Desolation lay upon the vineyard. The fairy lace had been rudely torn aside by invading storms and the Secret Spinners had entered upon their long sleep. The dead leaves rustled back and forth, shivering with the cold, when the winds came down upon the river from the hill. Caught, now and then, upon some whirling gust, the leaves were blown to the surface of the river itself, and, like scuttled craft, swept hastily to ports unknown.

Rosemary escaped from the house early in the afternoon. Unable to go to the Hill of the Muses, or up the river-road, she had taken a long, roundabout path around the outskirts of the village and so reached the hills back of the vineyard. The air of the valley seemed to suffocate her; she longed to climb to the silent places, where the four winds of heaven kept tryst.

She was alone, as always. She sighed as she remembered how lonely she had been all her life. Except Alden, there had never been anyone to whom she could talk freely. Even at school, the other children had, by common consent, avoided the solitary, silent child who sat apart, always, in brown gingham or brown alpaca, and taking refuge in the fierce pride that often shields an abnormal sensitiveness.

She sat down upon the cold, damp earth and leaned against a tree, wondering if it would not be possible for her to take cold and die. In the books, people died when they wanted to, or, what was more to the point, when other people wanted them to. It was wonderful, when you came to think of it, how Death invariably aided Art.

But, in real life, things were pitifully different. People who ought not to die did so, and those who could well be spared clung to mortal existence as though they had drunk deeply of the fabled fountain of immortal youth.

Descending to personalities, Rosemary reflected upon the ironical Fate that had taken her father and mother away from her, and spared Grandmother and Aunt Matilda. Or, if she could have gone with her father and mother, it would have been all right—Rosemary had no deep longing for life considered simply as existence. Bitterness and the passion of revolt swayed her for the moment, though she knew that the mood would pass, as it always did, when she took her soul into the sanctuary of the hills.

Dispassionately she observed her feet, stretched out in front of her, and compared them with Mrs. Lee's. Rosemary's shoes were heavy and coarse, they had low, broad heels and had been patched and mended until the village cobbler had proclaimed himself at the end of his resources. Once or twice she had said, half-fearfully, that she needed new shoes, but Grandmother had not seemed to hear.

Father had meant for her to have everything she wanted—he had said so, in the letter which at that moment lay against Rosemary's bitter young heart. He would have given her a pair of slippers like those Mrs. Lee had worn the day she went there to tea—black satin, with high heels and thin soles, cunningly embroidered with tiny steel beads. How small and soft the foot had seemed above the slipper; how subtly the flesh had gleamed through the fine black silk stocking!

She wondered whether father knew. No, probably not, for if he did, he would find some way to come and have it out with Grandmother—she was sure of that. God knew, of course—God knew everything, but why had He allowed Grandmother to do it? It was an inscrutable mystery to her that a Being with infinite power should allow things to go wrong.

For the moment Rosemary's faith wavered, then re-asserted itself. It was she who did not understand: the ways of the Everlasting were not her ways, and, moreover, they were beyond her finite comprehension. If she waited, and trusted, and meanwhile did the best she could, everything would be right somewhere, sometime. That must be what Heaven was, a place where things were always right for everybody.

Gradually her resentment passed away. The impassioned yearning for life, in all its fulness, that once had shaken her to the depths of her soul, had ceased to trouble or to beckon. It had become merely a question of getting through with this as creditably and easily as she might, and passing on to the next, whatever that might prove to be.

The ground upon which she sat was cold and damp. Rosemary shivered a little and was glad. Release might come in that way, though she doubted it. She was too hopelessly healthy ever to take cold, and in all her five and twenty years had never had a day's illness.

A step beside her startled her and a kindly voice said: "Why, Rosemary! You'll take cold!"

Crimson with embarrassment she sprang to her feet, shaking the soil from her skirts. "I—I didn't hear you coming," she stammered. "I must go."

"Please don't," Alden responded. "Remember how long it is since I've seen you. How did you happen to come up here?"

"Because—oh, I don't know! I've come sometimes to see the vineyard. I've—I've liked to watch the people at work," she concluded, lamely. "I see so few people, you know."

Alden's face softened with vague tenderness. "Was it just this last Summer you've been coming, or has it been all along?"

"I've always come—ever since I was big enough to climb the hill. I—I used to steal grapes sometimes," she confessed, "before I knew it was wrong."

"You can have all the grapes you want," he laughed. "I'll send you a basket every day, if you want them, as long as the season lasts. Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I—I never thought," she answered. She might have added that she was not accustomed to the idea of any sort of gift, but she did not put the thought into words.

"Come over here, Rosemary. I want to show you something—tell you about some new plans of mine."

He led her to the group of workers' houses back of the pines. A great deal of repairing had been done and every house was habitable, if not actually comfortable. They had all been furnished with quiet good taste, and had been freshly whitewashed, both inside and out. There was a great pile of cots and a stack of new blankets.

"What is it?" asked Rosemary, much interested.

"The Marsh Tuberculosis Hospital," he answered. His face was beaming.

"I—I don't understand."

"Don't you? Well, it's simple enough. If I hadn't been all kinds of an idiot and blindly selfish I'd have thought of it before. One of the men who came to pick grapes this year has a wife at home with tuberculosis. All she needs is to lie on a cot outdoors and have plenty of fresh eggs and milk. He's coming to-morrow, with her, and his two children. The girl will learn housekeeping from mother daytimes and the boy will go to school. I have room for several others if I can find them, and I have people in town hunting them up for me. See?"

"Oh!" said Rosemary. "How beautiful! How good you are!"

"Not good," said Alden, shamefacedly, digging at the soil with his heel. "Merely decent—that's all." He took a spring cot out of the pile, spread a blanket upon it, and invited Rosemary to sit down.

"It is beautiful," she insisted, "no matter what you say. How lovely it must be to be able to do things for people—to give them what they need! Oh," she breathed, "if I could only help!"

Alden looked at her keenly. "You can, Rosemary."

"How?"

"I don't know, but there's always a way, if one wants to help."

"I have nothing to give," she murmured. "I haven't anything of my own but my mother's watch, and that won't go, so it wouldn't be of any use to anybody."

"Someone said once," he continued, "that 'the gift without the giver is bare.' That means that what you give doesn't count unless you also give yourself."

"To give yourself,'" she repeated; then, all at once, her face illumined. "I see now!" she cried. "I can give myself! They'll need someone to take care of them, and I can do that. I can cook and scrub floors and keep everything clean, and—but Grandmother won't let me," she concluded, sadly.

A paragraph from Edith's letter flashed vividly into his memory: "The door of the House of Life is open for you and for me, but it is closed against her. It is in your power at least to set it ajar for her; to admit her, too, into full fellowship, through striving and through love."

His heart yearned toward her unspeakably. They belonged to one another in ways that Edith had no part in and never could have. Suddenly, without looking at her, he said: "Rosemary, will you marry me?"

She turned to him, startled, then averted her face. Every vestige of colour was gone, even from her lips. "Don't!" she said, brokenly. "Don't make fun of me. I must go."

She rose to her feet, trembling, but he caught her hand and held her back. "Look at me, dear. I'm not making fun of you. I mean it—every word."

She sat down beside him, then, well out of reach of his outstretched hand. "What for?" she asked, curiously.

"Because I want you."

"I—I don't understand."

"Don't you love me?"

"You have no right to ask me that." Her tone was harsh and tremulous with suppressed emotion.

"No," he agreed, after a pause, "I suppose I haven't." She did not answer, so, after a little, he rose and stood before her, forcing her eyes to meet his.

"Do you—know?" he asked.

Rosemary hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I—know," she said, in a different tone.

"And that was why you——"

"Yes." Her voice was scarcely audible now.

"It wasn't true, then, that you didn't love me?"

She turned upon him fiercely. "What right have you to ask me all these questions?" she cried, passionately. "What have you to offer me? How can you take all I have to give and give me nothing in return? What is your love worth? What do you think I am? The plaything of an idle hour, something to be taken up or cast aside whenever you may choose, to be treated kindly or brutally as your fancy may dictate, to be insulted by your pity—by what you call your love? No, a thousand times no!"

His face was very white and his mouth twitched, but in a moment he had gained, in a measure, his self-control. "I don't blame you in the least, Rosemary. I deserve it all, I know. But, before you condemn me utterly, will you listen to me for a few moments?"

She assented, by the merest inclination of her head.

"I want to be honest with you," he went on, clearing his throat, "and I want to be honest with myself. No doubt you think I'm all kinds of a cad, and rightly so, but, at least, I've been honest—that is, I've tried to be.

"When I asked you to marry me, early in the Spring, I meant it, just as I mean it now, and I was glad when you said you would. Then—she came.

"I had nothing whatever to do with her coming, in fact, I protested against it, as mother will tell you if you ask her. I didn't know her, and I didn't want her, but after I knew her——"

"You did want her," said Rosemary, coldly.

"Yes, I wanted her, and she was married to another man. She had sufficient grounds for a divorce, though she never told me what they were, and I pleaded with her to take advantage of the opportunity. I tried by every means in my power to persuade her, and when you—released me——"

"You were glad," she said, finishing the sentence for him.

"Yes," he replied, in a low tone, "I was glad. She decided, finally, to leave it to him. If he wanted her back, she would go; if he preferred his freedom, she would give it to him. And, of course, he wanted her, and he had the right."

"So she went."

"So she went, and it was all over, and we shall never see each other again."

"It's too bad," said Rosemary, icily. "I'm sorry for you both."

"Listen dear," he pleaded. His face was working piteously now. "I wish I could make you understand. I loved her, and I love her still. I shall love her as long as I live, and perhaps even after I'm dead. And she loves me. But, because of it, in some strange way that I don't comprehend myself, I seem to have more love to give others.

"I care more for my mother because I love—Edith, and, queer as you may think it, I care more for you. She has taken nothing away from you that I ever gave you—you are dearer to me to-day than when I first asked you to marry me, so long ago. I don't suppose you'll believe it, but it's the truth."

"I believe what you tell me," Rosemary said, in a different tone, "but I don't understand it."

"It's like this, Rosemary. My loving her has been like opening the door into the House of Life. It's made everything different for me. It's made me want to make the best of myself, to do things for people, to be kind to everybody. It isn't selfishness—it's unselfishness.

"I told you once that I wanted to take you away from all that misery, and to make you happy. It was true then, and it's true now, but, at that time, I was bound in shallows and didn't know it. She came into my life like an overwhelming flood, and swept me out to sea. Now I'm back in the current again, but I shall know the shallows no more—thank God!

"If you'll believe me, I have more to give than I had then—and I want you more. I'm very lonely, Rosemary, and shall be always, unless—but, no, I don't want your pity; I want your love."

There was a long pause, then Rosemary spoke. "Service," she said, half to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving. Asking, not answer."

"Yes," returned Alden, with a sigh, "it's all of that.

"Leaving love aside," he went on, after a little, "I believe you'd be happier here, with mother and me, than you are where you are now. You'd be set free from all that drudgery, you could help me in my work, and, though I'm not rich, I could give you a few of the pretty things you've always wanted. We could go to town occasionally and see things. Moreover, I could take care of you, and you've never been taken care of. I don't think you'd ever be sorry, Rosemary, even though you don't love me."

"I never said I didn't love you," the girl faltered. Her eyes were downcast and the colour was burning upon her pale face.

"Yes, you did—up on the hill. Don't you remember?"

"I—I wasn't telling the truth," she confessed. "I've—I've always——"

"Rosemary!"

She looked at him with brimming eyes. "What you've done, or what you may do, doesn't make any difference. It never could. If—if it depends at all on—on the other person, I don't think—it's love."

In an instant his arms were around her, and she was crying happily upon his shoulder. "Dear, my dear! And you cared all the time?"

"All the time," she sobbed.

"What a brute I was! How I must have hurt you!"

"You couldn't help it. You didn't mean to hurt me."

"No, of course not, but, none the less I did it. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it, dear, if you'll let me."

It flashed upon Rosemary that this was not at all like the impassioned love-making to which she had been an unwilling witness, but, none the less, it was sweet, and it was her very own. He wanted her, and merely to be wanted, anywhere, gives a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Kiss me, dear," Rosemary put up her trembling lips, answering to him with every fibre of body and soul.

"Don't cry, dear girl, please don't! I want to make you happy."

Rosemary released herself, wiped her eyes upon a coarse handkerchief, then asked the inevitable question:

"Will she care?"

"No, she'll be glad. Mother will too."

"Grandmother won't," she laughed, hysterically, "nor Aunt Matilda."

"Never mind them. You've considered them all your life, now it's your turn."

"It doesn't seem that I deserve it," whispered Rosemary, with touching humility. "I've never been happy, except for a little while this Spring, and now——."

"And now," he said, taking her into his arms again, "you're going to be happy all the rest of your life, if I can make you so. If I don't you'll tell me, won't you?"

"I can't promise," she murmured, shyly, to his coat sleeve. "I must go now, it's getting late."

"Not until you've told me when you'll marry me. To-morrow?"

"Oh, no!" cried Rosemary. "Not to-morrow."

"Why not?"

"It's—it's too soon."

"In a week, then?"

"I—I don't know. I'll see."

"Make it very soon, my dear, will you?"

"Yes—just as soon as I can."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes—a promise."

"Then kiss me."

The white fire burned in Rosemary's blood; her heart beat hard with rapturous pain. Upon the desert wastes that stretched endlessly before her, Spring had come with the old, immortal beauty, and more than mortal joy. Half afraid of her own ecstasy, she broke away from him and ran home.