BABES IN THE WOOD

One Saturday morning about a year after James went away to school Harry bounded downstairs for breakfast to find his father just leaving the dining room.

"Hello, Father," he said, jumping up and kissing him as usual. "You don't stay in the office this afternoon, do you, Father? Why don't you take Bugs and me to the game? Or you can take us for a ride in the car, if you like; we'll meet you downtown for lunch, so as to save time." (Bugs was for the moment Harry's fidus Achates; a sort of vice-James.)

"You will not, I fear," returned Hilary briefly. "I'm going out of town for the day."

"What, not in the car?"

"In the car."

"All day?"

"All day. Leaving now, as soon as ever the car comes round, and not getting back till late—perhaps not to-night."

"Dash," remarked Harry. "I wish you'd go by train; Graves told me he'd give me a lesson in running the machine the next free Saturday."

"Sorry. Next week, perhaps."

"Where are you going, anyway, Father?"

"My business."

"Going to take Graves?"

"No."

"What, all alone? You'll be lonely. Why don't you take Aunt Agatha?"

"No, I shan't be lonely and I'm not going to take Aunt Agatha. I'll tell you what I am going to do, however; I'm going to send you away to school, and that next term. You have a pretty glib tongue in your head, Harry my boy, and I think perhaps young gentlemen of your own age will be even better able to appreciate it than I am."

But Harry was far too elated by the news to pay much heed to the rebuke. He became inarticulate with delight, and his father went calmly on with his preparations for departure.

"Yes, I'll have a talk with Hodgman about the exams.... There's the car, at last—I must run. Where did I put those water rights, anyway? Oh.... Yes, I think you'll probably have to do extra work in algebra this term.... Take care of yourself; we'll have a spree next week if I can arrange it," and so forth, enough to cover sorting a morning's mail, progress into the front hall, donning a hat and overcoat—no, the dark one, and where are the gray gloves, dash it?—and a triumphal exit in a motor car. Harry watched the retreating vehicle with mingled regret and admiration. Hilary made a striking and debonair picture as he whirled along in his scarlet chariot—they ran a great deal to bright red paint in those early days, if you'll remember—and people would run to catch a glimpse of him as he dashed by and talk about it at length at the next meal. But it occurred to Harry that he would complete the picture very nicely, sitting there at his father's side. He wished fervently that he could ever make his father remember that Saturday was Saturday.

This parting conversation was redeemed from the oblivion of trivial things and inscribed indelibly on Harry's memory by the fact that it was the last he ever had with his father.

The day passed like any other day and at its close the household went to bed as usual, boding no ill. Toward midnight the telephone rang and Aunt Agatha arose and answered it. The voice at the other end introduced itself as Police Headquarters and inquired, as an afterthought, if this was Mr. Wimbourne's house. Yet, it was. Headquarters then expressed a desire to know if any of the family was there and, without waiting for a reply, asked with perceptible animation if this was one of the girls speaking? Aunt Agatha answered, in a tone which in another person would have been called frigid, that this was Miss Fraile.

Headquarters appeared duly impressed; at least he seemed to have difficulty in finding words in which to continue. Aunt Agatha's crisp inquiry of what was it, please? at last moved him to admit there had been an accident. Yes, to Mr. Wimbourne. The automobile did it; ran into a telegraph pole down near Port Chester. Pretty bad smash-up; couldn't say just how bad.... Was Mr. Wimbourne badly hurt? Well, yes, pretty badly; the machine—Was Mr. Wimbourne killed? Well, yes, he was, if you put it that way. His body would arrive sometime next morning....

This was the sort of occasion on which Aunt Agatha shone as a perfect model of efficiency. She spent an hour or more telegraphing and telephoning, prayed extensively, returned to her bed and slept soundly till seven. Then she arose and gave directions to the servants. It was breakfast time before she remembered that she had yet to tell Harry.

Then, as he appeared so cheerfully and ignorantly at the breakfast table, Aunt Agatha's heart failed her. Her presence of mind also left her; she blurted out a few words to the effect that his father had had a bad accident, wished she had let him eat his breakfast in ignorance, hoped despairingly that he would guess the truth from her perturbation. But even this was denied her; he asked a great many questions and refused to eat till she made him, but gave no sign of suspecting anything beyond what she told him.

She saw that the suspense of waiting for his father's return would tell on him more than the worst certainty, but still she could not bring herself to break the truth to him. When at last she nerved herself to do it, it was too late.

"Come here and sit down by me, Harry," she said gently, but Harry, who was standing at one of the front windows, listlessly replied:

"Wait, there's something coming up the street."

"Just a minute, dear, I want to talk to you," said Aunt Agatha, going over and trying to push him gently away from the window. But Harry's attention was caught and he refused to move.

"I thought it might be Father. Do you think it's Father, Aunt Agatha? It moves so slowly I can't see.... Yes, it's turning in at the gate. What sort of a thing is it, anyway?..."

The next moment his own eyes answered the question, and with a little cry he toppled backward into her arms.

James' reception of the news was characteristically different. His behavior was generally referred to by the family as "wonderful." He certainly was very calm throughout. He was informed of his father's death on the Sunday morning by the headmaster of his school, to whom Aunt Agatha had telegraphed the night before.

"I suppose I'd better go home," was his first comment.

"I suppose you had," replied the schoolmaster, and he was rather at a loss for what to say next. He had certainly expected more of a demonstration than this. "Somebody had better go with you. Whom would you like to have go?"

James hesitated and blushed. "Do you suppose Marston would come?" he said at last, in a low voice. Marston, a long-legged sixth former, was James' idol at present; to ask him to do something for one was like calling the very gods down from Olympus.

"I am sure he would," said the headmaster, who understood, perfectly. "I will send for him now and ask him."

So Marston accompanied James on his dreary homeward journey, though his presence was not in the least necessary, and James sat covertly gazing at him in mute adoration all the way. His thoughts were actually less on his father's death during this journey than on the wonderful, incredible fact that anything like a mere family death could throw him into intimate intercourse with Marston for a whole day.

But of course he gave no sign of this, and Marston, like a real god, seemed entirely unconscious of the immensity of the blessing he was conferring. He spent the night at the Wimbournes', behaving himself in his really rather trying position with the greatest ease and seemliness, and even submitted with a becoming grace to the kiss which Aunt Cecilia impulsively placed on his brow when she bade him farewell next morning.

"You're a dear good boy," she said softly, as she did it; "thank you, again and again, for what you've done."

James, who was a witness to this episode, nearly sank through the floor with shame. That a relative of his should kiss—actually, kiss Marston—! He felt like throwing himself on the ground and imploring Marston's pardon, dedicating himself to his service for life as an expiation.

Yet Marston only blushed and laughed a little and said he had done nothing, and bade good-by to James with unimpaired cordiality.

Aunt Cecilia had been the first of the relatives to arrive on the spot after Hilary's death, and she remained commander-in-chief of the relief forces throughout. But her command was not a complete or unquestioned one. Among the relatives that assembled at the Wimbourne house on that Sunday and Monday for Hilary's funeral was one with whom the story has hitherto had no dealings, but who was a very important force in the family, for all that. This was Lady Fletcher, Hilary's younger sister, by all odds the handsomest and most naturally gifted of her generation. She was the wife of an English army officer, Sir Giles Fletcher, who, having won his major-generalship and a K.C.B. by distinguished service with Kitchener in the Soudan, and being physically incapacitated by that campaign for further service in the tropics, was now, with the able assistance of his wife, devoting his declining years to politics. Lady Fletcher, by the discreet exercise of her social qualities, had succeeded in making herself in the five years since her husband had entered Parliament, one of the most important political hostesses in London. At the time of Hilary's death she was paying one of her flying autumn visits to the country of her birth, in which her headquarters was always her brother James' house in New York.

She and James had gone up to New Haven on the Sunday afternoon in a leisurely fashion several hours in the wake of Aunt Cecilia, who had rushed off, without so much as packing a bag, the moment she received Miss Fraile's telegram that morning. Miriam—that was her Christian name—always felt that she and her brother James understood one another better than any other members of the family, and it was her private opinion that they between them possessed more of the rare gift of common sense than all the other Wimbournes put together, with their wives and husbands thrown in. During the short two-hour journey from New York to New Haven neither she nor her brother appeared so overcome by sorrow over their recent loss that they were not able to discuss the newly created situation pretty satisfactorily, or, to "be practical" as Lady Fletcher was fond of putting it.

"You aren't going to smoke, James?" she asked, as her brother, shortly after the train had started, exhibited preparatory signs of a restlessness which she knew would culminate in an apologetic exit to the smoking car. "Please don't; I can't, on the train, and the thought of your doing it would make me miserable." She stopped for a moment, reflecting that there was perhaps that in the air which ought to make her miserable anyway; then went on, with a significantly lowered voice. "Beside, I want to talk to you; we may not get another chance...."

"Well?" said James at length.

"Don't be irritating, James; you know what I mean, perfectly. Can't you turn your chair around a little nearer? I don't want to shout.... Tell me, first, who are to be the guardians? Now don't say you don't know, because you do."

"I do, as a matter of fact. You and I, jointly. That's the one thing I do know, for sure."

"I felt sure it would be that, somehow.... Why me, I wonder? and if me at all, why you? However, it might have been worse, of course."

"Yes, I think he was right, on the whole." So perfect was the unspoken understanding between these two that, if a third person had interrupted at this moment and asked, point blank, what they were talking about, both would have replied, without a moment's hesitation, "Selina," though her name had not passed their lips.

"Well, what's to be done?" Lady Fletcher exhibited, to James' trained eye, preliminary symptoms of a "practical" seizure.

"Can't tell anything for certain, till we see the will. I shall see Raynham in the morning."

"Yes, but haven't you any idea ..."

"Oh, none! You were not a witness, were you?... if that's any comfort to you."

"Thanks, I have no expectations." This was uttered in Lady Fletcher's best snubbing tone, impossible to describe. "Please be practical, James. What is going to become of those two boys?"

"Well, there are several possibilities. First, there's their aunt...."

"Oh, the Fraile woman? I've never met her. Isn't she ... well, a trifle...."

"Oh, quite. She's a leading candidate for the position of first American saint. But there'd be no point in keeping on with her, with James away at school and Harry ready to go."

"Oh, really? I didn't realize."

"No," continued James, raising his eyes to his sister's and smiling slightly, "what it will come to will be that I shall have six children instead of four. Or rather, seven instead of five."

"Oh, really?" This in a changed tone from the lady.

"Yes, hasn't she told you? April."

"No." The practical mood seemed to have undergone a setback; there was something new in that monosyllable, irritation, a twinge of pain, perhaps. An outside observer might have thought this was due to Miriam's having been left out of her sister-in-law's confidence, but James knew better. He felt sorry for his sister; he knew that her childlessness was the one blight on her career.

"I don't see why you should do it, James." This after a long interval of silent thought on the part of Miriam, and passive observation of the rushing autumn landscape on the part of James. "I don't see why, when I'm equally responsible. It isn't a question of money, so much—I suppose that will be left all right?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. Though I don't know just how."

"It's more than that; it's the responsibility, the bother. There's no use in saying that one more, or two more, don't matter, for they do; and there's no use in saying that they would both be away at school, for, though that would make a difference, of course, you never can tell what is going to turn up. No matter what did happen, it would always fall on you—and Cecilia."

"That's all very true, perhaps, but—"

"And remember this; it's not as if you didn't have four—five already, and I none."

"What are you driving at, Miriam?"

"Don't you see? I want to take one, or both of them, myself."

"Whee-ew." This was not, strictly speaking, an observation, but rather a sort of vocalized whistle, the larynx helping out the lips. "You do rush things so, Miriam! Aside from the consideration of whether it would be advisable or not, do you realize what opposition there'd be?"

"Why? What, I mean, that could not be properly overcome? You are one guardian, I the other; I take one boy, you the other. What is there strange about such a course? Or I could take both together."

"I should be against James leaving the country, myself. He is safely started in his school; doing well there; striking his milieu. Why disturb him?"

"Well, Harry, then. What sort of a child is he, James? I haven't seen either of them for three years, but as I remember it, I liked James best. Rather the manly type, isn't he? Not but what the other seemed a nice enough child...."

"Harry? Oh, he'll have the brains of his generation, without doubt. Yes, I'm not surprised at your liking James best. There are plenty of people who find Harry the more attractive, however. He's got winning ways. But—are you serious about this, Miriam?"

"Serious? Certainly!"

"Well, what's the point? Do we want to make an Englishman out of the boy? And do you want to separate them? Wouldn't that smack a little of—well, of Babes in the Wood? Cruel uncles and things, you know?"

"I don't think so. We wouldn't want to do that, of course. It wouldn't be for always, anyway. But even if he went to an English public school, which I should prefer to an American one, particularly for that type ... they would always have vacations. You are here, and I am there, and we would keep running across pretty frequently. Besides," here Lady Fletcher again changed her tone, and generally gave the impression of preparing to start another maneuver; "besides, there's another element in it—Giles. He's devoted to children. He would come as near being a father to the boy, if he liked him, as any one could. And—do you realize what that might mean for him—for Harry?" Miriam stopped, significantly, and looked her brother straight in the eye for a moment. "The Rumbold property is very large, and Giles will certainly come into it before long...."

"I see," said James, slowly nodding his head; "I see. Though I wouldn't sacrifice anything definite to that chance. Beside, what about the Carson family?"

"Oh, yes, I'm not saying there's any certainty; it's just one of the things to be counted on.... Leaving Harry out of consideration for the moment, it would be a wonderful thing for Giles. I can't think of anything Giles would rather have; it would be like giving him a son. And if you knew how wild English people of a certain class and type are about children—! Giles has never got on well with the Carson children, for some reason."

"That's all very fine, Miriam, but we mustn't leave Harry out of consideration, since it's him we're the guardians of, and not Giles—at least, I am.... I'm inclined to think there is something in what you say, though I should be definitely against making an Englishman of him—you understand that?" Lady Fletcher nodded, and her brother continued: "It would certainly have an admirably broadening influence, if all went right. And I'm not sure but what you're right about English public schools. Even for American boys. But—" here he smiled quizzically at his sister—"did you ever hear of a person called Selina Wimbourne?"

Lady Fletcher laughed. "You've hit it this time, I fancy! Honestly, James—" the practical mood was now in complete abeyance—"though I've knocked around a good deal with swells and terrifying people and all that, I have never been so cowed by the mere presence of any individual as I have been by my sister Selina. Did it ever occur to you, James, that Selina runs this family—well, as the engineer runs this train?"

"Something very like it—yes."

"At any rate, I have a premonition in the present instance that as Selina jumps the tree will fall ... fancy Selina jumping out of a tree! It will have to be most carefully put to her—if it is put."

"If it is put—exactly. We must see how things lie before doing anything.—What, already?" This to a negro porter, who was exhibiting willingness to be of service. "We must look alive—the next stop's New Haven. Mind you don't say anything too soon, now; easy does it."

"Yes, of course.—No, Bridgeport, isn't it?—What, don't we, any more?... But you are on my side, in the main, aren't you?"

"Conditionally, yes—that is, if all parties seem agreeable. The one thing I won't stand for is—well, Babes in the Wood business."

"James, what do you think of my taking Harry off to England with me?" said Aunt Miriam to her elder nephew a day or two later.

"I think it would be fine," was his reply, and then after a pause: "For how long, though?"

This was going nearer to the heart of the matter than the lady cared to penetrate, so she merely answered:

"Oh, one can't tell; a few months; perhaps more, if he wants to stay." Seeing that he swallowed this without apparent effort, she went on: "What should you say to his going to school in England, when he is able, for a time?"

James' expression underwent no change, but he only answered stiffly, "I think he had better come to St. Barnabas, when he is able," and his aunt let the matter drop there.

It was in Aunt Cecilia, and not Aunt Selina, that Lady Fletcher found the most formidable opposition. Miss Wimbourne, indeed, quite took to the idea when her half-sister, very carefully and with not a little concealed trepidation, suggested it to her. She took it, as Miriam more vividly put it to her brother, "like milk."

"That is not a bad plan, Miriam, not a bad plan at all," she said in the quiet voice that could be so firm when it wanted. "I can see why there are good reasons why neither of the boys should live in New Haven. For the present, you know. James will be at school, and will spend his vacations with James' family, and Harry will be with you until he is ready to do the same. I do not see but what it is a very good arrangement. I am perfectly willing to do my part in taking care of them, but I am not nearly so useful in that way as either you or James."

But not so with Mrs. James. Her husband first spoke to her of the scheme before breakfast on the Monday morning, and she took immediate and articulate exception to it. The plan was forced, dangerous, artificial, cruel, unnecessary, short-sighted; in fact, it wouldn't do at all. There was no telling what Miriam would do with him, once he was over there, and no telling when she would let him come back to what had been, what ought to be, and what, if she (Mrs. James) had any say in the matter, was going to be his Home. It would make her extremely unhappy to think of that child spending his vacations—or his whole time for that matter—with any one but his uncle and natural guardian ("Miriam is his guardian, too," James attempted to say, but no attention was paid to him), his aunt and his young cousins. As for all that business about Giles Fletcher, it was Perfect Nonsense. Before she would give an instant's consideration to such—to such an absurdity, she (Mrs. James) would give the boy every scrap of money she had, or was ever going to have, outright, and would end the matter then and there. (This would have been a really appalling threat, if it was meant seriously, for Cecilia was due to inherit millions.) As for sending him to an English public school, she thought it would be the cruelest, most unfeeling, most ridiculous thing possible, seeing Harry was what he was. If it had been James, now—!

But the gods fought on Miriam's side. Cecilia went into the library during the latter part of the morning and discovered young James alone there. She found him uncommunicative and solemn, which, in the nature of things, was only to be expected; and he took her completely by surprise by asking after a few moments, in the most ordinary tone:

"Who is Marcelline LefÈbre, Aunt Cecilia?"

Mrs. James stifled a gasp, and waited before replying till she was sure of her voice.

"Why? How did you ever hear of her?" she said.

"Oh, in this. There's a lot more about it to-day. She was badly hurt, wasn't she?"

Mrs. James looked up and saw the newspaper lying open on the desk in front of which James was sitting.

"Oh, yes.... An actress, I think."

"Yes," said James, "it says that here." The words and tone clearly implied that James expected her to tell him something he did not know already, but she parried.

"Had you ever heard of her before?"

"No, never. That's just the funny part of it. Why should we never have heard of a person Father knew well enough to take out to ride? Did you ever know her?"

"No; merely heard of her. Oh, it's not to be wondered at; he had lots of acquaintances, of course." This was definite enough to indicate that she had told him all she intended to, and both were silent for a while. But presently a new thought occurred to her and she began again:

"Tell me, James, does Harry know anything about Mme. LefÈbre?"

"Not that I know of; not unless he heard of her ... before."

"Well, I think it would be a good plan if you didn't mention her name to him, or talk about her in his presence."

"All right. Why, though—particularly?"

"Never mind about that. At least," she caught herself up, realizing, perhaps, that this was treating him too much en enfant; "at least, I think it would be just as well for him not to know anything about her. It might worry him. Particularly in his present state. There is no reason why he should see the papers, or hear anything."

"I see," said James, quietly, staring out of the window. He saw far too well, poor boy, was Aunt Cecilia's thought.

But the conversation started her off on a new line of thought in regard to Harry. Harry was so different from James; if he once smelled a rat he would go nosing about till he found him, even if he undermined the foundations of his own happiness in so doing. And Harry was the kind that smelled rats.... Inevitably her thoughts wandered around to Lady Fletcher's scheme, and beheld it in a new light. There was a certain amount of common sense in the plan, so viewed; there would certainly be fewer rats in London than anywhere in this country. And after all, what was the danger in his going to England? Miriam would not eat him, neither would Giles; Miriam must really be fond of him if she wanted to take him—Miriam would hardly do anything against her own inclination, she reflected, a little bitterly.

She presented her changed front to her husband that evening, and the upshot of it all was that Harry was to go to England. The whole family adjourned to New York after the funeral, and steamship plans and sailings were in the air. James went with them; it was decided that he was not to return to school till Harry sailed with his aunt.

Harry himself took most kindly to the scheme; seemed, indeed, to prefer it to St. Barnabas. He flaunted his superior fortune in the face of his brother, making comparisons between the British Isles and St. Barnabas, greatly to the detriment of the latter.

"Oh, yes, I'll write to you," he said airily during one of these conversations; "that is, if I can find a minute to do it in. Of course I shall be pretty busy, with pantomimes, and theaters, and parties, and—and the Zoo, and all that."

"Fudge," said James calmly; "you'll be homesick as a cat before you've been there a week."

"Then when I get tired of that I may go to school—if I feel like it. Aunt Miriam says she knows of one that would just do. Not Eton or Rugby, or anything like that; a school for younger boys. This one is in a beautiful big house, Aunt Miriam says, with lots of grounds and things about. Park, you know, like Windsor. And deer in it. And the house was built in the reign of Charles the First."

"Bet you don't even know when that was. What's the use in having that kind of place for a school, anyway?"

"St. Barnabas," replied Harry with hauteur, "was built in the reign of Queen Victoria."

"Queen nothing! Gosh, if you talk rot like this now, what'll you be when you've been over there a while?"

"Then I may go to Eton, or one of those places, later." This was merely to bring a rise; Harry had no idea of completing his education anywhere but at St. Barnabas'.

"Yes, a fine time you'd have there! A fine time you'd have with those kids. Lords, Dukes, and things. Gosh, wouldn't you be sick of them, and oh, but they'd be sick of you!"

"Oh, I don't know," said Harry; "good fellows, lords. Some of them, that is. I might be made one myself, in time, who knows?"

"Yes, you might, mightn't you?" James was laughing now. "Nothing more likely, I should think. Lord Harry, Earl Harry!"

Harry replied in kind, and hostilities ensued.

This was all more or less as it should be, and the mutual attitude was maintained up to the actual moment of sailing—after it, indeed, for when Harry last saw his brother he was standing on the very end of the dock and shouting "Give my love to the earls!" and similar pleasantries to the small head that protruded itself out of the great black moving wall above him; above him now, and now not so much above, but some distance off, and presently not a great black wall at all, but the side of a perfectly articulate ship, way out in the river.

Uncle James and his wife, also their eldest child, Ruth, a girl of nine or thereabouts, all came down to the dock with James to see the travelers off, and as they arrived hours and hours, as Miriam put it, before there was any question of sailing, there was a good deal of standing about in saloons and on decks and talking about nothing in particular, pending the moment when gongs would be rung and people begin to talk jocularly about getting left and having to climb down with the pilot. They all went down to see the staterooms, which adjoined each other and were pronounced satisfactory. Aunt Cecilia said she was glad Harry could have his window open at night without a draught blowing on him, and Aunt Miriam remarked that it was nice to have the ship all to one's self, practically, which was so different from Coming Over, and Uncle James added that when he crossed on the Persia in '69 as a mere kid, there were only fifteen people in the first cabin and none of them ever appeared in the dining room after the first day except himself and the captain. After this, conversation rather lagged and there was a general adjournment to the deck. A few passengers, accompanied by their stay-at-home friends and relations, wandered about the halls and stairways, saying that autumn voyages were not always so bad and that you never could tell about the ocean, at any season; which amounted to admitting that they probably would be seasick, though they hoped not. Our friends, the Wimbournes, had little to say on even this all-absorbing topic, for Harry, who had crossed once before, had proved himself a qualmless sailor, and Aunt Miriam had crossed so often that she had got all over that sort of thing, years ago.

Uncle James was presently despatched to see what mischief those boys were getting that child into, and the two ladies wandered into the main lounge and sat down.

"Anything more different than the appearance of a steamship saloon while the ship is in dock from what it looks like when she is careering round at sea can hardly be imagined," murmured Lady Fletcher, pleasantly, with no intention of being comprehended or replied to. Mrs. James' polite and conscientious rejoinder of "What was that, Miriam?"—she had not, of course, been listening—piqued the other lady ever so slightly. It was not real annoyance, merely the rather tired feeling that comes over one when a companion sounds a note out of one's own mood.

"Oh, nothing; merely what a difference it makes, being out on the open sea."

"Yes, doesn't it?... Harry will—"

"Harry will what?"

"Nothing." Mrs. James blushed a little. She was going to say, "Harry will have to be looked out for, or he will go climbing over places where he shouldn't and fall overboard," or something to that effect, but she decided not to, fearing that her sister-in-law would think her fussy. Lady Fletcher accepted the omission, and went on to talk of the next thing that came into her mind, which was Business. There were some Lackawanna shares, it appeared, part of Harry's property, the dividends on which James was going to pay regularly to the London banker for defraying Harry's expenses, and James might have forgotten to do something, or else not to do something, in connection with these. Lady Fletcher wandered on to American railroad stock, making several remarks which, in the absence of brothers, with their satirical smiles, remained unchallenged. Poor Aunt Cecilia, who could neither keep on nor off her sister-in-law's line of thought, unluckily broke in on the Union Pacific with the malapropos remark:

"Miriam, Harry has got to be made to wear woolen stockings in the winter, no matter what he says ..."

Lady Fletcher was amused. "I declare, Cecilia," she said, "you think I am no more capable of taking care of that boy than of ruling a state!"

But Mrs. James did not smile in reply; the remark came too near to describing her actual state of mind.

"Well, Miriam, with four children of one's own, one may be expected to learn a thing or two; it isn't all as easy as it seems. Beside, I am fond of the boy; I suppose I may be excused for that ..."

"I can certainly excuse it; I am fond of him myself." Lady Fletcher was trying to conceal her irritation. Perhaps the suavity of her tone was a little overdone; at any rate, it only served to make Mrs. James' face a little rosier and her voice a little harder as she replied:

"I suppose you think, Miriam, that because I have four children of my own to fuss over, I might be expected to let the others alone, and I daresay you're right; but all that I know is, my heart isn't made that way. I have noticed you during these last weeks, and I am sure that you have felt as I say. But if you think that because I have four of my own to love, and therefore have less to give to those two motherless boys, you are mistaken. The more you have to love, the more you love each one of them, separately—not the less, as you might know if you had children of your own ..."

She stopped, unable to say any more. Her words were much more cruel than she intended them to be; that is, they fell much more cruelly than she meant them to on Lady Fletcher's ears. She had no idea, of course, of the deep though vain yearning for offspring of her own that filled her sister-in-law's bosom; Miriam could not possibly have expressed this, the deepest and most tragic thing in her life, to Cecilia. She was made that way. The more poignantly she felt what she had missed, the more determinedly she concealed every trace of her feeling from the outside world.

So it was now. Every ounce of feeling in her flared for a moment into hate; the hate of the childless woman for the mother. The flame fell after a second or two, of course, and she was able to reply, unsmilingly and coldly:

"I think that Harry will be as well treated by me as you could wish, Cecilia."

Mother love, nothing else, was responsible for all the hardness and bitterness in her tone. But Mrs. James knew nothing of this; she only felt the hardness and bitterness and judged the speaker accordingly.

That was all. The quarrel, if such it could be called, died down as quickly as it had flared up, for it was impossible for these two well-bred ladies to fall out and fight like fishwives. Lady Fletcher's last remark made further discussion of the subject, or any other subject, for the time being, impossible, and after a minute the two rose by tacit consent and went out to find the others.

By the time they found them they were both as calm and self-possessed as usual. When, after a little more standing around, the gongs were rung and the time for farewell actually arrived, Lady Fletcher kissed her nephew and niece with neither more nor less than her usual cordiality, and Mrs. James was exactly as affectionate in her farewells to Harry as might have been expected. The two ladies also embraced each other with no sign of ill-feeling. Lady Fletcher's good-humor was unabated in quantity, if just a little strained in quality.

"Now comes the most amusing part of sailing," she said, "which is, watching other people cry. Don't tell me people don't love to cry better than anything else in the world; if not, why do they come down here? You might think that every one of them was being torn away from his home and country for life!"

"The time when I always want to cry most," contributed Uncle James, "is on landing. Everything is so disagreeable then, after the ease and comfort of the voyage."

That was the general tone of the parting. Even Aunt Cecilia smiled appreciatively and gave no sign of underlying emotion. But as she watched the great steamer glide slowly out of her slip her thoughts ran in such channels as these:

"Miriam is a brilliant woman; she has made a great lady of herself, and is going to be a still greater one. She has money, position, wit, beauty and youth. The greatest people come gladly to her house; small people scheme and plot to get invitations there. Yet what is it all worth, when the greatest blessing of all, the blessing of children, is denied her? And the terrible part of it is, she is so utterly unconscious of what she has missed; her whole heart is eaten up with those worldly and unsatisfactory things. Poor Miriam, I pity her as it is, but how I could pity her if it were all a little different!"

And the thoughts of Lady Fletcher, as she stood on the deck and watched the shores slip away from her, were somewhat as follows:

"I always thought Cecilia was one of the best of women, until this hour. I don't mind her being a great heiress, I don't mind her never being able to forget that she was a Van Lorn, I don't mind her subconscious attitude of having married beneath her when she married James—whose ancestors were governing colonies when hers were keeping a grocery store on lower Manhattan Island—! But when it comes to her boasting about having children, and flaunting them in my face because I haven't got any, I think I am about justified in saying that she shows a mean and ignoble nature. I have seen all I want to of Cecilia, for some time to come!"