William Wedder, as one-fourth of a hired man, was a distinct success. Not only did he do the ordinary chores that had previously fallen to my lot, but he lightened Marion's household labors by his readiness to churn, wash floors and windows, and to do any other extra work that might have turned her attention from culinary duties. In fact, it soon became apparent that the mainspring of William's energy needed to be kept in working order by a diet that included a liberal supply of raspberry pie or its equivalent, for if the quality or quantity of the dessert were not to his liking his movements became languid and his cheerfulness fled. His own theory, he told me in confidence, was that the dessert compartment of his stomach was so arranged that no amount of plain food would fill it,—he was quite sure that was the case, for the only effect of trying to fill up by substituting plain food for puddings and pies was to make him feel lop-sided.

But if he was costly to feed he paid for his board by the bountiful supply of vegetables he raised, for our little garden flourished amazingly under his care. And if we fancied chickens for dinner, it was no longer necessary for me to steal out with the axe at night after Paul was asleep and rouse a horrid clamor among the innocent victims that I tremblingly clutched by the legs. How William did it we never inquired. Indeed, we preferred to think that he didn't, but if he did, it was done in silence and with decorum, and the chickens which I had taken the precaution not to allow Paul to include in his flock appeared on our kitchen table looking quite as if they had just been bought at the market.

It was during the second summer at Waydean that I noticed the first indication of Marion's longing to own the farm. She began to resent the proximity of Peter's live-stock, when his cattle looked as if they thought of leaping the fence, or when his pigs strayed into the barnyard. Then she began to speculate about the value of the land and how many years it would take us to save enough money to buy it, and if, after all, it would not have been better to have leased the whole farm in the first place, so that we might have had employment for the whole of a hired man. Later, she insinuated that she would feel more confidence in me if I had shown myself to be a masterful man by insisting upon the purchase of a plough to add to our three primitive implements, and when I contended that a plough would have been useless without a horse, she declared that a horse would have been provided if we had needed one, and if we made up our minds to buy the place we would find a means of raising the money. But in this case I was not as sanguine as Marion, for I knew that Peter would hold out for a price far in excess of the value of the property if he knew we thought of buying, and that my present income would only allow us to put away a small sum each year toward the purchase. However, the idea kept working in my mind, though I was careful not to let our landlord know that we coveted his land, concluding that the best way to deal with him, if we ever were able to buy it, would be through a land agent. In the meantime, I had considerable difficulty in keeping the peace between him and my hired man, for they showed such an antipathy to each other that I feared a dispute would arise that might endanger the renewal of my lease. We had all become so fond of the place that I was more than willing to go on paying a high rent, and Peter himself, besides being interesting and entertaining, was still a precious mine of literary material.

Aunt Sophy's interest in Waydean almost equalled our own, and she was enthusiastic in her approbation of our idea of buying the property. She wrote that had I resembled her late husband in temperament she would have advised Marion differently, but considering the wonderful talent I had shown for not buying implements, and my sensible ideas about poultry-raising, she was sure I could be trusted to manage any amount of land economically.

Poor Aunt Sophy! She had been ill during the spring, and had delayed her second visit until she would feel stronger; then a few days before we expected her she telegraphed that she would be unable to leave home and asked Marion to go to her at once, if possible. When this direful message arrived we both felt at the same instant that it meant the end of dear Aunt Sophy. But in addition to the sorrow that welled up in me, the appalling thought seized me that it was now too late to atone for having allowed her to cherish the innocent belief that the fowls she had helped us to eat were of our own raising. I could no longer hope that the memory of the vicarious chickens of last summer would be eclipsed by her enjoyment of the real home-made ones we had meant to lavish on her this year. Up to this time the fact that Marion had been equally guilty with me, had been consoling, but when I saw by the agonized look on her face that the same dreadful thought had gripped her I hastened to take the blame.

"It was my fault, Marion," I gasped penitently. "I bought the chi—chick——"

"Don't!" she cried, with a little shriek. "How can you say that dreadful word? Of course, it was your fault,—but will that keep Auntie from dying while she still thinks that—that—oh, oh!"

I must say I had not expected such ingratitude. Considering my generous assumption of the blame, Marion might at least have said that it wasn't my fault. Some people can perform a kindly act, and then pass on their way serenely; I cannot. I want to stand by and enjoy the effect; I like my beneficence to be appreciated.

Yet unselfishness, unlike affection, may be wasted; worse, if ignored, it may arouse a whirlwind of passion, as I found, to Marion's cost. In a most unbridled manner I disclaimed responsibility. I asserted that Aunt Sophy, if she were dying, would pass away more peacefully if she went on believing that the chickens were homegrown; that anyway, not having spared expense, I had procured plumper and juicier ones than the best of Paul's; that any person who would think of disturbing, at such a time, the settled convictions of a dying aunt, was heartless and cruel; that I did not purpose standing quietly by to have my reputation blasted, when I merely needed to tap my head and whisper to Aunt Sophy that my wife's delusion was a harmless one that might well be ignored; finally, that a dying aunt would have something else to think about than the origin of the chickens she had eaten last year. I even suggested, with insane hilarity, that she would be absorbed in speculations as to her chances of reaching Uncle Philip before he had begun to underdrain his celestial estate.

It was at this point that I came to my senses. Marion had fled from the room with her hands over her ears.

There are times when a simple acknowledgment of wrong-doing, or a humble apology, is sufficient; there are other times when it is expedient for me to confess my utter inability to understand how I could have behaved in such a base and brutal manner; but only once in years am I obliged to collapse dejectedly, my face expressing horror and revulsion as I wipe cold sweat, imaginary or real, from my brow, while in a broken voice I insist that I didn't,—that if I seemed to, it was the devil who had suddenly possessed me.

This time Marion was disinclined to accept any such explanation, contending that if I allowed myself to become possessed I might take the consequences, and I had such a short time in which to depict the extraordinary sensations that accompanied the outbreak that she was ready to start for the train before I had made my case really convincing. She relented sufficiently, however, on the score of parting, to forgive me provisionally, but she hinted that she was taking Paul with her so that if I had another seizure I might enjoy it alone. She hoped, also, that I would make a strong effort to avoid being seized in the presence of strangers who might not understand that I was irresponsible. Did I think she could trust me to behave with decorum if I should be sent for to attend poor Auntie's——obsequies?

These, and other insinuations, I bore with patient quiet dignity, as became a man who had been lately dispossessed, and my demeanor had such an effect upon Marion that she bade me good-by with the same affectionate warmth that would have fallen to my lot had I behaved with my customary courtesy.

It was not until the next day that I began to think that we might have been too hasty in concluding that Aunt Sophy was seriously ill—although I could think of no other reason for her sudden change of plans and her summons to Marion, but I was not left long in doubt. That afternoon a telegram arrived from Marion assuring me that there was no cause for alarm and that she would be home the next day.

I awaited her arrival with eager curiosity and impatience, and I was mystified to see her step off the train looking radiantly happy.

Aunt Sophy, she declared, was never better in her life, and looked ten years younger, but no further information could I extract until we reached the house and Paul went off to look after his pets. Then I inquired anxiously if she had confessed about the chickens.

"N—no," she admitted, with smiling hesitancy, "I—I didn't. Auntie's mind was so taken up with—other things."

This was agreeable news. The idea of Aunt Sophy learning of my duplicity had been painful, when I had supposed she was dying; the image of her in good health and looking ten years younger as she listened to my shortcomings was intolerable. Besides, in weakening on her determination to confess, Marion had departed from the line of strict moral rectitude that she was continually tracing for my uncertain footsteps. This thought I carefully buried, like a dog with a precious bone, to be unearthed when next I was hauled over the coals for not doing the thing I ought to have done.

"Well," I proceeded, "what's up—what did she want you for?"

A slightly apprehensive look vanished; a most becoming flush spread over her face. For a moment I imagined, if such a thing were possible, that she radiated with pride and vain-glory.

"She wanted—to ask—my advice," she replied, with innocent diffidence.

"Your advice!" I shouted, with a burst of laughter. "Christopher Colum—Oh!—I—I beg your pardon, Marion, I didn't mean——"

I was too late. I am a blundering idiot at times, and my wife thought, naturally, that I was scoffing at the idea of her being qualified to give advice, when, as a matter of fact, I considered her an adept in that accomplishment. I had the painful task of explaining in detail why I had laughed, and the humiliation of admitting that, after all, it wasn't a bit odd for an old lady to crave advice from her niece.

"Anyway," Marion contended, with recurring indignation, "she isn't really old—she's only fifty-three."

"Is that all?" I inquired, with excessive surprise. "Why, she's—she's just in her prime!"

"Just what I told her!" exclaimed Marion, with approving enthusiasm. "I said she had half a lifetime before her yet."

"Certainly, she has," I agreed. "And what did she want your advice about?"

A look of ineffable sweetness, of tender, grand-maternal pride illumined Marion's countenance. I had never seen its like before, but somehow I recognized a spiritual inner consciousness made visible; an intangible something that a man of less refined and delicate perceptions would have missed. I didn't know what it meant. I do now.

"Dear Aunt Sophy," she murmured dreamily, her eyes brimming, her gaze directed through and far beyond me, in a way that made me feel transparent; "she was so happy when I settled it!"

This remark conveyed no meaning to my mind, yet something within me vibrated in sympathy to her mood, so that for a short time I sat spellbound, caring only to enjoy the subtle delight of feeling what I didn't comprehend. I remembered, years before, in a lecture on mental phenomena, hearing the difference between perception and apperception explained so minutely that my brain swiftly convoluted whenever I tried to recall the distinction; now it was clear. Marion and Aunt Sophy had apperceived together—I was apperceiving. There was an inner circle, and I was of it; yet in the midst of my enjoyment my material mind somehow detached itself, reaching out longingly for more.

"You settled it?" I suggested, in a reverent whisper.

"I did," she replied softly.

My mind was a yawning void, except for the intrusive suggestion of coffee, plainly absurd, yet some instinct warned me to avoid abruptness.

"Was she willing to—to—?" I ventured.

"Willing!—willing!—I should think so. But I know exactly how she felt. Her mind was really made up, I think, though she didn't know it. I could see that although she thought she wanted my advice she would have been heartbroken if I had advised her not to do it, and I knew that what she needed was my encouragement, so—I—I——"

"You encouraged her," I cried, with sudden inspiration.

"Why, of course I did. She was so grateful that she just threw her arms about me and—" Marion choked with emotion and stopped to wipe away her joyful tears.

I began to feel distracted, but with an effort I focussed my mind on the main point, setting aside as unimportant a doubt as to what Aunt Sophy had done or said after she had embraced her niece.

"What disturbed her mind before you settled it?" I asked.

"She was afraid that I—that people might think her old and foolish."

"And you made her believe that she was—I mean, wasn't?"

"Yes, and I told her that you had often said that people ought to consider it a duty to—to live so that—that they would enjoy the companionship of suitable companions when—they got up in years, and that an elderly person living around among relatives was to be pitied."

It was a garbled version of an argument I had used during a previous discussion on the propriety of second marriages. I had contended, with personal indifference, that to an impersonal entity, left alone in this vale of tears with no embarrassing family ties, and feeling no dread of complications in a future state of existence, a second marriage might prove both expedient and happy. This suggestion I had offered in entire innocence, as I might have distended a paper bag for a child to burst, fancying it would please Marion, as it usually did, to worry a weak argument to tatters; an operation which I enjoyed for the sake of seeing her eyes flash and the becoming color that mounted to her cheeks. But when, amid a torrent of tears, she accused me of being just like other men, and of planning to marry another wife, I was struck dumb with horror. It was painful enough to be brought face to face with the thought of her dying first, but to be branded as a probably faithless wretch was agony. I can try to justify myself for wrong-doing; I can resent the injustice of being blamed for actions that I refrain from; but when I suffer for deeds that I wouldn't do in the distant future I am staggered by improbable possibilities. Given the opportunity, might I not have caused the death of my great-great-grandfather? Consequently, I remained silent, guiltily silent, in appearance; and Marion no longer condemned second marriages—at least, she hadn't for some months—as a disgrace to civilization, her manner indicating sorrowful resignation to the inevitable.

It is strange, but true, that I didn't know what was coming; and yet I thought I knew, too well. My wife had apparently told her aunt of my supposititious inclinations; they had wept in each other's arms; they had apperceived together; awful thought, they had apperceived ME.

Never before had I been so moved. I rose to my feet, my teeth tightly clenched, vaguely pleased to notice that I stood unsteadily; it was the proper, the most effective way. "Marion," I said, in an undertone, gripping her arm, yet careful to press only hard enough for a grip—she was such a tender little thing, though so cruel. I had intended to say more, but the one word seemed so full of meaning that I stopped to let it penetrate; also to give one swift glance at the reflection of my face in the mirror of the wall-cabinet. That glance showed me that I appeared to be struggling with the unutterable; I went on doing so.

Marion's face grew pale and rigid. "Good gracious, Henry!" she cried, trying to rise; "what's the matter?"

"Sit still," I commanded fiercely, with a bitter smile; a smile that made my teeth gleam back at me wolfishly from the wall-cabinet. "Matter enough! You've wrecked my happiness by telling Aunt Sophy that I wanted another wife."

"I never did!" she cried indignantly. "Do you think I could bear to tell anyone if—if it was true?"

My grasp relaxed. I knew there must be something wrong in my reasoning. "Do you mean," I asked cautiously, "that you couldn't have told her because it wasn't true—or—or because it was."

"I couldn't tell her anyway," she cried, with a peal of laughter, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, how funny!"

I sat down, feeling strangely flabby and weak. "Then why," I asked helplessly, mopping my brow, "did you repeat what I said about second marriages?"

Her smile gave place to a look of anxiety. "Listen, Henry," she entreated, "and try to fix your mind on this. I explained to you that your opinion was the greatest comfort to her, and I told her what you thought because I wanted—to—settle—her—mind."

"Oh, yes—just so," I assented. "And it got that way because she was old and foolish." I nodded with a vacuous air of perfect understanding.

Marion leaned back on the sofa limply and stared at me. "Not because she was old and foolish, for she wasn't," she said helplessly, "but because she thought other people would think she was."

"Yes, yes," I repeated vacantly; "then you came along and straightened things out. Now," I added, "you may try your hand on me. My mind's unsettled."

I felt a foolish smile widening my mouth at Marion's look of alarm, and closed my eyes trustfully as my head drooped backwards. When I opened them again she was standing behind my chair shaking me with all her might. A fog seemed to drift away from my brain and I suddenly knew what I wanted to ask. "What—advice—did you—give?" I asked, in spasms.

"To marry—Mr. Fair——"

"Marry!" I shouted, leaping to my feet. "Old Fairman?"

Her eyes shone with triumph. "Mr. Fairman, Henry," she said, in gentle reproof. "Auntie left all the arrangements to me, and she was delighted at the idea of being married here at the end of her visit. I knew you would be glad to do anything you could."

"But where do I come in?" I asked, in bewilderment.

"Oh, well, I don't exactly know yet, but I might want you to give her away if we decide to have anyone do that, and there are lots of things you can attend to."

I smiled a smile that I keep for particular occasions. At times I can be decided; Marion says obstinate. But whether it is obstinacy or decision, I am as unyielding as a mule when the fit seizes me. I care not for reason, threats or chastisement; hope, fear, love and all else are encased in the one instinct to stand rigid, with my ears flat against my head and my fore-feet projecting slightly. Marion has learned that the only remedy is to pat me around the nose and put a lump of sugar in my mouth. So have I.

"I'll do nothing of the kind," I said, with a quick sideways jerk of my head.

Marion swallowed twice before she spoke. "Henry, dear," she said, sweetly, "I know you must have a good reason for your decision. Tell me what it is, won't you?"

I hadn't, but when a man is spoken to that way he's got to take notice, or feel like a boor. "It would take too long," I replied stubbornly, thinking hard.

"Oh, no, it wouldn't. Come and sit on the sofa and tell me all about it. It's awfully good of you to take so much interest in my aunt."

I sat down stiffly on the edge of the sofa, and stared into futurity; Marion toyed with my hair and looked inquiring.

"You ask me to give away your aunt," I began, in stern accusation, "to a man of whom I know literally nothing. I remember him only as a well-dressed, respectable-looking old codger, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a stubby grey beard and no mustache. He may be virtuous; he may not. He may be in love with your aunt; he may be in love with her money."

Marion rested her cheek against my unyielding shoulder and reassured me on every point in the gentlest, most affectionate manner, though, she knew I would be relieved to hear, I was under no responsibility in the matter. Anyway, it was only a form, and if I objected to doing it, Auntie could give herself away or send to Colorado for Uncle Richard. "Is that all?" she concluded.

It wasn't. I wanted to know what had become of the first Mrs. Fairman. After that, there was one thing more that it took much coaxing to extract.

"It doesn't seem fair," I burst forth, at last. "He can't stop it, and they don't even consider whether he'd give his consent, if he had a chance." Marion stared at me stupidly, and I saw that she didn't understand. "Your Uncle Philip," I explained, in a low tone.

I do not care to repeat what she said. At the same time, I cannot see that such a thought is more irreverent than the fact that suggested it. Nor could I see that I should withdraw my objection because, as Marion averred, Uncle Philip would have remarried in a year if Aunt Sophy had died first. Indeed, I was unrelenting until we came to a complete understanding on the whole subject, as follows:—

(a) Second marriages, in the abstract, are objectionable.

(b) Second marriages are, occasionally, justifiable.

(c) Some are INCONCEIVABLE.