I was all alone that August afternoon. It was hot out on the porch and I took my sewing inside. I liked to sew when anything perplexed me. There seems a quiet kind of diversion in the effort one has to make, which is not much of an effort, after all. Father had gone down to the warehouse to see about loading one of the boats. One of the men was with him, though he had learned to get about quite comfortably.

I heard a step on the walk. Dan's week was up and he might be home any day. It had been a pleasant and busy week, and it seemed as if most of the people I had ever known had visited me. There was my old friend, Mrs. Chadwick, who had come for her brother. He was rather ailing now, and it was thought a change would benefit him, so she would take him home with her. She was still sweet and charming and intelligent and we had a pleasant visit. Sophie came up with the four children, and we enjoyed a merry, romping time. Of course, she couldn't let Polly alone, but she admitted the matter might have worn itself out, and now she was preparing to take quite a journey. "Joy go with her," declared Sophie.

Ben had returned, a fine, fresh-looking fellow, tall and with a strong frame, rather thin now, but he was full of ambition. He had been doing very well, and oh, what joy it would be to see Norman, the most splendid fellow in the world. Any day he might arrive.

Chris, too, was full of delight. I had no time to brood over my own infelicities.

No one had come yet to-day. It was too warm for womenkind to go visiting even with the prospect of a supper in which they had had no hand.

So when I heard the step I did not stir, neither did I take the next stitch, but just listened for the voice. Chris had a way of beginning his conversation on the lowest step and talking all the way along. It must be Ben, stopping to pet the cat. Then I turned, but could not see who was in the hall, rose, and took a step forward, and then we stood face to face with all the years between. I was no longer a little girl, and this was a fine, resolute man, clear eyed, the strong features toned down by the tenderness and sympathy the years had demanded of him, a face one could trust to the death—Norman Hayne in his ripe manhood.

There came to me in that one instant a flash of awful knowledge that I had no right to. I swayed uncertainly. I put out my hand and all went dark before my eyes.

"Oh, Little Girl! Little Girl!"

The longing sweetness of the voice pierced my very soul, but I went plunging down some deep abyss. Was I really dying?

When I came to, Jolette and father and a neighbor stood there beside Norman.

"What was the matter?" I asked. "Why, I never fainted in my life."

"Once is always the first time," said Mrs. Miller, sententiously.

Father was pale with fright, and shook as if with an ague, while his eyes transfixed mine.

"I came upon her too suddenly," Norman explained. "I was so impatient, and I could not find any one."

"She has not been well of late," exclaimed father.

"And it has been a hot afternoon. Oh, how did you stand it?" and I caught his hand.

"I was in a tolerably cool place. There is a breeze coming up, and the sun has gone under a cloud."

"Yes. I think we might take her out on the porch," said Mrs. Miller. "Jolette, you carry the big rocking chair."

"I am all right," and I gave a tremulous little laugh. "Did I frighten you very much?"

"It was a pretty severe faint," Norman replied, still looking anxiously at me.

Mrs. Miller would lead me, though I could walk very well, and only felt a little shaky.

The wind came up in a fluttering sort of gale, as if it hardly knew whether to behave at its best or worst. A drift of mauve and dun began to settle in level lines along the west, making a bar across the sun. Other patches of white and pale gray chased each other about, but there was no sign of shower.

"When did you get in?" asked father.

"About noon. I went straight to mother. Chris was home. Oh, you can't think how glad I am to be here. It has been a long exile from the many one loves. And yet I ought not complain. I have been needed every day of the time. But it seemed so strange at the first glance to have every one grown up, although, of course, I knew none of us stood still," and he laughed with a cheerful, musical sound. It was like a mellow echo of Dan's. And he was a refined and noble copy of his elder brother, a gentleman in tone, accent, the turn of the head, the glance of the eye, the sort of atmosphere that surrounded him. I thought I would like to have him more distinct in personality.

He remained to supper, but went immediately after. He wrung father's hand until the pressure made him wince, but he said a simple good-night to me, and I was thankful. I could not have borne the clasp of his hand.

There was great rejoicing, to be sure. We were very neighborly in those days, and joy as well as sorrow stirred all hearts. Then it was something to have been nearly all over Europe, to understand several foreign languages, to have seen kings and queens.

A few days after Dan came home. He gave me a careless greeting, and began to talk at once about Norman.

"I have not seen much of him," I said. "He and father went driving yesterday, and he was surprised at what he called the advancement of the prairies."

"Oh, I suppose he carries his head very high. And I dare say he came in for a big fortune. You won't see much of him here, I can tell you. We're not half grand enough."

"Your mother is a very happy woman. I went down there yesterday, while the men were out. I had been so busy with various matters. You must go and see her."

He nodded, and busied himself with some papers he was taking out of a drawer.

That was all our greeting after a week's absence. I had a kind of stunned feeling, and did not really care for endearments, though sometimes Dan was very lavish of them. I had not yet grown used to this revelation of myself. I must learn to love my husband, it was my only safeguard. Otherwise I should be a miserable, sinful woman. For I realized now how I had loved Norman Hayne through these years of my childhood, and how I could love him now, how he would fill the spaces in my heart that had never been satisfied. The pain and longing I had never understood before.

There was another aspect to the case. Father's influence had its share in the step I realized. He had not thought then he could live very long, and it was his dear love for me that longed to see me safe in some one's hands. He suffered enough in knowing that my husband had grown careless, he must never guess that I could have given my supreme affection to another and been happy, blessed beyond measure.

Why had Dan married me?

He could not have been so much in love with an unformed child, though I think I did amuse him with my petulance and protests. He loved to conquer anything. He could subdue the most fractious horse and do more with an obstinate mule than any one else. He really enjoyed my resistance. But was there any thought that at father's death I should be left with quite a fortune? There was his anger about the house, his objections to young John Gaynor. Yet now they seemed matters almost of indifference to him.

But there was my duty and my safety. Father was a very upright man and used to clear distinctions, and I knew I had inherited them. I was a wife and I had no right to consider what my life might have been with any other man, to brood over what I had missed.

It seemed truly as if Norman helped me. Had I done or said anything in that moment of the lapsing of consciousness? He came only when father was around. Oh, what talks there were out on the porch, to which I listened enchanted, yet I sat a little by myself, or with father's arm around me. Mrs. Hayne gathered the family together, and father went along. Four sweet, merry grandchildren, Sophie bright, commonplace to be sure, but a most excellent wife and mother. We talked of the one who "was not," of the night I had come a Little Girl, of the many delightful old things.

Dan was there, but I noted a curious restlessness about him, as if he was bored, and an abstraction. His thoughts certainly were elsewhere, yet he told droll stories and anecdotes and chaffed Norman. When we made ready to return Ben said he would go along, he had an errand uptown. We were old enough to divide our city in sections already.

"Ben—if you'll just see my folks safe home," he said, "I'll be mightily obliged to you. I ought to see some one on business, and I know I can catch him to-night."

"Yes," assented Ben, and then Chris said he would go, too. Norman was petting and playing with little Ruth.

Dan walked a short distance with us and then turned off with a cheerful good-night. But it was past midnight when he returned.

It seemed so strange to walk on the edge of some suspected but unknown danger, as if the ground was mined somewhere along the way. I was outwardly cheerful, I sang about the house, I tried to answer blithely, I cooked the things Dan liked, I begged him to come home early. I indulged in little caressing ways, such as he used to fairly extort years before. I put on whatever semblance of love I could use without being effusive. It did not warm him at all, and he had been so easily roused. What was this stone that I surged against?

"Ruth," father said one morning, "what is Dan about, has he told you of any new plans?"

"No," I answered in a kind of surprise.

"He is putting money in the copper mines up at Lake Superior. He has sold that Lake Street property, at a sacrifice, I think, and he asked me for a settlement. He wants to go up to the copper fields himself."

"No, I have heard nothing about it."

Father came nearer and took both of my hands.

"Ruth, you cannot go up there, even with your husband," he exclaimed solemnly.

"He has not asked me. I do not think he would want me." Yet I shuddered at the prospect.

"One cannot fathom him any more. Of course, he was very plausible and all that, considering my interest, and saying he had not time to attend to it, that he might be away for months, and that now I was so much improved a good overseer would answer my purpose. But I say again he shall not take you. I would as soon hand you over to a pack of ravening wolves! Oh, my darling, I have no one in the world but you, a broken, disabled, lonely old man."

He pressed me to his heart, and I felt the sob there. The strong arms about me gave me inexpressible comfort.

"You need not fear," I returned. "He shall not even drag me away."

"He will not try force. He may try fraud. I distrust him. He used to be so frank and outspoken. Will you be careful? Do not be trapped into anything, for he is deep as the sea. It may be all this copper business. I have seen men go mad about speculation before, when they could dance a hornpipe standing on their heads, their brains were so befuddled. It is not drink, but some curious influence I cannot divine."

"I shall stay with you always. It was one of the conditions of my marriage. It was as solemn a promise as anything else."

"Thank God, my darling."

There certainly was what I should call an intense change in Dan, not any superficial emotion. He sometimes sat with his lips compressed, and his brow in a frown, then it would suddenly lighten in such a wonderful glow, an absolute radiance. What was he thinking of?

Once, when I saw it, I went over and kissed him in a kind of fascinated mood.

"Don't!" He pushed me away roughly.

A month before I would have cried, and felt stabbed to the heart. Now I walked quietly away.

What weeks they were, not many of them, but the days seemed shodden with lead, the sun hung high in the heavens, as if loth to leave her throne.

I stayed mostly at home, helping father to go over accounts. I remember the last week. Norman was not in at all.

Was I longing for him? Was life drearier without him? Well, if I was as weak as that then I must make a new and greater effort. But it was fighting with no line of defence behind me, no husband to stretch out a hand.

Dan came in awhile before noon one day and began to pack a valise. He had taken away some of his belongings before. I had been mending a few articles rather too bulky to be carried downstairs.

"I am going away," he announced, "up to Lake Superior. The Prairie Bird starts this afternoon."

"Oh, Dan!" What should I say? "How long are you likely to stay?" and I tried to make my voice solicitous.

There was no answer for a moment or two. Then he turned around in a fierce fashion, and his eyes were black as night.

"I may as well tell you," he began in a desperate tone, "that I am not coming back at all."

I glanced up at him. I knew the color went out of my face. I was so utterly amazed.

"You'll hear the story, but I may as well have the gratification of telling you." His voice had a peculiar depth, and his face was set with some tremendous emotion. "I am going with the woman I love, and who loves me with a passion you never could know if you lived a hundred years! I should have married her in the beginning, but I was a blind, idiotic fool, and she had a temper. We were never sure of each other. She made a pretence of caring for this or that one when I ought to have wrung the secret out of her heart and mastered her once for all. A woman like that gives royally when she is compelled. You have to extort it out of her, but the drop of honey is worth it all. The old man who took her in hand never found the way to the heart of the flower. That was saved for me. And it is a delicious draught. We are going away together—we shall never come back. What people say is of no importance to us."

"It is Polly Morrison," I gasped. "Oh, Dan, if you loved her, then why did you marry me?" I cried, wounded to the heart's core.

"Because I was a fool. She had gone out of my life, and I said she could not have loved me as she professed. And you were a silly little white kitten, never quite sure whether you would jump on my knee or not, so I made you. But what is there to you? Some cold Puritan blood, some petty sort of tenderness that has no fire in it—nothing to kindle a man to the height of rapture. I tired of you even before she came, and then my life was set aflame. She is the one woman for me. A month, even, with her would outweigh any other woman on the face of the earth."

I sprang up. "Dan, your solemn promise!" At that moment I hated to be thrust aside for Polly Morrison. "You were not compelled to marry me. You—you did love me then—a little."

He laughed scornfully. "You have just hit it—a little. A man sometimes takes second best, more fool he! You might have done if Polly with all her witchery had not crossed my path. Or it might have been some one else. There is no need of making a fuss now. I have not wasted any of your patrimony. You can hand it all over to John Gaynor if you like, and you and your father can maunder on through life. And I shall have a glowing, thrilling, absorbing atmosphere, in which one really lives. No, don't come near me—"

The bed had stood between us as I sat by the window. Perhaps I had unconsciously stepped forward. I had a wild idea that I must plead, that I must exert all my wifely powers to keep him from committing this dreadful sin.

"Don't come near me," he continued. "We will say good-by with this space between us and no tomfoolery. Perhaps I was idiotic to come and tell you this, but I wanted you to know how the other woman was loved, how a man loves when a woman fills every thought of his soul. There—you and your father are well rid of me!"

He picked up his valise and strode out of the room, down the stairs. I dropped on the bed. I did not faint or cry. I could hardly be any more deserted than I had been the last two months. A deserted wife! A husband by all of God's sacred ordinances who gloried in his shameful love for another woman!

It stunned me. One moment it seemed incredible, then his voice sounded clear and vibrant, as if he was still in the room. Had we parted for all time? A hundred little tendernesses rushed over me. The laughing, teasing eyes that could hold so much meaning looked into mine. Oh, he must have loved me once and I had tried to love him, yes, sometimes I really had, but it was a child's love.

"Ain't any one comin' to dinner, Mis' Hayne?" A peremptory voice rang up the stairway.

I rose, bathed my face, although there were no tears to wash away, and went down.

"Mr. Hayne gone away?" inquired Jolette.

"Yes," I answered briefly.

"An' ye'r father out! I declar' to man ther' ain't much sense roastin' ye'sself on a hot day an' no one to come an' eat the wittles!"

I glanced over the table. The boiled dinner with one or two side dishes filled me with disgust, and yet I thought how Dan would have enjoyed it. He was hearty in everything. He had a big frame to take care of and he did not stint it.

The wagon drove up and Sim helped father out. So I waited until he was ready to come.

"The Prairie Bird starts out at two. Has Dan been home?"

"Yes, and gone," I made answer briefly.

He glanced sharply at me. Jolette was too near for any private comment.

"I saw him down by the elevator. Well, I hope he isn't on a wild-goose chase that will bring down only a few feathers. Wentworth thinks he's years too early, but they may find gold up there as well as in California, and copper may pan out in a valuable way. But I think he was foolish putting so many eggs in one basket. He's sold Duke to Baubein."

"He cared more for Chita."

"There's big money in Duke. He's a splendid trotter."

I tried to eat. Father was hungry, and just as the pie came on Ben entered and had some dessert, and there followed a long talk with father, who then settled himself in an easy chair for his nap.

Had Dan really told the truth? Was Polly to be his companion? How would it come out? At all events, I would keep my own counsel.

It had been a pretty warm day until about five, when some suspicious clouds went scurrying across the sky, and a blast of wind seemed to come off of an iceberg. We shut down the windows, the storm rushed up so quickly. Then the wind fell. In a little while there was such a peculiar light, not sunset, it obscured the sun even, a strange yellow glow over everything, darkening and yet not making dark. The air was now very still. Men went hurrying homeward.

"There'll be a big storm," one and another said when they came within hearing. I thought of the two out on the lake and how Dan disliked the water.

There had been a curious talk about the end of the world coming. Jolette was afraid, and up in her room prayed mightily.

"It is strange," father said over and over again, and he watched me closely.

After a while it grew paler and that gave everything an unearthly glow. Yet it looked beautiful. It was nothing like sunset, I had never seen such a light before. The distant cornfields were simply magnificent. Trees looked as if they were painted on a background, every branch and twig were so distinctly outlined.

Then by slow degrees it faded, growing into evening gradually. There had been no sunset, but night was coming on quietly and the sky was a smooth gray.

Ben rushed in breathless.

"Hasn't it all been queer?" he exclaimed. "Mother was sure the end of the world was here. They've been preaching it a good deal to the eastward. Norme insisted I should come up and stay all night with you." How good the old name sounded! "He could manage mother better. I never saw her so frightened. Were you?"

"Well—the world is going to be destroyed by fire, but it wasn't hot enough to melt the fervent elements, so I thought we were safe," replied father jocosely.

Then they began about the prophecies, and how in the first century they thought Christ would come the second time before St. John died. Father had been quite a great Bible reader of late years. We spoke of Dan, too, and hoped he would reach his destination safely. Evidently Ben nor mother had any idea he had gone to stay, or that there was anything wrong. I almost persuaded myself I had dreamed that cruel, brutal talk. It had been interspersed with not a little profanity. I hated swearing.

We went to bed at length. I felt so sore and sad then, with all my life in ruins, that I cried softly on my pillow. A deserted wife! And when the story came out, how hard all the gossip would be to hear!

The Yankee clock in the hall rattled off its hours. It always struck as if it might lose a second of time between the strokes. Twelve! The eerie hour. What if a ghost came to me! Oh, what was that!

An awful roar of something coming nearer and nearer and then breaking into a thousand shrieks. I sprang out of bed and screamed.

Father called to me, "Come in here, Ruth," and I ran, frightened almost out of life.

I suppose there had been such tempests before. I know there have been since. Ben came in wrapped in a blanket and lighted some candles, then sat on the foot of father's bed. It was something terrific. The house rocked, we heard the trees crash down, the cries of the animals and the frightened poultry, and that mighty roar and swirl as if the destruction of the world had begun. We were so near the lake that we guessed what an ocean tempest must be with the great waves pounding up, fighting each other like angry armies.

Then it began to rain. A great fierce deluge, this way and that, whirling, beating, changing about, thrashing, as if it meant to crush out life, the world, everything. Oh, what torrents! It stamped on the ground in its rage. It beat on the roof as if it meant to crush it in, and was all the uglier for being foiled.

I snuggled up to father and pressed my cheek against his. His arm was around me. We two, henceforth, always. And what of the other two? I felt the boat must have put in somewhere. It should have been a magnificent night with the moon just past the full. I thought of the ride on Chita in the harvest moonlight. Other tender remembrances came back to me, and from the depths of my soul I cried to God for their safety, cried mightily, as if my own soul was at stake.

It was two before the storm began to abate at all, then it rained steadily, and the wind raged, but not so fiercely, the lake roared like a great booming cannon, but the house had stood the shock and we were safe. It had been so good to have Ben. Yet it was curious we had none of us once spoken Dan's name, though I think it was deep in our hearts.

The skies were still thick in the morning, as if layer after layer had to roll away before it could clear. The wind had mostly ceased, and the rain held up now and then and came in gusts again.

Oh, the destruction that greeted us! The lake had been loosed it seemed and swept over everything. Streets were rivers, some houses had been carried off their foundations. We were on higher ground, but there was only a short distance between us and this great sea the wind had stirred up.

About ten the clouds began to lift a little and patches of blue struggled here and there and were submerged again. Poor Jolette had gone almost crazy and really had not wit enough left to get breakfast. Ben and I helped, but all the life had been wrenched out of me. One of the outbuildings had gone over, but the barn and stable and hennery were intact.

By noon Norman came over, waded over, for he was mud up to his knees. The instant I looked into his kindly, pitying eyes I felt he shared my secret. I did not dare give him a second glance, for I knew I should cry out in anguish.

After an hour or two the sun came out, as if quite ashamed of the destruction the wretched myrmidons of storm had wrought. And we heard how wharves and storehouses had been submerged, vessels torn away and wrecked, swept down to the end of the lake, and such destruction as had never come upon us before, as there had not been so much to destroy.

It was several days before the damage could really be estimated. The waters subsided, the lake took her mud and ooze and overflow. The sun shone as if it was glad to help dry up and restore, and the blue skies smiled, the winds seemed as if led by a child.

Some of the corn had been cut and stacked, and the rest, though beaten down, was so fully ripened there would not be a great loss. Most of the grains had been cut and housed.

"I declare, Gaynor, you do have the best luck of any one I know," said a neighbor.

It seemed so. Father was really a rich man, but most of it had come through thrift.

I felt weak and miserable. I was holding my breath for some blow that would surely strike, and when I looked in any one's face I felt as if I must scream.

Norman came up on the porch one afternoon. I was walking slowly downstairs, and halted in the hall. I did not hear what father asked, but Norman answered:

"Yes. They have heard. The Prairie Bird ran ashore on some rocks that stove a hole in her, and then was blown out to sea again. Only a few were saved, two or three of the sailors. But that isn't the worst news to face. It is going all over now. Poor Ruth! If she might never know! For—how can I tell it? My own brother, too!"

I stepped out. I suppose I must have looked like a ghost. Norman stretched out his arms, but I tottered to father.

"I know," I said, trying to steady my voice that seemed blown about by the stress of emotion. "Dan told me that day. They loved each other and went away together."

"And were found dead, locked in each other's arms."

I fell over into father's chair. That was the last I knew for a long while.