"Of course," Priscilla leaned back in her deep-cushioned chair and laughed from sheer delight, "I was a better girl in my former life than I ever had any idea of, or I wouldn't have been given this——"

She and Margaret Moffatt were sitting on the piazza of a little Swiss inn. Below them lay a tiny lake as blue and as clear as a rare gem; round about them towered snowy peaks, protectingly. All that was past—was past! There did not seem to be any future; the present was sufficient.

"I think you must have been rather a good child, back there," Margaret Moffatt said, looking steadfastly at the girl near her; "and, anyway, you ought to have a rich reward for your hair if for no other reason."

"A recompense, you mean?"

"Heavens! no! I was thinking, as I often do when I see the lights in your hair, that for making people so cheerful and contented nothing is too good for you. I'm extremely fond of you, Priscilla Glynn! It's only when you put on your cap and apron manner that I recall—unpleasant things. Just tuck them out of sight and let us forget everything but—this! Isn't it divine?"

"It's—yes, it is divine, Miss Moffatt."

"Now then! Along with the cap and apron, please pack away Miss Moffatt and Miss Glynn. Let us be Priscilla and Margaret. This is a whim of mine, but I have a fancy for knowing what kind of girls we are. No one can tamper with us here. Dear old Mousey never gets above a dead level, or below it. Practically we are alone and detached. Let us play—girls! Nice, chummy girls. Do you know, I never had a friend in my life who wasn't labelled and scheduled? I was sent to school where just such and such girls were sent—girls proper for me to know. Often they were not, but that was not considered so long as they wore their labels. It wasn't deemed necessary for me, or my kind, to go to college: our lines of action were chosen for us. Certain labelled men were presented; always labels, labels! Even when I was running about with my label on I used to have mad moments of longing to snatch all the hideous things off—my own as well as others—and find out the truth! And here we are, you and I! I do not want to know anything about you; I want to find out for myself, in my own way. I want you to forget that I ever wore a tag. Did you ever have a girl chum?"

"I think I know, now," Priscilla said quietly, "why this particular little heaven was given to me. I never, in all my life, had a girl friend. Think of that! I did not realize what I was missing until I—came into your life. Actually, I never had a girl or woman friend in the sense you mean. I was a lonely, weird little child; and then I—I came to the training school; and the girls there did not like me—I was still weird——"

"Now, Priscilla, I do not want to know anything more about you! I intend to find you out for myself. Come, there's a boat down there, big enough for you and me. Do you row?"

"Yes, and paddle."

"You lived near the water! Ha! ha!"

"And you do—not row, Margaret?"

"No."

"Then you have never lived at all. You must learn to use oars and a paddle. It's when you have your own hand on the power that makes you go—that you live."

Margaret Moffatt turned and looked at Priscilla.

"You say, haphazard, the most Orphic things. There are times when I can imagine you before some shrine making an offering and chanting all sorts of uncanny rites. Of course it is when one has her hand on her own tiller, and is heading for what she wants, that she begins to—live. I declare, I haven't felt so young in—twenty years! I'm twenty-five, Priscilla. My father considers me on the danger-line. Poor daddy!"

"I'm——"

"I do not want to know your age, Priscilla. Mythological characters are ageless."

Those were the days when Priscilla Glenn and Margaret Moffatt found their youth. Safeguarded by the faithful old housekeeper, who, happily, could understand and sympathize, they played the hours away like children.

"We'll travel by and by," promised Margaret. "It's rather selfish for me to hold you here when all the world would be fresh to you."

"I take root easily," Priscilla returned, "and I'm like a plant we have in my old home. My roots spread, and time is needed to strengthen them; suddenly I shoot up and—flower. The little Canadian blossom doesn't seem to justify the strong, spreading roots. I hope you will not find me disappointing, Margaret."

Margaret Moffatt smiled happily.

"Just to think," she said, "that my real self and your real self were waiting for us here behind the white hills! All along, through generations and generations, they have been acquainted and have loved and trusted each other, and then we, the unreal selves, came! Sometimes I wonder"—Margaret looked dreamy—"what they think of us, just between themselves? I am sure your true self must be prouder of you than mine can be of me, for, with everything at my command, what am I? While you—oh, Priscilla, how you have made everything tell!"

But Priscilla shook her head.

"Still," Margaret went on, "things were not at my command. They were all there, but pigeon-holed and controlled. Such and such things were for nice little girls like me! After a time I got to believe that, and it was only when, one day, I touched something not intended for me that my soul woke up. Priscilla, did you ever feel your soul?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it wonderful? It makes you see clearly your—your——"

"Ideal?" suggested Priscilla.

"Yes; the thing you want to be; the thing that seems best to you without the interpretation of others. It stands unclouded and holy; and nothing else matters."

"And you never forget—never!"

"No. Your eyes may be blinded for a moment, but you do not forget—ever!"

They were out on the gemlike lake now, and Priscilla was sternly instructing Margaret how to handle an oar.

"It will never go the way you want it to," Margaret protested, making an ineffectual dab at the water.

"When it does you will know the bliss! Get a little below the surface, and have faith in yourself."

And that was the day that Priscilla caught a new light on Margaret's character. They landed at a tiny village across the lake and wandered about, Margaret talking easily to the people in their own tongue, Priscilla straining to follow by watching faces and gestures. While they stood so, discussing the price of some corals, a little child came close to them and slipped a deliciously dimpled, but very dirty little hand in Margaret's. At the touch the girl started, turned first crimson and then pale, and looked down. Suddenly her eyes deepened and glowed.

"The darling!" she whispered, and bent to catch what the child was saying. Presently she looked up, tears dimming her eyes, and said to Priscilla, "She says a new baby came to their house last night. She wanted to tell—me!"

"And ten already have been there," broke in a brown-faced native woman.

"But she is glad, and she wanted me to know! Come, my sweet, tell me more about the baby, and then we will go and see it."

They sat down under a clump of trees, and the dirty little maid nestled close to Margaret, while with uplifted head and unabashed confidence she told of the mystery.

Priscilla watched Margaret Moffatt's face. She was almost awed by the change that had come over it. The aloofness and pride which often marked it had disappeared as if by magic; the tenderness, passionate in its intentness, cast upon the little child, moved her to wonder and admiration. Later they went to the poor hovel and bent beside the humble bed on which the mother and child lay. Then it was that Priscilla played her part and made comfortable and grateful the overburdened creature, worn and weak from suffering.

"'Twas the good God who sent you," murmured she.

"'Twas your little maid," smiled Margaret, tucking a roll of bills under the hard, lumpy pillow. "Take time to love the babies—leave other things—but love them and enjoy them."

"Yes, my lady."

On the way back in the boat Margaret was very silent for a time as she watched Priscilla row; finally she said:

"Did it surprise you—my show of feeling for the—the child?"

"It was very beautiful. I did not know you cared so much for children, and this one was so—dirty."

"But so real! You see I have never had real children in my life. The kinds passed out to nice girls like me were sad travesties. Since I saw the darling of to-day I've been wondering—do not laugh, Priscilla—but I've been wondering what poor, cheated little morsel of humanity, in the unreal world, would find herself in that eleventh miracle of the wretched hovel? And what an art yours is, dear Priscilla! How you soothed away the suffering by your touch. I loved you better as I realized how that training of yours knows neither high nor low when it seeks to heal."

Priscilla thought of the operation on Margaret Moffatt's father, and her quick colour rose.

"And I loved you better when I saw how your humanity knows neither high nor low—just love!"

"Only toward little children. I cannot explain it, but when I touch the babies, their littleness and helplessness make me weak and trembling before—well, before the strength comes in a mighty wave. There is a physical sensation, a thrill, that comes with the first contact, and when they trust me, as that darling did this morning, I feel as if—God had singled me out! Only lately have I begun to understand what this means in me. It is one reason why I came away. I had to think it out. I suppose"—she paused and looked steadily at Priscilla—"I suppose the maternal has always been a master passion in me, and I've rebelled at being an only child; at having no children but the—specialized kind. I have been hungry for so many things I am realizing now."

"In my training I have seen—what you mean. All sorts drift in—to pay the price of love or the penalty of passion, as Doctor Ledyard used to express it; but"—and Priscilla's eyes grew darker—"I used to find—a nurse gets so much closer, you know, than a doctor can—I found that sometimes it was the penalty of love and the price of passion. Those sad young creatures, with only blind instinct to uphold them, were so—divinely human, and paid so superbly. When it comes to the hour of a life for a life, one thing alone matters, I am afraid, and it is the thing you mean, Margaret."

"Yes. And what a horrible puzzle it all is. The thing I mean should be always there—always. The world's wrong when it is not."

Suddenly Priscilla, sending the light boat forward by the impulse of her last stroke, said, as if it were quite in line with all that had gone before:

"There's Doctor Travers on the wharf!"

He heard her, and called back:

"Quite unintentionally, I assure you. I was waiting for the boat to take me across. I've been wandering about, sleeping where I could. I simply find myself—here!"

At this both girls laughed merrily.

"This is the place of Found Personalities," Margaret Moffatt said, jumping lightly to the wharf. "Perhaps you'll come to the inn and have luncheon with us—that is, if you are sure Doctor Ledyard did not send you here to spy on me."

"I haven't seen him since I left America. My mother is with me; she's in a crack of the hills in Italy. She wanted to be alone. Doctor Ledyard will join us later."

"Then come to the house. They serve meals on a dangerously poised balcony over the lake; we curb our appetites for fear our weight may be the one thing the structure cannot stand. Our old housekeeper waits upon us, but is in no wise responsible for the food which is often very bad and lacking in nourishment."

"You seem to thrive on it." Travers looked at the two before him. "I wonder just what it is this air and place have done to you?"

"Tell him, Priscilla."

"Oh, like you, Doctor Travers, we simply found ourselves—here! That's all."

Travers did not leave the inn that night, nor for many days thereafter.

"Doctor Ledyard will join my mother and me early in August," he explained; "until then I'm a floating proposition. I wish you'd let me stay on a while, Miss Moffatt, right here. I want to analyze the food, it puzzles me. Why just this kind of conglomeration should achieve such results is interesting. I've gained five pounds in six days."

"And lost ten years," Margaret broke in. "I never thought of you as young, Doctor Travers; professional men never do seem youthful; but here you're rather a good sort."

And Travers remained, much to the delight of the old housekeeper, who, with a nurse and a doctor in command, cast all responsibility aside.

"Young Miss looks well," she confided to the proprietor's wife, who, fortunately, could understand a word or so of English; "but folks is like weather: the fairer they seem, the nearer a storm. When a day or a person looks uncommonly fair—a weather breeder, says I, and generally, nine times out of ten, I'm right. My young lady is too changed to be comfortable. It's either a breaking up, or——" But here a shout for "Mousey," silenced further prophecy.

The days ran along without cloud or shadow. Quite naturally, perhaps, Priscilla began to think that a drama of life was being enacted in the quiet, detached village. They three were always together, always enjoying the same things, but certainly no man, so she thought, could be with Margaret Moffatt long without falling at her feet. Gradually to Priscilla Glenn this girl stood for all that was fine and perfect. In her she saw all women as women should be. With the adoration she was so ready to give to that which appealed to her, Priscilla lavished the wealth of her affection upon Margaret Moffatt. Surely it was because of Margaret that Doctor Travers stayed on, and became the life of the party. To be sure he was tact itself in making Priscilla feel at ease; but that only confirmed her in her belief that he wanted to please Margaret to the uttermost. Often Priscilla recalled, with keener appreciation, John Boswell's description of Anton Farwell's conception of friendship. In like manner Margaret Moffatt claimed for her companion all that justly belonged to herself. Dispassionately, vicariously, Priscilla learned to know and admire the man who undoubtedly in time would win her one friend. It was all beautiful and natural, and in the lovely detachment it grew and grew. The long walks and drives, the rows upon the lake by sunlight and moonlight, all conspired to perfect the comradeship. They read together, sang together—very poorly to be sure—and once, just to vary the charm, they travelled to a nearby town and danced at a village fÊte. An odd thing happened there. Owing to high spirits and a sense of unconventionality, they entered into the sports with abandon. Travers even begged a reel with a pretty Swiss maiden, and led her proudly away, much to Margaret's and Priscilla's delight. Later, the men and women of the place came forward, and, entering a little ring formed by admiring friends, performed, separately, the native dances.

Travers watched Priscilla with a puzzled look in his eyes. She trembled with excitement; seemed hypnotized by the exhibition, much of which was delightfully graceful and picturesque. Then, suddenly, to the surprise of every one, she took advantage of a moment's pause and ran into the ring.

"Whatever possesses her?" whispered Margaret to Travers; "she looks bewitched. See! she is—dancing!"

Travers watched the tall, slim figure in the thin white gown over which a light scarf, of transparent crimson, floated as the evening breeze and the girl's motions freed it. At first Priscilla took her steps falteringly, her head bent as if trying to recall the measure and rhythm; then with more confidence she swung into the lovely pose and action. With uplifted eyes and smiling lips, seeming to see something hidden from others, she bent and glided, curtesied and tripped, this way and that.

The lookers-on were wild with delight. The beauty of the thing itself, the willingness of the foreigners to join in the sport, aroused the temperamental enthusiasm, and the clapping and cheering filled the hall with noise. Suddenly the musicians dropped their instruments. They were but human, and, since they could not keep in time with this new and amazing dance, they drew near to admire.

"Play!" pleaded Priscilla, past heeding the sensation she was creating. "The best is yet to come!"

Carried out of himself, entering now wholly into the adventure, Travers caught up a violin near him and sent the bow over the strings with a master touch. He hardly knew what he played; he was himself, carried away on a wave of enchantment.

"Ah!"

The word escaped Priscilla like a cry of glad response.

"Now!"

They two, the musician and the dancer, seemed alone in the open space. The flashing eyes, the cheering voices, the clapping hands, even Margaret Moffatt, pale, puzzled, yet charmed, were obliterated. It was spring time in the Place Beyond the Winds, and the dance of adoration was in full swing, while the old tune, never out of time with the graceful, whirling form, played on and on. And then—the ring melted away, the lights grew dim, and Priscilla stood still.

"I'm—I'm tired," faltered she. A hand was laid upon her arm, some one guided her out of the heated, breathless room; they were alone, she and he, under wide-spreading trees, and a particularly lovely star was pulsing overhead.

"You are crying!" Travers's voice was low and tense. "Why?"

"It—it was the music! It was like something I had heard, and—and I was so tired. I was very foolish. Can you, can Margaret, forgive me?"

"Forgive you? Why, you were—I dare not tell you what you were! Here, sit down. Do not tremble so! Tell me, where did you learn to dance as you do?"

Priscilla had dropped upon the rough rustic seat; she did not seem to notice the hand that rested upon her clasped ones under the thin scarf. She no longer cried, but the tears shone on her long lashes.

"I—I never learned. It—it is I, myself. I thought I had grown into something else, but—I shall always be the same—when I let myself go."

"Let yourself go? Good heavens! Why not let yourself go—forever?" Travers's voice shook. "You have brought joy and youth to us all—to me, who never had youth. What—who are you?" he laughed boyishly. She sat rigidly erect and turned her sad eyes upon him.

"I'm Priscilla Glynn—a nurse! And you? Oh! you are Doctor Travers! Can you not see my beautiful, happy, happy life is ended—must end? Margaret, you, everything this joyous summer has made me—forget. Soon I am going back—where there is no dancing!"

"And—cease to be yourself?"

"Yes. But I shall always remember. Not many have had the wonderful glimpse I have had—not many."

"I—I will not let you go back! You belong in the light; in love and the giving of love. You have given me a glimpse of myself—as I should be. I have stayed in this magic place without a past and a future—for your sake! I see it now. I love——"

"Oh! please, please stop. We are both mad, and when to-morrow comes and the day after, and the day after that, we will both be sorry, and, oh! I want all my life to—to—be glad because of this night."

"You shall—remember it—all your life as—your happiest night, if I can make it so!"

His face was bent close to hers. For the first time Travers was overpowered by the charm of woman, and all the pent passion and love of his life broke bonds like a wild, primeval thing that education and conventions had never touched.

"I—I want you! I want you without knowing any more than if you and I had been born anew in this wonderful life. Look at me! You believe I can offer you—the one perfect gift a man should offer a woman?"

She looked long and tenderly in his eyes. She was—going to leave him; she could afford the truth. She was brave now.

"Yes," she whispered.

"And I know you to be—what I want. Isn't that enough? Can we not trust each—for the rest?"

"Yes, if the white hills could shut us forever from the other things."

"Other things?"

"Yes, the things of to-morrow. Duty, the demands that lie—over the Alps."

"I—renounce them all!"

"But they will not renounce us!"

Travers felt her slipping from him. A man whose youth has been denied, as his had, is a puppet in Fate's hands when youth makes its claims.

"I—mean to have you! Do you hear me? I mean to have you."

And just then Margaret Moffatt drew near. Calmly, smilingly, she came like one playing her part in a perfectly arranged drama.

"You are here? Ready for home? Wasn't it sublime and exactly as it should be? We are so nice and friendly with our real selves."

There was no surprise; no suggestion of disapproval. The world in which they were all playing could have only direct and simple processes. But, having lived in a past world where her perceptions had been made keen and vital, Margaret Moffatt understood what she saw. She had noticed every letting down and abandonment of Travers since he had joined them. She was too wise not to know the effect of such a woman as Priscilla upon such a man; such a denied and almost puritanical man as Travers. She knew his story from her father. An artistic triumph was hers that night. The splendid elements of primitive justice had been set in motion, and almost gleefully she wondered what they would do with Richard Travers and Priscilla Glynn.

For herself? Well, she had put herself to the test and had come out clear-visioned and glad to a point of dangerous excitement. Only two or three mighty things mattered, if one were to gain in the marvellous game. She meant to hold to them and let the rest go!

But Travers had not passed through Ledyard's school and come out untouched. After leaving Priscilla, silent and white, he had gone to his room and flung himself down upon a low couch by the window. Then his old self took him in hand while he stubbornly resisted every attack that reason, as trained by Ledyard, made upon him.

"Think of—your mother! What has she not done and suffered that you might stand before the world—a free man? And your profession; your future! They are all your mother holds to for her peace and joy. And I? Well, I do not claim anything for myself; but you know the game as well as I. If you toss to the winds all that has been gained for you, professionally and socially, you are done for! Your renunciation and restraint, what have they amounted to, unless you accept them as stepping-stones and go—on?"

And then Travers clenched his hands and had his say.

In that moment his own mother rose clear and radiant beside him and made her appeal. She pleaded for justice, but she showed mercy. He must not forget or forego anything that had been gained for him; but he was her child, the child of her love—unasking, unfettered love—and the passion that was throbbing in him was pure and instinctive; he must not deny it or the rest would be shucks! Non-essentials must not hamper him. Alone, unsought, a strange and compelling force had made him captive. All that others, and himself, had achieved for him must make holy this simple but all-powerful desire.

Then she faded, that poor, little, half-forgotten mother! But she left, like the fragrance of rare flowers that had been taken from the dim, moon-lighted room, a memory of happiness and sweetness and content.