go, like that, without a word to him, without a sign.... Was she angry—was she hurt?... That silence of hers was a strong weapon. She disappeared beyond the trees.... No, he couldn't let her go like that. In a moment he overtook her.

"Take my arm," he said curtly. "The path's rough."

She took it, and they went back in silence. As they came to a street-light he looked at her, and saw the mysterious mask of her face more immobile, more impassive than ever. Doubt had come back upon him, now it was almost despair. He had a strong impulse to break with her, to tell her that he was going away. She was too elusive, too distant, too cold.... But instead, when they came to her gate, he only murmured sadly:

"Forgive me, Mary."

And to his surprise she bent toward him to kiss him good-night, and said steadily:

"You shouldn't have said what you did. I do love you. Why should I want to marry you if I don't love you?"

"I don't know, Mary," said Laurence with a faint weary smile.

VI

Judge Baxter's office was in the Bank Building, up a flight of worn and dingy stairs. Carlin, knowing the Judge's habits, appeared there at eight o'clock the next morning, and was warmly welcomed. The judge was a big man, with waves of white hair and beard and bright blue eyes; carelessly dressed; with a quid of tobacco in his cheek, which did not interfere with his speech, but gave him a somewhat bovine, meditative air, as he rolled and nibbled at it in the intervals of conversation.

"Coming back to me, Laurence?" he said at once, tilting back his chair and beaming at the young man.

"I don't know—I came to talk things over," Laurence hesitated.

"Hope you will—don't see as you could do better. I always said you ought to go into law. And I need an assistant. What's the objection?"

"Well—I hadn't thought of settling here."

"I know." The Judge nodded. "Hard to settle down now—I expect things seem pretty dull and drab to you around here. Natural. A lot of good fellows will have the Wanderlust—"

"No, I want to settle down.... I want to be married soon," said Laurence, slightly embarrassed.

"Yes, I know—Miss Mary! Think of her waiting for you all this time—a lot of girls wouldn't have done that, and I don't believe she even had a sweetheart," said the Judge, his eyes twinkling. "Though I tell you, if I'd been twenty years younger—you see, she used to run up here and read me some of your letters.... She's a beautiful woman," ended the old man warmly.

"I must make some money—I haven't a dollar!" Laurence explained. "I thought there'd be better chances in the city perhaps, or—"

"No, no!" the Judge protested. "Why, look here, you'd have a salary—not much, to be sure, at first—but you come into my office and peg away at Blackstone and Chitty—and in a year or less you can be admitted to the bar. And meantime you could live with the old folks—they're so wrapped up in Mary, they'd like it—"

"No," said Laurence positively, "I wouldn't do that. I must have a place of my own to take her to."

"Well, yes, I understand." The Judge chewed his cud for a moment, then his face lit up. "See here, why shouldn't you live with me!... I've got a good-sized house and there's the whole top floor I never use, and I've got a sort of housekeeper, such as she is. You two young folks could have all the room you want, and Mary could fix up the old place and make it a hell of a lot more cheerful, and I'd have somebody to eat with and something pretty to look at—why, Jesus, man! It would be charity to me, it would, upon my soul! Say you will, now!"

"Why, Judge, you're very kind, I don't know—I'll think it over, and talk to Mary—we'd pay our board, of course," Laurence stammered, rather overcome.

"Board, hell!" said the Judge, excited. "Mary could fix up some pies and things once in a while—I haven't had a decent doughnut for a year.... Well, you can board if you want to, we won't quarrel.... And you can be making something besides your salary, if you don't mind work—"

"I don't," said Laurence, smiling, curiously touched by the old man's warmth. Somehow he felt at home now for the first time since his return, he felt some wish to stay.

The Judge pondered and rolled his quid.

"Ever run a creamery?" he asked, suddenly, with a twinkle.

Laurence shook his head.

"I was principal of a school once," he remarked.

"Well, I haven't got a school, but I've got a creamery—that is, I'm the Receiver. Owner was killed at Vicksburg, and his widow has been trying to run it—it's a big place at Elmville, about five miles from here—I need a manager for it. I tell you what, Laurence, you have a bite of dinner with me at twelve, and then we'll drive over there, I've got to go anyway, and we can talk it over on the way—"

There was a knock at the glazed door, the pale youth who occupied the outer office put his head in and announced a client. Laurence rose. The Judge escorted him out with an arm round his shoulders, and they were to meet at the tavern.

"It's only a little worse than at my house," Judge Baxter said cheerfully. "We need a good hotel here. We need a lot of things, principally some good, hustling young men—I tell you, we've missed you fellows. But the town's all right, you mustn't look down on our town, we're going ahead."

Laurence strolled across the little square, the centre of the town, and smiled at the Judge's civic fervour. He could not see any signs of enterprise or change, except that the young maple trees along the sidewalks had grown, and there were two or three new buildings. The same row of country plugs tied to wooden posts in front of the courthouse, the same row of loafers in front of the saloon. The dry-goods store had a new window with a display of shirts and neckties. There was a new Tonsorial Parlour, with a gaily painted striped pole, the cigar-store had a wooden Indian standing on the sidewalk, holding out a bunch of wooden cigars, and the Opera-house had been repainted, and had large bills outside, announcing a minstrel show. Yes, there was an ice-cream parlour, too, with a window full of confectionery. Laurence stopped to buy a cigar, and spoke to two or three people who recognized him; their greetings were friendly enough but not especially cordial. Laurence had no great fund of friendship to draw upon in his native town. He said to himself, as he walked on, that Judge Baxter was his only friend there. Should he go and see Mary this morning? It was too early to go yet—and there was a sore feeling in him about Mary. No, he would wait till he had made his expedition with the Judge and had something definite to talk to her about. Something practical, that would suit her. He smiled wryly and went on along the street. There was not much of the brass band about this home-coming, he reflected, not much of Hail, the conquering hero comes. No, he would sink into civilian life without any fuss being made over him—so would all the other fellows, the men he had marched with this last week, through the streets of Washington, Sherman's magnificent army. There had been plenty of brass band there, they had felt pretty important then—it was a shame that the Old Man hadn't been allowed to lead his army in review, but had been sent straight off to the border. Laurence had a feeling of personal affection for the Old Man, and he realized suddenly, for his companions in arms. He was going to miss them, those tough chaps, scattered now to the four winds of heaven. The best soldiers on earth—now, like him, they would have to compete empty-handed with the fat citizens who had stayed behind and been piling up money these four years.

Laurence scowled under the rim of his cap, and reflected that he must get himself a suit of civilian clothes. The street he was on brought him to the railroad tracks. A long freight-train was passing, car after car loaded with cattle, going to Chicago. After it had passed, he crossed the tracks, and the street became a road, which led up a slight rise, to the cemetery. He followed it listlessly, his eyes fixed on the wide expanse of tombstones, crosses, spires, slabs of grey and white, that covered the swell of the prairie. The cemetery was considerably more populous than the town, he thought; and now he was here, he would go and look at his mother's grave. He had some difficulty in finding it, though he vaguely remembered its location. The lot had been neglected, the prairie-grass had grown long over it, hiding the grey slab with her name, the date of her death and her age, forty-seven. Another small stone, with a dove and the name "Evangeline," marked the grave of his little sister, dead twenty years. And this was all that remained of his family. Patrick lay on the field of Shiloh. As to his father, he might be dead or living—he had run away ten years before, and nothing had ever been heard of him.

He stood looking sorrowfully down on the unkempt grass. Poor his mother had lived, poor she had died, and alone too. Pat and he had both gone and left her. He had been very fond of his mother. The proud woman she was, and silent, with long black hair and fine little hands and feet—and she worked at the wash-tub, and he and Pat, bare-footed boys, carried the wash home in baskets. Oh, but she had a bitter tongue when she did let it out, and she let his father have it. He remembered the night when his father struck her, and he, Laurence, fifteen then, knocked his father flat on the floor. That was the last night they saw him, he had sworn he wouldn't stay to be beaten by his own son, and they had all been glad he went....

He turned away, and went on across the rise, thinking he would get out into the country. At the far side of the cemetery he passed a little plot without even a headstone but neatly kept, where a girl in a grey dress was kneeling, setting out some plants. He noticed her slim figure and her copper-coloured hair, but passed without seeing her face. She called after him.

"Oh, Larry! Is it you?"

He turned and she got up and put out both hands to him, smiling, showing her big white teeth.

"Well, Nora!" he cried, clasping her hands gladly. "Why, what a young lady you've grown!"

She was not pretty, her red mouth was too big and her nose turned up, and she was freckled, but she had a slim graceful shape, her hair was a glory and her eyes full of warmth. She had been Laurence's playmate of old—she belonged to the only other Irish family in town. They had lived in the slum together, and she had been his first sweetheart.

"And you!" she said, looking at him shyly with artless admiration. "I hardly knew you, and yet I knew it was you!"

They stood and talked for a while. Laurence found out that she was tending the grave of her brother, "Colin, you'll remember," who had come back with the prison-fever on him, and died, "wasted to the bone." And that she did very well, she had been working on a dairy farm but it was too hard for her, and now she had got a place in the store, and was to begin next week. She lived with her mother. When Laurence said he would go to see her she seemed a little embarrassed, and asked, couldn't they meet some evening outside, her mother was a bit queer. So they arranged to meet on Sunday evening, (Mary would be at church) by the big willow on the river road. Nora looked a little disappointed, perhaps at having the meeting put off so long, but she was not one to demand or expect much. Laurence remembered what she had been—an humble, generous little creature, grateful for the least kindness, and she didn't get much. She was always giving more than she got, to her family and every one. She was hot-tempered, too, and would fly into a rage easily, and then dissolve in repentant tears. He looked at her rough red hands—poor Nora always had worked hard. But her neat dress, her carefully arranged hair, showed that she was making the most of herself. Her skin was soft and creamy, in spite of the freckles, her eyes were almost the colour of her hair, deep reddish-brown. They were like a dog's eyes, so soft and warm and wistful. Poor Nora, what a good little thing she was! With a quick glance round, Laurence seized her in his arms and kissed her very warmly on her red mouth. She blushed and trembled, but did not resist. She never had been able to resist any sign of affection, however careless. He kissed her again, and said a few tender words to her, in a lordly way. The homage of her shining dazzled eyes was sweet to him. And besides, the remembrance of old times had wakened.

As he left her and went on down the slope, along the country road, he realized that his memories of this place were deep. He would still have said that there was not much he cared to remember, that it was better to cut loose and begin afresh in some new place. The poverty of his boyhood still stung him, the community had looked down upon him and his, and old slights rankled in him. And yet it seemed that, little by little, things were shaping to tie him here. Not only outside, but in himself he was feeling as if some root went down deep into the black soil of the prairie and held him.

VII

It was late afternoon when they drove back behind the Judge's spanking pair of bays, hitched to a light buggy. The roads were very rough, with frequent mud-holes where the wheels sank nearly to the axle, but when they got a fairly level stretch the trotters stepped out finely.

Laurence had enjoyed this day. On the way over they had talked politics. Judge Baxter was a fiery Republican. His face flushed red with wrath as he spoke of Lincoln's murder and hoped they would hang Jeff Davis for it. He was in favour of a heavy hand on the South—Lincoln would have been gentle with them, they had killed him, the blank rebels, now let them have it. Vae victis!

Laurence was cooler. He had no anger against the men he had helped to fight and beat. They were good fighters, good men, most of them. He did not think the southern leaders had plotted the attack on Lincoln and Seward. They had fought for a wrong idea, a wrong political system, and they had been beaten. Now they wanted peace, not revenge, he thought. They had suffered enough. If they were still to be punished, it would take longer to establish the Union in reality. The men who had fought for the Union wanted to see it a reality, not one section against another any more, but one country, united in spirit, great and powerful.

The Judge had listened, and then said meditatively:

"You fellows that did the fighting seem to have less bitterness than some of us that had to stay at home—I've noticed that. I suppose you worked it off in fighting."

"Why, yes," Laurence agreed. "And then, when you come right up against the other fellow, you find he's folks, just like yourself. Of course he's wrong and you have to show him, but he fights the best he can for what he believes in, he risks his life, the same as you do—and when it's over you feel like shaking hands, in spite of—"

"You think we ought to let them come back in the Union, as if nothing had happened?"

"Why," said Laurence slowly. "Aren't they in it? If we fought to prove they couldn't go out when they felt like it—"

"Well, authorities differ on that point. I've heard some right smart arguments on both sides," said the Judge sharply.

After a short silence, he went on:

"I see you've been thinking and keeping track of things.... This is a great time we live in, Laurence, I wish I was young like you and could see all that's going to happen. Still, I've had my day, I've seen a good deal—and maybe done a little. We had some kind of fighting to do here at home, you know, we had plenty of black-hearted copperheads here.... You ought to go into public life, my boy, and there's no entering wedge like the law."

But it was on the way home, after they had spent the afternoon inspecting the creamery, a large brick building in the midst of a small town, going over accounts and talking with various people, it was then that Judge Baxter urged on Laurence the wisdom of following the path before him here.

"I don't see any use in rambling over the country looking for something better, ten to one you won't find it," he argued. "And you haven't time to lose, Laurence, you ought to be buckling right down to your job. Our town may look small to you, but she's linked up to a lot of things. To be the big man of this place is better than being a small fish in Chicago—to be the best lawyer at the bar of your state is no small thing. It might lead anywhere, and I believe you've got it in you.... This is your state, Laurence—this country round here is a rich country and it's going to be richer—you ought to stay with it."

The Judge swept his whip in a wide circle over the prairie. They were driving westward, the low sun was dazzling in their eyes. Laurence looked to the left and the right, over the low rolling swells to the horizon. Where the plough had cut, endless furrows stretched away, black and heavy, with young green blades showing. Herds of cattle spotted the pastures. Yes, it was rich land.... With the flood of sunlight poured along it, the fresh green starting through, the piping song of the birds that have their nests in the grass, the wind that blew strongly over the great plain, smelling of the spring, it had a strange sweetness to Laurence, even beauty.... No, it was not beauty, but some sort of appeal, vague but strong....

"You'd have your own people behind you," said the Judge.

That broke the spell, for the moment. Laurence smiled bitterly.

"You know what my people were—and what your people thought of them," he said in a cutting tone. "To tell the truth, that's one reason I want to go. I want to forget that I lived in Shanty-town and my mother was Mrs. Carlin the washerwoman, not good enough to associate with your women—that weren't good enough, most of them, to tie the shoes on her little feet!"

The Judge turned, pulling the broad brim of his hat over his eyes, and looked at the young man's face, pale and set with ugly lines.

"Laurence," he said after a moment, "if you're the man I think you are, you won't want to forget that. We can none of us forget what we have been, what we came from. You can't do anything for your mother now, and I know it's bitter to you. But you can make her name, her son, respected and honoured here—not somewhere else, where she was never known, but here, where she lived. That would mean a lot to her. Doesn't it mean something to you?"

The Judge continued to look earnestly at Laurence's face, and presently saw it relax, soften, saw the stormy dark-blue eyes clear, become fixed as though upon a light ahead.

"Judge," said Laurence huskily, "you understand a lot of things. Perhaps you're right—"

The Judge, holding whip and reins in one hand, put out the other and they shook hands warmly. They were silent for a while, then the Judge began to talk about the local situation, finance and politics, with a good many shrewd personal sketches mixed in.

"You want to know every string to this town," he remarked.

Judge Baxter knew all these strings, evidently, and could, he insinuated, pull a good many of them. Though too modest to point the fact, he himself illustrated his contention that, to live in a small town, a man need not be small. If he knew Cook county thoroughly, the county knew him too. He had rather the air of a magnate, in spite of his seedy dress, his beard stained with tobacco. He had more money than he cared for. His only adornment was a big diamond in an old-fashioned ring on his little finger, but he drove as good horses as money could buy.

Near the end of their journey he asked:

"Well, what do you say—about made up your mind?"

"Pretty much. I'll talk to Mary tonight. I don't think she'll have anything against it. But the women have to be consulted, you know," said Laurence lightly.

"Oh, of course, of course."

The Judge didn't think the women had to be consulted—but then he was a bachelor.

"I really don't see why you should be so good to me—take all this trouble about me," pondered Laurence.

"Well," said the Judge judicially, "it isn't altogether for you, though I may say that I like you, Laurence. But I'm looking out for myself too. I calculate that you're going to be useful to me, you might say a credit to me, if I have anything to do with giving you a start. I see more in you than—well, I think you're one in a thousand. Remember I've seen you grow up, I know pretty much all about you.... I tell you, I felt mighty bad when you marched away. I knew it was right, you had to go, I wouldn't have held you back if I could—and yet I said to myself, ten to one a bullet will pick off that boy instead of some of those lubbers along with him, and I felt bad. Why," the Judge ended pensively, "I thought I knew then about how it feels to have a son go to war—"

Rather startled himself at this touch of sentiment, he flicked the off-horse with his whip, and they dashed into the town at top speed.

VIII

In the dusk Mary stood waiting for him by the gate. He had thought she might be piqued or angry at him, but she met him without the slightest coquetry, asking only where on earth he had been all day. Her tone was almost motherly, a little anxious, as if he had been a truant child. He liked it.

They sat on the steps. The wind had fallen and the evening was warm. There was the crescent moon over the tree-tops, but tonight it was hazy, a veil had drawn across the sky. There was rain in the air. A syringa-bush beside the steps, in flower, and the honeysuckle over the porch, were strongly fragrant.

"I'll tell you in a little while, I'm tired," said Laurence lazily. He leaned his head against her knee and she swept her cool finger-tips over his crisp black hair, touching his temples and his eyelids.

"Are you?" she asked softly.

He sighed with pleasure, shutting his eyes, knowing that he could take his time to speak, Mary was in no hurry, she never was. Sometimes her silence and repose had irritated him, but more often it was a deep pleasure to him. The night was as quiet as she. Not a leaf stirred. A cricket chirped under the porch. The honeysuckle was almost too sweet in the damp air. Thin veil upon veil hid the stars, and the moon was only a soft blur.

When her hand ceased to touch his hair, he reached up and took it, clasping the cool strong fingers and soft palm. He moved and looked up at her. She wore a white dress, sweeping out amply from the waist, open a little at the neck, and she had a flower of the syringa in her hair. The outline of her face, bent above him, was clear and lovely.

"How beautiful you are," he murmured. "I love you."

She put her arms around him and drew him up, his head to her shoulder.

"And I'm very, very fond of you," she whispered. "More than I ever was of anybody. But sometimes you're so impatient."

"Yes," he said submissively.

"You get angry with me. You always did."

"Yes," he said humbly. "I'll try not to. But sometimes I think you don't love me."

"But I do," she assured him gently.

"But sometimes—" he stopped.

"Well, what?"

"No, I won't say it."

"Yes, tell me."

"Well, sometimes—you don't seem to like to have me touch you, you—"

"I don't like you to be rough," said Mary.

"Am I—rough?"

"Sometimes."

"But if you liked me, you—"

"No, I do, and you know it."

"I don't see why you should, after all."

"Should what?"

"Love me."

"Well, it's been so long now, I couldn't very well stop," said Mary, smiling.

"Yes, a long time.... And you really have, all the time?"

"Oh, yes."

"And nobody else? Ever?"

"No, you know it," said Mary, lifting her head proudly.

He was silent, thinking of the years past....

Yes, it had been a long time—six years. They had first met at the High School, then at the country college where he was working his way and Mary was preparing to teach. He hadn't made many friends—he had been sensitive and apt to take offence, and had plenty of fighting to do. But Mary had been his friend from the first. Hers was the first "respectable" house in town to open its doors to him. He, however, did not know what a battle-royal had been fought over his admission there.

Mrs. Lowell of course had been against him. In that little town where people apparently lived on terms of equality, caste-prejudice was subtle and strong, and Mrs. Lowell had her full share. Money didn't count for much, as nobody had very much, but education and "family" counted heavily, also worldly position. The town had its aristocracy—the banker, the minister, the lawyers and the doctor.

Mary, with all her mother's obstinacy, had something of her father's crystal outlook on the world, his perfect unworldliness. She cared nothing for what "people would say," and she seemed to look serenely over the heads of her neighbours and to see something, whatever it was, beyond. When she and her mother had come to a deadlock about Laurence, the doctor was called in, and gave his voice on Mary's side. So Laurence had become a visitor, on equal terms with the other young people—not invited to meals very often, for that was not the custom, but free to drop in of an evening or to take Mary out. Their youthful friendship had grown and deepened rapidly, and as Mary at seventeen was old enough to teach school, she was able also to engage herself to him, in spite of her mother's opposition and her father's wish that she should wait. Many girls were married at seventeen or sixteen. Mary had made up her mind, and when this happened, it was not apt to change. Her nature had a rock-like immobility; hard to impress, it held an impression as the rock a groove.

Memories and thoughts of her were passing through Carlin's mind—vague, coloured by her warmth and nearness, a soft tide of adoration. He had always admired her deeply, she appealed to his imagination as no other woman ever had. He had known other women, more easily moved, more loving, more ready to respond and give, than Mary. And he wanted love, wanted it warm and expressive and caressing, wanted a long deep draught of it. But—he wanted Mary, and no other woman. Now she would be his, very soon. He was very happy there, with his head on her shoulder, feeling the soft even beating of her heart; but at this thought he moved, his arms closed around her impetuously, and the dreamy peace that enfolded them was broken.

"There, you bad boy," she said with mild chiding. "Don't pull my hair down—now tell me what you've been doing all day."

He told her, after some insistence—all except the meeting with Nora. Laurence never, if he could help it, mentioned one woman he had any liking for to another. But in this case he didn't think of Nora at all. He told Mary all about the Judge and his offers; the prospect of immediate work, of a temporary home with the Judge, if she liked the idea. In that case they could be married at once.

She moved away from him, clasped her arms round her knees, and sat silent.

"What is it—have I said anything to bother you?" asked Laurence alarmed.

"I'm just thinking," she answered absently.

After a time she began to speak her thoughts.

"It will seem odd, going to live at the Judge's house. Mother won't like it, she'll want us to stay here, she will think that people will think it's queer if we don't. But it wouldn't be best to live here. Father will understand, I think. He doesn't care what people think, it never bothers him at all. But Mother is different."

"And how about you, Mary? Does it suit you?"

"Oh, yes, until we can have a house of our own."

"That won't be for long, I hope. I'll do my best."

Mary turned and looked gravely at him.

"Do you feel contented to stay here, after all?"

"Perhaps it's best," said Laurence vaguely.

"You know the Judge will be a great help to you, getting started."

"Oh, yes, I see that, it makes a lot of difference. But the main reason is, you want it."

"Yes, I think it's better."

They spoke in low tones, though the house was empty and dark behind them. The doctor was off on his round, and Mrs. Lowell had gone out to a neighbour's. About them now the leaves stirred softly, a damp breath lifted the honeysuckle sprays. Then came a soft rustling.

"Rain," said Laurence.

They moved up into some low chairs on the porch.

"Shall I get you a wrap?"

"No, thank you."

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

"No."

Laurence lit a cigar, and laid his left hand on Mary's knee. The gently falling rain seemed to shut them in together, in a strange delicious quiet.

"Can you tell me, Mary, why it is that you feel so strongly about this place?... You've always lived here, why is it you don't want something new?"

"I don't like new things," she said, after a pause.

"You're a strange girl!... You don't seem like a girl at all, sometimes you seem about a thousand years old. I feel like a boy beside you."

"You are a boy," said Mary. From her tone, she was smiling.

"I would like to know where you get your air of experience, of having seen everything! It's astonishing!"

"Everything is everywhere," said Mary serenely.

"Now, when you say a thing like that! Upon my word! Where do you get it? I don't half like it, it doesn't seem natural!"

Laurence pulled hard at his cigar, blew out a great cloud of smoke.

"I hope you're not going to be a saint," he said petulantly.

Mary made no reply, but quietly drew her hand away from his.

"There, now, I've done it again!" he groaned. "You think I'm a barbarian, don't you. I don't understand you? Well, I don't! I think you're wonderful.... But you don't explain things to me, you don't talk—I don't feel that you give me your confidence, not all of it—"

"I don't like to talk much.... And you're in too much of a hurry about everything," said Mary coldly.

"Well, you're not!... You have about as much speed as a glacier!"

He sprang up and walked to the end of the porch and stood with his back to her. But he couldn't stand there forever. And certainly Mary could sit there forever. He turned and looked at her dim stately outline, the white blur of her dress. The rain pattered softly all around, a great wave of sweetness came from the honeysuckle.

It came to him that he might as well quarrel with the slow turning of the earth, he might as well be angry with the rain for falling.... She was right—he was impatient and violent, and foolish—awfully foolish. No wonder she called him a boy.... Hadn't he any self-control, any ...?

He went back to her, knelt beside her, accusing himself; she did not accuse herself, but she put her arms around him. They made peace.

IX

The minister lived in a small frame house near the church. A widow woman of certain age and uncertain temper kept his house and provided his ascetic fare. It was she who opened the door to Mary, with the suspicious glance due to the visitor's youth and good looks. Proclaiming that Mr. Robertson was busy writing his sermon, she nevertheless consented to knock at his study door, and after a moment Mary was admitted. Hilary rose from his desk to receive her, gave her hand a quick nervous clasp, and indicated a chair facing the windows, the only easy-chair in the bare room. For himself he was impatient of comfort. He sat down again before his desk and waited for Mary to speak, but seeing that she looked pale and troubled and hesitated, he began with an effort to question her.

"What is it, Mary? You have something to tell me? How can I help you?"

She looked earnestly at him, her face was more youthful in its expression of appeal and confidence.

"You're the only person I can speak to.... Nobody else understands," she murmured. "Every one thinks I am wrong."

"How, wrong?"

"My mother is so unhappy, and she makes me unhappy.... Do you think I'm wrong, to marry against her wish?"

Hilary was silent, looking at some papers on his desk and moving them about. At last he said in a low voice:

"Not if you're sure, otherwise, that it's right—for you, I mean. We have to judge for ourselves, nobody can judge for us.... Your parents are opposed ... to your marriage?"

"Yes—in a different way, not for the same reason. My mother never has liked Laurence, she doesn't trust him—and my father—doesn't trust me, he doesn't think I know my own mind."

"And are you sure you do?"

"Oh, yes," said Mary. "I couldn't desert Laurence, possibly, and I don't see why I should put him off longer—when it has been so long already—"

"You want to marry soon, then?"

"Yes, in two weeks."

"Here?"

"Why, we would be married at home, I suppose."

"And then—are you going away?"

"No, Laurence is going into Judge Baxter's office, and we're going to live at the Judge's house, for the present."

"I see," said Hilary, in a trembling voice.

"At first Laurence wanted to go away, to start somewhere else, but I persuaded him to stay here," Mary went on. "I didn't want to go to a strange place. All I care about is here. I don't want to go away from you, Mr. Robertson, I depend on you—"

Hilary pushed back his chair sharply, then, controlling himself, folded his arms tight across his breast. His back was to the light which fell on Mary's face, raised toward him with a look of humility that perhaps no one but he ever saw there.

"You've taught me so much, and helped me to see.... Before I knew you, I didn't know anything about life, how one should live.... You're so strong, so good...."

"I am?... You know very little about it, Mary. Don't say that sort of thing, please."

"Oh, it's just because you don't think you are that you're so wonderful—"

Hilary looked into her eyes bright and liquid with feeling, and said to himself that he must keep this faith, he must not disturb it by a look, a word—or his hold on her would be gone. He said abruptly:

"Your mother has talked to me. She thinks—as you say, she doesn't trust—Captain Carlin. She thinks he is irreligious and unsteady—and with a bad inheritance. She is troubled about you, she thinks you are marrying just because you gave your word, years ago, and don't like to break it.... Is it so, Mary?"

In spite of himself, this question was a demand. Mary looked startled.

"No, no, she doesn't understand. I love Laurence, and he is good, though—though in some ways.... Nobody is perfect, you know, and we shouldn't stop loving people just because they aren't altogether—what we would like.... We ought to try to help them, I know you think so—"

"You think you can help him, then?"

"I hope so, I—"

"Do you think you're strong enough to help another?"

Mary's bright look wavered a little, was shadowed.

"Aren't you too confident? Perhaps you have a little too much pride in yourself. You may lose what you have instead of helping another."

She bowed her head, turning pale under this reproof, wincing, but she said humbly:

"You will help me."

"I'm not sure that I can," said Hilary sharply. "When you are married, it will be different—you may not be able to do as you would like, live as you would—"

"But I must!" Mary got up, pale and agitated. "Laurence wouldn't interfere with me in that way, he couldn't. Nothing could!"

She went a step toward Hilary, and stopped, suddenly bewildered and almost frightened by his look. And Hilary could bear no more. He turned away from her, bent over his papers, and said harshly:

"I must work now, I can't talk to you any longer.... Don't look for an easy life, Mary, you won't have it."

"But I don't!" she protested.

With relief she seized upon his words, her eyes lit up again.

"Why should I look for an easy life? I don't want it—I expect struggle and suffering, isn't that what life is? You have told me so—"

"Well, then, you won't be disappointed," cried Hilary almost savagely. "If you can suffer—I don't know whether you can or not...."

He took up a pen and dipped it blindly in the ink, and waited for the closing of the door.

"You are against me too," said Mary blankly.

He made an impatient movement, but did not look around at her.

"You must not mind who is against you, as you call it, if you're sure you are right. That's the hard thing, to be sure," he said in the same harsh voice.

He was struggling. Why not be honest with Mary, tell her that he could not advise her, tell her why?... He thought she could not be so blind as she seemed to his feeling for her.... But it would be dishonourable to express that feeling, as she was not free. And it would shock her faith in him. She depended on him, not as a man who loved her, but as a sexless superior being, who could teach and lead her.... But he was not that, he was quite helpless himself for the moment at least, certainly he could not help her. Why pretend to be what he was not?

He felt her bewilderment, her disappointment. He did not dare look at her, still she lingered. What a child she was after all! Looking for support, for approval, and yet so rigid in her own way, so sure of herself! No, she never had suffered anything, and she was trying to make of her religion an armour against life, that would keep her from suffering. He mourned over her. She did not see anything as yet, perhaps she never would, few women could. In his heart Hilary regarded religion as the activity of a man, much as fighting. He was impatient with the emotional religion of women; though he could hardly have admitted it to himself, he had a tinge of the oriental feeling that women have no souls of their own and that they can get into heaven only by clinging to the garment of a man.... He would have said that religion is too strenuous for women, they do not think, feel deeply enough.... But it was his duty to help these weak sisters and manfully he did it as best he could. They clung to his garment and he resisted frequent impulses to twitch it out of their hands. In the case of Mary he knew that she was as feminine as the worst of them. Only she had more firmness, more clearness, there was some kind of strength in her—and she did not chatter.

Oh, how beautiful she was!... He sat, making aimless scrawls on his paper, and feeling her there behind him, feeling her gaze fixed on him. She was waiting for him to say something, what on earth could he say? Should he say that his heart was breaking at the thought that in two weeks she would belong to another man, and that he, Hilary Robertson, was expected to stand up and perform the ceremony that would give her to this man, and that he would not do it?

He made a long dash across the paper, and rose, turned to her.

"You must go now, Mary—I'm busy.... You did not come to me because you're in doubt yourself as to what you ought to do, or want to do?"

"No," faltered Mary.

"Then, if you're sure of yourself, I have no advice to give you. If not, make sure. Don't fear to inflict suffering—some one suffers, whatever we do. We can't avoid that, we have to look beyond it."

"Yes," breathed Mary devoutly, her eyes fixed on his face.

"But we needn't go out to look for martyrdom either—we can trust life for that," said Hilary bitterly.

She went away, reluctantly, unsatisfied. She had wanted, expected, one of those long talks, confidential yet impersonal, that had meant so much to her during the year past. Never before had he treated her this way, he had always had time for her, had shown an eager interest in her difficulties. Her face was clouded as she walked slowly home. She was bent on keeping this relation with her spiritual teacher just as it had been. But now she wondered if her marriage was going to make a difference, had already disturbed and troubled it. Why should that be? It made no difference to her, why should it to him?

She did not want to think that Hilary was a man like other men, she refused to think of him in that way. No, he was better, higher, he was above personal feelings—that was her idea of him. She knew that he cared about her, but the image of the shepherd and his sheep, the pastor and his flock, dwelt in her mind. If she was distinguished from the rest of the flock by a special care, then it was the mystic love of a soul for another soul, it had nothing to do with mere human love, the desire for personal satisfaction, for caresses and companionship. To see Hilary seeking such things would spoil completely her idea of him. She saw him as a sort of saint, who denied the flesh. Did he not live in the most uncomfortable way, eating hardly enough to keep body and soul together, as the widow said, and working beyond his strength, always pale and tired-looking? He was devoted to service. It was impossible to think of him as taking thought for the morrow, for food and raiment, or as married and having a family.

She remembered how, when he had first come, the ladies of the congregation had tried to make him comfortable—one had even worked him a pair of slippers—and how he had brushed their ministrations aside. He was subject to severe colds, but by now they had learned not to offer any remedies, or even express solicitude. Mary never had offended in that way. She liked his carelessness about himself, his shabby clothes and frayed tie. She felt that probably he would work himself to death, would go into a decline and die in a few years, but she did not grieve over this prospect as the other sisters did. Truly the earth had no hold on him, he was already like a spirit.

She had been profoundly shocked by her father's suggestion that she might marry Hilary—the more so as the idea had before occurred to her that possibly Hilary thought of it. But she had rejected this idea, with all her obstinacy refused to consider it. Now it came back to her, but she denied it. She would not have her idol spoiled by any such feet of clay.

The fact that Hilary repulsed with irritation any attempts to idolize him, or to regard him as a superior being, only affirmed her conviction that he was one. As such he was precious to her, and as such she would keep him.

X

Judge Baxter was happy. He decided at once that his house was not fit for the reception of the fair bride, it must be made so. He took Laurence with him to inspect the house from cellar to garret and unfolded a scheme of complete renovation.

"Women like things bright and cheerful," he said, beaming. "Gay colours and lots of little fixings, instead of this—" and he looked round the chocolate and maroon parlours. "I'll run up to Chicago tomorrow and see what I can find. The wall-papers now—they'll have to be changed. Some light colours—roses, that kind of thing. New carpets. And the furniture—hasn't been touched since I bought the place. Time it was. And we need a piano for Mary—"

"Say, Judge, you mustn't buy out the town," protested Laurence. "We don't want you to go to a lot of expense—"

"Pshaw, pshaw! Don't interfere with me—guess I can do what I like in my own house, can't I? If I want some new furniture, what have you got to say about it? But I tell you, Laurence—suppose you come along with me—you know better than I do what women like. Or look here! Why shouldn't we take Miss Mary? That's the thing!"

He glowed with pleasure at this idea.

"I tell you, we three will go up together, say tomorrow morning, and we'll make a day of it, or better, a couple of days! We'll see the town, have a good dinner, go to the theatre, and Mary can pick out the stuff we want. I'll arrange at the office, and you go along and fix it up with Mary and her people. Tell 'em I'll look after her, and if she don't come I'll buy everything in sight!"

The Judge was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Not considering this threat sufficient, he added a note of pathos.

"Tell her I haven't had a vacation for a coon's age, and if she wants to please an old fellow and give him a good time, she'll come. You're both my guests and I'm going to enjoy myself. Damn it, man, you fetch her. If you don't I'll go after her myself!"

The Judge did enjoy himself. From the train he took a carriage straight to the biggest furniture house on State Street, and there he plunged into a fury of buying. Mary and Laurence stood by, but it turned out that they had very little to say about it. When the Judge found that Mary had no definite ideas about furniture and that she demurred whenever any expensive article was in question, he over-rode her bewildered protests and bought whatever struck his eye. He bought a light carpet with red roses on it for the parlour, a set of shiny mahogany upholstered in flowered brocade, a carved oak set for the dining-room. He bought three cut-glass chandeliers and a grand piano; marble vases, an onyx clock and a service of French china.

It did not take long. He walked rapidly through the room, followed by the salesmen, glancing round with an eagle eye and pointing with his cane to what he wanted. Sometimes he asked Mary's opinion, but she was shy about giving it, and provided a thing was bright enough and costly enough, the Judge was sure she must like it. He discovered that he himself had more taste than he had suspected; he knew a good article from an inferior one in a minute, and he didn't buy any cheap stuff. Everything was handsome.

When they thought he was all through, he beckoned them and announced that now things must be bought for their part of the house, the big rooms upstairs, and these Mary positively must select. But first they would have lunch and take a drive.

The Judge took his party to the best hotel, engaged rooms and ordered an elaborate luncheon, over which he was gay as a boy on a holiday. Then, in an open carriage, they started out to see the city.

They drove through miles of badly paved dusty streets, faced with wooden buildings. The Judge admitted that it was not a beautiful city—business couldn't be beautiful, except to the mind—but it appealed to his imagination.

Its history was romantic, going back into the dim past. Before the whites came, this had been a meeting-place for the Indian tribes; and later for voyageurs and traders. It had been French territory, then English to the end of the Revolutionary War. Its Indian name meant "wild onion"—a racy and flavoursome name, suggesting strength!

"Think of it—twenty-five years ago this city had less than five thousand inhabitants—now it has a quarter of a million! It's growing like a weed!"

They crossed the river which ran through the middle of the city, and the Judge pointed to the thronged wharves where ten thousand vessels arrived in a year and nearly as many cleared, bringing lumber, carrying the yield of the prairie, wheat, corn, and oats. "Chicago might yet have a direct European trade—a ship had sailed from there to Liverpool, with wheat, and three European vessels had sailed to Chicago...."

Built on the flat prairie, on sand and swamp, almost on the level of the lake, nearly the whole city had now been raised a grade of ten feet; an entire business block being raised at one time! With such an energetic and growing population, with its marvellous situation, commanding the lake trade and with all the western territory to draw from, the city had a great future. "Half the country will be tributary to it," said the Judge with glowing eyes....

They drove out along the lake shore, a broad beach of sand and gravel, back of which rolled low sand-dunes. It was a warm June day, and the great inland sea lay calm and blue, with a slight mist on the horizon. The water sparkled in the sun, a slight motion sent wavelets lapping on the sand. No land could be seen across it, yet there was the feeling of land out there just beyond the line of vision. The air that blew over those miles of water was flat, it had an inland flavour.

Here it was not the water that was boundless, but the land. The lake was like a pond—the prairie was like the sea....

Judge Baxter talked on enthusiastically about the future of the city, the vast tide of trade that was bound to pass through this, the heart of the country. Mary, beside him, listened smiling. Laurence, sitting opposite, watching Mary, was preoccupied, hardly spoke at all.

The drive lasted so long that there was no time for further shopping. The Judge said they must dine early, so as to be in time for the theatre. Mary went up to her room, to rest a little and to put on her best dress and bonnet which she had brought carefully enveloped in tissue paper, in a box. The dress was of grey silk, heavy and shining, and the bonnet was white. When she was dressed, she stood looking at herself in a long mirror for some time. The rich silk, hanging in full folds, suited her tall stately figure. Inside the soft airy ruches of the bonnet her bright hair rippled, each red-gold wave exactly in order, making a clear crisp line like metal. Her cheeks were lightly flushed, her grey eyes shining. She smiled reluctantly at herself in the glass. Beauty, she knew, was a vain show, and vanity was a weakness that she hoped was entirely beneath her. Still, one should make a proper appearance, with due regard to decorum; should not appear careless, nor above all eccentric. A lady should look like a lady.

As she was drawing on her white gloves a knock sounded at the door. She went to open it, there stood Laurence.

"Let me come in a minute," he said.

She was startled at his tone, his pale and agitated look. He left the door ajar, with a quick motion he drew her away from it, sat down on the bed, his arms round her waist as she stood before him too astonished to speak.

"Mary! Let us not go back there again till we are married! Marry me now, here—tonight, or tomorrow!... Why wait any longer—and then all the fuss about it.... Do, Mary—do this for me, please—"

He looked up at her, pleading, demanding, his eyes gleaming intensely, humble and imperious.

"Sweetheart! Why shouldn't we?... The Judge will be a witness, it will be all right, your parents won't mind very much, will they?... I hate a show wedding anyhow, a lot of people round.... And I don't want to wait any longer, Mary—I want it over and settled, and to be alone with you.... We can stay here a few days.... Do, please, Mary—"

He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves.

"We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly.

"No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly.

"Yes, a letter!"

She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that absent gaze.

"You will, Mary?" he breathed.

She did not answer, hardly heard.

She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face.... Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr. Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them—he had rebuffed her. None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her....

They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother, she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have to go through it. Anyhow—

She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled faintly.

"What an idea!... It's time to go down now—"

"Yes, but—tell me.... Tomorrow?"

He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look. He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by it—it seemed reckless and adventurous to her—an elopement!

"I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate tenderness.

She smiled mistily at him.

At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at the play—it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the person going through this experience—it seemed to be happening to somebody else. That glass of golden wine—never had Mary Lowell tasted anything of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide was taking her....

The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night.

"The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly.

Laurence had an answer to all his objections. They would stop a few days in the city, then they would go to Mary's parents for a time. The Judge mustn't feel responsibility, nobody would blame him. They just didn't want the fuss of a wedding at home. Mary would write to her parents and it would be all right. In the end, the Judge was persuaded that, if wrong-headed, it was a romantic thing to do, and entered into it with spirit. But he had to have his part in it. A wedding-dinner, in a private room, with an avalanche of flowers. A wedding-gift to the young couple, a complete service of flat silver. And at the ceremony, in the little parlour of a minister whom Laurence had taken at hazard, the Judge, with paternal tears in his eyes, gave the bride away, and kissed her fair cheek.

XI

Summer lay hot and heavy on the prairie. Grass and trees were at their fullest, most intense green. They were full of sap, luxuriant—the heat had not begun to crisp them. But it hung like a blanket over the town. People sweltered and panted as they went about their business in the streets, where the slow creaking watering-cart could not keep down the dust. When dusk came they sat out on their porches, fanning themselves and fighting mosquitos. It was not the custom to go away in summer, nobody thought of it. Life went on just the same, only at a more languid pace. In the yards facing the street roses were blooming and drooping.

At Judge Baxter's house all was long since in order. The outside had been repainted a clear white with bright green blinds, kept shut now all day against the heat, with the shutters open to admit any breath of air. Inside the half-light softened the newness of everything, the medley of bright colours which the Judge had got together. At night, shaded lamps toned down the glitter.

Mary was constantly about the house, keeping it immaculate—she was slow, methodical and thorough. But with the Judge's housekeeper to do the work in the hot kitchen, she felt that she was living in pampered luxury. It was not what she had expected for the beginning of her married life. Sometimes she vaguely regretted that things were not harder, more strenuous for her. There were long hours that seemed vacant, with all she could do. Laurence was working hard. Three times a week he drove over to Elmville and spent the afternoon at the creamery. The rest of the time he was busy at the Judge's office, he worked at night too over his law-books or papers. He did not mind the heat, he was in radiant health and spirits.

There was not much social life in the town except for the boys and girls. Older people were supposed to stay at home. Married women were out of the game, they had their houses and children to attend to, and for relaxation, the church or gossip with a neighbour. The men had their business and an occasional visit to Chicago; they met in the bar of the tavern or the barbershop, or at the lodge, if they were Masons. There was no general meeting-place, no restaurant or park. Very seldom did any citizen take a meal outside his own home. The Opera-house did not often open. There were a few dances, for the youth; older people did not go, even as chaperones, nor were they wanted at the straw-rides or picnics, nor in the front parlours where the girls received their beaux. Once married, a person retired into private life, so far as amusement was concerned. Anything else would have been scandalous.

Mary did not feel these restrictions. She was, if not wholly content, at least for the moment satisfied; it was a pause. If not radiance, there was some sort of subdued glow about her, something that softened and lightened her look and manner. She was silent as ever, not more expressive, even more slow. Sometimes alone, she would give way to a dreamy languor.

She never had been very social, and now she was less so. She saw few people, paid few visits. Friends of her own age she had none—she had always felt herself older than other girls. She went regularly to church and kept up the activities connected with it, and so constantly saw the minister. But here had come a distinct break; she had not talked with him at any length, or except about church-matters, since her marriage. She did not mean this break to be permanent; she knew that some time she would want to talk to him again, but just now she did not, and he did not seek her, even for an ordinary pastoral visit.

Each day she went in to see her parents, five minutes' walk up the street, or one of them came to see her. They were quite reconciled now, though there had been sore scenes at first, after her return. Mrs. Lowell had wept bitterly, and told Mary that she was a selfish girl, who never thought of any one but herself, a bad daughter who didn't care how much she hurt her mother and father. At this Mary had cried too, not with sobs and gaspings, but just big slow tears rolling down her cheeks, as she sat looking unutterably injured. When she spoke, in answer to her mother's long complaint, it was only to say gently;

"But Mother, you know you never pretended to like Laurence or my marrying him, so why should I think you cared about the wedding? It wasn't as if you'd been pleased, and liked it. Everybody could see you didn't like it, so I thought the sooner it was over the better."

"Who says I don't like Laurence?" Mrs. Lowell demanded hotly. "Don't you see it was just the way to make the whole town believe it, running off that way! A pretty position it puts me in, and your father—as if you couldn't be married at home, like other girls! As if we would have prevented you, if you were set on it! We would have given you as nice a wedding as any girl ever had here—"

Then another burst of tears, at the end of which they found themselves in one another's arms. Endearments were rare between them, but it was with great relief to both that they now kissed and made it up, for they did love one another. From that time it was understood that Mrs. Lowell was very fond of her son-in-law. Woe to the person who should dare say a word to the contrary or against him! He was now fully received into the family; his status was fixed for all time. The doctor had not made any scene; had welcomed them both warmly, as if nothing had happened. Indeed, Mary thought he was pleased. They had stayed for two weeks there, till the Judge's house was ready; a satisfaction to Mrs. Lowell, as effectually giving the lie to any report that there was trouble in her family. And she had done her utmost, after the first day, to make things pleasant. By the end of the visit, Laurence was calling her "Mother," and paying her compliments; every one was in good humour, the house gayer than it had ever been; and Mrs. Lowell was nearly in love with the scion of Irish bog-trotters.

So Mary had no more defending of Laurence to do. It was understood that she was happy, that her husband was full of promise and well-befriended, and that everybody was satisfied.

The Judge insisted that Laurence must help exercise his horses, so often, when work and the heat of the day were over, Laurence drove the trotters out over the prairie, with Mary in the buggy beside him. He handled the spirited horses with ease, and she felt perfectly safe with him. He would talk to her at length of his day's doings, of anything that came into his head, and she listened, not saying much. Sometimes he wanted her to talk, and she found she had nothing to say. Her inexpressiveness often bothered him, sometimes made him angry. He needed response and was impatient if he didn't get it, in all things.

He was ardent and tumultuous in his love, constantly wanting expression of love from her. He was demanding, impetuous, imperious in his desire. He could not have patience, he could not woo any longer, he must possess—all, to the uttermost, without reserve. His experience of women had not taught him to understand a nature like hers—less emotional than his own, really more sensual. His whole idea of women in general, of Mary in particular was opposed to this understanding—he would have reversed the judgment, and so would Mary. He thought Mary cold to love, and her coldness often made him brusque and overbearing.

Yet he was very happy. He loved to be with her, to talk to her even when she did not answer, to look at her. He was proud of her beauty; liked to drive with her through the town or to walk with her on his arm; liked the admiring glances that followed her. He held his head high; consciousness of power, confidence in himself and his destiny, were strong in him. He felt that he could control the forces about him, as his powerful wrists controlled the horses, and drive them at his will, along the road he chose.

Several times a week he saw Nora, the companion of his childhood, for she was working now in the creamery at Elmville. He had not met her that Sunday on the river road, for then he was in Chicago with Mary, and had forgotten all about Nora. But he had remembered her afterwards, and as she had lost her place in the store because she was not quick at figures, he had found a place for her at the creamery. He meant to look out for poor little Nora, had a desire to be kind to her. He had a quick sympathy for the weak and helpless, always; he was full of generous impulses, would kindle at any tale of distress or injustice and was ready to help. Part of his feeling for "the under dog" came by nature; part perhaps from his own circumstances in the years of sensitive youth.

A deep mark had been left upon him by these early hardships—he hated and feared poverty. He was ambitious in a worldly and social way, he wanted to count among men, he wanted power; and he was determined to be rich. His power was to be beneficent, his riches were to benefit others. Though he liked display and luxury, he liked better the feeling that he could be a mainstay and rock of refuge to those weaker than himself. He would be great, powerful, and generous.

These ambitions and dreams came out clearly as he talked to Mary. But she did not echo them, only listened gravely. She did not sympathize with Laurence's desire for worldly things, and she knew he would not sympathize with her indifference to them. When she expressed anything of the kind he would say with irritation that she knew nothing of the world and had better get some experience before she despised it. So after a few attempts, she gave up trying to talk to him about it. The time hadn't come, she felt, Laurence's spiritual eyes were not opened, he was bound to earthly vanities. Perhaps he would have to experience these things before he could despise them, see their nothingness. But she needn't, she felt serenely that no experience would change her point of view. She loved Laurence, but she nourished in her heart an ideal to which he did not correspond. A militant saint—that was her ideal. Not a man struggling for the goods of this world, but one who could put his feet upon them and whose vision was far beyond. A look of infinite remoteness would come into her eyes sometimes and she would fall into abstraction; and Laurence, when this happened in his presence, would resent it instinctively and drag her out of it by making love to her or quarrelling with her, or both at once.

But they had many happy hours together in the long drowsy twilights, many times of troubled exquisite sweetness in the dusk or the dark of still summer nights. Their youthful tenderness was stronger than any division of feeling; a deep unconscious bond was forming between them.

Sometimes in the evenings, the heat and mosquitos would drive them indoors. Then in the dim light Mary would sit down at the piano. She did not play very well, her fingers were strong rather than skilful, but she sang old ballads in her husky contralto, for Laurence and Judge Baxter.

The Judge had a sentimental passion for these songs, and as he sat and listened, pulling slowly at his cigar, he was happy, he had a feeling of home. His bare bachelor existence had been cushioned, or he would have said, glorified by the tender touch of a woman. He had a chivalric affection for Mary, he admired her intensely. He and Laurence would sit with their eyes fixed upon her as she sang, on the clear outline of her cheek, her thick knot of burnished hair, her young figure, strong and stately, in the light flowing gown of white muslin. She sang "Ye banks and braes of bonnie Doon," and "Oh, tell me if all those endearing young charms," and other old-world songs. The two men listened raptly, the glowing tips of their cigars gathering thick cones of ashes. In the intervals of the song, a chorus of night-insects could be heard outside, shrilling in the grass and heavy-leaved trees. Or sometimes the low rumbling of thunder heralded an approaching storm.

XII

On an August afternoon, Mary walked languidly up the street to her father's house. She was bare-headed, dressed in a plain white muslin, and carried a small parasol, though the sun was hidden in a thick haze. It was about four o'clock. All day the heat had been intense, the air was thick, motionless, stifling. The greyish haze hung low and heavy, and darkened steadily.

It was as though all the heat of the summer, of all the long monotonous summer days, had been gathered up, concentrated in that one day; as if it hung there between the baked earth and the thick blanket of cloud sinking lower and lower, pressing down.

There was no feeling of space. The prairie was stagnant, torpid—nothing stirred on it, except the small ant-like motions of men. The horizons of the vast plain had disappeared....

Day follows day, each with its little occupations, orderly, monotonous, peaceful. Some little corner of the world seems a safe place to live in—shut in upon itself, shut out from disturbance—perhaps too safe. Life may grow dull and languid, sometimes, even when new pulses are stirring in it, grow faint. Long summer days, one like another, each with its weight of humid heat, pile up a burden....

Vast unbroken spaces are dangerous. Beyond that curtain of sullen mist, who knows what is brewing? Unknown forces, long gathering and brooding, strike suddenly out of darkness. That infinite monotony of the prairie breeds violence—long suppressed, breaking at last....

Mary found her mother sitting on the porch, gasping, fanning herself with a palm-leaf.

"What a day—the worst yet," moaned Mrs. Lowell. "Have a glass of lemonade, Mary? I made some for your father. It's on the dining-room table."

"Where is Father?"

Mary dropped into the hammock, panting.

"He hasn't come back yet. I wish he'd come. There's going to be a storm."

Mary lay against the cushion, her lips parted, breathing heavily.

"How pale you are! What ails you, child?" Mrs. Lowell asked with alarm.

"Nothing—the heat—"

"Don't you want the lemonade? I'll get it for you—"

"No, no—I'll go in a minute—"

But Mrs. Lowell rose with an effort, and went in. When she brought the lemonade, Mary sat up with a faint murmur of thanks, and drank it. Mrs. Lowell stood looking at her with watchful tenderness.

"There isn't anything the matter, is there? You ought to be careful, this hot weather, and not overdo, Mary."

"No, it isn't anything—"

Mrs. Lowell took the empty glass and went back to her chair.

"Laurence is over at Elmville," said Mary languidly. "I'm afraid he'll get caught in the storm. How dark it's getting."

She looked out at the low cloud that thickened momently and that now was clotting into black masses against a greenish grey. The rattle of the doctor's old buggy was heard approaching; he drove rapidly in past the house. His horse was sweating heavily and flecked with foam. They caught a glimpse of his pale face as he passed.

"Thank goodness," murmured Mrs. Lowell. "Perhaps we'd better go in."

But she remained, gazing at the clouds. A few people went by, more hurriedly than usual. It was almost dark now, a strange twilight. Mary left the hammock and came to look up at the sky. Up there were masses of cloud in tumult, but down below not a breath of air stirred.

"How queer it looks—I wish Laurence was home. He starts about this time," she said uneasily.

"Oh, he'll wait till it's over.... I wonder why your father doesn't come in...."

Mary turned and entered the house, but the doctor was not there, and she went on out into the garden. At the door of the stable she saw the horse hitched, he had not been unharnessed. Dr. Lowell stood there, looking up. She went quickly along the path to him.

"Say, Mary, this looks mighty queer. We're going to have a big wind," he called to her. "You better go in."

"Well, why don't you come in? Aren't you going to unhitch?"

"I suppose so," he said with a worried glance. "Satan acted like the very deuce on the way home—"

He looked at the wooden stable doubtfully.

"I suppose I'll have to put him in there. I don't know but we're going to get a twister."

He unbuckled the tugs and pushed the buggy into the stable, and then, holding the sweating, stamping horse firmly by the halter, led him in, but did not take off the harness. He shut the stable-door and joined Mary, gazing up at the boiling black clouds, which cast greenish gleams. He looked around at his garden, kept fresh and full of blossom by his labours. The yellow of late summer had begun to shoot through its green, but it was still lovely, tall phlox blooming luxuriantly, and many-coloured asters. In the sick light, the foliage and flowers looked metallic, not a leaf moved. The doctor took Mary by the arm and they went in. Mrs. Lowell was shutting all the windows. It was hot as a furnace in the house. The cellar-door stood open.

"It's cooler down there," suggested Mrs. Lowell in a trembling voice.

"Well, we may have to," the doctor responded calmly, helping himself to lemonade.

Mary hurried to look out of the front windows. The passers-by were running now, teams went by at a gallop. Then it was as if a great sighing breath passed over, the trees waved and tossed their leaves, and then—the wind struck.

In an instant the air was full of tumult, of flying dust, leaves, branches, and darkened to night, with a roar like the sea in storm. All was blurred outside the windows, the house shook and seemed to shift on its foundations, blinds tore loose and crashed like gun-fire.

Mary felt a grasp on her arm, and saw her mother's face, white and scared. Mrs. Lowell tried to drag her away, shouted something. But she wrenched her arm loose, turned and ran upstairs. From the second-story windows she could see nothing but a wild whirl, the trees bent down and streaming, dim shapes in the visible darkness driving past. There was still another stair, narrow and steep, to the attic. She climbed up there. From the small window in the eaves she could see over the tree-tops. The house shook and trembled under her, the roar of the wind seemed to burst through the walls, but she crouched by the low window, heedless. She started at a touch on her shoulder, her father was there beside her. She made room for him at the window, and pointed out, turning to him a white face of terror.

The fury of the wind was lessening, the darkness was lifting. The outer fringe of the storm-cloud had swept them—but out there on the prairie, miles away, they could see now—

There it was, a murky green and black boiling centre in the sky, and shooting down from it, trailing over the earth, something like a long twisting finger—

An instant's vision of it. Then there came a deluge of rain, beating on the sloping roof. Through the streaming window nothing could be seen. The doctor raised Mary and led her down the stair, she clung to him without a word. On the second floor they found Mrs. Lowell, about to mount in search of them, trembling with fright.

"It's all over, Mother," shouted the doctor through the drumming of the rain. "We only got the edge of it."

They went down to the lower floor. Now it was perceptibly lighter. The cloud fringe sweeping like a huge broom was passing as swiftly as it had come. The rain lessened in force, the grey outside brightened. The doctor and his wife looked at one another, and both looked at Mary, who stood beside a window staring out.

"Now, Mother," said Dr. Lowell briskly, "you get me a sandwich or something, I've got to start out. Mary! help your mother, will you? You might as well fill up a basket, as quick as you can—put in anything you've got, in five minutes—don't know how long I may be—"

He was already fastening his rubber coat, his old hat jammed down on his head. Mary followed her mother, blindly obeying her quick directions in the kitchen. The basket was packed by the time the doctor came out with his medicine-chest and a big roll of surgical dressings.

"Where you going?" Mrs. Lowell then demanded.

"There'll be some damage where that thing struck," said the doctor cheerfully. "I'm going over there. Don't you sit up for me, I may be all night. You better keep Mary here, till Laurence comes for her."

But Mary was putting on an old cloak of her mother's that hung in the entry.

"I'm going with you. Laurence is over there," she said.

Mrs. Lowell started to protest, but looking at Mary's face, stopped, and went to get a scarf to tie over her hair. The doctor said nothing, but went to hitch up his horse and put a feed of grain into the back of the buggy. They started. Satan indicated his displeasure at the turn of things by rearing up in the shafts and then trying to kick the dashboard in; but the doctor gave him the whip and he decided to go.

The road was mud-puddles, ruts and gullies, and strewn with branches, sometime great boughs or fence-rails lay across it. Other people were on the way now. Satan passed everything going in their direction. Salutations and comments were shouted at the doctor. Then they began to meet people coming the other way; the doctor did not stop to talk, but a man called to him that Elmville had been wiped out by the cyclone.

Two miles on they came to a cluster of houses where a crowd had gathered, most of them refugees who had fled before the storm. Two houses here had been un-roofed, sheds blown away, and the place was littered with splinters, but nobody was seriously hurt. From there on they met a stream of people, nearly all the population of Elmville, including the people from the creamery who had escaped into the prairie laden with whatever goods they could carry. Then they reached the last buildings left standing by the storm—a farmhouse and barns, by some freak of the wind untouched, a mile from Elmville. These were crowded with people from the town, mostly women and children, and a few men, some of them injured. The doctor pulled up his horse and shouted an inquiry for Laurence. Oh, Captain Carlin was all right, he had been there when the storm struck, had started home but decided he couldn't make it and stopped there—he had driven back now to see what he could do, and most of the men had gone after him. Wouldn't the doctor come in? One of the men had a broken leg and there was a woman with her head hurt by a flying brick, they thought she would die. The doctor hesitated. Mary said:

"You stay, Father, I'll drive on and find Laurence."

"You drive Satan! You couldn't hold him a minute!"

"I'll drive him."

He looked at her, realized that she was quite irrational, called out that he would come back, and drove on.

The storm had come at an angle to the road, so the wreckage of the town had blown the other way, but where its buildings had stood, with the tall brick factory in their midst, the skyline was now absolutely empty.

They came on Laurence's horse, tied to a fallen tree, and then Laurence himself came running toward them, out of a group of men who were lifting timbers. Mary was out of the buggy and in his arms in a moment, sobbing on his shoulder, clinging to him wildly, the rain falling on her bare head. She hid her face against his wet coat, not to see the desolation around her. But then after a little she raised her head and looked over his shoulder, her eyes full of the terror of death that had passed so near, that had threatened to strike to her heart....

A rubbish-heap, in which men were frantically digging for the wounded and dead, was all that was left of the town. A heap of splintered boards and bricks, with pitiful odds and ends of household furniture mixed in. Not a wall was standing, not one brick left on another, all was levelled to the earth.

The wind had roared away across the prairie and there, somewhere in the midst of vast spaces, it would vanish. Over beyond, now, near the horizon, a rift had opened in the grey clouds, and through it was visible a long belt of blue sky—serene, limpid, smiling.