With the tact that seems the birthright of the gifted few, Mrs. Lee adjusted herself to the ways of the Marsh household. Some commotion had been caused by the arrival of four more trunks, of different shapes and sizes, but after they had been unpacked and stored, things went on smoothly.

Alden's idea of a trunk had hitherto been very simple. To him, it was only a substantial box, variation in size and in exterior finish being the only possible diversions from the original type. When it fell to his lot, on a Saturday morning, to superintend the removal of Mrs. Lee's empty trunks to the attic, he discovered the existence of hat trunks, dresser trunks, and wardrobe trunks, cannily constructed with huge warts on all sides but the one the trunk was meant to stand upon.

"Why so scornful?" a sweet voice asked, at his elbow.

"I'm not scornful," he returned. "I'm merely interested."

"You're fortunate," she smiled, "to be so easily interested."

"We're out of the world here, you know, and unfamiliar varieties of the trunk species make me feel much as Crusoe did when he came upon a human footprint in the sand."

"I wonder," mused Mrs. Lee, "how he really did feel. It must have been dramatic beyond all words."

She sat down on the window-seat in the hall and leaned back against the casement of the open window. The warm Spring wind, laden with the sweet scent of growing things, played caressingly about her neck and carried to Alden a subtle fragrance of another sort. Her turquoise-blue silk kimono, delicately embroidered in gold, was open at the throat and fastened at the waist with a heavy golden cord. Below, it opened over a white petticoat that was a mass of filmy lace ruffles. Her tiny feet peeped out beneath the lace, clad in pale blue silk stockings and fascinating Chinese slippers that turned up at the toes.

From above came discordant rumblings and eloquent, but smothered remarks on the general subject of trunks. Mrs. Lee laughed. "They're trying to make the wardrobe-trunk stand up on the wrong end, and it won't."

"How do you know that's it?"

"Because I've heard the same noises and the same general trend of conversation all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back again. The farther west you go, the more accomplished the men are in the art of profanity."

"Is it an art? I thought it came naturally."

"It does, to some, but you have no idea what study and constant practice can do in developing a natural gift."

The sunlight illumined her hair into a mass of spun gold that sparkled and gleamed and shone. It made golden lights in her brown eyes, caressed the ivory softness of her skin, and deepened the scarlet of her lips.

"Listen," she said. "Isn't it awful?"

"No," returned Alden, "it isn't. In fact, I don't know of any sound I'd rather hear than your trunks being put into our attic."

A faint suggestion of a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, then vanished. "Well done," she said. "You have atoned nobly for your dismay the night I came, when you found I'd brought a trunk."

"I wish you wouldn't," he replied, awkwardly. "It wasn't that."

"Such a small trunk," she went on, mercilessly. "Just a plain little steamer trunk that you can put under a bed. The kind you can ask a cabman to take down to the cab for you. A little trunk that a woman can almost carry herself! Only room for one gown, one hat, and a few toilet articles!"

The golden lights in her eyes were dancing and her hair shimmered in the sun. Alden sat down at the farthest end of the window-seat and looked out upon the vineyard, faintly green, now, with the new leaves. The two men descended from the attic and went down the back stairs.

"How did Robinson Crusoe feel when he saw the footprint?" he asked, determined to get away from the unlucky subject of trunks.

"I don't know," Edith answered, "for I wasn't there. He must have been surprised and frightened and pleased all at once. How interesting it must be to have something happen to you that never happened to anybody before!"

"But it's all happened before," he objected. "Is there anything new under the sun?"

"It's been new, at one time or another. We're always too late, that's all. Somebody ate the first oyster and somebody went to sleep first and somebody wore the first false hair.

"No," she continued, with a rose-pink flush mantling her face, "I don't. If I did, I wouldn't mind saying so, but Nature gave me quantities of it, so why should I borrow more? Besides, I don't believe there is any more like it, so I couldn't, anyway."

"No," he returned, thoughtfully, "I don't believe there is any more like it, either. Your wish to be first in something is surely gratified, for there never was such hair as yours and never will be again."

"Mother's was like it."

He shook his head. "No, it wasn't. I never saw your mother, but I know better than that."

"Ask your mother. There she is now."

Madame appeared at the head of the stairs, on the way to her room, to dress for luncheon. She paused to smile at the two who sat on the window-seat, then would have gone straight on had not Edith called to her.

"Mrs. Marsh! Isn't my hair exactly like my mother's?"

Madame came to her, turned the shining head a little more toward the sun, and patted the fluffiness caressingly. "No," she said, "though your mother had glorious hair, it was nothing like this. Hers was auburn and smooth, yours is reddish-gold—almost copper-coloured—and fluffy. Besides, you must have nearly twice as much of it."

"There," said Alden, "I told you so."

"But," persisted Edith, "if it's really copper-coloured, it's common. Look at the lady on the copper cent, for instance."

"The lady on the copper cent," returned Alden, "is a gentleman who wears feathers."

"But under his feathers he has hair the colour of this."

"He may not have any hair at all."

They both laughed, and Madame smiled, though she did not quite understand what they were talking about. She was still smiling when she reached her own room, for she found it very pleasant to have Edith there, and was delighted to have Alden come to a realising sense of his duties as host.

He had, indeed, conducted himself admirably ever since Mrs. Lee's arrival, though he had been very quiet and reserved at first. With some trepidation, she had told him that she had invited the guest to remain indefinitely, tactfully choosing a moment after an unusually good dinner, when they chanced to be alone.

Alden had taken it calmly, betraying no outward sign of any sort of emotion. "What's the matter with her?" he had asked, curiously. "What's she in trouble about?"

"If she wants you to know, my son, she will tell you herself," Madame had replied, in a tone of gentle rebuke. "I have no right to violate her confidence."

He shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. "You don't need to squelch me like that, Mother. I don't know that I care, particularly. I was merely making conversation."

"Refined conversation is not made of impertinences," Madame suggested. The words were harsh, but the tone was kind.

"Don't stab me with epigrams, please, for I don't believe I deserve it."

Madame recalled every word they had said as she took down her afternoon gown of black silk, and began to sew frills of real lace in the neck and sleeves. She was glad he had been pleasant about it, for it seemed much more like living, someway, to have another woman in the house.

If Virginia had lived—she, too, had brown eyes, but her hair was brown also. She would have been four years older than Edith was now, and, undoubtedly, married. All Madame's feminine ancestors for generations back had been married. The only spinster in the family, so far as Madame knew, had remained true to the memory of a dead lover.

"Some women are born to be married, some achieve marriage, and others have marriage thrust upon them," Madame said to herself, unconsciously paraphrasing an old saying. Virginia would have been meant for it, too, and, by now, there would have been children in the old house, pattering back and forth upon the stairs, lisping words that meant no more than the bubbling of a fountain, and stretching up tiny hands that looked like crumpled rose-petals, pleading to be taken up and loved.

These dream-children tugged strangely at the old lady's heart-strings in her moments of reverie. Even yet, after Rosemary came—but they would not be like her own flesh and blood, as a daughter's children always are. Poor Rosemary! How miserable she was at home, and how little she would need to make her happy! To think that she dared not tell her Grandmother and Aunt that she was engaged to Alden! Madame's cheeks grew warm with resentment in the girl's behalf. Motherless, friendless, alone, with Life's great cup of wonder in her rough, red hands!

A tap at the door made her start. "Come in!" she called.

It was Edith, trig and tailor-made, in dark green, with a crisp white linen shirtwaist, an immaculate collar, and a dashing green tie.

"Mr. Marsh has invited me to go for a drive after luncheon," she said, "and he asked me to come and see if you weren't almost ready. May I do your hair for you?"

Madame submitted, not because she cared to have her hair done, but because she liked to be "fussed over," as she put it. There was something very pleasant in the touch of Edith's cool, soft hands.

"You're—you're not going to change the way I do it, are you?" she asked, a little anxiously.

"No, indeed! I wouldn't change it for anything. It suits you just as it is."

"I'm glad you think so, for I've always worn it like this. Alden wouldn't know me if I became fashionable."

"He doesn't look a bit like you," said Edith, irrelevantly.

"No, but he's the living image of his father, and I'm very glad. It keeps me from—from missing him too much," Madame's voice broke a little on the last words.

"It must be lovely to be missed," said Edith, quickly. "Now I——"

"Dear, haven't you told him yet?"

"He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know—I've only been away a week."

"It isn't right," said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know where you are."

"Why? I never know where he is."

"That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfect right. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead of entirely so."

"I'll do whatever you think best," said Edith, humbly. "I came to you because I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note before luncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon."

"I do say so."

Therefore luncheon waited for a few moments, to Alden's secret impatience, until Edith came down with her note. She offered it to Madame, doubtfully. "Want to see it?"

"No, dear. I'll trust you."

She sealed it with shamefaced gladness that Madame had not availed herself of the opportunity. She was quite sure that her counsellor would not approve of the few formal lines which were all she had been able to make herself write.

After luncheon, when Alden assisted her into Madame's decrepit phaeton, and urged the superannuated horse into a wildly exciting pace of three miles an hour, she asked to be driven to the post-office.

"Thank you," said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more like a walk."

"It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car," she admitted, "but it's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at the scenery."

"Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need to limit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible."

When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went through the formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, not because he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because the handwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular tracery he made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee." The street and number were beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command.

"So," he said, when he came back, "you're Mrs. William G. I trust you don't call him 'William'?"

"No—he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy.'"

"Good! That speaks well for him."

Alden began to wonder, as he alternately coaxed and threatened the horse toward the river-road, what manner of man she had married. Someone, undoubtedly, with the face and figure of Apollo, the courtesy of Chesterfield, and the character of a saint. "It was good of him," he said, gratefully, "to let you come to us."

Edith bit her lips and turned her face away. "I was glad to come," she answered, after a pause. For a moment she trembled upon the verge of a confidence, then summoned all her conversational powers to the rescue.

She began with the natural beauty of the country through which they were driving, observed that the roads were better adapted to a horse than to an automobile, noted the pleasant situation of the Marsh house on the river shore, veered for a moment to the subject of good roads in France, came back to the blue reflection of the sky upon the smooth surface of the river, admired the situation of the vineyard, said that Madame's phaeton was extremely comfortable, and concluded by asking if it wasn't almost time for apple-blossoms.

"All of which means," said Alden, quietly, "that you're unhappily married."

"How do you know?" demanded Edith, crimson with surprise and mortification. "Did—did your mother tell you?"

"No, she didn't—most decidedly she didn't. I just know, that's all."

"How? Do I betray myself so completely as that?"

He answered her question by another. "How did you know, the night you came, that I was surprised and not altogether pleased by the fact that you had brought a trunk? Were my manners as bad as all that?"

"Why, no—I just knew."

"And how did you know, this morning, when we were sitting on the window-seat, that I was wondering whether or not you wore false hair?"

"Why—I just knew."

"That's it, exactly."

"How long have you—known?"

"Ask me something easier than that," he laughed, endeavouring to relieve a situation that threatened to become awkward. Following his lead, she began to ask questions about the vineyard, and, when he told her he feared he knew very little about his work, suggested that he should read up on vine-culture and make it the best-paying vineyard in the State.

"Has mother been talking to you?" he demanded, turning to her quickly.

"About the vineyard? No. But, if it's your work, why not do it better than anybody else does it?"

Alden looked at her long and earnestly. The golden lights of her eyes were thrown into shadow now, for it was afternoon and they were driving east. Her answering smile gave him confidence, courage. Moreover, it challenged him in some subtle way he could not analyse. It dared him, as it were, to make the best of the vineyard—and himself.

"Thank you," he said, at length. "I believe—I will."

The divine moment passed, and, for the remainder of the drive, they talked commonplaces. But the fresh air from the hills, the freedom of the wind-swept spaces, the steady aspiration of everything that lived, brought the colour to Edith's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes, and ministered secretly to her soul. When she went in, she looked happier than she had since she came. Madame saw it and was glad, but wisely said nothing.

She came down at dinner-time in a black lace gown trimmed with spangles that glittered when she moved. It was cut away slightly from the rounded, ivory throat, and the white arms were bare to the elbow. The upper parts of the sleeves were made of black velvet ribbon, latticed into small diamond-shaped openings through which the satin texture of the skin showed in the candlelight. She wore no rings, except the slender circlet of gold that had been put on her finger at the altar, six years ago.

Conversation at dinner proceeded slowly, but on pleasant lines. Edith seemed preoccupied, and, at times, Alden relapsed into long silences. Madame noted that they scarcely spoke to each other, and was vaguely troubled, for she liked Edith, and wanted Alden to like her too.

After dinner, Edith played cribbage with Madame and Alden read the paper. When Madame had won three games, in rapid succession, Edith said good-night. Alden, from the depths of his paper, murmured the conventional response.

That night he started from his sleep with a sense of foreboding. He sat up and listened, but there was no sound. Not even the wind moving a shutter, nor a swaying branch tapping at his window—not a footfall, nor an echo, nor a breath.

The tall clock on the landing struck four. The silvery strokes died away into a silence that was positive, rather than negative. The sense of foreboding still persisted; moreover, he was conscious that someone else was awake also.

Was it his mother? Was she ill? No—he was sure of that. Was it Edith? Yes, that was it. She was awake, and had been awake all night. Moreover, she was crying.

His heart throbbed with tender pity. He yearned to comfort her, to assure her that whatever was wrong must eventually be made right. Why, from the crown of her beautiful head to the turned-up toe of her blue Chinese slipper, Edith had been made for joy—and for love.

Out of the darkness came a sudden mysterious perception. She knew she had awakened him, and had smiled at the knowledge. A sense of weariness quickly followed, then a restful silence which carried no thought with it.

He lay back on his pillow and waited, with his eyes closed, until he felt that she was asleep. Then he slept also.