THE small, moss-covered clearing under the beeches proved to be an ideal retreat—a place good for the soul longing for isolation—a refuge for those desiring to escape from the insistent call of the obstinate present.

The sloping ground, soft and furry like a carpet, invited relaxation. The book seemed clever and promising—but somehow she could not concentrate her attention on its pages; her mind would wander off aimlessly. She began to muse, and the volume slid on to the moss.

This life she was living—was it really to be her life always? This wonderful land had opened up to her new vistas and new experiences. The people were, oh, so kind and good to her. It was all very interesting and no doubt worthy the efforts. But was this the land for her—for her, the last of her race?

She had been so enthusiastic in the morning. She had been looking forward to this little vacation for many days; and now, when it had come, when everything was just as she had wished it to be, she was not happy!

What had become of her dreams of intimate exchange of noble thoughts with dear friends? Where were her romantic fancies of a world of love, of glory and poetry? She knew not what these dreams and fancies might actually be, but she was sure they were not being realized now. Was her life’s horizon to be landlocked as was this rural home? Was her life’s goal to reach no farther than the making of pretty bonnets for strangers? Was this to be her ideal? Certainly she had found a freedom from one kind of bondage, but had she not obtained it only to find herself bound by far more cruel fetters—the drudgery of a life occupied in gaining a livelihood and losing its soul?

Would she be compelled to point to this as her only achievement? And what would Mr. Morton say when her hour of reckoning came with him? “And it was for this—that you disobeyed your father’s wishes, and gave me unspeakable pain!” Had she pained him? Had she disregarded her father’s injunctions? Oh—if she could but be enlightened on these doubts, these ever recurring questions!

She sat meditating, lost to her surroundings while the busy bees hummed and the flies buzzed about her. A slender catbird, smooth and droll like a dainty squirrel, its bright beetle eyes turned inquisitively upon the intruder, slipped in and out of the underbrush—“Peep”—“Peep”—its mate joined in the sport,—“Peep,” and they were gone. Little kinglets with their wine-colored caps flitted from branch to branch, chirruping in sweet confidence. A subdued whirr drew HelÈne’s eyes idly to a tall plant swaying in blossom in the glaring sunshine; above it was the most exquisite of little creatures floating in a haze produced by the rapid motion of its delicate wings, its thread-like bill seemingly resting within the flower. Whirr—it had vanished!

Was this an enchanted glade or a fairy’s retreat?

Yes—even if she had done wrong in running away, she had learned to know something of life, life as it was to the vast majority of humankind. She had come to know this great Western world—his own land. Surely he could not but approve—he——

An aggressive noise, resembling the sound of scissors being ground on a whetstone, piercing and disturbing, broke her reveries. HelÈne sat up staring into the leafy tangle which screened her refuge. What could it be? There it was again. It was only a locust, had HelÈne but known it, but its arrival had broken the spell; her retreat became once more but the hot, sweltering clearing; the buzzing of the flies became an annoyance, the bees a threat. She was again alone—a stranger among a strange people.

Oh, no—not alone! There was always her good Margy. No one could take her from her. And there were her own thoughts and memories. No one could steal them from her. And—autumn would soon be here—the day of reckoning and, perhaps, the day of promise, also—the day when her letter must be written and sent. But her first duty was to Margaret. She must help her dear friend and protector to get well. As soon as they were again settled at home, she surely would set to work on the letter. And an inward voice whispered to her: “my knight without blemish.” She rose and smoothed out her crumpled dress to cover her self-confusion at the unspoken words.

Carefully picking her way through the tall weeds and brush she gained the road. Glancing for a moment towards the house she saw no one about; but the next instant her attention was drawn to a distant cloud of dust and the sound of the regular hoof-beats of horses. A carriage was approaching, and soon it drew up before the gate of the Post’s farm-house. Hesitating what she should do, she saw a man alight, but, instead of going up to the house, he turned and made straight to where she was standing.

As he approached nearer she recognized Mr. Van Dusen. Her indecision died in its inception. Hat in one hand and the other extended cordially he called out:

“How are you, Miss Barton? I am so glad to see you. What good fairy brought you here?”Somewhat embarrassed, she permitted him to take her hand, and press it lightly. He felt rather than saw her indifference. “You are not pleased to see me, Miss Barton?” he added with a weak smile. “But never mind, since I am here, may I walk with you?”

“Y-e-s, Mr. Van Dusen. Miss Fisher is resting—the doctor’s orders, you know—but it is almost time for her to waken. Do you wish to see her?”

“Ah, Miss Barton, I am not going to let you get rid of me in that way. Let Miss Fisher have her full allowance of sleep; my message to her can wait. Mother sent me to invite her and you for a drive around the lakes to-morrow. The country is looking so beautiful, she thought you would enjoy the water and the hotels along the shore. But may I be frank? I agreed to be her messenger because I had heard you were expected to-day. Now, please, Miss Barton, don’t look so forbidding. I do so want to speak to you.”

HelÈne made a motion as if about to step back, a slight blush suffusing her cheek and neck. Courteously bowing her proud little head she said in somewhat staccato tones:

“Very well, Mr. Van Dusen; but I really think we ought both of us go in to Miss Fisher. I am her guest, you know.”

“I know, Miss Barton, but let me have my way, won’t you? This place, these woods, fields and lakes,” he added with a wave of his arm, “have been my playground ever since I was a boy. I know every nook and corner. You are not alone Miss Fisher’s guest but the guest of us all who live here and love this secluded corner of Jersey. Do let me be your guide and show you around.” His humorous eyes gave his face so whimsical an expression that HelÈne almost regretted her coldness towards him.

“Have you seen the orchard and the enchanted bower of Kittanah, the Indian Maiden who dwelt here more than two hundred years ago? No? It’s right round the bend of this road, less than a minute’s walk, and really well worth a visit. Shall we go?”

His playful insistence and her own desire to efface the impression of her cool reception of him conquered her indecision. She turned with him along the road to where the orchard was situated.

Gnarled old fruit trees laden with red, green and speckled apples, deep grass that clung to ankles, weeds of unusual size and luxuriance, and all against a dense clump of birches as background.

Within these birches were flat boulders covered with lichen and small tufts of living green—“The Indian bower, Miss Barton; behold the throne of Kittanah!”

It was a pretty spot, and HelÈne felt no regret that she had come. Van Dusen drew out his handkerchief, spread it carefully over the rock and invited his companion to sit down. “You must let me see how a white maiden would appear upon the throne of her ancient copper-colored sister.”

HelÈne smilingly obeyed, and the young man stepped back in mock criticism, nodding approval.

“Miss Barton, tradition tells that this Indian maiden outrivalled in beauty all the other girls of her age and place. But I think—there never sat upon this rock a more beautiful girl than she who is sitting there now.”

HelÈne rose. The very thing she had dreaded was going to happen. She had been very foolish to come to this place.

“Miss Barton, please sit down.”

Hardly knowing what she was doing, HelÈne resumed her seat, helplessly.

Van Dusen came close up to her, the smile gone from his face, and in its place an expression of grim determination.

“Miss Barton, ever since I first met you I have had but one thought—to win you if I could. I know you have given me no encouragement; indeed, I believe you have avoided me. Yet, I still beg of you to permit me to plead my cause.”

HelÈne, with downcast eyes, sat patiently, her hands folded, a troubled expression on her face.

“I don’t amount to much, I know, but I am a pretty clean fellow and I am awfully fond of you. Won’t you give me a chance to show you how in earnest I am? To see more of you? There isn’t another girl like you in this world. I know there are lots of fellows much better than I, but—do give me a chance!”

As he spoke the last words he took HelÈne’s hand, his eager face flushed with his emotions. She gently drew it away, and looking up piteously at the young man she mustered just enough strength to say sadly: “Mr. Van Dusen—I don’t know what to say, and if I did I wouldn’t know how to say it. You are very kind. I—I have never thought of any man as you wish me to think of you. We ought not to have come here; we should both of us then have been saved this great embarrassment. Please, remember, that I have no one but Miss Fisher—that I am her only friend. Shall we return to the house?”

“Miss Barton, Helen dear, will you not give me some encouragement, some hope——”

“Oh, Mr. Van Dusen—what can I say? Really, I must not listen to you any longer. Pray, permit me!”

Her heart in a riotous beating, her temples throbbing and her face filled with indignation, HelÈne rose and ran toward the orchard. And as she ran she kept thinking: he had no right to speak to her thus: Margy would have to tell him that he must not visit them again. Her feet became entangled in the deep grass and treacherous brambles, and she was compelled to walk and pick her way.

Van Dusen, who had followed her at a quick pace, hurt and offended at he knew not what, was the first to break the awkward silence following on the precipitate flight.

“Don’t be angry with me, Miss Barton. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. I can see I am distasteful to you; but you need have no fear.” He paused for breath. Then seeing that she was finding it difficult to get over the brambles, he added in an unconscious non sequitur: “Pardon me, if you don’t keep to the path you will tear your shoes and skirt. You are getting into a patch of low bush blackberries; they are worse than barbed wire.”

HelÈne stopped short, her sense of humor overcoming her. After all the young man had not done anything very grievous! Of course, it was absurd, but he meant well and she had been wrong to be indignant with him.

She turned to Van Dusen, and the smile which met him was like a ray of sunshine breaking through threatening clouds. “Mr. Van Dusen—I am sorry. It was rude of me to run away. I was taken unawares. Please pardon me. You may show me the path. I can’t afford to ruin my shoes and spoil my vacation. But you must promise me not to refer to the subject again. Will you promise, Mr. Van Dusen?”

“Miss Barton, I may not be a genius but nobody can say I don’t know when I am not wanted. I apologize,” he added in a more earnest and subdued voice, “and let us be friends. I guess I am not good enough for you!”

“No, Mr. Van Dusen, you are unjust to yourself. You are a gentleman and you have been very kind to me. But—oh, well, I suppose I am foolish. Let us go back to Miss Fisher.”

Van Dusen, silent and depressed, led the way back along the path over the hard-baked field, through the orchard and into the road. HelÈne spoke not another word all the way.

Whether she intended it or not her silence convinced Van Dusen that he need look for no further hope from her. It was not coquetry, but a definite and permanent refusal. What an ass he had been not to see that she never cared for him! But that he, a Van Dusen, should have been turned down by a snip of a milliner! No, no, he must not think that. He was a cad to call her names even in thought. Ah, she was a beautiful girl—as good as they made them—but, she had not been made for him, worse luck! Of course, there must be another fellow. But, by George, couldn’t she look proud! And what a temper she could show! Ah, but she looked more beautiful angry than smiling. Oh, well, if she didn’t care to talk he wouldn’t make her. There was the gate, and there was Miss Fisher, all in white, smiling and wholesome. After all, there was no girl like an American girl. These foreigners——

“Hello, people, where have you two been?” came Margaret’s cheery greeting to the silent pair emerging from the cover of the trees; “exploring the landscape, Helen?”

“How do you do, Miss Fisher!” Van Dusen welcomed the break in the oppressive silence he had endured. “You look very well. I need not ask if the country is doing you good! Mother sent me with a message to you, but as I learned you were resting I proposed to Miss Barton to visit the ‘Kittanah Rock’—and here we are.”

“How are you, Mr. Van Dusen. Come in and sit down in the shade. This is the only cool spot I know around here. Were you interested in the Indian Rock, Helen? You didn’t know we could boast of ancient history here, did you?”

They sat on the camp chairs in the grass under the spreading maples, chatting in desultory fashion. HelÈne, however, soon retired to her room, offering as an excuse her dishevelled condition after the walk.

As he sat facing the comely Margaret with her shrewd eyes, Van Dusen realized that it would be useless for him to make a secret of what had happened in the orchard. He saw that she already more than guessed. Moreover, his disappointment at the rebuff made him feel a deep desire to unburden himself; perhaps, also, to obtain a little sympathy. He sought for an opportunity, and it came when HelÈne left them together. But it was Margaret who seized it first.

“What have you been saying to Helen, Mr. Van Dusen? She seems unusually quiet, and she kept her eyes away from you. I have elected myself Helen’s guardian, you know, and her happiness is dear to me. What’s been the trouble?”

“Miss Fisher,” the young man fidgeted and spoke nervously. “I know you will be angry with me. I’ve made an arrant fool of myself. I proposed to Miss Barton, and was promptly refused. I hardly know how I came to do it, but, I suppose I couldn’t help it.”

Margaret’s face paled; she closed her eyes and said not a word.

“Miss Fisher, I see you are angry. But I’ve made it all right. I don’t know how I came to forget myself, because, as I sit here now, I feel as if I’m not in love with her at all—and never have been. If I feel hurt it’s not my heart that has been wounded, but my vanity. Do say a kind word to me, Miss Fisher. I don’t want you to send me away in anger.”Margaret opened her eyes and looked at Van Dusen for a moment with slight disdain. The ingenuousness of the young man, however, was so transparent, and indicated so honest a nature that she was moved to smile—the free and open smile which only she could give.

“Poor boy!” she said, “I guess you are right, you couldn’t help it. I don’t blame you. If I were a man I would have done as you did. But you must not come with us to-morrow; it would be awkward for both of you. Oh, I do wish men wouldn’t insist on making love to every pretty girl they meet; I’m afraid you’ve now spoiled Helen’s vacation—the first one the child has had. I don’t know if you understand what that means to a working-girl, because you’ve never done a day’s work in your life.”

“You’re right, missie, I don’t. But what can I do? Father thinks I am a dunce; the fellows I know don’t do anything great, and mother wants me to do the social stunt and shine. I wish I could do something. Won’t you advise me, Miss Fisher?”

“Advise you? Why, Mr. Van Dusen, I don’t see that it is any of my business! And please don’t ‘Missie’ me. I am too old for that. Really, you make me laugh. I honestly believe you haven’t grown up yet.”

Any other young man might have resented the snubbing he was getting, but Van Dusen enjoyed it.

“Never mind, Miss Fisher,” he said laughingly. “I’m not nearly the boy you think I am. And if you keep on looking at me with those nice eyes of yours—I’ll make another fool of myself. Now, please don’t get angry. I’m going to behave from now on. You are right about the drive to-morrow, though I’m awfully sorry to miss the pleasure of showing you round. I had been looking forward to it.”His tone was light, but it was evident that he was feeling the deprivation deeply.

“Don’t think little of me, Miss Fisher. I hope some day to prove to you that I can be of some use in the world. Say good-bye to Miss Barton for me, please. Good-bye, Miss Fisher, and think kindly of me.”

Van Dusen rose and held out his hand to Margaret, who had reddened in spite of herself. Really, he looked a manly fellow in his earnestness, despite the flippancy of his manner. She couldn’t help appreciating the sterling nature which it hid.

“Good-bye,” she said quietly as she took his hand in her friendly clasp.

She watched him get into the carriage and take the reins from the waiting groom, and noticed how well he sat his seat. Van Dusen turned and raised his hat in a parting farewell to her smiling nods. There was not a trace to be seen of either disappointment or chagrin in his laughing eyes, as he drove up the road and was lost in the wooded avenue. Margaret turned and walked pensively into the house.

Labor Day had become a memory; Margaret was now fully recovered, and both girls were back at their duties. Their well-regulated life, which had been so rudely interrupted by the accident, resumed its even course. The new actors which, in consequence of that distressing event, had come into it, in no way disturbed the even tenor of their ways.

HelÈne met the spurned wooer, after not a few qualms of conscience, with quiet friendliness. Van Dusen, on his part, had swallowed his disappointment and became a devoted friend, using the privileges of an elder brother, which had been extended to him. HelÈne had but hinted to Margaret at what had occurred between her and Van Dusen, and Margaret had refrained from inquiring too curiously. It was best to leave well alone, she thought.

Flowers still came to the house in Gramercy Park; but their destination was the reverse of what it had been before. Then it had been HelÈne who was the recipient of the roses and giant asters and Margaret of the lesser flowers. Now it was to Margaret that the more gorgeous plants were addressed, and to HelÈne were relegated modest little bouquets of lilies and pansies (pansies? Did he mean—heartsease?) and cornflowers.

The arrival of the flowers for Margaret usually presaged an evening’s outing, and HelÈne soon came to understand that the bouquets which came for her were but the expressions of courtesy and brotherly attention. She did not fail to tease Van Dusen on the change, in her more audacious moods, to his smiling content.

With renewed health Margaret’s cheeks filled out and regained their old roundness and color. Indeed, her illness had improved her appearance. She began to add to nature’s gifts the productions of the lore of the “Modiste” and blossomed into as charming a woman as ever attracted the eyes of the dwellers of the Park.

And now, with the waning of the summer, the first signs of the new “season” began to appear on the Avenue. The World of Fashion was returning to its urban fields of activity; the shops once more became busy hives of jostling women. The evenings scintillated and sparkled with brilliant lights and more brilliant costumes. The glamor of the city drew people from the country, and once again the busy stir of business and pleasure filled the blue-covered caÑons of New York.

As for Margaret and HelÈne, work kept them from ennui. It was a lesson to HelÈne, and she entered on the work of the season with all her heart.

The letter, the task of writing the important letter, had occupied her thoughts for many months, sometimes as ominous, often as a ray of hope, occasionally as a burden, but always as a sacred duty—a pilgrimage to a shrine. She had begun its composition and had destroyed what she had written time and again. And every time she had put off its completion, waiting for a happier mood. When did autumn begin? Mrs. Kane’s almanac said the twenty-second of September. And that was but a few days off. Well, she would obey the promptings of her heart and do it now. It was an evening when Margaret had decided to take an inventory of their belongings to see what they required in the way of dresses for the coming season, and she had retired early, leaving HelÈne to herself. She sat down determined to get it done with once for all. At the end of an hour the letter was finished, all but the date and signature. She read it over carefully, and although she was not satisfied she decided it would have to do.

Surely he would understand! She wondered what he was doing in Cleveland, and if he ever thought of his friend of the Carpathians. Perhaps he had found some rich and beautiful girl of his own country!

And his mother and sister? Was the Ruth he had spoken of like the girls who came to Madame Lucile’s—free and lively and gay and often slangy? Was his mother like Mrs. Van Dusen, with her haughty air and jewelled fingers?

These and the like questions she put to herself only to add to her hesitancy of purpose and distress of heart. She had learned much but she was still a child and knew very little of life, especially of life in America.The greatest of all teachers, the omnipotent opener of all eyes and all minds, had not yet come to her. Love may be blind, but it is a wonderful magician for opening the heart’s far-seeing eyes. It may be blind to the object of its passion, but as a teacher it takes the highest rank. HelÈne did not know this. She was alone in the world—without a home, without a father or mother, without even her birthright. In this land of her adoption she was still a stranger. She could but follow the impulses of her heart blindly. She did not realize it, but it was love that led her. And Monday would be the twenty-second!