In the late spring John and Katharine often walked together of an afternoon, between half past five and sunset.

It was during one of these walks that Katharine consulted him seriously. They went about together in unfrequented places, as a rule, not caring to meet acquaintances at every turn. Neither of them had any social duties to perform, and they were as free to do as they pleased as though they had not represented the rising generation of Lauderdales.

The spring had fairly come at last. It had rained, and the pavement dried in white patches, the willow trees in the square were a blur of green, and the Virginia creeper on the houses here and there was all rough with little stubby brown buds. It had come with a rush. The hyacinths were sticking their green curved beaks up through the park beds, and the little cock-sparrows were scraping their wings along the ground.

There was a bright youthfulness in everything,—in the air, in the sky, in the old houses, in the faces of the people in the streets. The Italians with their fruit carts sunned themselves, and turned up their dark rough faces to the warmth. The lame boy who lived in the house at the corner of Clinton Place was out on the pavement, with a single roller skate on his better foot, pushing himself along with his crutch, and laughing all to himself, pale but happy. The old woman in grey, who hangs about that region and begs, had at last taken the dilapidated woollen shawl from her head, and had replaced it by a very, very poor apology for a hat, with a crumpled paper cherry and a green leaf in it, and only one string. And the other woman, who wants her car-fare to Harlem, seemed more anxious to get there than ever. Moreover the organ-grinders expressed great joy, and the children danced together to the cheerful discords, in Washington Square, under the blur of the green willows—slim American children, who talked through their noses, and funny little French children with ribbons in their hair, from South Fifth Avenue, and bright-eyed darkey children with one baby amongst them. And they took turns in holding it while the others danced.

Now also the patriotic Italians took occasion to bury a dead comrade or two, and a whole platoon of them, who had been riflemen in their own army at home, turned out in their smart, theatrical uniforms of green and red, with plumes of gleaming cock’s feathers lying over one side of their flat waterproof hats. And they had a band of their own which played a funeral march, as their little legs moved with doll-like slowness to the solemn measure.

But Katharine and John Ralston followed less frequented paths, crossing Broadway from Clinton Place east, and striking past Astor Place and Lafayette Place—where the Crowdies lived—by Stuyvesant Street eastwards to Avenue A and Tompkins Square. And there, too, the spring was busy, blurring everything with green. Men were getting the benches out of the kiosk on the north side where they are stacked away all winter, and others were repairing the band stand with its shabby white dome, and everywhere there were children, rising as it were from the earth to meet the soft air—rising as the sparkling little air bubbles rise in champagne, to be free at last—hundreds of children, perhaps a thousand, in the vast area which many a New Yorker has not seen twice in his life, out at play in the light of the westering sun. They stared innocently as Katharine and Ralston passed through their midst, and held their breath a moment at the sight of a real lady and gentleman. All the little girls over ten years old looked at Katharine’s clothes and approved of them, and all the boys looked at John Ralston’s face to see whether he would be the right sort of young person to whom to address an ironical remark, but decided that he was not.

“There goes a son of a gamboleer,” observed one small chap on roller skates, as he looked after John. “He’s fly.”

“You bet! And his girl, she knows it,” replied his companion, sharing in his admiration.

“Your dad’s new coat’s that shape,” said the first. “But ’taint made that way. Fifth Av’nue, that is! Bet?”

“Lemme be!” retorted the other. “Botherin’ me ’bout dad’s coat. Mine’s better’n yours, anyhow.”

“Take a reef in your lip, Johnny, or I’ll sit on it!”

Thereupon they fought without the slightest hesitation. But Katharine and John Ralston went on, and crossed the great square and left it by the southeast corner, from which a quiet street leads across the remaining lettered avenues to an enormous timber yard at the water’s edge, a bad neighbourhood at night, and the haunt of the class generically termed dock rats, a place of murder and sudden death by no means unfrequently, but by day as quiet and safe as any one could wish.

“I don’t know what to do, Jack,” Katharine said, as they walked along. “The idea of that other will haunts me, and I lie awake thinking of it at night.”

“Don’t do that,” laughed Ralston. “It isn’t worth while. Besides, it wouldn’t make so much difference if it were found.”

“The Brights would get their share—as much as they ought to expect—instead of getting nothing. That’s the principal thing. But papa wouldn’t like it at all. As things are now, he’ll probably have all grandpapa’s share when grandpapa dies. I suppose he’ll have the management of it as it is. But if the old will were found, and were legal, you know—why then papa never could possibly have anything but the income of half my share. He wouldn’t like that.”

“What in the world does he want with so much?” asked Ralston, impatiently. “I do think you Lauderdales are the strangest people! If the will—”

“Don’t say ‘you Lauderdales’ to me like that, Jack!” interrupted Katharine, with a little laugh. “You’re every bit as much one as I am, you know—”

“Well—yes. I didn’t want to say disagreeable things about your father—”

“So you jumbled us all up together! That’s logical, at all events. Well—don’t!” she laughed again.

“No, I won’t. So I’ll say that your father is the strangest person I ever heard of. As it is now, he’s practically got half the fortune. If the old will turned up and were proved, he and your mother would get two-thirds of the income—”

“No they wouldn’t, Jack. The two-thirds would be divided equally between them and Charlotte and me.”

“Oh—I see! Then they’d only get one-third between them. Well—what difference does it make, after all? There’s such a lot of money, anyhow—”

“You don’t understand papa, Jack. I’m not sure that I do—quite. But I think what he wants is not the income, for he’ll never spend it. I believe if he had the whole eighty-two millions locked up in the Safe Deposit, he’d be quite happy, and would prefer to go on living in Clinton Place on ten or eleven thousand a year—or whatever it costs—just as he’s always lived. It’s the money he wants, I think, not the income of it. That’s the reason why I’m sure he wouldn’t like the other will. He’d fight it just as he fought this one. For my part I never could understand what made uncle Robert change his mind at the last minute, just after he’d spoken to me.”

“He did, anyhow. That’s the main point.”

“Yes. You know he was very much troubled in his mind about the money. I believe he’s been thinking for years how to divide it fairly. I could see, when he spoke to me, that he wasn’t satisfied with what he’d done. It was worrying him still. But now—about this other will—ought I to say anything? I mean, is it my duty to tell papa what was in it?”

“No, indeed! How could it be your duty? Everybody knows that uncle Robert had made a previous will. Mr. Allen drew it up, though of course he’s bound to say nothing about what was in it. It is always taken for granted that when a man makes a new will he burns his old one. That’s probably what uncle Robert did, like a sensible man. What’s the use of telling anybody about it? Besides—frankly—I wouldn’t trust your father, if he knew what was in it. He’d go out of his mind and do something foolish.”

“What, for instance? What could he do?”

“Well—it might fall into his hands by accident. One never knows. And he might say nothing about it. Of course, I don’t mean to say exactly that he would—”

“No, dear—please don’t say it. He’s my father, you know—and I don’t think you understand him as I do. He never would do anything like that—never! I don’t think it’s quite fair even to suggest such a thing.”

“I’m sorry I spoke,” answered Ralston, in a contrite voice, for he saw that she was really hurt. “You know what I mean—”

“Yes—” she replied in a doubtful tone. “But you don’t understand him, quite. It’s the view of right and wrong, it isn’t the real right and wrong. He’s violent, and he’s been cruelly unkind to me, and—well—he loves money. I can’t deny it.”

“Hardly!” exclaimed Ralston, feeling that she was justifying him with every word.

“No. It’s much too clear. Nobody could deny it. But you’re very much mistaken if you think that papa would do anything which he knew to be dishonest. With all his faults he’s got that good point. He’s honest in the letter, and I think he means to be in the spirit.”

“How awfully charitable women are!” Ralston laughed rather scornfully.

“No,” answered Katharine. “I don’t go in for being charitable. I’m not telling you that I love him, nor that I can ever forgive some of the things he’s said and done. I suppose I ought to. But I’m just as human as other people. I can’t turn the other cheek, and that sort of thing, you know. I never mean to give him another chance of hurting me, if I can help it, because I don’t know what he might do. We’re very different, he and I, though we’re so much alike in some ways. But all the same, I say that papa’s not a bad man, and I won’t let any one else say it—not even you. He’s very limited. He’s fond of money. He’s got a cruel streak—I believe it’s his New England blood, for none of the other Lauderdales have it—”

“Except Hester Crowdie,” observed Ralston. “I’m sure she’s cruel.”

“Hester!” exclaimed Katharine, in surprise. “How absurd! She’s the kindest woman living.”

“I may be mistaken—I judge from her face, that’s all, and from her eyes when she sees Crowdie talking to any other woman.”

“Oh—she’s infatuated about him,” laughed Katharine. “She’s mad on that point, but as they love each other so tremendously, I think it’s rather nice of them both—don’t you?”

“Oh yes,” answered Ralston, indifferently. “Go on with what you were saying. You were talking about your father.”

“Yes. He has a cruel streak. In a small way, Charlotte has it, too. She can say the most horrid things sometimes, that give pain, and she seems to enjoy it. But you’re wrong about Hester—she’s kind-hearted. As for papa—it’s just that. His religion and his love of money are always fighting in him. His religion gets the better of it whenever he’s tempted to do anything that’s plainly wrong. But his love of money drives him up to the very edge of what’s fair. Now, for instance, he’s always told us that he was poor, and yet uncle Robert knew that he had a million put away somewhere. That’s fifty thousand a year, isn’t it? Yes, I’ve heard him say so. Yet, I’m quite sure that he really considered that very little, much too little to have divided it between us girls. So he’s made us live on a quarter of it all our lives. He felt poor, and he said he was. Those things are relative, Jack. Uncle Robert would have felt as poor as a church mouse with only a million to dispose of. As papa looked at it, it was true, though it didn’t seem so to us. Do you see what I mean?”

“Dear—if you wish to defend your father, defend him as much as you please. But let’s differ in our opinion of some of his peculiarities. It’s better to agree about differing, you know. We’ve both got the most awful tempers, you and I, and unless we label the disagreeable things, we shall quarrel over them. That’s one of them—your father. Put him away and lock up the idea. It’s safer.”

“But you and I wouldn’t really quarrel—even about him, Jack,” said Katharine, with sudden earnestness.

“Well—I don’t know. Not for long, of course.”

“Not for one minute,” said Katharine, in a tone of absolute certainty. “When have we quarrelled, Jack? Except last winter, over that wretched misunderstanding—and that was all my fault. You don’t think I’m angry about what you said of papa, do you? I’m not, and I’m sorry if you thought I was. But how could two people love each other as we do, and quarrel? You didn’t mean what you said, dear, or you don’t understand by quarrelling what I understand by it. Perhaps that’s it. I’ve grown up in an atmosphere of perpetual fighting, and I hate it. You’ve not. You don’t understand, as I said. You’ve never quarrelled with your mother, have you?”

“Never but once—at the same time, you know, when they were all against me. It didn’t last long.”

“Exactly. You’ve had your fights with men, I suppose, and all that. It’s quite different. But I’ve lived all my life in the most especial garden of our family tempers. Four of us—grandpapa, papa, Charlotte, and I—and my mother as the only peacemaker, with her Kentucky blood! But she’s always done her best, and we love each other dearly, she and I, though we’ve been tearing each other’s hair out for the last four months—until the other day. Now we’re friends again, Jack; she’s been splendid, you know, or rather, you don’t half know!”

“And what happened the other day, to save your remaining locks?” enquired Ralston, with a smile.

“Oh, I can’t tell you. Perhaps she will, some day. But as I was saying, you can’t imagine what my life at home has been all these years. I’m not sure whether it hasn’t been worse since Charlotte was married. You know what we are—we’re so awfully polite when we fight. Ham Bright’s the only one who gets rough when he’s excited. That’s California and Nevada, I suppose. But we! we quarrel with all solemnity. A family of undertakers couldn’t do it more gravely. It always seems to me that papa ought to have a band on his hat and black gloves when he begins. Yes, it’s funny to talk about. But it’s not pleasant to live in the middle of it. We’re all used to being on the defensive. Charlotte didn’t mind what she said to papa, but she used to pick her words and arrange her phrases—like knives all stuck up in a neat row for him to fall upon. And he generally fell, and hurt himself badly—poor papa! He’s not very clever, though he’s so precise about what he knows. And every now and then mother would strike out with one of her dashing southern sentiments, and then I’d say something, and when nobody thought that grandpapa had heard a word of the conversation, he’d suddenly make a remark—a regular Lauderdale remark that set everybody by the ears again. But it’s only since you and papa had that awful scene—you know, when you first wanted to marry me—it’s only since then that he’s got into the habit of raising his voice and being angry, and—” She stopped short.

“And generally behaving like a fiend incarnate,” suggested Ralston, by way of ending the sentence.

“Oh, well—let’s leave them alone, dear,” answered Katharine. “It’s all going to be so different now. I only wanted to explain to you what I meant by quarrelling, that’s all. I want to forget all about it, and live with you forever and ever, and ever, and be perfectly peaceful and happy—as we shall be. Look at the sunset. That’s much better than talking about those horrid old times, isn’t it?”

They stood by the edge of the river, on the road that runs along from pier to pier. Katharine laid her hand upon Ralston’s arm, and felt how it drew her gently close to him, and glancing at his face she loved it better than ever in the red evening light.

The sun was going down between two clouds, the one above him, the other below, grey and golden, behind Brooklyn bridge, and behind the close-crossing pencil masts and needle yards of many vessels. From the river rose the white plumes of twenty little puffing tugs and ferry-boats far down in the distance. Between the sun’s great flattened disk and the lovers’ eyes passed a great three-masted schooner, her vast main and mizzen set, her foresail and jib hauled down, being towed outward. It was very still, for the dock hands had gone home.

“I love you, dear,” said Katharine, softly.

But Ralston answered nothing. Only his right hand drew her left more closely to his side.