After prolonged residence in the cosmopolitan atmosphere of Washington, New York, and continental Europe, it was inevitable that returning absentees should find the restricted environment of Y—— stiflingly provincial; and, despite the rapid growth of the town, consequent upon construction of new railways and erection of furnaces and cotton mills, its limitations were apparent. There was no lack of individual brains or culture, but Eglah missed keenly the effectively massed mental activity that shrewdly focussed all lights on national questions, political policies, and diplomatic legerdemain in Washington; and especially the stimulating intellectual ozone, the sharpening friction of perpetual debate in congressional circles. An exalted official career at the Capitol lured her like a baleful witch, and transition from brilliant public life to comparatively secluded domesticity in a Southern country home strained her patience.

Gentlemen who composed the most fashionable club in Y—— gave an elaborate german to welcome the chatelaine of Nutwood. The small Kent coterie invited the judge and his daughter to several dinners, that were promptly repaid, while, now and then, Eglah was requested to appear at ladies' luncheons, and to assist at five o'clock teas; but more and more she realized and resented keenly that among the proud old families she was tolerated simply because of the powerful hereditary Maurice prestige. Noting the social discrimination against her father, and in some quarters the far from fervent, though courteous acceptance of herself, her few invitations to Nutwood dinners were confined to those who had welcomed him to their board and fireside. By degrees an element of haughtiness, at variance with her youthful grace and beauty, invaded her manner, and her frigid politeness hastened the diminution of the circle revolving about her, and reduced social hospitalities to merely formal visiting. Complete abandonment of the contemplated fÊte champÊtre resulted from the arrival of the mail one morning, three weeks after Judge Kent's return from Washington—a journey to which no one ever alluded.

Leaning back in her low wicker rocking-chair, in a shaded angle of the colonnade, Eglah listlessly watched Eliza's white Angora cat, stretched on the floor and following with avid green eyes the coquettish manoeig;uvres of two brilliant red birds that flashed from a tangle of Belgian honeysuckle vines—brocaded with pale-pink satin clusters—to the quivering covert of a neighboring acacia, swinging its long, flowery fringes of vivid yellow.

Of the town, nearly two miles distant, church spires and factory chimneys were visible; but beyond the roaring river and far away, rose against blue sky a battlement of hills, tapestried with that tender, purple mist woven only in the loom of distance. With less than usual interest, Eglah began to examine the papers and letters lying in her lap. One heavy envelope contained samples of sprigged muslin for curtains; in another, that was so light it seemed empty, she found a newspaper clipping carefully folded in a blank sheet of thin notepaper.

"Special Correspondence.

"Washington:

"From a source always well informed and usually accurate, it has been whispered that the sudden change of policy in a certain senator—whose resignation surprised his congressional colleagues—finds explanation in the menaced divulgement of some damaging facts connecting the ex-senator's votes with crooked syndicate dealings in the West. How this record was unearthed is not yet known, but it is rumored a blondined Circe of the lobby ÆÆa used her knowledge of it quite successfully in furtherance of the Bison Head bill that hung so long in committee room, and also to secure the senator's resignation in favor of a rival candidate for whom she shows deep sympathy. Her threat to place her information at the service of the approaching Legislature of the incumbent's native State hastened his resignation some months prior to the expiration of his term, and he promptly 'left his country for his country's good,' to recuperate in foreign lands. Truly, 'God's fruit of justice ripens slow,'—but fate takes care to shake the tree. Now and then we have proof in public life that 'Dieu paie, mais il ne paie pas tous les Samedis.'"

The name of the paper did not appear in the clipping and date and signature had been erased. The envelope bore postmark of a Colorado town, and the address was type-written. It was not from the State represented in the Senate by the Hon. Rufus Higginbottom, but Eglah's intuitions assured her the extract had been sent by the hand of Miss Ethelberta. Doubtless it had appeared while they were in Europe, but whether the press circulated it freely she was now barred from investigating.

A moan she could not repress escaped her usually well guarded lips, and she shivered as if a freezing wind swung her to and fro.

A stealthy hand creeping around the dial had reached that predestined hour she so vaguely dreaded, and its strokes sounded the knell of her life's dearest hope.

Was it merely a party libel—one of the scandalous personalities used in retaliation for some stinging blow her father had dealt Democracy—a foul partisan aspersion such as political opponents hurl with shameful recklessness?

Two years ago she would have hurried to her father for denial, and published proofs that his hands were clean; but to-day, for some moments after the shock, doubt seemed the only land of promise where she could dwell with any semblance of peace. Looking back over all that made their last two months in Washington so painful to her, recalling the inexplicable nervousness that was invariably exhibited when American letters and papers reached them at Aix les Bains, she connected incidents that formerly had no visible relation, and filial faith began to rock and drift from its life-long moorings. Yet with obstinate tenacity she swung back to the only comforting supposition—that political hatred and the unscrupulous ambition of a rival candidate had combined to fabricate this atrocious calumny. Were it possible for Judge Kent to vindicate himself, why had he failed to do so promptly in print? Again and again she read the clipping, carefully committing to memory the entire article, and when quite sure it was literally indelible, she tore the paper into innumerable fragments and tossed them to the wind singing through the venerable tree tops.

A different nature might, perhaps, have utilized the printed statement as a bridge over the chasm gaping between her father and herself, but intense pride and yearning love prompted her to shield him from the great shame of knowing she had read the blistering libel. That the burned telegram related to this publication, was an explanation of his reluctance to acquaint her with the contents, that appealed now to her tenderness, and her eyes softened in a passionate longing to throw herself into his arms, as in happier days.

Doubtless the press in Y—— had copied this assault upon his political integrity, his many enemies were gloating over it, and henceforth she would make no attempt to level the bristling hedge of social distrust. As one who snatches from the grave some beloved dead, and battles in frantic hope of resuscitation, she grappled closer, to warm at her heart the wan, fading remains of loyal filial confidence. It was an hour of exceeding bitterness, of intolerable humiliation, but undaunted by the severity of a blow smiting her where most vulnerable, she girded herself to struggle in defence, faintly cheered by a vague yet obstinate hope that in coming years her Biography might avail to rehabilitate the character so unjustly assailed.

Before her lay isolation, hidden heartache, the silent surrender of her dearest ambition, and the acceptance of life robbed of all rosy plans.

Remembering how firmly Mrs. Maurice's slim hands had held the reins of government, Eglah followed precedent in all details of domestic management that did not conflict with her father's wishes. While he had amused himself with viticulture and the erection of new glass houses, she was interested in extending and refitting the conservatory, but Mrs. Mitchell's frequent and increasing sojourns at her small farm, many miles distant, disquieted her foster-child, who finally rebelled.

"No, Ma-Lila, it is out of the question. I can not let you go and spend a week. What do you suppose would become of me? You may as well stop packing your trunk."

"O, dearie, you are perfectly well, and your father is always here. It is March and I must go."

"Yes, I am fortunate in having father, but I want to keep you where I can touch you whenever I wish. Ever since I could crawl you have slain my bugaboos, and as I have not outgrown the cowardice of covering my face with the sheet, I find the sight of that prim black head of yours is necessary to my peace of mind. I am jealous of that little den down by the old mill, and if you will sell out and give it up I should be glad to pay double its value. Then you could buy bonds and cut your coupons, and keep your hands white and soft as they ought to be, instead of delving with butter, eggs, honey, and pickles."

"Sell Dairy-Dingle! I would almost as soon sell my husband's grave. Dairy-Dingle, where I had my two years of heaven on earth? When I go there I want to kiss the doorstep where my Robert and I used to sit when his day's work was ended, and in the starlight we listened to the mocking-bird singing in the locust thicket all overrun with red and yellow woodbine. Just now I am obliged to be there to see about the lambs, and to be sure of the settings of eggs for the Plymouth Rocks, and Black Spanish."

"How did the lambs contrive to live all those years when you were away, keeping me in order?"

"Poorly enough, I have not a doubt, judging from the looks of the flock. Ever since I received that letter from Robert's youngest sister, Judith, asking me to help her educate as a civil engineer the boy she named for her brother, I have felt the necessity of increasing the income from my place in order to furnish the required funds. My Robert's namesake shall have the college training he wants. Drought cut off my corn last year, and later rain floods stained my cotton."

"Then let Mr. Boynton manage your place, as he does ours, and you stay here, while I hand you a check for what the boy Robert le Diable may need."

"Thank you, precious baby, but that would be outside charity, and he and Judith are proud. Besides, in working and denying myself there is such a sweetness, such a comfort in helping, as if it were serving my dear dead to aid those he loved. Mere money is not worth half as much as the affection that goes with it, and the labor that earned it; but, my darling, you can't quite feel as I do."

"No, I do not understand. Sometimes I wonder if I am not like a doll stinted in her quota of sawdust; and I am sure my heart is too small, or too cold, or too wicked, to hold more than two persons. I love only father and you, and where you are concerned I shall never be of age. Women who outgrow the need of their mothers repel me, like museum 'freaks.' You must not go away so often, because I miss you, and this is an opportune time to tell you that at the back of my head lurks an ugly mental scare-crow that if at some crisis of my life you happened to be absent, I might go daft and scuttle the ship. Remember, you promised grandmother you would not leave me."

Prescient shadows darkened her appealing eyes, as she bent to press her cool cheek against the rosy one of her companion, and drew her out upon the wide, latticed piazza at the rear of the house.

"She asked that I should stay with you until you married, or were twenty-one years old; but, my baby, I need you far more than you need me. You are my heart, and you know it; and I shall be away from you as little as possible; nevertheless I must not neglect my own patches and pastures. By the by, that Jersey heifer you gave me ought to be registered. What would be a pretty name, easy to call? One that matches her in beauty will be hard to find."

"Her profile entitles her to a classical name, but the appropriateness of its significance must be observed. As 'Hecuba' she would feel in duty bound to add nineteen to your herd."

"No, indeed. That is a mouthful of stuttering ugliness."

"'Persephone' rolls softly, like the long swell of a foamless wave settling to rest—but then you could expect no pearly horned progeny, and she might spend her days lowing for her mother. The prettiest short names are already in the herd books. 'Antiope?' She would not take good care of her calves. You don't like mythology because it is pagan, and when I pleaded with you that your cat should be 'Hebe' you turned up your little nose and labelled her 'Delilah.' Such a consistent saint! You prefer Old Testament wickedness to heathen purity. Suppose you compromise on 'Doucette,' and then you can feel sure she will neither kick nor gore."

"If that is the best you can suggest, I shall just suit myself and call her Patricia of Nutwood."

"Madrecita, you can not. It is pre-empted. The mother of our herd was imported from St. Helier by my grandfather, when she was only eight months old, and he registered her in his own herd book, 'Patricia of Nutwood.' Mr. Boynton showed me an old leather-bound copy last winter, when I signed several transfers."

"Then the next best for my brown satin beauty is 'Noela,' in honor of Mr. Herriott."

"I am racked by jealousy that you should overlook the liquid brevity of 'Eglahtina' or 'Eglahkentana.' Let us sit here on the steps, where we can enjoy our leafy canopy. Could anything be more beautiful?"

She threw back her head and looked up. In front of the steps two lines of very old elm trees marked the limits of a walk leading through the "back yard" to the vegetable garden. On each row, planted opposite, white wistaria had been trained so carefully that as the lower lateral elm branches were cut away to keep the arch intact, the vines climbed higher until now, the top boughs of the trees having met, all along the walls and across the pale-green dome of elm leaves swung long, drooping spikes of snowy bloom, amid the olive-tinted wistaria foliage.

"I never saw anything so lovely in Italy," said Eliza, stroking Delilah, and straightening the blue bow on the cat's neck.

"We came too late last spring for the bloom, and we have not seen this living ceiling for so many years. When I was at college I used to shut my eyes and recall it just as we left it. My little 'sundown supper' table on the square of matting yonder, you sitting on the bottom step crocheting mats, grandmother, so tall and thin, walking up and down the side flower garden over there, gathering rose leaves for the big blue china rose jar in the drawing-room, old Hector following her like a lean shadow, and King Herod spreading his tail till I threw him bread crumbs. How often I longed for one of my 'sundown' suppers—my bowl of hominy and cream, my cup of milk, the tea cakes and ginger pone, and blackberry jam. The smell of cloves and cinnamon, and the taste thereof!"

Watching her face, relaxed in dreamy retrospection, Mrs. Mitchell asked:

"Where is Mr. Herriott?"

Without removing her eyes from the long wistaria plumes waving overhead, she answered in a colder tone:

"When father heard last, he was in Norway, but since then I read an account of a dinner given to the party of which he was a member, by a geographical society in London."

"You have received no letter?"

"None recently, and I do not expect any."

"Because you do not deserve any. I am so disappointed in him."

"In what respect? I imagined that in your eyes, as in father's, he was simply perfect."

"He is capable of something far better than lounging through life with his hands in his pockets, and loafing around the world. If he could only have the good luck to lose his money, he might accomplish what God makes such men for."

"He is not an idle tramp. He is kept busy dancing attendance on his exacting bride."

"Bride!" exclaimed Mrs. Mitchell, with such startling shrillness that Delilah sprang out of her lap and surveyed her with astonishment.

"Not a bride of pink flesh, on whom he can bestow collars of diamonds, but an old dame of hoary locks, whose harsh jargon he considers musical, and who, having taken his purse and tied him to her apron strings, drags him from the bowels of the earth to the mountains of the moon, amusing him with photographs of microbes and eclipses, and with prehistoric skeletons that her relentless horny claws have stolen from their lawful graves. Long ago he was wedded to 'Science,' and of course he keeps his bridal vows."

"I am sure you do not fully understand him, and I wonder he did not marry Miss Stanley; she is so lovely, and he certainly admired her."

"She is indeed a luscious beauty, and attracted him, but if he really had any serious intentions, I think she lost him that night when the alarm of fire emptied the theatre. Ours was a proscenium box in the second tier. Eleanor Stanley had dined with Captain Sefton's sister, he was her escort, and I went with Mr. Herriott. Of course you know all about the horrible tragedy, but I never told any one what preceded it. Toward the end, and while the curtain was down, Captain Sefton so far forgot himself as to repeat an unpardonably risque story of a smart set leader, at which Eleanor laughed heartily. I stared at my bouquet of orchids, and lifted them to shield my face where I felt the blood. Without moving an eyelash Mr. Noel sat like a sphinx, looking steadily at Eleanor, then took my opera glass and watched a party of pretty girls in the dress circle. His face was as absolutely impassive as one of the masks frescoed on the ceiling. In the middle of the next and closing act, a scream from the rear of the stage startled us, and almost simultaneously two of the ballet girls rushed from behind the wings, with fire blazing in their short, gauzy skirts. One ran to the corner of the stage just under our box, and the actors fled from her. Mr. Herriott put his hand heavily on my shoulder.

"Do not move an inch till I come."

He snatched his overcoat and my velvet opera cloak, stepped on the railing of the box, measured the distance with his eye and leaped down. He struck on his feet, and staggered, but the next instant he reached the girl, who ran shrieking up and down, caught her, threw my cloak over her head, pressed her to the floor, covered her with his overcoat, and rolled her over and over as if she were a ball. Of course she was horribly burned, but she lived. The other poor creature kept her hands before her face as a screen from the flames, missed her footing, stumbled over the footlights and fell among the orchestra chairs. The musicians smothered the flames, but she died after two hours of torture. Mr. Herriott's gloves saved his hands, but one wrist was badly blistered, and his mustache singed. When we were going home I told him how enthusiastically Eleanor admired and praised his bravery, and that she declared she would strive to win his affection were he not so 'goody-goody'; she feared he would expect her to be equally pious. A queer expression I could not understand crossed his face, and when he spoke his voice was stern:

"'I am not pious; more is the pity! At least I am too honest to accept praise I do not deserve. Please be so kind as not to refer again to this evening, several surprising incidents of which I shall be glad to forget.' A few days later he sent to replace my scorched velvet, that gorgeous ivory satin opera cloak brocaded with lilies in silver, which father and you wished me to accept, and I based my refusal on his request, as the mere sight of it would inevitably remind him of a night neither of us wished to recall. Look yonder."

"Yes; there must be a picket off that white game yard fence, for I am positive I fastened the gate this morning. Run on ahead and open the gate wide, for when they are driven back they never can find the crack where they came out. That white rooster is all ruffled up for a fight with the red one. Scare the hens back and stand on one side."

When the fugitives had been shut in, the two women stood admiring the flock.

"Dearie, do you know how old these chickens are? Forty years before railroads were built in this state, your grandfather brought them in a champagne basket on the top of a stage-coach from somewhere in Maryland, and the person who gave them to him had imported them from England forty years before. Think of it!"

"I do, with astonishment difficult to express. More than eighty years old, and no sign of decrepitude in crowing, fighting and laying eggs! Little mother, what are tarrididdles?"

Laughing, she put her hands on Eliza's shoulder and shook her gently. The little woman pinched her ear.

"Don't talk slang to me. You know I did not mean these very identical fowls are those that came in the champagne basket, but the original trio, two hens and a cock, were kept in a separate yard, and so the stock has remained pure game for more than forty years. They are such beauties, and to the last day of her life your grandmother was so proud and fond of them. One morning when we were feeding them she told me how General Maurice had laughed over the cunning of one of the negroes whose duty it was to attend to the fowl yards. The general had promised a setting of eggs to a friend in a neighboring county, and ordered the man to bring him one dozen perfectly fresh. The negro protested against a violation of the rule that no one else should own the white games, so that if stolen they could be traced. His master insisted, and when the eggs were handed to him he packed them very carefully in cotton, to prevent jostling, and sent them to his friend. Some time afterward, a letter reached your grandfather, informing him none of the eggs had hatched, and he called the man and read the letter to him.

"'Narry aigg hatched? Well, I made sure they couldn't, for I am 'sponsible for keeping dem chickens safe at home and I 'tends to my bizness. You see, marster, I knowed you was in a mighty tight fix, 'cause natchelly you hated to say no when Dr. Glenn axed for 'em, and most natchelly you didn't want our yaller-breasted, brass-winged white games crowing in other folks' yards, and so I just pintedly shuck 'em and shuck 'em like thunder, till they was foamy enough for Celie's omlet skillet.'"