The air was crystalline and cool, yet soft, and full of a mysterious, spicy fragrance. Blue skies arched down at the vast curve of the horizon to meet a bluer sea. Snowy gulls swept lazily through the clear blue spaces, their hoarse crying softened into a weird music. Upon the dazzling reaches of white sand, Rosemary was walking with Alden.

He had his arm around her and her face was turned toward his. He was radiant with youth and the joy of living. It was in the spring of his step upon the sand, the strong, muscular lines of his body, and, more than all, in his face. In his eyes were the strange, sweet fires that Rosemary had seen the day she was hidden in the thicket and saw him holding Edith in his arms. But it was all for her now, for Rosemary, and the past was as dead as though it had never been.

As they walked, they talked, saying to each other the thousand dear and foolish things that lovers have said since, back in the Garden, the First Woman looked into the eyes of the First Man and knew that God had made her to be his mate. Suddenly a white cliff loomed up on the beach before them and from its depths came a tremendous knocking, as though some one were endeavouring to escape from a hopeless fastness of stone.

They paused, but the knocking continued, growing louder and louder. Then a hoarse voice called "Rosemary! Rosemary!"

The girl came to herself with a start, rubbing her eyes. Gaunt and grey in the first dim light of morning, Aunt Matilda stood over her, clad in a nondescript dressing-gown.

"Rosemary!" she whispered, shrilly. "Come quick! Ma's had a stroke!"

They ran back to the old lady's room. In the girl's confused remembrance the narrow hallway seemed to be a continuation of the white, sunlit beach, with the blue sky and sea changed to faded wall paper, and the cliff gone.

Grandmother lay upon her bed, helpless, uttering harsh, guttural sounds that seemingly bore no relation to speech. Her eyes blazed at the sight of Rosemary and she tried to sit up in bed, but could not.

"When?" asked Rosemary.

"Just now," Aunt Matilda answered. "I was asleep, and when I woke up I heard her. She must have woke me up. What shall we do?" she continued, helplessly, after a pause.

"I don't know," Rosemary whispered, almost stunned by the shock. "I'll dress and go for the doctor."

In an hour she had returned with the physician, who felt the old lady's pulse, and shook his head. In the hall, he interviewed the other two.

"Has she had any shock?" he asked.

For a moment there was no answer, then Matilda answered clearly: "No."

"No," echoed Rosemary.

"No unusual excitement of any sort? Or no bad news?"

"Not that I know of," Matilda replied, calmly.

"Nothing unusual," Rosemary assured him.

"Extraordinary!" he murmured. "I'll be in again this afternoon."

When he had gone, Aunt Matilda turned anxiously to Rosemary. "Do you think we did right? Shouldn't we have told him?"

"I don't know what difference it could make," Rosemary replied, thoughtfully. "I'd hate to have anybody know what she's done. Maybe it's my fault," she went on, sadly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have told her."

"Don't go to blaming yourself, Rosemary. I don't know why you shouldn't have told her. If I'd been you, I'd have told her long ago—or had you just found it out?"

"I've known for quite a while. I don't think I'd have said anything, though, if I wasn't going to be married. It didn't seem as if I could be married in brown gingham when father meant for me to have everything I wanted and the money was there."

"Don't worry about it for a minute," said Aunt Matilda, kindly. "You've done just right and you ain't to blame for what's happened. It's her own fault."

Rosemary prepared a breakfast tray and Matilda took it up. "It's better for you to stay away, Rosemary," she said, "for we don't want her to get excited." When she returned, she reported that the old lady had, with evident difficulty, eaten a little oatmeal and choked down a cup of coffee. She was calmer, but unable to speak.

The unaccustomed silence of the house affected them both strangely. Grandmother might be up-stairs and helpless but the powerful impress of her personality still lingered in the rooms below. Her red-and-black plaid shawl, hanging from the back of her chair, conveyed a subtle restraint; the chair itself seemed as though she had just left it and was likely to return to it at any moment.

When the doctor came again, in the afternoon, Matilda went up-stairs with him, while Rosemary waited anxiously in the dining-room. It seemed a long time until they came back and held a brief whispered conference at the front door. When he finally went out, Matilda came into the dining-room, literally tense with excitement.

"He says," she began, sinking into a chair, "that he don't know. I like it in him myself, for a doctor that'll admit he don't know, when he don't, instead of leavin' you to find out by painful experience, is not only scarce, but he's to be trusted when you come across him.

"He says she may get better and she may not—that in a little while she may be up and movin' around and talkin' again about the same as she always did, and again, she may stay just like she is, or get worse. He said he'd do what he could, but he couldn't promise anything—that only time would tell.

"If she stays like this, she's got to be took care of just the same as if she was a baby—fed and turned over and bathed,—and if she gets better she can help herself some. Seems funny, don't it? Yesterday she was rampagin' around and layin' down the law to you, and to-day she can't say yes or no."

"She said yesterday," Rosemary returned, "that she'd never speak to me again as long as she lived. I wonder if it's true!"

"I wonder!" echoed Matilda. "I'd forgotten that."

"I hadn't," said the girl, with a grim smile.

"Seems almost as if it might be a judgment on her," Matilda observed, after a pause. "She said she'd never speak to you again and she may never speak to anybody any more. And I've got to take care of her. That's the trouble with judgments—they never hit just the person they were meant to hit. We're all so mixed up that somebody else has to be dragged into it."

Plainly before Rosemary there opened the way of sacrifice and denial. For a moment she hesitated, then offered up her joy on the altar of duty.

"I won't be married, Aunt Matilda," she said, bravely, though her mouth quivered. "I'll stay and help you."

"What?"

"I said I wouldn't be married. I'll—I'll tell Alden I can't. I'll stay and help you."

"You won't. I won't have you speak of such a thing, let alone doing it."

"You can't help it, if I make up my mind."

"Yes, I can. I'll go and see Mrs. Marsh, and him, and the minister, and the doctor, and everybody. I'll tell 'em all everything. You go right on ahead with your gettin' married. I ain't goin' to have your life spoiled the way mine has been. You're young yet and you've got a right to it."

"But—but, Aunt Matilda!"

"Aunt Matilda nothin'! What could you do, anyhow? She don't want you anywheres near her, and the doctor said she mustn't be excited."

"I could do what I've always done—cooking and cleaning and washing and ironing, and I could carry things up-stairs for you."

"Maybe you could, Rosemary, but you ain't goin' to. You've served out your time. Don't you worry about me—I ain't goin' to kill myself."

"I—I wish you'd let me," Rosemary stammered.

"Well, I won't, and that's the end of it. I'll get along someways. The minister used to say that when God gave any of us a burden we couldn't carry by ourselves, He'd always send help, so, if I need help, I'll have it.

"I'll enjoy myself, too, in a way," she went on, after a little. "It's goin' to seem awful peaceful to have the house quiet, with no talkin' nor argument goin' on in it. Sometimes I've thought that if I could get out of the sound of the human voice for a spell I wouldn't feel so ugly. It's wore on me considerable—never bein' alone except nights or when I went up-stairs afternoons and pretended to take a nap. Lots of times I wasn't lyin' down at all—I was just settin' there, with the door locked, thinkin' how nice and quiet it was. Ma'll get a good rest, too, while she ain't talkin', though it ain't for me to say she's needed it."

"So," she continued, clearing her throat, "you go right on ahead with your marrying."

Rosemary bent and kissed the hollow, withered cheek. "I will," she said. "Oh, dear Aunt Matilda! I wish you hadn't missed it all!"

The older woman's steel blue eyes softened, then filled. "Maybe I've missed it and maybe I ain't," she said, huskily. "Maybe this life is only a discipline to fit us for somethin' better that's comin'. Anyway, if we keep on goin' and doin' the best we can as we go, I believe God will make it right for us later on."

The morning of Rosemary's wedding dawned clear and cool. It was Autumn and yet the sweetness of Summer still lingered in the air. Scarlet banners trailed upon the maples and golden leaves rained from the birches, shimmering as they fell. Amethystine haze lay upon the valley, shot through with silver gleams from the river that murmured toward the sea with the sound of far waters asleep.

Purple lights laid enchantment upon the distant hills, where the Tapestry-Maker had stored her threads—great skeins of crimson and golden green, russet and flaming orange, to be woven into the warp and woof of September by some magic of starlight and dawn. Lost rainbows and forgotten sunsets had mysteriously come back, to lie for a moment upon hill or river, and then to disappear.

Noon had been chosen for the ceremony, in the little church at the foot of the Hill of the Muses, for, as Alden had said, with a laugh, "even though it was private, it might as well be fashionable." Aunt Matilda was up at dawn, putting new lace into the neck and sleeves of her best brown alpaca, as tremulous and anxious as though she herself were to be the bride.

Rosemary had packed her few belongings the day before, in the little old-fashioned trunk that had been her mother's. As she dressed, Aunt Matilda sat on the bed, pathetically eager to help in some way, though it might be only to pin up a stray lock or tie a shoe.

Rosemary shook out the dull ashen masses of her hair with a sigh. As she put it up, Alden's big betrothal diamond blazed star-like upon her rough, red hand. She contemplated it ruefully—it seemed so out of place—then brightened at the memory of the promise Mrs. Marsh had made so long ago.

"She'll teach me how to take care of my hands," said Rosemary, half to herself, "so they'll look like hers."

"She?" repeated Aunt Matilda. "Who?"

"Mrs. Marsh—mother."

"Yes, I guess she will. She'll teach you a lot of things Ma and me have never heard tell of. Maybe you'd just as soon ask her, Rosemary, why she never returned my call?"

"I will, surely. I don't think she meant anything by it, Aunt Matilda. She might have been busy and forgotten about it. Anyhow, you'll have to come to see me now."

"Yes, I will. I've thought I'd put the minister's tintype up on the mantel now, as long as Ma ain't likely to see it. It'll be company for me. And I reckon I'll get me a cat. I always wanted one and Ma would never let me have it. I can keep it down-stairs and she may never know about it, but even if she hears it meowing, or me talkin' to it, she can't say nothin' about it.

"My, ain't it beautiful!" she continued, as Rosemary slipped her white gown over her head. "Please let me hook it up, Rosemary—this is as near as I'll ever come to a wedding. Are you going in to see her before you go?"

Rosemary hesitated. "Yes," she sighed, "I'll go. I think I ought to."

"Don't if you don't want to. I wouldn't spoil my wedding-day by doing anything I didn't like to do."

"I want to," murmured Rosemary. "I wouldn't feel right not to."

So, when she was ready, she went into the old lady's room. Happiness made her almost lovely as she stood there in her simple white gown and big plumed hat, drawing long white kid gloves over her red hands.

"Grandmother," she said, tremulously, "I'm going up to the church now, to be married to Alden Marsh. Before I go, I want to tell you I'm sorry if I've ever done anything I shouldn't do, and ask you to forgive me for any unhappiness I may ever have caused you. I haven't meant to do it, and I—I believe you've meant to be good to me. I hope you're glad I'm going to be happy now."

The stern old face relaxed, ever so little, the sharp eyes softened with mist, and by tremendous effort, Grandmother put out a withered, wavering hand. Rosemary bent over the bed, lifted her in her strong young arms, and kissed her twice, then hurried away.

Alden met them as they were half-way to the church, and, utterly regardless of two or three interested children who happened to be passing, shook hands with Aunt Matilda, then bent to kiss the flushed and happy face under the big plumed hat.

"What magnificence!" he said. "I'm unworthy of so much splendour, I'm afraid. How on earth did you manage it?"

Rosemary glanced at Aunt Matilda, then laughed a little sadly. "Oh," she answered, with assumed lightness, "I—just managed it, that's all."

At the door of the church Madame welcomed them with an armful of white roses for the bride. She, too, had a new gown in honour of the occasion, and her sweet old face was radiant with smiles. "What a lovely bride," she said, as she kissed Rosemary. "Oh, my dear! You mustn't, truly! No tears on a wedding-day!"

The minister was waiting at the altar. Madame and Aunt Matilda sat down together in a front pew; there was a moment's solemn hush, then the beautiful service began.

Sunlight streamed through the open windows, carrying the colour and fragrance of Autumn into every nook and cranny of the church. From outside came the cheery piping of a robin that had paused upon a convenient window sill to peep in. There was a rush of tiny, furred feet through the drifted leaves, and a gleam of scarlet as a falling maple leaf floated past the open door. In the sunlight the taper lights on the altar gleamed like great stars suddenly come to earth.

"That ye may so live together in this life," the deep voice was saying, "and in the life everlasting. Amen!"

After the benediction, came the minister's perfunctory congratulations. When he called her "Mrs. Marsh," Rosemary instinctively looked toward Madame, then laughed and blushed when she understood. Madame took the girl into her arms as she came down from the altar. "Dear daughter!" she said. "Truly my daughter, now!"

Aunt Matilda and Rosemary hurried back to the little brown house, mindful of Alden's whispered admonition: "Don't keep me waiting long, dear—please." Neither spoke until after Rosemary had changed her gown, and stood before her mirror in pale lustrous grey, with hat and gloves to match.

"I'll go in and say good-bye to Grandmother," Rosemary said.

"Wait a minute. She may be asleep."

Aunt Matilda tiptoed into the old lady's room, then came out again, with her finger on her lips. "She's sound asleep," she said, "and her face looks as if she felt better. I guess she'll come to herself again all right. The Starrs have always been healthy and hard to kill."

So the two went down-stairs quietly. When the door was opened, Rosemary saw that Alden was waiting for her at the gate. Smiling and with joy thrilling her to the utmost fibre of her being, Rosemary kissed Aunt Matilda good-bye, then ran out to where her bridegroom was waiting, to lead her into the world of service—and of love.

THE END