Morning lay fair upon the land, and yet the Lady Elaine was weary. Like a drooping lily she swayed in her saddle, sick at heart and cast down. Earnestly her company of gallant knights strove to cheer her, but in vain. Even the merry quips of the fool in motley, who still rode at her side, brought no smile to her beautiful face.

Presently, he became silent, his heart deeply troubled because of her. An hour passed so, and no word was spoken, then, timidly enough, he ventured another jest.

The Lady Elaine turned. “Say no more, fool,” she commanded, “but get out thy writing tablet and compose me a poem. I would fain hear something sad and tender in place of this endless folly.”

Le Jongleur bowed. “And the subject, Princess?”

Elaine laughed bitterly. “Myself,” she cried. “Why not? Myself, Elaine, and this foolish quest of mine!”

Then, for a space, there was silence upon the road, since the fool, with his writing tablet, had dropped back to the rear of the company, and the gallant knights, perceiving the mood of their mistress, spoke not.

At noon, when the white sun trembled at the zenith, Le Jongleur urged his donkey forward, and presented to Elaine a glorious rose which he had found blooming at the wayside.

“The poem is finished, your highness,” he breathed, doffing his cap, “but ’tis all unworthy, so I bring thee this rose also, that something in my offering may of a certainty be sweet.”

He would have put the scroll into her hand, but she swerved her palfrey aside. “Read it,” she said, impatiently; “I have no mind to try my wits with thy poor scrawls.”

So, with his voice trembling, and overwhelmed with self-consciousness, the fool read as follows:

Harlan had never written any poetry before, but it had always seemed easy. Now, as he read the verses over again, he was tremendously satisfied with his achievement. Unconsciously, he had modelled it upon an exquisite little bit by some one else, which had once been reprinted beneath a “story” of his own when he was on the paper. He read it aloud, to see how it sounded, and was more pleased than ever with the swing of the verse and the music of the words. “It’s pretty close to art,” he said to himself, “if it isn’t the real thing.”

Just then the luncheon bell rang, and he went out to the midday “gab-fest,” as he inwardly characterised it. The meal proceeded to dessert without any unusual disturbance, then the diminutive Ebeneezer threw the remnants of his cup of milk into his mother’s face, and was carried off, howling, to be spanked. Like many other mothers, Mrs. Holmes resented her children’s conduct when it incommoded her, but not otherwise, and though milk baths are said to be fine for the complexion, she was not altogether pleased with the manner of application.

Amid the vocal pyrotechnics from the Holmes apartments, Harlan escaped into the library, but his poem was gone. He searched for it vainly, then sat down to write it over before he should forget it. This done, he went on with Elaine and her adventures, and presently forgot all about the lost page.

“Don’t that do your heart good?” inquired Mrs. Dodd, of Dorothy, inclining her head toward Mrs. Holmes’s door.

“Be it ever so humble,” sang Dick, strolling out of the room, “there’s no place like Holmes’s.”

Mrs. Carr admitted that her ears were not yet so calloused but that the sound gave her distinct pleasure.

“If that there little limb of Satan had have throwed his milk in anybody else’s face,” went on Mrs. Dodd, “all she’d have said would have been: ‘Ebbie, don’t spill your nice milk. That’s naughty.’”

Her imitation of the fond mother’s tone and manner was so wickedly exact that Dorothy laughed heartily. The others had fled to a more quiet spot, except Willie and Rebecca, who were fighting for a place at the keyhole of their mother’s door. Finally, Willie gained possession of the keyhole, and the ingenious Rebecca, lying flat on her small stomach, peered under the door, and obtained a pleasing view of what was going on inside.

“Listen at that!” cried Mrs. Dodd, her countenance fairly beaming with innocent pleasure. “I’m gettin’ most as much good out of it as I would from goin’ to the circus. Reckon it’s a slipper, for it sounds just like little Jimmie Young’s weepin’ did the night I come home from my fifth honeymoon.

“That’s the only time,” she went on, reminiscently, “as I was ever a step-ma to children what wasn’t growed up. You’d think a woman as had been married four times afore would have knowed better ’n to get her fool head into a noose like that, but there seems to be only one way for folks to learn things, an’ that’s by their own experience. If we could only use other folks’ experience, this here world would be heaven in about three generations, but we’re so constituted that we never believe fire ’ll burn till we poke our own fingers into it to see. Other folks’ scars don’t go no ways at all toward convincin’ us.

“You read lots of novels about the sorrers of step-children, but I ain’t never come up with no epic as yet portrayin’ the sufferin’s of a step-ma. If I had a talent like your husband’s got, I’ll be blest if I wouldn’t do it. What I went through with them children aged me ten years in less ’n three.

“It was like this,” she prattled on. “I’d never seen a one of ’em, they livin’ far away from their pa, as was necessary if their pa was to get any peace an’ happiness out ’n life, an’ that lyin’ creeter I married told me there was only three. My dear, there was eight, an’ sixteen ordinary young ones couldn’t have been no worse.

“Our courtin’ was done mainly in the cemetery. I’d just laid my fourth away in his proper place an’ had the letterin’ all cut nice on his side of the monumint, an’ I was doin’ the plantin’ on the grave when I met my fate—my fifth fate, I’m speakin’ of now. I allers aimed to do right by my husbands when they was dead no less ’n when they was livin’, an’ I allers planted each one’s favourite flower on his last restin’-place, an’ planted it thick, so ’s when the last trump sounded an’ they all riz up, there wouldn’t be no one of ’em that could accuse me of bein’ partial.

“Some of the flowers was funny for a graveyard. One of ’em loved sunflowers, an’ when blossomin’-time come, you could see a spot of light in my lot clear from the gate when you went in, an’ on sunny days even from quite a piece outside.

“Geraniums was on the next grave, red an’ pink together, as William loved to see ’em, an’ most fittin’ an’ appropriate. He was a queer-lookin’ man, William was, all bald except for a little fringe of red hair around his head, an’ his bald spot gettin’ as pink as anythin’ when he got mad. I never could abide red an’ pink together, so I did my best not to rile him; but la sakes, my dear, red-haired folks is that touchy that you never can tell what’s goin’ to rile ’em an’ what ain’t. Some innercent little remark is as likely to set ’em off as anythin’ else. All the time it’s like carryin’ a light into a fireworks place. Drop it once an’ the air ’ll be full of sky-rockets, roman candles, pinwheels, an’ set pieces till you’re that dazed you don’t know where you’re livin’. Don’t never take no red-haired one, my dear, if you’re anyways set on peace. I never took but one, but that was enough to set me dead against the breed.

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, James begun to woo me in the cemetery. Whenever you see a man in a cemetery, my dear, you can take it for granted that he’s a new-made widower. After the first week or two, he ain’t got no time to go to no grave, he’s so busy lookin’ out for the next one. When I see James a-waterin’ an’ a-weedin’ on the next lot to mine, therefore, I knowed his sorrer was new, even though the band of crape on his hat was rusty an’ old.

“Bein’ fellow-mourners, in a way, we struck up kind of a melancholy friendship, an’ finally got to borrerin’ water from each other’s sprinklin’ cans an’ exchangin’ flower seeds an’ slips, an’ even hull plants. That old deceiver told me it was his first wife that was a-lyin’ there, an’ showed me her name on the monumint. She was buried in her own folks’ lot, an’ I never knowed till it was too late that his own lot was plum full of wives, an’ this here was a annex, so to speak. I dunno how I come to be so took in, but anyways, when James’s grief had subsided somewhat, we decided to travel on the remainin’ stretch through this vale of tears together.

“He told me he had a beautiful home in Taylorville, but was a-livin’ where he was so ’s to be near the cemetery an’ where he could look after dear Annie’s grave. The sentiment made me think all the more of him, so ’s I didn’t hesitate, an’ was even willin’ to be married with one of my old rings, to save the expense of a new one. James allers was thrifty, an’ the way he put it, it sounded quite reasonable, so ’s that’s how it comes, my dear, that in spite of havin’ had seven husbands, I’ve only got six weddin’-rings.

“I put each one on when its own proper anniversary comes around an’ wear it till the next one, when I change again, though for one of the rings it makes only one day, because the fourth and seventh times I was married so near together. That sounds queer, my dear, but if you think it over, you’ll see what I mean. It’s fortunate, too, in a way, ’cause I found out by accident years afterward that my fourth weddin’-ring come out of a pawn-shop, an’ I never took much joy out of wearin’ it. Bein’ just alike, I wore another one mostly, even when Samuel was alive, but he never noticed. Besides, I reckon ’t wouldn’t make no difference, for a man that’ll go to a pawn-shop for a weddin’-ring ain’t one to make a row about his wife’s changin’ it. When I spoke sharp to him about it, he snickered, an’ said it was appropriate enough, though to this day I’ve never figured out precisely just what the old serpent meant by it.

“Well, as I was sayin’, my dear, the minister married us in good an’ proper form, an’ I must say that, though I’ve had all kinds of ceremonies, I take to the ’Piscopal one the most, in spite of havin’ been brought up Methodis’, an’ hereafter I’ll be married by it if the occasion should arise—an’ we drove over to Taylorville.

“The roads was dretful, but bein’ experienced in marriage, I could see that it wasn’t that that was makin’ James drop the whip, an’ pull back on the lines when he wanted the horses to go faster, an’ not hear things I was a-sayin’ to him. Finally, I says, very distinct: ‘James, dear, how many children did you say you had?’

“‘Eight,’ says he, clearin’ his throat proud and haughty like.

“‘You’re lyin’,’ says I, ‘an’ you know you’re lyin’. You allers told me you had three.’

“‘I was speakin’ of those by my first wife,’ says he. ‘My other wives all left one apiece. Ain’t I never told you about ’em? I thought I had,’ he went on, speakin’ quick, ‘but if I haven’t, it ’s because your beauty has made me forget all the pain an’ sorrer of the past.’

“With that he clicked to the horses so sudden that I was near threw out of the rig, but it wasn’t half so bad as the other jolt he’d just give me. For a long time I didn’t say nothin’, an’ there’s nothin’ that makes a man so uneasy as a woman that don’t say nothin’, my dear, so you just write that down in your little book, an’ remember it. It’ll come in handy long before you’re through with your first marriage an’ have begun on your second. Havin’ been through four, I was well skilled in keepin’ my mouth shut, an’ I never said a word till we drove into the yard of the most disconsolate-lookin’ premises I ever seen since I was took to the poorhouse on a visit.

“‘James,’ says I, cool but firm, ‘is this your magnificent residence?’

“‘It is,’ says he, very soft, ‘an’ it is here that I welcome my bride. Have you ever seen anythin’ like this view?’

“‘No,’ says I, ‘I never have’; an’ it was gospel truth I was speakin’, too, for never before had I been to a place where the pigsty was in front.

“‘It is a wonderful view,’ says I, sarcastic like, ‘but before I linger to admire it more, I would love to look upon the scenery inside the house.’

“When we went in, I thought I was either dreamin’ or had got to Bedlam. The seven youngest children was raisin’ particular Cain, an’ the oldest, a pretty little girl of thirteen, was doin’ her best to quiet ’em. There was six others besides what had been accounted for, but I soon found that they belonged to a neighbour, an’ was just visitin’ to relieve the monotony.

“The woman James had left takin’ care of ’em had been gone two weeks an’ more, with a month’s wages still comin’ to her, which James never felt called on to pay, on account of her havin’ left without notice. James was dretful thrifty. The youngest one was puttin’ the cat into the water-pitcher, an’ as soon as I found out what his name was, I called him sharp by it an’ told him to quit. He put his tongue out at me as sassy as you please, an’ says: ‘I won’t.’

“Well, my dear, I didn’t wait to hear no more, but I opened my satchel an’ took out one of my slippers an’ give that child a lickin’ that he’ll remember when he’s a grandparent. ‘Hereafter,’ says I, ‘when I tell you to do anythin’, you’ll do it. I’ll speak kind the first time an’ firm the second, and the third time the whole thing will be illustrated so plain that nobody can’t misunderstand it. Your pa has took me into a confidence game,’ says I, speakin’ to all the children, ‘but I was never one to draw back from what I’d put my hand to, an’ I aim to do right by you if you do right by me. You mind,’ says I, ‘an’ you won’t have no trouble; an’ the same thing,’ says I to James, ‘applies to you.’

“I felt sorry for all those poor little motherless things, with a liar for a pa, an’ all the time I lived there, I tried to make up to ’em what I could, but step-mas have their sorrers, my dear, that’s what they do, an’ I ain’t never seen no piece about it in the paper yet, either.

“If you’ll excuse me now, my dear, I’ll go to my room. It’s just come to my mind now that this here is one of my anniversaries, an’ I’ll have to look up the facts in my family Bible, an’ change my ring.”

At dinner-time the chastised and chastened twin appeared in freshly starched raiment. His eyes were swollen and his face flushed, but otherwise his recent painful experience had remarkably improved him. He said “please” and “thank you,” and did not even resent it when Willie slyly dropped a small piece of watermelon down his neck.

“This afternoon,” said Elaine, “Mr. Perkins composed a beautiful poem. I know it is beautiful, though I have not yet heard it. I do not wish to be selfish in my pleasure, so I will ask him to read it to us all.”

The poet’s face suddenly became the colour of his hair. He dropped his napkin, and swiftly whispered to Elaine, while he was picking it up, that she herself was the subject of the poem.

“How perfectly charming,” said Elaine, clearly. “Did you hear, Mrs. Carr? Poor little, insignificant me has actually inspired a great poem. Oh, do read it, Mr. Perkins? We are all dying to hear it!”

Fairly cornered, the poet muttered that he had lost it—some other time—wait until to-morrow—and so on.

“No need to wait,” said Dick, with an ironical smile. “It was lost, but now is found. I came upon it myself, blowing around unheeded under the library window, quite like a common bit of paper.”

Mr. Perkins was transfixed with amazement, for his cherished poem was at that minute in his breast pocket. He clutched at it spasmodically, to be sure it was still safe.

Very different emotions possessed Harlan, who choked on his food. He instinctively guessed the worst, and saw his home in lurid ruin about him, but was powerless to avert the catastrophe.

“Read it, Dick,” said Mrs. Dodd, kindly. “We are all a-perishin’ to hear it. I can’t eat another bite until I do. I reckon it’ll sound like a valentine,” she concluded, with a malicious glance at Mr. Perkins.

“I have taken the liberty,” chuckled Dick, “of changing a word or two occasionally, to make better sense of it, and of leaving out some lines altogether. Every one is privileged to vary an established form.” Without further preliminary, he read the improved version.

“That will do,” said Miss St. Clair, crisply. “Mr. Perkins, may I ask as a favour that you will not speak to me again?” She marched out with her head high, and Mr. Perkins, wholly unstrung, buried his face in his napkin.

Harlan laughed—a loud, ringing laugh, such as Dorothy had not heard from him for months, and striding around the table, he grasped Dick’s hand in tremendous relief.

“Let me have it,” he cried, eagerly. “Give me all of it!”

“Sure,” said Dick, readily, passing over both sheets of paper.

Harlan went into the library with the composition, and presently, when Dick was walking around the house and saw bits of torn paper fluttering out of the open window, a light broke through his usual density.

“Whew!” he said to himself. “I’ll be darned! I’ll be everlastingly darned! Idiot!” he continued, savagely. “Oh, if I could only kick myself! Poor Dorothy! I wonder if she knows!”