As the days passed the friendly relations between Mrs. Bent and her daughter were not restored. Mrs. Bent looked at Eleanor furtively, cried when she was away from her, and redoubled all her self-sacrificing toil. The sound of a step on the porch made her shiver. She spoke to Eleanor and Eleanor spoke to her as though there were an ever-present danger of another breaking-through of the thin crust which masked a crater of seething emotion.

Mrs. Bent need not have feared that her daughter would open the subject which had led to so unpleasant a scene. No one who had the run of Dr. Green's library could fail to know that there were other forms of existence beside the conventional unions of Waltonville's married folk and Eleanor had, with youth's eagerness to learn the ways of a wider world, followed the lives of a few historical examples of other sorts of union. She had believed herself to be in this matter, as in others, broad-minded. But now her opinions had changed; a fearful possibility threatened her. She came to believe that her mother waited an opportunity to confide in her a secret no longer to be hidden and grown too heavy to bear alone. In her fright she avoided her mother, and when they were together interrupted with some foolishness each sentence which promised to be serious.

"I am sorry for her," cried Eleanor to herself. "I am sorry, but I cannot listen to her."

In the middle of a hot August afternoon she determined to go for a walk. If she went a long distance and came home tired and drank no coffee for her supper, it might be that she could sleep through the night. She had no goal in view; she would simply go on until she was tired and then turn for the long walk home. As she dressed she reproached herself for her weakness. She would persuade her mother to go away from Waltonville; it was said that time and new scenes cured troubles of the mind. They would go to a larger place where no one would inquire into their business or even know them.

"But I don't want to know anything about it!" said Eleanor to herself. "I don't want her to tell me! If she tells me I shall die!"

Standing before her mirror she brushed her dark hair with long, sweeping motions of her arm. Her eyes met their reflection.

"I am beautiful," said Eleanor. "There is some satisfaction in that."

Then her cheeks crimsoned. Neither her eyes nor her dark hair nor her height had come from her mother—from whom had they come? She gave up her intention to walk and threw herself face downward upon her bed.

"I will not hear anything about it," said she. "I will think only of going away."

But her fears were stronger than her will. Her mind traveled again its old round. There was sodden, debauched Bates, with his rude and intimate salutation; there was the impertinent freedom of Mrs. Scott; there was the appraising stare of Walter Simpson Scott; there was her mother's embarrassed unwillingness to talk about Basil Everman; there was also that strange voice which she had heard long ago, that voice which seemed to reprove and to beseech her mother.

"She is good!" cried Eleanor. "And I am wicked and hateful!"

Presently she was wakened by the opening of the door in the hall below, and she sprang up, deceived for an instant into thinking that Richard Lister had returned and was asking for her. Then she lay down, dizzily. The voice was not Richard's, but Dr. Green's older, deeper tones which asked, "Is Eleanor at home?"

When her mother answered that she had gone out, Eleanor closed her eyes. He had probably come to invite her to ride into the country with him. But she could not go; she could not bear the heat or the light or his bright eyes. Their expression disturbed her, had disturbed her subconsciously for weeks, the look of hunger which had brightened them when she had told him of her success with "Professor Ellenborough's Last Class" reminding her of the eyes of a caged animal, of strong feeling kept under, but there, waiting to blaze out. She had been repelled by it.

Dr. Green, told that she was out, did not go away. He said, instead, "It is you I wish to see, Margie."

Eleanor heard a step, the opening of a door into the dining-room, then its sharp closing.

She sat up on the edge of her bed. Had her mother sent for Dr. Green? That was not possible, both from the nature of his greeting and because her mother had only her to send on errands. Could it be that she was ill, and that he had observed it and had come to remonstrate with her for not having medical advice? If there was anything the matter with her mother, she must know. She rose quickly and went on with her dressing.

Then her face grew white. Dr. Green had called her mother "Margie!" Moreover, he was now loudly and rudely remonstrating with her. He was, one might say, storming at Mrs. Bent. It was as though the caged animal in his breast had escaped.

Eleanor stood still, her figure straight, one hand pressing the thick coil of her dark hair close to her head, the other holding a long pin. Her hair was drawn back closely; the unsoftened line of her forehead and cheek changed her expression, gave her a different and austere cast of countenance. She stood motionless, regarding herself absently until her arms dropped. It was Dr. Green, of course, who had long ago scolded her mother!

Downstairs Green's voice rose and fell, rose and fell. There was the heat of anger in it, there was a tone of command, there was no softer tone.

But Eleanor no longer heard. Again she gathered her hair back from her face and stood looking at herself. She saw the single line of austerity; she turned her head now this way, now that. Then she sat down once more on the edge of her bed.

For more than an hour she watched the ticking clock. It was half-past two when Dr. Green's first angry sentence fell upon the quiet air; it was four when he closed the door behind him.

When at last she went downstairs, her mother had gone into the garden. Mrs. Bent came in and put the supper on the table slowly, and called Eleanor. When supper was eaten and the dishes put away, she joined her daughter on the porch.

"I have something I must tell you," said she. "I—"

Eleanor sprang up in panic.

"I can't stop now, mother. I must go for the mail. I have important mail coming. I must go."

Mrs. Bent looked at her, then down at the floor. She twisted her hands together.

"All right."

Eleanor walked swiftly through the dusk.

"I don't want to hear anything," said she. "I will not hear anything."

As she approached the college gate she halted for an instant, out of breath and panting. Two men were coming slowly toward her from the other side. She heard Dr. Lister's clear, high voice and Dr. Scott's answering laugh. Not only had Mrs. Lister given her consent to the publication of Basil's manuscript, but the publisher of "Willard's," who was also a publisher of books, had said in answer to Dr. Scott's inquiry that he would be deeply interested in any work of Basil Everman's. Last, but not least, Mrs. Scott had gone to Atlantic City. Her husband had many reasons for cheerfulness.

"I wish that each day had forty-eight hours and that every one was a working hour," Eleanor heard him say gayly. Then, as Dr. Lister turned to go back to his own door, Dr. Scott called after him, "So Richard is back!"

"Yes," answered Dr. Lister. "He came the day before yesterday by way of Niagara. Mrs. Lister is getting him ready to go to New York."

"When does he go?"

"To-morrow. I'm going with him. His teacher doesn't usually begin so early, but he is making a special case of Richard."

"He's a lucky boy."

A meeting with Dr. Scott at the gate could not be avoided. He lifted his hat and came to Eleanor's side with courtly alacrity. He had no longer envy for any living soul. He told her as they walked along about Basil Everman, about his youth, about the extraordinary achievement which was to startle the reading world.

"We lack information about the two years of his absence from Waltonville. They were his richest years. But we must be grateful for what we have." He looked down kindly. The summer, he thought, had been hard on Eleanor as it had been hard on every one. "It makes one wish to be very diligent, doesn't it—such a record as this lad's?"

Tears came into Eleanor's eyes. She longed to say, "Yes, but what if no diligence avails?" But she could not trust herself to say anything.

At the door of the post-office Dr. Scott bowed himself away. So Richard was here, had been here since the day before yesterday and had not been to see her!

Then Eleanor put a period upon the episode of Richard. As she stepped out the door, she encountered him coming in. Their eyes met and clung to one another, their cheeks crimsoned.

"Eleanor!" cried Richard.

"Well?" said Eleanor.

Richard seemed to be struggling to find words in which to answer. When he sought in vain, she looked at him, unsmilingly, from under level brows.

"I wish you would let me pass," said she.

She did not go in the direction of the little gray house, but out toward the far end of Waltonville. There was nothing to be afraid of even after dark in the quiet country roads, and at home there was a great deal to be afraid of.