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Project Gutenberg's By the Light of the Soul, by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: By the Light of the Soul
       A Novel

Author: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Illustrator: Harold M. Brett

Release Date: January 21, 2006 [EBook #17564]

Language: English

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<h1>By the Light of the Soul</h1>
<h2>A Novel</h2>
<h3>By<br>
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman</h3>

<p>Author of<br>
"The Debtor" "The Portion of Labor"<br>
"Jerome" "A New England Nun"<br>
Etc. etc.</p>

<p>Illustrations by<br>
Harold M. Brett</p>

<p>New York and London<br>
Harper &amp; Brothers Publishers<br>
1907</p>

<p>Copyright, 1906, by Harper &amp; Brothers.<br>
All rights reserved.<br>
Published January, 1907.</p>

<p>To Harriet and Carolyn Alden</p>


<h4 align="center">Chapter I</h4>
<p>Maria Edgham, who was a very young girl, sat in the church
vestry beside a window during the weekly prayer-meeting.</p>
<p>As was the custom, a young man had charge of the meeting, and he
stood, with a sort of embarrassed dignity, on the little platform
behind the desk. He was reading a selection from the Bible. Maria
heard him drone out in a scarcely audible voice: &ldquo;Whom the
Lord loveth, He chasteneth,&rdquo; and then she heard, in a quick
response, a soft sob from the seat behind her. She knew who sobbed:
Mrs. Jasper Cone, who had lost her baby the week before. The odor
of crape came in Maria's face, making a species of discordance with
the fragrance of the summer night, which came in at the open
window. Maria felt irritated by it, and she wondered why Mrs. Cone
felt so badly about the loss of her baby. It had always seemed to
Maria a most unattractive child, large-headed, flabby, and mottled,
with ever an open mouth of resistance, and a loud wail of
opposition to existence in general. Maria felt sure that she could
never have loved such a baby. Even the unfrequent smiles of that
baby had not been winning; they had seemed reminiscent of the
commonest and coarsest things of life, rather than of heavenly
innocence. Maria gazed at the young man on the platform, who
presently bent his head devoutly, and after saying, &ldquo;Let us
pray,&rdquo; gave utterance to an unintelligible flood of
supplication intermingled with information to the Lord of the state
of things on the earth, and the needs of his people. Maria wondered
why, when God knew everything, Leon Barber told him about it, and
she also hoped that God heard better than most of the congregation
did. But she looked with a timid wonder of admiration at the young
man himself. He was so much older than she, that her romantic
fancies, which even at such an early age had seized upon her, never
included him. She as yet dreamed only of other dreamers like
herself, Wollaston Lee, for instance, who went to the same school,
and was only a year older. Maria had made sure that he was there,
by a glance, directly after she had entered, then she never glanced
at him again, but she wove him into her dreams along with the
sweetness of the midsummer night, and the morally tuneful
atmosphere of the place. She was utterly innocent, her farthest
dreams were white, but she dreamed. She gazed out of the window
through which came the wind on her little golden-cropped head (she
wore her hair short) in cool puffs, and she saw great, plumy masses
of shadow, themselves like the substance of which dreams were made.
The trees grew thickly down the slope, which the church crowned,
and at the bottom of the slope rushed the river, which she heard
like a refrain through the intermittent soughing of the trees. A
whippoorwill was singing somewhere out there, and the katydids
shrieked so high that they almost surmounted dreams. She could
smell wild grapes and pine and other mingled odors of unknown
herbs, and the earth itself. There had been a hard shower that
afternoon, and the earth still seemed to cry out with pleasure
because of it. Maria had worn her old shoes to church, lest she
spoil her best ones; but she wore her pretty pink gingham gown, and
her hat with a wreath of rosebuds, and she felt to the utmost the
attractiveness of her appearance. She, however, felt somewhat
conscience-stricken on account of the pink gingham gown. It was a
new one, and her mother had been obliged to have it made by a
dress-maker, and had paid three dollars for that, beside the
trimmings, which were lace and ribbon. Maria wore the gown without
her mother's knowledge. She had in fact stolen down the backstairs
on that account, and gone out the south door in order that her
mother should not see her. Maria's mother was ill lately, and had
not been able to go to church, nor even to perform her usual tasks.
She had always made Maria's gowns herself until this pink
gingham.</p>
<p>Maria's mother was originally from New England, and her
conscience was abnormally active. Her father was of New Jersey, and
his conscience, while no one would venture to say that it was
defective, did not in the least interfere with his enjoyment of
life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, well, Abby,&rdquo; her father would reply, easily,
when her mother expressed her distress that she was unable to work
as she had done, &ldquo;we shall manage somehow. Don't worry,
Abby.&rdquo; Worry in another irritated him even more than in
himself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, Maria can't help much while she is in school. She
is a delicate little thing, and sometimes I am worried about
her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria can't be expected to do much while she is in
school,&rdquo; her father said, easily. &ldquo;We'll manage
somehow, only for Heaven's sake don't worry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Maria's father had taken his hat and gone down street. He
always went down street of an evening. Maria, who had been sitting
on the porch, had heard every word of the conversation which had
been carried on in the sitting-room that very evening. It did not
alarm her at all because her mother considered her delicate.
Instead, she had a vague sense of distinction on account of it. It
was as if she realized being a flower rather than a vegetable. She
thought of it that night as she sat in meeting. She glanced across
at a girl who went to the same school&mdash;a large, heavily built
child with a coarseness of grain showing in every feature&mdash;and
a sense of superiority at once exalted and humiliated her. She said
to herself that she was much finer and prettier than Lottie Sears,
but that she ought to be thankful and not proud because she was.
She felt vain, but she was sorry because of her vanity. She knew
how charming her pink gingham gown was, but she knew that she ought
to have asked her mother if she might wear it. She knew that her
mother would scold her&mdash;she had a ready tongue&mdash;and she
realized that she would deserve it. She had put on the pink gingham
on account of Wollaston Lee, who was usually at prayer-meeting.
That, of course, she could not tell her mother. There are some
things too sacred for little girls to tell their mothers. She
wondered if Wollaston would ask leave to walk home with her. She
had seen a boy step out of a waiting file at the vestry door to a
blushing girl, and had seen the girl, with a coy readiness, slip
her hand into the waiting crook of his arm, and walk off, and she
had wondered when such bliss would come to her. It never had. She
wondered if the pink gingham might bring it to pass to-night. The
pink gingham was as the mating plumage of a bird. All unconsciously
she glanced sideways over the fall of lace-trimmed pink ruffles at
her slender shoulders at Wollaston Lee. He was gazing straight at
Miss Slome, Miss Ida Slome, who was the school-teacher, and his
young face wore an expression of devotion. Maria's eyes followed
his; she did not dream of being jealous; Miss Slome seemed too
incalculably old to her for that. She was not so very old, in her
early thirties, but the early thirties to a young girl are
venerable. Miss Ida Slome was called a beauty. She, as well as
Maria, wore a pink dress, at which Maria privately wondered. The
teacher seemed to her too old to wear pink. She thought she ought
wear black like her mother. Miss Slome's pink dress had knots of
black velvet about it which accentuated it, even as Miss Slome's
face was accentuated by the clear darkness of her eyes and the
black puff of her hair above her finely arched brows. Her cheeks
were of the sweetest red&mdash;not pink but red&mdash;which seemed
a further tone of the pink of her attire, and she wore a hat
encircled with a wreath of red roses. Maria thought that she should
have worn a bonnet. Maria felt an odd sort of instinctive
antagonism for her. She wondered why Wollaston looked at the
teacher so instead of at herself. She gave her head a charming
cant, and glanced again, but the boy still had his eyes fixed upon
the elder woman, with that rapt expression which is seen only in
the eyes of a boy upon an older woman, and which is primeval,
involving the adoration and awe of womanhood itself. The boy had
not reached the age when he was capable of falling in love, but he
had reached the age of adoration, and there was nothing in little
Maria Edgham in her pink gingham, with her shy, sidelong glances,
to excite it. She was only a girl, the other was a goddess. His
worship of the teacher interfered with Wollaston's studies. He was
wondering as he sat there if he could not walk home with her that
night, if by chance any <em>man</em> would be in waiting for her.
How he hated that imaginary man. He glanced around, and as he did
so, the door opened softly, and Harry Edgham, Maria's father,
entered. He was very late, but he had waited in the vestibule, in
order not to attract attention, until the people began singing a
hymn, &ldquo;Jesus, Lover of my Soul,&rdquo; to the tune of
&ldquo;When the Swallows Homeward Fly.&rdquo; He was a distinctly
handsome man. He looked much younger than Maria's mother, his wife.
People said that Harry Edgham's wife might, from her looks, have
been his mother. She was a tall, dark, rather harsh-featured woman.
In her youth she had had a beauty of color; now that had passed,
and she was sallow, and she disdained to try to make the most of
herself, to soften her stern face by a judicious arrangement of her
still plentiful hair. She strained it back from her hollow temples,
and fastened it securely on the top of her head. She had a scorn of
fashions in hair or dress except for Maria. &ldquo;Maria is
young,&rdquo; she said, with an ineffable expression of love and
pride, and a tincture of defiance, as if she were defying her own
age, in the ownership of the youth of her child. She was like a
rose-bush which possessed a perfect bud of beauty, and her own long
dwelling upon the earth could on account of that be ignored. But
Maria's father was different. He was quite openly a vain man. He
was handsome, and he held fast to his youth, and would not let it
pass by. His hair, curling slightly over temples boyish in
outlines, although marked, was not in the least gray. His mustache
was carefully trimmed. After he had seated himself unobtrusively in
a rear seat, he looked around for his daughter, who saw him with
dismay. &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; she thought, her chances of Wollaston
Lee walking home with her were lost. Father would go home with her.
Her mother had often admonished Harry Edgham that when Maria went
to meeting alone, he ought to be in waiting to go home with her,
and he obeyed his wife, generally speaking, unless her wishes
conflicted too strenuously with his own. He did not in the least
object to-night, for instance, to dropping late into the
prayer-meeting. There were not many people there, and all the
windows were open, and there was something poetical and sweet about
the atmosphere. Besides, the singing was unusually good for such a
place. Above all the other voices arose Ida Slome's sweet soprano.
She sang like a bird; her voice, although not powerful, was
thrillingly sweet. Harry looked at her as she sang, and thought how
pretty she was, but there was no disloyalty to his wife in the
look. He was, in fact, not that sort of man. While he did not love
his Abby with utter passion, all the women of the world could not
have swerved him from her.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham came of perhaps the best old family in that
vicinity, Edgham itself had been named for it, and while he partook
of that degeneracy which comes to the descendants of the large old
families, while it is as inevitable that they should run out, so to
speak, as flowers which have flourished too many years in a garden,
whose soil they have exhausted, he had not lost the habit of
rectitude of his ancestors. Virtue was a hereditary trait of the
Edghams.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham looked at Ida Slome with as innocent admiration as
another woman might have done. Then he looked again at his
daughter's little flower-like head, and a feeling of love made his
heart warm. Maria could sing herself, but she was afraid. Once in a
while she droned out a sweet, husky note, then her delicate cheeks
flushed crimson as if all the people had heard her, when they had
not heard at all, and she turned her head, and gazed out of the
open window at the plumed darkness. She thought again with
annoyance how she would have to go with her father, and Wollaston
Lee would not dare accost her, even if he were so disposed; then
she took a genuine pleasure in the window space of sweet night and
the singing. Her passions were yet so young that they did not
disturb her long if interrupted. She was also always conscious of
the prettiness of her appearance, and she loved herself for it with
that love which brings previsions of unknown joys of the future.
Her charming little face, in her realization of it, was as the
untried sword of the young warrior which is to bring him all the
glory of earth for which his soul longs.</p>
<p>After the meeting was closed, and Harry Edgham, with his little
daughter lagging behind him with covert eyes upon Wollaston Lee,
went out of the vestry, a number inquired for his wife. &ldquo;Oh,
she is very comfortable,&rdquo; he replied, with his cheerful
optimism which solaced him in all vicissitudes, except the single
one of actually witnessing the sorrow and distress of those who
belonged to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heard,&rdquo; said one man, who was noted in the place
for his outspokenness, which would have been brutal had it not been
for his na&iuml;vet&eacute;&mdash;&ldquo;I heard she wasn't going
to get out again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense,&rdquo; replied Harry Edgham.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then she is?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course she is. She would have come to meeting to-night
if it had not been so damp.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'm glad to hear it,&rdquo; said the man, with a
curious congratulation which gave the impression of
disappointment.</p>
<p>Little Maria Edgham and her father went up the village street;
Harry Edgham walked quite swiftly. &ldquo;I guess we had better
hurry along,&rdquo; he observed, &ldquo;your mother is all
alone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria tagged behind him. Her father had to stop at a
grocery-store on the corner of the street where they lived, to get
a bag of peaches which he had left there. &ldquo;I got some peaches
on my way,&rdquo; he explained, &ldquo;and I didn't want to carry
them to church. I thought your mother might like them. The doctor
said she might eat fruit.&rdquo; With that he darted into the store
with the agility of a boy.</p>
<p>Maria stood on the dusty sidewalk in the glare of electric
light, and waited. Her pink gingham dress was quite short, but she
held it up daintily, like a young lady, pinching a fold between her
little thumb and forefinger. Mrs. Jasper Cone, with another woman,
came up, and to Maria's astonishment, Mrs. Cone stopped, clasped
her in her arms and kissed her. As she did so, she sobbed, and
Maria felt her tears of bereavement on her cheek with an odd
mixture of pity and awe and disgust. &ldquo;If my Minnie
had&mdash;lived, she might have grown up to be like her,&rdquo; she
gasped out to her friend. &ldquo;I always thought she looked like
her.&rdquo; The friend made a sympathetic murmur of assent. Mrs.
Cone kissed Maria again, holding her little form to her
crape-trimmed bosom almost convulsively, then the two passed on.
Maria heard her say again that she always had thought the baby
looked like her, and she felt humiliated. She looked after the poor
mother's streaming black veil with resentment. Then Miss Ida Slome
passed by, and Wollaston Lee was clinging to her arm, pressing as
closely to her side as he dared. Miss Slome saw Maria, and spoke in
her sweet, crisp tone. &ldquo;Good-evening, Maria,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>Maria stood gazing after them. Her father emerged from the store
with the bag of peaches dangling from his hand. He looked
incongruous. Her father had too much the air of a gentleman to
carry a paper bag. &ldquo;I do hope your mother will like these
peaches,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Maria walked along with her father, and she thought with pain
and scorn how singular it was for a boy to want to go home with an
old woman like Miss Slome, when there were little girls like
her.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter II</h4>
<p>Maria and her father entered the house, which was not far. It
was a quite new Queen Anne cottage of the better class, situated in
a small lot of land, and with other houses very near on either
side. There was a great clump of hydrangeas on the small smooth
lawn in front, and on the piazza stood a small table, covered with
a dainty white cloth trimmed with lace, on which were laid, in
ostentatious neatness, the evening paper and a couple of magazines.
There were chairs, and palms in jardini&egrave;res stood on either
side of the flight of wooden steps.</p>
<p>Maria's mother was, however, in the house, seated beside the
sitting-room table, on which stood a kerosene lamp with a
singularly ugly shade. She was darning stockings. She held the
stocking in her left hand, and drew the thread through regularly.
Her mouth was tightly closed, which was indicative both of decision
of character and pain. Her countenance looked sallower than ever.
She looked up at her husband and little girl entering.
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;so you've got home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've brought you some peaches, Abby,&rdquo; said Harry
Edgham. He laid the bag on the table, and looked anxiously at his
wife. &ldquo;How do you feel now?&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I feel well enough,&rdquo; said she. Her reply sounded
ill-humored, but she did not intend it to be so. She was far from
being ill-humored. She was thinking of her husband's kindness in
bringing the peaches. But she looked at the paper bag on the table
sharply. &ldquo;If there is a soft peach in that bag,&rdquo; said
she, &ldquo;and there's likely to be, it will stain the
table-cover, and I can never get it out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry hastily removed the paper bag from the table, which was
covered with a white linen spread trimmed with lace and
embroidered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you feel as if you could eat one to-night? You
didn't eat much supper, and I thought maybe&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe I can to-night, but I shall like them
to-morrow,&rdquo; replied Mrs. Edgham, in a voice soft with
apology. Then she looked fairly for the first time at Maria, who
had purposely remained behind her father, and her voice immediately
hardened. &ldquo;Maria, come here,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Maria obeyed. She left the shelter of her father's broad back,
and stood before her mother, in her pink gingham dress, a miserable
little penitent, whose penitence was not of a high order. The
sweetness of looking pretty was still in her soul, although
Wollaston Lee had not gone home with her.</p>
<p>Maria's mother regarded her with a curious expression compounded
of pride and almost fierce disapproval. Harry went precipitately
out of the room with the paper bag of peaches. &ldquo;You didn't
wear that new pink gingham dress that I had to hire made, trimmed
with all that lace and ribbon, to meeting to-night?&rdquo; said
Maria's mother.</p>
<p>Maria said nothing. It seemed to her that such an obvious fact
scarcely needed words of assent.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Damp as it is, too,&rdquo; said her mother.</p>
<p>Mrs. Edgham extended a lean, sallow hand and felt of the dainty
fabric. &ldquo;It is just as limp as a rag,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;about spoiled.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I held it up,&rdquo; said Maria then, with feeble
extenuation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Held it up!&rdquo; repeated her mother, with scorn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought maybe you wouldn't care.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wouldn't care! That was the reason why you went out the
other door then. I wondered why you did. Putting on that new pink
gingham dress that I had to hire made, trimmed with all that lace
and ribbon, and wearing it out in the evening, damp as it is
to-night! I don't see what you were thinking of, Maria
Edgham.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked down disconsolately at the lace-trimmed ruffles on
her skirt, but even then she thought how pretty it was, and how
pretty she must look herself standing so forlornly before her
mother. She wondered how her mother could scold her when she was
her own daughter, and looked so sweet. She still felt the damp
coolness of the night on her cheeks, and realized a bloom on them
like that of a wild rose.</p>
<p>But Mrs. Edgham continued. She had the high temper of the women
of her race who had brought up great families to toil and fight for
the Commonwealth, and she now brought it to bear upon petty things
in lieu of great ones. Besides, her illness made her irritable. She
found a certain relief from her constant pain in scolding this
child of her heart, whom secretly she admired as she admired no
other living thing. Even as she scolded, she regarded her in the
pink dress with triumph. &ldquo;I should think you would be ashamed
of yourself, Maria Edgham,&rdquo; said she, in a high voice.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham, who had deposited the peaches in the ice-box, and
had been about to enter the room, retreated. He went out the other
door himself, and round upon the piazza, when presently the smoke
of his cigar stole into the room. Then Mrs. Edgham included him in
her wrath.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You and your father are just alike,&rdquo; said she,
bitterly. &ldquo;You both of you will do just what you want to,
whether or no. He will smoke, though he knows it makes me worse,
besides costing more than he can afford, and you will put on your
best dress, without asking leave, and wear it out in a damp night,
and spoil it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria continued to stand still, and her mother to regard her
with that odd mixture of worshipful love and chiding. Suddenly Mrs.
Edgham closed her mouth more tightly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stand round here,&rdquo; said she, violently. &ldquo;Let
me unbutton your dress. I don't see how you fastened it up
yourself, anyway; you wouldn't have thought you could, if it hadn't
been for deceiving your mother. You would have come down to me to
do it, the way you always do. You have got it buttoned wrong,
anyway. You must have been a sight for the folks who sat behind
you. Well, it serves you right. Stand round here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry,&rdquo; said Maria then. She wondered whether
the wrong fastening had showed much through the slats of the
settee.</p>
<p>Her mother unfastened, with fingers that were at once gentle and
nervous, the pearl buttons on the back of the dress. &ldquo;Take
your arms out,&rdquo; said she to Maria. Maria cast a glance at the
window. &ldquo;There's nobody out there but your father,&rdquo;
said Mrs. Edgham, harshly, &ldquo;take your arms out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria took her arms out of the fluffy mass and stood revealed in
her little, scantily trimmed underwaist, a small, childish figure,
with the utmost delicacy of articulation as to shoulder-blades and
neck. Maria was thin to the extreme, but her bones were so small
that she was charming even in her thinness. Her little, beautifully
modelled arms were as charming as a fairy's.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now slip off your skirt,&rdquo; ordered her mother, and
Maria complied and stood in her little white petticoat, with
another glance of the exaggerated modesty of little girlhood at the
window.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said her mother, &ldquo;you go and hang this
up in the kitchen where it is warm, on that nail on the outside
door, and maybe some of the creases will come out. I've heard they
would. I hope so, for I've got about all I want to do without
ironing this dress all over.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria gazed at her mother with sudden compunction and anxious
love. After all, she loved her mother down to the depths of her
childish heart; it was only that long custom had so inured her to
the loving that she did not always realize the warmth of her heart
because of it. &ldquo;Do you feel sick to-night mother?&rdquo; she
whispered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No sicker than usual,&rdquo; replied her mother. Then she
drew the delicate little figure close to her, and kissed her with a
sort of passion. &ldquo;May the Lord look out for you,&rdquo; she
said, &ldquo;if you should happen to outlive me! I don't know what
would become of you, Maria, you are so heedless, wearing your best
things every day, and everything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria's face paled. &ldquo;Mother, you aren't any worse?&rdquo;
said she, in a terrified whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I am not a mite worse. Run along, child, and hang up
your dress, then go to bed; it's after nine o'clock.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It did not take much at that time to reassure Maria. She had
inherited something of the optimism of her father. She carried her
pink dress into the kitchen, with wary eyes upon the windows, and
hung it up as her mother had directed. On her return she paused a
moment at the foot of the stairs in the hall, between the
dining-room and sitting-room. Then, obeying an impulse, she ran
into the sitting-room and threw her soft little arms around her
mother's neck. &ldquo;I'm real sorry I wore that dress without
asking you, mother,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I won't again,
honest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I hope you will remember,&rdquo; replied her
mother. &ldquo;If you wear the best you have common you will never
have anything.&rdquo; Her tone was chiding, but the look on her
face was infinitely caressing. She thought privately that never was
such a darling as Maria. She looked at the softly flushed little
face, with its topknot of gold, the delicate fairness of the neck,
and slender arms, and she had a rapture of something more than
possession. The beauty of the child irradiated her very soul, the
beauty and the goodness, for Maria never disobeyed but she was
sorry afterwards, and somehow glorified faults seem lovelier than
cold virtues. &ldquo;Well, run up-stairs to bed,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;Be careful of your lamp.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When Maria was in her own room she set the lamp on the dresser
and gazed upon her face reflected in the mirror. That was her
nightly custom, and might have been regarded as a sort of fetich
worship of self. Nothing, in fact, could have been lovelier than
that face of childish innocence and beauty, with the soft rays of
the lamp illuminating it. Her blue eyes seemed to fairly give forth
light, the soft pink on her cheeks deepened until it was like the
heart of a rose. She opened her exquisitely curved lips, and smiled
at herself in a sort of ecstasy. She turned her head this way and
that in order to get different effects. She pulled the little
golden fleece of hair farther over her forehead. She pushed it
back, revealing the bold yet delicate outlines of her temples. She
thought how glad she should be when her hair was grown. She had had
an illness two years before, and her mother had judged it best to
have her hair cut short. It was now just long enough to hang over
her ears, curving slightly forward like the old-fashioned earlocks.
She had her hair tied back from her face with a pink ribbon in a
bow on top of her head. She loosened this ribbon, and shook her
hair quite loose. She peeped out of the golden radiance of it at
herself, then she shook it back. She was charming either way. She
was undeveloped, but as yet not a speck of the mildew of earth had
touched her. She was flawless, irreproachable, except for the
knowledge of her beauty, through heredity, in her heart, which was
older than she herself.</p>
<p>Suddenly Maria, after a long gaze of rapture at her face in the
glass, gave a great start. She turned and saw her mother standing
in the door looking at her.</p>
<p>Maria, with an involuntary impulse of concealment, seized her
brush, and began brushing her hair. &ldquo;I was just brushing my
hair,&rdquo; she murmured. She felt as guilty as if she had
committed a crime.</p>
<p>Her mother continued to look at her sternly. &ldquo;There isn't
any use in your trying to deceive me, Maria,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;I am ashamed that a child of mine should be so silly. To
stand looking at yourself that way! You needn't think you are so
pretty, because you are not. You don't begin to be as good-looking
as Amy Long.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria felt a cold chill strike her. She had herself had doubts
as to her superior beauty when Amy Long was concerned.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't begin to be as good-looking as your aunt Maria
was at your age, and you know yourself how she looks now. Nobody
would dream for a minute of calling her even
ordinary-looking,&rdquo; her mother continued in a pitiless
voice.</p>
<p>Maria shuddered. She seemed to see, instead of her own fair
little face in the glass, an elderly one as sallow as her mother's,
but without the traces of beauty which her mother's undoubtedly
had. She saw the thin, futile frizzes which her aunt Maria
affected; she saw the receding chin, indicative at once of
degeneracy and obstinacy; she saw the blunt nose between the lumpy
cheeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your aunt Maria looked very much as you do when she was
your age,&rdquo; her mother went on, with the calm cruelty of an
inquisitor.</p>
<p>Maria looked at her, her mouth was quivering. &ldquo;Did I look
like Mrs. Jasper Cone's baby that died last week when I was a
baby?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who said you did?&rdquo; inquired her mother,
unguardedly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She did. She came up behind me with Mrs. Elliot when I
was waiting for father to get the peaches, and she said her baby
that died looked just like me; she had always thought
so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That Cone baby look like you!&rdquo; repeated Maria's
mother. &ldquo;Well, one's own always looks different to them, I
suppose.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you don't think it did?&rdquo; said Maria. Tears
actually stood in her beautiful blue eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't,&rdquo; replied her mother, abruptly.
&ldquo;Nobody in their sober senses could think so. I am sorry poor
Mrs. Cone lost her baby. I know how I felt when my first baby died,
but as for saying it looked like you&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you don't think it did, mother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was one of the homliest babies I ever laid my eyes on,
poor little thing, if it did die,&rdquo; said Maria's mother,
emphatically. She was completely disarmed by this time. But when
she saw Maria glance again at the glass she laid hold of her moral
weapons, the wielding of which she believed to be for the best
spiritual good of her child. &ldquo;Your aunt Maria was very much
better looking than you at her age,&rdquo; she repeated, firmly.
Then, at the sight of the renewed quiver around the sensitive
little mouth her heart melted. &ldquo;Get out of your clothes and
into your night-gown, and get to bed, child,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;You look well enough. If you only behave as well as you
look, that is all that is necessary.&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter III</h4>
<p>Maria fell asleep that night with the full assurance that she
had not been mistaken concerning the beauty of the little face
which she had seen in the looking-glass. All that troubled her was
the consideration that her aunt Maria, whose homely face seemed to
glare out of the darkness at her, might have looked just as she did
when she was her age. She hoped, and then she hoped that the hope
was not wicked, that she might die young rather than live to look
like her aunt Maria. She pictured with a sort of pleasurable
horror, what a lovely little waxen-image she would look now, laid
away in a nest of white flowers. She had only just begun to doze,
when she awoke with a great start. Her father had opened her door,
and stood calling her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria,&rdquo; he said, in an agitated voice.</p>
<p>Maria sat up in bed. &ldquo;Oh, father, what is it?&rdquo; said
she, and a vague horror chilled her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Get up, and slip on something, and go into your mother's
room,&rdquo; said her father, in a gasping sort of voice.
&ldquo;I've got to go for the doctor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria put one slim little foot out of bed. &ldquo;Oh,
father,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;is mother sick?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she is very sick,&rdquo; replied her father. His
voice sounded almost savage. It was as if he were furious with his
wife for being ill, furious with Maria, with life, and death
itself. In reality he was torn almost to madness with anxiety.
&ldquo;Slip on something so you won't catch cold,&rdquo; said he,
in his irritated voice. &ldquo;I don't want another one
down.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria ran to her closet and pulled out a little pink wrapper.
&ldquo;Oh, father, is mother very sick?&rdquo; she whispered
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she is very sick. I am going to have another doctor
to-morrow,&rdquo; replied her father, still in that furious,
excited voice, which the sick woman must have heard.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What shall I&mdash;&rdquo; began Maria, but her father,
running down the stairs, cut her short.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do nothing,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Just go in there and
stay with her. And don't you talk. Don't you speak a word to her.
Go right in.&rdquo; With that the front door slammed.</p>
<p>Maria went tiptoeing into her mother's room, still shaking from
head to foot, and her blue eyes seeming to protrude from her little
white face. Even before she entered her mother's room she became
conscious of a noise, something between a wail and a groan. It was
indescribably terrifying. It was like nothing which she had ever
heard before. It did not seem possible that her mother, that
anything human, in fact, was making such a noise, and yet no animal
could have made it, for it was articulate. Her mother was in fact
both praying and repeating verses of Scripture, in that awful voice
which was no longer capable of normal speech, but was compounded of
wail and groan. Every sentence seemed to begin with a groan, and
ended with a long-drawn-out wail. Maria went close to her mother's
bed and stood looking at her. Her poor little face would have torn
her mother's heart with its piteous terror, had she herself not
been in such agony.</p>
<p>Maria did not speak. She remembered what her father had said. As
her mother lay there, stretched out stiff and stark, almost as if
she were dead, Maria glanced around the room as if for help. She
caught sight of a bottle of cologne on the dresser, one which she
had given her mother herself the Christmas before; she had bought
it out of her little savings of pocket-money. Maria went unsteadily
over to the dresser and got the cologne. She also opened a drawer
and got out a clean handkerchief. She became conscious that her
mother's eyes were upon her, even although she never ceased for a
moment her cries of agony.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What&mdash;r you do&mdash;g?&rdquo; asked her mother, in
her dreadful voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Just getting some cologne to put on your head, to make
you feel better, mother,&rdquo; replied Maria, piteously. She
thought she must answer her mother's question in spite of her
father's prohibition.</p>
<p>Her mother seemed to take no further notice; she turned her face
to the wall. &ldquo;Have&mdash;mercy upon me, O Lord, according to
Thy loving kindness, according to the multitude of Thy tender
mercies,&rdquo; she shrieked out. Then the words ended with a
long-drawn-out &ldquo;Oh&mdash;oh&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Had Maria not been familiar with the words, she could not have
understood them. Not a consonant was fairly sounded, the vowels
were elided. She went, feeling as if her legs were sticks, close to
her mother's bed, and opened the cologne bottle with hands which
shook like an old man's with the palsy. She poured some cologne on
the handkerchief and a pungent odor filled the room. She laid the
wet handkerchief on her mother's sallow forehead, then she
recoiled, for her mother, at the shock of the coldness, experienced
a new and almost insufferable spasm of pain. &ldquo;Let&mdash;me
alone!&rdquo; she wailed, and it was like the howl of a dog.</p>
<p>Maria slunk back to the dresser with the handkerchief and the
cologne bottle, then she returned to her mother's bedside and
seated herself there in a rocking-chair. A lamp was burning over on
the dresser, but it was turned low; her mother's convulsed face
seemed to waver in unaccountable shadows. Maria sat, not speaking a
word, but quivering from head to foot, and her mother kept up her
prayers and her verses from Scripture. Maria herself began to pray
in her heart. She said it over and over to herself, in unutterable
appeal and terror, &ldquo;O Lord, please make mother well, please
make her well.&rdquo; She prayed on, although the groaning wail
never ceased.</p>
<p>Suddenly her mother turned and looked at her, and spoke quite
naturally. &ldquo;Is that you?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, mother. I'm so sorry you are sick. Father has gone
for the doctor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You haven't got on enough,&rdquo; said her mother, still
in her natural voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've got on my wrapper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That isn't enough, getting up right out of bed so. Go and
get my white crocheted shawl out of the closet and put it over your
shoulders.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria obeyed. While she was doing so her mother resumed her
cries. She said the first half of the twenty-third psalm, then she
looked again at Maria seating herself beside her, and said, in her
own voice, wrested as it were by love from the very depths of
mortal agony. &ldquo;Have you got your stockings on?&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, ma'am, and my slippers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her mother said no more to her. She resumed her attention to her
own misery with an odd, small gesture of despair. The cries never
ceased. Maria still prayed. It seemed to her that her father would
never return with the doctor. It seemed to her, in spite of her
prayer, that all hope of relief lay in the doctor, and not in the
Lord. It seemed to her that the doctor must help her mother. At
last she heard wheels, and, in her joy, she spoke in spite of her
father's injunction. &ldquo;There's the doctor now,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;I guess he's bringing father home with him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again her mother's eyes opened with a look of intelligence,
again she spoke in her natural voice. She looked towards the
clothes which she had worn during the day, on a chair. &ldquo;Put
my clothes in the closet,&rdquo; said she, but her voice strained
terribly on the last word.</p>
<p>Maria flew, and hung up her mother's clothes in the closet just
before her father and the doctor entered the room. As she did so,
the tears came for the first time. She had a ready imagination. She
thought to herself that her mother might never put on those clothes
again. She kissed the folds of her mother's dress passionately, and
emerged from the closet, the tears streaming down her face, all the
muscles of which were convulsed. The doctor, who was a young man,
with a handsome, rather hard face, glanced at her before even
looking at the moaning woman in the bed. He said something in a low
tone to her father, who immediately addressed her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go right into your own room, and stay there until I tell
you to come out, Maria,&rdquo; said he, still in that angry voice,
which seemed to have no reason in it. It was the dumb anger of the
race against Fate, which included and overran individuals in its
way, like Juggernaut.</p>
<p>At her father's voice, Maria gave a hysterical sob and fled. A
sense of injury tore her heart, as well as her anxiety. She flung
herself face downward on her bed and wept. After a while she turned
over on her back and looked at the room. Not one little thing in
the whole apartment but served to rack her very soul with the
consideration of her mother's love, which she was perhaps about to
lose forever. The dainty curtains at the windows, the scarf on the
dresser, the chintz cover on a chair&mdash;every one her mother had
planned. She could not remember how much her mother had scolded
her, only how much she had loved her. At the moment of death the
memory of love reigns triumphant over all else, but she still felt
the dazed sense of injury that her father should have spoken so to
her. She could hear the low murmur of voices in her mother's room
across the hall. Suddenly the cries and moans ceased. A great joy
irradiated the child. She said to herself that her mother was
better, that the doctor had given her something to help her.</p>
<p>She got off the bed, wrapped her little pink garment around her,
and stole across the hall to her mother's room. The whole hall was
filled with a strange, sweet smell which made her faint, but along
with the faintness came such an increase of joy that it was almost
ecstasy. She turned the knob of her mother's door, but, before she
could open it, it was opened from the other side, and her father's
face, haggard and resentful as she had never seen it, appeared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go back!&rdquo; he whispered, fiercely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, father, is mother better?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go back!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria went back, and again the tempest of woe and injury swept
over her. Why should her father speak to her so? Why could he not
tell her if her mother were better? She sat in her little
rocking-chair beside the window, and looked out at the night. She
was conscious of a terrible sensation which seemed to have its
starting-point at her heart, but which pervaded her whole body, her
whole consciousness. She was conscious of such misery, such grief,
that it was like a weight and a pain. She knew now that her mother
was no better, that she might even die. She heard no more of the
cries and moans, and somehow now, the absence of them seemed harder
to bear than they themselves had been. Suddenly she heard her
mother's door open. She heard her father's voice, and the doctor's
in response, but she still could not distinguish a word. Presently
she heard the front door open and close softly. Then her father
hurried down the steps, and got into the doctor's buggy and drove
away. It was dark, but she could not mistake her father. She knew
that he had gone for another doctor, probably Dr. Williams, who
lived in the next town, and was considered very skilful. The other
doctor was remaining with her mother. She did not dare leave her
room again. She sat there watching an hour, and a pale radiance
began to appear in the east, which her room faced. It was like dawn
in another world, everything had so changed to her. The thought
came to her that she might go down-stairs and make some coffee, if
she only knew how. Her father might like some when he returned. But
she did not know how, and even if she had she dared not leave her
room again.</p>
<p>The pale light in the east increased, suddenly rosy streamers,
almost like northern lights, were flung out across the sky. She
could distinguish things quite clearly. She heard the rattle of
wheels, and thought it was her father returning with Dr. Williams,
but instead it was the milkman in his yellow cart. He carried a
bottle of milk around to the south door. There was something
horribly ghastly in that every-day occurrence to the watching
child. She realized the interminable moving on of things in spite
of all individual sufferings, as she would have realized the
revolution of a wheel of torture. She felt that it was simply
hideous that the milk should be left at the door that morning, just
as if everything was as it had been. When the milkman jumped into
his wagon, whistling, it seemed to her as if he were doing an awful
thing. The milk-wagon stopped at the opposite house, then moved on
out of sight down the street. She wished to herself that the
milkman's horse might run away while he was at some door. The
rancor which possessed her father, the kicking against the pricks,
was possessing her. She felt a futile rage, like that of some
little animal trodden underfoot. A boy whom she knew ran past
whooping, with a tin-pail, after the milkman. Evidently his mother
wanted some extra milk. The sun was reflected on the sides of the
swinging pail, and the flash of light seemed to hurt her, and she
felt the same unreasoning wrath against the boy. Why was not Willy
Royce's mother desperately sick, like her mother, instead of simply
sending for extra milk? The health and the daily swing of the world
in its arc of space seemed to her like a direct insult.</p>
<p>At last it occurred to her that she ought to dress herself. She
left the window, brushed her hair, braided it, and tied it with a
blue ribbon, and put on her little blue gingham gown which she
commonly wore mornings. Then she sat by the window again. It was
not very long after that that she saw the doctor coming, driving
fast. Her father was with him, and between them sat a woman. She
recognized the woman at once. She was a trained nurse who lived in
Edgham. &ldquo;They have got Miss Bell,&rdquo; she thought;
&ldquo;mother must be awful sick.&rdquo; She knew that Miss Bell's
wages were twenty-five dollars a week, and that her father would
not have called her in except in an extreme case. She watched her
father help out the woman, who was stout and middle-aged, and much
larger than he. Miss Bell had a dress-suit case, which her father
tugged painfully into the house; Miss Bell followed him. She heard
his key turn in the lock while the doctor fastened his horse.</p>
<p>She saw the doctor, who was slightly lame, limp around to the
buggy after his horse was tied, and take out two cases. She hated
him while he did it. She felt intuitively that something terrible
was to come to her mother because of those cases. She watched the
doctor limp up the steps with positive malevolence. &ldquo;If he is
such a smart doctor, why doesn't he cure himself?&rdquo; she
asked.</p>
<p>She heard steps on the stairs, then the murmur of voices, and
the sound of the door opening into her mother's room. A frightful
sense of isolation came over her. She realized that it was
infinitely worse to be left by herself outside, suffering, than
outside happiness. She tried again to pray, then she stopped.
&ldquo;It is no good praying,&rdquo; she reflected, &ldquo;God did
not stop mother's pain. It was only stopped by that stuff I smelled
out in the entry.&rdquo; She could not reason back of that; her
terror and misery brought her up against a dead wall. It seemed to
her presently that she heard a faint cry from her mother's room,
then she was quite sure that she smelled that strange, sweet smell
even through her closed door. Then her father opened her door
abruptly, and a great whiff of it entered with him, like some ghost
of pain and death.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The doctors have neither of them had any breakfast, and
they can't leave her,&rdquo; he said, with a jerk of his elbow, and
speaking still with that angry tone towards the unoffending child.
&ldquo;Can you make coffee?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know how.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good for nothing!&rdquo; said her father, and shut the
door with a subdued bang.</p>
<p>Maria heard him going down-stairs, and presently she heard a
rattle in the kitchen, a part of which was under her room. She went
out herself and stole softly down the stairs. Her father, with an
air of angry helplessness, was emptying the coffee-pot into her
mother's nice sink. Maria stood trembling at his elbow. &ldquo;I
don't believe that's where mother empties it,&rdquo; she
ventured.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It has got to be emptied somewhere,&rdquo; said her
father, and his tone sounded as if he swore. Maria shrank back.
&ldquo;They've got to have some coffee, anyhow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria's father carried the coffee-pot over to the stove, in
which a freshly kindled fire was burning, and set it on it, in the
hottest place. Maria stealthily moved it back while he was
searching for the coffee in the pantry. She did not know much, but
she did know that an empty coffee-pot on such a hot place would
come to ruin.</p>
<p>Her father emerged from the pantry with a tin-canister in his
hand. &ldquo;I've sent a telegram to our aunt Maria for her to come
right on,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but she can't get here before
afternoon. I don't suppose you know how much coffee your mother
puts in. I don't suppose you know about anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria realized dimly that she was a scape-goat, but there was
such terrible suffering in her father's face that she had no
impulse to rebel. She smelled of the canister which her father held
out towards her with a nervously trembling hand. &ldquo;Why,
father, this is tea; it isn't coffee,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if you don't know anything that a big girl like you
ought to know, I should think you might know enough not to try to
make coffee with tea,&rdquo; said her father.</p>
<p>Maria looked at her father in a bewildered sort of way. &ldquo;I
guess the coffee is in the other canister,&rdquo; said she,
meekly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why didn't you say so then?&rdquo; demanded her
father.</p>
<p>Maria was silent. It seemed to her that her father had gone mad.
Harry Edgham made a ferocious stride across the kitchen to the
pantry. Maria followed him. &ldquo;I guess that is the coffee
canister,&rdquo; said she, pointing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why didn't you say so, then?&rdquo; asked her father,
viciously, and again Maria made no reply. Her father seized the
coffee canister and approached the stove. &ldquo;I don't suppose
you know how much she puts in. I don't suppose you know
anything,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she puts in about a cupful,&rdquo; said Maria,
trembling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A cupful! with coffee at the price it is now? I guess she
doesn't,&rdquo; said her father. He poured the coffee-pot full of
boiling water from the tea-kettle, then he tipped the coffee
canister into his hand, and put one small pinch into the pot.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, father,&rdquo; ventured Maria. &ldquo;I don't believe&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't believe what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe that is enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course it's enough. Don't you suppose your father
knows how to make coffee?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her father set the coffee-pot on the stove, where it immediately
began to boil. Then he carried back the canister into the pantry,
and returned with a panful of eggs. &ldquo;You can set the table, I
suppose, anyhow?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You know enough to do as
much as that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I can do that,&rdquo; replied Maria, with alacrity,
and indeed she could. Her mother had exacted some small household
tasks from her, and setting the table was one of them. She hurried
into the dining-room and began setting the table with the pretty
blue-flowered ware that her mother had been so proud of. She seemed
to feel tears in her heart when she laid the plates, but none
sprang to her eyes. Somehow, handling these familiar inanimate
things was the acutest torture. Presently she smelled eggs burning.
She realized that her father was burning up the eggs, in his utter
ignorance of cookery. She thought privately that she didn't believe
but she could cook the eggs, but she dared not go out in the
kitchen. Her father, in his anxiety, had actually reached ferocity.
He had always petted her, in his easy-going fashion, now he
terrified her. She dared not go out there.</p>
<p>All at once, as she was getting the clean napkins from the
sideboard, she heard the front door open, and one of the neighbors,
Mrs. Jonas White, entered without knocking. She was a large woman
and carelessly dressed, but her great face was beaming with
kindness and pity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I just heard how bad your ma was,&rdquo; she said, in a
loud whisper, &ldquo;an' I run right over. I thought
mebbe&mdash;How is she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is very sick,&rdquo; replied Maria. She felt at first
an impulse to burst into tears before this broadside of sympathy,
then she felt stiff.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are as white as a sheet,&rdquo; said Mrs. White.
&ldquo;Who is burnin' eggs out there?&rdquo; She pointed to the
kitchen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lord! Who's up-stairs?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Bell and the doctors. They've sent for Aunt Maria,
but she can't come before afternoon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. White fastened a button on her waist. &ldquo;Well, I'll
stay till then,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Lillian can get along all
right.&rdquo; Lillian was Mrs. White's eighteen-year-old
daughter.</p>
<p>Mrs. White opened the kitchen door. &ldquo;How is she?&rdquo;
she said in a hushed voice to Harry Edgham, frantically stirring
the burned eggs, which sent up a monstrous smoke and smell. As she
spoke, she went over to him, took the frying-pan out of his hands,
and carried it over to the sink.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is a very sick woman,&rdquo; replied Harry Edgham,
looking at Mrs. White with a measure of gratitude.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You've got Dr. Williams and Miss Bell, Maria
says?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria says her aunt is coming?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I sent a telegram.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'll stay till she gets here,&rdquo; said Mrs.
White, and again that expression of almost childish gratitude came
over the man's face. Mrs. White began scraping the burned eggs off
the pan.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They haven't had any breakfast,&rdquo; said Harry,
looking upward.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And they don't dare leave her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you just go and do anything you want to, Maria and
I will get the breakfast.&rdquo; Mrs. White spoke with a kindly,
almost humorous inflection. Maria felt that she could go down on
her knees to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; said Harry Edgham, and he went
out of the kitchen as one who beats a retreat before superior
forces.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria, you just bring me the eggs, and a clean
cup,&rdquo; said Mrs. White. &ldquo;Poor man, trying to cook
eggs!&rdquo; said she of Maria's father, after he had gone. She was
one of the women who always treat men with a sort of loving pity,
as if they were children. &ldquo;Here is some nice bacon,&rdquo;
said she, rummaging in the pantry. &ldquo;The eggs will be real
nice with bacon. Now, Maria, you look in the ice-chest and see if
there are any cold potatoes that can be warmed up. There's plenty
of bread in the jar, and we'll toast that. We'll have breakfast in
a jiffy. Doctors do have a hard life, and Miss Bell, she ought to
have her nourishment too, if she's goin' to take care of your
mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When Maria returned from the ice-box, which stood out in the
woodshed, with a plate of cold potatoes, Mrs. White was sniffing at
the coffee-pot.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For goodness sake, who made this?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How much did he put in?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He put in a little pinch.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It looks like water bewitched,&rdquo; said Mrs. White.
&ldquo;Bring me the coffee canister. You know where that is, don't
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, ma'am.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria watched Mrs. White pour out the coffee which her father
had made, and start afresh in the proper manner.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Men are awful helpless, poor things,&rdquo; said Mrs.
White. &ldquo;This sink is in an awful condition. Did your father
empty all this truck in it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, ma'am.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I must clean it out, as soon as I get the other
things goin', or the dreen will be stopped up.&rdquo; Mrs. White's
English was not irreproachable, but she was masterful.</p>
<p>Maria continued to stand numbly in the middle of the kitchen,
watching Mrs. White, who looked at her uneasily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must be a good girl, and trust in the Lord,&rdquo;
said she, and she tried to make her voice sharp. &ldquo;Now, don't
stand there lookin' on; just fly round and do somethin'. I don't
believe but the dinin'-room needs dustin'. You find somethin' and
dust the dinin'-room real nice, while I get the
breakfast.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria obeyed, but she did that numbly, without any realization
of the task.</p>
<p>The morning wore on. The doctors, one at a time came down, and
the nurse came down, and they ate a hearty breakfast. Maria watched
them, and hated them because they could eat while her mother was so
ill. Miss Bell also ate heartily, and she felt that she hated her.
She was glad that her father refused anything except a cup of
coffee. As for herself, Mrs. White made her drink an egg beaten up
with milk. &ldquo;If you won't eat your breakfast, you've got to
take this,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Mrs. White took her own breakfast in stray bites, while she was
clearing away the table. She stayed, and put the house in order,
until Maria's aunt Maria arrived. One of the physicians went away.
For a short time Maria's mother's groans and wailings recommenced,
then the smell of chloroform was strong throughout the house.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder why they don't give her morphine instead of
chloroform?&rdquo; said Mrs. White, while Maria was wiping the
dishes. &ldquo;It is dreadful dangerous to give that, especially if
the heart is weak. Well, don't you be scart. I've seen folks enough
worse than your mother git well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In the last few hours Maria's face had gotten a hard look. She
no longer seemed like a little girl. After a while the doctors went
away.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't suppose there is much they can do for a while,
perhaps,&rdquo; remarked Mrs. White; &ldquo;and Miss Bell, she is
as good as any doctor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Both physicians returned a little after noon, and previously
Mrs. Edgham had made her voice of lamentation heard again. Then it
ceased abruptly, but there was no odor of chloroform.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are giving her morphine now, I bet a cooky,&rdquo;
Mrs. White said. She, with Maria, was clearing away the
dinner-table then. &ldquo;What time do you think your aunt Maria
will get here?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;About half-past two, father said,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'm real glad you've got some one like her you can
call on,&rdquo; said Mrs. White. &ldquo;Somebody that 'ain't ever
had no family, and 'ain't tied. Now I'd be willin' to stay right
along myself, but I couldn't leave Lillian any length of time. She
'ain't never had anything hard put on her, and she 'ain't any too
tough. But your aunt can stay right along till your mother gits
well, can't she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess so,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>There was something about Maria's manner which made Mrs. White
uneasy. She forced conversation in order to make her speak, and do
away with that stunned look on her face. All the time now Maria was
saying to herself that her mother was going to die, that God could
make her well, but He would not. She was conscious of blasphemy,
and she took a certain pleasure in it.</p>
<p>Her aunt Maria arrived on the train expected, and she entered
the house, preceded by the cabman bearing her little trunk, which
she had had ever since she was a little girl. It was the only trunk
she had ever owned. Both physicians and the nurse were with Mrs.
Edgham when her sister arrived. Harry Edgham had been walking
restlessly up and down the parlor, which was a long room. He had
not thought of going to the station to meet Aunt Maria, but when
the cab stopped before the house he hurried out at once. Aunt Maria
was dressed wholly in black&mdash;a black mohair, a little black
silk cape, and a black bonnet, from which nodded a jetted tuft.
&ldquo;How is she?&rdquo; Maria heard her say, in a hushed voice,
to her father. Maria stood in the door. Maria heard her father say
something in a hushed tone about an operation. Aunt Maria came up
the steps with her travelling-bag. Harry forgot to take it. She
greeted Mrs. White, whom she had met on former visits, and kissed
Maria. Maria had been named for her, and been given a silver cup
with her name inscribed thereon, which stood on the sideboard, but
she had never been conscious of any distinct affection for her.
There was a queer, musty odor, almost a fragrance, about Aunt
Maria's black clothes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Take the trunk up the stairs, to the room at the
left,&rdquo; said Harry Edgham, &ldquo;and go as still as you
can.&rdquo; The man obeyed, shouldering the little trunk with an
awed look.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria drew Mrs. White and Maria's father aside, and Maria
was conscious that they did not want her to hear; but she did
overhear&mdash;&ldquo;...one chance in ten, a fighting
chance,&rdquo; and &ldquo;Keep it from Maria, her mother had said
so.&rdquo; Maria knew perfectly well that that horrible and
mysterious thing, an operation, which means a duel with death
himself, was even at that moment going on in her mother's room. She
slipped away, and went up-stairs to her own chamber, and softly
closed the door. Then she forgot her lack of faith and her
rebellion, and she realized that her only hope of life was from
that which is outside life. She knelt down beside her bed, and
began to pray over and over, &ldquo;O God, don't let my mother die,
and I will always be a good girl! O God, don't let my mother die,
and I will always be a good girl!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then, without any warning, the door opened and her father stood
there, and behind him was her aunt Maria, weeping bitterly, and
Mrs. White, also weeping.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria,&rdquo; gasped out Harry Edgham. Then, as Maria
rose and went to him, he seized upon her as if she were his one
straw of salvation, and began to sob himself, and Maria knew that
her mother had died.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter IV</h4>
<p>Without any doubt, Maria's self-consciousness, which was at its
height at this time, helped her to endure the loss of her mother,
and all the sad appurtenances of mourning. She had a covert
pleasure at the sight of her fair little face, in her black hat,
above her black frock. She realized a certain importance because of
her grief.</p>
<p>However, there were times when the grief itself came uppermost;
there were nights when she lay awake crying for her mother, when
she was nothing but a bereft child in a vacuum of love. Her
father's tenderness could not make up to her for the loss of her
mother's. Very soon after her mother's death, his mercurial
temperament jarred upon her. She could not understand how he could
laugh and talk as if nothing had happened. She herself was more
like her mother in temperament&mdash;that is, like the
New-Englander who goes through life with the grief of a loss grown
to his heart. Nothing could exceed Harry Edgham's tenderness to his
motherless little girl. He was always contriving something for her
pleasure and comfort; but Maria, when her father laughed, regarded
him with covert wonder and reproach.</p>
<p>Her aunt Maria continued to live with them, and kept the house.
Aunt Maria was very capable. It is doubtful if there are many
people on earth who are not crowned, either to their own
consciousness or that of others, with at least some small semblance
of glories. Aunt Maria had the notable distinction of living on one
hundred dollars a year. She had her rent free, but upon that she
did not enlarge. Her married brother owned a small house, of the
story-and-a-half type prevalent in New England villages, and Maria
had the north side. She lived, aside from that, upon one hundred
dollars a year. She was openly proud of it; her poverty became, in
a sense, her riches. &ldquo;Well, all I have is just one hundred a
year,&rdquo; she was fond of saying, &ldquo;and I don't complain. I
don't envy anybody. I have all I want.&rdquo; Her little plans for
thrift were fairly Machiavellian; they showed subtly. She told
everybody what she had for her meals. She boasted that she lived
better than her brother, who was earning good wages in a
shoe-factory. She dressed very well, really much better than her
sister-in-law. &ldquo;Poor Eunice never had much management,&rdquo;
Maria was wont to say, smoothing down, as she spoke, the folds of
her own gown. She never wore out anything; she moved carefully and
sat carefully; she did a good deal of fancy-work, but she was
always very particular, even when engaged in the daintiest toil, to
cover her gown with an apron, and she always held her thin-veined
hands high. She charged this upon her niece Maria when she had her
new black clothes. &ldquo;Now, Maria,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;there
is one thing I want you to remember, here is nothin'&mdash;&rdquo;
(Aunt Maria elided her final &ldquo;g&rdquo; like most
New-Englanders, although she was not deficient in education, and
even prided herself upon her reading.) &ldquo;Black is the worst
thing in the world to grow shiny. Folks can talk all they want to
about black bein' durable. It isn't. It grows shiny. And if you
will always remember one thing when you are at home, to wear an
apron when you are doin' anything, and when you are away, to hold
your hands high, you will gain by it. There is no need of anybody
gettin' the front breadths of their dresses all shiny by rubbin'
their hands on them. When you are at school you must remember and
hold your school-books so they won't touch your dress. Then there
is another thing you must remember, not to move your arms any more
than you can help, that makes the waist wear out under the arms.
There isn't any need of your movin' your arms much if any when you
are in school, that I can see, and when you come home you can
change your dress. You might just as well wear out your colored
dresses when you are home. Nobody is goin' to see you. If anybody
comes in that I think is goin' to mind, you can just slip
up-stairs, and put on your black dress. It isn't as if you had a
little sister to take your things&mdash;they ought to be worn
out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It therefore happened that Maria was dressed the greater part of
the time, in her own home, where she missed her mother most, in
bright-colored array, and in funeral attire outside. She told her
father about it, but he had not a large income, and it had been
severely taxed by his wife's almost tragic illness and death.
Besides, if the truth were known, he disliked to see Maria in
mourning, and the humor of the thing also appealed to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better wear what your aunt says, dear. You feel
just the same in your heart, don't you?&rdquo; asked Harry Edgham,
with that light laugh of his, which always so shocked his serious
little daughter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; she replied, with a sob.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, then, do just as your aunt says, and be a good
little girl,&rdquo; said Harry, and he went hastily out on the
porch with his cigar.</p>
<p>Nothing irritated him so much as to see Maria weep for her
mother. He was one of those who wrestle and fight against grief,
and to see it thrust in his face by the impetus of another heart
exasperated him, although he could say nothing. It may be that,
with his temperament, it was even dangerous for him to cherish
grief, and, for that very reason, he tried to put his dead wife out
of his mind, as she had been taken out of his life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, men are different from women,&rdquo; Aunt Maria
said to her niece Maria one night, when Harry had gone out on the
piazza, after he had talked and laughed a good deal at the
supper-table.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham heard the remark, and his face took on a set
expression which it could assume at times. He did not like his
sister-in-law, although he disguised the fact. She was very useful.
His meals were always on time, the house was as neatly kept as
before, and Maria was being trained as she had never been in
household duties.</p>
<p>Maria was obedient, under silent protest, to her aunt. Often,
after she had been bidden to perform some household task, and
obeyed, she had gone to her own room and wept, and told herself
that her mother would never have put such things on her. She had no
one in whom to confide. She was not a girl to have unlimited
intimates among other girls at school. She was too self-centred,
and, if the truth were told, too emulative.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham thinks she's awful smart,&rdquo; one girl
would say to another. They all admitted, even the most carping,
that Maria was pretty. &ldquo;Maria Edgham is pretty enough, and
she knows it,&rdquo; said they. She was in the high school, even at
her age, and she stood high in her classes. There was always a sort
of moral strike going on against Maria, as there is against all
superiority, especially when the superiority is known to be
recognized by the possessor thereof.</p>
<p>In spite of her prettiness, she was not a favorite even among
the boys. They were, as a rule, innocent as well as young, but they
would rather have snatched a kiss from such a pretty, dainty little
creature than have had her go above them in the algebra class. It
did not seem fitting. Without knowing it, they were envious. They
would not even acknowledge her cleverness, not even Wollaston Lee,
for whom Maria entertained a rudimentary affection. He was even
rude to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham is awful stuck up,&rdquo; he told his
mother. He was of that age when a boy tells his mother a good deal,
and he was an only child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's a real pretty little girl, and her aunt says she is
a good girl,&rdquo; replied his mother, who regarded the whole as
the antics of infancy.</p>
<p>The Lees lived near the Edghams, on the same street, and Mrs.
Lee and Aunt Maria had exchanged several calls. They were, in fact,
almost intimate. The Lees were at the supper-table when Wollaston
made his deprecatory remark concerning Maria, and he had been led
to do so by the law of sequence. Mrs. Lee had made a remark about
Aunt Maria to her husband. &ldquo;I believe she thinks Harry Edgham
will marry her,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's just like you women, always trumping up something
of that kind,&rdquo; replied her husband. His words were rather
brusque, but he regarded, while speaking them, his wife with
adoration. She was a very pretty woman, and looked much younger
than her age.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You needn't tell me,&rdquo; said Mrs. Lee. &ldquo;She's
just left off bonnets and got a new hat trimmed with black daisies;
rather light mourning, I call it, when her sister has not been dead
a year.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You spiteful little thing!&rdquo; said her husband, still
with his adoring eyes on his wife.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, it's so, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she would make Harry a good wife, I guess,&rdquo;
said her husband, easily; &ldquo;and she would think more of the
girl.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was then that Wollaston got in his remark about poor Maria,
who had herself noticed with wonder that her aunt had bought a new
hat that spring instead of a bonnet.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Aunt Maria, I thought you always wore a
bonnet!&rdquo; said she, innocently, when the hat came home from
the milliner's.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody except old women are wearing bonnets now,&rdquo;
replied her aunt, shortly. &ldquo;I saw Mrs. Rufus Jones, who is a
good deal older than I, at church Sunday with a hat trimmed with
roses. The milliner told me nobody of my age wore a
bonnet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did she know how old you really are, Aunt Maria?&rdquo;
inquired Maria with the utmost innocence.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham gave a little chuckle, then came to his
sister-in-law's rescue. He had a thankful heart for even small
benefits, and Aunt Maria had done a good deal for him and his, and
it had never occurred to him that the doing might not be entirely
disinterested. Besides, Aunt Maria had always seemed to him, as
well as to his daughter, very old indeed. It might have been that
the bonnets had had something to do with it. Aunt Maria had never
affected fashions beyond a certain epoch, partly from economy,
partly from a certain sense of injury. She had said to herself that
she was old, she had been passed by; she would dress as one who
had. Now her sentiments underwent a curious change. The possibility
occurred to her that Harry might ask her to take her departed
sister's place. She was older than that sister, much older than he,
but she looked in her glass and suddenly her passed youth seemed to
look forth upon her. The revival of hopes sometimes serves as a
tonic. Aunt Maria actually did look younger than she had done, even
with her scanty frizzes. She regarded other women, not older than
herself, with pompadours, and aspiration seized her.</p>
<p>One day she went to New York shopping. She secretly regarded
that as an expedition. She was terrified at the crossings. Stout,
elderly woman as she was, when she found herself in the whirl of
the great city, she became as a small, scared kitten. She gathered
up her skirts, and fled incontinently across the streets, with
policemen looking after her with haughty disapprobation. But when
she was told to step lively on the trolley-cars, her true self
asserted its endurance. &ldquo;I am not going to step in front of a
team for you or any other person,&rdquo; she told one conductor,
and she spoke with such emphasis that even he was intimidated, and
held the car meekly until the team had passed. When Aunt Maria came
home from New York that particular afternoon, she had an expression
at once of defiance and embarrassment, which both Maria and her
father noticed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what did you see in New York, Maria?&rdquo; asked
Harry, pleasantly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw the greatest lot of folks without manners, that I
ever saw in my whole life,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria, sharply.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham laughed. &ldquo;You'll get used to it,&rdquo; he
said, easily. &ldquo;Everybody who comes from New England has to
take time to like New York. It is an acquired taste.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When I do acquire it, I'll be equal to any of
them,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria. &ldquo;When I lose my temper, they
had better look out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry Edgham laughed again.</p>
<p>It was the next morning when Aunt Maria appeared at the early
breakfast with a pompadour. Her thin frizzes were carefully puffed
over a mystery which she had purchased the afternoon before.</p>
<p>Maria, when she first saw her aunt, stared open-mouthed; then
she ate her breakfast as if she had seen nothing.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham gave one sharp stare at his sister-in-law, then he
said: &ldquo;Got your hair done up a new way, haven't you,
Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, my hat didn't set well on my head with my hair the
way I was wearing it,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria with dignity; still
she blushed. She knew that her own hair did not entirely conceal
the under structure, and she knew, too, why she wore the
pompadour.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham recognized the first fact with simple pity that his
sister-in-law's hair was so thin. He remembered hearing a
hair-tonic recommended by another man in the office, and he
wondered privately if Maria would feel hurt if he brought some for
her. Of the other fact he had not the least suspicion. He said:
&ldquo;Well, it's real becoming to you, Maria. I guess I like it
better than the other way. I notice all the girls seem to wear
their hair so nowadays.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria smiled at him gratefully. When her sister had married
him, she had wondered what on earth she saw in Harry Edgham; now he
seemed to her a very likeable man.</p>
<p>When Maria sat in school that morning, her aunt's pompadour
diverted her mind from her book; then she caught Gladys Mann's
wondering eyes upon her, and she studied again.</p>
<p>While Maria could scarcely be said to have an intimate friend at
school, a little girl is a monstrosity who has neither a friend nor
a disciple; she had her disciple, whose name was Gladys Mann.
Gladys was herself a little outside the pale. Most of her father's
earnings went for drink, and Gladys's mother was openly known to
take in washing to make both ends meet, and keep the girl at school
at all; moreover, she herself came of one of the poor white
families which flourish in New Jersey as well as at the South,
although in less numbers. Gladys's mother was rather a marvel,
inasmuch as she was willing to take in washing, and do it well too,
but Gladys had no higher rank for that. She was herself rather a
pathetic little soul, dingily pretty, using the patois of her kind,
and always at the fag end of her classes. Her education, so far,
seemed to meet with no practical results in the child herself. Her
brain merely filtered learning like a sieve; but she thought Maria
Edgham was a wonder, and it was really through her, and her alone,
that she obtained any education.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What makes you always say &lsquo;have went&rsquo;?&rdquo;
Maria would inquire, with a half-kindly, half-supercilious glance
at her satellite.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What had I ought to say,&rdquo; Gladys would inquire,
meekly&mdash;&ldquo;have came?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have gone,&rdquo; replied Maria, with supreme scorn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then when my mother has came home shall I say she has
gone?&rdquo; inquired Gladys, with positive abjectness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys, you are such a ninny,&rdquo; said Maria.
&ldquo;Why don't you remember what you learn at school, instead of
what you hear at home?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I hear more at home than I learn at
school,&rdquo; Gladys replied, with an adoring glance at Maria.</p>
<p>Maria half despised Gladys, and yet she had a sort of protective
affection for her, as one might have for a little clinging animal,
and she confided more in her than in any one else, sure, at least,
of an outburst of sympathy. Maria had never forgotten how Gladys
had cried the first morning she went to school after her mother
died. Every time Gladys glanced at poor little Maria, in her black
dress, her head went down on a ring of her little, soiled,
cotton-clad arms on her desk, and Maria knew that she was sorrier
for her than any other girl in school.</p>
<p>Gladys had a sort of innocent and ignorant impertinence; she
asked anything which occurred to her, with no reflection as to its
effect upon the other party.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, is it true?&rdquo; she asked that very morning at
recess.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is what true?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is your father goin' to marry her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Marry who?&rdquo; Maria turned quite pale, and forgot her
own grammar.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, your aunt Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My aunt Maria? I guess he isn't!&rdquo; Maria left Gladys
with an offended strut. However, she reflected on Aunt Maria's
pompadour. A great indignation seized her. After this she treated
Aunt Maria stiffly, and she watched both her and her father.</p>
<p>There was surely nothing in Harry Edgham's behaviour to warrant
a belief that he contemplated marrying his deceased wife's sister.
Sometimes he even, although in a kindly fashion, poked fun at her,
in Maria's presence. But Aunt Maria never knew it; she was, in
fact, impervious to that sort of thing. But Maria came to be quite
sure that Aunt Maria had designs on her father. She observed that
she dressed much better than she had ever done; she observed the
fairly ostentatious attention which she bestowed upon her
brother-in-law, and also upon herself, when he was present. She
even used to caress Maria, in her wooden sort of way, when Harry
was by to see. Once Maria repulsed her roughly. &ldquo;I don't like
to be kissed and fussed over,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You mustn't speak so to your aunt,&rdquo; said Harry,
when Aunt Maria had gone out of the room. &ldquo;I don't know what
we should have done without her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You pay her, don't you, father?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I pay her,&rdquo; said Harry, &ldquo;but that does
not alter the fact that she has done a great deal which money could
not buy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria gazed at her father with suspicion, which he did not
recognize.</p>
<p>It had never occurred to Harry Edgham to marry Aunt Maria. It
had never occurred to him that she might think of the possibility
of such a thing. It was now nearly a year since his wife's death.
He himself began to take more pains with his attire. Maria noticed
it. She saw her father go out one evening clad in a new, light-gray
suit, which he had never worn before. She looked at him wonderingly
when he kissed her good-bye. Harry never left the house without
kissing his little daughter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you've got a new suit, father,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Harry blushed. &ldquo;Do you like it, dear?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, father, I don't like it half as well as a dark
one,&rdquo; replied Maria, in a sweet, curt little voice. Her
father colored still more, and laughed, then he went away.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria, to Maria's mind, was very much dressed-up that
evening. She had on a muslin dress with sprigs of purple running
through it, and a purple ribbon around her waist. She made up her
mind that she would stay up until her father came home, in that new
gray suit, no matter what Aunt Maria should say.</p>
<p>However, contrary to her usual custom, Aunt Maria did not
mention, at half-past eight, that it was time for her to go to bed.
It was half-past nine, and her father had not come home, and Aunt
Maria had said nothing about it. She appeared to be working very
interestedly on a sofa-cushion which she was embroidering, but her
face looked, to Maria's mind, rather woe-begone, although there was
a shade of wrath in the woe. When the little clock on the
sitting-room shelf struck one for half-past nine, Maria looked at
her aunt, wondering.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, I wonder where father has gone so late?&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria turned, and her voice, in reply, was both pained and
pitiless. &ldquo;Well, you may as well know first as last,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;and you'd better hear it from me than outside:
your father has gone courtin'.&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter V</h4>
<p>Maria looked at her aunt with an expression of almost idiocy.
For the minute, the term Aunt Maria used, especially as applied to
her father, had no more meaning for her than a term in a foreign
tongue. She was very pale. &ldquo;Courtin',&rdquo; she stammered
out vaguely, imitating her aunt exactly, even to the dropping of
the final &ldquo;g.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria was, for the moment, too occupied with her own
personal grievances and disappointments to pay much attention to
her little niece. &ldquo;Yes, courtin',&rdquo; she said, harshly.
&ldquo;I've been suspectin' for some time, an' now I know. A man,
when he's left a widower, don't smarten up the way he's done for
nothin'; I know it.&rdquo; Aunt Maria nodded her head aggressively,
with a gesture almost of butting.</p>
<p>Maria continued to gaze at her, with that pale, almost idiotic
expression. It was a fact that she had thought of her father as
being as much married as ever, even although her mother was dead.
Nothing else had occurred to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father's thinkin' of gettin' married again,&rdquo;
said Aunt Maria, &ldquo;and you may as well make up your mind to
it, poor child.&rdquo; The words were pitying, the tone not.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; gasped Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know any more than you do,&rdquo; replied Aunt
Maria, &ldquo;but I know it's somebody.&rdquo; Suddenly Aunt Maria
arose. It seemed to her that she must do something vindictive. Here
she had to return to her solitary life in her New England village,
and her hundred dollars a year, which somehow did not seem as great
a glory to her as it had formerly done. She went to the parlor
windows and closed them with jerks, then she blew out the lamp.
&ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;it's time to go to bed. I'm
tired, for my part. I've worked like a dog all day. Your father has
got his key, an' he can let himself in when he gets through his
courtin'.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria crept miserably&mdash;she was still in a sort of
daze&mdash;up-stairs after Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, good-night,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;You
might as well make up your mind to it. I suppose it had to come,
and maybe it's all for the best.&rdquo; Aunt Maria's voice sounded
as if she were trying to reconcile the love of God with the
existence of hell and eternal torment. She closed her door with a
slam. There are, in some New England women, impulses of fierce
childishness.</p>
<p>Maria, when she was in her room, had never felt so lonely in her
life. A kind of rage of loneliness possessed her. She slipped out
of her clothes and went to bed, and then she lay awake. She heard
her father when he returned. The clock on a church which was near
by struck twelve soon after. Maria tried to imagine another woman
in the house in her mother's place; she thought of every eligible
woman in Edgham whom her father might select to fill that place,
but her little-girl ideas of eligibility were at fault. She thought
only of women of her mother's age and staidness, who wore bonnets.
She could think of only two, one a widow, one a spinster. She
shuddered at the idea of either. She felt that she would much
rather have had her father marry Aunt Maria than either of those
women. She did not altogether love Aunt Maria, but at least she was
used to her. Suddenly it occurred to her that Aunt Maria was
disappointed, that she felt badly. The absurdity of it struck her
strongly, but she felt a pity for her; she felt a common cause with
her. After her father had gone into his room, and the house had
long been silent, she got up quietly, opened her door softly, and
crept across the hall to the spare room, which Aunt Maria had
occupied ever since she had been there. She listened, and heard a
soft sob. Then she turned the knob of the door softly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo; Aunt Maria called out, sharply.</p>
<p>Maria was afraid that her father would hear.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's only me, Aunt Maria,&rdquo; she replied. Then she
also gave a little sob.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What's the matter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria groped her way across the room to her aunt's bed.
&ldquo;Oh, Aunt Maria, who is it?&rdquo; she sobbed, softly.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria did what she had never done before: she reached out
her arms and gathered the bewildered little girl close, in an
embrace of genuine affection and pity. She, too, felt that here was
a common cause, and not only that, but she pitied the child with
unselfish pity. &ldquo;You poor child, you are as cold as ice. Come
in here with me,&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>Maria crept into bed beside her aunt, but she would rather have
remained where she was. She was a child of spiritual rather than
physical affinities, and the contact of Aunt Maria's thin body,
even though it thrilled with almost maternal affection for her,
repelled her.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria began to weep unrestrainedly, with a curious passion
and abandonment for a woman of her years.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Has he come home?&rdquo; she whispered. Aunt Maria's
hearing was slightly defective, especially when she was nervously
overwrought.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. Aunt Maria, who is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, I don't know. He hasn't paid any open court to
anybody, that I know of, but&mdash;I've seen him
lookin'.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At whom?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;At Ida Slome.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But she is younger than my mother was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What difference do you s'pose that makes to a man. He'll
like her all the better for that. You can thank your stars he
didn't pitch on a school-girl, instead of the teacher.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria lay stretched out stiff and motionless. She was trying to
bring her mind to bear upon the situation. She was trying to
imagine Miss Ida Slome, with her pink cheeks and her gay attire, in
the house instead of her mother. Her head began to reel. She no
longer wept. She became dimly conscious, after a while, of her aunt
Maria's shaking her violently and calling her by name, but she did
not respond, although she heard her plainly. Then she felt a great
jounce of the bed as her aunt sprang out. She continued to lie
still and rigid. She somehow knew, however, that her aunt was
lighting the lamp, then she felt, rather than saw, the flash of it
across her face. Her aunt Maria pulled on a wrapper over her
night-gown, and hurried to the door. &ldquo;Harry, Harry
Edgham!&rdquo; she heard her call, and still Maria could not move.
Then she also felt, rather than saw, her father enter the room with
his bath-robe slipped over his pajamas, and approach the bed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth is the matter?&rdquo; he said. He also laid
hands on Maria, and, at his touch, she became able to move.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth is the matter?&rdquo; he asked again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She didn't seem able to speak or move, and I was
scared,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria, with a reproachful accent on the
&ldquo;I&rdquo;; but Harry Edgham was too genuinely concerned at
his little daughter's white face and piteous look to heed that at
all.</p>
<p>He leaned over and began stroking her soft little cheeks, and
kissing her. &ldquo;Father's darling,&rdquo; he whispered. Then he
said over his shoulder to Aunt Maria, &ldquo;I wish you would go
into my room and get that flask of brandy I keep in my
closet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria obeyed. She returned with the flask and a teaspoon,
and Maria's father made her swallow a few drops, which immediately
warmed her and made the strange rigidity disappear.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she had better stay in here with you the rest of
the night,&rdquo; said Harry to his sister-in-law; but little Maria
sat up determinately.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I'm going back to my own room,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hadn't you better stay with your aunt,
darling?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry Edgham looked shamefaced and guilty. He saw that his
sister-in-law and Maria had been weeping, and he knew why, in the
depths of his soul. He saw no good reason why he should feel so
shamed and apologetic, but he did. He fairly cowered before the
nervous little girl and her aunt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, let father carry you in there, then,&rdquo; he
said; and he lifted up the slight little thing, carried her across
the hall to her room, and placed her in bed.</p>
<p>It was a very warm night, but Maria was shivering as if with
cold. He placed the coverings over her with clumsy solicitude. Then
he bent down and kissed her. &ldquo;Try and keep quiet, and go to
sleep, darling,&rdquo; he said. Then he went out.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria was waiting for him in the hall. Her face, from grief
and consternation, had changed to sad and dignified
resignation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Harry,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham stopped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, sister,&rdquo; he said, with pleasant
interrogation, although he still looked shamefaced.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria held a lamp, a small one, which she was tipping
dangerously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look out for your lamp, Maria,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>She straightened the lamp, and the light shone full upon her
swollen face, at once piteous and wrathful. &ldquo;I only wanted to
know when you wanted me to go?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Lord, Maria, you are going too fast!&rdquo; replied
Harry, and he fairly ran into his own room.</p>
<p>The next morning when Maria, in her little black frock&mdash;it
was made of a thin lawn for the hot days, and the pale slenderness
of her arms and neck were revealed by the thinness of the
fabric&mdash;went to school, she knew, the very moment that Miss
Ida Slome greeted her, that Aunt Maria had been right in her
surmise. For the first time since she had been to school, Miss
Slome, who was radiant in a flowered muslin, came up to her and
embraced her. Maria submitted coldly to the embrace.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You sweet little thing,&rdquo; said Miss Slome.</p>
<p>There was a man principal of the school, but Miss Slome was
first assistant, and Maria was in most of her classes. She took her
place, with her pretty smile as set as if she had been a picture
instead of a living and breathing woman, on the platform.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are awful sweet all of a sudden, ain't you?&rdquo;
said Gladys Mann in Maria's ear.</p>
<p>Maria nodded, and went to her own seat.</p>
<p>All that day she noted, with her sharp little consciousness, the
change in Miss Slome's manner towards her. It was noticeable even
in class. &ldquo;It is true,&rdquo; she said to herself.
&ldquo;Father is going to marry her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria was a little pacified by Harry's rejoinder the night
before. She begun to wonder if she had been, by any chance,
mistaken.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe I was wrong,&rdquo; she said, privately, to Maria.
But Maria shook her head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She called me a sweet little thing, and kissed me,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Didn't she ever before?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, ma'am.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she may have taken a notion to. Maybe I was
mistaken. The way your father spoke last night sort of made me
think so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria made up her mind that if Harry was out late the next
Sunday, and the next Wednesday, that would be a test of the
situation. The first time had been Wednesday, and Wednesday and
Sunday, in all provincial localities, are the acknowledged courting
nights. Of course it sometimes happens that an ardent lover goes
every night; but Harry Edgham, being an older man and a widower,
would probably not go to that extent.</p>
<p>He soon did, however. Very soon Maria and her aunt went to bed
every night before Harry came home, and Miss Ida Slome became more
loving towards Maria.</p>
<p>Wollaston Lee, boy as he was, child as he was, really suffered.
He lost flesh, and his mother told Aunt Maria that she was really
worried about him. &ldquo;He doesn't eat enough to keep a bird
alive,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>It never entered into her heart to imagine that Wollaston was in
love with the teacher, a woman almost if not quite old enough to be
his mother, and was suffering because of her love for Harry
Edgham.</p>
<p>One afternoon, when Harry's courtship of Ida Slome had been
going on for about six weeks, and all Edgham was well informed
concerning it, Maria, instead of going straight home from school,
took a cross-road through some woods. She dreaded to reach home
that night. It was Wednesday, and her father would be sure to go to
see Miss Slome. Maria felt an indefinable depression, as if she,
little, helpless girl, were being carried so far into the wheels of
life that it was too much for her. Her father, of late, had been
kinder than ever to her; Maria had begun to wonder if she ought not
to be glad if he were happy, and if she ought not to try to love
Miss Slome. But this afternoon depression overcame her. She walked
slowly between the fields, which were white and gold with
queen's-lace and golden-rod. Her slender shoulders were bent a
little. She walked almost like an old woman. She heard a quick step
behind her, and Wollaston Lee came up beside her. She looked at him
with some sentiment, even in the midst of her depression. The
thought flashed across her mind, what is she should marry Wollaston
at the same time her father married Miss Slome? That would be a
happy and romantic solution of the affair. She colored sweetly, and
smiled, but the boy scowled at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Maria trembled a little. She was surprised.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father is the meanest man in this town, he is the
meanest in New Jersey, he is the meanest man in the whole United
States, he is the meanest man in the whole world.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again the boy scowled at Maria, who did not understand; but she
would not have her father reviled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He isn't, so there!&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's going to marry teacher.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see as he is mean if he is,&rdquo; said Maria,
forced into justice by injustice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was going to marry her myself, if she'd only waited,
and he hadn't butted in,&rdquo; said Wollaston.</p>
<p>The boy gave one last scowl at the little girl, and it was as if
he scowled at all womanhood in her. Then he gave a fling away, and
ran like a wild thing across the field of golden-rod and
queen's-lace. Maria, watching, saw him throw himself down prone in
the midst of the wild-flowers, and she understood that he was
crying because the teacher was going to marry her father. She went
on, walking like a little old woman, and she had a feeling as if
she had found a road in the world that led outside all love.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter VI</h4>
<p>Maria felt that she no longer cared about Wollaston Lee, that
she fairly scorned him. Then, suddenly, something occurred to her.
She turned, and ran back as fast as she could, her short fleece of
golden hair flying. She wrapped her short skirts about her, and
wormed through the barbed-wire fence which skirted the
field&mdash;the boy had leaped it, but she was not equal to
that&mdash;and she hastened, leaving a furrow through the
white-and-gold herbage, to the boy lying on his face weeping. She
stood over him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>The boy gave a convulsive wriggle of his back and shoulders, and
uttered an inarticulate &ldquo;Let me alone&rdquo;; but the girl
persisted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say?&rdquo; said she again.</p>
<p>Then the boy turned, and disclosed a flushed, scowling face
among the flowers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what do you want, anyway?&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you want to marry Miss Slome, why don't you, instead
of my father?&rdquo; inquired Maria, bluntly, going straight to the
point.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I haven't got any money,&rdquo; replied Wollaston,
crossly; &ldquo;all a woman thinks of is money. How'd I buy her
dresses?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe but your father would be willing for you
to live at home with her, and buy her dresses, till you got so you
could earn yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She wouldn't have me,&rdquo; said the boy, and he fairly
dug his flushed face into the mass of wild-flowers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are a good deal younger than father,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father he can give her a diamond ring, and I haven't
got more'n forty cents, and I don't believe that would buy much of
anything,&rdquo; said Wollaston, in muffled tones of grief and
rage.</p>
<p>Maria felt a shock at the idea of a diamond ring. Her mother had
never owned one.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I don't believe father will ever give her a diamond
ring in the world,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's wearing one, anyhow&mdash;I saw it,&rdquo; said
Wollaston. &ldquo;Where did she get it if he didn't give it to her,
I'd like to know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria felt cold.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe it,&rdquo; she said again. &ldquo;Teacher
is all alone in the school-house, correcting exercises. Why don't
you get right up, and go back and ask her? I'll go with you, if you
want me to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston raised himself indeterminately upon one elbow.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; urged Maria.</p>
<p>Wollaston got up slowly. His face was a burning red.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are a good deal younger and better looking than
father,&rdquo; urged Maria, traitorously.</p>
<p>The boy was only a year older than Maria. He was much larger and
taller, but although she looked a child, at that moment he looked
younger. Both of his brown hands hung at his sides, clinched like a
baby's. He had a sulky expression.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come along,&rdquo; urged the girl.</p>
<p>He stood kicking the ground hesitatingly for a moment, then he
followed the girl across the field. They went down the road until
they came to the school-house. Miss Slome was still there; her
graceful profile could be seen at a window.</p>
<p>Both children marched in upon Miss Slome, who was in a
recitation-room, bending over a desk. She looked up, and her face
lightened at sight of Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, it's you, dear?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Maria then saw, for the first time, the white sparkle of a
diamond on the third finger of her left hand. She felt that she
hated her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He wants to speak to you,&rdquo; she said, indicating
Wollaston with a turn of her hand.</p>
<p>Miss Slome looked inquiringly at Wollaston, who stood before her
like a culprit, blushing and shuffling, and yet with a sort of
doggedness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what is it, Wollaston?&rdquo; she asked,
patronizingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I came back to ask you if&mdash;you would have me?&rdquo;
said Wollaston, and his voice was hardly audible.</p>
<p>Miss Ida Slome looked at him in amazement; she was utterly
dazed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you?&rdquo; she repeated. &ldquo;I think I do not
quite understand you. What do you mean by &lsquo;have you,&rsquo;
Wollaston?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Marry me,&rdquo; burst forth the boy.</p>
<p>There was a silence. Maria looked at Miss Slome, and, to her
utter indignation, the teacher's lips were twitching, and it took a
good deal to make Miss Slome laugh, too; she had not much sense of
humor.</p>
<p>In a second Wollaston stole a furtive glance at Miss Slome,
which was an absurd parody on a glance of a man under similar
circumstances, and Miss Slome, who had had experience in such
matters, laughed outright.</p>
<p>The boy turned white. The woman did not realize it, but it was
really a cruel thing which she was doing. She laughed heartily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, my dear boy,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You are too
young and I am too old. You had better wait and marry Maria, when
you are both grown up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston turned his back upon her, and marched out of the room.
Maria lingered, in the vain hope that she might bring the teacher
to a reconsideration of the matter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's a good deal younger than father, and he's better
looking,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Miss Slome blushed then.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, you sweet little thing, then you know&mdash;&rdquo;
she began.</p>
<p>Maria interrupted her. She became still more traitorous to her
father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father has a real bad temper, when things go
wrong,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Mother always said so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Miss Slome only laughed harder.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You funny little darling,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And Wollaston has a real good disposition, his mother
told my aunt Maria so,&rdquo; she persisted.</p>
<p>The room fairly rang with Miss Slome's laughter, although she
tried to subdue it. Maria persisted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And father isn't a mite handy about the house,&rdquo;
said she. &ldquo;And Mrs. Lee told Aunt Maria that Wollaston could
wipe dishes and sweep as well as a girl.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Miss Slome laughed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And I've got a bad temper, too, when I'm crossed; mother
always said so,&rdquo; said Maria. Her lip quivered.</p>
<p>Miss Slome left her desk, came over to Maria, and, in spite of
her shrinking away, caught her in her arms.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are a little darling,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I
am not a bit afraid of your temper.&rdquo; She hesitated a moment,
looking at the child's averted face, and coloring. &ldquo;My dear,
has your father told you?&rdquo; she whispered; then, &ldquo;I
didn't know he had.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, ma'am, he hasn't,&rdquo; said Maria. She fairly
pulled herself loose from Miss Slome and ran out of the room. Her
eyes were almost blinded with tears; she could scarcely see
Wollaston Lee on the road, ahead of her, also running. He seemed to
waver as he ran. Maria called out faintly. He evidently heard, for
he slackened his pace a little; then he ran faster than ever. Maria
called again. This time the boy stopped until the girl came up. He
picked a piece of grass, as he waited, and began chewing it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do you know that isn't poison?&rdquo; said Maria,
breathlessly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't care if it is; hope it is,&rdquo; said the boy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's wicked to talk so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let it be wicked then.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see how I am to blame for any of it,&rdquo; Maria
said, in a bewildered sort of way. It was the cry of the woman, the
primitive cry of the primitive scape-goat of Creation. Already
Maria began to feel the necessity of fitting her little shoulders
to the blame of life, which she had inherited from her Mother Eve,
but she was as yet bewildered by the necessity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ain't it your father that's going to marry her?&rdquo;
inquired Wollaston, fiercely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want him to marry her any more than you
do,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I don't want her for a
mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I told you how it would come out, if I asked her,&rdquo;
cried the boy, still heaping the blame upon the girl.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would enough sight rather marry you than my father, if
I were the teacher,&rdquo; said Maria, and her blue eyes looked
into Wollaston's with the boldness of absolute guilelessness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; responded Wollaston, with a gesture of
disdain. &ldquo;Who'd want you? You're nothing but a girl,
anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>With that scant courtesy Wollaston Lee resumed his race
homeward, and Maria went her own way.</p>
<p>It was that very night, after Harry Edgham had returned from his
call upon Ida Slome, that he told Maria. Maria, as usual, had gone
to bed, but she was not asleep. Maria heard his hand on her
door-knob, and his voice calling out, softly: &ldquo;Are you
asleep, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; responded Maria.</p>
<p>Then her father entered and approached the child staring at him
from her white nest. The room was full of moonlight, and Maria's
face looked like a nucleus of innocence upon which it centred.
Harry leaned over his little daughter and kissed her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father has got something to tell you, precious,&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>Maria hitched away a little from him, and made no reply.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ida, Miss Slome, tells me that she thinks you know, and
so I made up my mind I had better tell you, and not wait any
longer, although I shall not take any decisive step
before&mdash;before November. What would you say if father should
bring home a new mother for his little girl, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should say I would rather have Aunt Maria,&rdquo;
replied Maria, decisively. She choked back a sob.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've got nothing to say against Aunt Maria,&rdquo; said
Harry. &ldquo;She's been very kind to come here, and she's done all
she could, but&mdash;well, I think in some ways, some one
else&mdash;Father thinks you will be much happier with another
mother, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I sha'n't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry hesitated. The child's voice sounded so like her dead
mother's that he felt a sudden guilt, and almost terror.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But if father were happier&mdash;you want father to be
happy, don't you, dear?&rdquo; he asked, after a little.</p>
<p>Then Maria began to sob in good earnest. She threw her arms
around her father's neck. &ldquo;Yes, father, I do want you to be
happy,&rdquo; she whispered, brokenly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If father's little girl were large enough to keep his
house for him, and were through school, father would never think of
taking such a step,&rdquo; said Harry Edgham, and he honestly
believed what he said. For the moment his old love of life seemed
to clutch him fast, and Ida Slome's radiant visage seemed to
pale.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, father,&rdquo; pleaded Maria. &ldquo;Aunt Maria would
marry you, and I would a great deal rather have her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense,&rdquo; said Harry Edgham, laughing, with a
glance towards the door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she would, father; that was the reason she got her
pompadour.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry laughed again, but softly, for he was afraid of Aunt Maria
overhearing. &ldquo;Nonsense, dear,&rdquo; he said again. Then he
kissed Maria in a final sort of way. &ldquo;It will be all for the
best,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and we shall all be happier. Father
doesn't think any the less of you, and never will, and he is never
going to forget your own dear mother; but it is all for the best,
the way he has decided. Now, good-night, darling, try to go to
sleep, and don't worry about anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was not long before Maria did fall asleep. Her thoughts were
in such a whirl that it was almost like intoxication. She could not
seem to fix her mind on anything long enough to hold herself awake.
It was not merely the fact of her father's going to marry again, it
was everything which that involved. She felt as if she were looking
into a kaleidoscope shaken by fate into endless changes. The
changes seemed fairly to tire her eyes into sleep.</p>
<p>The very next afternoon Aunt Maria went home. Harry announced
his matrimonial intentions to her before he went to New York, and
she said immediately that she would take the afternoon train.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Harry, &ldquo;I thought maybe you would
stay and be at the&mdash;wedding, Maria. I don't mean to get
married until the November vacation, and it is only the first of
September now. I don't see why you are in such a hurry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria, &ldquo;I suppose you
thought I would stay and get the house cleaned, and slave here like
a dog, getting ready for you to be married. Well, I sha'n't; I'm
tired out. I'm going to take the train this afternoon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry looked helplessly at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see what Maria and I are going to do then,&rdquo;
said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If it wasn't for taking Maria away from school, I would
ask her to come and make me a visit, poor child,&rdquo; said Aunt
Maria, &ldquo;until you brought her new ma home. I have only a
hundred dollars a year to live on, but I'd risk it but I could make
her comfortable; but she can't leave her school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't see how she can,&rdquo; said Harry, still
helplessly. &ldquo;I thought you'd stay, Maria. There is the house
to be cleaned, and some painting and papering. I thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I'll warrant you thought,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
with undisguised viciousness. &ldquo;But you were mistaken; I am
not going to stay.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I don't see exactly&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Lord, you and Maria can take your meals at Mrs. Jonas
White's, she'll be glad enough to have you; and you can hire the
cleaning done,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, with a certain pity in the
midst of her disappointment and contempt.</p>
<p>It seemed to Maria, when her aunt went away that afternoon, as
if she could not bear it. There is a law of gravitation for the
soul as well as for the body, and Maria felt as one who had fallen
from a known quantity into strangeness, with a horrible shock.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, if she don't treat you well, you send word, and I'll
have you come and stay with me,&rdquo; whispered Aunt Maria at the
last.</p>
<p>Maria loved Aunt Maria when she went away. She went to school
late for the sake of seeing her off; and she was late in the
geography class, but Miss Slome only greeted her with a smile of
radiant reassurance.</p>
<p>At recess, Gladys Mann snuggled up to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, is it true?&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is what true?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is your father goin' to get married to
teacher?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Maria. Then she gave Gladys a little
push. &ldquo;I wish you'd let me alone,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter VII</h4>
<p>Extreme youth is always susceptible to diversion which affords a
degree of alleviation for grief. Many older people have the same
facility of turning before the impetus of circumstances to another
view of life, which serves to take their minds off too close
concentration upon sorrow, but it is not so universal. Maria,
although she was sadly lonely, in a measure, enjoyed taking her
meals at Mrs. Jonas White's. She had never done anything like it
before. The utter novelty of sitting down to Mrs. White's table,
and eating in company with her and Mr. Jonas White, and Lillian
White, and a son by the name of Henry, amused her. Then, too, they
were all very kind to her. They even made a sort of heroine of her,
especially at noon, when her father was in New York and she,
consequently, was alone. They pitied her, in a covert sort of
fashion, because her father was going to get married again,
especially Mrs. White and Lillian. Lillian was a very pretty girl,
with a pert carriage of blond head, and a slangy readiness of
speech.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she's a dandy, as far as looks and dress go, and
maybe she'll make you a real good mother-in-law,&rdquo; she said to
Maria. Maria knew that Lillian should have said step-mother, but
she did not venture to correct her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Looks ain't everything,&rdquo; said Mrs. White, with a
glance at her daughter. She had thought of the possibility of Harry
Edgham taking a fancy to her Lillian.</p>
<p>Mr. Jonas White, who with his son Henry kept a market, thereby
insuring such choice cuts of meat, spoke then. He did not, as a
rule, say much at table, especially when Maria and her father, who
in his estimation occupied a superior place in society, were
present.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Guess Mr. Edgham knows what he's about,&rdquo; said he.
&ldquo;He's going to marry a good-looking woman, and one that's
capable of supportin' herself, if he's laid up or anything happens
to him. Guess she's all right.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess so, too,&rdquo; said Henry White. Both nodded
reassuringly at Maria, who felt mournfully comforted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shouldn't wonder if she'd saved something, too,&rdquo;
said Mr. White.</p>
<p>When he and his son were on their way back to the market,
driving in the white-covered wagon with &ldquo;J. White &amp;
Son&rdquo; on the sides thereof, they agreed that women were
queer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's your mother and Lillian, they mean all
right,&rdquo; said Jonas White, &ldquo;but they were getting that
poor young one all stirred up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria never settled with herself whether the Whites thought she
had a pleasant prospect before her or the reverse, but they did not
certainly influence her to love Miss Ida Slome any more.</p>
<p>Miss Slome was so kind to Maria, in those days, that it really
seemed to her that she ought to love her. She and her father were
invited to take tea at Miss Slome's boarding-house, and after tea
they sat in the little parlor which the teacher had for her own,
and Miss Slome sang and played to them. She had a piano. Maria
heard her and her father talking about the place in the Edgham
parlor where it was to stand. Harry stood over Miss Slome as she
was singing, and Maria observed how his arm pressed against her
shoulder.</p>
<p>After the song was done, Harry and Miss Slome sat down on the
sofa, and Harry drew Maria down on the other side. Harry put his
arm around his little daughter, but not as if he realized it, and
she peeked around and saw how closely he was embracing Miss Slome,
whose cheeks were a beautiful color, but whose set smile never
relaxed. It seemed to Maria that Miss Slome smiled exactly like a
doll, as if the smile were made on her face by something outside,
not by anything within. Maria thought her father was very silly.
She felt scorn, shame, and indignation at the same time. Maria was
glad when it was time to go home. When her father kissed Miss
Slome, she blushed, and turned away her head.</p>
<p>Going home, Harry almost danced along the street. He was as
light-hearted as a boy, and as thoughtlessly in love.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, dear, what do you think of your new mother?&rdquo;
he asked, gayly, as they passed under the maples, which were
turning, and whose foliage sprayed overhead with a radiance of gold
in the electric light.</p>
<p>Then Maria made that inevitable rejoinder which is made always,
which is at once trite and pathetic. &ldquo;I can't call her
mother,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>But Harry only laughed. He was too delighted and triumphant to
realize the pain of the child, although he loved her. &ldquo;Oh,
well, dear, you needn't until you feel like it,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What am I going to call her, father?&rdquo; asked Maria,
seriously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, anything. Call her Ida.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is too old for me to call her that,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Old? Why, dear, Ida is only a girl.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is a good deal over thirty,&rdquo; said Maria.
&ldquo;I call that very old.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't, when you get there yourself,&rdquo; replied
Harry, with another laugh. &ldquo;Well, dear, suit yourself. Call
her anything you like.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It ended by Maria never calling her anything except
&ldquo;you,&rdquo; and referring to her as &ldquo;she&rdquo; and
&ldquo;her.&rdquo; The woman, in fact, became a pronoun for the
child, who in her honesty and loyalty could never put another word
in the place which had belonged to the noun, and feel
satisfied.</p>
<p>Maria was very docile, outwardly, in those days, but inside she
was in a tumult of rebellion. She went home with Miss Slome when
she was asked, but she was never gracious in response to the
doll-like smile, and the caressing words, which were to her as
automatic as the smile. Sometimes it seemed to Maria that if she
could only have her own mother scold her, instead of Miss Slome's
talking so sweetly to her, she would give the whole world.</p>
<p>For some unexplained cause, the sorrow which Maria had passed
through had seemed to stop her own emotional development. She
looked at Wollaston Lee sometimes and wondered how she had ever had
dreams about him; how she had thought she would like him to go with
her, and, perhaps, act as silly as her father did with Miss Slome.
She remembered how his voice sounded when he said she was nothing
but a girl, and a rage of shame seized her. &ldquo;He needn't
worry,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;I wouldn't have him, not if he
was to go down on his knees in the dust.&rdquo; She told Gladys
Mann that she thought Wollaston Lee was a very homely boy, and not
so very smart, and Gladys told another girl whose brother knew
Wollaston Lee, and he told him. After a little, Wollaston and Maria
never spoke when they met. The girl did not seem to see the boy;
she was more delicate in her manner of showing aversion, but the
boy gazed straight at her with an insolent stare, as at one who had
dared him. He told the same boy who had told him what Maria had
said, that he thought Amy Long was the prettiest girl in school,
and Maria was homely enough to crack a looking-glass, and that came
back to Maria. Everything said in the school always came back, by
some mysterious law of gravitation.</p>
<p>There was one quite serious difficulty involved in Aunt Maria's
deserting her post, and that was, Maria was too young to be left
alone in the house every night while her father was visiting his
fianc&eacute;e. She could not stay at Mrs. White's, because it was
obviously unfair to ask them to remain up until nearly midnight to
act as her guardian every, or nearly every, night in the week.
However, Harry submitted the problem to Miss Slome, who solved it
at once. She had, in some respects, a masterly brain, and her
executive abilities were somewhat thrown away in her comparatively
humble sphere.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must have the house cleaned,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;Let the woman you get to clean stay over until you come
home. She won't be afraid to go home alone afterwards. Those kind
of people never are. I suppose you will get Mrs. Addix?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They tell me she is about the best woman for
house-cleaning,&rdquo; said Harry, rather helplessly. He was so
unaccustomed to even giving a thought to household details, that he
had a vague sense of self-pity because he was now obliged to do so.
His lost Abby occasionally, he believed, had employed this Mrs.
Addix, but she had never troubled him about it.</p>
<p>It thus happened that every evening little Maria Edgham sat
guarded, as it were, by Mrs. Addix. Mrs. Addix was of the
poor-white race, like the Manns&mdash;in fact, she was distantly
related to them. They were nearly all distantly related, which may
have accounted for their partial degeneracy. Mrs. Addix, however,
was a sort of anomaly. Coming, as she did, of a shiftless, indolent
family, she was yet a splendid worker. She seemed tireless. She
looked positively radiant while scrubbing, and also more
intelligent. The moment she stopped work, she looked like an
automatic doll which had run down: all consciousness of self, or
that which is outside self, seemed to leave her face; it was as if
her brain were in her toiling arms and hands. Moreover, she always
went to sleep immediately after Harry had gone and Maria was left
alone with her. She sat in her chair and breathed heavily, with her
head tipped idiotically over one shoulder.</p>
<p>It was not very lively for Maria during those evenings. She felt
afraid to go to bed and leave the house alone except for the
heavily sleeping woman, whom her father had hard work to rouse when
he returned, and who staggered out of the door, when she started
home, as if she were drunk. She herself never felt sleepy; it was
even hard for her to sleep when at last her father had returned and
she went to bed. Often after she had fallen asleep her heart seemed
to sting her awake.</p>
<p>Maria grew thinner than ever. Somebody called Harry Edgham's
attention to the fact, and he got some medicine for her to take.
But it was not medicine which she needed&mdash;that is, not
medicine for the body, but for the soul. What probably stung her
most keenly was the fact that certain improvements, for which her
mother had always longed but always thought she could not have,
were being made in the house. A bay-window was being built in the
parlor, and one over it, in the room which had been her father's
and mother's, and which Maria dimly realized was, in the future, to
be Miss Ida Slome's. Maria's mother had always talked a good deal
about some day having that bay-window. Maria reflected that her
father could have afforded it just as well in her mother's day, if
her mother had insisted upon it, like Miss Slome. Maria's mother
had been of the thrifty New England kind, and had tried to have her
husband save a little. Maria knew well enough that these savings
were going into the improvements, the precious dollars which her
poor mother had enabled her father to save by her own deprivations
and toil. Maria heard her father and Miss Slome talk about the maid
they were to have; Miss Slome would never dream of doing her own
work, as her predecessor had done. All these things the child dwelt
upon in a morbid, aged fashion, and, consequently, while her
evenings with Mrs. Addix were not enjoyable, they were not exactly
dull. Nearly every room in the house was being newly papered and
painted. Maria and Mrs. Addix sat first in one room, then in
another, as one after another was torn up in the process of
improvement. Generally the room which they occupied was chaotic
with extra furniture, and had a distracted appearance which grated
terribly upon the child's nerves. Only her own room was not
touched. &ldquo;You shall have your room all fixed up next
year,&rdquo; her father told her. &ldquo;I would have it done now,
but father is going to considerable expense as it is.&rdquo; Maria
assured him, with a sort of wild eagerness, that she did not want
her room touched. It seemed to her that if the familiar paper which
her mother had selected were changed for something else, and the
room altered, that the last vestige of home would disappear, that
she could not bear it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Harry, easily, &ldquo;your paper will
do very well, I guess, for a while longer; but father will have
your room fixed up another year. You needn't think you are going to
be slighted.&rdquo;</p>
<p>That night, Maria and Mrs. Addix sat in Maria's room. The parlor
was in confusion, and so was the dining-room and the guest-chamber;
indeed, the house was at that time in the height of its repairs.
That very day Maria's mother's room had been papered with a
beautiful paper with a sheenlike satin, over which were strewn
garlands of pink roses. Pink was Miss Slome's favorite color. They
had a new hard-wood floor laid in that room, and there was to be a
pink rug, and white furniture painted with pink roses; Maria knew
that her father and Miss Slome had picked it out. That evening,
after her father had gone, and she sat there with the sleeping Mrs.
Addix, a sort of frenzy seized her, or, rather, she worked herself
up to it. She thought of what her mother would have said to that
beautiful new paper, and furniture, and bay-window. Her mother also
had liked pink. She thought of how much her mother would have liked
it, and how she had gone without, and not made any complaint about
her shabby old furnishings, which had that very day been sold to
Mrs. Addix for an offset to her wages, and which Maria had seen
carried away. She thought about it all, and a red flush deepened on
her cheeks, and her blue eyes blazed. For the time she was
abnormal. She passed the limit which separates perfect sanity from
mania. She had some fancy-work in her hands. Mrs. White had
suggested that she work in cross-stitch a cover for the dresser in
her new mother's room, and she was engaged upon that, performing,
as she thought, a duty, but her very soul rebelled against it. She
made some mistakes, and whenever she did she realized with a sort
of wicked glee that the thing would not be perfect, and she never
tried to rectify them.</p>
<p>Finally, Maria laid her work softly on the table, beside which
she was sitting. She glanced at Mrs. Addix, whose heavy, measured
breathing filled the room, then she arose. She took the lamp from
the table, and tiptoed out. Maria stole across the hall. The room
which had been her father's and mother's was entirely empty, and
the roses on the satiny wall-paper gleamed out as if they were
real. There was a white-and-silver picture-moulding. Maria set her
lamp on the floor. She looked at the great bay-window, she looked
at the roses on the walls. Then she did a mad thing. The paper was
freshly put on; it was hardly dry. Maria deliberately approached
the wall near the bay-window, where the paper looked somewhat damp;
she inserted her slender little fingers, with a scratching of her
nails under the edge, and she tore off a great, ragged strip. Then
she took up her lamp and returned to her room.</p>
<p>Mrs. Addix was still asleep. She had begun to snore, in an odd
sort of fashion, with deep, regular puffs of breath; it was like
the beating of a drum to peace and rest, after a day of weary and
unskilled labor unprofitable to the soul. Maria sat down again. She
took up her work. She felt very wicked, but she felt better.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter VIII</h4>
<p>When Maria's father returned that night, he came, as usual,
straight to the room wherein she and Mrs. Addix were sitting. Maria
regarded her father with a sort of contemptuous wonder, tinctured
with unwilling admiration. Her father, on his return from his
evenings spent with Miss Ida Slome, looked always years younger
than Maria had ever seen him. There was the humidity of youth in
his eyes, the flush of youth on his cheeks, the triumph of youth in
his expression. Harry Edgham, in spite of lines on his face, in
spite, even, of a shimmer of gray and thinness of hair on the
temples, looked as young as youth itself, in this rejuvenation of
his affection, for he was very much in love with the woman whom he
was to marry. He had been faithful to his wife while she lived,
even the imagination of love for another woman had not entered his
heart. His wife's faded face had not for a second disturbed his
loyalty; but now the beauty of this other woman aroused within him
long dormant characteristics, like some wonderful stimulant, not
only for the body, but for the soul. When he looked in Ida Slome's
beautiful face he seemed to drink in an elixir of life. And yet,
down at the roots of the man's heart slept the memory of his wife;
for Abby Edgham, with her sallow, faded face, had possessed
something which Ida Slome lacked, and which the man needed, to hold
him. And always in his mind, at this time, was the intention to be
more than kind to his motherless little daughter, not to let her
realize any difference in his feeling for her.</p>
<p>When he came to-night, he looked at the sleeping Mrs. Addix, and
at Maria, taking painful stitches in her dresser cover, at first
with a radiant smile, then with the deepest pity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor little soul,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You have had a
long evening to yourself, haven't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't mind,&rdquo; replied Maria. She was thinking of
the torn wall-paper, and she did not look her father fully in the
eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Has she been asleep ever since I went?&rdquo; inquired
Harry, in a whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor little girl. Well, it will be livelier by-and-by for
you. We'll have company, and more going on.&rdquo; Harry then went
close to Mrs. Addix, sitting with her head resting on her shoulder,
still snoring with those puffs of heavy breath. &ldquo;Mrs.
Addix,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Mrs. Addix did not stir; she continued to snore.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Addix!&rdquo; repeated Harry, in a louder tone, but
still the sleeping woman did not stir.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good Lord, what a sleeper!&rdquo; said Harry, still
aloud. Then he shook her violently by the shoulder. &ldquo;Come,
Mrs. Addix,&rdquo; said he, in a shout; &ldquo;I've got home, and I
guess you'll want to be going yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Addix moved languidly, and glanced up with a narrow slit of
eye, as dull as if she had been drugged. Harry shook her again, and
repeated his announcement that he was home and that she must want
to go. At last he roused her, and she stood up with a dazed
expression. Maria got her bonnet and shawl, and she gazed at them
vaguely, as if she were so far removed from the flesh that the
garments thereof perplexed her. Maria put on her bonnet, standing
on tiptoe, and Harry threw the shawl over her shoulders. Then she
staggered out of the room with a mumbled good-night.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Take care of the stairs, and do not fall,&rdquo; Harry
said.</p>
<p>He himself held the light for her, until she was safely down,
and the outer door had closed after her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The fresh air will wake her up,&rdquo; he said, laughing.
&ldquo;Not very lively company, is she, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; replied Maria, simply.</p>
<p>Harry looked lovingly at her, then his eyes fell on the door of
the room which had been papered that day. It occurred to him to go
in and see how the new paper looked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come in with father, and let's see the
improvements,&rdquo; he said, in a gay voice, to Maria.</p>
<p>Maria followed him into the room. It would have been difficult
to say whether triumphant malice and daring, or fear, prevailed in
her heart.</p>
<p>Harry, carrying the lamp, entered the room, with Maria slinking
at his heels. The first thing he saw was the torn paper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hullo!&rdquo; said he. He approached the bay-window with
his lamp. &ldquo;Confound those paperers!&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>For a minute Maria did not say a word. She was not exactly
struggling with temptation; she had inherited too much from her
mother's Puritan ancestry to make the question of a struggle
possible when the duty of truth stared her, as now, in the face.
She simply did not speak at once because the thing appeared to her
stupendous, and nobody, least of all a child, but has a threshold
of preparation before stupendous things.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They haven't half put the paper on,&rdquo; said her
father. &ldquo;Didn't half paste it, I suppose. You can't trust
anybody unless you are right at their heels. Confound 'em! There,
I've got to go round and blow 'em up to-morrow, before I go to the
city.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Maria spoke. &ldquo;I tore that paper off, father,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>Harry turned and stared at her. His face went white. For a
second he thought the child was out of her senses.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tore that paper off,&rdquo; repeated Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You? Why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>The double question seemed to hit the child like a pistol-shot,
but she did not flinch.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother never had paper as pretty as this,&rdquo; she
said, &ldquo;nor new furniture.&rdquo; Her eyes met her father's
with indescribable reproach.</p>
<p>Harry looked at her with almost horror. For the moment the
child's eyes looked like her dead mother's, her voice sounded like
her's. He continued gazing at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I couldn't bear it,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;She&rdquo;
[she meant Mrs. Addix] &ldquo;was asleep. I was all alone. I got to
thinking. I came in here and tore it off.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry heaved a deep sigh. He did not look nor was he in the
least angry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know your poor mother didn't have much,&rdquo; said he.
He sighed again. Then he put his arm around Maria and kissed her.
&ldquo;You can have your room newly papered now, if you want
it,&rdquo; said he, in a choking voice. &ldquo;Father will send you
over to Ellisville to-morrow with Mrs. White, and you can pick out
some paper your own self, and father will have it put right
on.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care about any,&rdquo; said Maria, and she began
to sob.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father's baby,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>She felt his chest heave, and realized that her father was
weeping as well as she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, father, I don't want new paper,&rdquo; she sobbed
out, convulsively. &ldquo;Mother picked out that on my room,
and&mdash;and&mdash;I am sorry I tore this off.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind, darling,&rdquo; said Harry. He almost carried
the child back to her own room. &ldquo;Now get to bed as soon as
you can, dear,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>After Maria, trembling and tearful, had undressed and was in
bed, her father came back into the room. He held a small lamp in
one hand, and a tumbler with some wine in the other.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here is some of the wine your mother had,&rdquo; said
Harry. &ldquo;Now I want you to sit right up and drink
this.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I&mdash;don't want it, father,&rdquo; gasped Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sit right up and drink it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria sat up. The tumbler was a third full, and the wine was an
old port. Maria drank it. Immediately her head began to swim; she
felt in a sort of daze when her father kissed her, and bade her lie
still and go right to sleep, and went out of the room. She heard
him, with sharpened hearing, enter her mother's room. She
remembered about the paper, and the new furniture, and how she was
to have a new mother, and how she had torn the paper, and how her
own mother had never had such things, but she remembered through a
delicious haze. She felt a charming warmth pervade all her veins.
She was no longer unhappy. Nothing seemed to matter. She soon fell
asleep.</p>
<p>As for Harry Edgham, he entered the empty room which he had
occupied with his dead wife. He set the lamp on the floor and
approached the paper, which poor little Maria, in her fit of futile
rebellion, had torn. He carefully tore off still more, making a
clean strip of the paper where Maria had made a ragged one. When he
had finished, it looked as if the paper had in reality dropped off
because of carelessness in putting on. He gathered up the pieces of
paper and stood looking about the room.</p>
<p>There is something about an empty room, empty except of
memories, but containing nothing besides, no materialities, no
certainties as to the future, which is intimidating to one who
stops and thinks. Harry Edgham was not, generally speaking, of the
sort who stop to think; but now he did. The look of youth faded
from his face. Instead of the joy and triumph which had filled his
heart and made it young again, came remembrance of the other woman,
and something else, which resembled terror and dread. For the first
time he deliberated whether he was about to do a wise thing: for
the first time, the image of Ida Slome's smiling beauty, which was
ever evident to his fancy, produced in him something like doubt and
consternation. He looked about the room, and remembered the old
pieces of furniture which had that day been carried away. He looked
at the places where they had stood. Then he remembered his dead
wife, as he had never remembered her before, with an anguish of
loss. He said to himself that if he only had her back, even with
her faded face and her ready tongue, that old, settled estate would
be better for him than this joy, which at once dazzled and racked
him. Suddenly the man, as he stood there, put his hands before his
face; he was weeping like a child. That which Maria had done,
instead of awakening wrath, had aroused a pity for himself and for
her, which seemed too great to be borne. For the instant, the dead
triumphed over the living.</p>
<p>Then Harry took up the lamp and went to his own room. He set the
lamp on the dresser, and looked at his face, with the rays thrown
upward upon it, very much as Maria had done the night of her
mother's death. When he viewed himself in the looking-glass, he
smiled involuntarily; the appearance of youth returned. He curled
his mustache and moved his head this way and that. He thought about
some new clothes which he was to have. He owned to himself, with
perfect ingenuousness, that he was, in his way, as a man, as
good-looking as Ida herself. Suddenly he remembered how Abby had
looked when she was a young girl and he had married her; he had not
compared himself so favorably with her. The image of his dead wife,
as a young girl, was much fairer in his mind than that of Ida
Slome.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's no use talking, Abby was handsomer than Ida when
she was young,&rdquo; he said to himself, as he began to undress.
He went to sleep thinking of Abby as a young girl, but when once
asleep he dreamed of Ida Slome.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter IX</h4>
<p>Harry and Ida Slome were to be married the Monday before
Thanksgiving. The school would close on the Friday before.</p>
<p>Ida Slome possessed, along with an entire self-satisfaction, a
vein of pitiless sense, which enabled her to see herself as others
might see her, and which saved her from the follies often incident
to the self-satisfied. She considered herself a beauty; she
thought, and with reason, that she would be well worth looking at
in her wedding-clothes, but she also told herself that it was quite
possible that some remarks might be made to her disparagement if
she had the wedding to which her inclination prompted her. She
longed for a white gown, veil, bridesmaids, and the rest, but she
knew better. She knew that more could be made of her beauty and her
triumph if she curtailed her wish. She realized that Harry's wife
had been dead only a little more than a year, and that, although
still a beauty, she was not a young girl, and she steered clear of
criticism and ridicule.</p>
<p>The ceremony was performed in the Presbyterian church Monday
afternoon. Ida wore a prune-colored costume, and a hat trimmed with
pansies. She was quite right in thinking that she was adorable in
it, and there was also in the color, with its shade of purple, a
delicate intimation of the remembrance of mourning in the midst of
joy. The church was filled with people, but there were no
bridesmaids. Some of Ida's scholars acted as ushers. Wollaston Lee
was among them. To Maria's utter astonishment, he did not seem to
realize his trying position as a rejected suitor. He was attired in
a new suit, and wore a white rosebud in his coat, and Maria glanced
at him with mingled admiration and disdain.</p>
<p>Maria sat directly in front of the pulpit, with Mrs. Jonas White
and Lillian. Mrs. White had a new gown of some thin black stuff,
profusely ornamented with jet, and Lillian had a new pink silk
gown, and wore a great bunch of roses. The situation, with regard
to Maria, in connection with the wedding ceremony and the bridal
trip, had been a very perplexing one. Harry had some western
cousins, far removed, both by blood and distance. Aunt Maria and
her brother were the only relatives on his former wife's side. Aunt
Maria had received an invitation, both from Harry and the
prospective bride, to be present at the wedding and remain in the
house with Maria until the return of the bridal couple from their
short trip. She had declined in a few stilted words, although Harry
had sent a check to cover the expenses of her trip, which was
returned in her letter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The fact is, I don't know what to do with Maria,&rdquo;
Harry said to Ida Slome, a week before the wedding. &ldquo;Maria
won't come, and neither will her brother's wife, and she can't be
left alone, even with the new maid. We don't know the girl very
well, and it won't do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ida Slome solved the problem with her usual precision and
promptness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;she will have to board at
Mrs. White's until we return. There is nothing else to
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was therefore decided that Maria was to board at Mrs.
White's, although it involved some things which were not altogether
satisfactory to Ida. Maria could not sit all alone in a pew, and
watch her father being married to his second wife, that was
obvious; and, since Mrs. Jonas White was going to take charge of
her, there was nothing else to do but to place herself and daughter
in a position of honored intimacy. Mrs. Jonas White said quite
openly that she was not in any need of taking boarders, that she
had only taken Mr. Edgham and Maria to oblige, and that she now was
to take poor little Maria out of pity. She, in reality, did pity
Maria, for a good many reasons. She was a shrewd woman, and she
gauged Miss Ida Slome pitilessly. However, she had to admit that
she had shown some consideration in one respect. In the midst of
her teaching, and preparations for her wedding, she had planned a
lovely dress for Maria. It was unquestionable but the realization
of her own loveliness, and her new attire had an alleviating
influence upon Maria. There was a faint buzz of admiration for her
when she entered the church. She looked as if enveloped in a soft
gray cloud. Ida had planned a dress of some gray stuff, and a soft
gray hat, tied under her chin with wide ribbons, and a long gray
plume floating over her golden-fleece of hair. Maria had never
owned such a gown, and, in addition, she had her first pair of
kid-gloves of gray, to match the dress, and long, gray coat,
trimmed with angora fur. She was charming in it, and, moreover, the
gray, as her step-mother's purple, suggested delicately, if one so
chose to understand a dim yet pleasing melancholy, a shade, as it
were, of remembrance.</p>
<p>Maria had been dressed at home, under Mrs. White's supervision.
Maria had viewed herself in the new long mirror in her mother's
room, which was now resplendent with its new furnishings, and she
admitted to herself that she was lovelier than she had ever been,
and that she had Miss Ida Slome to thank for it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will say one thing,&rdquo; said Mrs. White, &ldquo;she
has looked out for you about your dress, and she has shown real
good taste, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned herself about before the glass, which reflected her
whole beautiful little person, and she loved herself so much that
for the first time it seemed to her that she almost loved Ida. She
was blushing and smiling with pleasure.</p>
<p>Mrs. White sighed. &ldquo;Well, maybe it is for the best,&rdquo;
said she. &ldquo;One never knows about such things, how they will
work out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria listened, with a degree of indignation and awe, to the
service. She felt her heart swelling with grief at the sight of
this other woman being made her father's wife and put in the place
of her own mother, and yet, as a musical refrain is the haunting
and ever-recurrent part of a composition, so was her own charming
appearance. She felt so sure that people were observing her, that
she blushed and dared not look around. She was, in reality, much
observed, and both admired and pitied.</p>
<p>People, both privately and outspokenly, did not believe that the
step-mother would be, in a way, good to the child by the former
marriage. Ida Slome was not exactly a favorite in Edgham. People
acquiesced in her beauty and brilliancy, but they did not entirely
believe in her or love her. She stood before the pulpit with her
same perfect, set smile, displaying to the utmost the sweet curves
of her lips. Her cheeks retained their lovely brilliancy of color.
Harry trembled, and his face looked pale and self-conscious, but
Ida displayed no such weakness. She replied with the utmost
self-poise to the congratulations which she received after the
ceremony. There was an informal reception in the church vestry.
Cake and ice-cream and coffee were served, and Ida and Harry and
Maria stood together. Ida had her arm around Maria most of the
time, but Maria felt as if it were an arm of wood which encircled
her. She heard Ida Slome addressed as Mrs. Edgham, and she wanted
to jerk herself away and run. She lost the consciousness of herself
in her new attire.</p>
<p>Once Harry looked around at her, and received a shock. Maria's
face looked to him exactly like her mother's, although the coloring
was so different. Maria was a blonde, and her mother had been dark.
There was something about the excitement hardly restrained in her
little face, which made the man realize that the dead wife yet
lived and reigned triumphant in her child. He himself was conscious
that he conducted himself rather awkwardly and foolishly. A red
spot burned on either cheek. He spoke jerkily, and it seemed to him
that everything he said was silly, and that people might repeat it
and laugh. He was relieved when it was all over and he and Ida were
in the cab, driving to the station. When they were rolling rapidly
through a lonely part of the road, he put his arm around his new
wife, and kissed her. She received his kiss, and looked at him with
her set smile and the set sparkle in her beautiful eyes. Again the
feeling of almost terror which he had experienced the night when
Maria had torn the paper off in her mother's room, came over him.
However, he made an effort and threw it off.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor little Maria looked charming, thanks to you,
dearest,&rdquo; he said, tenderly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I thought she did. That gray suit was just the thing
for her, wasn't it? I never saw her look so pretty before,&rdquo;
returned Ida, and her tone was full of self-praise for her goodness
to Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she will be a great deal happier,&rdquo; said
Harry. &ldquo;It was a lonesome life for a child to
lead.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry Edgham had not an atom of tact. Any woman might have
judged from his remarks that she had been married on account of
Maria; but Ida only responded with her never-changing smile.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I think myself that she will
be much happier, dear.&rdquo; Privately she rather did resent her
husband's speech, but she never lost sight of the fact that a smile
is more becoming than a frown.</p>
<p>Maria remained boarding at Mrs. Jonas White's until her father
and his new wife returned. She did not have a very happy time. In
the first place, the rather effusive pity with which she was
treated by the female portion of the White family, irritated her.
She began to consider that, now her father had married, his wife
was a member of her family, and not to be decried. Maria had a
great deal of pride when those belonging to her were concerned. One
day she retorted pertly when some covert remark, not altogether to
her new mother's laudation, had been made by Lillian.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think she is perfectly lovely,&rdquo; said she, with a
toss of her head.</p>
<p>Lillian and her mother looked at each other. Then Lillian, who
was not her match for pertness, spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you made up your mind what to call her?&rdquo; she
asked. &ldquo;Mummer, or mother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall call her whatever I please,&rdquo; replied Maria;
&ldquo;it is nobody's business.&rdquo; Then she arose and went out
of the room, with an absurd little strut.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lord a-massy!&rdquo; observed Mrs. Jonas White, after she
had gone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess Ida Slome will have her hands full with that
young one,&rdquo; observed Lillian.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she will, too,&rdquo; assented her mother.
&ldquo;She was real sassy. Well, her mother had a temper of her
own; guess she's got some of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mr. Jonas White and Henry were a great alleviation of Maria's
desolate estate during her father's absence. Somehow, the men
seemed to understand better than the women just how she felt: that
she would rather be let alone, now it was all over, than condoled
with and pitied. Mr. Henry White took one of the market horses,
hitched him into a light buggy, and took Maria out riding two
evenings, when the market was closed. It was a warm November, and
the moon was full. Maria quite enjoyed her drive with Mr. Henry
White, and he never said one word about her father's marriage, and
her new mother&mdash;her pronoun of a mother&mdash;all the way. Mr.
Henry White had too long a neck, and too large a mouth, which was,
moreover, too firmly set, otherwise Maria felt that, with slight
encouragement, she might fall in love with him, since he showed so
much delicacy. She counted up the probable difference in their
ages, and estimated it as no more than was between her father
and Her. However, Mr. Henry White gave her so little
encouragement, and his neck was so much too long above his collar,
that she decided to put it out of her mind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor little thing,&rdquo; Mr. Henry White said to his
father, next day, &ldquo;she's about wild, with mother and Lill
harping on it all the time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They mean well,&rdquo; said Mr. White.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course they do; but who's going to stand this eternal
harping? If women folks would only stop being so durned kind, and
let folks alone sometimes, they'd be a durned sight
kinder.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's so,&rdquo; said Mr. Jonas White.</p>
<p>Maria's father and his bride reached home about seven on the
Monday night after Thanksgiving. Maria re-entered her old home in
the afternoon. Miss Zella Holmes, who was another teacher of hers,
went with her. Ida had requested her to open the house. Ida's
former boarding-house mistress had cooked a large turkey, and made
some cakes and pies and bread. Miss Zella Holmes drove around for
Maria in a livery carriage, and all these supplies were stowed in
beside them. On the way they stopped at the station for the new
maid, whose train was due then. She was a Hungarian girl, with a
saturnine, almost savage visage. Maria felt an awe of her, both
because she was to be their maid, and they had never kept one, and
because of her personality.</p>
<p>When they reached home, Miss Zella Holmes, who was very lively
and quick in her ways, though not at all pretty, gave orders to the
maid in a way which astonished Maria. She was conscious of an
astonishment at everything, which had not before possessed her. She
looked at the kitchen, the dining-room, the sitting-room, the
parlor, all the old apartments, and it was exactly as if she saw
old friends with new heads. The sideboard in the dining-room
glittered with the wedding silver and cut-glass. New pictures hung
on the sitting-room and parlor walls, beside the new paper. Wedding
gifts lay on the tables. There had been many wedding gifts. Miss
Zella Holmes flew about the house, with the saturnine Hungarian in
attendance. Maria, at Miss Holmes's bidding, began to lay the
table. She got out some new table-linen, napkins, and table-cloth,
which had been a wedding present. She set the table with some new
china. She looked, with a numb feeling, at her mother's poor old
blue-and-white dishes, which were put away on the top shelves.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think it would be a very good idea to pack away those
dishes altogether, and put them in a box up in the garret,&rdquo;
said Miss Holmes. Then she noticed Maria's face. &ldquo;They will
come in handy for your wedding outfit, little girl,&rdquo; she
added, kindly and jocosely, but Maria did not laugh.</p>
<p>Every now and then Maria looked at the clock on the parlor
shelf, that was also new. The old sitting-room clock had
disappeared; Maria did not know where, but she missed the face of
it as if it had been the face of a friend. Miss Holmes also glanced
frequently at the new clock. There arose a fragrant odor of warming
potatoes and gravy from the kitchen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is almost time for them,&rdquo; said Miss Holmes.</p>
<p>She was very much dressed-up, Maria thought. She wore a red silk
gown with a good many frills about the shoulders. She was very
slight, and affected frills to conceal it. Out of this mass of red
frills arose her little, alert head and face, homely, but full of
vivacity. Maria thought her very nice. She would have liked her
better for a mother than Ida. When Miss Zella Holmes smiled it
seemed to come from within.</p>
<p>At last a carriage came rapidly up to their door, and Miss
Holmes sprang to open it. Maria remained in the dining-room.
Suddenly an uncanny fancy had seized her and terrified her. Suppose
her father should look different, like everything else? Suppose it
should be to her as if he had a new head? She therefore remained in
the dining-room, trembling. She heard her father's voice, loud and
merry. &ldquo;Where is Maria?&rdquo; Still, Maria did not stir.
Then her father came hurrying into the room, and behind him she who
had been Ida Slome, radiant and triumphant, in her plum-colored
array, with the same smile with which she had departed on her
beautiful face. Harry caught Maria in his arms, rubbed his cold
face against her soft little one, and kissed her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How is father's little girl?&rdquo; he asked, with a
break in his voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pretty well, thank you,&rdquo; replied Maria. She gave a
helpless little cling to her father, then she stood away.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Speak to your new mother, darling,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do <em>You do</em>?&rdquo; said Maria,
obediently, and Ida said, &ldquo;You darling,&rdquo; and then
kissed her exactly as if she had been an uncommonly
well-constructed doll, with a clock-work system which fitted her to
take such a part with perfect accuracy.</p>
<p>Harry watched his wife and daughter rather anxiously. He seized
the first opportunity to ask Maria, aside, if she had been well,
and if she had been happy and comfortable at Mrs. White's. Then he
wound up with the rather wistful inquiry:</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are going to love your new mother, aren't you,
darling? Don't you think she is lovely?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ida had gone up-stairs with Miss Holmes, to remove her
wraps.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir, I think She is lovely,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter X</h4>
<p>Ida Edgham was, in some respects, a peculiar personality. She
was as much stronger, in another way, than her husband, as her
predecessor had been. She was that anomaly: a creature of supreme
self-satisfaction, who is yet aware of its own limits. She was so
unemotional as to be almost abnormal, but she had head enough to
realize the fact that absolute unemotionlessness in a woman
detracts from her charm. She therefore simulated emotion. She had a
spiritual make-up, a panoply of paint and powder for the soul, as
truly as any actress has her array of cosmetics for her face. She
made no effort to really feel, she knew that was entirely useless,
but she observed all the outward signs and semblance of feeling
more or less successfully. She knew that to take up her position in
Harry Edgham's house like a marble bust of Diana, which had been
one of her wedding-presents, would not be to her credit. She
therefore put herself to the pace which she would naturally be
expected to assume in her position. She showed everybody who called
her new possessions, with a semblance of delight which was quite
perfect. She was, in reality, less deceptive in that respect than
in others. She had a degree of the joy of possession, or she would
not have been a woman at all, and, in fact, would not have married.
She had wanted a home and a husband; not as some women want them,
for the legitimate desire for love and protection, but because she
felt a degree of mortification on account of her single estate. She
had had many admirers, but, although no one ever knew it, not one
offer of marriage, the acceptance of which would not have been an
absurdity, before poor Harry Edgham. She was not quite contented to
accept him. She had hoped for something better; but he was
good-looking, and popular, and his social standing, in her small
world, was good. He was an electrical engineer, with an office in
the city, and had a tolerably good income, although his first
wife's New England thrift had compelled him to live
parsimoniously.</p>
<p>Ida made up her mind from the first that thrift, after the plan
of the first woman, should not be observed in her household.
Without hinting to that effect, or without Harry's recognizing it,
she so managed that within a few weeks after her marriage he put an
insurance on his life, which would insure her comfort in case she
outlived him. He owned his house, and she had herself her little
savings, well invested. She then considered that they could live up
to Harry's income without much risk, and she proceeded to do so. It
was not long before the saturnine Hungarian, who could have
provided a regiment of her own countrymen with the coarse food of
her race, but seemed absolutely incapable of carrying out American
ideas of good cookery, was dismissed, and a good cook, at a price
which at first staggered Harry, installed in her place. Then a
young girl was found to take care of the bedrooms, and wait on
table, attired in white gowns and aprons and caps.</p>
<p>Ida had a reception two weeks after her return from her bridal
trip, and an elaborate menu was provided by a caterer from New
York. Maria, in a new white gown, with a white bow on her hair, sat
at one end of the dining-table, shining with cut-glass and softly
lighted with wax-candles under rose-colored shades in silver
candlesticks, and poured chocolate, while another young girl
opposite dipped lemonade from a great cut-glass punch-bowl, which
had been one of the wedding-presents. The table was strewn with
pink-and-white carnations. Maria caught a glimpse now and then of
her new mother, in a rose-colored gown, with a bunch of pink roses
on her breast, standing with her father receiving their guests, and
she could scarcely believe that she was awake and it was really
happening. She began to take a certain pleasure in the excitement.
She heard one woman say to another how pretty she was, &ldquo;poor
little thing,&rdquo; and her heart throbbed with satisfaction. She
felt at once beautiful and appealing to other people, because of
her misfortunes. She turned the chocolate carefully, and put some
whipped-cream on top of each dainty cup; and, for the first time
since her father's marriage, she was not consciously unhappy. She
glanced across the table at the other little girl, Amy Long, who
was dark, and wore a pink bow on her hair, and she was sure that
she herself was much prettier. Then, too, Amy had not the sad
distinction of having lost her mother, and having a step-mother
thrust upon her in a year's time. It is true that once when Amy's
mother, large and portly in a blue satin which gave out pale white
lights on the curves of her great arms and back, and whose roseate
face looked forth from a fichu of real lace pinned with a great
pearl brooch, came up behind her little daughter and straightened
the pink bow on her hair, Maria felt a cruel little pang. There was
something about the look of loving admiration which Mrs. Long gave
her daughter that stung Maria's heart with a sense of loss. She
felt that if her new mother should straighten out her white bow and
regard her with admiration, it would be because of her own self,
and the credit which she, Maria, reflected upon her. Still, she
reflected how charming she looked. Self-love is much better than
nothing for a lonely soul.</p>
<p>That night Maria realized that she was in the second place, so
far as her father was concerned. Ida, in her rose-colored robes,
dispensing hospitality in his home, took up his whole attention.
She was really radiant. She sang and played twice for the company,
and her perfectly true high soprano filled the whole house. To
Maria it sounded as meaningless as the trill of a canary-bird. In
fact, when it came to music, Ida, although she had a good voice,
had the mortification of realizing that her simulation of emotion
failed her. Harry did not like his wife's singing. He felt like a
traitor, but he could not help realizing that he did not like it.
But the moment Ida stopped singing, he looked at her, and fairly
wondered that he had married such a beautiful creature. He felt
humble before her. Humility was not a salutary condition of mind
for him, but this woman inspired it now, and would still more in
the future. In spite of his first wife's scolding, her quick
temper, he had always felt himself as good as she was. The mere
fact of the temper itself had served to give him a sense of
equality and, perhaps, superiority, but this woman never showed
temper. She never failed to respond with her stereotyped smile to
everything that was said. She seemed to have no faults at all, to
realize none in herself, and not to admit the possibility of any
one else doing so.</p>
<p>Harry felt himself distinctly in the wrong beside such
unquestionable right. He even did not think himself so good-looking
as he had formerly done. It seemed to him that he looked much older
than Ida. When they went out together he felt like a lackey in
attendance on an empress. In his own home, it came to pass that he
seldom made a remark when guests were present without a covert
glance at his wife to see what she thought of it. He could always
tell what she thought, even if her face did not change and she made
no comment neither then nor afterwards, and she always made him
know, in some subtle fashion, when he had said anything wrong.</p>
<p>Maria felt very much in the same way at first, but she fought
involuntarily against it. She had a good deal of her mother in her.
Finally, she never looked at Ida when she said anything. She was
full of rebellion although she was quiet and obedient, and very
unobtrusive, in the new state of things.</p>
<p>Ida entertained every Tuesday evening. There was not a caterer
as at the first reception, but Ida herself cooked dainty messes in
a silver chafing-dish, and Maria and the white-capped little maid
passed things. It was not especially expensive, but people in
Edgham began to talk. They said Harry was living beyond his means;
but Ida kept within his income. She had too good a head for
reckless extravagance, although she loved admiration and show. When
there were no guests in the house, Maria used to go to her own room
early of an evening, and read until it was time to go to bed. She
realized that her father and Ida found her somewhat superfluous,
although Ida never made any especial effort to entertain her father
that Maria could see. She was fond of fancy-work, and was
embroidering a silk gown for herself. She embroidered while Harry
read the paper. She did not talk much. Maria used to wonder that
her father did not find it dull when he and She were alone
together of an evening. She looked at him reading his paper, with
frequent glances of admiration over it at his beautiful wife, and
thought that in his place, she should much prefer a woman like her
mother, who had kept things lively, even without company, and even
in a somewhat questionable fashion. However, Harry and Ida
themselves went out a good deal. People in Edgham aped city
society, they even talked about the &ldquo;four hundred.&rdquo; The
newly wedded pair were frequent guests of honor at dinners and
receptions, and Ida herself was a member of the Edgham's Woman's
Club, and that took her out a good deal. Maria was rather lonely.
Finally the added state and luxury of her life, which had at first
pleased her, failed to do so. She felt that she hated all the new
order of things, and her heart yearned for the old. She began to
grow thin; she did not sleep much nor sleep well. She felt tired
all the time. One day her father noticed her changed looks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Maria is getting thin!&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think it is because she is growing tall,&rdquo; said
Ida. &ldquo;Everybody seems thin when they are growing tall. I did
myself. I was much thinner than Maria at her age.&rdquo; She looked
at Maria with her invariable smile as she spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She looks very thin to me,&rdquo; Harry said,
anxiously.</p>
<p>He himself looked thin and older. An anxious wrinkle had
deepened between his eyes. It was June, and the days were getting
warm. He was anxious about Ida's health also. Ida was not at all
anxious. She was perfectly placid. It did not seem to her that an
overruling Providence could possibly treat her unkindly. She was
rather annoyed at times, but still never anxious, and utterly
satisfied with herself to that extent that it precluded any doubt
as to the final outcome of everything.</p>
<p>Maria continued to lose flesh. A sentimental interest in herself
and her delicacy possessed her. She used to look at her face, which
seemed to her more charming than ever, although so thin, in the
glass, and reflect, with a pleasant acquiescence, on an early
death. She even spent some time in composing her own epitaph, and
kept it carefully hidden away in a drawer of her dresser, under
some linen.</p>
<p>Maria felt a gloomy pride when the doctor, who came frequently
to see Ida, was asked to look at her; she felt still more
triumphant when he expressed it as his opinion that she ought to
have a change of air the moment school closed. The doctor said
Maria was running down, which seemed to her a very interesting
state of things, and one which ought to impress people. She told
Gladys Mann the next day at school.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The doctor says I'm running down,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You do look awful bad,&rdquo; replied Gladys.</p>
<p>After recess Maria saw Gladys with her face down on her desk,
weeping. She knew that she was weeping because she looked so badly
and was running down. She glanced across at Wollaston Lee, and
wondered if he had noticed how badly she looked, and yet how
charming. All at once the boy shot a glance at her in return; then
he blushed and scowled and took up his book. It all comforted Maria
in the midst of her langour and her illness, which was negative and
unattended by any pain. If she felt any appetite she restrained it,
she became so vain of having lost it.</p>
<p>It was decided that Maria should go and visit her aunt Maria, in
New England, and remain there all summer. Her father would pay her
board in order that she should not be any restraint on her aunt,
with her scant income. Just before Maria went, and just before her
school closed, the broad gossip of the school came to her ears. She
ascertained something which filled her at once with awe, and shame,
and jealousy, and indignation. If one of the girls began to speak
to her about it, she turned angrily away. She fairly pushed Gladys
Mann one day. Gladys turned and looked at her with loving reproach,
like a chidden dog. &ldquo;What did you expect?&rdquo; said she.
Maria ran away, her face burning.</p>
<p>After she reached her aunt Maria's nothing was said to her about
it. Aunt Maria was too prudish and too indignant. Uncle Henry's
wife, Aunt Eunice, was away all summer, taking care of a sister who
was ill with consumption in New Hampshire; so Aunt Maria kept the
whole house, and she and Maria and Uncle Henry had their meals
together. Maria loved her uncle Henry. He was a patient man, with a
patience which at times turns to fierceness, of a man with a brain
above his sphere, who has had to stand and toil in a shoe-factory
for his bread and butter all his life. He was non-complainant
because of a sort of stern pride, and a sense of a just cause
against Providence, but he was very kind to Maria; he petted her as
if she had been his own child. Every pleasant night Uncle Henry
took Maria for a trolley-ride, or a walk, and he treated her to
ice-cream soda and candy. Aunt Maria also took good care of the
child. She showed a sort of vicious curiosity with regard to
Maria's step-mother and all the new household arrangements, which
Maria did not gratify. She had too much loyalty, although she
longed to say all that she thought to her aunt, being sure of a
violent sympathizer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'll say one thing, she has fixed your clothes
nice,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She didn't do it, it was Miss Barnes,&rdquo; replied
Maria. She could not help saying that much. She did not want Aunt
Maria to think her step-mother took better care of her wardrobe
than her own mother had done.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good land! She didn't hire all these things made?&rdquo;
said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes'm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good land! I don't see how your father is going to stand
it. I'd like to know what your poor mother would have said?&rdquo;
said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>Then Maria's loyalty came to the front. After all, she was
her father's wife, and to be defended.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess maybe father is making more money now,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I hope to the land he is,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.
&ldquo;I guess if She (Aunt Maria also treated Ida like a
pronoun) had just one hundred dollars and no more to get along
with, she'd have to do different.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria regained her strength rapidly. When she went home, a few
days before her school begun, in September, she was quite rosy and
blooming. She had also fallen in love with a boy who lived next to
Aunt Maria, and who asked her, over the garden fence, to correspond
with him, the week before she left.</p>
<p>It was that very night that Aunt Maria had the telegram. She
paid the boy, then she opened it with trembling fingers. Her
brother Henry and Maria were with her on the porch. It was a warm
night, and Aunt Maria wore an ancient muslin. The south wind
fluttered the ruffles on that and the yellow telegram as she read.
She was silent a moment, with mouth compressed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said her brother Henry, inquiringly.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria's face flushed and paled. She turned to Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you've got a little
sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good!&rdquo; said Uncle Henry. &ldquo;Ever so much more
company for you than a little brother would have been,
Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria was silent. She trembled and felt cold, although the night
was so warm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Weighs seven pounds,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, in a hard
voice.</p>
<p>Maria returned home a week from that day. She travelled alone
from Boston, and her father met her in New York. He looked strange
to her. He was jubilant, and yet the marks of anxiety were deep. He
seemed very glad to see Maria, and talked to her about her little
sister in an odd, hesitating way.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her name is Evelyn,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>Maria said nothing. She and her father were crossing the city to
the ferry in a cab.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think that is a pretty name, dear?&rdquo; asked
Harry, with a queer, apologetic wistfulness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, father, I think it is a very silly name,&rdquo;
replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, your mother and I thought it a very pretty name,
dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I always thought it was the silliest name in the
world,&rdquo; said Maria, firmly. However, she sat close to her
father, and realized that it was something to have him to herself
without Her, while crossing the city. &ldquo;I don't know as I
think Evelyn is such a very silly name, father,&rdquo; she said,
presently, just before they reached the ferry.</p>
<p>Harry bent down and kissed her. &ldquo;Father's own little
girl,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Maria felt that she had been magnanimous, for she had in reality
never liked Evelyn, and would not have named a doll that.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will be a great deal happier with a little sister. It
will turn out for the best,&rdquo; said Harry, as the cab stopped.
Harry always put a colon of optimism to all his happenings of
life.</p>
<p>The next morning, when Ida was arrayed in a silk
neglig&eacute;e, and the baby was washed and dressed, Maria was
bidden to enter the room which had been her mother's. The first
thing which she noticed was a faint perfume of violet-scented
toilet-powder. Then she saw Ida leaning back gracefully in a
reclining-chair, with her hair carefully dressed. The nurse held
the baby: a squirming little bundle of soft, embroidered flannel.
The nurse was French, and she awed Maria, for she spoke no English,
and nobody except Ida could understand her. She was elderly, small,
and of a damaged blond type. Maria approached Ida and kissed her.
Ida looked at her, smiling. Then she asked if she had had a
pleasant summer. She told the nurse, in French, to show the baby to
her. Maria approached the nurse timidly. The flannel was carefully
laid aside, and the small, piteously inquiring and puzzled face,
the inquiry and the bewilderment expressed by a thousand wrinkles,
was exposed. Maria looked at it with a sort of shiver. The nurse
laid the flannel apart and disclosed the tiny feet seeming already
to kick feebly at existence. The nurse said something in French
which Maria could not understand. Ida answered also in French. Then
the baby seemed to experience a convulsion; its whole face seemed
to open into one gape of expostulation at fate. Then its feeble,
futile wail filled the whole room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Isn't she a little darling?&rdquo; asked Ida, of
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes'm,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>There was a curious air of aloofness about Ida with regard to
her baby, and something which gave the impression of wistfulness.
It is possible that she was capable of wishing that she had not
that aloofness. It did not in the least seem to Maria as if it were
Ida's baby. She had a vague impression, derived she could not tell
in what manner, of a rosebud laid on a gatepost. Ida did not seem
conscious of her baby with the woodeny consciousness of an
apple-tree of a blossom. When she gazed at it, it was with the same
set smile with which she had always viewed all creation. That smile
which came from without, not within, but now it was fairly
tragic.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her name is Evelyn. Don't you think it is a pretty
name?&rdquo; asked Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes'm,&rdquo; replied Maria. She edged towards the door.
The nurse, tossing the wailing baby, rose and got a bottle of milk.
Maria went out.</p>
<p>Maria went to school the next Monday, and all the girls asked
her if the baby was pretty.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It looks like all the babies I ever saw,&rdquo; replied
Maria guardedly. She did not wish to descry the baby which was,
after all, her sister, but she privately thought it was a terrible
sight.</p>
<p>Gladys Mann supported her. &ldquo;Babies do all look
alike,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;We've had nine to our house, and I
had ought to know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>At first Maria used to dread to go home from school, on account
of the baby. She had a feeling of repulsion because of it, but
gradually that feeling disappeared and an odd sort of fascination
possessed her instead. She thought a great deal about the baby.
When she heard it cry in the night, she thought that her father and
Ida might have sense enough to stop it. She thought that she could
stop its crying herself, by carrying it very gently around the
room. Still she did not love the baby. It only appealed, in a
general way, to her instincts. But one day, when the baby was some
six weeks old, and Ida had gone to New York, she came home from
school, and she went up to her own room, and she heard the baby
crying in the room opposite. It cried and cried, with the insistent
cry of a neglected child. Maria said to herself that she did not
believe but the French nurse had taken advantage of Her
absence, and had slipped out on some errand and left the baby
alone.</p>
<p>The baby continued to wail, and a note of despair crept into the
wail. Maria could endure it no longer. She ran across the hall and
flung open the door. The baby lay crying in a little pink-lined
basket. Maria bent over it, and the baby at once stopped crying.
She opened her mouth in a toothless smile, and she held up little,
waving pink hands to Maria. Maria lifted the baby out of her basket
and pressed her softly, with infinite care, as one does something
very precious, to her childish bosom, and at once something strange
seemed to happen to her. She became, as it were, illuminated by
love.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XI</h4>
<p>Maria had fallen in love with the baby, and her first impulse,
as in the case of all true love, was secrecy. Why she should have
been ashamed of her affection, her passion, for it was, in fact,
passion, her first, she could not have told. It was the sublimated
infatuation half compounded of dreams, half of instinct, which a
little girl usually has for her doll. But Maria had never had any
particular love for a doll. She had possessed dolls, of course, but
she had never been quite able to rise above the obvious sham of
them, the cloth and the sawdust and the paint. She had wondered how
some little girls whom she had known had loved to sleep with their
dolls; as for her, she would as soon have thought of taking
pleasure in dozing off with any little roll of linen clasped in her
arms. It was rather singular, for she had a vivid imagination, but
it had balked at a doll. When, as sometimes happened, she saw a
little girl of her own age, wheeling with solemnity a doll in a
go-cart, she viewed her with amazement and contempt, and thought
privately that she was not altogether bright. But this baby was
different. It did not have to be laid on its back to make its eyes
close, it did not have to be shaken and squeezed to make it
vociferous. It was alive, and Maria, who was unusually alive in her
emotional nature, was keenly aware of that effect. This little,
tender, rosy thing was not stuffed with sawdust, it was stuffed
with soul and love. It could smile; the smile was not painted on
its face in a doll-factory. Maria was so thankful that this baby,
Ida's baby, did not have Her smile, unchanging and permanent
for all observers and all vicissitudes. When this baby smiled it
smiled, and when it cried it cried. It was honest from the crown of
its fuzzy head to the soles of its little pink worsted socks.</p>
<p>At the first reception which Ida gave after the baby came, and
when it was on exhibition in a hand-embroidered robe, it screamed
every minute. Maria was secretly glad, and proud of it. It meant
much to her that <em>her</em> baby should not smile at all the
company, whether it was smiling in its heart or not, the
way She did. Maria had no room in her heart for any other
love, except that for her father and the baby. She looked at
Wollaston Lee, and wondered how she could ever have had dreams
about him, how she could ever have preferred a boy to a baby like
her little sister, even in her dreams. She ceased haunting the
post-office for a letter from that other boy in New England, who
had asked her to correspond over the garden fence, and who had
either never written at all, or had misdirected his letter. She
wondered how she had thought for a moment of doing such a thing as
writing to a boy like that. She remembered with disgust how
overgrown that boy was, and how his stockings were darned at the
knees; and how she had seen patches of new cloth on his trousers,
and had heard her aunt Maria say that he was so hard on his clothes
on account of his passion for bird-nesting, that it was all his
mother could do to keep him always decent. How could she have
thought for a moment of a bird-nesting sort of boy? She was so
thankful that the baby was a girl. Maria, as sometimes happens, had
a rather inverted system of growth. With most, dolls come first,
then boys; with her, dolls had not come at all. Boys came first,
then her little baby sister, which was to her in the place of a
doll, and the boys got promptly relegated to the background.</p>
<p>Much to Maria's delight, the French nurse, whom she at once
disliked and stood in awe of, only remained until the baby was
about two months old, then a little nurse-girl was engaged. On
pleasant days the nurse-girl, whose name was Josephine, wheeled out
the baby in her little carriage, which was the daintiest thing of
the kind to be found, furnished with a white lace canopy lined with
rose-colored silk. It was on these occasions that Maria showed
duplicity. On Saturdays, when there was no school, she privately
and secretly bribed Josephine, who was herself under the spell of
the baby, to go home and visit her mother, and let her have the
privilege of wheeling it herself. Maria had a small sum every week
for her pocket-money, and a large part of it went to Josephine in
the shape of chocolates, of which she was inordinately fond; in
fact, Josephine, who came of the poor whites, like Gladys Mann,
might have been said to be a chocolate maniac. Maria used to
arrange with Josephine to meet her on a certain corner on
Saturdays, and there the transfer was made: Josephine became the
possessor of half a pound of chocolates, and Maria of the baby.
Josephine had sworn almost a solemn oath to never tell. She at once
repaired to her mother's, sucking chocolates on the way, and Maria
blissfully wheeled the baby. She stood in very little danger of
meeting Her on these occasions, because the Edgham Woman's
Club met on Saturday afternoon. It often happened, however, that
Maria met some of the school-girls, and then nothing could have
exceeded her pride and triumph. Some of them had little brothers or
sisters, but none of them such a little sister as hers.</p>
<p>The baby had, in reality, grown to be a beauty among babies. All
the inflamed red and aged puckers and creases had disappeared;
instead of that was the sweetest flush, like that of just-opened
rosebuds. Evelyn was a compact little baby, fat, but not
overlapping and grossly fat. It was such a matter of pride to Maria
that the baby's cheeks did not hang the least bit in the world, but
had only lovely little curves and dimples. She had become quite a
connoisseur in babies. When she saw a baby whose flabby cheeks hung
down and touched its bib, she was disgusted. She felt as if there
was something morally wrong with such a baby as that. Her baby was
wrapped in the softest white things: furs, and silk-lined
embroidered cashmeres, and her little face just peeped out from the
lace frill of a charming cap. There was only one touch of color in
all this whiteness, beside the tender rose of the baby's face, and
that was a little knot of pale pink baby-ribbon on the cap. Maria
often stopped to make sure that the cap was on straight, and she
also stopped very often to tuck in the white fur rug, and she also
stopped often to thrust her own lovely little girl-face into the
sweet confusion of baby and lace and embroidery and fur, with soft
kisses and little, caressing murmurs of love. She made up little
love phrases, which she would have been inexpressibly ashamed to
have had overheard. &ldquo;Little honey love&rdquo; was one of
them&mdash;&ldquo;Sister's own little honey love.&rdquo; Once,
when walking on Elm Street under the leafless arches of the elms,
where she thought she was quite alone, although it was a very
bright, warm afternoon, and quite dry&mdash;it was not a snowy
winter&mdash;she spoke more loudly than she intended, and looked up
to see another, bigger girl, the daughter of the Edgham lawyer,
whose name was Annie Stone. Annie Stone was large of her
age&mdash;so large, in fact, that she had a nickname of
&ldquo;Fatty&rdquo; in school. It had possibly soured her, or her
over-plumpness may have been due to some physical ailment which
rendered her irritable. At all events, Annie Stone had not that
sweetness and placidity of temperament popularly supposed to be
coincident with stoutness. She had a bitter and sarcastic tongue
for a young girl. Maria inwardly shuddered when she saw Annie
Stone's fat, malicious face surveying her from under her
fur-trimmed hat. Annie Stone was always very well dressed, but even
that did not seem to improve her mental attitude. Her large,
high-colored face was also distinctly pretty, but she did not
seemed to be cognizant of that to the result of any
satisfaction.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sister's little honey love!&rdquo; she repeated after
Maria, with fairly a snarl of satire.</p>
<p>Maria had spirit, although she was for the moment dismayed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she is&mdash;so there,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You wait till you have a few more little honey
loves,&rdquo; said Annie Stone, &ldquo;and see how you
feel.&rdquo;</p>
<p>With that Annie Stone went her way, with soft flounces of her
short, stout body, and Maria was left. She was still defiant; her
blood was up. &ldquo;Sister's little honey love,&rdquo; she said to
the baby, in a tone so loud that Annie Stone must have heard.
&ldquo;Were folks that didn't have anything but naughty little
brothers jealous of her?&rdquo; Annie Stone had, in fact, a
notorious little brother, who at the early age of seven was the
terror of his sisters and all law-abiding citizens; but Annie Stone
was not easily touched.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sister's little honey love,&rdquo; she shouted back,
turning a malignant face over her shoulder. She had that very
morning had a hand-to-hand fight with her naughty little brother,
and finally come out victorious, by forcing him to the ground and
sitting on him until he said he was sorry. It was not very
reasonable that she should be at all sensitive with regard to
him.</p>
<p>After Annie Stone had gone out of sight, Maria went around to
the front of the little carriage, adjusted the white fur rug
carefully, secured a tiny, white mitten on one of the baby's hands,
and whispered to the baby alone. &ldquo;You <em>are</em> sister's
little honey love, aren't you, precious?&rdquo; and the baby smiled
that entrancing smile of honesty and innocence which sent the
dimples spreading to the lace frill of her cap, and reached out her
arms, thereby displacing both mittens, which Maria adjusted; then,
after a fervent kiss, she went her way.</p>
<p>However, she was not that afternoon to proceed on her way long
uninterrupted. For some time Josephine, the nurse-girl, had either
been growing jealous, or chocolates were palling upon her.
Josephine had also found her own home locked up, and the key
nowhere in evidence. There would be a good half-hour to wait at the
usual corner for Maria. The wind had changed, and blew cold from
the northwest. Josephine was not very warmly clad. She wore her
white gown and apron, which Mrs. Edgham insisted upon, and which
she resented. She had that day felt a stronger sense of injury with
regard to it, and counted upon telling her mother how mean and set
up she thought it was for any lady as called herself a lady to make
a girl wear a summer white dress in winter. She shivered on her
corner of waiting. Josephine got more and more wroth. Finally she
decided to start in search of Maria and the baby. She gave her
white skirts an angry switch and started. It was not very long
after she had turned her second corner before she saw Maria and the
baby ahead of her. Josephine then ran. She was a stout girl, and
she plunged ahead heavily until she came up with Maria. The first
thing Maria knew, Josephine had grabbed the handle of the
carriage&mdash;two red girl hands appeared beside her own small,
gloved ones.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here, gimme this baby to once,&rdquo; gabbled Josephine
in the thick speech of her kind.</p>
<p>Maria looked at her. &ldquo;The time isn't up, and you know it
isn't, Josephine,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I just passed by a clock
in Melvin &amp; Adams's jewelry store, and it isn't time for me to
be on the corner.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gimme the baby,&rdquo; demanded Josephine. She attempted
to pull the carriage away from Maria, but Maria, although her
strength was inferior, had spirit enough to cope with any poor
white. Her little fingers clutched like iron. &ldquo;I shall not
give her up until four o'clock,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Go back to
the corner.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Josephine's only answer was a tug which dislodged Maria's
fingers and hurt her. But Maria came of the stock which believed in
trusting the Lord and keeping the powder dry. She was not yet
conquered. The right was clearly on her side. She and Josephine had
planned to meet at the corner at four o'clock, and it was not quite
half-past three, and she had given Josephine half a pound of
chocolates. She did not stop to reflect a moment. Maria's impulses
were quick, and lack of decision in emergencies was not a failing
of hers. She made one dart to the rear of Josephine. Josephine wore
her hair in a braided loop, tied with a bow of black ribbon. Maria
seized upon this loop of brown braids, and hung. She was enough
shorter than Josephine to render it effectual. Josephine's head was
bent backward and she was helpless, unless she let go of the
baby-carriage. Josephine, however, had good lungs, and she
screamed, as she was pulled backward, still holding to the little
carriage, which was also somewhat tilted by the whole
performance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lemme be, you horrid little thing!&rdquo; she screamed,
&ldquo;or I'll tell your ma.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She isn't my mother,&rdquo; said Maria in return.
&ldquo;Let go of my baby.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is your ma. Your father married her, and she's your
ma, and you can't help yourself. Lemme go, or I'll tell on
you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell, if you want to,&rdquo; said Maria, firmly, actually
swinging with her whole weight from Josephine's loop of braids.
&ldquo;Let go my baby.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Josephine screamed again, with her head bent backward, and the
baby-carriage tilted perilously. Then a woman, who had been
watching from a window near by, rushed upon the scene. She was
Gladys Mann's mother. Just as she appeared the baby began to cry,
and that accelerated her speed. The windows of her house became
filled with staring childish faces. The woman, who was very small
and lean but wiry, a bundle of muscles and nerve, ran up to the
baby-carriage, and pulled it back to its proper status, and began
at once quieting the frightened baby and scolding the girls.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, hush,&rdquo; cooed she to the baby. &ldquo;Did it
think it was goin' to get hurted?&rdquo; Then to the girls:
&ldquo;Ain't you ashamed of yourselves, two great girls fightin'
right in the street, and most tippin' the baby over. S'posin' you
had killed him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Josephine burst forth in a great wail of wrath and pain.
The bringing down of the carriage had increased her agony, for
Maria still clung to her hair.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, oh, oh!&rdquo; howled Josephine, her head straining
back. &ldquo;She's most killin' me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;An' I'll warrant you deserve it,&rdquo; said the woman.
Then she added to Maria&mdash;she was entirely impartial in her
scolding&mdash;&ldquo;Let go of her, ain't you shamed.&rdquo; Then
to the baby, &ldquo;Did he think he was goin' to get
hurted?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's a girl!&rdquo; cried Maria in a frenzy of
indignation. &ldquo;He is not a boy, he is a girl.&rdquo; She still
clung desperately to Josephine's hair, who in her turn clung to the
baby-carriage.</p>
<p>Then Gladys came out of the house, in a miserable, thin, dirty
gown, and she was Maria's ally.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let that baby go!&rdquo; she cried to Josephine. She
tugged fiercely at Josephine's white skirt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys Mann, you go right straight into the house. What
be you buttin' in for!&rdquo; screamed her mother. &ldquo;You let
that girl's hair alone. Josephine, what you been up to. You might
have killed this baby.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The baby screamed louder. It wriggled around in its little,
white fur nest, and stretched out imploring pink paws from which
the mittens had fallen off. Its little lace hood was awry, the pink
rosette was cocked over one ear. Maria herself began to cry. Then
Gladys waxed fairly fierce. She paid no attention whatever to her
mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You jest go round an' ketch on to the kid's wagin,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;an' I'll take care of her.&rdquo; With that her
strong little hands made a vicious clutch at Josephine's
braids.</p>
<p>Maria sprang for the baby-carriage. She straightened the lace
hood, she tucked in the fur robe, and put on the mittens. The
baby's screams subsided into a grieved whimper. &ldquo;Did great
wicked girls come and plague sister's own little precious?&rdquo;
said Maria. But now she had to reckon with Gladys's mother, who had
recovered her equilibrium, lost for a second by her daughter's
man&oelig;uvre. She seized in her turn the handle of the
baby-carriage, and gave Maria a strong push aside. Then she looked
at all three combatants, like a poor-white Solomon.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who were sent out with him in the first place, that's
what I want to know?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I were,&rdquo; replied Josephine in a sobbing shout. Her
head was aching as if she had been scalped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shet up!&rdquo; said Gladys's mother inconsistently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did your ma send her out with him?&rdquo; she queried of
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is not a boy,&rdquo; replied Maria shiftily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she did,&rdquo; said Josephine, still rubbing her
head.</p>
<p>Gladys, through a wholesome fear of her mother, had released her
hold on her braids, and stood a little behind.</p>
<p>Mrs. Mann's scanty rough hair blew in the winter wind as she
took hold of the carriage. Maria again tucked in the white fur robe
to conceal her discomfiture. She was becoming aware that she was
being proved in the wrong.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shet up!&rdquo; said Mrs. Mann in response to Josephine's
answer. There was not the slightest sense nor meaning in the
remark, but it was, so to speak, her household note, learned
through the exigency of being in the constant society of so many
noisy children. She told everybody, on general principles, to
&ldquo;shet up,&rdquo; even when she wished for information which
necessitated the reverse.</p>
<p>Mrs. Mann was thin and meagre, and wholly untidy. The wind
lashed her dirty cotton skirt around her, disclosing a dirtier
petticoat and men's shoes. The skin of her worn, blond face had a
look as if the soil of life had fairly been rubbed into it. All the
lines of this face were lax, displaying utter lassitude and no
energy. She, however, had her evanescent streaks of life, as now.
Once in a while a bubble of ancestral blood seemed to come to the
surface, although it soon burst. She had come, generations back, of
a good family. She was the run out weed of it, but still, at times,
the old colors of the blossom were evident. She turned to
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;your ma sent her out with
this young one, I don't see why you went to pullin' her hair
fur?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I gave her a whole half-pound of chocolates,&rdquo;
returned Maria, in a fine glow of indignation, &ldquo;if she would
let me push the baby till four o'clock, and it isn't four o'clock
yet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It ain't more than half-past three,&rdquo; said
Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Shet up!&rdquo; said her mother. She stood looking rather
helplessly at the three little girls and the situation. Her
suddenly wakened mental faculties were running down like those of a
watch which has been shaken to make it go for a few seconds. The
situation was too much for her, and, according to her wont, she let
it drop. Just then a whiff of strong sweetness came from the house,
and her blank face lighted up.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are makin' 'lasses candy,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;You
young ones all come in and hev' some, and I'll take the baby. He
can get warm, and a little of thet candy won't do him no harm,
nuther.&rdquo; Mrs. Mann used the masculine pronoun from force of
habit; all her children with the exception of Gladys were boys.</p>
<p>Maria hesitated. She had a certain scorn for the Manns. She eyed
Mrs. Mann's dirty attire and face. But she was in fact cold, and
the smell of the candy was entrancing. &ldquo;She said never to
take the baby in anywhere,&rdquo; said she, doubtfully.</p>
<p>Josephine having tired of chocolate, realized suddenly an
enormous hunger for molasses candy. She sniffed like a hunting
hound. &ldquo;She didn't say not to go into Mrs. Mann's,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She said anywhere; I heard her tell you,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Mann's ain't anywhere,&rdquo; said Josephine, who
had a will of her own. She rushed around and caught up the baby.
&ldquo;She's most froze,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;She'll get the
croup if she don't get warmed up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>With that, Josephine carrying the baby, Maria, Gladys, and Mrs.
Mann all entered the little, squalid Mann house, as hot as a
conservatory and reeking with the smell of boiled molasses.</p>
<p>When Josephine and Maria and the baby started out again, Maria
turned to Josephine.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if you don't let me push her
as far as the corner of our street, I'll tell how you took her into
Mrs. Mann's. You know what She'll say.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Josephine, whose face was smeared with molasses candy, and who
was even then sucking some, relinquished her hold on the carriage.
&ldquo;You'll be awful mean if you do tell,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will tell if you don't do what you say you'll do
another time,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>When they reached home, Ida had not returned, but she came in
radiant some few minutes later. She had read a paper on a famous
man, for the pleasure and profit of the Edgham Woman's Club, and
she had received much applause and felt correspondingly elated.
Josephine had taken the baby up-stairs to a little room which had
recently been fitted up for a nursery, and, not following her usual
custom, Ida went in there after removing her outer wraps. She stood
in her blue cloth dress looking at the child with her usual air of
radiant aloofness, seeming to shed her own glory, like a star, upon
the baby, rather than receive its little light into the loving
recesses of her own soul. Josephine and also Maria were in a state
of consternation. They had discovered a large, sticky splash of
molasses candy on the baby's white embroidered cloak. They had
washed the baby's sticky little face, but they did not know what
was to be done about the cloak, which lay over a chair. Josephine
essayed, with a dexterous gesture, to so fold the cloak over that
the stain would be for the time concealed. But Ida Edgham had not
been a school-teacher for nothing. She saw the gesture, and
immediately took up the cloak herself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what is this on her cloak?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>There was a miserable silence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It looks like molasses candy. It is molasses
candy,&rdquo; said Ida. &ldquo;Josephine, did you give this child
molasses candy?&rdquo; Ida's voice was entirely even, but there was
something terrible about it.</p>
<p>Maria saw Josephine turn white. &ldquo;She wouldn't have given
her the candy if it hadn't been for me,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Ida stood looking from one to the other. Josephine's face was
white and scared, Maria's impenetrable.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you ever give this child candy again, either of
you,&rdquo; said Ida, &ldquo;you will never take her out
again.&rdquo; Then she went out, still smiling.</p>
<p>Josephine looked at Maria with enormous gratitude.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you're a dandy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You're a cheat!&rdquo; returned Maria, with scorn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm awful sorry I didn't wait on the corner till four
o'clock, honest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You'd better be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, but you be a dandy,&rdquo; repeated Josephine.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XII</h4>
<p>Maria began to be conscious of other and more vital seasons than
those of the old earth on which she lived&mdash;the seasons of the
human soul. Along with her own unconscious and involuntary budding
towards bloom, the warm rush of the blood in her own veins, she
realized the budding progress of the baby. When little Evelyn was
put into short frocks, and her little, dancing feet were shod with
leather instead of wool, Maria felt a sort of delicious wonder,
similar to that with which she watched a lilac-bush in the yard
when its blossoms deepened in the spring.</p>
<p>The day when Evelyn was put into short frocks, Maria glanced
across the school-room at Wollaston Lee, and her innocent passion,
half romance, half imagination, which had been for a time in
abeyance, again thrilled her. All her pulses throbbed. She tried to
work out a simple problem in her algebra, but mightier unknown
quantities were working towards solution in every beat of her
heart. Wollaston shot a sidelong glance at her, and she felt it,
although she did not see it. Gladys Mann leaned over her
shoulder.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;Wollaston Lee is jest
starin' at you!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria gave a little, impatient shrug of her shoulders, although
a blush shot over her whole face, and Gladys saw distinctly the
back of her neck turn a roseate color.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's awful stuck on you, I guess,&rdquo; Gladys said.</p>
<p>Maria shrugged her shoulders again, but she thought of Wollaston
and then of the baby in her short frock and she felt that her heart
was bursting with joy, as a bud with blossom.</p>
<p>Ida, meantime, was curiously impassive towards her child's
attainments. There was something pathetic about this impassiveness.
Ida was missing a great deal, and more because she did not even
know what she missed. However, she began to be conscious of a
settled aversion towards Maria. Her manner towards her was
unchanged, but she became distinctly irritated at seeing her about.
When anything annoyed Ida, she immediately entertained no doubt
whatever that it was not in accordance with the designs of an
overruling Providence. It seemed manifest to her that if anything
annoyed her, it should be removed. However, in this case, the way
of removal did not seem clear for a long time. Harry was
undoubtedly fond of Maria. That did not trouble Ida in the least,
although she recognized the fact. She was not a woman who was
capable of jealousy, because her own love and admiration for
herself made her impregnable. She loved herself so much more than
Harry could possibly love her that his feeling for Maria did not
ruffle her in the least. It was due to no jealousy that she wished
Maria removed, at least for a part of the time. It was only that
she was always conscious of a dissent, silent and helpless, still
persistent, towards her attitude as regarded herself. She knew that
Maria did not think her as beautiful and perfect as she thought
herself, and the constant presence of this small element of
negation irritated her. Then, too, while she was not in the least
jealous of her child, she had a curious conviction that Maria cared
more for her than she herself cared, and that in itself was a
covert reproach. When little Evelyn ran to meet her sister when she
returned from school, Ida felt distinctly disturbed. She had no
doubt of her ultimate success in her purpose of ridding herself of
at least the constant presence of Maria, and in the mean time she
continued to perform her duty by the girl, to that outward extent
that everybody in Edgham pronounced her a model step-mother.
&ldquo;Maria Edgham never looked half so well in her own mother's
time,&rdquo; they said.</p>
<p>Lillian White spoke of it to her mother one Sunday. She had been
to church, but her mother had remained at home on account of a
cold.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell you she looked dandy,&rdquo; said Lillian. Lillian
was still as softly and negatively pretty as ever. She was really
charming because she was not angular, because her skin was not
thick and coarse, because she did not look an&aelig;mic, but
perfectly well fed and nourished and happy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham. She was togged out to beat the band.
Everything looked sort of fadged up that she had before her own
mother died. I tell you she never had anything like the rig she
wore to-day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What was it?&rdquo; asked her mother interestedly, wiping
her rasped nose with a moist ball of handkerchief.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, it was the handsomest brown suit I ever laid my eyes
on, with hand-embroidery, and fur, and a big picture hat trimmed
with fur and chrysanthemums. She's an awful pretty little girl
anyhow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She always was pretty,&rdquo; said Mrs. White, dabbing
her nose again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If Ida don't look out, her step-daughter will beat her in
looks,&rdquo; said Lillian.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never thought myself that Ida was anything to brag of,
anyway,&rdquo; said Mrs. White. She still had a sense of wondering
injury that Harry Edgham had preferred Ida to her Lillian.</p>
<p>Lillian was now engaged to be married, but her mother did not
feel quite satisfied with the man. He was employed in a retail
clothing establishment in New York, and had only a small salary.
&ldquo;Foster Simpkins&rdquo; (that was the young man's name)
&ldquo;ain't really what you ought to have,&rdquo; she often said
to Lillian.</p>
<p>But Lillian took it easily. She liked the young man very much as
she would have liked a sugar-plum, and she thought it high time for
her to be married, although she was scarcely turned twenty.
&ldquo;Oh, well, ma,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Men don't grow on
every bush, and Foster is real good-lookin', and maybe his salary
will be raised.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You ain't lookin' very high,&rdquo; said her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No use in strainin' your neck for things out of your own
sky,&rdquo; said Lillian, who had at times a shrewd sort of humor,
inherited from her father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Harry Edgham would have been a better match for
you,&rdquo; her mother said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lord, I'd a good sight rather have Foster than another
woman's leavin's,&rdquo; replied Lillian. &ldquo;Then there was
Maria, too. It would have been an awful job to dress her, and look
out for her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's so,&rdquo; said her mother, &ldquo;and then the
two sets of children, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lillian colored and giggled. &ldquo;Oh, land, don't talk about
children, ma!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I'm contented as it is. But
you ought to have seen that young one to-day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did Ida wear?&rdquo; asked Mrs. White.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She wore her black velvet suit, that she had this winter,
and the way she strutted up the aisle was a caution.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see how Harry Edgham lives the way he
does,&rdquo; said Mrs. White. &ldquo;Black velvet costs a lot. Do
you s'pose it is silk velvet?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You bet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see how he does it!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He looks sort of worn-out to me. He's grown awful old, I
noticed it to-day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, all Ida cares for is herself. <em>She</em> don't
see he's grown old, you can be sure of that,&rdquo; said Mrs.
White, with an odd sort of bitterness. Actually the woman was so
filled with maternal instincts that the bare dream of Harry as her
Lillian's husband had given her a sort of motherly solicitude for
him, which she had not lost. &ldquo;It's a shame,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, well, it's none of my funeral,&rdquo; said Lillian,
easily. She took a chocolate out of a box which her lover had sent
her, and began nibbling it like a squirrel.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor man,&rdquo; said Mrs. White. Tears of emotion
actually filled her eyes and mingled with the rheum of her cold.
She took out her moist ball of handkerchief again and dabbed both
her eyes and nose.</p>
<p>Lillian looked at her half amusedly, half affectionately.
&ldquo;Mother, you do beat the Dutch,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Mrs. White actually snivelled. &ldquo;I can't help remembering
the time when his poor first wife died,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and
how he and little Maria came here to take their meals, poor souls.
Harry Edgham was just the one to be worked by a woman, poor
fellow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lillian sucked her chocolate with a full sense of its sweetness.
&ldquo;Ma, you can't keep track of all creation, nor cry over
it,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;You've got to leave it to the Lord.
Have you taken your pink pellet?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor little Maria, too,&rdquo; said Mrs. White.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good gracious, ma, don't you take to worryin' over
her,&rdquo; said Lillian. &ldquo;Here's your pink pellet. A young
one dressed up the way she was to-day!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dress ain't everything, and nothin' is goin' to make me
believe that Ida Slome is a good mother to her, nor to her own
child neither. It ain't in her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lillian, approaching her mother at the window with the pink
pellet and a glass of water, uttered an exclamation. &ldquo;For the
land's sake, there she is now!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Look, ma,
there is Maria in her new suit, and she's got the baby in a little
carriage on runners. Just look at the white fur-tails hanging over
the back. Ain't that a handsome suit?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. White gazed out eagerly. &ldquo;It must have cost a
pile,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I don't see how he does
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She sees you at the window,&rdquo; said Lillian.</p>
<p>Both she and her mother smiled and waved at Maria. Maria bowed,
and smiled with a sweet irradiation of her rosy face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's a little beauty, anyhow,&rdquo; said Lillian.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dear child,&rdquo; said Mrs. White, and she snivelled
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ma, either your cold or the stuff you are takin' is
making you dreadful nervous,&rdquo; said Lillian. &ldquo;You cry at
nothin' at all. How straight she is! No stoop about her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria was, in fact, carrying herself with an extreme
straightness both of body and soul. She was conscious to the full
of her own beauty in her new suit, and of the loveliness of her
little sister in her white fur nest of a sledge. She was
inordinately proud. She had asked Ida if she might take the child
for a little airing before the early Sunday dinner, and Ida had
consented easily.</p>
<p>Ida also wished for an opportunity to talk with Harry about her
cherished scheme, and preferred doing so when Maria was not in the
house. For manifest reasons, too, Sunday was the best day on which
to approach her husband on a subject which she realized was a
somewhat delicate one. She was not so sure of his subservience when
Maria was concerned, as in everything else, and Sunday was the day
when his nerves were less strained, when he had risen late. Ida did
not insist upon his going to church, as his first wife had done. In
fact, if the truth was told, Harry wore his last winter's overcoat
this year, and she was a little doubtful about its appearance in
conjunction with her new velvet costume. He sat in the parlor when
Ida entered after Maria had gone out with Evelyn. Harry looked at
her admiringly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How stunning you do look in that velvet dress!&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>Ida laughed consciously. &ldquo;I rather like it myself,&rdquo;
said she. &ldquo;It's a great deal handsomer than Mrs. George
Henderson's, and I know she had hers made at a Fifth Avenue
tailor's, and it must have cost twice as much.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ida had filled Harry with the utmost faith in her financial
management. While he was spending more than he had ever done, and
working harder, he was innocently unconscious of it. He felt a
sense of gratitude and wonder that Ida was such a good manager and
accomplished such great results with such a small expenditure. He
was unwittingly disloyal to his first wife. He remembered the rigid
economy under her sway, and owned to himself, although with
remorseful tenderness, that she had not been such a financier as
this woman. &ldquo;You ought to go on Wall Street,&rdquo; he often
told Ida. He gazed after her now with a species of awe that he had
such a splendid, masterful creature for his wife, as she moved with
the slow majesty habitual to her out of the room, the black plumes
on her hat softly floating, the rich draperies of her gown trailing
in sumptuous folds of darkness.</p>
<p>When she came down again, in a rose-colored silk tea-gown
trimmed with creamy lace, she was still more entrancing. She
brought with her into the room an atmosphere of delicate perfume.
Harry had stopped smoking entirely nowadays. Ida had persuaded him
that it was bad for him. She had said nothing about the expense, as
his first wife had been accustomed to do. Therefore there was no
tobacco smoke to dull his sensibilities to this delicate perfume.
It was as if a living rose had entered the room. Ida sank
gracefully into a chair opposite him. She was wondering how she
could easily lead up to the subject in her mind. There was much
diplomacy, on a very small and selfish scale, about Ida. She
realized the expediency of starting from apparently a long
distance, to establish her sequences in order to maintain the
appearance of unpremeditativeness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Isn't it a little too warm here, dear?&rdquo; said she,
presently, in the voice which alone she could not control. Whenever
she had an entirely self-centred object in mind, an object which
might possibly meet with opposition, as now, her voice rang harsh
and lost its singing quality.</p>
<p>Harry did not seem to notice it. He started up immediately. The
porti&egrave;res between the room and the vestibule were drawn. He
had, in fact, felt somewhat chilly. It was a cold day, and he had a
touch of the grip. &ldquo;I will open the porti&egrave;res,
dear,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I dare say you are right.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I noticed it when I first came in,&rdquo; said Ida.
&ldquo;I meant to draw the porti&egrave;res apart myself, but going
out through the library I forgot it. Thank you, dear. How is your
cold?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is nothing, dear,&rdquo; replied Harry. &ldquo;There
is only a little soreness in my throat.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He resumed his seat, and noticed the fragrance of roasted
chicken coming through the parted porti&egrave;res from the
kitchen. Harry was very fond of roasted chicken. He inhaled that
and the delicate perfume of Ida's garments and hair. He regarded
her glowing beauty with affection which had no taint of sensuality.
Harry had more of a poetic liking for sweet odors and beauty than a
sensual one.</p>
<p>Harry Edgham in these days had a more poetic and spiritual look
than formerly. He had not lost his strange youthfulness of
expression; it was as if a child had the appearance of having been
longer on the earth. His hair had thinned, and receded from his
temples, and the bold, almost babyish fulness of his temples was
more evident. His face was thinner, too, and he had not much color.
His mouth was drawn down at the corner, and he frowned slightly, as
a child might, in helpless but non-aggressive dissent. His worn
appearance was very noticeable, in spite of his present happy mood,
of which his wife shrewdly took advantage.</p>
<p>Ida Edgham did not care for books, although she never admitted
that fact, but she could read with her cold feminine astuteness the
moods and souls of men, with unerring quickness. Those last were to
her advantage or disadvantage, and in anything of that nature she
was gifted by nature. Ida Edgham might have been, as her husband
might have been, a poet, an adventuress, who could have made the
success of her age had she not been hindered, as well as aided, by
her self-love. She had the shrewdness which prognosticates as well
as discerns, and saw the inevitableness of the ultimatum of all
irregularities in a world which, however irregular it is in
practice, still holds regularity as its model of conduct and
progression. Ida Edgham would, in the desperate state of the earth
before the flood, have made herself famous. As it was, her
irregular talents had a limited field; however, she did all she
could. It always seemed to her that, as far as the right and wrong
of things went, her own happiness was eminently right, and that it
was distinctly wrong for her, or any one else, to oppose any
obstacle to it. She allowed the pleasant influences of the passing
moment to have their full effect upon her husband, and she
continued her leading up to the subject by those easy and
apparently unrelated sequences which none but a diplomat could have
managed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you, dear,&rdquo; she said, when Harry resumed his
seat. &ldquo;The air is cold but very clear and pleasant out
to-day,&rdquo; she continued.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It looks so,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Still, if I were you, I think I would not go out; it
might make your cold worse,&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I think it would be full as well for me to stay in
to-day,&rdquo; replied Harry happily. He hemmed a little as he
spoke, realizing the tickle in his throat with rather a pleasant
sense of importance than annoyance. He stretched himself
luxuriously in his chair, and gazed about the warm, perfumed,
luxurious apartment.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have to go out to-morrow, anyway,&rdquo; said Ida,
and she increased his sense of present comfort by that remark.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; said Harry, with a slight sigh.</p>
<p>Lately it had seemed harder than ever before for him to start
early in the black winter mornings and hurry for his train. Then,
too, he had what he had never had before, a sense of boredom, of
ennui, so intense that it was almost a pain. The deadly monotony of
it wearied him. For the first time in his life his harness of duty
chafed his spirit. He was so tired of seeing the same train, the
same commuters, taking the same path across the station to the
ferry-boat, being jostled by the same throng, going to the same
office, performing the same, or practically the same, duties, that
his very soul was irritated. He had reached a point where he not
only needed but demanded a change, but the change was as
impossible, without destruction, as for a planet to leave its
orbit.</p>
<p>Ida saw the deepening of the frown on his forehead and the
lengthening of the lines around his mouth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor old man!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I wish I had a
fortune to give you, so you wouldn't have to go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The words were fairly cooing, but the tone was still harsh.
However, Harry brightened. He regarded this lovely, blooming
creature and inhaled again the odor of dinner, and reflected with a
sense of gratitude upon his mercies. Harry had a grateful heart,
and was always ready to blame himself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I should be lost, go all to pieces, if I quit
work,&rdquo; he said, laughing. &ldquo;If I were left a fortune, I
should land in an insane asylum very likely, or take to drink. No,
dear, you can't teach such an old bird new tricks; he's been in one
tree too long, summer and winter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, after all, you have not got to go out
to-day,&rdquo; remarked Ida, skilfully, and Harry again stretched
himself with a sense of present comfort.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is so, dear,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have something you like for supper, too,&rdquo; said
Ida, &ldquo;and I think George Adams and Louisa may drop in and we
can have some music.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry brightened still more. He liked George Adams, and the wife
had more than a talent for music, of which Harry was passionately
fond. She played wonderfully on Ida's well-tuned grand piano.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought you might like it,&rdquo; said Ida, &ldquo;and
I spoke to Louisa as I was coming out of church.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You were very kind, sweetheart,&rdquo; Harry said, and
again a flood of gratitude seemed to sweeten life for the man.</p>
<p>Ida took another step in her sequence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think Maria had better stay up, if they do come,&rdquo;
said she. &ldquo;She enjoys music so much. She can keep on her new
gown. Maria is so careful of her gowns that I never feel any
anxiety about her soiling them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is just like&mdash;&rdquo; began Harry, then he
stopped. He had been about to state that Maria was just like her
mother in that respect, but he had remembered suddenly that he was
speaking to his second wife.</p>
<p>However, Ida finished his remark for him with perfect
good-nature. She had not the slightest jealousy of Harry's first
wife, only a sort of contempt, that she had gotten so little where
she herself had gotten so much.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria's own mother was very particular, wasn't she,
dear?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very,&rdquo; replied Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria takes it from her, without any doubt,&rdquo; Ida
said, smoothly. &ldquo;She looked so sweet in that new gown to-day,
that I would like to have the Adamses see her without her coat
to-night; and Maria looks even prettier without her hat, too, her
hair grows so prettily on her temples. Maria grows lovelier every
day, it seems to me. I don't know how many I saw looking at her in
church this morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she is going to be pretty, I guess,&rdquo; said
Harry, and again his very soul seemed warm and light with pleasure
and gratitude.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She <em>is</em> pretty,&rdquo; said Ida, conclusively.
&ldquo;She is at the awkward age, too. But there is no awkwardness
about Maria. She is like a little fairy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry beamed upon her. &ldquo;She is as proud as punch when she
gets a chance to take the little one out, and they made a pretty
picture going down the street,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but I hope
she won't catch cold. Is that new suit warm?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes! it is interlined. I looked out for
that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You look out for my child as if she were your own, bless
you, dear,&rdquo; Harry said, affectionately.</p>
<p>Then Ida thought that the time for her carefully-led-up-to coup
had arrived. &ldquo;I try to,&rdquo; said she, meekly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You <em>do</em>.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ida began to speak, then she hesitated, with timid eyes on her
husband's face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it, dear?&rdquo; asked he.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I have been thinking a good deal lately about Maria
and her associates in school here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what is the matter with them?&rdquo; Harry asked,
uneasily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I don't know that there is anything very serious the
matter with them, but Maria is at an age when she is very
impressible, and there are many who are not exactly desirable.
There is Gladys Mann, for instance. I saw Maria walking down the
street with her the other day. Now, Harry, you know that Gladys
Mann is not exactly the kind of girl whom Maria's own mother would
have chosen for an intimate friend for her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; Harry said, frowning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I have been thinking over the number of pupils of
both sexes in the school who can be called degenerates, either in
mind or morals, and I must say I was alarmed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what is to be done?&rdquo; asked Harry, moodily.
&ldquo;Maria must go to school, of course.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, of course, Maria must have a good education, as good
as if her own mother had lived.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what is to be done, then?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Ida came straight to the point. &ldquo;The only way I can
see is to remove her from doubtful associates.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Remove her?&rdquo; repeated Harry, blankly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; send her away to school. Wellbridge Hall, in
Emerson, where I went myself, would be a very good school. It is
not expensive.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry stared. &ldquo;But, Ida, she is too young.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You were older when you went there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A little older.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How far is Emerson from here?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Only a night's journey from New York. You go to sleep in
your berth, and in the morning you are there. You could always see
her off. It is very easy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Send Maria away! Ida, it is out of the question. Aside
from anything else, there is the expense. I am living up to my
income as it is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said Ida&mdash;she gave her head a noble toss,
and spoke impressively&mdash;&ldquo;I am prepared to go without
myself to make it possible for you to meet her bills. You know I
spoke the other day of a new lace dress. Well, that would cost at
least a hundred; I will go without that. And I wanted some new
porti&egrave;res for my room; I will go without them. That means,
say, fifty more. And you know the dining-room rug looks very
shabby. I was thinking we must have an Eastern rug, which would
cost at least one hundred and fifty; I thought it would pay in the
end. Well, I am prepared to give that up and have a domestic, which
only costs twenty-five; that is a hundred and twenty-five more
saved. And I had planned to have my seal-skin coat made over after
Christmas, and you know you cannot have seal-skin touched under a
hundred; there is a hundred more. There are three hundred and
seventy-five saved, which will pay for Maria's tuition for a year,
and enough over for travelling expenses.&rdquo; Nothing could have
exceeded the expression of lofty virtue of Ida Edgham when she
concluded her speech. As for her own selfish considerations, those,
as always, she thought of only as her duty. Ida established always
a clear case of conscience in all her dealings for her own
interests.</p>
<p>But Harry continued to frown. The childish droop of his handsome
mouth became more pronounced. &ldquo;I don't like the idea,&rdquo;
he said, quite sturdily for him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Suppose we leave it to Maria,&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I really think,&rdquo; said Harry, in almost a fretful
tone, &ldquo;that you exaggerate. I hardly think there is anything
so very objectionable about her associates here. I will admit that
many of the children come from what we call the poor whites, but
after all their main vice is shiftlessness, and Maria is not very
likely to become contaminated with that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Harry, my dear, that is the very least of their
vices.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What else?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you know that they are notoriously
light-fingered.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear Ida, you don't mean to say that you think Maria&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, of course not, Harry, but aside from that, their
morals.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry rose from his chair and walked across the room
nervously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear Ida,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you are exaggerating
now. Maria is simply not that kind of a girl; and, besides, I don't
know that she does see so much of those people, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys Mann&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I never heard any harm of that poor little runt. On
the other side, Ida, I should think Maria's influence over her for
good was to be taken into consideration.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope you don't mean Maria to be a home
missionary?&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She might go to school for a worse purpose,&rdquo;
replied Harry, simply. &ldquo;Maria has a very strong character
from her mother, if not from her father. I actually think the
chances are that the Mann girl will have a better chance of getting
good from Maria than Maria evil from her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, dear, suppose we leave it to Maria herself,&rdquo;
said Ida. &ldquo;Nobody is going to force the dear child away
against her will, of course.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said Harry. His face still retained a
slightly sulky, disturbed expression.</p>
<p>Ida, after a furtive glance at him, took up a sheet of the
Sunday paper, and began swaying back and forth gracefully in her
rocking-chair, as she read it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How foolish all this sentiment about that murderer in the
Tombs is,&rdquo; said she presently. &ldquo;They are actually going
to give him a Christmas-tree.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is only a boy,&rdquo; said Harry absently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know that&mdash;but the idea!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Just then Maria passed the window, dragging little Evelyn in her
white sledge. Ida rose with a motion of unusual quickness for her,
but Harry stopped her as she was about to leave the room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't go out, Ida,&rdquo; he said, with a peremptoriness
which sat strangely upon him.</p>
<p>Ida stared at him. &ldquo;Why, why not?&rdquo; she asked.
&ldquo;I wanted to take Evelyn out. You know Josephine is not
here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is getting out all right with Maria's help; sit down,
Ida,&rdquo; said Harry, still with that tone of command which was
so foreign to him.</p>
<p>Ida hesitated a second, then she sat down. She realized the
grace and policy of yielding in a minor point, when she had a large
one in view. Then, too, she was in reality rather vulnerable to a
sudden attack, for a moment, although she was always as a rule sure
of ultimate victory. She was at a loss, moreover, to comprehend
Harry's manner, which was easily enough understood. He wished to be
the first to ascertain Maria's sentiments with regard to going away
to school. Without admitting it even to himself, he distrusted his
wife's methods and entire frankness.</p>
<p>Presently Maria entered, leading little Evelyn, who was
unusually sturdy on her legs for her age. She walked quite
steadily, with an occasional little hop and skip of exuberant
childhood.</p>
<p>She could talk a little, in disconnected sentences, with
fascinating mistakes in the sounds of letters, but she preferred a
gurgle of laughter when she was pleased, and a wail of woe when
things went wrong. She was still in the limbos of primitivism. She
was young with the babyhood of the world. To-day she danced up to
her father with her little thrill of laughter, at once as
meaningless and as full of meaning as the trill of a canary. She
pursed up her little lips for a kiss, she flung frantic arms of
adoration around his neck. She clung to him, when he lifted her,
with all her little embracing limbs; she pressed her lovely, cool,
rosy cheek against his, and laughed again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now go and kiss mamma,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>But the baby resisted with a little, petulant murmur when he
tried to set her down. She still clung to him. Harry whispered in
her ear.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go and kiss mamma, darling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Evelyn shook her head emphatically against his face. Maria,
almost as radiant in her youth as the child, stood behind her. She
glanced uneasily at Ida. She held the white fur robes and wraps
which she had brought in from the sledge.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Take those things out and let Emma put them away,
dear,&rdquo; Ida said to her. She smiled, but her voice still
retained its involuntary harshness.</p>
<p>Maria obeyed with an uneasy glance at little Evelyn. She knew
that her step-mother was angry because the baby would not kiss her.
When she was out in the dining-room, giving the fluffy white things
to the maid, she heard a shriek, half of grief, half of angry
dissent, from the baby. She immediately ran back into the parlor.
Ida was removing the child's outer garments, smiling as ever, and
with seeming gentleness, but Maria had a conviction that her touch
on the tender flesh of the child was as the touch of steel. Little
Evelyn struggled to get to her sister when she saw her, but Ida
held her firmly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stand still, darling,&rdquo; she said. It was
inconceivable how she could say darling without the loving
inflection which alone gave the word its full meaning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stand still and let mamma take off baby's things,&rdquo;
said Harry, and there was no lack of affectionate cadences in his
voice. He privately thought that he himself could have taken off
the child's wraps better than his wife, but he recognized her
rights in the matter. Harry remembering his first wife, with her
child, was in a state of constant bewilderment at the sight of his
second with hers. He had always had the masculine opinion that
women, in certain primeval respects, were cut on one pattern, and
his opinion was being rudely shaken.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Call Emma, please,&rdquo; said Ida to Maria, and Maria
obeyed.</p>
<p>When the maid came in, Ida directed her to take the child
up-stairs and put on another frock.</p>
<p>Maria was about to follow, but Harry stopped her.
&ldquo;Maria,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>Maria stopped, and eyed her father with surprise.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria,&rdquo; said Harry, bluntly, &ldquo;your mother and
I have been talking about your going away to school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned slightly pale and continued to stare at him, but
she said nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She thinks, and I don't know but she is right,&rdquo;
said Harry, with painful loyalty, &ldquo;that your associates here
are not just the proper ones for you, and that it would be much
better for you to go to boarding-school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How much would it cost?&rdquo; asked Maria, in a dazed
voice. The question sounded like her own mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father can manage that; you need not trouble yourself
about that,&rdquo; replied Harry, hurriedly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where?&rdquo; said Maria, then.</p>
<p>&ldquo;To a nice school where your mother was
educated.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My mother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ida&mdash;to Wellbridge Hall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How often should I come home and see you and Evelyn?
Every week?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am afraid not, dear,&rdquo; said Harry, uneasily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How long are the terms?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Only about twelve weeks,&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>Maria stood staring from one to the other. Her face had turned
deadly pale, and had, moreover, taken on an expression of despair
and isolation. Somehow, although the little girl was only a few
feet from the others, she had a look as if she were leagues off, as
if she were outside something vital, which removed her, in fact, to
immeasurable distances. And, in fact, Maria had a feeling which
never afterwards wholly left her, of being outside the love of life
in which she had hitherto dwelt with confidence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe you would like it, dear,&rdquo; Harry said,
feebly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; Maria said, in a choking voice. Then
she turned without another word and went out of the room, up-stairs
to her own little chamber. When there she sat down beside the
window. She did not think. She did not seem to feel her hands and
feet. It was as if she had fallen from a height. The realization
that her father and his new wife wanted to send her away, that she
was not wanted in her home, stunned her.</p>
<p>But in a moment the door was flung open and her father entered.
He knelt down beside Maria and pulled her head to his shoulder and
kissed her, and she felt with a sort of dull wonder his face damp
against her own.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father's little girl!&rdquo; said Harry. &ldquo;Father's
own little girl! Father's blessing! Did she think he wanted to send
her away? I rather guess he didn't. How would father get along
without his own precious baby, when he came home at night. She
shan't go one step. She needn't fret a bit about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned and regarded him with a frozen look still on her
face. &ldquo;It was She that wanted me to go?&rdquo; she said,
interrogatively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She thought maybe it would be best for you,
darling,&rdquo; said Harry. &ldquo;She means to do right by you,
Maria; you must try to think so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria said nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But father isn't going to let you go,&rdquo; said Harry.
&ldquo;He can't do without his little girl.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Maria's strange calm broke up. She clung, weeping, to her
father, as if he were her only stay. Harry continued to soothe
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father's blessing!&rdquo; he whispered in her ear.
&ldquo;She was the best little girl that ever was. She is just like
her own dear mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish mother was back,&rdquo; Maria whispered, her
whisper stifled against his ear.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, my God, so do I!&rdquo; Harry said, with a half sob.
For the minute the true significance of his position overwhelmed
him. He felt a regret, a remembrance, that was a passion. He
realized, with no disguise, what it all meant: that he a man with
the weakness of a child in the hands of a masterly woman, had
formerly been in the leading-strings of love for himself, for his
own best good, whereas he was now in the grasp of the self-love of
another who cared for him only as he promoted her own interests. In
a moment, however, he recovered himself. After all, he had a sense
of loyalty and duty which amounted to positive strength. He put
Maria gently from him with another kiss.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, this won't bring your mother back, dear,&rdquo; he
said, &ldquo;and God took her away, you know, and what He does is
for the best; and She means to do her duty by you, you know,
dear. She thought it would be better for you, but father can't
spare you, that's all there is about it.&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XIII</h4>
<p>It was an utter impossibility for Ida Edgham to be entirely
balked of any purpose which she might form. There was something at
once impressive and terrible about the strength of this beautiful,
smiling creature's will, about its silence, its impassibility
before obstacles, its persistency. It was as inevitable and
unswervable as an avalanche or a cyclone. People might shriek out
against it and struggle, but on it came, a mighty force,
overwhelming petty things as well as great ones. It really seemed a
pity, taking into consideration Ida's tremendous strength of
character, that she had not some great national purpose upon which
to exert herself, instead of such trivial domestic ones.</p>
<p>Ida realized that she could not send Maria to the school which
she had proposed. Her strength had that subtlety which acknowledges
its limitations and its closed doors, and can look about for other
means and ways. Therefore, when Harry came down-stairs that Sunday
afternoon, his face working with emotion but his eyes filled with a
steady light, and said, with no preface, &ldquo;It's no use
talking, Ida, that child does not want to go, and she shall never
be driven from under my roof, while I live,&rdquo; Ida only smiled,
and replied, &ldquo;Very well, dear, I only meant it for her
good.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is not going,&rdquo; Harry said doggedly.</p>
<p>Harry resumed his seat with a gesture of defiance which was
absurd, from its utter lack of any response from his wife. It was
like tilting with a windmill.</p>
<p>Ida continued to sway gently back and forth, and smile.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think if the Adamses do come in to-night we will have a
little salad, there will be enough left from the chicken, and some
cake and tea,&rdquo; she observed presently. &ldquo;We won't have
the table set, because both the maids have asked to go out, but
Maria can put on my India muslin apron and pass the things. I will
have the salad made before they go, and I will make the tea. We can
have it on the table in here.&rdquo; Ida indicated, by a graceful
motion of her shoulder, a pretty little tea-table loaded with
Dresden china.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; replied Harry, with a baffled tone. He
felt baffled without knowing exactly why.</p>
<p>Ida took up another sheet of the <cite>Herald</cite>, a fashion
page was uppermost. She read something and smiled. &ldquo;It says
that gowns made like Maria's new one are the most fetching ones of
the season,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I am so glad I have the skirt
plaited.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry made a gesture of assent. He felt, without in the least
knowing why, like a man who had been completely worsted in a
hand-to-hand combat. He felt humiliated and unhappy. His first
wife, even with her high temper and her ready tongue, had never
caused him such a sense of abjectness. He had often felt angry with
her, but never with himself. She had never really attacked his
self-respect as this woman did. He did not dare look up from his
newspaper for a while, for he realized that he should experience
agony at seeing the beautiful, radiant face of his second wife
opposite him instead of the worn, stern, but altogether loving and
single-hearted face of his first. He was glad when Maria came
down-stairs, and looked up and greeted her with a smile of
reassuring confidence. Maria's pretty little face was still
tear-stained, although she had bathed it with cold water. She also
took up a sheet of the Sunday paper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you see Alice Lundy's new hat in church to-day,
dear?&rdquo; Ida presently asked her, and her manner was exactly as
if nothing had occurred to disturb anybody.</p>
<p>Maria looked at her with a sort of wonder, which made her honest
face almost idiotic.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, ma'am,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Maria had been taught to say &ldquo;yes, ma'am&rdquo; and
&ldquo;no, ma'am&rdquo; by her own mother, whose ideas of etiquette
were old-fashioned, and dated from the precepts of her own
childhood.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a little better not to say ma'am,&rdquo; said Ida,
sweetly. &ldquo;I think that expression is not used so much as
formerly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked at her with a quick defiance, which gave her an
almost startling resemblance to her own mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, ma'am,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Harry's mouth twitched behind his paper. Ida said no more. She
continued to smile, but she was not reading the paper which she
held. She was making new plans to gain her own ends. She was
seeking new doors of liberty for her own ways, in lieu of those
which she saw were closed to her, and by the time dinner was served
she was quite sure that she had succeeded.</p>
<p><br>
The next autumn, Maria began attending the Elliot Academy, in
Wardway. The Elliot Academy was an endowed school of a very high
standing, and Wardway was a large town, almost a city, about
fifteen miles from Edgham. When this plan was broached by Ida,
Maria did not make any opposition; she was secretly delighted.
Wollaston Lee was going to the Elliot Academy that autumn, and
there was another Edgham girl and her brother, besides Maria, who
were going.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, darling, you need not go to the Elliot Academy any
more than to the other school she proposed, if you don't want
to,&rdquo; Harry told Maria, privately, one Saturday afternoon in
September, shortly before the term began.</p>
<p>Ida had gone to her club, and Harry had come home early from the
city, and he and Maria were alone in the parlor. Evelyn was having
her nap up-stairs. A high wind was roaring about the house. A
cherry-tree beside the house was fast losing its leaves in a yellow
rain. In front of the window, a hydrangea bush, tipped with
magnificent green-and-rosy plumes, swayed in all its limbs like a
living thing. Somewhere up-stairs a blind banged.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think I would like to go,&rdquo; Maria replied,
hurriedly. Then she jumped up. &ldquo;That blind will wake
Evelyn,&rdquo; she said, and ran out of the room.</p>
<p>She had colored unaccountably when her father spoke. When she
returned, she had a demure, secretive expression on her face which
made Harry stare at her in bewilderment. All his life Harry Edgham
had been helpless and bewildered before womenkind, and now his
little daughter was beginning to perplex him. She sat down and took
up a piece of fancy-work, and her father continued to glance at her
furtively over his paper. Presently he spoke of the academy
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You need not go if you do not want to,&rdquo; he
repeated.</p>
<p>Then again Maria's delicate little face and neck became suffused
with pink. Her reply was not as loud nor more intelligible than the
murmur of the trees outside in the wind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did you say, darling?&rdquo; asked Harry.
&ldquo;Father did not understand.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would like to go there,&rdquo; Maria replied, in her
sweet, decisive little pipe. A fresh wave of color swept over her
face and neck, and she selected with great care a thread from a
skein of linen floss.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she thought you might like that,&rdquo; Harry said,
with an air of relief.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maud Page is going, too,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is she? That will be nice. You won't have to go back and
forth alone,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>Maria said nothing; she continued her work.</p>
<p>Her father turned his paper and looked at the stock-list. Once
he had owned a hundred shares of one of the Industrials. He had
long since sold out, not at a loss, but the stock had risen since.
He always noted it with an odd feeling of proprietorship, in spite
of not owning any. He saw with pride that it had advanced half a
point.</p>
<p>Maria worked silently; and as she worked she dreamed, and the
dream was visible on her face, had any one been astute enough to
understand it. She was working a lace collar to wear with a certain
blue blouse, and upon that flimsy keystone was erecting an
air-castle. She was going to the Elliot Academy, wearing the blue
blouse and the lace collar, and looking so lovely that Wollaston
Lee worshipped her. She invented little love-scenes, love-words,
and caresses. She blushed, and dimples appeared at the corners of
her mouth, the blue light of her eyes under her downcast lids was
like the light of living gems. She viewed with complacency her
little, soft white hands plying the needle. Maria had hands like a
little princess. She cast a glance at the toe of her tiny shoe. She
remembered how somebody had told her to keep her shoulders
straight, and she threw them back with a charming motion, as if
they had been wings. She was entirely oblivious of her father's
covert glances. She was solitary, isolated in the crystal of her
own thoughts. Presently, Evelyn woke and cried, and Maria roused
herself with a start and ran up-stairs. Soon the two came into the
room, Evelyn dancing with the uncertain motion of a winged seed on
a spring wind. She was charming. One round cheek was more deeply
flushed than the other, and creased with the pillow. Her yellow
hair, fine and soft and full of electric life, tossed like a little
crest. She ran with both fat little hands spread palms outward, and
pounced violently upon her father. Harry rolled her about on his
knee, and played with her as if she had been a kitten. Maria stood
by laughing. The child was fairly screaming with mirth.</p>
<p>A graceful figure passed the window, its garments tightly
wrapped by the wind, flying out like a flag behind. Harry set the
little girl down at once.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here is mamma coming,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Go to sister
and she will show you the pictures in the book papa brought home
the other day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn obeyed. She was a docile little thing, and she had a fear
of her mother without knowing why. She was sitting beside Maria,
looking demurely at the pictures which her sister pointed out to
her, when Ida entered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;See the horsey running away,&rdquo; said Maria. Then she
added in a whisper, &ldquo;Go and kiss mamma, baby.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The child hesitated, then she rose, and ran to her mother, who
stooped her radiant face over her and kissed her coolly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you been a good little girl?&rdquo; asked she. Ida
was looking particularly self-satisfied to day, and more disposed
consequently to question others as to their behavior.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yeth,&rdquo; replied Evelyn, without the slightest
hesitation. A happy belief in her own merits was an inheritance
from her mother. As yet it was more charming than otherwise, for
the baby had unquestionable merits in which to believe. Harry and
Maria laughed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mamma is very glad,&rdquo; said Ida. She did not laugh;
she saw no humor in it. She turned to Harry. &ldquo;I think I will
go in on the early train with you to-morrow, dear,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;I want to see about Maria's new dress.&rdquo; Then she
turned to Maria. &ldquo;I have been in to see Miss Keeler,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;and she says she can make it for you next week, so
you can have it when you begin school. I thought of brown with a
touch of blue and burnt-orange. How would you like that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think that would be perfectly lovely,&rdquo; said Maria
with enthusiasm. She cast a grateful look at her step-mother,
almost a look of affection. She was always very grateful to Ida for
her new clothes, and just now clothes had a more vital interest for
her than ever. She took another stitch in her collar, with Evelyn
leaning against her and kicking out first one chubby leg, then the
other, and she immediately erected new air-castles, in which she
figured in her brown suit with the touches of burnt-orange and
blue.</p>
<p>A week later, when she started on the train for Wardway in her
new attire, she felt entirely satisfied with herself and life in
general. She was conscious of looking charming in her new suit of
brown, with the touches of blue and burnt-orange, and her new hat,
also brown with blue and burnt-orange glimpses in the trimmings.
Wollaston Lee got on the same car and sat behind her. Maud Page,
the other Edgham girl who was going to the academy, had a cousin in
Wardway, and had gone there the night before. There were only
Maria, Wollaston, and Edwin Shaw, who sat by himself in a corner,
facing the other passengers with a slightly shamed, sulky
expression. He was very tall, and had blacked his shoes well, and
the black light from them seemed to him obtrusive, the more so
because his feet were very large. He looked out of the window as
the train left the station, and saw a very pretty little child with
a fluff of yellow hair, carrying a big doll, climbing laboriously
on a train on the other track, with the tender assistance of a
brakeman. She was in the wake of a very stout woman, who stumbled
on her skirts going up the steps. Edwin Shaw thought that the child
looked like Maria's little sister, but that she could not be,
because the stout woman was a stranger to him. Then he thought no
more about it. He gazed covertly at Maria, with the black sparkles
of his shoes continuing to disturb him. He admired Maria. Presently
he saw Wollaston Lee lean over the back of her seat and say
something to her, and saw her half turn and dimple, and noticed how
the lovely rose flushed the curve of her cheek, and he scowled at
his shiny shoes.</p>
<p>As for Maria, when she felt the boy's warm breath on her neck,
her heart beat fast. She realized herself on the portals of an
air-castle.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, glad you are going to leave this old town?&rdquo;
said Wollaston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not going to leave it, really,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, of course not, but you are going to leave the old
school, anyhow. I had got mighty tired of it, hadn't
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I had, rather.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's behind the times,&rdquo; said the boy; and, as he
spoke he himself looked quite up to the times. He had handsome,
clearly cut features and black eyes, which seemed at the same time
to demand and question. He had something of a supercilious air,
although the expression of youthful innocence and honesty was still
evident on his face. He wore a new suit as well as Maria, only his
was gray instead of brown, and he wore a red carnation in his
button-hole. Maria inhaled the clovy fragrance of it. At the next
station more passengers got into the train, and Wollaston seized
upon that excuse to ask to share Maria's seat. They talked
incessantly&mdash;an utterly foolish gabble like that of young
birds. An old gentleman across the aisle cast an impatient glance
at them from time to time. Finally he arose stiffly and went into
the smoker. Their youth and braggadocio of innocence and ignorance,
and the remembrance of his own, irritated him. He did not in the
least regret his youth, but the recollection of the first stages of
his life, now that he was so near the end, was like looking
backward over a long road, which had led to absurdly different
goals from what he had imagined. It all seemed inconceivable, silly
and futile to him, what he had done, and what they were doing. He
cast a furious glance at them as he passed out, but neither noticed
it. Wollaston said something, and Maria laughed an inane little
giggle which was still musical, and trilled through the car.
Maria's cheeks were burning, and she seldom looked at the boy at
her side, but oftener at the young autumn landscape through which
they were passing. The trees had scarcely begun to turn, but here
and there one flamed out like a gold or red torch among the green,
and all the way-sides were blue and gold with asters and
golden-rod. It was a very warm morning for the season. When they
stopped at one of the stations, a yellow butterfly flew in through
an open window and flitted airily about the car. Maria removed her
coat, with the solicitous aid of her companion. She cast a
conscious glance at the orange and blue on her sleeves.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, that dress is a stunner!&rdquo; whispered
Wollaston.</p>
<p>Maria laughed happily. &ldquo;Glad you like it,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>Before they reached Wardway, Wollaston's red carnation was
fastened at one side of her embroidered vest, making a discord of
color which, for Maria, was a harmony of young love and
romance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is the academy,&rdquo; said Wollaston, as the train
rolled into Wardway. He pointed to a great brick structure at the
right&mdash;a main building flanked by enormous wings. &ldquo;Are
you frightened?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess not,&rdquo; replied Maria, but she was.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You needn't be a bit,&rdquo; said the boy. &ldquo;I know
some of the boys that go there, and I went to see the principal
with father. He's real pleasant. I know the Latin teacher, Miss
Durgin, too. My Uncle Frank married her cousin, and she has been to
my house. You'll be in her class.&rdquo; Wollaston spoke with a
protective warmth for which Maria was very grateful.</p>
<p>She had a very successful although somewhat confused day. She
was asked this and that and led hither and yon, and so surrounded
by strange faces and sights that she felt fairly dizzy. She felt
more herself at luncheon, when she sat beside Maud Page in the
dining-hall, with Wollaston opposite. There was a restaurant
attached to the academy, for the benefit of the out-of-town
pupils.</p>
<p>When Maria went down to the station to take her train for home,
Maud Page was there, and Wollaston. There was a long time to wait.
They went out in a field opposite and picked great bunches of
golden-rod, and the girls pinned them on their coats. Edwin Shaw
was lingering about the station when they returned, but he was too
shy to speak to them. When the train at last came in, Maria, with a
duplicity which shamed her in thinking of it afterwards, managed to
get away from Maud, and enter the car at the same time with
Wollaston, who seated himself beside her as a matter of course. It
was still quite light, but it had grown cold. Everything had a cold
look&mdash;the clear cowslip sky, with its reefs of violet clouds;
even the trees tossed crisply, as if stiffened with cold.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hope we won't have a frost,&rdquo; said Wollaston, as
they got off at Edgham.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope not,&rdquo; said Maria; and then Gladys Mann ran
up to her, crying out:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, Maria, Maria, did you know your little sister was
lost?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned deadly white. Wollaston caught hold of her little
arm in its brown sleeve.</p>
<p>&ldquo;When was she lost?&rdquo; he asked, fiercely, of Gladys.
&ldquo;Don't you know any better than to rush right at anybody with
such a thing as that? Don't you be frightened, Maria. I'll find
her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A little knot of passengers from the train gathered around them.
Gladys was pale herself, and had a strong sense of the sadness of
the occasion, still she had a feeling of importance. Edwin Shaw
came lumbering up timidly, and Maud Page pressed quickly to Maria's
side with a swirl of her wide skirts.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys Mann, what on earth are you talking about?&rdquo;
said she, sharply. &ldquo;Who's lost?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria's little sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hm! I don't believe a word of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is, so there! Nobody has seen a sign of her since
morning, and Maria's pa's most crazy. He's been sending telegrams
all round. Maria's step-mother, she telegraphed for him to come
home, and he come at noon, and he sent telegrams all round, and
then he went himself an hour ago.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Went where?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Back to New York. Guess he's gone huntin' himself. Guess
he thought he could hunt better than policemen. Maria's step-mother
don't act scared, but I guess she is, awful. My mummer says that
folks that bear up the best are the ones that feel things most. My
mummer went over to see if she could do anything and see how she
took it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When was she lost?&rdquo; gasped Maria. She was shaking
from head to foot.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your step-mother went down to the store, and when she got
back the baby was gone. Josephine said she hadn't seen her after
you had started for Wardway. She took her doll with her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where?&rdquo; gasped Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody knows where,&rdquo; said Gladys, severely,
although the tears were streaming down her own grimy cheeks.
&ldquo;She wouldn't be lost, would she, if folks knew where she
was? Nothin' ain't never lost when you know where it is unless you
drop it down a well, and you 'ain't got no well, have you, Maria
Edgham?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria. She was conscious of an absurd
thankfulness and relief that she had no well.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And there ain't no pond round here big enough to drown a
baby kitten, except that little mud-puddle up at Fisher's, and
they've dragged every inch of that. I see 'em.&rdquo;</p>
<p>All this time Edwin Shaw had been teetering on uncertain toes on
the borders of the crowd. He remembered the child with the doll
whom he had seen climbing into the New York train in the morning,
and he was eager to tell of it, to make himself of importance, but
he was afraid. After all, the child might not have been Evelyn.
There were so many little, yellow-haired things with dolls to be
seen about, and then there was the stout woman to be accounted for.
Edwin never doubted that the child had been with the stout woman
whom he had seen stumbling over her voluminous skirts up the car
steps. At last he stepped forward and spoke, with a moist blush
overspreading his face, toeing in and teetering with
embarrassment.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; he began.</p>
<p>The attention of the whole company was at once riveted upon him.
He wriggled; the blood looked as if it would burst through his
face. Great drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. He
stammered when he spoke. He caught a glimpse of Maria's
blue-and-orange trimmings, and looked down, and again the black
light of his shoes, which all the dust of the day had not seemed to
dim, flashed in his eyes. He came of a rather illiterate family
with aspirations, and when he was nervous he had a habit of
relapsing into the dialect in common use in his own home,
regardless of his educational attainments. He did so now.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think she has went to New York,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; demanded Wollaston, eagerly. His head was up
like a hunting hound; he kept close hold of Maria's little arm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her little sister-in-law.&rdquo; Edwin pointed to
Maria.</p>
<p>Gladys Mann went peremptorily up to Edwin Shaw, seized his
coat-collar, and shook him. &ldquo;For goodness sake! when did she
went?&rdquo; she demanded. &ldquo;When did you see her? If you know
anythin', tell it, an' not stand thar like a fool!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw a little girl jest about her size, a-carryin' of a
doll, that clim on the New York train jest as we went out this
mornin',&rdquo; replied Edwin with a gasp, as if the information
were wrung from him by torture. &ldquo;And she was with a awful fat
woman. Leastways&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;A fat woman!&rdquo; cried Wollaston Lee. &ldquo;Who was
the fat woman?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hadn't never saw her afore. She was awful fat, and was
a steppin' on her dress.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston was keen-witted, and he immediately grasped at the
truth of the matter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You idiot!&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;What makes you think
she was with the stout woman&mdash;just because she was climbing
into the train after her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Little girls don't never go to New York alone with
dolls,&rdquo; vouchsafed Edwin, more idiotically than ever.
&ldquo;Leastways&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you don't stop saying leastways, I'll punch your
head,&rdquo; said Wollaston. &ldquo;Are you sure the child was
Maria's little sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Looked like her,&rdquo; said Edwin, shrinking back a
little. &ldquo;Leastways&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What was she dressed in?&rdquo; asked Maria, eagerly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't see as she had nothin' on.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You great gump!&rdquo; said Gladys, shaking him
energetically. &ldquo;Of course she had something on.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She had a big doll.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did she have on? You answer me this minute!&rdquo;
said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She might have had on a blue dress,&rdquo; admitted
Edwin, with a frantic grasp at his memory, &ldquo;but she didn't
have nothin' on her, nohow. Leastways&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; sobbed Maria, &ldquo;she did wear her little
blue dress this morning. She did! Was her hair light?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it were,&rdquo; said Edwin, quite positively.
&ldquo;Leastways&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was Evelyn,&rdquo; sobbed Maria. &ldquo;Oh, poor
little Evelyn, all alone in New York! She never went but once
with Her and me, and she wouldn't know where to go. Oh,
oh!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where did she go when she went with your step-ma and
you?&rdquo; demanded Gladys, who seemed to have suddenly developed
unusual acumen. Her face was streaming with tears but her voice was
keen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She went to Her cousin's, who lives in an apartment
in West Forty-ninth Street,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She'd try to go there again,&rdquo; said Gladys.
&ldquo;Did she know the woman's name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You bet she did. She was an awful bright kid,&rdquo; said
Gladys. &ldquo;Now, I tell you what, Maria, I shouldn't a mite
wonder if your step-ma had had a telegram from her cousin by this
time, that she was to her house. You'd better jest run home an'
see.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was only her third cousin,&rdquo; said Maria,
&ldquo;and She hardly ever heard from her. It was only the
other day I heard Her say that she didn't know but she had
left New York. I don't think Her cousin liked her very
well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What was the cousin's name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She called her Alice, but her name was Mrs. George B.
Edison.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's jest where the kid has went,&rdquo; said Gladys.
&ldquo;You go right home, M'ria. We'll go with you, and I'll bet a
cooky you'll find that your step-ma has had a telegram.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria hesitated a moment; then she started, Wollaston Lee still
keeping close hold of her arm. Gladys was on the other side.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XIV</h4>
<p>When Maria reached home, she pushed open the front door, which
was unlocked, and rushed violently in. Wollaston and Gladys
followed her, after a slight hesitation, but remained standing in
the vestibule. When Maria had come in sight of the house, she had
perceived the regular motion of a rocking female head past the
parlor light, and she knew that it was Ida. Ida nearly always
occupied a rocking-chair, and was fond of the gentle, swaying
motion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There she is, rocking just as if the baby wasn't
lost,&rdquo; Maria thought, with the bitterest revulsion and
sarcasm. When she opened the door she immediately smelled tea, the
odor of broiling beefsteak and fried potatoes. &ldquo;Eating just
as if the baby wasn't lost,&rdquo; she thought. She rushed into the
parlor, and there was Ida swaying back and forth in her
rocking-chair, and there were three ladies with her. One was Mrs.
Jonas White; one was a very smartly dressed woman, Mrs. Adams,
perhaps the most intimate friend whom Ida had in Edgham; one was
the wife of the minister whose church the Edghams attended, Mrs.
Applegate, or, as she was called, Mrs. Dr. Applegate&mdash;her
husband had a degree. Her sister had just died and she was dressed
in the deepest mourning; sitting in the shade in a corner, she
produced a curious effect of a vacuum of grief. Mrs. Adams, who was
quite young and very pretty, stout and blond, was talking eagerly;
Mrs. Jonas White was sniffing quietly; Mrs. Applegate, who was
ponderously religious, asked once in a while, in a subdued manner,
if Mrs. Edgham did not think it would be advisable to unite in
prayer.</p>
<p>Ida made no reply. She continued to rock, and she had a curious
set expression. Her lips were resolutely compressed, as if to
restrain that radiant smile of hers, which had become habitual with
her. She looked straight ahead, keeping her eyes fastened upon a
Tiffany vase which stood on a little shelf, a glow of pink and gold
against a skilful background of crimson velvet. It was as if she
were having her photograph taken and had been requested by the
photographer to keep her eyes fixed upon that vase.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The detective system of New York is so lax,&rdquo; said
Mrs. Adams. &ldquo;I do wish there was more system among them and
among the police. One would feel&mdash;&rdquo; She heaved a deep
sigh.</p>
<p>Mrs. Jonas White sobbed audibly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you not think, dear friends, that it would be a good
plan to offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the dear
child's return?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Applegate in a solemn voice,
albeit somewhat diffidently. She was a corpulent woman, and was
richly dressed, in spite of her deep mourning. A jet brooch rimmed
with pearls, gleamed out of the shadow where she sat.</p>
<p>Ida continued to rock.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Mrs. Adams, &ldquo;a great many children
are lost every year and found. Sometimes the system does really
work in a manner to astonish any one. I should not be surprised at
any minute to see Mr. Edgham or a policeman walking in with her.
But&mdash;well&mdash;there is so much to be done. The other night,
when Mr. Adams and I went in to hear Mrs. Fiske, we drove eight
blocks after the performance without seeing one
policeman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose, though, if you had been really attacked, a
dozen would have sprung out from somewhere,&rdquo; said Mrs. White,
in a tearful voice. Mrs. White could not have heard Satan himself
assailed without a word in his defence, such was the maternal pity
of her heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That was what Mr. Adams said,&rdquo; retorted Mrs. Adams,
with some asperity, &ldquo;and I told him that I would rather the
dozen policemen were in evidence before I was shot and robbed than
after. I had on all my rings, and my diamond sunburst.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you not think, dear friend, that it would be a good
plan to offer up our voices at the Throne of Grace for the safe
restoration of the dear child?&rdquo; asked Mrs. Applegate again.
Her voice was sonorous, very much like her husband's. She felt
that, so far as in her lay, she was taking his place. He was out of
town.</p>
<p>It was then that Maria rushed into the room. She ran straight up
to her step-mother. The other women started. Ida continued to rock,
and look at the Tiffany vase. It seemed as if she dared not take
her eyes from it for fear of losing her expression. Then Maria
spoke, and her voice did not sound like her own at all. It was
accusatory, menacing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where is my little sister?&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Where
is she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Jonas White rose, approached Maria, and put her arms around
her caressingly. &ldquo;You poor, dear child,&rdquo; she sobbed,
&ldquo;I guess you do feel it. You did set a heap by that blessed
little thing, didn't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is in the hands of the Lord,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Applegate.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If the police of New York were worth anything, she would
be in the police station by this time,&rdquo; said Mrs. Adams, with
a fierce toss of her pretty blond head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We know not where His islands lift their fronded palms in
air; we only know we cannot drift beyond His love and care,&rdquo;
said Mrs. Applegate, with a solemn aside. Tears were in her own
eyes, but she resolutely checked her impulse to weep. She felt that
it would show a lack of faith. She was entirely in earnest.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mebbe she <em>is</em> in the police-station,&rdquo;
sobbed Mrs. White, continuing to embrace Maria. But Maria gave her
a forcible push away, and again addressed herself to her
step-mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where is she?&rdquo; she demanded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, you poor, dear child! Your ma don't know where she
is, and she is so awful upset, she sets there jest like
marble,&rdquo; said Mrs. White.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She isn't upset at all. You don't know her as well as I
do,&rdquo; said Maria, mercilessly. &ldquo;She thinks she ought to
act upset, so she sits this way. She isn't upset.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria!&rdquo; gasped Mrs. White.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The child is out of her head,&rdquo; said Mrs. Adams, and
yet she looked at Maria with covert approval. She was Ida's
intimate friend, but in her heart of hearts she doubted her grief.
She had once lost by death a little girl of her own. She kept
thinking of her little Alice, and how she should feel in a similar
case. It did not seem to her that she should rock, and look at a
Tiffany vase. She inveighed against the detectives and police with
a reserve meaning of indignation against Ida. It seemed to her that
any woman whose child was lost should be up and generally making a
tumult, if she were doing nothing else.</p>
<p>The Maria, standing before the beautiful woman swaying gently,
with her eyes fixed upon the pink and gold of the vase, spoke out
for the first time what was in her heart of hearts with regard to
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are a wicked woman,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;that is
what you are. I don't know as you can help being wicked. I guess
you were made wicked; but you <em>are</em> a wicked woman. Your
mouth smiles, but your heart never does. You act now as if you were
sorry,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but you are not sorry, the way my
mother would have been sorry if she had lost me, the way she would
have been sorry if Evelyn had been her little girl instead of
yours. You are a wicked woman. I have always known it, but I have
never told you so before. Now I am going to tell you. Your own
child is lost, you let her be lost. You didn't look out for her.
Yes, your own child is lost, and you sit there and rock!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ida for a moment made no reply. The other women, and Gladys and
Wollaston in the vestibule, listened with horror.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have had beefsteak and fried potatoes cooked,
too,&rdquo; continued Maria, sniffing, &ldquo;and you have eaten
them. You have been eating beefsteak and fried potatoes when your
own child was lost and you did not know where she was!&rdquo; It
might have been ridiculous, this last accusation in the thin,
sweet, childish voice, but it was not. It was even more terrible
than anything else.</p>
<p>Ida turned at last. &ldquo;I hate you,&rdquo; she said slowly.
&ldquo;I have always hated you. You have hated me ever since I came
into this house,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;though I have done more
than your own mother ever did for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have not!&rdquo; cried Maria. &ldquo;You have got
nice clothes for me, but my own mother loved me. What are nice
clothes to love? You have not even loved Evelyn. You have only got
her nice clothes. You have never loved her. Poor papa and I were
the only ones that loved her. You never even loved poor papa. You
saw to it that he had things to eat, but you never loved him. You
are not made right. All the love in your heart is for your own
self. You are turned the wrong way. I don't know as you can help
it, but you are a dreadful woman. You are wicked. You never loved
the baby, and now you have let her be lost. She is my own little
sister, and papa's child, a great deal more than she is anything to
you. Where is she?&rdquo; Maria's voice rang wild. Her face was
blazing. She had an abnormal expression in her blue eyes fixed upon
her step-mother.</p>
<p>Ida, after her one outburst, gazed upon her with a sort of fear
as well as repulsion. She again turned to the Tiffany vase.</p>
<p>Mrs. White, sobbing aloud like a child, again put her arms
around Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; she said soothingly, &ldquo;you poor
child, I know how you feel, but you mustn't talk so, you mustn't,
dear! You have no right to judge. You don't know how your mother
feels.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know how She doesn't feel!&rdquo; Maria burst out,
&ldquo;and She isn't my mother. My mother loves me more way
off in heaven than that woman loves Her own child on earth.
 She doesn't feel.  She just rocks, and thinks
how She looks. I hate Her! Let me go!&rdquo; With that
Maria was out of the room, and ran violently up-stairs.</p>
<p>When she had gone, the three visiting women looked at one
another, and the same covert expression of gratified malice, at
some one having spoken out what was in their inmost hearts, was
upon all three faces. Ida was impassive, with her smiling lips
contracted. Mrs. Applegate again murmured something about uniting
in prayer.</p>
<p>Maria came hurrying down-stairs. She had in her hand her purse,
which contained ten dollars, which her father had given her on her
birthday, also a book of New York tickets which had been a present
from Ida, and which Ida herself had borrowed several times since
giving them to Maria. Maria herself seldom went to New York, and
Ida had a fashion of giving presents which might react to her own
benefit. Maria, as she passed the parlor door, glanced in and saw
her step-mother rocking and staring at the vase. Then she was out
of the front-door, racing down the street with Wollaston Lee and
Gladys hardly able to keep up with her. Wollaston reached her
finally, and again caught her arm. The pressure of the hard, warm
boy hand was grateful to the little, hysterical thing, who was
trembling from head to foot, with a strange rigidity of tremors.
Gladys also clutched her other sleeve.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, M'ria Edgham, where be you goin'?&rdquo; she
demanded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm going to find my little sister,&rdquo; gasped out
Maria. She gave a dry sob as she spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Maria, hadn't you better go back home?&rdquo;
ventured Wollaston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria, and she ran on towards the
station.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come home with me to my mother,&rdquo; said Wollaston,
pleadingly, but a little timidly. A girl in such a nervous strait
as this was a new experience for him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She can go home with me,&rdquo; said Gladys. &ldquo;My
mother's a heap better than Ida Slome. Say, M'ria, all them things
you said was true, but land! how did you darse?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria made no reply. She kept on.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, M'ria, you don't mean you're goin' to New
York?&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I am. I am going to find my little
sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Maria, don't you think you had better go home with
me, and see mother?&rdquo; Wollaston said again.</p>
<p>But Maria seemed deaf. In fact, she heard nothing but the sound
of the approaching New York train. She ran like a wild thing, her
little, slim legs skimming the ground like a bird's, almost as if
assisted by wings.</p>
<p>When the train reached the station, Maria climbed in, Wollaston
and Gladys after her. Neither Wollaston nor Gladys had the
slightest premeditation in the matter; they were fairly swept along
by the emotion of their companion.</p>
<p>When the train had fairly started, Gladys, who had seated
herself beside Maria, while Wollaston was in the seat behind them,
heaved a deep sigh of bewilderment and terror. &ldquo;My!&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>Wollaston also looked pale and bewildered. He was only a boy,
and had never been thrown much upon his own responsibility. All
that had been uppermost in his mind was the consideration that
Maria could not be stopped, and she must not go alone to New York.
But he did not know what to think of it all. He felt chaotic. The
first thing which seemed to precipitate his mentality into anything
like clearness was the entrance of the conductor. Then he thought
instinctively about money. Although still a boy, money as a prime
factor was already firmly established in his mind. He reflected
with dismay that he had only his Wardway tickets, and about three
dollars beside. It was now dark. The vaguest visions of what they
were to do in New York were in his head. The fare to New York was a
little over a dollar; he had only enough to take them all in, then
what next? He took out his pocket-book, but Gladys looked around
quickly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's got a whole book of tickets,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>However, Wollaston, who was proud, started to pay the conductor,
but he had reached Maria first, and she had said
&ldquo;Three,&rdquo; peremptorily. Then she handed the book to
Wollaston, with the grim little ghost of a smile. &ldquo;You please
keep this,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I haven't got any
pocket.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston was so bewildered that the possession of pockets
seemed instantly to restore his self-respect. He felt decidedly
more at his ease when he had Maria's ticket-book in his innermost
pocket. Then she gave him her purse also.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish you would please take this,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;There are ten dollars in it, and I haven't any
pocket.&rdquo; Wollaston took that.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; he said. He buttoned his gray vest
securely over Maria's pretty little red purse. Then he leaned over
the seat, and began to speak, but he absolutely did not know what
to say. He made an idiotic remark about the darkness. &ldquo;Queer
how quick it grows dark, when it begins,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>Maria ignored it, but Gladys said: &ldquo;Yes, it is awful
queer.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Gladys's eyes looked wild. The pupils were dilated. She had been
to New York but once before in her life, and now to be going in the
evening to find Maria's little sister was almost too much for her
intelligence, which had its limitations.</p>
<p>However, after a while, Wollaston Lee spoke again. He was in
reality a keen-witted boy, only this was an emergency into which he
had been surprised, and which he had not foreseen, and Maria's own
abnormal mood had in a measure infected him. Presently he spoke to
the point.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth are you going to do when you get to New
York, anyhow?&rdquo; said he to Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Find her,&rdquo; replied Maria, laconically.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But New York is a mighty big city. How do you mean to go
to work? Now I&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria cut him short. &ldquo;I am going right up to Her
cousin's, on West Forty-ninth Street, and find out if Evelyn is
there,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But what would make the child want to go there,
anyhow?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was the only place she had ever been in New
York,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I don't see what particular reason she would have for
going there, though,&rdquo; said Wollaston. &ldquo;How would she
remember the street and number?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was an awful bright kid,&rdquo; said Gladys, with a
momentary lapse of reason, &ldquo;and kids is queer. I know, 'cause
we've got so many of 'em to our house. Sometimes they'll remember
things you don't ever think they would. My little sister Maud
remembers how my mother drowned five kittens oncet, when she was in
long clothes. We knowed she did, 'cause when the cat had kittens
next time we caught her trying to drown 'em herself. Kids is awful
queer. Maud can't remember how to spell her own name, either, and
she's most six now. She spells it M-a-u-d, when it had ought to be
M-a-u-g-h-d. I shouldn't be one mite surprised if M'ria's little
sister remembered the street and number.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Anyway, she knew her whole name, because I've heard her
say it,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;Her cousin's name is Mrs. George
B. Edison. Evelyn used to say it, and we used to laugh.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, well, if she knew the name like that she might have
found the place all right,&rdquo; said Wollaston. &ldquo;But what
puzzles me is why she wanted to go there, anyway?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Wollaston, &ldquo;but it seems
to me the best thing to do would be to go directly to a
police-office and have the chief of police notified, and set them
at work; but then I suppose your father has done that
already.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned upon him with indignation. &ldquo;Go to a
police-station to find my little sister!&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;What would I go there for?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, what do you suppose that kid has did?&rdquo; asked
Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What would I go there for?&rdquo; demanded Maria,
flashing the light of her excited, strained little face upon the
boy.</p>
<p>Maria no longer looked pretty. She no longer looked even young.
Lines of age were evident around her mouth, her forehead was
wrinkled. The boy fairly started at the sight of her. She seemed
like a stranger to him. Her innermost character, which he had
heretofore only guessed at by superficial signs, was written
plainly on her face. The boy felt himself immeasurably small and
young, manly and bold of his age as he really was. When a young
girl stretches to the full height of her instincts, she dwarfs any
boy of her own age. Maria's feeling for her little sister was
fairly maternal. She was in spirit a mother searching for her lost
young, rather than a girl searching for her little sister. Her
whole soul expanded. She fairly looked larger, as well as older.
When they got off the train at Jersey City, she led the little
procession straight for the Twenty-third Street ferry. She marched
ahead like a woman of twice her years.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better hold up your dress, M'ria,&rdquo; said
Gladys, coming up with her, and looking at her with wonder.
&ldquo;My, how you do race!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria reached round one hand and caught a fold of her skirt. Her
new dress was in fact rather long for her. Ida had remarked that
morning that she would have Miss Keeler shorten it on Saturday. Ida
had no wish to have a grown-up step-daughter quite yet, whom people
might take for her own.</p>
<p>The three reached the ferry-boat just as she was about to leave
her slip. They sat down in a row midway of the upper deck. The heat
inside was intense. Gladys loosened her shabby little sacque. Maria
sat impassible.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ain't you most baked in here?&rdquo; asked Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>Both Gladys and Wollaston looked cowed. They kept glancing at
each other and at Maria. Maria sat next Gladys, Wollaston on
Gladys's other side. Gladys nudged Wollaston, and whispered to
him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We've jest got to stick close to her,&rdquo; she
whispered, in an alarmed cadence. The boy nodded.</p>
<p>Then they both glanced again at Maria, who seemed quite
oblivious of their attention. When they reached the other side,
Wollaston, with an effort, asserted himself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We had better take a cross-town car to the Sixth Avenue
Elevated,&rdquo; he said, pressing close to Maria's side and
seizing her arm again.</p>
<p>Maria shook her head. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Where
Mrs. Edison lives is not so near the Elevated. It will be better to
take a cross-town car and transfer at Seventh Avenue.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Wollaston. He led the way in the
run down the stairs, and aided his companions onto the cross-town
car. He paid their fares, and got the transfers, and stopped the
other car. He was beginning to feel himself again, at least
temporarily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I think the police-station is the best place to
look, but have your own way. It won't take long to see if she is
there now,&rdquo; said Wollaston. He was hanging on a strap in
front of Maria. The car was crowded with people going to up-town
theatres. Some of the ladies, in showy evening wraps, giving
glimpses of delicate waists, looked curiously at the three. There
was something extraordinary about their appearance calculated to
attract attention, although it was difficult to say just why. After
they had left the car, a lady with a white lace blouse showing
between the folds of a red cloak, said to her escort: &ldquo;I
wonder who they were?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said the man, who had been watching
them. &ldquo;I thought there was something unusual.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought so, too. That well-dressed young woman, and
that handsome boy, and that shabby little girl.&rdquo; By the
&ldquo;young woman&rdquo; she meant Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, a queer combination,&rdquo; said the man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It wasn't altogether that, but they looked so desperately
in earnest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Meantime, while the lights of the car disappeared up the avenue,
Maria, Wollaston, and Gladys Mann searched for the house in which
had lived Ida Edgham's cousin.</p>
<p>At last they found it, mounted the steps, and rang the bell. It
was an apartment-house. After a little the door opened of
itself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys, but she followed Wollaston and
Maria inside.</p>
<p>Wollaston began searching the names above the rows of bells on
the wall of the vestibule.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did you say the name was?&rdquo; he asked of
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Edison. Mrs. George B. Edison.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is no such name here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There must be.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There isn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me see,&rdquo; said Maria. She searched the names.
&ldquo;Well, I don't care,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;It was on the
third floor, and I am going up and ask, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now, Maria, do you think&mdash;&rdquo; began
Wollaston.</p>
<p>But Maria began climbing the stairs. There was no elevator.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys, but she followed Maria.</p>
<p>Wollaston pushed by them both. &ldquo;See here, you don't know
what you are getting into,&rdquo; said he, sternly. &ldquo;You let
<em>me</em> go first.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When they reached the third floor, Maria pointed to a door.
&ldquo;That is the door,&rdquo; she whispered, breathlessly.</p>
<p>Wollaston knocked. Immediately the door was flung open by a very
pretty young woman in a rose-colored evening gown. Her white
shoulders gleamed through the transparent chiffon, and a comb set
with rhinestones sparkled in the fluff of her blond hair. When she
saw the three she gave a shrill scream, and immediately a very
small man, much smaller than she, but with a fierce cock of a black
pointed beard, and a tremendous wiriness of gesture, appeared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Tom!&rdquo; gasped the young woman.
&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth is the matter, Stella?&rdquo; asked the
man. Then he looked fiercely at the three. &ldquo;Who are these
people?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know. I opened the door. I thought it was Adeline
and Raymond, and then I saw these strange people. I don't know how
they got in.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We came in the door,&rdquo; said Gladys, with some
asperity, &ldquo;and we are lookin' for M'ria's little sister. Be
you her ma-in-law's cousin?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know who these people are,&rdquo; the young woman
said, faintly, to the man. &ldquo;I think they must be
burglars.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Burglars, nothin'!&rdquo; said Gladys, who had suddenly
assumed the leadership of the party. Opposition and suspicion
stimulated her. She loved a fight. &ldquo;Be you her ma-in-law's
cousin, and have you got her little sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston looked inquiringly at Maria, who was very pale.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It isn't Her cousin,&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;I
don't know who she is. I never saw her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Wollaston spoke, hat in hand, and speaking up like a man.
&ldquo;Pardon us, sir,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;we did not intend to
intrude, but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Get out of this,&rdquo; said the man, with a sudden dart
towards the door.</p>
<p>His wife screamed again, and put her hand over a little diamond
brooch at her throat. &ldquo;I just know they are
sneak-thieves,&rdquo; she gasped. &ldquo;Do send them away,
Tom!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston tried to speak again. &ldquo;We merely wished to
ascertain,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if a lady by the name of Mrs.
George A.&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;B.&rdquo; interrupted Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;B. Edison lived here. This young lady's little sister is
lost, and Mrs. Edison is a relative, and we thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>The man made another dart. &ldquo;Don't care what you
thought,&rdquo; he shouted. &ldquo;Keep your thoughts to yourself!
Get out of here!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you know where Mrs. George B. Edison lives now?&rdquo;
asked Wollaston, courteously, but his black eyes flashed at the
man.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, we don't,&rdquo; said the young woman in pink.
&ldquo;Do make them go, Tom.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are perfectly willing to go,&rdquo; said Wollaston.
&ldquo;We have no desire to remain any longer where people are not
willing to answer civil questions.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria all this time had said nothing. She was perfectly overcome
with the conviction that Ida's cousin was not there, and
consequently not Evelyn. Moreover, she was frightened at the little
man's fierce manner. She clung to Wollaston's arm as they
retreated, but Gladys turned around and deliberately stuck her
tongue out at the man and the young woman in rose. The man slammed
the door.</p>
<p>The three met on the stoop of the house two people in gay
attire.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go up and see your friends that don't know how to treat
folks decent,&rdquo; said Gladys. The woman looked wonderingly at
her from under the shade of a picture hat. Her escort opened the
door. &ldquo;Ten chances to one they had the kid hid
somewhere,&rdquo; said Gladys, so loudly that both turned and
looked at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush up,&rdquo; said Wollaston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what be you goin' to do now?&rdquo; asked
Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going to a drug-store, and see if I can find out
where Maria's relatives have moved to,&rdquo; replied Wollaston. He
walked quite alertly now. Maria's discomfiture had reassured
him.</p>
<p>They walked along a few blocks until they saw the lights of a
drug-store on the corner. Then Wollaston led them in and marched up
to the directory chained to the counter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What's that?&rdquo; Gladys asked. &ldquo;A
Bible?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, it's a directory,&rdquo; Maria replied, in a dull
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do they keep it chained for? Books don't run
away.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose they are afraid folks will steal it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys, eying the big volume. &ldquo;I
don't see what on earth they'd do with it when they got it
stole,&rdquo; she remarked, in a low, reflective voice.</p>
<p>Maria leaned against the counter and waited.</p>
<p>Finally, Wollaston turned to her with an apologetic air.
&ldquo;I can't find any George B. here,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You
are sure it was B?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, there's no use,&rdquo; said Wollaston. &ldquo;There
is no George B. Edison in this book, anyhow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He came forward, and stood looking at Maria. Maria gazed
absently at the crowds passing on the street. Gladys watched them
both.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Gladys, presently, &ldquo;you ain't
goin' to stand here all night, be you? What be you goin' to do
next? Go to the police-station?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see that there is any use,&rdquo; replied
Wollaston. &ldquo;Maria's father must have been there by this time.
This is a wild-goose chase anyhow.&rdquo; Wollaston's tone was
quite vicious. He scowled superciliously at the salesman who
stepped forward and asked if he wanted anything. &ldquo;No, we
don't, thank you,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What be you goin' to do?&rdquo; asked Gladys, again. She
looked at the soda-fountain.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see anything to do but to go home,&rdquo; said
Wollaston. &ldquo;There is no sense in our chasing around New York
any longer, that I can see.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can't go home to-night, anyhow,&rdquo; Gladys said,
quite calmly. &ldquo;They've took off that last train, and there
ain't more'n ten minutes to git down to the station.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston turned pale, and looked at her with horror.
&ldquo;What makes you think they've taken off that last
train?&rdquo; he demanded.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ain't my pa brakeman when he's sober, and he's been real
sober for quite a spell now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston seized Maria by the arm. &ldquo;Come, quick!&rdquo; he
said, and leaving the drug-store he broke into a run for the
Elevated, with Gladys following.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There ain't no use in your runnin',&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;You know yourself you can't git down to Cortlandt Street,
and walk to the ferry in ten minutes. I never went but oncet, but I
know it can't be did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston slackened his pace. &ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; he said.
Then he looked at Maria in a kind of angry despair. He felt, in
spite of his romantic predilection for her, that he wished she were
a boy, so he could say something forcible. He realized his utter
helplessness with these two girls in a city where he knew no one,
and he again thought of the three dollars in his pocket-book. He
did not suppose that Maria had more than fifty cents in hers. Then,
too, he was worldly wise enough to realize the difficulty of the
situation, the possible danger even. It was ten o'clock at night,
and here he was with two young girls to look out for.</p>
<p>Then Gladys, who had also worldly wisdom, although of a crude
and vulgar sort, spoke. &ldquo;Folks are goin' to talk like the old
Harry if we stay in here all night,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and
besides, there's no knowin' what is a safe place to go
into.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; said Wollaston, gloomily, &ldquo;and
I&mdash;have not much money with me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've got money enough,&rdquo; Maria said, suddenly.
&ldquo;There are ten dollars in my pocket-book I gave you to
keep.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>Wollaston brightened for a moment, then his face clouded again.
&ldquo;Well, I don't know as that makes it much better,&rdquo; said
he. &ldquo;I don't quite see how to manage. They are so particular
in hotels now, that I don't know as I can get you into a decent
one. As for myself, I don't care. I can look out for myself, but I
don't know what to do with you, Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Gladys made a little run and stepped in front of them.
&ldquo;There ain't but one thing you can do, so Maria won't git
talked about all the rest of her life, and I kin tell you what it
is,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Wollaston, in a burst of anger.
&ldquo;I call it a pretty pickle we are in, for my part. Ten
chances to one, Mr. Edgham has got the baby back home safe and
sound by this time, anyway, and here we are, here is
Maria!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There ain't but one thing you can do,&rdquo; said Gladys.
Her tone was forcible. She was full of the vulgar shrewdness of a
degenerate race, for the old acumen of that race had sharpened her
wits.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What! in Heaven's name?&rdquo; cried Wollaston.</p>
<p>The three had been slowly walking along, and had stopped near a
church, which was lighted. As they were talking the lights went
out. A thin stream of people ceased issuing from the open doors. A
man in a clerical dress approached them, walking quite rapidly. He
was evidently bound, from the trend of his steps, to a near-by
house, which was his residence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Git married,&rdquo; said Gladys, abruptly. Then, before
the others realized what she was doing, she darted in front of the
approaching clergyman. &ldquo;They want to git married,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>The clergyman stopped and stared at her, then at the couple
beyond, who were quite speechless with astonishment. He was
inconceivably young for his profession. He was small, and had a
round, rollicking face, which he was constantly endeavoring to draw
down into lines of asceticism.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who wants to get married?&rdquo; asked the clergyman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Them two,&rdquo; replied Gladys, succinctly. She pointed
magisterially at Wollaston and Maria.</p>
<p>Wollaston was tall and manly looking for his age, Maria's dress
touched the ground. The clergyman had not, at the moment, a doubt
as to their suitable age. He was not a brilliant young man,
naturally. He had been pushed through college and into his
profession by wealthy relatives, and, moreover, with his stupidity,
he had a certain spirit of recklessness and sense of humor which
gave life a spice for him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Want to get married, eh?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Then Wollaston spoke. &ldquo;No, we do not want to get
married,&rdquo; he said, positively. Then he said to Gladys,
&ldquo;I wish you would mind your own business.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But he had to cope with the revival of a wonderful feminine wit
of a fine old race in Gladys. &ldquo;I should think you would be
plum ashamed of yourself,&rdquo; she said, severely, &ldquo;after
you have got that poor girl in here; and if she stays and you ain't
married, she'll git talked about.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The clergyman approached Wollaston and Maria. Maria had begun to
cry. She was trembling from head to foot with fear and confusion.
Wollaston looked sulky and angry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is that true&mdash;did you induce this girl to come to
New York to be married?&rdquo; he inquired, and his own boyish
voice took on severe tones. He was very strong in moral reform.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I did not,&rdquo; replied Wollaston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He did,&rdquo; said Gladys. &ldquo;She'll get talked
about if she ain't, too, and the last train has went, and we've got
to stay in New York all night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where do you come from?&rdquo; inquired the young
clergyman, and his tone was more severe still.</p>
<p>&ldquo;From Edgham, New Jersey,&rdquo; replied Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo; inquired the clergyman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I ain't no account,&rdquo; replied Gladys. &ldquo;All our
folks git talked about, but she's different.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you are her maid,&rdquo; said the clergyman,
noting with quick eye the difference in the costumes of the two
girls.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Call it anything you wanter,&rdquo; said Gladys,
indifferently. &ldquo;I ain't goin' to have her talked about,
nohow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, Maria,&rdquo; said Wollaston, but Maria did not
respond even to his strong, nervous pull on her arm. She sobbed
convulsively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, that girl does not go one step, young man,&rdquo;
said the clergyman. He advanced closely, and laid a hand on Maria's
other arm. Although small in body and mind, he evidently had
muscle. &ldquo;Come right in the house,&rdquo; said he, and Maria
felt his hand on her arm like steel. She yielded, and began
following him, Wollaston in vain trying to hold her back.</p>
<p>Gladys went behind Wollaston and pushed vigorously. &ldquo;You
git right in there, the way he says, Wollaston Lee,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;You had ought to be ashamed of yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Before the boy well knew what he was doing he found himself in a
small reception-room lined with soberly bound books. All that was
clear in his mind was that he could not hinder Maria from entering,
and that she must not go into the house alone with Gladys and this
strange man.</p>
<p>A man had been standing in the doorway of the house, waiting the
entrance of the clergyman. He was evidently a servant, and his
master beckoned him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Call Mrs. Jerrolds, Williams,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is your name?&rdquo; he asked Maria, who was sobbing
more wildly than ever.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her name is Maria Edgham,&rdquo; replied Gladys,
&ldquo;and his is Wollaston Lee. They both live in
Edgham.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How old are you?&rdquo; the clergyman asked of Wollaston;
but Gladys cut in again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's nineteen, and she's goin' on,&rdquo; she replied,
shamelessly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are neither of us,&rdquo; began Wollaston, whose mind
was in a whirl of anger of confusion.</p>
<p>But the clergyman interrupted him. &ldquo;I am ashamed of you,
young man,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;luring an innocent young girl to
New York and then trying to lie out of your
responsibility.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not,&rdquo; began Wollaston again; but then the man
who had stood in the door entered with a portly woman in a black
silk tea-gown. She looked as if she had been dozing, or else was
naturally slow-witted. Her eyes, under heavy lids, were dull; her
mouth had a sleepy, although good-natured pout, like a child's,
between her fat cheeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Jerrolds,&rdquo; said the
clergyman, &ldquo;but I need you and Williams for witnesses.&rdquo;
Then he proceeded.</p>
<p>Neither Wollaston nor Maria were ever very clear in their minds
how it was done. Both had thought marriage was a more complicated
proceeding. Neither was entirely sure of having said anything.
Indeed, Wollaston was afterwards quite positive that Gladys Mann
answered nearly all the clergyman's questions; but at all events,
the first thing he heard distinctly was the clergyman's pronouncing
him and Maria man and wife. Then the clergyman, who was zealous to
the point of fanaticism, and who honestly considered himself to
have done an exceedingly commendable thing, invited them to have
some wedding-cake, which he kept ready for such emergencies, and
some coffee, but Wollaston replied with a growl of indignation and
despair. This time Maria followed his almost brutally spoken
command to follow him, and the three went out of the house.</p>
<p>&ldquo;See that you treat your wife properly, young man,&rdquo;
the clergyman called out after him, in a voice half jocular, half
condemnatory, &ldquo;or there will be trouble.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston growled an oath, the first which he had ever uttered,
under his breath, and strode on. He had released his hold on
Maria's arm. Ahead of them, a block distant, was an Elevated
station, and Maria, who seemed to suddenly recover her faculties,
broke into a run for it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where be you goin'?&rdquo; called out Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going down to the Jersey City station, quick,&rdquo;
replied Maria, in a desperate voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought you'd go to a hotel. There ain't no harm, now
you're married, you know,&rdquo; said Gladys, &ldquo;and then we
could have some supper. I'm awful hungry. I ain't eat a thing sence
noon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going right down to the station,&rdquo; repeated
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The last train has went. What's the use?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care. I'm going down there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What be you goin' to do when you git there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going to sit there, and wait till
morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>However, she went on up the Elevated stairs with Maria and
Wollaston. Wollaston threw down the fares and got the tickets, and
strode on ahead. His mouth was set. He was very pale. He probably
realized to a greater extent than any of them what had taken place.
It was inconceivable to him that it had taken place, that he
himself had been such a fool. He felt like one who has met with
some utterly unexplainable and unaccountable accident. He felt as
he had done once when, younger, he had stuck his own knife, with
which he was whittling, into his eye, to the possible loss of it.
It seemed to him as if something had taken place without his
volition. He was like a puppet in a show. He looked at Maria, and
realized that he hated her. He wondered how he could ever have
thought her pretty. He looked at Gladys Mann, and felt murderous.
He had a high temper. As the train approached, he whispered in her
ear,</p>
<p>&ldquo;Damn you, Gladys Mann, it's a pretty pickle you have got
us into.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Gladys was used to being sworn at. She was not in the least
intimidated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you s'pose I was goin' to have M'ria talked
about?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You can cuss all you want
to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>They got into the train. Wollaston sat by himself, Gladys and
Maria together. Maria was no longer weeping, but she looked
terrified beyond measure, and desperate. A horrible imagination of
evil was over her. She never glanced at Wollaston. She thought that
she wished there would be an accident on the train and he might be
killed. She hated him more than he hated her.</p>
<p>They were just in time for a boat at Cortlandt Street. When they
reached the Jersey City side Wollaston went straight to the
information bureau, and then returned to Gladys and Maria, seated
on a bench in the waiting-room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, there <em>is</em> a train,&rdquo; he said,
curtly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;'Ain't it been took off?&rdquo; asked Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, but we've got to wait an hour and a half.&rdquo; Then
he bent down and whispered in Gladys's ear, &ldquo;I wish to God
you'd been dead before you got us into this, Gladys
Mann!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My father said it had been took off,&rdquo; said Gladys.
&ldquo;You sure there is one?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I'm sure!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My!&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>Wollaston went to a distant seat and sat by himself. The two
girls waited miserably. Gladys had suffered a relapse. Her
degeneracy of wit had again overwhelmed her. She looked at Maria
from time to time, then she glanced around at Wollaston, and her
expression was almost idiotic. The people who were on the seat with
them moved away. Maria turned suddenly to Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys Mann,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if you ever tell of
this&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you ain't goin' to&mdash;&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Going to what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Live with him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Live with him! I hate him enough to wish he was dead.
I'll never live with him; and if you tell, Gladys Mann, I'll tell
you what I'll do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Gladys, in a horrified whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'll go and drown myself in Fisher's Pond, that's what
I'll do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never will tell, honest, M'ria,&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You'd better not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hope to die, if I do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You <em>will</em> die if you do,&rdquo; said Maria,
&ldquo;for I'll leave a note saying you pushed me into the pond,
and it will be true, too. Oh, Gladys Mann! it's awful what you've
done!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't mean no harm,&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And there's a train, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father said there wasn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know it. There ain't never tellin' when father
lies,&rdquo; said Gladys. &ldquo;I guess father don't know what
lies is, most of the time. I s'pose he's always had a little, if he
'ain't had a good deal. But I'll never tell, Maria, not as long as
I live.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you do, I'll drown myself,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Then the two sat quietly until the train was called out, when
they went through the gate, Maria showing her tickets for herself
and Gladys. Wollaston had purchased his own and returned Maria's.
He kept behind the two girls as if he did not belong to their party
at all. On the train he rode in the smoking-car.</p>
<p>The car was quite full at first, but the passengers got off at
the way-stations. When they drew near Edgham there were only a few
left. Wollaston had not paid the slightest attention to the
passengers. He could not have told what sort of a man occupied the
seat with him, nor even when he got off. He was vaguely conscious
of the reeking smoke of the car, but that was all. When the
conductor came through he handed out his ticket mechanically,
without looking at him. He stared out of the window at the
swift-passing, shadowy trees, at the green-and-red signal-lights,
and the bright glare from the lights of the stations through which
they passed. Once they passed by a large factory on fire,
surrounded by a shouting mob of men, and engines. Even that did not
arrest his attention, although it caused quite a commotion in the
car. He sat huddled up in a heap, staring out with blank eyes, all
his consciousness fixed upon his own affairs. He felt as if he had
made an awful leap from boyhood to manhood in a minute. He was full
of indignation, of horror, of shame. He was conscious of wishing
that there were no girls in the world. After they had passed the
last station before reaching Edgham he looked wearily away from the
window, and recognized, stupidly, Maria's father in a seat in the
forward part of the car. Harry was sitting as dejectedly hunched
upon himself as was the boy. Wollaston recognized the fact that he
could not have found little Evelyn, and realized wickedly and
furiously that he did not care, that a much more dreadful
complication had come into his own life. He turned again to the
window.</p>
<p>Maria, in the car behind the smoker, sat beside Gladys, and
looked out of the window very much as Wollaston was doing. She also
was conscious of an exceeding horror and terror, and a vague shame.
It was, to Maria, as if she had fallen through the fairy cobweb of
romance and struck upon the hard ground of reality with such force
that her very soul was bleeding. Wollaston, in the smoker, wished
no more devoutly that there were no girls in the world, than Maria
wished there were no boys. Her emotions had been, as it were,
thrust back down her own throat, and she was choked and sickened
with them. She would not look at nor speak to Gladys. Once, when
Gladys addressed a remark to her, Maria thrust out an indignant
shoulder towards her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You needn't act so awful mad,&rdquo; whispered Gladys.
&ldquo;I ain't goin' to tell, and I was doin' it on your account.
My mother will give it to me when I git home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are you going to tell her?&rdquo; asked Maria, with
sudden interest.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm goin' to tell her I've been out walkin' with Ben
Jadkins. She's told me not to, and she'll lick me for all she's
wuth,&rdquo; said Gladys, angrily. &ldquo;But I don't care. It's
lucky father 'ain't been through this train. It's real lucky to
have your father git drunk sometimes. I'll git licked, but I don't
care.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria, sitting there, paid no more attention. The shock of her
own plight had almost driven from her mind the thought of Evelyn,
but when a woman got on the train leading a child about her age,
the old pain concerning her came back. She began to weep again
quietly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see what you are cryin' for,&rdquo; said Gladys,
in an accusing voice. &ldquo;You might have been an old
maid.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe she is found,&rdquo; Maria moaned, in a
low voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, the kid! You bet your life she'll turn up. Your pa
'll find her all right. I didn't know as you were cryin' about
that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>When they reached Edgham, Maria and Gladys got off the train,
Wollaston Lee also got off, and Harry Edgham, and from a rear car a
stout woman, yanking, rather than leading, by the hand, a little
girl with a fluff of yellow hair. The child was staggering with
sleep. The stout woman carried on her other arm a large wax-doll
whose face smiled inanely over her shoulder.</p>
<p>Suddenly there was a rush and cry, and Maria had the little girl
in her arms. She was kneeling beside her on the dusty platform,
regardless of her new suit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sister! Sister!&rdquo; screamed the child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sister's own little darling!&rdquo; said Maria, then she
began to sob wildly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's her little sister. Where did you get her?&rdquo;
Gladys asked, severely, of the stout woman, who stood holding the
large doll and glowering, while Harry Edgham came hurrying up. Then
there was another scream from the baby, and she was in her father's
arms. There were few at the station at that hour, but a small crowd
gathered around. On the outskirts was Wollaston Lee, looking on
with his sulky, desperate face.</p>
<p>The stout woman grasped Harry vehemently by the arm. &ldquo;Look
at here,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I want to know, an' I ain't got no
time to fool around, for I want to take the next train back. Is
that your young one? Speak up quick.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry, hugging the child to his breast, looked at the stout
woman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;she is mine, and I have
been looking for her all day. Where&mdash;Did you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I didn't,&rdquo; said the stout woman, emphatically.
&ldquo;<em>She</em> did. I don't never meddle with other folks'
children. I 'ain't never been married, and I 'ain't never wanted to
be. And I 'ain't never cared nothin' about children; always thought
they was more bother than they were worth. And when I changed cars
here this mornin', on my way from Lawsons, where I've been to visit
my married sister, this young one tagged me onto the train, and
nothin' I could say made anybody believe she wa'n't mine. I told
'em I wa'n't married, but it didn't make no difference. I call it
insultin'. There I was goin' up to Tarrytown to-day to see my aunt
'Liza. She's real feeble, and they sent for me, and there I was
with this young one. I had a cousin in New York, and I took her to
her house, and she didn't know any better what to do than I did.
She was always dreadful helpless. We waited till her husband got
home. He runs a tug down the harbor, and he said take her to the
police-station, and mebbe I'd find out somebody had been tryin' to
find her. So my cousin's husband and me went to the station, and he
was so tuckered out and mad at the whole performance that I could
hear him growlin' cuss words under his breath the whole way. We
took her and this great doll down to the station, and we found out
there who she was most likely, and who she belonged to. And my
cousin's husband said I'd got to take her out here. He looked it up
and found out I could git back to New York to-night. He said he
wouldn't come nohow.&rdquo; Suddenly a light flashed on the woman.
&ldquo;Say,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you don't mean to say you've
been on the train yourself all the way out from New
York?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I came out on the train,&rdquo; admitted Harry,
meekly. &ldquo;I am sorry&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you'd better be,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;Here
I've traipsed out here for nothin' this time of night. I call you
all a set of numskulls. I don't call the young one very bright,
either. Couldn't tell where she lived, nor what her father's name
was. Jest said it was papa, and her name was peshious, or some such
tomfoolery. I advise you to tag her if she is in the habit of
runnin' away. Here I ought to have been up in Tarrytown, and I've
been foolin' round in New York all day with your young one and this
big doll.&rdquo; With that the stout woman thrust the doll at
Maria. &ldquo;Here, take this thing,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I've
had enough of it! There ain't any sense in lettin' a child of her
size lug around a doll as big as that, anyhow. When does my train
come? Hev I got to cross to the other side? My cousin's husband
said it would be about twenty minutes I'd have to wait.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'll take you round to the other side, and I cannot be
grateful enough for your care,&rdquo; began Harry, but the woman
stopped him again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you'll be willin' to pay my fare back to New
York; that's all I want,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I don't want no
thanks. I 'ain't no use for children, but I ain't a
heathen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'll be glad to give you a great deal more than your fare
to New York,&rdquo; Harry said, in a broken voice. Evelyn was
already fast asleep on his shoulder. He led the way down the stairs
towards the other track.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want nothin' else, except five cents for my
car-fare. I can get a transfer, and it won't be more'n that,&rdquo;
said the woman, following. &ldquo;I've got enough to git along
with, and I ain't a heathen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry, with Evelyn asleep in his arms, and Maria and Gladys,
waited with the stout woman until the train came. The station was
closed, and the woman sat down on a bench outside and immediately
fell asleep herself.</p>
<p>When the train came, Harry thrust a bank-note into the woman's
hand, having roused her with considerable difficulty, and she
stumbled on to the train over her skirts just as she had done in
the morning.</p>
<p>Harry knew the conductor. &ldquo;Look out for that woman,&rdquo;
he called out to him. &ldquo;She found my little girl that was
lost.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The conductor nodded affably as the train rolled out.</p>
<p>Wollaston Lee had gone home when the others descended the stairs
and crossed to the other track. When Harry, with Evelyn in his
arms, her limp little legs dangling, and Maria and Gladys, were on
their way home, the question, which he in his confusion had not
thought to put before, came.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Maria, where did you come from?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;From New York,&rdquo; replied Maria, meekly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her and me went up to her ma-in-law's cousin's, on
Forty-ninth Street, to find the kid,&rdquo; Gladys cut in, glibly,
&ldquo;but the cousin had moved.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry stared at them. &ldquo;Why, how happened you to do such a
thing?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I couldn't wait home and not do anything,&rdquo; Maria
sobbed, nervously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her ma-in-law's cousin had moved,&rdquo; said Gladys.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How did you find your way?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had been there before,&rdquo; sobbed Maria. She felt
for her father's hand, and grasped it with a meaning of trust and
fear which he did not understand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you must never do such a thing again, no matter
what happens,&rdquo; he said, and held the poor little girl's hand
firmly. &ldquo;Thank God father's got you both back safe and
sound.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Gladys made an abrupt departure on a corner.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-night, M'ria!&rdquo; she sung out, and was gone, a
slim, flying figure in the gloom.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you afraid to go alone?&rdquo; Harry called after
her, in some uncertainty.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Land, no!&rdquo; came cheerily back.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How happened she to be with you?&rdquo; asked Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She was down at the station when I came home from
Wardway,&rdquo; replied Maria, faintly. Her strength was almost
gone. She could hardly stagger up the steps of the house with her
father, he bearing his recovered child, she bearing her secret.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XV</h4>
<p>Ida was still to be seen rocking when Harry, with Evelyn and
Maria, came in sight of the house. The visiting ladies had gone.
Josephine, with her face swollen and tear-stained, was standing
watching at a window in the dark dining-room. When she saw the
three approaching she screamed:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Mis' Edgham, they've found her! They're comin'!
They've got her!&rdquo; and rushed to open the door.</p>
<p>Ida rose, and came gracefully to meet them with a sinuous
movement and a long sweep of her rose-colored draperies. Her
radiant smile lit up her face again. She looked entirely herself
when Harry greeted her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, Ida, our darling is found,&rdquo; he said, in a
broken voice.</p>
<p>Ida reached out her arms, from which hung graceful pendants of
lace and ribbons, but the sleepy child clung to her father and
whimpered crossly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is all tired out, poor little darling! Papa's poor
little darling!&rdquo; said Harry, carrying her into the
parlor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Josephine, tell Annie to heat some milk at once,&rdquo;
Ida said, sharply.</p>
<p>Annie, whose anxious face had been visible peeping through the
dark entrance of the dining-room, hastened into the kitchen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Josephine, go right up-stairs and get Miss Evelyn's bed
ready,&rdquo; ordered Ida. Then she followed Harry into the parlor
and began questioning him, standing over him, and now and then
touching the yellow head of the child, who always shrank crossly at
her touch.</p>
<p>Harry told his story. &ldquo;I had the whole police force of New
York on the outlook, although I did not really think myself she was
in the city, and there papa's precious darling was all the time
right on the train with him and he never knew it. And here was poor
little Maria,&rdquo; added Harry, looking at Maria, who had sunk
into a corner of a divan&mdash;&ldquo;here was poor little Maria,
Ida, and she had gone hunting her little sister on her own account.
She thought she might be at your cousin Alice's. If I had known
that both my babies were wandering around New York I should have
been crazy. When I got off the train, there was Maria and that
little Mann girl. She was down at the station when she got home
from Wardway, Maria says, and those two children went right off to
New York.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did they?&rdquo; said Ida, in a listless voice. She had
resumed her seat in her rocking-chair.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Edwin Shaw said he thought he saw Evelyn getting on the
New York train this morning,&rdquo; said Maria, faintly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is all used up,&rdquo; Harry said. &ldquo;You had
better drink some hot milk yourself, Maria. Only think of that
child and that Mann girl going off to New York on their own
accounts, Ida!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wollaston Lee went, too,&rdquo; Maria said, suddenly. A
quick impulse for concealment in that best of hiding-places, utter
frankness and openness, came over her. &ldquo;He got off the train
here. You know he began school, too, at Wardway this morning, and
he and Gladys both went.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'm thankful you had him along,&rdquo; said Harry.
&ldquo;The Lord only knows what you two girls would have done alone
in a city like New York. You must never do such a thing again,
whatever happens, Maria. You might as well run right into a den of
wild beasts. Only think of that child going to New York, and coming
out on the last train, with that Mann girl; and Wollaston is only a
boy, though he's bright and smart. And your cousin has moved,
Ida.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought she had,&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;And to think of what those children might have got
into,&rdquo; said Harry, &ldquo;in a city like New York, which is
broken out all over with plague spots instead of having them in one
place! Only think of it, Ida!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry's voice was almost sobbing. It seemed as if he fairly
appealed to his wife for sympathy, with his consciousness of the
dangers through which his child had passed. But Ida only said,
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And the baby might have fallen into the worst
hands,&rdquo; said Harry. &ldquo;But, thank God, a good woman,
although she was coarse enough, got hold of her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, we can't be thankful enough,&rdquo; Ida said,
smoothly, and then Josephine came in with a tray and a silver cup
of hot milk for Evelyn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is that all the milk Annie heated?&rdquo; asked
Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, tell Annie to go to the sideboard and get that
bottle of port-wine and pour out a glass for Miss Maria; and,
Josephine, you had better bring her something to eat with it. You
haven't had any supper, have you, child?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria shook her head. &ldquo;I don't want any, thank you,
papa,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is there any cold meat, Josephine, do you
know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Josephine said there was some cold roast beef.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, bring Miss Maria a plate, with a slice of
bread-and-butter, and some beef.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you had any supper yourself, dear?&rdquo; Ida
asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I declare I don't know, dear,&rdquo; replied Harry, who
looked unutterably worn and tired. &ldquo;No, I think not. I don't
know when I could have got it. No, I know I have not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Josephine,&rdquo; said Ida, &ldquo;tell Annie to broil a
piece of beefsteak for Mr. Edgham, and make a cup of
tea.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you, dear,&rdquo; poor Harry said, gratefully. Then
he said to Maria, &ldquo;Will you wait and have some hot beefsteak
and tea with papa, darling?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria shook her head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think she had better eat the cold beef and bread, and
drink the wine, and go at once to bed, if she is to start on that
early train to-morrow,&rdquo; Ida said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe you are right, dear,&rdquo; Harry said.
&ldquo;Hurry with the roast beef and bread and wine for Miss Maria,
Josephine, and Annie can see to my supper afterwards.&rdquo;</p>
<p>All this time Harry was coaxing the baby to imbibe spoonfuls of
the hot milk. It was hard work, for Evelyn was not very hungry. She
had been given a good deal of cake and pie from a bakery all
day.</p>
<p>However, at last she was roused sufficiently to finish her
little meal, and Maria drank her glass of wine and ate a little of
the bread and meat, although it seemed to her that it would choke
her. She was conscious of her father's loving, anxious eyes upon
her as she ate, and she made every effort.</p>
<p>Little Evelyn had recently had her own little room fitted up. It
was next to Maria's; indeed, there was a connecting door between
the two rooms. Evelyn's room was a marvel. It was tiny, but
complete. Ida had the walls hung with paper with a satin gloss, on
which were strewn garlands of rose-buds. There was a white matting
and a white fur rug. The small furniture was white, with rose-bud
decorations. There was a canopy of rose silk over the tiny bed, and
a silk counterpane of a rose-bud pattern.</p>
<p>After Evelyn had finished her hot milk, her father carried her
up-stairs into this little nest, and Josephine undressed her and
put her to bed. The child's head drooped as helplessly as a baby's
all the time, she was so overcome with sleep. When she was in bed,
Ida came in and kissed her. She was so fast asleep that she did not
know. She and Harry stood for a moment contemplating the little
thing, with her yellow hair spread over the white pillow and her
round rose of a face sunken therein. Harry put his arm around his
wife's waist.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We ought to be very thankful, dear,&rdquo; he said, and
he almost sobbed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Ida. To do her justice, she regarded the
little rosy-and-white thing sunk in slumber with a certain
tenderness. She was even thankful. She had been exceedingly
disturbed the whole day. She was very glad to have this happy
termination, and to be able to go to rest in peace. She bent again
over the child, and touched her lips lightly to the little face,
and when she looked up her own was softened. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she
whispered, with more of womanly feeling than Harry had ever seen in
her&mdash;&ldquo;yes, you are right, we have a great deal to be
thankful for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria, in the next room, heard quite distinctly what Ida said.
It would once have aroused in her a contemptuous sense of her
step-mother's hypocrisy, but now she felt too humbled herself to
blame another, even to realize any fault in another. She felt as if
she had undergone a tremendous cataclysm of spirit, which had cast
her forever from her judgment-seat as far as others were concerned.
Was she not deceiving as never Ida had deceived? What would Ida
say? What would her father say if he knew that she was&mdash;? She
could not say the word even to herself. When she was in bed and her
light out, she was overcome by a nervous stress which almost
maddened her. Faces seemed to glower at her out of the blackness of
the night, faces which she knew were somehow projected out of her
own consciousness, but which were none the less terrific. She even
heard her name shouted, and strange, isolated words, and fragments
of sentences. She lay in a deadly fear. Now was the time when, if
her own mother had been alive, she would have screamed aloud for
some aid. But now she could call to no one. She would have spoken
to her father. She would not have told him&mdash;she was gripped
too fast by her sense of the need of secrecy&mdash;but she would
have obtained the comfort and aid of his presence and soothing
words; but there was Ida. She remembered how she had talked to Ida,
and her father was with her. A dull wonder even seized her as to
whether Ida would tell her father, and she should be allowed to
remain at home after saying such dreadful things. There was no one
upon whom she could call. All at once she thought of the maid
Annie, whose room was directly over hers. Annie was kindly. She
would slip up-stairs to her, and make some excuse for doing
so&mdash;ask her if she did not smell smoke, or something. It
seemed to her that if she did not hear another human voice, come in
contact with something human, she should lose all control of
herself.</p>
<p>Maria, little, slender, trembling girl, with all the hysterical
fancies of her sex crowding upon her, all the sufferings of her sex
waiting for her in the future, and with no mother to soften them,
slipped out of bed, stole across her room, and opened the door with
infinite caution. Then she went up the stairs which led to the
third story. Both maids had rooms on the third story. Josephine
went home at night, and Hannah, the cook, had gone home with her
after the return of the wanderers, and was to remain. She was
related to Josephine's mother. She knocked timidly at Annie's door.
She waited, and knocked again. She was trembling from head to foot
in a nervous chill. She got no response to her knock. Then she
called, &ldquo;Annie,&rdquo; very softly. She waited and called
again. At last, in desperation, she opened the door, which was not
locked. She entered, and the room was empty. Suddenly she
remembered that Annie, kind-hearted as she was, and a good servant,
had not a character above suspicion. She remembered that she had
heard Gladys intimate that she had a sweetheart, and was not
altogether what she should be. She gazed around the empty, forlorn
little room, with one side sloping with the slope of the roof, and
an utter desolation overcame her, along with a horror of Annie. She
felt that if Annie were there she would be no refuge.</p>
<p>Maria turned, and slipped as silently as a shadow down the
stairs back to her room. She looked at her bed, and it seemed to
her that she could not lie down again in it. Then suddenly she
thought of something else. She thought of little Evelyn asleep in
the next room. She opened the connecting door softly and stole
across to the baby's little bed. It was too small, or she would
have crept in beside her. Maria hesitated a moment, then she slid
her arms gently under the little, soft, warm body, and gathered the
child up in her arms. She was quite heavy. At another time Maria,
who had slender arms, could scarcely have carried her. Now she bore
her with entire ease into her own room and laid her in her own bed.
Then she got in beside her and folded her little sister in her
arms. Directly a sense of safety and peace came over her when she
felt the little snuggling thing, who had wakened just enough to
murmur something unintelligible in her baby tongue, and cling close
to her with all her little, rosy limbs, and thrust her head into
the hollow of Maria's shoulder. Then she gave a deep sigh and was
soundly asleep again. Maria lay awake a little while, enjoying that
sense of peace and security which the presence of this little human
thing she loved gave her. Then she fell asleep herself.</p>
<p>She waked early. The thought of the early train was in her mind,
and Maria was always one who could wake at the sub-recollection of
a need. Evelyn was still asleep, curled up like a flower. Maria
raised her and carried her back to her own room and put her in her
bed without waking her. Then she dressed herself in her school
costume and went down-stairs. She had smelled coffee while she was
dressing, and knew that Hannah had returned. Her father was in the
dining-room when she entered. He usually took an earlier train, but
this morning he had felt utterly unable to rise. Maria noticed,
with a sudden qualm of fear, how ill and old and worn-out he
looked, but Harry himself spoke first with concern for her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Papa's poor little girl!&rdquo; he said, kissing her.
&ldquo;She looks tired out. Did you sleep, darling?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, after a while. Are you sick, papa?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear. Why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because you did not go on the other train.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear, I am all right, just a little tired,&rdquo;
replied Harry. Then he added, looking solicitously at Maria,
&ldquo;Are you sure you feel able to go to school
to-day?&mdash;because you need not, you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am all right,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>She and her father had seated themselves at the table. Harry
looked at his watch.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We shall neither of us go if we don't get our breakfast
before long,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>Then Hannah came in, with a lowering look, bringing the
coffee-pot and the chops and rolls.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where is Annie?&rdquo; asked Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; replied Hannah, with a toss of her
head and a compression of her lips. She was a large, solid woman,
with a cast in her eyes. She had never been married.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't know?&rdquo; said Harry, helping Maria to a
chop and a roll, while Hannah poured the coffee.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Hannah again, and this time her face was
fairly malicious. &ldquo;I don't know how long I can stand such
doin's, and that's the truth,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Hannah had come originally from New England, and had principles,
in which she took pride, perhaps the more because they had never in
one sense been assailed. Annie was a Hungarian, and considered by
Hannah to have no principles. She was also pretty, in a rough,
half-finished sort of fashion, and had no cast in her eyes. Hannah
privately considered that as against her.</p>
<p>Harry began sipping his coffee, which Hannah had set down with
such impetus that she spilled a good deal in the saucer, and he
looked uneasily at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you mean, Hannah?&rdquo; he asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I mean that I am not used to being throwed in with girls
who stays out all night, and nobody knows where they be, and that's
the truth,&rdquo; said Hannah, with emphasis.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you mean to say that Annie&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I do. She wa'n't in, and they do say she's married,
and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, Hannah, we'll talk about this another time,&rdquo;
Harry said, with a glance at Maria.</p>
<p>Just then a step was heard in the kitchen.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There she is now, the trollop,&rdquo; said Hannah, but
she whispered the last word under her breath, and she also gave a
glance at Maria, as one might at any innocent ignorance which must
be shielded even from knowledge itself.</p>
<p>Annie came in directly. Her pretty, light hair was nicely
arranged; she was smiling, but she looked doubtful.</p>
<p>Hannah went with a flounce into the kitchen. Annie had removed
her hat and coat and tied on a white apron in a second, and she
began waiting exactly as if she had come down the back stairs after
a night spent in her own room. Indeed, she did not dream that
either Harry or Maria knew that she had not, and she felt quite
sure of Hannah's ignorance, since Hannah herself had been away all
night.</p>
<p>Maria from time to time glanced at Annie, and, although she had
always liked her, a feeling of repulsion came over her. She shrank
a little when Annie passed the muffins to her. Harry gave one keen,
scrutinizing glance at the girl's face, but he said nothing. After
breakfast he went up-stairs to bid Ida, who had a way of rising
late, good-bye, and he whispered to her, &ldquo;Annie was out all
last night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, well,&rdquo; replied Ida, sleepily, with a little
impatience, &ldquo;it does not happen very often. What are we going
to do about it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hannah is kicking,&rdquo; said Harry, &ldquo;and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it if she is,&rdquo; said Ida. &ldquo;Annie
does her work well, and it is so difficult to get a maid nowadays;
and I cannot set up as a moral censor, I really cannot,
Harry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hate the example, that is all,&rdquo; said Harry.
&ldquo;There Hannah said, right before Maria, that Annie had been
out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It won't hurt Maria any,&rdquo; Ida replied, with a
slight frown. &ldquo;Maria wouldn't know what she meant. She is not
only innocent, but ignorant. I can't turn off Annie, unless I see
another maid as good in prospect. Good-bye, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry and Maria walked to the station together. Their trains
reached Edgham about the same time, although going in opposite
directions. It was a frosty morning. There had been a slight frost
the night before. A light powder of glistening white lay over
everything. The roofs were beginning to smoke as it melted. Maria
inhaled the clear air, and her courage revived a
little&mdash;still, not much. Nobody knew how she dreaded the day,
the meeting Wollaston. She could not yet bring herself to call him
her husband. It seemed at once horrifying and absurd. The frosty
air brought a slight color to the girl's cheeks, but she still
looked wretched. Harry, who himself looked more than usually worn
and old, kept glancing at her, as they hastened along.</p>
<p>&ldquo;See here, darling,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;hadn't you
better not go to school to-day? I will write a note of explanation
myself to the principal, at the office, and mail it in New York.
Hadn't you better turn around and go home and rest
to-day?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh no,&rdquo; replied Maria. &ldquo;I would much rather
go, papa.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You look as if you could hardly stand up, much less go to
school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am all right,&rdquo; said Maria; but as she spoke she
realized that her knees fairly bent under her, and her heart beat
loudly in her ears, for they had come in sight of the station.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are sure?&rdquo; Harry said, anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I am all right. I want to go to school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, look out that you eat a good luncheon,&rdquo; said
Harry, as he kissed her good-bye.</p>
<p>Maria had to go to the other side to take her Wardway train. She
left her father and went under the bridge and mounted the stairs.
When she gained the platform, the first person whom she saw, with a
grasp of vision which seemed to reach her very heart, although she
apparently did not see him at all, was Wollaston Lee. He also saw
her, and his boyish face paled. There were quite a number waiting
for the train, which was late. Maud Page was among them. Maria at
once went close to her. Maud asked about her little sister. She had
heard that she was found, although it was almost inconceivable how
the news had spread at such an early hour.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am real glad she's found,&rdquo; said Maud. Then she
stared curiously at Maria. &ldquo;Say, was it so?&rdquo; she
asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was what true?&rdquo; asked Maria, trembling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was it true that you and Wollaston Lee and Gladys Mann
all went to New York looking for your sister, and came out on the
last train?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it is true,&rdquo; replied Maria, quite
steadily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What ever made you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought she might have gone to a cousin of Hers
who used to live on Forty-ninth Street, but we found the cousin had
moved when we got there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gracious!&rdquo; said Maud. &ldquo;And you didn't come
out till that last train?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think you would be tired to death, and you don't
look any too chipper.&rdquo; Maud turned and stared at Wollaston,
who was standing aloof. &ldquo;I declare, he looks as if he had
been up a week of Sundays, too,&rdquo; said she. Then she called
out to him, in her high-pitched treble, which sounded odd coming
from her soft circumference of throat. Maud's voice ought, by good
rights, to have been a rich, husky drone, instead of bearing a
resemblance to a parrot's. &ldquo;Say, Wollaston Lee,&rdquo; she
called out, and the boy approached perforce, lifting his
hat&mdash;&ldquo;say,&rdquo; said Maud, &ldquo;I hear you and Maria
eloped last night.&rdquo; Then she giggled.</p>
<p>The boy cast a glance of mistrust and doubt at Maria. His face
turned crimson.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are telling awful whoppers, Maud Page,&rdquo; Maria
responded, promptly, and his face cleared. &ldquo;We just went in
to find Evelyn.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Maud, teasingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are mean to talk so,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Maud laughed provokingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What made Wollaston go for, then?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you suppose anybody would let a girl go alone to New
York on a night train?&rdquo; said Maria, with desperate spirit.
&ldquo;He went because he was polite, so there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston said nothing. He tried to look haughty, but succeeded
in looking sheepish.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys Mann went, too,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see what makes you go with a girl like that
anywhere?&rdquo; said Maud.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's as good as anybody,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe she is,&rdquo; returned Maud. Then she glanced at
Wollaston, who was looking away, and whispered in Maria's ear:
&ldquo;They talk like fury about her, and her mother,
too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; Maria said, stoutly. &ldquo;She was
down at the station and told me how Evelyn was lost, and then she
went in with me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maud laughed her aggravating laugh again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, maybe it was just as well she did,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;or else they would have said you and Wollaston had eloped,
sure.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria began to speak, but her voice was drowned by the rumble of
the New York train on the other track. The Wardway train was late.
Usually the two trains met at the station.</p>
<p>However, the New York train had only just pulled out of sight
before the Wardway train came in. As Maria climbed on the train she
felt a paper thrust forcibly into her hand, which closed over it
instinctively. She sat with Maud, and had no opportunity to look at
it all the way to Wardway. She slipped it slyly into her
Algebra.</p>
<p>Maud's eyes were sharp. &ldquo;What's that you are putting in
your Algebra?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;A marker,&rdquo; replied Maria. She felt that Maud's
curiosity was such that it justified a white lie.</p>
<p>She had no chance to read the paper which Wollaston had slipped
into her hand until she was fairly in school. Then she read it
under cover of a book. It was very short, and quite manly, although
manifestly written under great perturbation of spirit.</p>
<p>Wollaston wrote: &ldquo;Shall I tell your folks
to-night?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston was not in Maria's classes. He was older, and had
entered in advance. She had not a chance to reply until noon. Going
into the restaurant, she in her turn slipped a paper forcibly into
his hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good land! look out!&rdquo; said Maud Page. &ldquo;Why,
Maria Edgham, you butted right into Wollaston Lee and nearly
knocked him over.&rdquo;</p>
<p>What Maria had written was also short, but desperate. She
wrote:</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you ever tell your folks or my folks, or anybody, I
will drown myself in Fisher's Pond.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A look of relief spread over the boy's face. Maria glanced at
him where he sat at a distant table with some boys, and he gave an
almost imperceptible nod of reassurance at her. Maria understood
that he had not told, and would not, unless she bade him.</p>
<p>On the train going home that night he found a chance to speak to
her. He occupied the seat behind her, and waited until a woman who
sat with Maria got off the train at a station, and also a man who
had occupied the seat with him. Then he leaned over and said,
ostentatiously, so he could be heard half the length of the car,
&ldquo;It is a beautiful day, isn't it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria did not turn around at all, but her face was deadly white
as she replied, &ldquo;Yes, lovely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then the boy whispered, and the whisper seemed to reach her
inmost soul. &ldquo;Look here, I want to do what is right,
and&mdash;honorable, you know, but hang me if I know what is. It is
an awful pickle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria nodded, still with her face straight ahead.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know how it happened, for my part,&rdquo; the boy
whispered.</p>
<p>Maria nodded again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't say anything to my folks, because I didn't know
how you would feel about it. I thought I ought to ask you first.
But I am not afraid to tell, you needn't think that, and I mean to
be honorable. If you say so, I will go right home with you and tell
your folks, and then I will tell mine, and we will see what we can
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria made no answer. She was in agony. It seemed to her that
the whisper was deafening her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will leave school, and go to work right away,&rdquo;
said the boy, and his voice was a little louder, and full of
pathetic manliness; &ldquo;and I guess in a year's time I could get
so I could earn enough to support you. I mean to do what is right.
All is I want to do what you want me to do. I didn't know how you
felt about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Maria turned slightly. He leaned closer.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I told you how I felt,&rdquo; she whispered back.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You mean what you wrote?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, what I wrote.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't want me to tell at all?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never, as long as you live.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How about her?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gladys?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, confound her!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She won't tell. She won't dare to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston was silent for a moment, then he whispered again.
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I want to do what you want me
to and what is honorable. Of course, we are both young, and I
haven't any money except what father gives me, but I am willing to
quit school to-morrow and go to work. You needn't think I mean to
back out and show the white feather. I am not that kind. We have
got into this, and I am ready and willing to do all I
can.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I meant what I wrote,&rdquo; whispered Maria again.
&ldquo;I never want you to tell, and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish you would go and sit somewhere else, and not speak
to me again. I hate the very sight of you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said the boy. There was a slight echo
of rancor in his own voice, still it was patient, with the patience
of a man with a woman and her unreason. All his temper of the night
before had disappeared. He was quite honest in saying that he
wished to do what was right and honorable. He was really much more
of a man than he had been the day before. He was conscious of not
loving Maria&mdash;his budding boy-love for her had been shocked
out of life. He was even repelled by her, but he had a strong sense
of his duty towards her, and he was full of pity for her. He saw
how pale and nervous and frightened she was. He got up to change
his seat, but before he went, he leaned over her and whispered
again: &ldquo;You need not be a mite afraid, Maria. All I want is
what will please you and what is right. I will never tell, unless
you ask me to. You need not worry. You had better put it all out of
your mind.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria nodded. She felt very dizzy. She was glad when Wollaston
not only left his seat, but the car, going into the smoker. She
heard the door slam after him with a sense of relief. She felt a
great relief at his assurance that he would keep their secret.
Wollaston Lee was a boy whose promises had weight. She looked out
of the window and a little of her old-time peace seemed to descend
upon her. She saw how lovely the landscape was in the waning light.
She saw the new moon with a great star attendant, and reflected
that it was over her right shoulder. After all, youth is hard to
down, and hope finds a rich soil in it. Then, too, a temporization
to one who is young means eternity. If Wollaston did not tell, and
Gladys did not tell, and she did not tell, it might all come right
somehow in the end.</p>
<p>She looked at the crescent of the moon, and the great depth of
light of the star, and her own affairs seemed to quiet her with
their very littleness. What was little Maria Edgham and her
ridiculous and tragic matrimonial tangle compared with the eternal
light of those strange celestial things yonder? She would pass, and
they would remain. She became comforted. She even reflected that
she was hungry. She had not obeyed her father's injunction, and had
eaten very little luncheon. She thought with pleasure of the good
dinner which would be awaiting her. Then suddenly she remembered
how she had talked to Her. How would she be treated? But she
remembered that Ida could not have said anything against her to her
father, or, if she had done so, it had made no difference to him.
She considered Ida's character, and it seemed to her quite probable
that she would make no further reference to the subject. Ida was
averse even to pursuing enmities, because of the inconvenience
which they might cause her. It was infinitely less trouble to allow
birds which had pecked at her to fly away than to pursue them;
then, too, she always remained unshaken in her belief in herself.
Maria's tirade would not in the least have disturbed her self-love,
and it is only a wound in self-love which can affect some people.
Maria was inclined to think that Ida would receive her with the
same coldly radiant smile as usual, and she was right. That night,
when she entered the bright parlor, glowing with soft lights under
art-shades, Ida, in her pretty house-gown&mdash;scarlet cashmere
trimmed with medallions of cream lace&mdash;greeted her in the same
fashion as she had always done. Evelyn ran forward with those
squeals of love which only a baby can accomplish. Maria, hugging
her little sister, saw that Ida's countenance was quite
unchanged.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So you have got home?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Is it very
cold?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not very,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have not been out, and I did not know,&rdquo; Ida said,
in her usual fashion of making commonplaces appear like
brilliances.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There may be a frost, I don't know,&rdquo; Maria said.
She was actually confused before this impenetrability. Remembering
the awful things she had said to Her, she was suddenly
conscience-stricken as she saw Ida's calm radiance of demeanor. She
began to wonder if she had not been mistaken, if Ida was not really
much better than she herself. She knew that is she had had such
things said to her she could not have appeared so forgiving. Such
absolute self-love, and self-belief, was incomprehensible to her.
She had accused Ida of more than she could herself actually
comprehend. She began to think Ida had a forgiving heart, and that
she herself had been the wicked one, not She. She responded to
everything which Ida said with a conciliatory air. Presently Harry
came in. He was late. He looked very worn and tired. Ida sent
Josephine up-stairs to get his smoking-jacket and slippers, and
Maria thought She was very kind to her father. Evelyn climbed
into his arms, but he greeted even her rather wearily. Ida noticed
it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come away, darling,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Papa is
tired, and you are a heavy little lump of honey,&rdquo; Ida smiled,
entrancingly.</p>
<p>Harry looked at her with loving admiration, then at Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I tell you what it is, I feel pretty thankful to-night,
when I think of last night&mdash;when I realize I have you all
home,&rdquo; said he.</p>
<p>Ida smiled more radiantly. &ldquo;Yes, we ought to be very
thankful,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Maria made up her mind that she would apologize to her if she
had a chance. She did not wish to speak before her father, not
because she did not wish him to know, but because she did not wish
to annoy him, he looked so tired. She had a chance after dinner,
when Josephine was putting Evelyn to bed, and Harry had been called
to the door to speak to a man on business.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry I spoke as I did to you,&rdquo; she said, in a
low voice, to Ida.</p>
<p>They were both in the parlor. Maria had a school-book in her
hand, and Ida was embroidering. The rosy shade of the lamp
intensified the glow on her beautiful face. She looked smilingly at
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, my dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I don't know what
you said. I have forgotten.&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XVI</h4>
<p>Now commenced an odd period of her existence for Maria Edgham.
She escaped a transition stage which comes to nearly every girl by
her experience in New York, the night when Evelyn was lost. There
is usually for a girl, if not for a boy, a stage of existence when
she flutters, as it were, over the rose of life, neither lighting
upon it nor leaving it, when she is not yet herself, when she does
not comprehend herself at all, except by glimpses of emotions, as
one may see one facet of a diamond but never the complete stone.
Maria had, in a few hours, become settled, crystallized, and she
gave evidence of it indisputably in one way&mdash;she had lost her
dreams. When a girl no longer dreams of her future she has found
herself. Maria had always been accustomed to go to sleep lulled by
her dreams of innocent romance. Now she no longer had them, it was
as if a child missed a lullaby. She was a long time in getting to
sleep at all, and she did not sleep well. She no longer stared over
the page of a lesson-book into her own future, as into a crystal
well wherein she saw herself glorified by new and strange
happiness. She studied, and took higher places in her classes, but
she did not look as young or as well. She grew taller and thinner,
and she looked older. People said Maria Edgham was losing her
beauty, that she would not be as pretty a woman as she had promised
to make, after all. Maria no longer dwelt so long and pleasurably
upon her reflection in the glass. She simply arranged her hair and
neck-gear tidily and went her way. She did not care so much for her
pretty clothes. A girl without her dreams is a girl without her
glory of youth. She did not quite realize what was the matter, but
she knew that she was no longer so fair to see, and that the
combination of herself and a new gown was not what it had been. She
felt as if she had reached the last page of her book of life, and
the <i>ennui</i> of middle age came over her. She had not reached
the last page; she was, of course, mistaken; but she had reached a
paragraph so tremendous that it seemed to her the climax, as if
there could be nothing beyond it. She was married&mdash;that is,
she had been pronounced a wife! There was, there could be, nothing
further. She was both afraid of, and disliked, the boy who had
married her. There was nothing ahead that she could see but a
commonplace existence without romance and without love. She as yet
did not dwell upon the possible complications which might arise
from her marriage. It simply seemed to her that she should always
live a spinster, although the marriage ceremony had been pronounced
over her. She began to realize that in order to live in this way
she must take definite steps. She knew that her father was not
rich. The necessity for work and earning her own living in the
future began to present itself. She made up her mind to fit herself
for a teacher.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Papa, I am going to teach,&rdquo; she told her father one
afternoon.</p>
<p>Ida had gone out. It was two years after her marriage, and Maria
looked quite a woman. She and her father were alone. Evelyn had
gone to bed. Maria had tucked her in and kissed her good-night.
Josephine was no longer a member of the family. In a number of ways
expenses had been retrenched. Harry would not admit it, and Ida did
not seem aware of it, but his health was slowly but surely failing.
That very day he had consulted a specialist in New York, taking his
turn in the long line of waiting applicants in the office. When he
came out he had a curious expression on his face, which made more
than one of the other patients, however engrossed in their own
complaints, turn around and look after him. He looked paler than
when he had entered the office, but not exactly cast down. He had
rather a settled expression, as of one who had come in sight, not
of a goal of triumph, but of the end of a long and wearisome
journey. In these days Harry Edgham was so unutterably weary, he
drove himself to his work with such lashes of spirit, that he was
almost incapable of revolt against any sentence of fate. There
comes a time to every one, to some when young, to some when old,
that too great a burden of labor, or of days, renders the thought
of the last bed of earth unterrifying. The spirit, overcome with
weariness of matter, droops earthward with no rebellion. Harry, who
had gotten his death-sentence, went out of the doctor's office and
hailed his ferry-bound car, and realized very little difference in
his attitude from what he had done before. He had still time before
him, possibly quite a long time. He thought of leaving Ida and the
little one and Maria, but he had a feeling as if he were beginning
the traversing of a circle which would in the end bring him back,
rather than of departure. It was as if he were about to
circumnavigate life itself. Suddenly, however, his forehead
contracted. Material matters began to irritate him. He thought of
Maria, and how slight a provision he had made for her. His life was
already insured for the benefit of Ida. Ida would have that and her
widow's share. Little Evelyn would also have her share of his tiny
estate, which consisted of nothing more than his house and lot in
Edgham and a few hundreds in the bank, and poor Maria would have
nothing except the paltry third remaining. When Maria, sitting
alone with him in the parlor, announced her intention of fitting
herself for a teacher, he viewed her with quick interest. It was
the evening of the very day on which he had consulted the
specialist.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me see, dear,&rdquo; he returned; &ldquo;how many
years more have you at the academy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can graduate next year,&rdquo; Maria replied, with
pride. This last year she had been taking enormous strides, which
had placed her ahead of her class. &ldquo;At least, I can if I work
hard,&rdquo; she added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want you to work too hard,&rdquo; Harry said,
anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am perfectly well,&rdquo; said Maria. And she did in
reality look entirely well, in spite of her thinness and expression
of premature maturity. There was a wiriness about her every
movement which argued, if not actual robustness, the elasticity of
bending and not breaking before the stresses of life.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me see, you will be pretty young to teach,
then,&rdquo; said Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think I can get a school,&rdquo; Maria said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria said she thought I could get that little
school near her in Amity. The teacher is engaged, and she said she
thought she would get married before so very long. She said she
thought she must have almost enough money for her wedding outfit.
That is what she has been working for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry smiled a little.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria said she was to marry a man with means, and
she was working quite a while in order to buy a nice
trousseau,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;Aunt Maria said she was a very
high-spirited young lady. But she said she thought she had been
engaged so long that she would probably not wait more than a year
longer, and she could get the school for me. Uncle Henry is one of
the committee, you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are pretty young to begin teaching,&rdquo; Harry
said, thoughtfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria said she thought I did not look as young as I
really was, and there wouldn't be any difficulty about it,&rdquo;
said Maria. &ldquo;She said she thought I would have good
government, and Uncle Henry thought so, too, and Aunt
Eunice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Eunice was Maria's Uncle Henry's wife. Maria had paid a
visit to Amity the summer before, renewing her acquaintance with
her relatives.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, we will see,&rdquo; said Harry, after a pause. Then
he added, somewhat pitifully: &ldquo;Father wishes there was no
need for his little girl to work. He wishes he had been able to put
more by, but if&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked at her father with quick concern.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father, what is the matter with you?&rdquo; she asked.
&ldquo;I don't care about the working part. I want to work. I shall
like to go to Amity, and board with Aunt Maria, and teach, except
for leaving you and Evelyn, but&mdash;what is the matter with you,
father?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing is the matter. Why?&rdquo; asked Harry; and he
tried to smile.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What made you speak so, father?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria had sprung to her feet, and was standing in front of her
father, with pale face and dilated eyes. Her father looked at her
and hesitated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell me, father; I ought to know,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is nothing immediate, as far as I know,&rdquo; said
Harry, &ldquo;but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, dear, nobody can live always, and of course you
can't realize it, young as you are, and with no responsibilities;
but father is older, and sometimes he can't help thinking. He
wishes he had been able to save a little more, in case anything
happened to him, and he can't help planning what you would do
if&mdash;anything happened to him. You know, dear,&rdquo; Harry
hesitated a little, then he continued&mdash;&ldquo;you know, dear,
that father had his life insured for&mdash;Ida, and I doubt
if&mdash;I am older, you know, now, and those companies don't like
to take chances. I doubt if I could, or I would have an additional
insurance put on my life for you. Then Ida would have by law her
share of this property, and Evelyn her share, and all you would
have would be a very little, and&mdash;Well, father can't help
thinking that perhaps it would be wise for you to make some plans
so you can help yourself a little, but&mdash;it almost breaks
father's heart to think that&mdash;his&mdash;little girl&mdash;&rdquo; Poor Harry fairly broke down and sobbed.</p>
<p>Maria's arm was around his neck in a moment, and his poor gray
head, which had always been, in a way, the head of an innocent boy,
was on her young girl breast. She did not ask him any more
questions. She knew. &ldquo;Poor father!&rdquo; she said. Her own
voice broke, then she steadied it again with a resolute effort of
her will. There was a good deal of her mother in Maria. The sight
of another's weakness always aroused her own strength.
&ldquo;Father,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;now you just listen to me. I
won't hear any more talk of anything happening to you. You have not
eaten enough lately. I have noticed it. That is all that ails you.
You have not had enough nourishment. I want you to go to-morrow to
Dr. Wells and get some of that tonic that helped you so much
before, and, father, I want you to stop worrying about me. I
honestly want to teach. I want to be independent. I should, if you
were worth a million. It does not worry me at all to think I am not
going to have enough money to live on without working, not at all.
I want you to remember that, and not fret any more about
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For answer, Harry sobbed against the girl's shoulder. &ldquo;It
seems as if I might have saved more,&rdquo; he said, pitifully,
&ldquo;but&mdash;I have had heavy expenses, and somehow I didn't
seem to have the knack that some men have. I made one or two
investments that didn't turn out well. I didn't say anything about
them to&mdash;Ida.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I sha'n't say a word, father,&rdquo; Maria responded,
quickly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I thought maybe&mdash;if they turned out all right,
I might have something to leave you, but&mdash;they didn't. There's
never any counting on those things, and I wasn't on the inside of
the market. I thought they were all right. I meant it for the
best.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria stroked the gray head, as her mother might have done.
&ldquo;Of course you did, father,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Now,
don't you worry one bit more about it. You get that tonic. You
don't look just right, and you need something to give you an
appetite; and don't you ever have another thought as far as I am
concerned. I have always wanted to teach, or do something to make
myself independent.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You may marry somebody who will look out for you after
father has gone,&rdquo; half whimpered Harry. His disease and his
distress were making him fairly childish, now he realized a
supporting love beside him.</p>
<p>Maria quivered a little. &ldquo;I shall never marry,
father,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Harry laughed a little, even in the midst of his distress.
&ldquo;Well, dear, we won't worry about that now,&rdquo; he said;
&ldquo;only, if you ever do marry, I hope you will marry a good,
honest man who can take care of you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never shall marry,&rdquo; Maria said again. There was
an odd inflection in her voice which her father did not understand.
Her cheeks burned hot against his, but it was not due to the
modesty of young girlhood, which flees even that which it secretly
desires. Maria was reflecting upon her horrible deception, how
every day and every minute of her life she was deceiving her
father, but she dared not tell him. She dared less now than ever,
in the light of her sudden conviction concerning his ill-health.
Maria had been accustomed so long to seeing her father look tired
and old that the true significance of it had not struck her. She
had not reflected that her father was not in reality an old
man&mdash;but scarcely past middle age&mdash;and that there must be
some disease to account for his appearance. Now she knew; but along
with the knowledge came the conviction that he must not know that
she had it, that it would only add to his distress. She kissed him,
and took up the evening paper which had fallen from his knees to
the floor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Suppose I read to you, father?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Harry looked gratefully at her. &ldquo;But you have to learn
your lesson.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I can finish that in school to-morrow. I don't feel
like working any more to-night, and I do feel like reading the
paper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Won't it tire you, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tire me? Now, father, what do you take me for?&rdquo;
Maria settled herself in a chair. Harry leaned back his head
contentedly; he had always like to be read to, and lately reading
to himself had hurt his eyes. &ldquo;Now, what shall I read,
father?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Poor Harry, remembering his own futile investments, asked for
the stock-list, and Maria read it very intelligently for a young
girl who knew nothing about stocks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Once I owned some of that stock,&rdquo; said Harry,
proudly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you, father?&rdquo; Maria responded, admiringly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, and only look where it is now! If I could only have
held on to it, I might have been quite a rich man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry spoke, oddly enough, with no regret. Such was the
childishness of the man that a possession once his never seemed
wholly lost to him. It seemed to him that he had reason to be proud
of having made such a wise investment, even if he had never
actually reaped any benefit from it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see how you knew what to invest in,&rdquo; Maria
said, fostering his pride.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I had to study the stock-lists and ask
brokers,&rdquo; Harry replied. He looked brighter. This little
reinstatement in his self-esteem acted like a tonic. In some
fashion Ida always kept him alive to his own deficiencies, and that
was not good for a man who was naturally humble-minded. Harry sat
up straighter. He looked at Maria with brighter eyes as she
continued reading. &ldquo;Now <em>that</em> is a good
investment,&rdquo; said he&mdash;&ldquo;that bond. If I had the
money to spare I would buy one of those bonds to-morrow
morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are bonds better than stocks, father?&rdquo; asked
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Harry, importantly. &ldquo;Always
remember that, if you have any money to invest. A man can afford to
buy stocks, because he has better opportunities of judging of the
trend of the market, but bonds are always safer for a
woman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria regarded her father again with that innocent admiration
for his wisdom, which seemed to act like a nerve stimulant. A
subtle physician might possibly have reached the conclusion, had he
been fully aware of all the circumstances, that Ida, with her
radiant superiority, her voiceless but none the less positive
self-assertion over her husband, was actually a means of spiritual
depression which had reacted upon his physical nature. Nobody knows
exactly to what extent any of us are responsible for the lives of
others, and how far our mere existences may be derogatory to our
fellow-beings. Harry was visibly brighter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't look half as tired as you did, father,&rdquo;
Maria said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't feel so tired,&rdquo; replied Harry. &ldquo;It
has rested me to hear you read. Remember what I have told you,
dear, about bonds&mdash;always bonds, and never stocks, for a
woman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, father,&rdquo; said Maria. Then she added, &ldquo;I
am going to save all I can when I begin to earn.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your aunt Maria will only ask you enough board to make it
possible for her to pay the bills? You know she has only a hundred
a year to live on. Of course your uncle Henry lets her have her
rent free, or she couldn't do it, but she is a fine manager. She
manages very much as your mother did.&rdquo; As he spoke, Harry
looked around the luxurious apartment and reflected that, had his
first wife lived, he himself could have saved, and there might have
been no need for this little, delicate girl to earn her own living.
He sighed, and the weary look settled over his face again.</p>
<p>Maria rose. &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;Annie has
gone out, and so has Hannah, and I am going out in the kitchen and
make a cup of that thick chocolate that you like, for
you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is too much trouble, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I would like to do
it, and it won't take a minute. There is a good fire in the
range.&rdquo;</p>
<p>While Maria was gone, Harry sat gazing out of the window. He had
always now, when he looked out of a window, the sensation of a man
who was passing in rapid motion all the old familiar objects, all
the landmarks of his life, or rather&mdash;for one never rids one's
self of that particular optical delusion&mdash;it was as if they
were passing. The conviction of one's own transit is difficult to
achieve. Harry gazed out of the window, and it was to him as if the
familiar trees which bordered the sidewalk, the shrubs in the yard,
the houses which were within view, were flitting past him in a mad
whirl. He was glad when Maria entered with the chocolate, in his
own particular cup, and a dainty plate of cheese sandwiches.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought perhaps you could eat a sandwich,
father,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I don't believe you had anything
decent for lunch in New York.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't have much,&rdquo; said Harry. He did not add,
what was the truth, that lately he had been stinting himself on his
luncheons in the effort to save a little more of his earnings. He
ate nearly all the sandwiches, and drank two cups of chocolate, and
really looked much better.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You need more nourishment, father,&rdquo; said Maria,
with a wise, maternal air, which was also half accusatory, and
which made Harry think so strongly of his first wife that he
regarded Maria as he might have regarded her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You grow more and more like your own mother, dear,&rdquo;
he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I am glad of that,&rdquo; replied Maria.
&ldquo;Mother was a good woman. If I can only be half as good as
mother was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your mother <em>was</em> a good woman,&rdquo; said Harry,
reflectively; and as he spoke he seemed to feel the arms of strong,
almost stern, feminity and faithfulness which had encompassed his
childlike soul for so many years. He owned to himself that Maria's
mother had been a much more suitable wife for him than this other
woman. Then he had a little qualm of remorse, for Ida came in
sight, richly dressed and elegant, as usual, with Evelyn dancing
along beside her. Mrs. Adams was with her. Mrs. Adams was talking
and Ida was smiling. It was more becoming to Ida to smile than to
talk. She had discovered long since that she had not so very much
to say, and that her smiles were better coin of her little realm;
she therefore generally employed them in preference.</p>
<p>Maria got up hastily and took the tray and the chocolate-cups.
&ldquo;I guess Mrs. Adams is coming in,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You didn't make enough chocolate to give them?&rdquo;
Harry said, hesitatingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Maria, and her tone was a little curt
even to her father. &ldquo;And I used up the last bit of chocolate
in the house, too.&rdquo; Then she scudded out of the room with her
tray and passed the front door as the sound of Ida's latch-key was
heard in the lock. Maria set her tray on the kitchen-table and
hurried up the back stairs to her own room. She entered it and
locked both doors, the one communicating with the hall and the one
which connected it with Evelyn's room. She had no sooner done so
than she heard the quick patter of little feet, and the door
leading into Evelyn's room was tried, then violently shaken.
&ldquo;Let me in, sister; let me in,&rdquo; cried the sweet little
flute of a voice on the other side. Evelyn could now talk plainly,
but she still kept to her baby appellation for her sister.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, darling, sister can't let you in now,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why not? Let me in, sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sister is going to study,&rdquo; said Maria, in a firm
voice. &ldquo;She can't have Evelyn. Run down-stairs, darling; run
down to mamma.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn don't want mamma. Evelyn wants sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Papa is down there, too. Put on your clothes, like a nice
girl, and show papa how smart you can be; then run down.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn can't button up her dress.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Put everything on but that, then run down, and mamma can
do it for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me in, sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear,&rdquo; Maria said again. &ldquo;Evelyn can't
come in now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>There came a little whimper of grief and anger which cut Maria's
heart, but she was firm. She could not have even Evelyn then. She
had to be alone with the knowledge she had just gained of her
father's state of health. She sat down in her little chair by the
window; it was her own baby chair, which she had kept all these
years, and in which she could still sit comfortably, she was so
slender. Then she put her face in her hands and began to weep. She
had never wept as she did then, not even when her mother died. She
was so much younger when her mother died that her sensibilities had
not acquired their full acumen; then, too, she had not had at that
time the awful foretaste of a desolate future which tinctured with
bitter her very soul. Somehow, although Maria had noticed for a
long time that her father did not look as he had done, it had never
occurred to her that that which had happened to her mother could
happen to her father. She had been like one in a house which has
been struck by lightning, and had been rendered thereby incredulous
of a second stroke. It had not occurred to her that whereas she had
lost her mother, she could also lose her father. It seemed like too
heavy a hammer-stroke of Providence to believe in and keep her
reason. She had thought that her father was losing his youth, that
his hair turning gray had much to do with his altered looks. She
had never thought of death. It seemed to her monstrous. A rage
against Providence, like nothing which she had known before, was
over her. Why should she lose everything? What had she done? She
reviewed her past life, and she defended herself like Job, with her
summary of self-righteousness. She had always done right, so far as
she knew. Her sins had been so petty as hardly to deserve the name
of sins. She remembered how she had once enjoyed seeing her face in
her looking-glass, how she had liked pretty, new dresses, and she
could not make that seem very culpable. She remembered how,
although she had never loved her step-mother, she had observed,
except on that one occasion when Evelyn was lost, the utmost
respect and deference for her&mdash;how she had been, after the
first, even willing to love her had she met with the slightest
encouragement. She could not honestly blame herself for her
carefully concealed attitude of disapproval towards Ida, for she
said to herself, with a subtlety which was strange for a girl so
young, that she had merited it, that she was a cold, hard,
self-centred woman, not deserving love, and that she had in reality
been injurious for her father. She was convinced that, had her own
mother lived, with her half-censorious yet wholly loving care for
him, he might still have preserved his youth and his handsome
boyishness and health. She thought of the half-absurd, half-tragic
secret which underlay her life, and she could not honestly think
herself very much to blame for that. She always thought of that
with bewilderment, as one might think of some dimly remembered
vagary of delirium. Sometimes it seemed to her now that it could
not be true. Maria realized that she was full of
self-righteousness, but she was also honest. She saw no need for
her to blame herself for faults which she had not committed. She
thought of the doctrine which she had heard, that children were
wholly evil from their birth, and it did not seem to her true. She
could <em>say</em> that she had been wholly evil from her birth,
but she felt that she should, if she did say so, tell a lie to God
and herself. She honestly could not see why, for any fault of hers,
her father should die. Then suddenly her mind gave a leap from her
own standing-point to that of her father. She suddenly reflected
that it was not wholly her own grief for his loss which was to be
considered, but her father's grief at quitting the world wherein he
had dwelt so long, and his old loves of life. She reflected upon
his possible fear of the Unknown into which he was to go. There was
in Maria's love for her father, as there had been in her mother's,
a strong element of the maternal. She thought of her father with
infinite pity, as one might think of a little child about to go on
a long, strange journey to an unknown place, all alone by himself.
It seemed to her an awful thing for God to ask one like her father
to die a lingering death, to realize it all fully, what he had to
do, then to go off by himself, alone. She remembered what she had
heard from the pulpit on Sundays, but somehow that Unknown seemed
so frightfully wide and vast for a soul like her father's, which
had always been so like the soul of a child, to find her mother in.
Then she got some comfort from the memory of her mother, of her
great strength. It seemed to her that her mother, wherever she was,
would not let her father wander alone very long. That she would
meet him with that love and chiding which is sometimes the very
concert-pitch of love itself, its key-note, and lead him into those
green pastures and beside those still waters of the Psalmist.
Maria, at that moment, got more comfort from her memory of the
masterliness of her mother, whom she had known, than from her
conception of God, towards whom her soul reached out, it is true,
but whom it no more comprehended than a flower comprehends the sun.
The very love of God needs a human trellis whereby His creatures
can reach Him, and Maria now climbed towards a trust in Him, by the
reflection of her mother's love, and strength in spite of love.</p>
<p>Then racking pity for herself and her own loss, and rage because
of it, and a pity for her father which almost roused her to a fury
of rebellion, again swept away every other consideration.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Poor father! poor father!&rdquo; she sobbed, under her
breath. &ldquo;There he is going to die, and he hasn't got mother
to take care of him! <em>She</em> won't do anything. She will try
not to smile, that is all. And I can't do anything, the way mother
could. Father don't want me to even act as if I knew it; but if
mother were alive he would tell her, and she would help him.&rdquo;
Then Maria thought of herself, poor, solitary, female thing
travelling the world alone, for she never thought, at that time, of
her marriage being anything which would ever be a marriage in
reality, but as of something which cast her outside the pale of
possibilities and made her more solitary still, and she wept
silently, or as silently as she could; once in awhile a murmur of
agony or a sob escaped her. She could not help it. She got up out
of her little chair and flung herself on the floor, and fairly
writhed with the pain of her awful grief and sense of loss. She
became deaf to any sound; all her senses seemed to have failed her.
She was alive only to that sense of grief which is the primeval
sense of the world&mdash;the grief of existence itself and the
necessity of death and loss.</p>
<p>All at once she felt a little, soft touch, and another little,
weeping, human thing, born like herself to all the awful chances of
love and grief, flung itself down beside her.</p>
<p>Maria had locked her doors, but she had forgotten her window,
which opened on an upper balcony, and was easily accessible to any
one climbing out of the hall window. Evelyn had been listening at
her door and had heard her sobs. Knowing from experience that her
sister meant what she said, she had climbed out of the hall window,
scudded along the little balcony, and into Maria's window. She
flung herself down on the floor, and wept so violently that Maria
was alarmed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, baby, darling, what is it? Tell sister,&rdquo; she
said, hushing her own sobs.</p>
<p>The child continued to sob. Her whole little frame was shaken
convulsively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell sister,&rdquo; whispered Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm cryin' 'cause&mdash;'cause&mdash;&rdquo; panted the
child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because what, darling?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Because you are crying, and&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;'Cause I 'ain't got anything to cry for.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you precious darling!&rdquo; said Maria. She hugged
the child close, and all at once a sense of peace and comfort came
over her, even in the face of approaching disaster. She sensed the
love and pity which holds the world, through this little human
key-note of it which had struck in her ears.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XVII</h4>
<p>Harry Edgham's disease proved to be one of those concerning
which no physician can accurately calculate its duration or
termination. It had, as diseases often have, its periods of such
utter quiescence that it seemed as if it had entirely disappeared.
It was not a year after Harry had received his indeterminate death
sentence before he looked better than he had done for a long while.
The color came back to his cheeks, his expression regained its
youthful joyfulness. Everybody said that Harry Edgham was quite
well again. He had observed a certain diet and taken remedies;
then, in the summer, he took, for the first time for years, an
entire vacation of three weeks, and that had its effect for the
better.</p>
<p>Maria began to be quite easy with regard to her father's health.
It seemed to her that, since he looked so well, he must be well.
Her last winter at the Lowe Academy was entirely free from that
worriment. Then, too, Wollaston Lee had graduated and begun his
college course, and she no longer had him constantly before her
eyes, bringing to memory that bewildering, almost maddening
experience of theirs that night in New York. She was almost happy,
in an odd, middle-aged sort of fashion, during her last term at the
academy before her graduation. She took great pride in her progress
in her studies. She was to graduate first of her class. She did not
even have to work very hard to accomplish it. Maria had a mind of
marvellous quickness of grasp. Possibly her retentive powers were
not entirely in proportion, but, at all events, she accomplished
much with comparatively little labor.</p>
<p>Harry was very proud of her. The evening before her graduation
Ida had gone to New York to the theatre and Evelyn was in bed, and
Maria dressed herself in her graduation gown, which was
charming&mdash;Ida had never neglected her, in respect to dress, at
least&mdash;and came down to show herself to her father. He would
not be able to be present at the graduation on account of an
unusual press of business. Maria came so lightly that she almost
seemed to float into the room, with her fine white draperies
trailing behind her and her knots of white ribbon fluttering, and
stood before her father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I want you to see the way
I'll look to-morrow. Isn't this dress pretty?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lovely,&rdquo; said Harry. &ldquo;It is very becoming,
too,&rdquo; he added.</p>
<p>Indeed, Maria really looked pretty again in this charming
costume. During the last few months her cheeks had filled out and
she had gotten some lovely curves of girlhood. Her eyes shone with
a peculiar brilliancy, her red lips trembled into a smile, her
hair, in a fluff above her high forehead, caught the light.</p>
<p>Maria laughed gayly. &ldquo;Take care, father, or you will make
me vain,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have some reason to be,&rdquo; Harry said, honestly.
&ldquo;You are going to graduate first in your class,
and&mdash;well, you are pretty, dear&mdash;at least you are to
father, and, I guess, to other folks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria blushed. &ldquo;Only to father, because he is
partial,&rdquo; she said. Then she went up to him and rubbed her
blooming cheek against his. &ldquo;Do you know what makes me
happier than anything else?&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;happier
than graduating first, happier than my pretty dress, happier than
anything?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No. What, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Feeling that you are well again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>There was an almost imperceptible pause before Harry replied.
Then he said, in his pleasant voice, which had never grown old,
&ldquo;Yes, dear; I am better, dear, I think.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Think,&rdquo; Maria said, gayly. &ldquo;Why, you are
well, father. Don't you know you are well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think I am better, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Better? You are well. Nobody can look as young and
handsome as you do and be ill, possibly. You are well, father. I
know you can't quite get what that horrid old croaking doctor told
you out of your mind, but doctors don't know everything. You are
well, and that makes me happier than anything else in the
world.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry laughed a little faintly. &ldquo;Well, I dare say you are
right, dear,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Right?&mdash;of course I am right,&rdquo; said Maria.
Then she danced off to change her gown.</p>
<p>After she had gone, Harry rose from the chair; he had been
sitting beside the centre-table with the evening paper. He walked
over to the window and looked out at the night. It was bright
moonlight. The trees were in full leaf, and the shadows were of
such loveliness that they fairly seemed celestial. Harry gazed out
at the night scene, at the moon riding through the unbelievable and
unfathomable blue of the sky, like a crystal ball, with a slight
following of golden clouds; he gazed at the fairy shadows which
transformed the familiar village street into something beyond
earth, and he sighed. The conviction of his approaching dissolution
had never been so strong as at that moment. He seemed fairly to see
his own mortality&mdash;that gate of death which lay wide open for
him. Yet, all at once, a sense of peace and trust almost ineffable
came over him. Death seemed merely the going-out into the true
open, the essence of the moonlight and the beauty. It seemed the
tasting and absorbing the food for his own spiritual hunger, which
had been upon him from birth, that which had always been just out
of his reach. When Maria returned in her pink gingham school-gown,
she found her father seated beside the table as he had been when
she left. He looked up at her with a bright smile which somehow
chilled her, although she tried to drive the conviction of the
chill from her mind. She got a new book from the case, and proposed
reading aloud to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hadn't you better go to bed, dear?&rdquo; said Harry.
&ldquo;You will have a hard day to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No; I am going to sit up with you till She comes
home,&rdquo; said Maria, &ldquo;and we might as well amuse
ourselves.&rdquo; She began to read, and Harry listened happily.
But Maria, whenever she glanced over her book at her father's happy
face, felt the same undefinable chill.</p>
<p>However, when Ida came home and they had a little supper of
sardines and crackers, she did not think any more of it. She went
to bed with her head full of the morrow and her new gown and the
glories awaiting her. She tried not to be vain, but was
uncomfortably conscious that she was glad that she was first in her
class, instead of some other girl or instead of a boy. Maria felt
especially proud of ranking ahead of the boys.</p>
<p>The next day was, as she had anticipated, one of happy triumph
for her. She stood on the stage in her lovely dress and read her
valedictory, which, although trite enough, was in reality rather
better in style than most valedictories. She received a number of
presents, a tiny gold watch from her father among them, and a ring
with a turquoise stone from Ida, and quantities of flowers. The day
after the graduation Maria had her photograph taken, with all her
floral offerings around her, with a basket of roses on her arm and
great bouquets in her lap and on a little photographic table beside
her. The basket of roses was an anonymous offering. It came with no
card. If Maria had dreamed that Wollaston Lee had sent it, she
would never have sat for her photograph with it on her arm. But she
did not think of Wollaston at all that day. He was completely out
of her mind for the time, swallowed up in her sense of personal joy
and triumph. Wollaston had not graduated first in his class in the
academy the year before. A girl had headed that class also. Maria
had felt a malicious joy at the fact, at the time, and it was
entirely beyond her imagination now that Wollaston, who had seemed
to dislike her, although she was forced to admit that he had been
exceedingly honorable, had sent roses to her. She suspected that
one of the teachers, a young man who had paid, in a covert and
shamefaced way, a little attention to her, had sent the basket. She
thought the roses lovely, and recognized the inadvisability of
thanking this teacher, since he had not enclosed his card. She did
not like him very well&mdash;indeed, she felt a certain repugnance
to him&mdash;but roses were roses, and she was a young girl.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who gave you the basket of roses, dear?&rdquo; her father
asked when she was displaying her trophies the day after her
graduation.</p>
<p>Maria blushed. &ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said she;
&ldquo;there wasn't any card with them.&rdquo; As she spoke she
seemed to see the face of the young history teacher, Mr. Latimer,
with his sparse, sandy beard, and she felt how very distasteful he
was to her, even if gilded, so to speak, by roses.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think some enamoured boy in her class who was too shy
to send his card with his floral offering was the one,&rdquo; Ida
said to Harry when Maria had gone out. She laughed a softly
sarcastic laugh.</p>
<p>Harry looked at her uneasily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria is too young to get such ideas into her
head,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said Ida, &ldquo;you forget that such
ideas do not get into girls' heads; they are born in
them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I presume one of the other girls sent them,&rdquo; said
Harry, almost angrily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; replied Ida, and again she laughed her
soft, sarcastic laugh, which grated terribly on Harry. It irritated
him beyond measure that any boy should send roses to this little,
delicate, fair girl of his. For all he had spoken of her marriage,
the very idea of confiding her to any other man than himself made
him furious. Especially the idea of some rough school-boy, who knew
little else than to tumble about in a football game and was not his
girl's mental equal, irritated him. He went over in his mind all
the boys in her class. The next morning, going to New York, Edwin
Shaw, who had lost much of his uncouthness and had divorced himself
entirely from his family in the matter of English, was on the
train, and he scowled at him with such inscrutable fierceness that
the boy fairly trembled. He always bowed punctiliously to Maria's
father, and this morning Maria was with her father. She was to have
a day off: sit in her father's office and read a book until noon,
then go to lunch with him at a French restaurant, then go to the
matin&eacute;e. She wore a festive silk waist, and looked
altogether lovely, the boy thought.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is that great gawk of a fellow?&rdquo; asked Harry of
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Edwin Shaw. He was in my class,&rdquo; replied Maria, and
she blushed, for no earthly reason except that her father expected
her to do so. Young girls are sometimes very ready, even to deceit,
to meet the emotional expectations of their elders. Harry then and
there made up his mind that Edwin Shaw was the sender of the basket
of roses.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He comes of a family below par, and he shows it,&rdquo;
he said, viciously, to Maria. He scowled again at Edwin's neck,
which was awkwardly long above his collar, but the boy did not see
it. He sat on the opposite side of the car a seat in advance.</p>
<p>Harry said again to Maria, when they had left the train, and
Edwin, conscious of his back, which he was straightening, was
striding in front of them, what a great gawk of a fellow he was,
and how he came of a family below par. Maria assented
indifferently. She did not dream of her father's state of mind,
and, as for Edwin Shaw, he was no more to her than a set of
car-steps, not so much, because the car-steps were of obvious
use.</p>
<p>That very night, when Maria and her father reached home after a
riotous day in the city, there was a letter in the post-office from
Aunt Maria, to the effect that there was no doubt that Maria could
have the school in Amity in the fall. The teacher who had held the
position was to be married in a few weeks. The salary was not
much&mdash;Amity was a poor little country village&mdash;but Maria
felt as if she had expectations of untold wealth. She was sorry at
the prospect of leaving her father and Evelyn, but the idea of
self-support and independence, and taking a little of the burden
from her father, intoxicated her. Maria had the true spirit of the
women of her race. She liked the feel of her own muscles and nerves
of individuality and self-reliance. She felt a head taller after
she had read her aunt's letter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She says she will board me for four dollars a
week,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I shall have quite a lot of money
clear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, four dollars a week will recompense her, and help
her, too,&rdquo; said Harry, a little gloomily. To tell the truth,
he did not in the least like the idea of Maria's going to Amity to
teach. Nothing except the inner knowledge of his own failing health
could have led him to consent to it. Ida was delighted at the news,
but she concealed her delight as well as her annoyance under her
smiling mask, and immediately began to make plans for Maria's
wardrobe.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whatever I have new I am going to pay you back, father,
now I am going to earn money,&rdquo; Maria said, proudly.</p>
<p>After she went up-stairs to bed that night, Evelyn, who was now
a slim, beautiful little girl, rather tall for her age, and going
to a private school in the village, came into her room, and Maria
told Evelyn how much she was going to do with the money which she
was to earn. Maria, at this time, was wholly mercenary. She had not
the least ambition to benefit the young. She was, in fact, young
herself, but her head was fairly turned with the most selfish of
considerations. It was true that she planned to spend the money
which she would earn largely upon others, but that was, in itself,
a subtle, more rarefied form of selfishness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I remember Aunt Maria's parlor carpet was worn almost
threadbare, and I mean to buy her a new one with the very first
money I earn,&rdquo; Maria said to little Evelyn; and she thought,
as she met Evelyn's beautiful, admiring eyes, how very kind and
thoughtful she, Maria, would be with her wealth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose Aunt Maria is very poor,&rdquo; Evelyn
remarked, in her charming little voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, very. She lives on a hundred dollars a
year.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Will you get enough to eat?&rdquo; asked Evelyn,
anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes. I shall pay her four dollars a week, and if she
got along with only a hundred a year, only think what she can do
with that. I know Aunt Eunice, Uncle Henry's wife, hasn't a good
dress, either. I think I shall buy a brown satin for
her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How awful good you are, sister!&rdquo; said little
Evelyn, and Maria quite agreed with her. The conviction of her own
goodness, and her forthcoming power to exercise it, filled her soul
with a gentle, stimulating warmth after she was in bed. The
moonlight shone brightly into her room. She gazed at the bright
shaft of silver it made across all her familiar possessions, and,
notwithstanding her young girl dreams were gone, she realized that,
although she had lost all the usual celestial dreams and rafters of
romance which go to make a young girl's air-castle, she had still
left some material, even if of less importance.</p>
<p>She spent, on the whole, a very happy summer. Her father looked
entirely well; she was busy in preparations for her life in Amity;
and, what relieved her the most, Wollaston Lee was not at home for
more than five days during the entire vacation. He went camping-out
with a party of college-boys. Maria was, therefore, not subjected
to the nervous strain of seeing him. During the few days he was at
home he had his chum with him, and Maria only saw him
twice&mdash;once on the street, when she returned his bow distantly
and heard with no pleasure the other boy ask who that pretty girl
was, and once in church. She gave only the merest side-glance at
him in church, and she was not sure that he looked at her at all,
but she went home pale and nervous. A secret of any kind is a hard
thing for a girl to bear about with her, and Maria's, which was
both tragic and absurd, was severer than most. At times it seemed
to her, when she looked in her glass, that all she saw was the
secret; it seemed to her, when other people looked at her, that it
was all they saw. It was one reason for her readiness to go to
Amity. She would there be out of reach of people who could in any
way have penetrated her secret. She would not run the risk of
meeting Wollaston; of meeting his father and mother, and wondering
if he had, after all, told; of meeting Gladys Mann, and wondering
if she had told, and knowing that she knew.</p>
<p>Maria, in these last months, saw very little of Gladys, who had
sunken entirely into the lower stratum of society in which she
belonged. Gladys had left school, where she had not learned much,
and she went out cleaning and doing house-work, at seventy-five
cents a day. Sometimes Maria met her going to and fro from a place
of employment, and at such times there was fear in Maria's face and
a pathetic admiration and reassurance in the other girl's. Gladys
had grown hard and large as to her bones and muscles, but she did
not look altogether well. She had a half-nourished, spiritually and
bodily, expression, which did not belie the true state of affairs
with her. She had neither enough meat nor enough ideality. She was
suffering, and the more because she did not know. Gladys was of the
opinion that she was, on the whole, enjoying life and having a
pretty good time. She earned enough to buy herself some showy
clothes, and she had a lover, a &ldquo;steady,&rdquo; as she called
him. It is true that she was at times a little harassed by jealousy
concerning another girl who had a more fully blown beauty than she,
and upon whom she sometimes suspected her lover was casting
admiring eyes.</p>
<p>It was at this time that Gladys, whose whole literature
consisted of the more pictorial of the daily papers, wrote some
badly spelled and very pathetic little letters, asking advice as to
whether a girl of her age, who had been keeping steady company with
a young man of her lover's age, whom she dearly loved, should make
advances if he seemed to exhibit a preference for another girl, and
she inquired pitifully of the editor, as of some deity, as to
whether she thought her lover did really prefer the other girl to
her. These letters, and the answers, were a source of immense
comfort to Gladys. Sometimes, when she met Maria, they made her
feel almost on terms of equality with her. She doubted if Maria,
smart as she was, had ever really appeared in the papers. She wrote
her letters under different names, and even sent them from
neighboring towns, and walked long distances, when she felt that
she wanted to save car-fare, to post them. Once Maria met her as
she was walking along with an evening paper in her hand, reading
the reply to one of her letters, and Maria wondered at the
expression on Gladys's face. She at once pitied, feared, and
detested Gladys. She doubted if she were a good girl; she herself,
like a nun without even dreams, seemed living in another sphere,
she felt so far removed. She was in reality removed, although
Gladys, if the truth were told, was not so bad, and she got some
good advice from the answers in response to her letters, which
restrained her. Still, her view of everything was different. She
was different. Black was not as black to her as to Maria; a spade
was not so truly a spade. She recognized immorality as a fact, but
it did not seem to her of so much importance. In one sense she was
more innocent even than Maria, for she had never felt the true
living clutch of vice on her soul, even in imagination; she could
not. The devil to her was not of enough consequence to enable her
to sin in the truest sense of the word. All her family were
immoral, and a constant living in an atmosphere of immorality may,
in one sense, make one incapable of spiritual sin. One needs to
fully sense a sin in order to actually commit it. Gladys could
hardly sense sin as Maria could. Still she had a sense of proud
virtue after reading the paragraphs of good advice in reply to her
letters to the paper, and she felt that it placed her nearer
Maria's level. On the occasion when Maria met her reading the
paper, she even spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hullo, M'ria!&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-evening,&rdquo; Maria replied, politely and
haughtily.</p>
<p>But Gladys did not seem to notice the haughtiness. She pressed
close to Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say!&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ain't you ever goin' to&mdash;?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I am not,&rdquo; replied Maria, deadly pale, and
trembling from head to foot.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you write to this paper and ask what you had
better do?&rdquo; said Gladys. &ldquo;It's an awful good plan. You
do git awful good advice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't wish to,&rdquo; replied Maria, trying to pass,
but Gladys stood in her way.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But say, M'ria, you be in an awful box,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;You can't never marry nobody else without you get locked up,
you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want to,&rdquo; Maria said, shortly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mebbe you will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never shall.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if you do, you had better write to this paper, then
you can find out just what to do. It won't tell you to do nothin'
wrong, and it's awful sensible. Say, M'ria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I 'ain't never told a living soul, and I never shall, but
I don't see what you are goin' to do if either you or him wants to
git married to anybody else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not worrying about getting married,&rdquo; said
Maria. This time she pushed past Gladys. Her knees fairly knocked
together.</p>
<p>Gladys looked at her with sympathy and the old little-girl love
and adoration. &ldquo;Well, don't you worry about me
tellin',&rdquo; said she.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XVIII</h4>
<p>Maria began her teaching on a September day. It was raining
hard, but there was all about an odd, fictitious golden light from
the spray of maple-leaves which overhung the village. Amity was a
typical little New England village&mdash;that is, it had departed
but little from its original type, although there was now a large
plant of paper-mills, which had called in outsiders. The outsiders
were established by themselves on a sort of Tom Tidler's ground
called &ldquo;Across the River.&rdquo; The river was little more
than a brook, except in spring, when, after heavy snows, it
sometimes verified its name of the Ramsey River. Ramsey was an old
family name in Amity, as Edgham was in Edgham. Once, indeed, the
little village had been called Ramsey Four Corners. Then the old
Ramsey family waned and grew less in popular esteem, and one day
the question of the appropriateness of naming the village after
them came up. There was another old family, by the name of
Saunders, between whom and the Ramseys had always been a dignified
New England feud. The Saunders had held their own much better than
the Ramseys. There was one branch especially, to which Judge Josiah
Saunders belonged, which was still notable. Judge Josiah had served
in the State legislature, he was a judge of the superior court, and
he occupied the best house in Amity, a fine specimen of the old
colonial mansion house, which had been in the Saunders family for
generations. Judge Saunders had made additions to this old mansion,
conservative, modern colonial additions, and it was really a noble
building. It was shortly after he had made the additions to his
house, and had served his first term as judge of the superior
court, that the question of changing the name of the village from
Ramsey Four Corners to Saunders had been broached. Meetings had
been held, in which the name of our celebrated townsman, the
Honorable Josiah Saunders, had been on every tongue. The Ramsey
family obtained scant recognition for past merits, but a becoming
silence had been maintained as to their present status. The only
recognized survivors of the old house of Ramsey at that time were
the widow, Amelia Ramsey, the wife of Anderson Ramsey, deceased, as
she appeared in the minutes of the meetings, and her son George, a
lad of sixteen, and the same who, in patched attire, had made love
to Maria over the garden fence when she was a child. It was about
that time that the meetings were taking place, and the name of the
village had been changed to Amity. It had been held to be a happy,
even a noble and generous thought, on the part of Josiah Saunders.
&ldquo;Would that in such wise, by a combination of poetical
aspirations and practical deeds, all differences might be adjusted
upon this globe,&rdquo; said the <cite>Amity Argus</cite>, in an
account of the meeting. Thenceforth, Ramsey Four Corners became
Amity, and the most genteel of the ladies had Amity engraved on
their note-paper.</p>
<p>Mrs. Amelia Ramsey and George, who had suffered somewhat in
their feelings, in spite of the poetical adjustment of the
difference, had no note-paper. They were poor, else Amity might
never have been. They lived in a house which had been, in its day,
as pretentious as the Saunders mansion. At the time of Maria's
first visit to Amity it had been a weather-beaten old structure,
which had not been painted for years, and had a curious effect as
of a blur on the landscape, with its roof and walls of rain and sun
stained shingles and clapboards, its leaning chimneys, and its
Corinthian pillars widely out of the perpendicular, supporting
crazily the roofs of the double veranda. When Maria went to Amity
to begin teaching, the old house had undergone a transformation.
She gazed at it with amazement out of the sitting-room window,
which faced it, on the afternoon of her arrival.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what has happened to the old Ramsey house?&rdquo;
she asked her aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, in the first place, a cousin died and left them
some money,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria. &ldquo;It was a matter of
ten thousand dollars. Then Amelia and George went right to work and
fixed up the house. It was none of my business, but it seemed
dreadful silly to me. If I had been in their place, I'd have let
that old ramshackle of a place go to pot and bought a nice little
new house. There was one they could have got for fifteen hundred
dollars, on this side of the river; but no, they went to work, and
they must have laid out three thousand clear on that old
thing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is beautiful!&rdquo; said Maria, regarding it with
admiration.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't think it's very beautiful, but everybody to
their liking,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria, with a sniff of her high,
transparent nostrils. &ldquo;For my part, I'd rather have a little,
clean new house before all the old ones, that folks have died in
and worried in, in creation.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Maria continued to regard the renovated Ramsey house with
admiration. It stood close to the street, as is the case with so
many old houses in rural New England. It had a tiny brick strip of
yard in front, on which was set, on either side of the stoop, a
great century-plant in a pot. Above them rose a curving flight of
steps to a broad veranda, supported with Corinthian pillars, which
were now upright and glistening with white paint, as was the entire
house.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They had it all fixed up, inside and out,&rdquo; said
Aunt Maria. &ldquo;There wasn't a room but was painted and papered,
and a good many had to be plastered. They did not get much new
furniture, though. I should have thought they'd wanted to. All
they've got is awful old. But I heard George Ramsey say he wouldn't
swap one of those old mahogany pieces for the best new thing to be
bought. Well, everybody to their taste. If I had had my house all
fixed up that way, I should have wanted new furniture to
correspond.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is George Ramsey doing?&rdquo; asked Maria, with a
little, conscious blush of which she was ashamed. Maria, all her
life, would blush because people expected it of her. She knew as
plainly as if she had spoken, that her aunt Maria was considering
suddenly the advantages of a possible match between herself and
George Ramsey. What Aunt Maria said immediately confirmed this
opinion. She spoke with a sort of chary praise of George. Aunt
Maria had in reality never liked the Ramseys; she considered that
they felt above her, and for no good reason; still, she had an eye
for the main chance. It flashed swiftly across her mind that her
niece was pretty, and George might lose his heart to her and marry
her, and then Mrs. Amelia Ramsey might have to treat her like an
equal and no longer hold her old, aristocratic head so high.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I suppose George Ramsey is
pretty smart. They say he is. I guess he favors his grandfather.
His father wasn't any too bright, if he was a Ramsey. George
Ramsey, they say, worked his way through college, used to be
bell-boy or waiter or something in a hotel summers, unbeknown to
his mother. Amelia Ramsey would have had a conniption fit if she
had known that her precious boy was working out. She used to talk
as grand as you please about George's being away on his vacation.
Maybe she did know, but if she did she never let on. I don't know
as she let on even to herself. Amelia Ramsey is one of the kind who
can shut their eyes even when they look at themselves. There never
was a lookin'-glass made that could show Amelia Ramsey anything she
didn't want to see. I never had any patience with her. I believe in
being proud if you've got anything to be proud of, but I don't see
any sense in it otherwise. Anyhow, I guess George is doing pretty
well. A distant relation of his mother, an Allen, not a Ramsey, got
a place in a bank for him, they say, and he gets good pay. I heard
it was three thousand a year, but I don't believe it. He ain't much
over twenty, and it ain't likely. I don't know jest how old he is.
He's some older than you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's a good deal older than I,&rdquo; said Maria,
remembering sundry confidences with the tall, lanky boy over the
garden fence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't know but he is,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
&ldquo;but I don't believe he gets three thousand a year,
anyhow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The next morning Maria, on her way to school in the rain,
passing under the unconquerable golden glow of the maples, cast a
surreptitious glance at the old Ramsey house as she passed. It had
been wonderfully changed for the better. Even the garden at the
side next her aunt's house was no longer a weedy enclosure, but
displayed an array of hardy flowers which the frost had not yet
affected. Marigolds tossed their golden and russet balls through
the misty wind of the rain, princess-feathers waved bravely, and
chrysanthemums showed in gorgeous clumps of rose and yellow and
white. As she passed, a tidy maid emerged from the front door and
began sweeping out the rain which had lodged in the old hollows of
the stone stoop, worn by the steps of generations. The rain flew
before her plying broom in a white foam. The maid wore a cap and a
wide, white apron. Maria reflected that the Ramseys had indeed come
into palmier days, since they kept a maid so attired. She thought
of George Ramsey with his patched trousers, and again the old
feeling of repulsion and wonder at herself that she could have had
romantic dreams about him came over her. Maria felt unutterably old
that morning, and yet she had a little, childish dread of her new
duties. She was in reality afraid of the school-children, although
she did not show it. She got through the day very creditably,
although that night she was tired as she had never been in her
life, and, curiously enough, her sense of smell seemed to be the
most affected. Many of her pupils came from poor families, the
families of operatives in the paper-mills, and their garments were
shabby and unclean. Soaked with rain, they gave out pungent odors.
Maria's sense of smell was very highly developed. It seemed to her
that her very soul was permeated, her very thoughts and
imagination, with the odor of damp, unclean clothing, of draggled
gowns and wraps and hats and wet leather. She could not eat her
supper; she could not eat the luncheon which her aunt had put up
for her, since the school being a mile away, it was too far to walk
home for the noonday dinner in the rain.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You 'ain't eat hardly a mite of luncheon,&rdquo; Aunt
Maria said when she opened the box.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I did not feel very hungry,&rdquo; Maria replied,
apologetically.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you don't eat, you'll never hold out school-teaching
in the world,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>She repeated it when Maria scarcely tasted her supper, although
it was a nice one&mdash;cold ham, and scrambled eggs, scrambled
with cream, and delicious slabs of layer-cake. &ldquo;You'll never
hold out in the world if you don't eat,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;To tell the truth,&rdquo; replied Maria, &ldquo;I can
smell those poor children's wet clothes so that it has taken away
all my appetite.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Land! you'll have to get over that,&rdquo; said Aunt
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It seems to me that everything smells and tastes of wet,
dirty clothes and shoes,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You'll have to learn not to be so particular,&rdquo; said
Aunt Maria, and she spoke with the same affectionate severity that
Maria remembered in her mother. &ldquo;Put it out of your
mind,&rdquo; she added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't,&rdquo; said Maria, and a qualm of nausea came
over her. It was as if the damp, unclean garments and the wet shoes
were pressed close under her nostrils. She looked pale.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, drink your tea, anyhow,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
with a glance at her.</p>
<p>After supper Aunt Maria, going into the other side of the house
to borrow some yeast, said to her brother Henry that she did not
believe that Maria would hold out to teach school. &ldquo;She has
come home sick on account of the smells the very first day,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;and she hasn't eat her supper, and she scarcely
touched her luncheon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry Stillman laughed, a bitter, sardonic laugh which he had
acquired of late years. &ldquo;Oh, well, she will get used to
it,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Don't you worry, Maria. She will get
used to it. The smell of the poor is the smell of the world. Heaven
itself must be full of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>His wife eyed him with a half-frightened air. &ldquo;Why, don't
talk so, Henry!&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Henry Stillman laughed, half sardonically, half tenderly.
&ldquo;It is so, my dear,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;but don't you
worry about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In these days Henry Stillman, although always maintaining his
gentle manner towards children and women, had become, in the depths
of his long-suffering heart, a rebel against fate. He had borne too
long that burden which is the heaviest and most ignoble in the
world, the burden of a sense of injury. He knew that he was fitted
for better things than he had. He thought that it was not his own
personal fault that he did not have them, and his very soul was
curdling with a conviction of wrong, both at the hands of men and
God. In these days he ceased going to church. He watched his wife
and sister set out every Sunday, and he stayed at home. He got a
certain satisfaction out of that. All who realize an injury have an
amount of childishness in acts of retaliation. He, Henry Stillman,
actually had a conviction that he was showing recrimination and
wounding fate, which had so injured him, if only with a pin-prick,
by staying away from church. After Maria came to live with them,
she, too, went to church, but he did not view her with the same
sardonic air that he did the older women, who had remained true to
their faith in the face of disaster. He looked at Maria, in her
pretty little best gowns and hats, setting forth, and a sweet
tenderness for her love of God and belief sweetened his own
agnosticism. He would not for the world have said a word to weaken
the girl's faith nor to have kept her away from church. He would
have urged her to go had she manifested the slightest inclination
to remain at home. He was in a manner jealous of the girl's losing
what he had himself lost. He tried to refrain from airing his
morbid, bitter views of life to his wife, but once in a while he
could not restrain himself as now. However, he laughed so
naturally, and asked Maria, who presently came in, how many pupils
had been present, and how she liked school-teaching, that his wife
began to think that he had not been in earnest.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are such poor, dirty little things,&rdquo; Maria
said, &ldquo;and their clothes were wet, and&mdash;and&mdash;&rdquo; A look of nausea overspread her face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will get used to that,&rdquo; said her uncle,
laughing pleasantly. &ldquo;Eunice, haven't we got some cologne
somewhere?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Eunice got a bottle of cologne, which was seldom used, being a
luxury, from a closet in the sitting-room, and put some on Maria's
handkerchief. &ldquo;You won't think anything about it after a
little,&rdquo; said she, echoing her husband.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose the scholars in Lowe Academy were a different
class,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, who had seated herself as primly as
ever, with her hands crossed but not touching the lap of her black
gown. The folds of the skirt were carefully arranged, and she did
not move after having once seated herself, for fear of creasing
it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They were clean, at least,&rdquo; said Maria, with a
little grimace of disgust. &ldquo;It does seem as if people might
be clean, if they are poor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Some folks here are too poor to buy soap and wash-cloths
and towels,&rdquo; her uncle said, still not bitterly. &ldquo;You
must take that into account, Maria. It takes a little extra money
even to keep clean; people don't get that into their heads,
generally speaking, but it is so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I haven't had much money,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
&ldquo;but I must say I have kept myself in soap and wash-rags and
towels.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You might not have been able to if you had had half a
dozen children and a drinking husband, or one who was out of work
half the time,&rdquo; her brother said.</p>
<p>An elderly blush spread over his sister's face. &ldquo;Well, the
Lord knows I'd rather have the soap and towels and wash-rags than a
drunken husband and half a dozen dirty children,&rdquo; she
retorted, sharply.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lucky for you and the children that you have,&rdquo; said
Henry. Then he turned again to his niece, of whom he was very fond.
&ldquo;It won't rain every day, dear,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and
the smells won't be so bad. Don't worry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria smiled back at him bravely. &ldquo;I shall get used to
it,&rdquo; she said, sniffing at the cologne, which was cheap and
pretty bad.</p>
<p>Maria was in reality dismayed. Her experience with
children&mdash;that is, her personal experience&mdash;had been
confined to her sister Evelyn. She compared dainty little Evelyn
with the rough, uncouth, half-degenerates which she had encountered
that morning, sitting before her with gaping mouths of stupidity or
grins of impish impudence, in their soiled, damp clothing, and her
heart sank. There was nothing in common except youth between these
children, the offspring of ignorance and often drunken sensuality,
and Evelyn. At first it seemed to her that there was absolutely no
redeeming quality in the whole. However, the next morning the sun
shone through the yellow maple boughs, and was reflected from the
golden carpet of leaves which the wind and rain of the day before
had spread beneath. The children were dry; some of them had become
ingratiating, even affectionate. She discovered that there were a
number of pretty little girls and innocent, honest little boys,
whose mothers had made pathetic attempts to send them clean and
whole to school. She also discovered that some of them had
reasonably quick intelligence, especially one girl, by name Jessy
Ramsey. She was of a distant branch of the old Ramseys, and had a
high, spiritual forehead, from which the light hair was smoothly
combed in damp ridges, and a delicate face with serious, intent
blue eyes, under brows strangely pent for a child. Maria
straightway took a fancy to Jessy Ramsey. When, on her way home at
night, the child timidly followed in her wake, she reached out and
grasped her tiny hand with a warm pressure.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You learned your lessons very well, Jessy,&rdquo; she
said, and the child's face, as she looked up at her, grew
positively brilliant.</p>
<p>When Maria got home she enthused about her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is one child in the school who is a wonder,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; asked Aunt Maria. She was in her heart an
aristocrat. She considered the people of Amity&mdash;that is, the
manufacturing people (she exempted her own brother as she might
have exempted a prince of the blood drawn into an ignoble pursuit
from dire necessity)&mdash;as distinctly below par. Maria's school
was across the river. She regarded all the children below par.
&ldquo;I do wish you could have had a school this side of the
river,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;but Miss Norcross has held the
other ten years, and I don't believe she will ever get married, she
is so mortal homely, and they like her. Who is the child you are
talking about?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her name is Ramsey, Jessy Ramsey.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria sniffed. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;She
belongs to that Eugene Ramsey tribe.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Any relation to the Ramseys next door?&rdquo; asked
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;About a tenth cousin, I guess,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria.
&ldquo;There was a Eugene Ramsey did something awful years ago,
before I was born, and he got into state-prison, and then when he
came out he married as low as he could. They have never had
anything to do with these Ramseys. They are just as low as they can
be&mdash;always have been.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This little girl is pretty, and bright,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria sniffed again. &ldquo;Well, you'll see how she'll
turn out,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Never yet anything good came of
that Eugene Ramsey tribe. That child's father drinks like a fish,
and he's been in prison, and her mother's no better than she should
be, and she's got a sister that everybody talks about&mdash;has
ever since she was so high.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;This seems like a good little girl,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wait and see,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>But for all that Maria felt herself drawn towards this poor
little offspring of the degenerate branch of the Ramseys. There was
something about the child's delicate, intellectual, fairly noble
cast of countenance which at once aroused her affection and pity.
It was in December, on a bitterly cold day, when Maria had been
teaching in Amity some two months, when this affection and pity
ripened into absolute fondness and protection. The children were
out in the bare school-yard during the afternoon recess, when
Maria, sitting huddled over the stove for warmth, heard such a
clamor that she ran to the window. Out in the desolate yard, a
parallelogram of frozen soil hedged in with a high board fence
covered with grotesque, and even obscene, drawings of pupils who
had from time to time reigned in district number six, was the
little Ramsey girl, surrounded by a crowd of girls who were fairly
yelping like little mongrel dogs. The boys' yard was on the other
side of the fence, but in the fence was a knot-hole wherein was
visible a keen boy-eye. One girl after another was engaged in
pulling to the height of her knees Jessy Ramsey's poor, little,
dirty frock, thereby disclosing her thin, naked legs, absolutely
uncovered to the freezing blast. Maria rushed bareheaded out in the
yard and thrust herself through the crowd of little girls.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Girls, what are you doing?&rdquo; she asked, sternly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Please, teacher, Jessy Ramsey, she 'ain't got nothin' at
all on under her dress,&rdquo; piped one after another, in accusing
tones; then they yelped again.</p>
<p>Tears of pity and rage sprang to Maria's eyes. She caught hold
of the thin little shoulder, which was, beyond doubt, covered by
nothing except her frock, and turned furiously upon the other
girls.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!&rdquo; said she;
&ldquo;great girls like you making fun of this poor
child!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She had ought to be ashamed of herself goin' round
so,&rdquo; retorted the biggest girl in school, Alice Sweet,
looking boldly at Maria. &ldquo;She ain't no better than her ma. My
ma says so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My ma says I mustn't go with her,&rdquo; said another
girl.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Both of you go straight into the school-house,&rdquo;
said Maria, at a white heat of anger as she impelled poor little
Jessy Ramsey out of the yard.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; said Alice Sweet, with quite audible
impudence.</p>
<p>The black eye at the knot-hole in the fence which separated the
girls' yard from the boys' was replaced by a blue one. Maria's
attention was attracted towards it by an audible titter from the
other side.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Every one of you boys march straight into the
school-house,&rdquo; she called. Then she led Jessy into a little
room which was dedicated to the teacher's outside wraps. The room
was little more than a closet, and very cold. Maria put her arm
around Jessy and felt with horror the little, naked body under the
poor frock.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For Heaven's sake, child, why are you out with so little
on such a day as this?&rdquo; she cried out.</p>
<p>Jessy began to cry. She had heretofore maintained a sullen
silence of depression under taunts, but a kind word was too much
for her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I 'ain't got no underclothes, teacher; I 'ain't,
honest,&rdquo; she sobbed. &ldquo;I'd outgrowed all my last year's
ones, and Mamie she's got 'em; and my mother she 'ain't got no
money to buy any more, and my father he's away on a drunk. I can't
help it; I can't, honest, teacher.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria gazed at the little thing in a sort of horror. &ldquo;Do
you mean to say that you have actually nothing to put on but your
dress, Jessy Ramsey?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it, honest, teacher,&rdquo; sobbed Jessy
Ramsey.</p>
<p>Maria continued to gaze at her, then she led her into the
school-room and rang the bell furiously. When the scholars were all
in their places, she opened her lips to express her mind to them,
but a second's reflection seemed to show her the futility of it.
Instead, she called the geography class.</p>
<p>After school that night, Maria, instead of going home, went
straight to Jessy Ramsey's home, which was about half a mile from
the school-house. She held Jessy, who wore a threadbare little cape
over her frock, by the hand. Franky Ramsey and Mamie Ramsey,
Jessy's younger brother and sister, tagged timidly behind her.
Finally, Maria waited for them to come up with her, which they did
with a cringing air.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want to know,&rdquo; said Maria to Mamie, &ldquo;if you
are wearing all your sister's underclothes this winter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mamie whimpered a little as she replied. Mamie had a habitual
whimper and a mean little face, with a wisp of flaxen hair tied
with a dirty blue ribbon.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, ma'am,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Jessy she growed
so she couldn't git into 'em, and mummer&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>The boy, who was very thin, almost to emaciation, and looked
consumptive, but who was impishly pert, cut in.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had to wear Jessy's shirts,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;Mamie she couldn't wear them 'ere.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So you haven't any flannel shirts?&rdquo; Maria asked of
Mamie.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm wearin' mummer's,&rdquo; said Mamie. &ldquo;Mummer's
they shrunk so she couldn't wear 'em, and Jessy couldn't
nuther.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is your mother wearing?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. John Dorsey he bought her some new ones,&rdquo;
replied Mamie, and a light of evil intelligence came into the mean
little face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is Mr. John Dorsey?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, he's to our house considerable,&rdquo; replied Mamie,
still with that evil light, which grew almost confidential, upon
her face.</p>
<p>The boy chuckled a little and dug his toes into the frozen
earth, then he whistled.</p>
<p>The Ramsey house was the original old homestead of the family.
It was unspeakably decrepit and fallen from a former high estate.
The old house presented to Maria's fancy something in itself
degraded and loathsome. It seemed to partake actually of the
character of its inmates&mdash;to be stained and swollen and out of
plumb with unmentionable sins of degeneration. It was a very
poisonous fungus of a house, with blotches of paint here and there,
with its front portico supported drunkenly on swaying pillars, with
its roof hollowed about the chimney, with great stains here and
there upon the walls, which seemed like stains of sin rather than
of old rains. Maria marched straight to the house, leading Jessy,
with Mamie and Franky at her heels. She knocked on the door; there
was no bell, of course. But Franky pushed past her and opened the
door, and sang out, in his raucous voice:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hullo, mummer! Mummer!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mamie echoed him in her equally raucous voice, full of
dissonances. &ldquo;Mummer! Mummer!&rdquo;</p>
<p>A woman, large and dirty, but rather showily clad, with a brave
display of cheap jewelry, appeared in the doorway of a room on the
right, from which also issued a warm, spirituous odor, mingled with
onions and boiling meat. The woman, who had at one time been weakly
pretty, and even now was not bad-looking, stared with a sort of
vacant defiance at Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's teacher, mummer,&rdquo; volunteered Mamie.</p>
<p>Franky chuckled again, and again whistled. Franky's chuckles and
whistles were characteristic of him. He often disturbed the school
in such fashion.</p>
<p>Maria had a vision of a man in his shirt-sleeves, smoking beside
a red-hot stove, on which boiled the meat and onions. She began at
once upon her errand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do you do, Mrs. Ramsey?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>The woman mumbled something inarticulate and backed a little.
The man in the room leaned forward and rolled bloodshot eyes at
her. Maria began at once. She had much of her mother's spirit,
which, when it was aroused, balked at nothing. She pointed at
Jessy, then she extended her small index-finger severely at Mrs.
Ramsey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Ramsey,&rdquo; said she, and she stood so straight
that she looked much taller, her blue eyes flashed like steel at
the slinking ones of the older woman, &ldquo;I want to inquire why
you sent this child to school such a day as this in such a
condition?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Ramsey again murmured something inarticulate and backed
still farther. Maria followed her quite into the room. A look of
insolent admiration became evident in the bloodshot eyes of the man
beside the stove. Maria had no false modesty when she was
righteously incensed. She would have said just the same before a
room full of men.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That child,&rdquo; she said, and she again pointed at
Jessy, shivering in her little, scanty frock&mdash;&ldquo;that
child came to school to-day without any clothing under her dress;
one of the coldest days of the year, too. I don't see what you are
thinking of, you, her own mother, to let a child go out in such a
condition! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then the woman crimsoned with wrath and she found speech, the
patois of New England, instead of New Jersey, to which Maria was
accustomed, and which she understood. This woman, instead of half
speaking, ran all her words together in a coarse, nasal
monotone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hadn't nothin' to put on her,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;She'd outgrowed all she had, hadn't nothin', mind your own
business, go 'long home, where you b'long.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria understood the last words, and she replied, fiercely,
&ldquo;I am not going home one step until you promise me you'll get
decent underwear for this child to wear to school,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;and that you won't allow her to go out-of-doors in this
condition again. If you do, I'll have you arrested.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The woman's face grew redder. She made a threatening movement
towards Maria, but the man beside the stove unexpectedly arose and
slouched between them, grinning and feeling in his pocket, whence
he withdrew two one-dollar notes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here,&rdquo; he said, in a growling voice, which was
nevertheless intended to be ingratiating. &ldquo;Go 'n' buy the
young one somethin' to go to school in. Don't yer mind.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria half extended her hand, then she drew it back. She looked
at the man, who exhaled whiskey as a fungus an evil perfume. She
glanced at Mrs. Ramsey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is this man your father?&rdquo; she asked of Jessy.</p>
<p>Immediately the boy burst into a peal of meaning laughter. The
man himself chuckled, then looked grave, with an effort, as he
stood extending the money.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Better take 'em an' buy the young one some
clothes,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is this man?&rdquo; demanded Maria, severely, of the
laughing boy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's Mr. John Dorsey,&rdquo; replied Franky.</p>
<p>Then a light of the underneath evil fire of the world broke upon
Maria's senses. She repelled the man haughtily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want your money,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;But&rdquo;&mdash;she turned to the woman&mdash;&ldquo;if you
send that child to school again, clothed as she is to-day, I will
have you arrested. I mean it.&rdquo; With that she was gone, with a
proud motion. Laughter rang out after her, also a scolding voice
and an oath. She did not turn her head. She marched straight on out
of the yard, to the street, and home.</p>
<p>She could not eat her supper. She had a sick, shocked
feeling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; her aunt Maria asked.
&ldquo;It's so cold you can't have been bothered with the smells
to-day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's worse than smells,&rdquo; replied Maria. Then she
told her story.</p>
<p>Her aunt stared at her. &ldquo;Good gracious! You didn't go to
that awful house, a young girl like you?&rdquo; she said, and her
prim cheeks burned. &ldquo;Why, that man's livin' right there with
Mrs. Ramsey, and her husband winking at it! They are awful
people!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would have gone anywhere to get that poor child clothed
decently,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you wouldn't take his money!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I rather guess I wouldn't!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't blame you, but I don't see what is going to
be done.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't,&rdquo; said Maria, helplessly. She reflected how
she had disposed already of her small stipend, and would not have
any more for some time, and how her own clothing no more than
sufficed for her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't give her a thing,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.
&ldquo;I'm wearin' flannels myself that are so patched there isn't
much left of the first of 'em, and it's just so with the rest of my
clothes. I'm wearin' a petticoat made out of a comfortable my
mother made before Henry was married. It was quilted fine, and had
a small pattern, if it is copperplate, but I don't darse hold my
dress up only just so. I wouldn't have anybody know it for the
world. And I know Eunice ain't much better off. They had that big
doctor's bill, and I know she's patched and darned so she'd be
ashamed of her life if she fell down on the ice and broke a bone. I
tell you what it is, those other Ramseys ought to do something. I
don't care if they are such distant relations, they ought to do
something.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After supper Maria and her aunt went into the other side of the
house, and Aunt Maria, who had been waxing fairly explosive, told
the tale of poor little Jessy Ramsey going to school with no
undergarments.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's a shame!&rdquo; said Eunice, who was herself nervous
and easily aroused to indignation. She sat up straight and the
hollows on her thin cheeks blazed, and her thin New England mouth
tightened.</p>
<p>&ldquo;George Ramsey ought to do something if he is earning as
much as they say he is,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; said Eunice. &ldquo;It doesn't make
any difference if they are so distantly related. It is the same
name and the same blood.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry Stillman laughed his sardonic laugh. &ldquo;You can't
expect the flowers to look out for the weeds,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;George Ramsey and his mother are in full blossom; they have
fixed up their house and are holding up their heads. You can't
expect them to look out for poor relations who have gone to the
bad, and done worse&mdash;got too poor to buy clothes enough to
keep warm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria suddenly sprang to her feet. &ldquo;I know what I am going
to do,&rdquo; she announced, with decision, and made for the
door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth are you going to do?&rdquo; asked her aunt
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going straight in there, and I am going to tell them
how that poor little thing came to school to-day, and tell them
they ought to be ashamed of themselves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Before the others fairly realized what she was doing, Maria was
out of the house, running across the little stretch which
intervened. Her aunt Maria called after her, but she paid no
attention. She was at that moment ringing the Ramsey bell, with her
pretty, uncovered hair tossing in the December wind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She will catch her own death of cold,&rdquo; said Aunt
Maria, &ldquo;running out without anything on her head.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She will just get patronized for her pains,&rdquo; said
Eunice, who had a secret grudge against the Ramseys for their
prosperity and their renovated house, a grudge which she had not
ever owned to her inmost self, but which nevertheless existed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She doesn't stop to think one minute; she's just like her
father about that,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>Henry Stillman said nothing. He took up his paper, which he had
been reading when Maria and his sister entered.</p>
<p>Meantime, Maria was being ushered into the Ramsey house by a
maid who wore a white cap. The first thing which she noticed as she
entered the house was a strong fragrance of flowers. That redoubled
her indignation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;These Ramseys can buy flowers in midwinter,&rdquo; she
thought, &ldquo;while their own flesh and blood go almost
naked.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She entered the room in which the flowers were, a great bunch of
pink carnations in a tall, green vase. The room was charming. It
was not only luxurious, but gave evidences of superior qualities in
its owners. It was empty when Maria entered, but soon Mrs. Ramsey
and her son came in. Maria recognized with a start her old
acquaintance, or rather she did not recognize him. She would not
have known him at all had she not seen him in his home. She had not
seen him before, for he had been away ever since she had come to
Amity. He had been West on business for his bank. Now he at once
stepped forward and spoke to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are my old friend, Miss Edgham, I think,&rdquo; he
said. &ldquo;Allow me to present my mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria bowed perforce before the very gentle little lady in a
soft lavender cashmere, with her neck swathed in laces, but she did
not accept the offered seat, and she utterly disregarded the glance
of astonishment which both mother and son gave at her uncovered
shoulders and head. Maria's impetuosity had come to her from two
sides. When it was in flood, so to speak, nothing could stop
it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, thank you, I can't sit down,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;I came on an errand. You are related, I believe, to the
other Ramseys. The children go to my school. There are Mamie and
Franky and Jessy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are very distantly related, and, on the whole, proud
of the distance rather than the relationship,&rdquo; said George
Ramsey, with a laugh.</p>
<p>Then Maria turned fiercely upon him. &ldquo;You ought to be
ashamed of yourself,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>The young man stared at her.</p>
<p>Maria persisted. &ldquo;Yes, you ought,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;I don't care how distant the relationship is, the same blood
is in your veins, and you bear the same name.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what is the matter?&rdquo; asked George Ramsey,
still in a puzzled, amused voice.</p>
<p>Maria spoke out. &ldquo;That poor little Jessy Ramsey,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;and she is the prettiest and brightest scholar I
have, too, came to school to-day without a single stitch of
clothing under her dress. It is a wonder she didn't die. I don't
know but she will die, and if she does it will be your
fault.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George Ramsey's face suddenly sobered; his mother's flushed. She
looked at him, then at Maria, almost with fright. She felt really
afraid of this forcible girl, who was so very angry and so very
pretty in her anger. Maria had never looked prettier than she did
then, with her cheeks burning and her blue eyes flashing with
indignation and defiance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is terrible, such a day as this,&rdquo; said George
Ramsey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; I had no idea they were quite so badly off,&rdquo;
murmured his mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You ought to have had some idea,&rdquo; flashed out
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We had not, Miss Edgham,&rdquo; said George, gently.
&ldquo;You must remember how very distant the relationship is. I
believe it begins with the fourth generation from myself. And there
are other reasons&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There ought not to be other reasons,&rdquo; Maria
said.</p>
<p>Mrs. Ramsey looked with wonder and something like terror and
aversion at this pretty, violent girl, who was espousing so
vehemently, not to say rudely, the cause of the distant relatives
of her husband's family. The son, however, continued to smile
amusedly at Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Won't you sit down, Miss Edgham?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, won't you sit down?&rdquo; his mother repeated,
feebly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, thank you,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I only came
about this. I&mdash;I would do something for the poor little thing
myself, but I haven't any money now, and Aunt Maria would, and
Uncle Henry, and Aunt Eunice, but they&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>All at once Maria, who was hardly more than a child herself, and
who had been in reality frightfully wrought up over the piteous
plight of the other child, lost control of herself. She began to
cry. She put her handkerchief to her face and sobbed
helplessly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The poor little thing! oh, the poor little thing!&rdquo;
she panted, &ldquo;with nobody in the world to do anything for her,
and her own people so terribly wicked. I&mdash;can't bear
it!&rdquo;</p>
<p>The first thing she knew, Maria was having a large, soft cloak
folded around her, and somebody was leading her gently to the door.
She heard a murmured good-night, to which she did not respond
except by a sob, and was led, with her arm rather closely held,
along the sidewalk to her own door. At the door George Ramsey took
her hand, and she felt something pressed softly into it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you will please buy what the poor little thing needs
to make her comfortable,&rdquo; he whispered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; Maria replied, faintly. She began to be
ashamed of her emotion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must not think that my mother and I were knowing to
this,&rdquo; George Ramsey said. &ldquo;We are really such very
distant relations that the name alone is the only bond between us;
still, on general principles, if the name had been different, I
would do what I could. Such suffering is terrible. You must not
think us hard-hearted, Miss Edgham.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked up at the young fellow's face, upon which an
electric light shone fully, and it was a good face to see. She
could not at all reconcile it with her memory of the rather silly
little boy with the patched trousers, with whom she had discoursed
over the garden fence. This face was entirely masterly, dark and
clean-cut, with fine eyes, and a distinctly sweet expression about
the mouth which he had inherited from his mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose I was very foolish,&rdquo; Maria said, in a low
voice. &ldquo;I am afraid I was rude to your mother. I did not mean
to be, but the poor little thing, and this bitter day, and I went
home with her, and there was a dreadful man there who offered me
money to buy things for her&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope you did not take it,&rdquo; George Ramsey said,
quickly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am glad of that. They are a bad lot. I don't know about
this little girl. She may be a survival of the fittest, but take
them all together they are a bad lot, if they are my relatives.
Good-night, Miss Edgham, and I beg you not to distress yourself
about it all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am very sorry if I was rude,&rdquo; Maria said, and she
spoke like a little girl.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You were not rude at all,&rdquo; George responded,
quickly. &ldquo;You were only all worked up over such suffering,
and it did you credit. You were not rude at all.&rdquo; He shook
hands again with Maria. Then he asked if he might call and see her
sometime. Maria said yes, and fled into the house.</p>
<p>She went into her aunt Maria's side of the house, and ran
straight up-stairs to her own room. Presently she heard doors
opening and shutting and knew that her aunt was curiously following
her from the other side. She came to Maria's door, which was
locked. Aunt Maria was not surprised at that, as Maria always
locked her door at night&mdash;she herself did the same.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you gone to bed?&rdquo; called Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Maria, who had, indeed, hurriedly
hustled herself into bed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gone to bed early as this?&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am dreadfully tired,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did they give you anything? Why didn't you come into the
other side and tell us about it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. George Ramsey gave me ten dollars.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gracious!&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>Presently she spoke again. &ldquo;What did they say?&rdquo; she
asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not much of anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Gave you ten dollars?&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.
&ldquo;Well, you can get enough to make her real comfortable with
that. Didn't you get chilled through going over there without
anything on?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Maria, and as she spoke she realized,
in the moonlit room, a mass of fur-lined cloak over a chair. She
had forgotten to return it to George Ramsey. &ldquo;I had Mrs.
Ramsey's cloak coming home,&rdquo; she called.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'm glad you did. It's awful early to go to bed.
Don't you want something?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, thank you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you want me to heat a soapstone and fetch it up to
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, thank you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, good-night,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, in a puzzled
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-night,&rdquo; said Maria. Then she heard her aunt go
away.</p>
<p>It was a long time before Maria went to sleep. She awoke about
two o'clock in the morning and was conscious of having been
awakened by a strange odor, a combined odor of camphor and
lavender, which came from Mrs. Ramsey's cloak. It disturbed her,
although she could not tell why. Then all at once she saw, as
plainly as if he were really in the room, George Ramsey's face. At
first a shiver of delight came over her; then she shuddered. A
horror, as of one under conviction of sin, came over her. It was as
if she repelled an evil angel from her door, for she remembered all
at once what had happened to her, and that it was a sin for her
even to dream of George Ramsey; and she had allowed him to come
into her waking dreams. She got out of bed, took up the soft cloak,
thrust it into her closet, and shut the door. Then she climbed
shivering back into bed, and lay there in the moonlight, entangled
in the mystery of life.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XIX</h4>
<p>The very next day, which was Saturday, and consequently a
holiday, Maria went on the trolley to Westbridge, which was a
provincial city about six miles from Amity. She proposed buying
some clothing for Jessy Ramsey with the ten dollars which George
Ramsey had given her. Her aunt Eunice accompanied her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;George Ramsey goes over to Westbridge on the
trolley,&rdquo; said Eunice, as they jolted along&mdash;the cars
were very well equipped, but the road was rough&mdash;&ldquo;and I
shouldn't wonder if he was on our car coming back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria colored quickly and looked out of the window. The cars
were constructed like those on steam railroads, with seats facing
towards the front, and Maria's aunt had insisted upon her sitting
next to the window because the view was in a measure new to her.
She had not been over the road many times since she had come to
Amity. She stared out at the trimly kept country road, lined with
cheap Queen Anne houses and the older type of New England cottages
and square frame houses, and it all looked strange to her after the
red soil and the lapse towards Southern ease and shiftlessness of
New Jersey. But nothing that she looked upon was as strange as the
change in her own heart. Maria, from being of an emotional nature,
had many times considered herself as being in love, young as she
was, but this was different. When her aunt Eunice spoke of George
Ramsey she felt a rigid shiver from head to foot. It seemed to her
that she could not see him nor speak to him, that she could not
return to Amity on the same car. She made no reply at first to her
aunt's remark, but finally she said, in a faint voice, that she
supposed Mr. Ramsey came home after bank hours at three
o'clock.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He comes home a good deal later than that, as a general
thing,&rdquo; said Eunice. &ldquo;Oftener than not I see him get
off the car at six o'clock. I guess he stays and works after bank
hours. George Ramsey is a worker, if there ever was one. He's a
real likely young man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria felt Eunice's eyes upon her, and realized that she was
thinking, as her aunt Maria had done, that George Ramsey would be a
good match for her. A sort of desperation seized upon her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what you mean by likely,&rdquo; Maria said,
impertinently, in her shame and defiance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't know what I mean by likely?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't. People in New Jersey don't say
likely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, I mean he is a good young man, and likely to turn
out well,&rdquo; responded Eunice, rather helplessly. She was a
very gentle woman, and had all her life been more or less
intimidated by her husband's and sister-in-laws' more strenuous
natures; and, if the truth were told, she stood in a little awe of
this blooming young niece, with her self-possession and clothes of
the New York fashion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why he is more <em>likely</em>, as you call
it, than any other young man,&rdquo; Maria returned, pitilessly.
&ldquo;I should call him a very ordinary young man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He isn't called so generally,&rdquo; Eunice said,
feebly.</p>
<p>They were about half an hour reaching Westbridge. Eunice by that
time had plucked up a little spirit. She reflected that Maria knew
almost nothing about the shopping district, and she herself had
shopped there all her life since she had been of shopping age.
Eunice had a great respect for the Westbridge stores, and
considered them distinctly superior to those of Boston. She was
horrified when Maria observed, shortly before they got off the car,
that she supposed they could have done much better in Boston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess you will find that Adams &amp; Wood's is as good
a store as any you could go to in New York,&rdquo; said Eunice.
&ldquo;Then there is the Boston Store, too, and Collins &amp;
Green's. All of them are very good, and they have a good
assortment. Hardly anybody in Amity goes anywhere else shopping,
they think the Westbridge stores so much better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course it is cheaper to come here,&rdquo; said Maria,
as they got off the car in front of Adams &amp; Wood's.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That isn't the reason,&rdquo; said Eunice, eagerly.
&ldquo;Why, Mrs. Judge Saunders buys 'most everything here; says
she can do enough sight better than she can anywhere
else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If the dress Mrs. Saunders had on at the church supper
was a sample, she dresses like a perfect guy,&rdquo; said Maria, as
they entered the store, with its two pretentious show-windows
filled with waxen ladies dressed in the height of the fashion,
standing in the midst of symmetrically arranged handkerchiefs and
rugs.</p>
<p>Maria knew that she was even cruelly pert to her aunt, but she
felt like stinging&mdash;like crowding some of the stings out of
her own heart. She asked herself was ever any girl so horribly
placed as she was, married, and not married; and now she had seen
some one else whom she must shun and try to hate, although she
wished to love him. Maria felt instinctively, remembering the old
scenes over the garden fence, and remembering how she herself had
looked that very day as she started out, with her puffy blue velvet
turban rising above the soft roll of her fair hair and her face
blooming through a film of brown lace, and also remembering George
Ramsey's tone as he asked if he might call, that if she were free
that things might happen with her as with other girls; that she and
George Ramsey might love each other, and become engaged; that she
might save her school money for a trousseau, and by-and-by be
married to a man of whom she should be very proud. The patches on
George Ramsey's trousers became very dim to her. She admired him
from the depths of her heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess we had better look at flannels first,&rdquo;
Eunice said. &ldquo;It won't do to get all wool, aside from the
expense, for with that Ramsey woman's washing it wouldn't last any
time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She and her aunt made most of their purchases in Adams &amp;
Wood's. They succeeded in obtaining quite a comfortable little
outfit for Jessy Ramsey, and at last boarded a car laden with
packages. Eunice had a fish-net bag filled to overflowing, but
Maria, who, coming from the vicinity of New York, looked down on
bags, carried her parcels in her arms.</p>
<p>Directly they were seated in the car Eunice gave Maria a violent
nudge with her sharp elbow. &ldquo;He's on this car,&rdquo; she
whispered in her ear, with a long hiss which seemed to penetrate
the girl's brain.</p>
<p>Maria made an impatient movement.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think you ought to just step over and thank
him?&rdquo; whispered Eunice. &ldquo;I'll hold your bundles. He's
on the other side, a seat farther back. He raised his hat to
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush! I can't here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, all right, but I thought it would look sort of
polite,&rdquo; said Eunice. Then she subsided. Once in a while she
glanced back at George Ramsey, then uneasily at her niece, but she
said nothing more.</p>
<p>The car was crowded. Workmen smelling of leather clung to the
straps. One, in the aisle next Maria, who sat on the outside this
time, leaned fairly against her. He was a good-looking young
fellow, but he had a heavy jaw. He held an unlighted pipe in his
mouth, and carried a two-story tin dinner-pail. Maria kept
shrinking closer to her aunt, but the young man pressed against her
all the more heavily. His eyes were fixed with seeming
unconsciousness ahead, but a furtive smile lurked around his
mouth.</p>
<p>George Ramsey was watching. All at once he arose and quietly and
unobtrusively came forward, insinuated himself with a gentle force
between Maria and the workman, and spoke to her. The workman
muttered something under his breath, but moved aside. He gave an
ugly glance at George, who did not seem to see him at all.
Presently he sat down in George's vacated seat beside another man,
who said something to him with a coarse chuckle. The man growled in
response, and continued to scowl furtively at George, who stood
talking to Maria. He said something about the fineness of the day,
and Maria responded rather gratefully. She was conscious of an
inward tumult which alarmed her, and made her defiant both at the
young man and herself, but she could not help responding to the
sense of protection which she got from his presence. She had not
been accustomed to anything like the rudeness of the young workman.
In New Jersey caste was more clearly defined. Here it was not
defined at all. An employ&eacute; in a shoe-factory had not the
slightest conception that he was not the social equal of a
school-teacher, and indeed in many cases he was. There were by no
means all like this one, whose mere masculine estate filled him
with entire self-confidence where women were concerned. In a sense
his ignorance was pathetic. He had honestly thought that the
pretty, strange girl must like his close contact, and he felt
aggrieved that this other young man, who did not smell of leather
and carried no dinner-pail, had ousted him. He viewed Maria's
delicate profile with a sort of angry tenderness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, she's a beaut, ain't she?&rdquo; whispered the man
beside him, with a malicious grin, and again got a surly growl in
response.</p>
<p>Maria finally, much to her aunt's delight, said to George that
they had been shopping, and thanked him for the articles which his
money had enabled them to buy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The poor little thing can go to school now,&rdquo; said
Maria. There was gratitude in her voice, and yet, oddly enough,
still a tinge of reproach.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If mother and I had dreamed of the true state of affairs
we would have done something before,&rdquo; George Ramsey said,
with an accent of apology; and yet he could not see for the life of
him why he should be apologetic for the poverty of these degenerate
relatives of his. He could not see why he was called upon to be his
brother's keeper in this case, but there was something about
Maria's serious, accusing gaze of blue eyes, and her earnest voice,
that made him realize that he could prostrate himself before her
for uncommitted sins. Somehow, Maria made him feel responsible for
all that he might have done wrong as well as his actual
wrong-doing, although he laughed at himself for his mental
attitude. Suddenly a thought struck him. &ldquo;When are you going
to take all these things (how you ever managed to get so much for
ten dollars I don't understand) to the child?&rdquo; he asked,
eagerly.</p>
<p>Maria replied, unguardedly, that she intended to take them after
supper that night. &ldquo;Then she will have them all ready for
Monday,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then let me go with you and carry the parcels,&rdquo;
George Ramsey said, eagerly.</p>
<p>Maria stiffened. &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but
Uncle Henry is going with me, and there is no need.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria felt her aunt Eunice give a sudden start and make an
inarticulate murmur of remonstrance, then she checked herself.
Maria knew that her uncle walked a mile from his factory to save
car-fare; she knew also that she was telling what was practically
an untruth, since she had made no agreement with her uncle to
accompany her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should be happy to go with you,&rdquo; said George
Ramsey, in a boyish, abashed voice.</p>
<p>Maria said nothing more. She looked past her aunt out of the
window. The full moon was rising, and all at once all the girl's
sweet light of youthful romance appeared again above her mental
horizon. She felt that it would be almost heaven to walk with
George Ramsey in that delicious moonlight, in the clear, frosty
air, and take little Jessy Ramsey her gifts. Maria was of an almost
abnormal emotional nature, although there was little that was
material about the emotion. She dreamed of that walk as she might
have dreamed of a walk with a fairy prince through fairy-land, and
her dream was as innocent, but it unnerved her. She said again, in
a tremulous voice, that she was very much obliged, and murmured
something again about her uncle Henry; and George Ramsey replied,
with a certain sober dignity, that he should have been very
happy.</p>
<p>Soon after that the car stopped to let off some passengers, and
George moved to a vacant seat in front. He did not turn around
again. Maria looked at his square shoulders and again gazed past
her aunt at the full orb of the moon rising with crystalline
splendor in the pale amber of the east. There was a clear gold
sunset which sent its reflection over the whole sky.</p>
<p>Presently, Eunice spoke in her little, deprecating voice, which
had a slight squeak.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you speak to your uncle Henry about going with you
this evening?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I didn't,&rdquo; admitted Maria, reddening,
&ldquo;but I knew he would be willing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose he will be,&rdquo; said Eunice. &ldquo;But he
does get home awful tuckered out Saturday nights, and he always
takes his bath Saturday nights, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Eunice looked out of the window with a slight frown. She adored
her husband, and the thought of that long walk for him on his weary
Saturday evening, and the possible foregoing of his bath, troubled
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe George Ramsey liked it,&rdquo; she
whispered, after a little.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it if he didn't,&rdquo; replied Maria.
&ldquo;I can't go with him, Aunt Eunice.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As they jolted along, Maria made up her mind that she would not
ask her uncle to go with her at all; that she would slip out
unknown to Aunt Maria and ask the girl who lived in the house on
the other side, Lily Merrill, to go with her. She thought that two
girls need not be afraid, and she could start early.</p>
<p>As she parted from her aunt Eunice at the door of the house,
after they had left the car (Eunice's door was on the side where
the Ramseys lived, and Maria's on the Merrill side), she told her
of her resolution.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't say anything to Uncle Henry about going with
me,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what are you going to do?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'll get Lily Merrill. I know she won't mind.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria and Lily Merrill had been together frequently since Maria
had come to Amity, and Eunice accounted them as intimate. She
looked hesitatingly a second at her niece, then she said, with an
evident air of relief:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't know but you can. It's bright moonlight,
and it's late in the season for tramps. I don't see why you two
girls can't go together, if you start early.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We'll start right after supper,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would,&rdquo; said Eunice, still with an air of
relief.</p>
<p>Maria took her aunt's fish-net bag, as well as her own parcels,
and carried them around to her aunt Maria's side of the house, and
deposited them on the door-step. There was a light in the kitchen,
and she could see her aunt Maria's shadow moving behind the
curtain, preparing supper. Then she ran across the yard, over the
frozen furrows of a last year's garden, and knocked at the
side-door of the Merrill house.</p>
<p>Lily herself opened the door, and gave a little, loving cry of
surprise. &ldquo;Why, is it you, dear?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. I want to know if you can go over the river with me
to-night on an errand?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Over the river? Where?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, only to Jessy Ramsey's. Aunt Eunice and I have been
to Westbridge and bought these things for her, and I want to carry
them to her to-night. I thought maybe you would go with
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily hesitated. &ldquo;It's a pretty lonesome walk,&rdquo; said
she, &ldquo;and there are an awful set of people on the other side
of the river.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, nonsense!&rdquo; cried Maria. &ldquo;You aren't
afraid&mdash;we two together&mdash;and it's bright moonlight, as
bright as day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I know it is,&rdquo; replied Lily, gazing out at the
silver light which flooded everything, but she still hesitated. A
light in the house behind gave her a background of light. She was a
beautiful girl, prettier than Maria, taller, and with a timid,
pliant grace. Her brown hair tossed softly over her big, brown
eyes, which were surmounted by strongly curved eyebrows, her nose
was small, and her mouth, and she had a fascinating little way of
holding her lips slightly parted, as if ready for a loving word or
a kiss. Everybody said that Lily Merrill had a beautiful
disposition, albeit some claimed that she lacked force. Maria
dominated her, although she did not herself know it. Lily continued
to hesitate with her beautiful, startled brown eyes on Maria's
face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aren't you afraid?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Afraid? No. What should I be afraid of? Why, it's bright
moonlight! I would just as soon go at night as in the daytime when
the moon is bright.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is an awful man who lives at the
Ramseys'!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense! I guess if he tried to bother us, Mrs. Ramsey
would take care of him,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;Come along, Lily.
I would ask Uncle Henry, but it is the night when he takes his
bath, and he comes home tired.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'll go if mother will let me,&rdquo; said
Lily.</p>
<p>Then Lily called to her mother, who came to the sitting-room
door in response.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said Lily, &ldquo;Maria wants me to go
over to the Ramseys', those on the other side of the river, after
supper, and carry these things to Jessy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aren't you afraid?&rdquo; asked Lily's mother, as Lily
herself had done. She was a faded but still pretty woman who had
looked like her daughter in her youth. She was a widow with some
property, enough for her Lily and herself to live on in
comfort.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, it's bright moonlight, Mrs. Merrill,&rdquo; said
Maria, &ldquo;and the Ramseys live just the other side of the
river.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if Lily isn't afraid, I don't care,&rdquo; said
Mrs. Merrill. She had an ulterior motive for her consent, of which
neither of the two girls suspected her. She was smartly dressed,
and her hair was carefully crimped, and she had, as always in the
evening, hopes that a certain widower, the resident physician of
Amity, Dr. Ellridge, might call. He had noticed her several times
at church suppers, and once had walked home with her from an
evening meeting. Lily never dreamed that her mother had aspirations
towards a second husband. Her father had been dead ten years; the
possibility of any one in his place had never occurred to her;
then, too, she looked upon her mother as entirely too old for
thoughts of that kind. But Mrs. Merrill had her own views, which
she kept concealed behind her pretty, placid exterior. She always
welcomed the opportunity of being left alone of an evening, because
she realized the very serious drawback that the persistent presence
of a pretty, well-grown daughter might be if a wooer would wish to
woo. She knew perfectly well that if Dr. Ellridge called, Lily
would wonder why he called, and would sit all the evening in the
same room with her fancy-work, entirely unsuspicious. Lily might
even think he came to see her. Mrs. Merrill had a measure of
slyness and secrecy which her daughter did not inherit. Lily was
not brilliant, but she was as entirely sweet and open as the flower
for which she was named. She was emotional, too, with an innocent
emotionlessness, and very affectionate. Mrs. Merrill made almost no
objection to Lily's going with Maria, but merely told her to wrap
up warmly when she went out. Lily looked charming, with a great fur
boa around her long, slender throat, and red velvet roses nestling
under the brim of her black hat against the soft puff of her brown
hair. She bent over her mother and kissed her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope you won't be very lonesome, mother dear,&rdquo;
she said.</p>
<p>Mrs. Merrill blushed a little. To-night she had confident hopes
of the doctor's calling; she had even resolved upon a coup.
&ldquo;Oh no, I shall not be lonesome,&rdquo; she replied.
&ldquo;Norah isn't going out, you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;We shall not be gone long, anyway,&rdquo; Lily said, as
she went out. She had not even noticed her mother's blush. She was
not very acute. She ran across the yard, the dry grass of which
shone like a carpet of crisp silver in the moonlight, and knocked
on Maria's door. Maria answered her knock. She was all ready, and
she had her aunt Eunice's fish-net bag and her armful of
parcels.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here, let me take some of them, dear,&rdquo; said Lily,
in her cooing voice, and she gathered up some of the parcels under
her long, supple arm.</p>
<p>Maria's aunt Maria followed her to the door. &ldquo;Now, mind
you don't go into that house,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Just leave
the things and run right home; and if you see anybody who looks
suspicious, go right up to a house and knock. I don't feel any too
safe about you two girls going, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria spoke in a harsh, croaking voice; she had a cold.
Maria seized her by the shoulders and pushed her back,
laughingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You go straight in the house,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;And
don't you worry. Lily and I both have hat-pins, and we can both
run, and there's nothing to be afraid of, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't half like the idea,&rdquo; croaked Aunt
Maria, retreating.</p>
<p>Lily and Maria went on their way. Lily looked affectionately at
her companion, whose pretty face gained a singular purity of beauty
from the moonlight.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How good you are, dear,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; replied Maria. Somehow all at once the
consciousness of her secret, which was always with her, like some
hidden wound, stung her anew. She thought suddenly how Lily would
not think her good at all if she knew what an enormous secret she
was hiding from her, of what duplicity she was guilty.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you are good,&rdquo; said Lily, &ldquo;to take all
this trouble to get that poor little thing clothes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, as for that,&rdquo; said Maria, &ldquo;Mr. George
Ramsey is the one to be thanked. It was his money that bought the
things, you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is good, too,&rdquo; said Lily, and her voice was like
a song with cadences of tenderness.</p>
<p>Maria started and glanced at her, then looked away again. A
qualm of jealousy, of which she was ashamed, seized her. She gave
her head a toss, and repeated, with a sort of defiance, &ldquo;Yes,
he is good enough, I suppose.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think you are real sweet,&rdquo; said Lily, &ldquo;and
I do think George Ramsey is splendid.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see anything very remarkable about him,&rdquo;
said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think he is handsome?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know. I don't suppose I ever think much about a
man being handsome. I don't like handsome men, anyway. I don't like
men, anyway, when it comes to that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;George Ramsey is very nice,&rdquo; said Lily, and there
was an accent in her speech which made the other girl glance at
her. Lily's face was turned aside, although she was clinging close
to Maria's arm, for she was in reality afraid of being out in the
night with another girl.</p>
<p>They walked along in silence after that. When they came to the
covered bridge which crossed the river, Lily forced Maria into a
run until they reached the other side.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is awful in here,&rdquo; she said, in a fearful
whisper.</p>
<p>Maria laughed. She herself did not feel the least fear, although
she was more imaginative than the other girl. At that time a kind
of rage against life itself possessed her which made her insensible
to ordinary fear. She felt that she had been hardly used, and she
was, in a measure, at bay. She knew that she could fight anything
until she died, and beyond that there was nothing certainly to
fear. She had become abnormal because of her strained situation as
regarded society. However, she ran because Lily wished her to do
so, and they soon emerged from the dusty tunnel of the bridge, with
its strong odor of horses, and glimpses between the sides of the
silver current of the river, into the moon-flooded road.</p>
<p>After the bridge came the school-house, then, a half-mile beyond
that, the Ramsey house. The front windows were blazing with light,
and the sound of a loud, drunken voice came from within.</p>
<p>Lily shrank and clung closely to Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria, I am awfully afraid to go to the door,&rdquo;
she whispered. &ldquo;Just hear that. Eugene Ramsey must be home
drunk, and&mdash;and perhaps the other man, too. I am afraid. Don't
let's go there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked about her. &ldquo;You see that board fence,
then?&rdquo; she said to Lily, and as she spoke she pointed to a
high board fence on the other side of the street, which was
completely in shadow.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if you are afraid, just go and stand straight
against the fence. You will be in shadow, and if you don't move
nobody can possibly see you. Then I will go to the door and leave
the things.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria, aren't you afraid?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I am not a bit afraid.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't go in, honest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I won't go in. Run right over there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily released her hold of Maria's arm and made a fluttering
break for the fence, against which she shrank and became actually
invisible as a shadow. Maria marched up to the Ramsey door and
knocked loudly. Mrs. Ramsey came to the door, and Maria thrust the
parcels into her hands and began pulling them rapidly out of the
fish-net bag. Mrs. Ramsey cast a glance behind her at the lighted
room, through which was visible the same man whom Maria had seen
before, and also another, and swung the door rapidly together, so
that she stood in the dark entry, only partly lighted by the
moonlight.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have brought some things for Jessy to wear to school,
Mrs. Ramsey,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; Mrs. Ramsey mumbled, doubtfully, with
still another glance at the closed door, through which shone lines
and chinks of light.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There are enough for her to be warmly clothed, and you
will see to it that she has them on, won't you?&rdquo; said Maria.
Her voice was quite sweet and ingratiating, and not at all
patronizing.</p>
<p>Suddenly the woman made a clutch at her arm. &ldquo;You are a
good young one, doin' so much for my young one,&rdquo; she
whispered. &ldquo;Now you'd better git up and git. They've been
drinkin'. Git!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will see that Jessy has the things to wear Monday,
won't you?&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sure.&rdquo; Suddenly the woman wiped her eyes and gave a
maudlin sob. &ldquo;You're a good young one,&rdquo; she whimpered.
&ldquo;Now, git.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria ran across the road as the door closed after her. She did
not know that Mrs. Ramsey had given the parcels which she had
brought a toss into another room, and when she entered the room in
which the men were carousing and was asked who had come to the
door, had replied, &ldquo;The butcher for his bill,&rdquo; to be
greeted with roars of laughter. She did, indeed, hear the roars of
laughter. Lily slunk along swiftly beside the fence by her side.
Maria caught her by the arm. Curiously enough, while she was not
afraid for herself, she did feel a little fear now for her
companion. The two girls hurried until they reached the bridge, and
ran the whole length. On the other side, coming into the lighted
main street of Amity, they felt quite safe.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you see any of those dreadful men?&rdquo; gasped
Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I just caught a glimpse of them, then Mrs. Ramsey shut
the door,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They were drunk, weren't they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shouldn't wonder.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do think it was an awful place to go to,&rdquo; said
Lily, with a little sigh of relief that she was out of it.</p>
<p>The girls went along the street until they reached the Ramsey
house, next the one where Maria lived. Suddenly a man's figure
appeared from the gate. It was almost as if he had been
watching.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-evening,&rdquo; he said, and the girls saw that he
was George Ramsey.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-evening, Mr. Ramsey,&rdquo; responded Maria. She
felt Lily's arm tremble in hers. George walked along with them.
&ldquo;I have been to carry the presents which I bought with your
money,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good heavens! You don't mean that you two girls have been
all alone up there?&rdquo; said George.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Weren't you afraid?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria isn't afraid of anything,&rdquo; Lily's sweet,
little, tremulous voice piped on the other side.</p>
<p>George was walking next Maria. There was a slight and very
gentle accusation in the voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It wasn't safe,&rdquo; said George, soberly, &ldquo;and I
should have been glad to go with you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed. &ldquo;Well, here we are, safe and sound,&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;I didn't see anything to be much afraid
of.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All the same, they are an awful set there,&rdquo; said
George. They had reached Maria's door, and he added, &ldquo;Suppose
you walk along with me, Miss Edgham, and I will see Lily
home.&rdquo; George had been to school with Lily, and had always
called her by her first name.</p>
<p>Maria again felt that little tremor of Lily's arm in hers, and
did not understand it. &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>The three walked to Lily's door, and had said good-night, when
Lily, who was, after all, the daughter of her mother, although her
little artifices were few and innocent, had an inspiration. She
discovered that she had lost her handkerchief.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think I took it out when we reached your gate, Mr.
Ramsey,&rdquo; she said, timidly, for she felt guilty.</p>
<p>It was quite true that the handkerchief was not in her muff, in
which she had carried it, but there was a pocket in her coat which
she did not investigate.</p>
<p>They turned back, looking along the frozen ground.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; Lily said, cheerfully, when they had
reached the Ramsey gate and returned to the Edgham's, and the
handkerchief was not forthcoming, &ldquo;it was an old one, anyway.
Good-night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She knew quite well that George Edgham would do what he
did&mdash;walk home with her the few steps between her house and
Maria's, and that Maria would not hesitate to say good-night and
enter her own door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I had better go right in,&rdquo; said Maria.
&ldquo;Aunt Maria has a cold, and she may worry and be staying
up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily was entirely happy at walking those few steps with George
Ramsey. He had pulled her little hand through his arm in a
school-boy sort of fashion. He left her at the door with a friendly
good-night, but she had got what she wanted. He had not gone those
few steps alone with Maria. Lily loved Maria, but she did not want
George Ramsey to love her.</p>
<p>When Lily entered the house, to her great astonishment she found
Dr. Ellridge there. He was seated beside her mother, who was lying
on the sofa.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, mother, what is it&mdash;are you sick?&rdquo; Lily
cried, anxiously, while the doctor looked with admiration at her
face, glowing with the cold.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had one of my attacks after supper, and sent Norah for
Dr. Ellridge. I thought I had better,&rdquo; Mrs. Merrill
explained, feebly. She sighed and looked at the doctor, who
understood perfectly, but did not betray himself. He was, in fact,
rather flattered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, your mother has been feeling quite badly, but she
will be all right now,&rdquo; he said to Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry you did not feel well, mother,&rdquo; Lily
said, sweetly. Then she got her fancy-work from her little silk bag
on the table and seated herself, after removing her wraps.</p>
<p>Her mother sighed. The doctor's mouth assumed a little, humorous
pucker.</p>
<p>Lily looked at her mother with affectionate interest. She was
quite accustomed to slight attacks of indigestion which her mother
often had, and was not much alarmed, still she felt a little
anxious. &ldquo;You are sure you are better, mother?&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, she is much better,&rdquo; the doctor answered
for her. &ldquo;There is nothing for you to be alarmed
about.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am so glad,&rdquo; said Lily.</p>
<p>She took another stitch in her fancy-work, and her beautiful
face took on an almost seraphic expression; she was thinking of
George Ramsey. She hardly noticed when the doctor took his leave,
and she did not in the least understand her mother's sigh when the
door closed. For her the gates of love were wide open, but she had
no conception that for her mother they were not shut until she
should go to heaven to join her father.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XX</h4>
<p>The next evening Maria, as usual, went to church with her two
aunts. Henry Stillman remained at home reading the Sunday paper. He
took a certain delight in so doing, although he knew, in the depths
of his soul, that his delight was absurd. He knew perfectly well
that it did not make a feather's weight of difference in the
universal scheme of things that he, Henry Stillman, should remain
at home and read the columns of scandal and politics in that paper,
instead of going to church, and yet he liked to think that his
small individuality and its revolt because of its injuries at the
hands of fate had its weight, and was at least a small sting of
revenge.</p>
<p>He watched his wife adjust her bonnet before the looking-glass
in the sitting-room, and arrange carefully the bow beneath her
withered chin, and a great pity for her, because she was no longer
as she had been, but was so heavily marked by time, and a great
jealousy that she should not lose the greatest of all things, which
he himself had lost, came over him. As she&mdash;a little, prim,
mild woman, in her old-fashioned winter cape and her bonnet, with
its stiff tuft of velvet pansies&mdash;passed him, he caught her
thin, black-gloved hand and drew her close to him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm glad you are going to church, Eunice,&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>Eunice colored, and regarded him with a kind of abashed
wonder.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you come, too, Henry?&rdquo; she said,
timidly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I've quit,&rdquo; replied Henry. &ldquo;I've quit
begging where I don't get any alms; but as for you, if you get
anything that satisfies your soul, for God's sake hold on to it,
Eunice, and don't let it go.&rdquo; Then he pulled her bonneted
head down and kissed her thin lips, with a kind of tenderness which
was surprising. &ldquo;You've been a good wife, Eunice,&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>Eunice laid her hand on his shoulder and looked at him a second.
She was almost frightened. Outward evidences of affection had not
been frequent between them of late years, or indeed ever. They were
New-Englanders to the marrow of their bones. Anything like an
outburst of feeling or sentiment, unless in case of death or
disaster, seemed abnormal. Henry realized his wife's feeling, and
he smiled up at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are getting to be old folks,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;and we've had more bitter than sweet in life, and we have
neither of us ever said much as to how we felt to each other,
but&mdash;I never loved you as much as I love you now, Eunice, and
I've taken it into my head to say it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Eunice's lips quivered a little and her eyes reddened.
&ldquo;There ain't a woman in Amity who has had so good a husband
as I have all these years, if you don't go to meeting,&rdquo; she
replied. Then she added, after a second's pause: &ldquo;I didn't
know as you did feel just as you used to, Henry. I didn't know as
any man did. I know I've lost my looks, and&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can seem to see your looks, brighter than ever they
were, in your heart,&rdquo; said Henry. He colored himself a little
at his own sentiment. Then he pulled her face down to his again and
gave her a second kiss. &ldquo;Now run along to your
meeting,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Have you got enough on? The wind
sounds cold.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Eunice. &ldquo;This cape's real thick. I put
a new lining in it this winter, you know, and, besides, I've got my
crocheted jacket under it. I'm as warm as toast.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Eunice, after she had gone out in the keen night air with her
sister-in-law and her niece, reflected with more uneasiness than
pleasure upon her husband's unwonted behavior.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does it seem to you that Henry looks well lately?&rdquo;
she asked the elder Maria, as they hurried along.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; why not?&rdquo; returned Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know. It seems to me he's been losing
flesh.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I never saw him
looking better than he does now. I was thinking only this morning
that he was making a better, healthier old man than he was as a
young man. But I do wish he would go to meeting. I don't think his
mind is right about some things. Suppose folks do have troubles.
They ought to be led to the Lord by them, instead of pulling back.
Henry hasn't had anything more to worry him, nor half as much, as
most men. He don't take things right. He ought to go to
meeting.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess he's just as good as a good many who do go to
meeting,&rdquo; returned Eunice, with unwonted spirit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't feel competent to judge as to that,&rdquo;
replied Maria, with a tone of aggravating superiority. Then she
added, &ldquo;&lsquo;By their works ye shall know
them.&rsquo;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would give full as much for Henry's chances as for some
who go to meeting every Sunday of their lives,&rdquo; said Eunice,
with still more spirit. &ldquo;And as for trials, they weigh
heavier on some than on others.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then young Maria, who had been listening uneasily, broke in. She
felt herself a strong partisan of her Aunt Eunice, for she adored
her uncle, but she merely said that she thought Uncle Henry did
look a little thin, and she supposed he was tired Sunday, and it
was the only day he had to rest; then she abruptly changed the
whole subject by wondering if the Ramseys across the river would
let Jessy go to church if she trimmed a hat for her with some red
velvet and a feather which she had in her possession.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, they wouldn't!&rdquo; replied her aunt Maria,
sharply, at once diverted. &ldquo;I can tell you just exactly what
they would do, if you were to trim up a hat with that red velvet
and that feather and give it to that young one. Her
good-for-nothing mother would have it on her own head in no time,
and go flaunting out in it with that man that boards
there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Nothing could excel the acrimonious accent with which Aunt Maria
weighed down the &ldquo;man who boards there,&rdquo; and the
acrimony was heightened by the hoarseness of her voice. Her cold
was still far from well, but Aunt Maria stayed at home from church
for nothing short of pneumonia.</p>
<p>The church was about half a mile distant. The meeting was held
in a little chapel built out like an architectural excrescence at
the side of the great, oblong, wooden structure, with its piercing
steeple. The chapel windows blazed with light. People were flocking
in. As they entered, a young lady began to play on an out-of-tune
piano, which Judge Josiah Saunders had presented to the church. She
played a Moody-and-Sankey hymn as a sort of prologue, although
nobody sang it. It was a curious custom which prevailed in the
Amity church. A Moody-and-Sankey hymn was always played in evening
meetings instead of the morning voluntary on the great organ.</p>
<p>Maria and her two aunts moved forward and seated themselves.
Maria looked absently at the smooth expanse of hair which showed
below the hat of the girl who was playing. The air was played very
slowly, otherwise the little audience might have danced a jig to
it. Maria thought of the meetings which she used to attend in
Edgham, and how she used to listen to the plaint of the
whippoorwill on the river-bank while the little organ gave out its
rich, husky drone. This, somehow, did not seem so religious to her.
She remembered how she had used to be conscious of Wollaston Lee's
presence, and how she had hoped he would walk home with her, and
she reflected with what shame and vague terror she now held him
constantly in mind. Then she thought of George Ramsey, and
directly, without seeing him, she became aware that he was seated
on her right and was furtively glancing at her. A wild despair
seized her at the thought that he might offer to accompany her
home, and how she must not allow it, and how she wanted him to do
so. She kept her head steadfastly averted. The meeting dragged on.
Men rose and spoke and prayed, at intervals the out-of-tune piano
was invoked. A woman behind Maria sang contralto with a curious
effect, as if her head were in a tin-pail. There were odd, dull,
metallic echoes about it which filled the whole chapel. The woman's
daughter had some cheap perfume on her handkerchief, and she was
incessantly removing it from her muff. A man at the left coughed a
good deal. Maria saw in front of her Lily Merrill's graceful brown
head, in a charming hat with red roses under the brim, and a long,
soft, brown feather. Lily's mother was not with her. Dr. Ellridge
did not attend evening meetings, and Mrs. Merrill always remained
at home in the hope that he might call.</p>
<p>After church was over, Maria stuck closely to her aunts. She
even pushed herself between them, but they did not abet her. Both
Eunice and Aunt Maria had seen George Ramsey, and they had their
own views. Maria could not tell how it happened, but at the door of
the chapel she found herself separated from both her aunts, and
George Ramsey was asking if he might accompany her home. Maria
obeyed her instincts, although the next moment she could have
killed herself for it. She smiled, and bowed, and tucked her little
hand into the crook of the young man's offered arm. She did not see
her aunts exchanging glances of satisfaction.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It will be a real good chance for her,&rdquo; said
Eunice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, or somebody will hear you,&rdquo; said Maria, in a
sharp, pleased tone, as she and her sister-in-law walked together
down the moonlit street.</p>
<p>Maria did not see Lily Merrill's start and look of piteous
despair as she took George's arm. Lily was just behind her. Maria,
in fact, saw nothing. She might have been walking in a vacuum of
emotion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a beautiful evening,&rdquo; said George Ramsey, and
his voice trembled a little.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, beautiful,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>Afterwards, thinking over their conversation, she could not
remember that they had talked about anything else except the beauty
of the evening, but had dwelt incessantly upon it, like the theme
of a song.</p>
<p>The aunts lagged behind purposely, and Maria went in Eunice's
door. She thought that her niece would ask George to come in and
she would not be in the way. Henry looked inquiringly at the two
women, who had an air of mystery, and Maria responded at once to
his unspoken question.</p>
<p>&ldquo;George Ramsey is seeing her home,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;and the front-door key is under the mat, and I thought Maria
could ask him in, and I would go home through the cellar, and not
be in the way. Three is a company.&rdquo; Maria said the last
platitude with a silly simper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never saw anything like you women,&rdquo; said Henry,
with a look of incredulous amusement. &ldquo;I suppose you both of
you have been making her wedding-dress, and setting her up
house-keeping, instead of listening to the meeting.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I heard every word,&rdquo; returned Maria, with dignity,
&ldquo;and it was a very edifying meeting. It would have done some
other folks good if they had gone, and as for Maria, she can't
teach school all her days, and here is her father with a second
wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you women do beat the Dutch,&rdquo; said her
brother, with a tenderly indulgent air, as if he were addressing
children.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria lingered in her brother's side of the house, talking
about various topics. She hesitated even about her stealthy going
through the cellar, lest she should disturb Maria and her possible
lover. Now and then she listened. She stood close to the wall.
Finally she said, with a puzzled look to Eunice, who was smoothing
out her bonnet-strings, &ldquo;It's queer, but I can't hear them
talking.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe he didn't come in,&rdquo; said Eunice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If they are in the parlor, you couldn't hear them,&rdquo;
said Henry, still with his half-quizzical, half-pitying air.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She would have taken him in the parlor&mdash;I should
think she would have known enough to,&rdquo; said Eunice;
&ldquo;and you can't always hear talking in the parlor in this
room.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria made a move towards her brother's parlor, on the other
side of the tiny hall.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess you are right,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I know
she would have taken him in there. I started a fire in there on
purpose before I went to meeting. It was borne in upon me that
somebody might come home with her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria tiptoed into the parlor, with Eunice, still smoothing her
bonnet-strings, at her heels. Both women stood close to the wall,
papered with white-and-gold paper, and listened.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't hear a single thing,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't either,&rdquo; said Eunice. &ldquo;I don't
believe he did come in.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's dreadful queer, if he didn't,&rdquo; said Maria,
&ldquo;after the way he eyed her in meeting.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Suppose you go home through the cellar, and see,&rdquo;
said Eunice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I will,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I'll knock low
on the wall when I get home, if he isn't there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The cellar stairs connected with the kitchen on either side of
the Stillman house. Both women flew out into the kitchen, and Maria
disappeared down the cellar stairs, with a little lamp which Eunice
lit for her. Then Eunice waited. Presently there came a muffled
knock on the wall.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, he didn't come in,&rdquo; Eunice said to her husband,
as she re-entered the sitting-room.</p>
<p>Suddenly Eunice pressed her ear close to the sitting-room wall.
Two treble voices were audible on the other side, but not a word of
their conversation. &ldquo;Maria and she are talking,&rdquo; said
Eunice.</p>
<p>What Aunt Maria was saying was this, in a tone of sharp
wonder:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where is he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who?&rdquo; responded Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you know as well as I do&mdash;George Ramsey.&rdquo;
Aunt Maria looked sharply at her niece. &ldquo;I hope you asked him
in, Maria Edgham?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I didn't,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why didn't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was tired, and I wanted to go to bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wanted to go to bed? Why, it's only a little after nine
o'clock!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I can't help it, I'm tired.&rdquo; Maria spoke with
a weariness which was unmistakable. She looked away from her aunt
with a sort of blank despair.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria continued to regard her. &ldquo;You do act the
queerest of any girl I ever saw,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;There was
a nice fire in the parlor, and I thought you could offer him some
refreshments. There is some of that nice cake, and some oranges,
and I would have made some cocoa.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't feel as if I could sit up,&rdquo; Maria said
again, in her weary, hopeless voice. She went out into the kitchen,
got a little lamp, and returned. &ldquo;Good-night,&rdquo; she said
to her aunt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-night,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria. &ldquo;You are a
queer girl. I don't see what you think.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria went up-stairs, undressed, and went to bed. After she was
in bed she could see the reflection of her aunt's sitting-room lamp
on the ground outside, in a slanting shaft of light. Then it went
out, and Maria knew that her aunt was also in bed in her little
room out of the sitting-room. Maria could not go to sleep. She
heard the clock strike ten, then eleven. Shortly after eleven she
heard a queer sound, as of small stones or gravel thrown on her
window. Maria was a brave girl. Her first sensation was one of
anger.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is any one doing such a thing as that for?&rdquo;
she asked herself. She rose, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and
went straight to the window next the Merrill house, whence the
sound had come. She opened it cautiously and peered out. Down on
the ground below stood a long, triangle-shaped figure, like a
night-moth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo; Maria called, in a soft voice. She was
afraid, for some reason which she could not define, of awakening
her aunt. She was more afraid of that than anything else.</p>
<p>A little moan answered her; the figure moved as if in
distress.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is it? What do you want?&rdquo; Maria asked
again.</p>
<p>A weak voice answered her then, &ldquo;It's I.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who's I? Lily?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. Oh, do let me in, Maria.&rdquo; Lily's voice ended
in a little, hysterical sob.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush,&rdquo; said Maria, &ldquo;or Aunt Maria will hear
you. Wait a minute.&rdquo; Maria unlocked her door with the
greatest caution, opened it, and crept down-stairs. Then she
unlocked and opened the front door. Luckily Aunt Maria's room was
some feet in the rear. &ldquo;Come quick,&rdquo; Maria whispered,
and Lily came running up to her. Then Maria closed and locked the
front door, while Lily stood trembling and waiting. Then she led
her up-stairs in the dark. Lily's slender fingers closed upon her
with a grasp of ice. When they were once in Maria's room, with the
door closed and locked, Maria took hold of Lily violently by the
shoulders. She felt at once rage and pity for her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth is the matter, Lily Merrill, that you come
over here this time of night?&rdquo; she asked. Then she added, in
a tone of horror, &ldquo;Lily Merrill, you haven't a thing on but a
skirt and your night-gown under your shawl. Have you got anything
on your feet?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Slippers,&rdquo; answered Lily, meekly. Then she clung to
Maria and began to sob hysterically.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come, Lily Merrill, you just stop this and get into
bed,&rdquo; said Maria. She unwound Lily's shawl, pulled off her
skirt, and fairly forced her into bed. Then she got in beside her.
&ldquo;What on earth is the matter?&rdquo; she asked again.</p>
<p>Lily's arm came stealing around her and Lily's cold, wet cheek
touched her face. &ldquo;Oh, Maria!&rdquo; she sobbed, under her
breath.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what is it all about?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria, are&mdash;are you&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Am I what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you going with him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;With whom?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;With George&mdash;with George Ramsey?&rdquo; A long,
trembling sob shook Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going with nobody,&rdquo; answered Maria, in a hard
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But he came home with you. I saw him; I did,
Maria.&rdquo; Lily sobbed again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what of it?&rdquo; asked Maria, impatiently.
&ldquo;I didn't care anything about his going home with
me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Didn't he come in?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, he didn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Didn't you&mdash;ask him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I didn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria, aren't you going to marry him if he asks
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria, &ldquo;I am never going to marry
him, if that is what you want to know. I am never going to marry
George Ramsey.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily sobbed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think you would be ashamed of yourself. I should
think any girl would, acting so,&rdquo; said Maria. Her voice was a
mere whisper, but it was cruel. She felt that she hated Lily. Then
she realized how icy cold the girl was and how she trembled from
head to feet in a nervous chill. &ldquo;You'll catch your
death,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I don't care if I do!&rdquo; Lily said, in her
hysterical voice, which had now a certain tone of comfort.</p>
<p>Maria considered again how much she despised and hated her, and
again Lily shook with a long tremor. Maria got up and tiptoed over
to her closet, where she kept a little bottle of wine which the
doctor had ordered when she first came to Amity. It was not half
emptied. A wineglass stood on the mantel-shelf, and Maria filled it
with the wine by the light of the moon. Then she returned to
Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Here,&rdquo; she said, still in the same cruel voice.
&ldquo;Sit up and drink this.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; moaned Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind what it is. Sit up and drink it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily sat up and obediently drank the wine, every drop.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now lie down and keep still, and go to sleep, and behave
yourself,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Lily tried to say something, but Maria would not listen to
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you speak another word,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;Keep still, or Aunt Maria will be up. Lie still and go to
sleep.&rdquo;</p>
<p>It was not long before, warmed by the wine and comforted by
Maria's assertion that she was never going to marry George Ramsey,
that Lily fell asleep. Maria lay awake hearing her long, even
breaths, and she felt how she hated her, how she hated herself, how
she hated life. There was no sleep for her. Just before dawn she
woke Lily, bundled her up in some extra clothing, and went with her
across the yard, home.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now go up to your own room just as still as you
can,&rdquo; said she, and her voice sounded terrible even in her
own ears. She waited until she heard the key softly turn in the
door of the Merrill house. Then she sped home and up to her own
room. Then she lay down in bed again and waited for broad
daylight.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXI</h4>
<p>When Maria dressed herself the next morning, she had an odd,
shamed expression as she looked at herself in her glass while
braiding her hair. It actually seemed to her as if she herself, and
not Lily Merrill, had so betrayed herself and given way to an
unsought love. She felt as if she saw Lily instead of herself, and
she was at once humiliated and angered. She had to pass Lily's
house on her way to school, and she did not once look up, although
she had a conviction that Lily was watching her from one of the
sitting-room windows. It was a wild winter day, with frequent gusts
of wind swaying the trees to the breaking of the softer branches,
and flurries of snow. It was hard work to keep the school-house
warm. Maria, in the midst of her perturbation, had a comforted
feeling at seeing Jessy Ramsey in her warm clothing. She passed her
arm around the little girl at recess; it was so cold that only a
few of the boys went outside.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you got them on, dear?&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes'm,&rdquo; said Jessy. Then, to Maria's consternation,
she caught her hand and kissed it, and began sobbing.
&ldquo;They're awful warm,&rdquo; sobbed Jessy Ramsey, looking at
Maria with her little, convulsed face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, child,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;There's nothing to
cry about. Mind you keep them nice. Have you got a bureau-drawer
you can put them in?&mdash;those you haven't on? Don't cry. That's
silly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I 'ain't got no bureau,&rdquo; sobbed Jessy. &ldquo;But&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Haven't any,&rdquo; corrected Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Haven't any bureau-drawer,&rdquo; said the child.
&ldquo;But I got a box what somethin'&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That something,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That something came from the store in, an' I've got 'em&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Them all packed away. They're awful warm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't cry, dear,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>The other children did not seem to be noticing them. Suddenly
Maria, who still had her arm around the thin shoulders of the
little girl, stooped and kissed her rather grimy but soft little
cheek. As she did so, she experienced the same feeling which she
used to have when caressing her little sister Evelyn. It was a sort
of rapture of tenderness and protection. It was the maternal
instinct glorified and rendered spiritual by maidenhood, and its
timid desires. Jessy Ramsey's eyes looked up into Maria's like blue
violets, and Maria noticed with a sudden throb that they were like
George Ramsey's. Jessy, coming as she did from a degenerate,
unbeautiful branch of the family-tree, had yet some of the true
Ramsey features, and, among others, she had the true Ramsey eyes.
They were large and very dark blue, and they were set in deep,
pathetic hollows. As she looked up at Maria, it was exactly as if
George were looking at her with pleading and timid love. Maria took
her arm sudden away from the child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Be you mad?&rdquo; asked Jessy, humbly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I am not,&rdquo; replied Maria. &ldquo;But you should
not say &lsquo;be you mad&rsquo;; you should say are you
angry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes'm,&rdquo; said Jessy Ramsey.</p>
<p>Jessy withdrew, still with timid eyes of devotion fixed upon her
teacher, and Maria seated herself behind her desk, took out some
paper, and began to write an exercise for the children to copy upon
the black-board. She was trembling from head to foot. She felt
exactly as if George Ramsey had been looking at her with eyes of
love, and she remembered that she was married, and it seemed to her
that she was horribly guilty.</p>
<p>Maria never once looked again at Jessy Ramsey, at least not
fully in the eyes, during the day. The child's mouth began to
assume a piteous expression. After school that afternoon she
lingered, as usual, to walk the little way before their roads
separated, so to speak, in her beloved teacher's train. But Maria
spoke quite sharply to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better run right home, Jessy,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;It is snowing, and you will get cold. I have a few things to
see to before I go. Run right home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Poor little Jessy Ramsey, who was as honestly in love with her
teacher as she would ever be with any one in her life, turned
obediently and went away. Maria's heart smote her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Jessy,&rdquo; she called after her, and the child turned
back half frightened, half radiant. Maria put her arm around her
and kissed her. &ldquo;Wash your face before you come to school
to-morrow, dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Now, good-bye.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes'm,&rdquo; said Jessy, and she skipped away quite
happy. She thought teacher had rebuffed her because her face was
not washed, and that did not trouble her in the least. Lack of
cleanliness or lack of morals, when brought home to them, could
hardly sting any scion of that branch of the Ramseys. Lack of
affection could, however, and Jessy was quite happy in thinking
that teacher loved her, and was only vexed because her face was
dirty. Jessy had not gone a dozen paces from the school-house
before she stopped, scooped up some snow in a little, grimy hand,
and rubbed her cheeks violently. Then she wiped them on her new
petticoat. Her cheeks tingled frightfully, but she felt that she
was obeying a mandate of love.</p>
<p>Maria did not see her. She in reality lingered a little over
some exercises in the school-house before she started on her way
home. It was snowing quite steadily, and the wind still blew. The
snow made the wind seem as evident as the wings of a bird. Maria
hurried along. When she reached the bridge across the Ramsey River
she saw a girl standing as if waiting for her. The girl was all
powdered with snow and she had on a thick veil, but Maria
immediately knew that she was Lily Merrill. Lily came up to her as
she reached her with almost an abject motion. She had her veiled
face lowered before the storm, and she carried herself as if her
spirit also was lowered before some wind of fate. She pressed
timidly close to Maria when she reached her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've been waiting for you, Maria,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you?&rdquo; returned Maria, coldly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I wanted to see you, and I didn't know as I could,
unless I met you. I didn't know whether you would have a fire in
your room to-night, and I thought your aunt would be in the
sitting-room, and I thought you wouldn't be apt to come over to my
house, it storms so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I shouldn't,&rdquo; Maria said, shortly.</p>
<p>Then Lily burst out in a piteous low wail, a human wail piercing
the wail of the storm. The two girls were quite alone on the
bridge.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria,&rdquo; said Lily, &ldquo;I did want you to
know how dreadfully ashamed I was of what I did last
night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think you would be,&rdquo; Maria said,
pitilessly. She walked on ahead, with her mouth in a straight line,
and did not look at the other girl.</p>
<p>Lily came closer to her and passed one of her arms through
Maria's and pressed against her softly. &ldquo;I wanted to tell
you, too,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that I made an excuse
about&mdash;that handkerchief the other night. I thought it was in
my coat-pocket all the time. I did it just so he would go home with
me last.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked at her. &ldquo;I never saw such a girl as you are,
Lily Merrill,&rdquo; she said, contemptuously, but in spite of
herself there was a soft accent in her voice. It was not in Maria's
nature to be hard upon a repentant sinner.</p>
<p>Lily leaned her face against Maria's snow-powdered shoulder.
&ldquo;I was dreadfully ashamed of it,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and
I thought I must tell you, Maria. You don't think so very badly of
me, do you? I know I was awful.&rdquo; The longing for affection
and approbation in Lily's voice gave it almost a singing quality.
She was so fond of love and approval that the withdrawal of it
smote her like a frost of the spirit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think it was terribly bold of you, if you want to know
just what I think,&rdquo; Maria said; &ldquo;and I think you were
very deceitful. Before I would do such a thing to get a young man
to go home with me, I would&mdash;&rdquo; Maria paused. Suddenly
she remembered that she had her secret, and she felt humbled before
this other girl whom she was judging. She became conscious to such
an extent of the beam in her own eye that she was too blinded to
see the mote in that of poor Lily, who, indeed, was not to blame,
being simply helpless before her own temperament and her own
emotions.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know I did do a dreadful thing,&rdquo; moaned Lily.</p>
<p>Then Maria pressed the clinging arm under her own.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said she, as she might have spoken to a
child, &ldquo;if I were you I would not think any more about it,
Lily, I would put it out of my mind. Only, I would not, if I were
you, and really wanted a young man to care for me, let him think I
was running after him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>As she said the last, Maria paled. She glanced at Lily's
beautiful face under the veil, and realized that it might be very
easy for any young man to care for such a girl, who had, in
reality, a sweet nature, besides beauty, if she only adopted the
proper course to win him, and that it was obviously her (Maria's)
duty to teach her to win him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know it. I won't again,&rdquo; Lily said, humbly.</p>
<p>The two girls walked on; they had crossed the bridge. Suddenly
Lily plucked up a little spirit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, Maria,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I just happened to think. Mother was asked to tea to Mrs.
Ralph Wright's to-night, but she isn't going. Is your aunt
going?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I believe she is,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She won't be home before eight o'clock, will
she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't suppose she will. They are to have tea at
six, I believe.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then I am coming over after mother and I have tea. I have
something I want to tell you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right, dear,&rdquo; replied Maria, hesitatingly.</p>
<p>When Maria got home she found her aunt Maria all dressed, except
for her collar-fastening. She was waiting for Maria to attend to
that. Her thin gray-blond hair was beautifully crimped, and she
wore her best black silk dress. She was standing by the
sitting-room window when Maria entered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am glad you have come, Maria,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I
have been standing quite awhile. You are late.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I am rather late,&rdquo; replied Maria. &ldquo;But
why on earth didn't you sit down?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you suppose I am going to sit down more than I can
help in this dress?&rdquo; said her aunt. &ldquo;There is nothing
hurts a silk dress more than sitting down in it. Now if you will
hook my collar, Maria. I can do it, but I don't like to strain the
seams by reaching round, and I didn't want to trail this dress down
the cellar stairs to get Eunice to fasten it up.&rdquo; Aunt Maria
bewailed the weather in a deprecating fashion while Maria was
fastening the collar at the back of her skinny neck. &ldquo;I never
want to find fault with the weather,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;because, of course, the weather is regulated by Something
higher than we are, and it must be for our best good, but I do hate
to wear this dress out in such a storm, and I don't dare wear my
cashmere. Mrs. Ralph Wright is so particular she would be sure to
think I didn't pay her proper respect.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can wear my water-proof,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I
didn't wear it to-day, you know. I didn't think the snow would do
this dress any harm. The water-proof will cover you all
up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I suppose I can, and can pin my skirt up,&rdquo;
said Aunt Maria, in a resigned tone. &ldquo;I don't want to find
fault with the weather, but I do hate to pin up a black silk
skirt.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can turn it right up around your waist, and fasten
the braid to your belt, and then it won't hurt it,&rdquo; said
Maria, consolingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I suppose I can. Your supper is all ready, Maria.
There's bread and butter, and chocolate cake, and some oysters. I
thought you wouldn't mind making yourself a little stew. I couldn't
make it before you came, because it wouldn't be fit to eat. You
know how. Be sure the milk is hot before you put the oysters in.
There is a good fire.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, I know how. Don't you worry about me,&rdquo; said
Maria, turning up her aunt's creaseless black silk skirt gingerly.
It was rather incomprehensible to her that anybody should care so
much whether a black silk skirt was creased or not, when the
terrible undertone of emotions which underline the world, and are
its creative motive, were in existence, but Maria was learning
gradually to be patient with the small worries of others which
seemed large to them, and upon which she herself could not place
much stress. She stood at the window, when her aunt at last emerged
from the house, and picked her way through the light snow, and her
mouth twitched a little at the absurd, shapeless figure. Her Aunt
Eunice had joined her, and she was not so shapeless. She held up
her dress quite fashionably on one side, with a rather generous
display of slender legs. Aunt Maria did not consider that her
sister-in-law was quite careful enough of her clothes. &ldquo;Henry
won't always be earning,&rdquo; she often said to Maria. To-day she
had eyed with disapproval Eunice's best black silk trailing from
under her cape, when she entered the sitting-room. She had come
through the cellar.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you going that way, in such a storm, in your best
black silk?&rdquo; she inquired.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I haven't any water-proof,&rdquo; replied Eunice,
&ldquo;and I don't see what else I can do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You might wear my old shawl spread out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wouldn't go through the street cutting such a
figure,&rdquo; said Eunice, with one of her occasional bursts of
spirit. She was delighted to go. Nobody knew how this meek, elderly
woman loved a little excitement. There were red spots on her thin
cheeks, and she looked almost as if she had used rouge. Her eyes
snapped.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think you would turn your skirt up,
anyway,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;You've got your black
petticoat on, haven't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Eunice. &ldquo;But if you think I am
going right through the Main Street in my petticoat, you are
mistaken. Snow won't hurt the silk any. It's a dry snow, and it
will shake right off.&rdquo;</p>
<p>So Eunice, at the side of Aunt Maria, went with her dress kilted
high, and looked as preternaturally slim as her sister-in-law
looked stout. Maria, watching them, thought how funny they were.
She herself was elemental, and they, in their desires and
interests, were like motes floating on the face of the waters.
Maria, while she had always like pretty clothes, had come to a pass
wherein she relegated them to their proper place. She recognized
many things as externals which she had heretofore considered as
essentials. She had developed wonderfully in a few months. As she
turned away from the window she caught a glimpse of Lily Merrill's
lovely face in a window of the opposite house, above a mass of
potted geraniums. Lily nodded, and smiled, and Maria nodded back
again. Her heart sank at the idea of Lily's coming that evening, a
sickening jealous dread of the confidence which she was to make to
her was over her, and yet she said to herself that she had no right
to have this dread. She prepared her supper and ate it, and had
hardly cleared away the table and washed the dishes before Lily
came flying across the yard before the storm-wind. Maria hurried to
the door to let her in.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your aunt went, didn't she?&rdquo; said Lily, entering,
and shaking the flakes of snow from her skirts.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why mother wouldn't go. Mother never goes out
anywhere, and she isn't nearly as old as your aunts.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily and Maria seated themselves in the sitting-room before the
stove. Lily looked at Maria, and a faint red overspread her cheeks.
She began to speak, then she hesitated, and evidently said
something which she had not intended.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How pretty that is!&rdquo; she said, pointing to a great
oleander-tree in flower, which was Aunt Maria's pride.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think it is pretty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lovely. The very prettiest one I ever saw.&rdquo; Lily
hesitated again, but at last she began to speak, with the red on
her cheeks brighter and her eyes turned away from Maria. &ldquo;I
wanted to tell you something, Maria,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Maria. Her own face was quite pale and
motionless. She was doing some fancy-work, embroidering a
centre-piece, and she continued to take careful stitches.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know you thought I was awful, doing the way I did last
night,&rdquo; said Lily, in her sweet murmur. She drooped her head,
and the flush on her oval cheeks was like the flush on a wild rose.
Lily wore a green house-dress, which set her off as the leaves and
stem set off a flower. It was of some soft material which clung
about her and displayed her tender curves. She wore at her throat
an old cameo brooch which had belonged to her grandmother, and
which had upon its onyx background an ivory head as graceful as her
own. Maria, beside Lily, although she herself was very pretty,
looked ordinary in her flannel blouse and black skirt, which was
her school costume.</p>
<p>Maria continued taking careful stitches in the petals of a daisy
which she was embroidering. &ldquo;I think we have talked enough
about it,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I want to tell you something.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you tell it, then?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know you thought I did something awful, running across
the yard and coming here in the night the way I did, and showing
you that I&mdash;I, well, that I minded George Ramsey's coming home
with you; but&mdash;look here, Maria, I&mdash;had a little
reason.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria paled perceptibly, but she kept on steadily with her
work.</p>
<p>Lily flushed more deeply. &ldquo;George Ramsey has been home
with me from evening meeting quite a number of times,&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Has he?&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. Of course we were walking the same way. He may not
really have meant to see me home.&rdquo; There was a sort of innate
honesty in Lily which always led her to retrieve the lapses from
the strict truth when in her favor. &ldquo;Maybe he didn't really
mean to see me home, and sometimes he didn't offer me his
arm,&rdquo; she added, with a childlike wistfulness, as if she
desired Maria to reassure her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say he meant to see you home,&rdquo; said Maria,
rather shortly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not quite sure,&rdquo; said Lily. &ldquo;But he did
walk home with me quite a number of times, first and last, and you
know we used to go to the same school, and a number of times then,
when we were a good deal younger, he really did see me home,
and&mdash;he kissed me good-night then. Of course he hasn't done
that lately, because we were older.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think not, unless you were engaged,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course not, but he has said several things to me.
Maybe he didn't mean anything, but they sounded&mdash;I thought I
would like to tell you, Maria. I have never told anybody, not even
mother. Once he said my name just suited me, and once he asked me
if I thought married people were happier, and once he said he
thought it was a doubtful experiment for a man to marry and try to
live either with his wife's mother or his own. You know, if he
married me, it would have to be one way or the other. Do you think
he meant anything, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I didn't hear
him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I thought he spoke as if he meant it, but, of
course, a girl can never be sure. I suppose men do say so many
things they don't mean. Don't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I suppose they do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think he did, Maria?&rdquo; asked Lily,
piteously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear child, I told you I didn't hear him, and I don't
see how I can tell,&rdquo; repeated Maria, with a little
impatience. It did seem hard to her that she should be so forced
into a confidence of this kind, but an odd feeling of protective
tenderness for Lily was stealing over her. She reached a certain
height of nobility which she had never reached before, through this
feeling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know men so often say things when they mean nothing at
all,&rdquo; Lily said again. &ldquo;Perhaps he didn't mean
anything. I know he has gone home with Agnes Sears several times,
and he has talked to her a good deal when we have been at parties.
Do you think she is pretty, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think she is quite pretty,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think&mdash;she is better-looking than&mdash;I
am?&rdquo; asked Lily, feebly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, of course I don't,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;You are
a perfect beauty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria, do you think so?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I do! You know it yourself as well as I
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, honest, I am never quite sure, Maria. Sometimes it
does seem to me when I am dressed up that I am really
better-looking than some girls, but I am never quite sure that it
isn't because it is I who am looking at myself. A girl wants to
think she is pretty, you know, Maria, especially if she wants
anybody to like her, and I can't ever tell.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you can rest easy about that,&rdquo; said Maria.
&ldquo;You are a perfect beauty. There isn't a girl in Amity to
compare with you. You needn't have any doubt at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>An expression of quite innocent and na&iuml;ve vanity overspread
Lily's charming face. She cast a glance at herself in a glass which
hung on the opposite wall, and smiled as a child might have done at
her own reflection. &ldquo;Do you think this green dress is
becoming to me?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, Maria, do you suppose George Ramsey thinks I am so
pretty?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think he must, if he has eyes in his
head,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you are pretty yourself, Maria,&rdquo; said Lily,
with the most open jealousy and anxiety, &ldquo;and you are smarter
than I am, and he is so smart. I do think he cares a great deal
more for you than for me. I think he must, Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;Just because a young
man walks home with me once you think he is in love with me.&rdquo;
Maria tried to speak lightly and scornfully, but in spite of
herself there was an accent of gratification in her tone. In spite
of herself she forgot for the moment.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think he does, all the same,&rdquo; said Lily,
dejectedly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense! He doesn't; and if he did, he would have to
take it out in caring.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you were in earnest about what you said last
night?&rdquo; said Lily, eagerly. &ldquo;You really mean you
wouldn't have George Ramsey if he asked you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not if he asked every day in the year for a hundred
years.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess you must have seen somebody else whom you
liked,&rdquo; said Lily, and Maria colored furiously. Then Lily
laughed. &ldquo;Oh, you have!&rdquo; she cried, with sudden glee.
&ldquo;You are blushing like anything. Do tell me,
Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have nothing to tell.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham, you don't dare tell me you are not in love
with anybody?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should not answer a question of that kind to any other
girl, anyway,&rdquo; Maria replied, angrily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are. I know it,&rdquo; said Lily. &ldquo;Don't be
angry, dear. I am real glad.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't say I was in love, and there is nothing for you
to be glad about,&rdquo; returned Maria, fairly scarlet with shame
and rage. She tangled the silk with which she was working, and
broke it short off. Maria was as yet not wholly controlled by
herself.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you'll spoil that daisy,&rdquo; Lily said,
wonderingly. She herself was incapable of any such retaliation upon
inanimate objects. She would have carefully untangled her silk, no
matter how deeply she suffered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care if I do!&rdquo; cried Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Maria!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I don't care. I am fairly sick of so much talk and
thinking about love and getting married, as if there were nothing
else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe you are different, Maria,&rdquo; admitted Lily, in
a humiliated fashion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want to hear any more about it,&rdquo; Maria
said, taking a fresh thread from her skein of white silk.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But do you mean what you said?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I do, once for all. That settles it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily looked at her wistfully. She did not find Maria as
sympathetic as she wished. Then she glanced at her beautiful visage
in the glass, and remembered what the other girl had said about her
beauty, and again she smiled her childlike smile of gratified
vanity and pleasure. Then suddenly the door-bell rang.</p>
<p>Lily gave a great start, and turned white as she looked at
Maria. &ldquo;It's George Ramsey,&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense! How do you know?&rdquo; asked Maria, laying her
work on the table beside the lamp, and rising.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know. I do know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; Still Maria stood looking irresolutely
at Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Lily, and she trembled
perceptibly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see how you can tell,&rdquo; said Maria. She made
a step towards the door.</p>
<p>Lily sprang up. &ldquo;I am going home,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Going home? Why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He has come to see you, and I won't stay. I won't. I know
you despised me for what I did the other night, and I won't do such
a thing as to stay when he has come to see another girl. I am not
quite as bad as that.&rdquo; Lily started towards her cloak, which
lay over a chair.</p>
<p>Maria seized her by the shoulders with a nervous grip of her
little hands. &ldquo;Lily Merrill,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;if you
stir, if you dare to stir to go home, I will not go to the door at
all!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily gasped and looked at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I won't!&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>The bell rang a second time.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have got to go to the door,&rdquo; said Maria, with a
sudden impulse.</p>
<p>Lily quivered under her hands.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why? Oh, Maria!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you have. You go to the door, and I will run
up-stairs the back way to my room. I don't feel well to-night,
anyway. I have an awful headache. You go to the door, and if it
is&mdash;George Ramsey, you tell him I have gone to bed with a
headache, and you have come over to stay with me because Aunt Maria
has gone away. Then you can ask him in.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A flush of incredulous joy came over Lily's face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't mean it, Maria?&rdquo; she whispered,
faintly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I do. Hurry, or he'll go away.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you got a headache, honest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I have. Hurry, quick! If it is anybody else do as
you like about asking him in. Hurry!&rdquo;</p>
<p>With that Maria was gone, scudding up the back stairs which led
out of the adjoining room. She gained her chamber as noiselessly as
a shadow. The room was very dark except for a faint gleam on one
wall from a neighbor's lamp. Maria stood still, listening, in the
middle of the floor. She heard the front door opened, then she
heard voices. She heard steps. The steps entered the sitting-room.
Then she heard the voices in a steady flow. One of them was
undoubtedly a man's. The bass resonances were unmistakable. A peal
of girlish laughter rang out. Maria noiselessly groped her way to
her bed, threw herself upon it, face down, and lay there shaking
with silent sobs.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXII</h4>
<p>Maria did not hear Lily laugh again, although the conversation
continued. In reality, Lily was in a state of extreme shyness, and
was, moreover, filled with a sense of wrong-doing. There had been
something about Maria's denial which had not convinced her. In her
heart of hearts, the heart of hearts of a foolish but loving girl,
who never meant anybody any harm, and, on the contrary, wished
everybody well, although naturally herself first, she was quite
sure that Maria also loved George Ramsey. She drooped before him
with this consciousness when she opened the door, and the young man
naturally started with a little surprise at the sight of her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria has gone to bed with a headache,&rdquo; she
faltered, before George had time to inquire for her. Then she
added, in response to the young man's look of astonishment, the
little speech which Maria had prepared for her. &ldquo;Her aunt has
gone out, and so I came over to stay with her.&rdquo; Lily was a
born actress. It was not her fault that a little accent of tender
pity for Maria in her lonely estate, with her aunt away, and a
headache, crept into her voice. She at the moment almost believed
what she said. It became quite real to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry Miss Edgham has a headache,&rdquo; said
George, after a barely perceptible second of hesitation,
&ldquo;but, as long as she has, I may as well come in and make you
a little call, Lily.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily quivered perceptibly. She tried to show becoming pride, but
failed. &ldquo;I should be very happy to have you,&rdquo; she said,
&ldquo;but&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, it <em>is</em> asking you to play second fiddle,
and no mistake,&rdquo; laughed George Ramsey, &ldquo;for I did
think I would make Miss Edgham a little call. But, after all, the
second fiddle is an indispensable thing, and you and I are old
friends, Lily.&rdquo;</p>
<p>He could not help the admiration in his eyes as he looked at
Lily. She carried a little lamp, and the soft light was thrown upon
her lovely face, and her brown hair gleamed gold in it. No man
could have helped admiring her. Lily had never been a very
brilliant scholar, but she could read admiration for herself. She
regained her self-possession.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't mind playing second fiddle,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;I should be glad if I could play any fiddle. Come in, Mr.
Ramsey.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How very formal we have grown!&rdquo; laughed George, as
he took off his coat and hat in the icy little hall. &ldquo;Why,
don't you remember we went to school together? What is the
use?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;George, then,&rdquo; said Lily. Her voice seemed to
caress the name.</p>
<p>The young man colored. He was of a stanch sort, but he was a
man, and the adulation of such a beautiful girl as this touched
him. He took the lamp out of her hand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Come in, then,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;but it is rather
funny for me to be calling on you here, isn't it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Funnier than it would be for you to call on me at my own
house,&rdquo; said Lily, demurely, with a faint accent of
reproach.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I must admit I am not very neighborly,&rdquo;
George replied, with an apologetic air. &ldquo;But, you see, I am
really busy a good many evenings with accounts, and I don't go out
very much.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily reflected that he had come to call on Maria, in spite of
being busy, but she said nothing. She placed Maria's vacant chair
for him beside the sitting-room stove.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a hard storm,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very. It is a queer night for Miss Edgham's aunt to go
out, it seems to me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Ralph Wright has a tea-party,&rdquo; said Lily.
&ldquo;Maria's aunt Eunice has gone, too. My mother was invited,
but mother never goes out in the evening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After these commonplace remarks, Lily seated herself opposite
George Ramsey, and there was a little silence. Again the expression
of admiration came into the young man's face, and the girl read it
with delight. Sitting gracefully, her slender body outlined by the
soft green of her dress, her radiant face showing above the ivory
cameo brooch at her throat, she was charming. George Ramsey owned
to himself that Lily was certainly a great beauty, but all the same
he thought regretfully of the other girl, who was not such a
beauty, but who had somehow appealed to him as no other girl had
ever done. Then, too, Maria was in a measure new. He had known Lily
all his life; the element of wonder and surprise was lacking in his
consciousness of her beauty, and she also lacked something else
which Maria had. Lily meant no more to him&mdash;that is, her
beauty meant no more to him&mdash;than a symmetrical cherry-tree in
the south yard, which was a marvel of scented beauty, humming with
bees every spring. He had seen that tree ever since he could
remember. He always looked upon it with pleasure when it was in
blossom, yet it was not to him what a new tree, standing forth
unexpectedly with its complement of flowers and bees, would have
been. It was very unfortunate for Lily that George had known her
all his life. In order really to attract him it would be necessary
for him to discover something entirely new in her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was very good of you to come in and stay with Miss
Edgham while her aunt was gone,&rdquo; said George.</p>
<p>He felt terribly at a loss for conversation. He had, without
knowing it, a sense of something underneath the externals which put
a constraint upon him.</p>
<p>Lily had one of the truth-telling impulses which redeemed her
from the artifices of her mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I wanted to come. I proposed
coming myself. It is dull evenings at home, and I did not know that
Maria would go to bed or that you would come in.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, mother has gone to that tea-party, too,&rdquo; said
George, &ldquo;and I looked over here and saw the light, and I
thought I would just run in a minute.&rdquo;</p>
<p>For some unexplained reason tears were standing in Lily's eyes
and her mouth quivered a little. George could not see, for the life
of him, why she should be on the verge of tears. He felt a little
impatient, but at the same time she became more interesting to him.
He had never seen Lily weeping since the time when she was a child
at school, and used to conceal her weeping little face in a ring of
her right arm, as was the fashion among the little girls.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This light must shine right in your sitting-room
windows,&rdquo; said Lily, in a faint voice. She was considering
how pitiful it was that George had not had the impulse to call upon
her, Lily, when she was so lovely and loving in her green gown; and
how even this little happiness was not really her own, but another
girl's. She had not the least realization of how Maria was
suffering, lying in her room directly overhead.</p>
<p>Maria suffered as she had never suffered before. George Ramsey
was her first love; the others had been merely childish playthings.
She was strangling love, and that is a desperate deed, and the
strangler suffers more than love. Maria, with the memory of that
marriage which was, indeed, no marriage, but the absurd travesty of
one, upon her, was in almost a suicidal frame of mind. She knew
perfectly well that if it had not been for that marriage secret
which she held always in mind, that George Ramsey would continue to
call, that they would become engaged, that her life might be like
other women's. And now he was down there with Lily&mdash;Lily, in
her green gown. She knew just how Lily would look at him, with her
beautiful, soft eyes. She hated her, and yet she hated herself more
than she hated her. She told herself that she had no good reason
for hating another girl for doing what she herself had
done&mdash;for falling in love with George Ramsey. She knew that
she should never have made a confidant of another girl, as Lily had
made of her. She realized a righteous contempt because of her
weakness, and yet she felt that Lily was the normal girl, that nine
out of ten would do exactly what she had done. And she also had a
sort of pity for her. She could not quite believe that a young man
like George Ramsey could like Lily, who, however beautiful she was,
was undeniably silly. But then she reflected how young men were
popularly supposed not to mind a girl's being silly if she was
beautiful. Then she ceased to pity Lily, and hated her again. She
became quite convinced that George Ramsey would marry her.</p>
<p>She had locked her door, and lay on her bed fully dressed. She
made up her mind that when Aunt Maria came she would pretend to be
asleep. She felt that she could not face Aunt Maria's wondering
questions. Then she reflected that Aunt Maria would be home soon,
and a malicious joy seized her that Lily would not have George
Ramsey long to herself. Indeed, it was scarcely half-past eight
before Maria heard the side-door open. Then she heard, quite
distinctly, Aunt Maria's voice, although she could not distinguish
the words. Maria laughed a little, smothered, hysterical laugh at
the absurdity of the situation.</p>
<p>It was, in fact, ludicrous. Aunt Maria entered the sitting-room,
a grotesque figure in her black skirt bundled up under Maria's
waterproof, which was powdered with snow. She wore her old black
bonnet, and the wind had tipped that rakishly to one side. She
stared at Lily and George Ramsey, who both rose with crimson
faces.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-evening,&rdquo; Lily ventured, feebly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-evening, Miss Stillman,&rdquo; George said,
following the girl's lead. Then, as he was more assured, he added
that it was a very stormy night.</p>
<p>George had been sitting on one side of the stove, Lily on the
other, in the chairs which Maria and Lily had occupied before the
young man's arrival. They had both sprung up with a guilty motion
when Aunt Maria entered. Aunt Maria stood surveying them. She did
not return their good-evenings, nor George's advance with regard to
the weather. Her whole face expressed severe astonishment. Her thin
lips gaped slightly, her pale eyes narrowed. She continued to look
at them, and they stood before her like culprits.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where's Maria gone?&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, finally, in a
voice which seemed to have an edge to it.</p>
<p>Then Lily spoke with soft and timid volubility. &ldquo;Maria
said her head ached so she thought she had better go to bed, Miss
Stillman,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't hear anything about any headache before I went
away. Must have come on mighty sudden,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She said it ached very hard,&rdquo; repeated Lily.
&ldquo;And when the door-bell rang, when Mr. Ramsey came&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's mighty queer she should have had a headache when
George Ramsey rang the door-bell,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess it must have ached before,&rdquo; said Lily,
faintly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should suppose it must have,&rdquo; Aunt Maria said,
sarcastically. &ldquo;I don't see any reason why Maria's head
should begin to ache when the door-bell rang.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Lily. &ldquo;I suppose she just
felt she couldn't talk, that was all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's mighty queer,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. She stood
quite immovable. She was so stern that even her rakishly tipped
bonnet did not seem at all funny. She looked at Lily and George
Ramsey, and did not make a movement to remove her wraps.</p>
<p>Lily took a little, faltering step towards her. &ldquo;You are
all covered with snow, Miss Stillman,&rdquo; she said, in her sweet
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't mind a little snow,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Won't you take this chair?&rdquo; asked George Ramsey,
pointing to the one which he had just vacated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, thank you,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria. &ldquo;I ain't
going to sit down. I've got on my best black silk, and I don't ever
sit down in it when I can help it. I'm going to take it off and go
to bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then George Ramsey immediately made a movement towards his coat
and hat, which lay on the lounge beside Lily's wraps.
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, with an attempt to laugh and be easy,
&ldquo;I must be going. I have to take an early car
to-morrow.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must go, too,&rdquo; said Lily.</p>
<p>They both hustled on their outer garments. They said
good-evening when they went out, but Aunt Maria did not reply. She
immediately took off Maria's water-proof and her bonnet, and
slipped off her best black silk gown. Then she took the little lamp
which was lighted in the kitchen and went up-stairs to Maria's
room. She had an old shawl over her shoulders, otherwise she was in
her black quilted petticoat. She stepped softly, and entered the
spare room opposite Maria's. It was icy cold in there. She set the
lamp on the bureau and went out, closing the door softly. It was
then quite dark in the little passageway between the spare room and
Maria's. Aunt Maria stood looking sharply at Maria's door,
especially at the threshold, which was separated from the floor
quite a space by the shrinkage of the years. The panels, too, had
their crevices, through which light might be seen. It was entirely
dark. Aunt Maria opened the door of the spare room very softly and
got the little lamp off the bureau, and tiptoed down-stairs. Then
she sat down before the sitting-room stove and pulled up her
quilted petticoat till her thin legs were exposed, to warm herself
and not injure the petticoat. She looked unutterably stern and
weary. Suddenly, as she sat there, tears began to roll over her
ascetic cheeks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Lord!&rdquo; she sighed to herself; &ldquo;to think
that child has got to go through the world just the way I have,
when she don't need to!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria rose and got a handkerchief out of her bureau-drawer
in her little bedroom. She did not take the one in the pocket of
her gown because that was her best one, and very fine. Then she sat
down again, pulled up her petticoat again, put the handkerchief
before her poor face, and wept for herself and her niece, because
of a conviction which was over her that for both the joy of life
was to come only from the windows of others.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXIII</h4>
<p>Lily Merrill, going home across the yard through the storm,
leaning on George Ramsey's arm, gave a little, involuntary sob. It
was a sob half of the realization of slighted affection, half of
shame. It gave the little element of strangeness which was lacking
to fascinate the young man. He had a pitiful heart towards women,
and at the sound of the little, stifled sob he pressed Lily's arm
more closely under his own.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't, Lily,&rdquo; he said, softly.</p>
<p>Lily sobbed again; she almost leaned her head towards George's
shoulder. She made a little, irresistible, nestling motion, like a
child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it,&rdquo; she said, brokenly. &ldquo;She
did look at me so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't mind her one bit, Lily,&rdquo; said George. He half
laughed at the memory of Aunt Maria's face, even while the tender
tone sounded in his voice. &ldquo;Don't mind that poor old maid.
Neither of us were to blame. I suppose it did look as if we had
taken possession of her premises, and she was astonished, that was
all. How funny she looked, poor thing, with her bonnet
awry!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know she must think I have done something
dreadful,&rdquo; sobbed Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; George said again, and his pressure of
her arm tightened. &ldquo;I was just going when she came in,
anyway. There is nothing at all to be ashamed of, only&mdash;&rdquo; He hesitated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, to tell you the truth, Lily,&rdquo; he said then,
&ldquo;it does look to me as if Miss Edgham's headache was only
another way of telling me she did not wish to see me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I guess not,&rdquo; said Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;For some reason or other she does not seem to like
me,&rdquo; George said, with rather a troubled voice; but he
directly laughed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see any reason why she shouldn't like you,&rdquo;
Lily said.</p>
<p>They had reached Lily's door, and the light from the
sitting-room windows shone on her lovely face, past which the snow
drifted like a white veil.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I think she doesn't,&rdquo; George said,
carelessly, &ldquo;but you are mighty good to say you see no reason
why she shouldn't. You and I have always been good friends, haven't
we, Lily, ever since we went to school together?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Lily, eagerly, although she did not
like the word friends, which seemed to smite on the heart. She
lifted her face to the young man's, and her lips pouted almost
imperceptibly. It could not have been said that she was inviting a
kiss, but no man could have avoided kissing her. George Ramsey
kissed her as naturally as he breathed. There seemed to be nothing
else to do. It was one of the inevitables of life. Then Lily opened
the door and slid into the house with a tremulous good-night.</p>
<p>George himself felt tremulous, and also astonished and vexed
with himself. He had certainly not meant to kiss Lily Merrill. But
it flashed across his mind that she would not think anything of it,
that he had kissed her often when they were children, and it was
the same thing now. As he went away he glanced back at the lighted
windows, and a man's shadow was quite evident. He wondered who was
calling on Lily's mother, and then wondered, with a slight shadow
of jealousy, if it could be some one who had come to see Lily
herself. He reflected, as he went homeward through the storm, that
a girl as pretty as Lily ought to have some one worthy of her. He
went over in his mind, as he puffed his cigar, all the young men in
Amity, and it did not seem to him that any one of them was quite
the man for her.</p>
<p>When he reached home he found his mother already there, warming
herself by the sitting-room register. She had gone to the tea-party
in a carriage (George would not have her walk), but she was
chilled. She was a delicate, pretty woman. She looked up,
shivering, as George entered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where have you been, dear?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>George laughed, and colored a little. &ldquo;Well, mother, I
went to see one young lady and saw another,&rdquo; he replied.</p>
<p>Just then the maid came in with some hot chocolate, which Mrs.
Ramsey always drank before she went to bed, and she asked no more
questions until the girl had gone; then she resumed the
conversation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you mean, dear?&rdquo; she inquired, looking over
the rim of the china cup at her son, with a slight, anxious
contraction of her forehead.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I felt a little lonely after you went, mother, and
I had nothing especial to do, and it occurred to me that I would go
over and call on our neighbor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;On young Maria Edgham?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, mother.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I suppose it was a polite thing for you to
do,&rdquo; said his mother, mildly, &ldquo;but I don't quite care
for her has I do for some girls. She is so very vehement. I do like
a young girl to be gentle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I didn't see her, mother, in either a gentle or
vehement mood,&rdquo; said George. &ldquo;As nearly as I can find
out, she had a premonition who it was when I rang the door-bell,
and said she had a headache, and ran up-stairs to bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, how do you know?&rdquo; asked his mother, staring at
him. &ldquo;Her aunt was at the tea. Who told you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily Merrill was there,&rdquo; replied George, and again
he was conscious of coloring. &ldquo;She had come to stay with
Maria because her aunt was going out. She answered my ring, and so
I made a little call on her until Miss Stillman returned, and was
so surprised to see her premises invaded and her niece missing that
I think she inferred a conspiracy or a burglar. At all events, Lily
and I were summarily dismissed. I have just seen Lily
home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily Merrill is pretty, and I think she is a nice,
lady-like girl,&rdquo; said Mrs. Ramsey, and she regarded her son
more uneasily than before, &ldquo;but I don't like her mother,
George.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what is the matter with Lily's mother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She isn't genuine. Adeline Merrill was never genuine. She
has always had her selfish ends, and she has reached them by crooks
and turns.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think Lily is genuine enough,&rdquo; said George,
carelessly, putting another lump of sugar in his cup of chocolate.
&ldquo;I have seen more brilliant girls, but she is a beauty, and I
think she is genuine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, perhaps she is,&rdquo; Mrs. Ramsey admitted.
&ldquo;I don't know her very well, but I do know her mother. I know
something now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know you don't like gossip, but if ever a woman
was&mdash;I know it is a vulgar expression&mdash;but if ever a
woman was setting her cap for a man, she is setting hers for Dr.
Ellridge. She never goes anywhere evenings, in the hope that he may
call, and she sends for him when there is nothing whatever the
matter with her, if he doesn't. I know, because Dr. Ellridge's
wife's sister, Miss Emmons, who has kept house for him since his
wife died, told me so. He goes home and tells her, and laughs, but
I know she isn't quite sure that the doctor won't marry
her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Emmons is jealous, perhaps,&rdquo; said George.
&ldquo;Perhaps Mrs. Merrill is really ill.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, the doctor says she is not, and Miss Emmons is not
jealous. She told me that as far as she was concerned, although she
would lose her home, she should be glad to see the doctor married,
if he chose a suitable woman; but I don't think she likes Mrs.
Merrill. I don't see how anybody can like a woman who so openly
proclaims her willingness to marry a man before he has done her the
honor to ask her. It seems shameless to me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps she doesn't,&rdquo; George said again. Then he
added, &ldquo;It would be rather hard for Lily if her mother did
marry the doctor. He is a good man enough, but with his own three
girls, the oldest older than Lily, she would have a hard
time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George looked quite sober, reflecting upon the possible sad lot
of poor Lily if her mother married the second time.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Adeline Merrill wouldn't stop for such a thing as the
feelings of her own daughter, if she had her mind set on
anything,&rdquo; said his mother, in her soft voice, which seemed
to belie the bitterness of her words. She was not in reality bitter
at all, not even towards Mrs. Merrill, but she had clearly defined
rules of conduct for gentlewomen, and she mentioned it when these
rules were transgressed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, mother dear, I can't see that it is likely to make
much difference to either you or me, anyway,&rdquo; said George,
and his mother felt consoled. She told herself that it was not
possible that George thought seriously of Lily, or he would not
speak so.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Stillman is very eccentric,&rdquo; she remarked,
departing from the subject. &ldquo;I offered to bring her home with
me in the carriage. I knew you would not mind the extra money. She
has such a cold that I really wondered that she came at all in such
a storm; but, no, she seemed fairly indignant at the idea. I never
saw any one so proud. I asked Mrs. Henry Stillman, but she did not
like to have her sister-in-law to go alone, so she would not
accept, either; but Miss Stillman walked herself, and made her
sister walk, too, and I am positive it was because she was proud.
Do you really mean you think young Maria did not want to see you,
George?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It looked like it,&rdquo; George replied, laughing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why?&rdquo; asked his mother.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do I know, mother dear? I don't think Miss Edgham
altogether approves of me for some reason.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should like to know what reason she has for not
approving of you,&rdquo; cried his mother, jealously. She looked
admiringly at her son, who was handsome, with a sort of rugged
beauty, and whose face displayed strength, and honesty not to be
questioned. &ldquo;I would like to know who Maria Edgham thinks she
is. She is rather pretty, but she cannot compare with Lily Merrill
as far as that goes, and she is teaching a little district school,
and from what I have seen of her, her manners are subject to
criticism. She is not half as lady-like as other girls in Amity.
When I think of the way she flew in here and attacked us for not
clothing those disreputable people across the river, just because
they have the same name, I can't help being indignant. I never
heard of a young girl's doing such a thing. And I think that if she
ran off when the bell rang, because she thought it was you, it was
certainly very rude. I think she virtually ascribed more meaning to
your call than there was.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily said she had a headache,&rdquo; said George, but his
own face assumed an annoyed expression. That version of Maria's
flight had not occurred to him, and he was a very proud fellow.
When he went up-stairs to his own room he continued wondering
whether it was possible that Maria, remembering their childish
love-affair, could have really dreamed that he had called that
evening with serious intentions, and he grew more and more
indignant at the idea. Then the memory of that soft, hardly
returned kiss which he had given Lily came to him, and now he did
not feel vexed with himself because of it. He was quite certain
that Lily was too gentle and timid to think for a minute that he
meant anything more than their old childish friendship. The memory
of the kiss became very pleasant to him, and he seemed to feel
Lily's lips upon his own like a living flower which thrilled the
heart. The next morning, when he took the trolley-car in front of
his house, Maria was just passing on her way to school. She was
wading rather wearily, yet still sturdily, through the snow. It had
cleared during the night, and there were several inches of drifted
snow in places, although some portions of the road were as bare as
if swept by a broom of the winds.</p>
<p>Maria, tramping through the snow, which was deep just there,
merely glanced at George Ramsey, and said good-morning. She had
plenty of time, if she had chosen to do so, to express her regrets
at not seeing him the evening before, for the car had not yet
reached him. But she said nothing except good-morning, and George
responded rather curtly, raising his hat, and stepping forward
towards the car. He felt it to be unmistakable that Maria wished
him to understand that she did not care for his particular
acquaintance, and the sting which his mother had suggested the
evening before, that she must consider that his attentions were
significant, or she would not take so much trouble to repulse them,
came over him again. He boarded the car, which was late, and moving
sluggishly through the snow. It came to a full stop in front of the
Merrill house, and George saw Lily's head behind a stand of ferns
in one of the front windows. He raised his hat, and she bowed, and
he could see her blush even at that distance. He thought again,
comfortably, that Lily, remembering their childish caresses, could
attach no importance to what had happened the night before, and yet
a thrill of tenderness and pleasure shot through him, and he seemed
to feel again the flower-like touch of her lips. It was a solace
for any man, after receiving such an unmistakable rebuff as he had
just received from Maria Edgham. He had no conception of the girl
plodding through the snow to her daily task. He did not dream that
she saw, instead of the snowy road before, a long stretch of dreary
future, brought about by that very rebuff. But she was quite
merciless with herself. She would not yield for a moment to
regrets. She accepted that stretch of dreary future with a defiant
acquiescence. She bowed pleasantly to the acquaintances whom she
met. They were not many that morning, for the road was hardly
passable in places, being overcurved here and there with blue,
diamond-crested, snowlike cascades, and now presenting ridges like
graves. Half-way to the school-house, Maria saw the village
snow-plough, drawn by a struggling horse and guided by a red-faced
man. She stood aside to let it pass. The man did not look at her.
He frowned ahead at his task. He was quite an old man, and bent,
but with the red of youth brought forth in his cheeks by the frosty
air.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Everybody has to work in some way,&rdquo; Maria thought,
&ldquo;and very few get happiness for their labor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She reflected how soon that man would be lying stiff and stark
under the wintry snows and the summer heats, and how nothing which
might trouble him now would matter. She reflected that, although
she herself was younger and had presumably longer to live, that the
time would inevitably come when even such unhappiness as weighed
her down this morning would not matter. She continued in the
ineffectual track which the snow-plough had made, with a certain
pleasure in the exertion. All Maria's heights of life, her
mountain-summits which she would agonize to reach, were spiritual.
Labor in itself could never daunt her. Always her spirit, the finer
essence of her, would soar butterfly-like above her toiling
members.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful morning; the trees were heavily bent with
snow, which gave out lustres like jewels. The air had a very purity
of life in it. Maria inhaled the frosty, clear air, and regarded
the trees as one might have done who was taking a stimulant. She
kept her mind upon them, and would not think of George Ramsey. As
she neared the school-house, the first child who ran to meet her,
stumbling through the snow, was little Jessy Ramsey. Maria forced
herself to meet smilingly the upward, loving look of those blue
Ramsey eyes. She bent down and kissed Jessy, and the little thing
danced at her side in a rapture.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They be awful warm, my close, teacher,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My clothes are very warm, teacher,&rdquo; corrected
Maria, gravely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My clothes are very warm, teacher,&rdquo; said Jessy,
obediently.</p>
<p>Maria caught the child up in her arms (she was a tiny, half-fed
little thing), and kissed her again. Somehow she got a measure of
comfort from it. After all, love was love, in whatever guise it
came, and this was an innocent love which she could admit with no
question.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That's a good little girl, dear,&rdquo; she said, and set
Jessy down.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXIV</h4>
<p>Maria did not go home for the Christmas holidays. She was very
anxious to do so, but she received a letter from Ida Edgham which
made her resolve to remain where she was.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We should be so very glad to have you come home for the
holidays, dear,&rdquo; wrote Ida, &ldquo;but of course we know how
long the journey is, and how little you are earning, and we are all
well. Your father seems quite well, and so we shall send you some
little remembrance, and try to console ourselves as best we can for
your absence.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria read the letter to her aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't go one step?&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
interrogatively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria. She was quite white. Nobody knew
how she had longed to see her father and little Evelyn, and she had
planned to go, and take Aunt Maria with her, defraying the expenses
out of her scanty earnings.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wouldn't go if you were to offer me a thousand
dollars,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would not, either,&rdquo; responded Maria. She opened
the stove door and thrust the letter in, and watched it burn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How your father ever came to marry that woman&mdash;&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's no use talking about that now,&rdquo; said Maria,
arousing to defence of her father. &ldquo;She was very
pretty!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Pretty enough,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, &ldquo;and I miss
my guess if she didn't do most of the courting. Well, as you say,
there is no use talking it over now. What's done is
done.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria watched Maria's pitiful young face with covert
glances. Maria was finishing a blouse which she had expected to
wear on her journey. She continued her work with resolution, but
every line on her face took a downward curve.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't need to hurry so on that waist now,&rdquo; said
Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want the waist, anyway,&rdquo; replied her niece.
&ldquo;I may as well get it done.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will have to send the Christmas presents,&rdquo; said
Aunt Maria. &ldquo;I don't very well see how you can pack some of
them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I can manage,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>The next day her week of vacation began. She packed the gifts
which she had bought for her father and Evelyn and Ida, and took
them to the express office. The day after that she received the
remembrances of which Ida spoke. They were very pretty. Aunt Maria
thought them extravagant. Ida had sent her a tiny chatelaine watch,
and her father a ring set with a little diamond. Maria knew
perfectly well how her father's heart ached when he sent the ring.
She never for one moment doubted him. She wrote him a most loving
letter, and even a deceptive letter, because of her affection. She
repeated what Ida had written, that it was a long journey, and
expensive, and she did not think it best for her to go home,
although she had longed to do so.</p>
<p>Ida sent Aunt Maria a set of Shakespeare. When it was unpacked,
Aunt Maria looked shrewdly at her niece.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How many sets of Shakespeare has she got?&rdquo; she
inquired. &ldquo;Do you know, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria admitted that she thought she had two.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I miss my guess but she has another exactly just like
this,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;Well, I don't mean to be
ungrateful, and I know Shakespeare is called a great writer, and
they who like him can read him. I would no more sit down and read
all those books through, myself, than I would read Webster's
Dictionary.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can take this set of books up in your room, if you
want them,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;For my part I consider it
an insult for her to send Shakespeare to me. She must have known I
had never had anything to do with Shakespeare. She might just as
well have sent me a crown. Now, your father he has more sense. He
sent me this five-dollar gold-piece so I could buy what I wanted
with it. He knew that he didn't know what I wanted. Your father's a
good man, Maria, but he was weak when he married her; I've got to
say it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think father was weak at all!&rdquo; Maria
retorted, with spirit.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course, I expect you to stand up for your father, that
is right. I wouldn't have you do anything else,&rdquo; Aunt Maria
said approvingly. &ldquo;But he was weak.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She could have married almost anybody,&rdquo; said Maria,
gathering up the despised set of books. She was very glad of them
to fill up the small bamboo bookcase in her own room, and, beside,
she did not share her aunt's animosity to Shakespeare. She
purchased some handkerchiefs for her aunt, with the covert view of
recompensing her for the loss of Ida's present, and Aunt Maria was
delighted with them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If she had had the sense to send me half a dozen
handkerchiefs like these,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I should have
thanked her. Anybody in their senses would rather have half a dozen
nice handkerchiefs than a set of Shakespeare. That is, if they said
just what they meant. I know some folks would be ashamed of not
thinking much of Shakespeare. As for me, I say what I mean.&rdquo;
Aunt Maria tossed her head as she spoke.</p>
<p>She grew daily more like her brother Henry. The family traits in
each became more accentuated. Each posed paradoxically as not being
a poser. Aunt Maria spoke her mind so freely and arrogantly that
she was not much of a favorite in Amity, although she commanded a
certain measure of respect from her strenuous exertions at her own
trumpet, which more than half-convinced people of the accuracy of
her own opinion of herself. Sometimes Maria herself was irritated
by her aunt, but she loved her dearly. She was always aware, too,
of Aunt Maria's unspoken, but perfect approbation and admiration
for herself, Maria, and of a certain sympathy for her, which the
elder woman had the delicacy never to speak of. She had become
aware that Maria, while she repulsed George Ramsey, was doing so
for reasons which she could not divine, and that she suffered
because of it.</p>
<p>One afternoon, not long after Christmas, when Maria returned
from school, almost the first words which her aunt said to her
were, &ldquo;I do hate to see a young man made a fool
of.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned pale, and looked at her aunt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;George Ramsey went past here sleigh-riding with Lily
Merrill a little while ago,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;That
girl's making a fool of him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily is a nice girl, Aunt Maria,&rdquo; Maria said,
faintly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nice enough, but she can't come up to him. She never can.
And when one can't come up, the other has to go down. I've seen it
too many times not to know. There's sleigh-bells now. I guess it's
them coming back. Yes, it is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria did not glance out of the window, and the sleigh, with its
singing bells, flew past. She went wearily up to her own room, and
removed her wraps before supper. Maria had a tiny coal-stove in her
room now, and that was a great comfort to her. She could get away
by herself, when she chose, and sometimes the necessity for so
doing was strong upon her. She wished to think, without Aunt
Maria's sharp eyes upon her, searching her thoughts. Emotion in
Maria was reaching its high-water mark; the need for concealing,
lest it be profaned by other eyes, was over her. Maria felt,
although she was conscious of her aunt's covert sympathy for
something that troubled her which she did not know about, and
grateful for it, that she should die of shame if Aunt Maria did
know. After supper that night she returned to her own room. She
said she had some essays to correct.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I guess I'll step into the other side a
minute,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;Eunice went to the
sewing-meeting this afternoon, and I want to know what they put in
that barrel for that minister out West. I don't believe they had
enough to half fill it. Of all the things they sent the last time,
there wasn't anything fit to be seen.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria seated herself in her own room, beside her tiny stove. She
had a pink shade on her lamp, which stood on her little
centre-table. The exercises were on the table, but she had not
touched them when she heard doors opening and shutting below, then
a step on the stairs. She knew at once it was Lily. Her room door
opened, after a soft knock, and Lily glided gracefully in.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I knew you were up here, dear,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
saw your light, and I saw your aunt's sitting-room lamp go
out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria has only gone in Uncle Henry's side. Sit down,
Lily,&rdquo; said Maria, rising and returning Lily's kiss, and
placing a chair for her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does she always put her lamp out when she goes in
there?&rdquo; asked Lily with innocent wonder.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Maria, rather curtly. That was one of
poor Aunt Maria's petty economies, and she was sensitive with
regard to it. A certain starvation of character, which had resulted
from the lack of material wealth, was evident in Aunt Maria, and
her niece recognized the fact with exceeding pity, and a sense of
wrong at the hands of Providence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How very funny,&rdquo; said Lily.</p>
<p>Maria said nothing. Lily had seated herself in the chair placed
for her, and as usual had at once relapsed into a pose which would
have done credit to an artist's model, a pose of which she was
innocently conscious. She cast approving glances at the graceful
folds of crimson cashmere which swept over her knees; she extended
one little foot in its pointed shoe; she raised her arms with a
gesture peculiar to her and placed them behind her head in such a
fashion that she seemed to embrace herself. Lily in crimson
cashmere, which lent its warm glow to her tender cheeks, and even
seemed to impart a rosy reflection to the gloss of her hair, was
ravishing. To-night, too, her face wore a new expression, one of
triumphant tenderness, which caused her to look fairly
luminous.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It has been a lovely day, hasn't it?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very pleasant,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you know I went sleigh-riding this
afternoon?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; George took me out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That was nice,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We went to Wayland. The sleighing is lovely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought it looked so,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is. Say, Maria!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He said things to me this afternoon that sounded as if he
did mean them. He did, really.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you want me to tell you?&rdquo; asked Lily, eying
Maria happily and yet a little timidly.</p>
<p>Maria straightened herself. &ldquo;If you want to know what I
really think, Lily,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I think no girl should
repeat anything a man says to her, if she does think he really
means it. I think it is between the two. I think it should be held
sacred. I think the girl cheapens it by repeating it, and I don't
think it is fair to the man. I don't care to hear what Mr. Ramsey
said, if you want the truth, Lily.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily looked abashed. &ldquo;I dare say you are right,
Maria,&rdquo; she said, meekly. &ldquo;I won't repeat anything he
said if you don't think I ought, and don't want to hear
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is your new dress done?&rdquo; asked Maria, abruptly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is going to be finished this week,&rdquo; said Lily.
&ldquo;Do you think I am horrid, proposing to tell you what he
said, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, only I don't care to hear any more about
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I hope you don't think I am horrid.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't, dear,&rdquo; said Maria, with an odd sensation
of tenderness for the other, weaker girl, whom she had handled in a
measure roughly with her own stronger character. She looked
admiringly at her as she spoke. &ldquo;Nobody can ever really think
you horrid,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If they did, I should think I was horrid my own
self,&rdquo; said Lily, with the ready acquiescence in the opinion
of another which signified the deepest admiration, even to her own
detriment, and was the redeeming note in her character.</p>
<p>Maria laughed. &ldquo;I declare, Lily,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I
hope you will never be accused of a crime, for I do believe even if
you were innocent, you would side with the lawyer for the
prosecution.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know but I should,&rdquo; said Lily.</p>
<p>Then she ventured to say something more about George Ramsey,
encouraged by Maria's friendliness, but she met with such scanty
sympathy that she refrained. She arose soon, and said she thought
she must go home.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am tired to-night, and I think I had better go to bed
early,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't hurry,&rdquo; Maria said, conventionally; but Lily
kissed Maria and went.</p>
<p>Maria knew that her manner had driven Lily away, but she did not
feel as if she could endure hearing her confidences, and Lily's
confidences had all the impetus of a mountain stream. Had she
remained, they could not have been finally checked. Maria moved her
window curtains slightly and watched Lily flitting across the yard.
She saw her enter the door, and also saw, quite distinctly the
shadow of a man upon the white curtain as he rose to greet her when
she entered. She wondered whether the man was Dr. Ellridge, or
George Ramsey. The shadow looked like that of the older man, she
thought, and she was not mistaken.</p>
<p>Lily, on entering the sitting-room, found Dr. Ellridge with her
mother, and her mother's face was flushed, and she had a conscious
simper. Lily said good-evening, and sat down as usual with her
fancy-work, after she had removed her wraps, but soon her mother
said to her that there was a good fire in her own room, and she
thought that she had better go to bed early, as she must be tired,
and Dr. Ellridge echoed her with rather a foolish expression.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think you ought to sit up late working on
embroidery, Lily,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;You are looking tired
to-night. You must let me prescribe for you a glass of hot milk and
bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily looked at both of them with wondering gentleness, then she
rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is a good fire in the kitchen,&rdquo; said her
mother, &ldquo;and Hannah will heat the milk for you. You had
better do as Dr. Ellridge said. You are going out to-morrow night,
too, you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily said good-night, and went out with a smouldering disquiet
in her heart. When she asked Hannah out in the kitchen to heat the
milk for her, because Dr. Ellridge said she must drink it and then
go to bed, the girl, who had been long with the family and
considered that she in reality was the main-spring of the house,
eyed her curiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Said you had better go to bed?&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;Why, it isn't nine o'clock!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He said I looked tired, Hannah,&rdquo; said Lily
faintly.</p>
<p>Hannah, who was a large, high-shouldered Nova Scotia girl, with
a large, flat face obscured with freckles, sniffed. Lily heard her
say quite distinctly as she went into the pantry for the milk, that
she called it a shame when there were so many grown-up daughters to
think of, for her part.</p>
<p>Lily knew what she meant. She sat quite pale and still while the
milk was heating, and then drank it meekly, said good-night to
Hannah and went up-stairs.</p>
<p>She could not go to sleep, although she went at once to bed, and
extinguished her lamp. She lay there and heard a clock down in the
hall strike the hours. The clock had struck twelve, and she had not
heard Dr. Ellridge go. The whole situation filled her with a sort
of wonder of disgust. She could not imagine her mother and Dr.
Ellridge sitting up until midnight as she might sit up with George
Ramsey. She felt as if she were witnessing a ghastly inversion of
things, as if Love, instead of being in his proper panoply of wings
and roses, was invested with a medicine-case, an obsolete
frock-coat, and elderly obesity. Dr. Ellridge was quite stout. She
wondered how her mother could, and then she wondered how Dr.
Ellridge could. Lily loved her mother, but she had relegated her to
what she considered her proper place in the scheme of things, and
now she was overstepping it. Lily called to mind vividly the lines
on her mother's face, her matronly figure. It seemed to her that
her mother had had her time of love with her father, and this was
as abnormal as two springs in one year. Shortly after twelve, Lily
heard a soft murmur of voices in the hall, then the front door
close. Then her mother came up-stairs and entered her room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you asleep, Lily?&rdquo; she whispered, softly, and
Lily recognized with shame the artificiality of the whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, mother, I am not asleep,&rdquo; she replied, quite
loudly.</p>
<p>Her mother came and sat down on the bed beside her. She patted
Lily's cheeks, and felt for her hand. Lily's impulse was to snatch
it away, but she was too gentle. She let it remain passively in her
mother's nervous clasp.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily, my dear child, I have something to tell you,&rdquo;
whispered Mrs. Merrill.</p>
<p>Lily said nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily, my precious child,&rdquo; said her mother, in her
strained whisper. &ldquo;I don't know whether you have suspected
anything or not, but I am meditating a great change in my life. I
have been very lonely since your dear father died, and I never had
a nature to live alone and be happy. You might as well expect the
vine to live without its tree. I have made up my mind that I shall
be much happier, and Dr. Ellridge will. He needs the sympathy and
love of a wife. His daughters do as well as they can, but a
daughter is not like a wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, mother!&rdquo; said Lily. Then she gave a little sob.
Her mother bent over and kissed her, and Lily smelled Dr.
Ellridge's cigar, and she thought also medicine. She shrank away
from her mother, and sobbed convulsively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear child,&rdquo; said Mrs. Merrill, &ldquo;you need
not feel so badly. There will be no change in your life until you
yourself marry. We shall live right along here. This house is
larger and more convenient than the doctor's. He will rent his
house, and we shall live here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And all those Ellridge girls,&rdquo; sobbed Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are very nice girls, dear. Florence and Amelia will
room together; they can have the southeast room. Mabel, I suppose,
will have to go in the best chamber. Perhaps, by-and-by, Dr.
Ellridge will finish off another room for her. I don't quite like
the idea of having no spare room. But you will keep your own room,
and you will be all the happier for having three nice
sisters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I never liked them,&rdquo; sobbed Lily. It really seemed
to her that she was called upon to marry the Ellridge girls, and
that was the main issue.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are very nice girls,&rdquo; repeated Mrs. Merrill,
and there was obstinacy in her artificially sweet tone.
&ldquo;Everybody says they are very nice girls. You certainly would
not wish your mother to give up her chance of a happy life, because
you have an unwarrantable prejudice against the poor doctor's
daughters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have been married once,&rdquo; said Lily, feebly. It
was as if she made a faint remonstrance because of her mother, who
had already had her reasonable share of cake, taking a second
slice. She had too sweet a disposition to say bitter things, but
the bitterness of the things she might have said was in her
heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you think because I am older it is
foolish,&rdquo; said her mother, in an aggressive voice.
&ldquo;Wait till you yourself are older and you may know how I
feel. You may find out that you cannot give up all the joys of life
because you have been a few years longer in the world. You may not
feel so very different from what you do now.&rdquo; Mrs. Merrill's
voice rang true in this last. There was even a pathetic appeal to
her daughter for sympathy. But Lily continued to sob weakly, and
did not say any more.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, good-night, my dear child,&rdquo; Mrs. Merrill said
finally. &ldquo;You will feel very differently about all this later
on. You will come to see, as I do, that it is for the best. You
will be much happier.&rdquo; Mrs. Merrill kissed Lily again, and
went out. She closed the door with a slight slam.</p>
<p>Lily knew that her mother was angry with her. As for herself,
she considered that she had never been so unhappy in her whole
life. She thought of living with the Ellridge girls, who were
really of a common cast, and always with Dr. Ellridge at the head
of the table, dictating to her as he had done to-night, in his
smooth, slightly satirical way, and her whole soul rose in revolt.
She felt sure that Dr. Ellridge was not at all in love with her
mother, as George Ramsey might be in love with herself. All the
romance had been sucked out of them both years before. She called
to mind again her mother's lined face, her too aggressive curves,
her tightly frizzed hair, and she knew that she was right. She
remembered hearing that Dr. Ellridge's daughters were none of them
domestic, that he had hard work to keep a house-keeper, that his
practice was declining. She remembered how shabby and mean his
little house had looked when she had passed it in the sleigh with
George Ramsey, that very day. She said to herself that Dr. Ellridge
was only marrying her mother for the sake of the loaves and fishes,
for a pretty, well-kept home for himself and his daughters. Lily
had something of a business turn in spite of her feminity. She
calculated how much rent Dr. Ellridge could get for his own house.
That will dress the girls, she thought. She knew that her mother's
income was considerable. Dr. Ellridge would be immeasurably better
off as far as this world's goods went. There was no doubt of that.
Lily felt such a measure of revolt and disgust that it was fairly
like a spiritual nausea. Her own maiden innocence seemed assaulted,
and besides that there was a sense of pitiful grief and wonder that
her mother, besides whom she had nobody in the world, could so
betray her. She was like the proverbial child with its poor little
nose out of joint. She lay and wept like one. The next morning,
when she went down to breakfast, her pretty face was pale and
woe-begone. Her mother gave one defiant glance at her, then spooned
out the cereal with vehemence. Hannah gave a quick, shrewd glance
at her when she set the saucer containing the smoking mess before
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Her mother has told her,&rdquo; she thought. She also
thought that she herself would give notice were it not for poor
Miss Lily.</p>
<p>Lily's extreme gentleness, even when she was distressed, was
calculated to inspire faithfulness in every one. Hannah gave more
than one pitying, indignant glance at the girl's pretty, sad face.
Lily did not dream of sulking to the extent of not eating her
breakfast. She ate just as usual. She even made a remark about the
weather to her mother, although in a little, weeping voice, as if
the weather itself, although it was a brilliant morning, were a
source of misery. Mrs. Merrill replied curtly. Lily took another
spoonful of her cereal.</p>
<p>She remained in her own room the greater part of the day. In the
afternoon her mother, without saying anything to her, took the
trolley for Westbridge. Lily thought with a shiver that she might
be going over there to purchase some article for her trousseau. The
thought of her mother with a trousseau caused her to laugh a
little, hysterical laugh, as she sat alone in her chamber. That
evening she and her mother went to a concert in the town hall. Lily
knew that Dr. Ellridge would accompany her mother home. She
wondered what she should do, what she should be expected to
do&mdash;take the doctor's other arm, or walk behind. She had seen
the doctor with two of his daughters seated, when she and her
mother passed up the aisle. She knew that the two daughters would
go home together, and the doctor would go with her mother. She
thought of George Ramsey. Now and then as the concert proceeded she
twisted her neck slightly and peered around, but she saw nothing of
him. She concluded that he was not there. But when the concert was
over, and she and her mother were passing out the door, and Dr.
Ellridge was pressing close to her mother, under a fire of hostile
glances from his daughters, Lily felt a touch on her own arm. She
turned, and saw George Ramsey's handsome face with a quiver of
unutterable bliss. She took his arm, and followed her mother and
Dr. Ellridge. When they were out in the frosty air, under a low sky
sparkling with multitudinous stars traversed by its mysterious
nebulous highway of the gods, this poor little morsel of a mortal,
engrossed with her poor little troubles, answered a remark of
George's concerning the weather in a trembling voice. Then she
began to weep unreservedly. George with a quick glance around, drew
her around a corner which they had just reached into a street which
afforded a circuitous route home, and which was quite deserted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why Lily, what in the world is the matter?&rdquo; he
said. There was absolutely nothing in his voice or his heart at the
time except friendliness and honest concern for his old playmate's
distress.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother is going to be married to Dr. Ellridge,&rdquo;
whispered Lily, &ldquo;and he and his three horrid daughters are
all coming to live at our house.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George whistled.</p>
<p>Lily sobbed quite aloud.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, poor little girl,&rdquo; said George. He glanced
around; there was not a soul to be seen. Lily's head seemed to
droop as naturally towards his shoulder as a flower towards the
sun. A sudden impulse of tenderness, the tenderness of the strong
for the weak, of man for woman, came over the young fellow. Before
he well knew what he was doing, his arm had passed around Lily's
waist, and the pretty head quite touched his shoulder. George gave
one last bitter thought towards Maria, then he spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;don't cry, Lily dear. If
your mother is going to marry Dr. Ellridge, suppose you get married
too. Suppose you marry me, and come and live at my
house.&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXV</h4>
<p>The next morning, before Maria had started for school, Lily
Merrill came running across the yard, and knocked at the side door.
She always knocked unless she was quite sure that Maria was alone.
She was afraid of her aunt. Aunt Maria opened the door, and Lily
shrank a little before her, in spite of the wonderful glowing
radiance which lit her lovely face that morning.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-morning, Miss Stillman,&rdquo; said Lily,
timidly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. The word was equivalent to
&ldquo;What do you want?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Has Maria gone?&rdquo; asked Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, she is getting dressed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can I run up to her room and see her a minute? I have
something particular I want to tell her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know whether she'd want anybody to come up while
she's dressing or not,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't believe she'd mind me,&rdquo; said Lily,
pleadingly. &ldquo;Would you mind calling up and asking her,
please, Miss Stillman?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>She actually closed the door and left Lily standing in the
bitter wind while she spoke to Maria. Lily heard her faintly
calling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, Maria, that Merrill girl is at the door, and wants
to know if she can come a minute. She's got something she wants to
tell you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Aunt Maria opened the door. &ldquo;I suppose you can go
up,&rdquo; she said, ungraciously. The radiance in Lily's face
filled her with hostility, she did not know why.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, thank you!&rdquo; cried Lily; and ran into the house
and up the stairs to Maria's room.</p>
<p>Maria was standing before the glass brushing her hair, which was
very long, and bright, and thick. Lily went straight to her and
threw her arms around her and began to weep. Maria pushed her aside
gently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what is the matter, Lily?&rdquo; she asked.
&ldquo;Excuse me, but I must finish my hair; I have no more than
time. What is the matter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing is the matter,&rdquo; sobbed Lily,
&ldquo;only&mdash;Oh Maria I am so happy! I have not slept a wink
all night I was so happy. Oh, you don't know how happy I
am!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria's face turned deadly white. She swept the glowing lengths
of her hair over it with a deft movement. &ldquo;Why, what makes
you so happy?&rdquo; she asked, coolly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria, he was in earnest, he was. I am engaged to
George.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria brushed her hair. &ldquo;I am very glad,&rdquo; she said,
in an unfaltering voice. She bent her head, bringing her hair
entirely over her face, preparatory to making a great knot on the
top of her head. &ldquo;I hope you will be very happy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Happy!&rdquo; said Lily. &ldquo;Oh, Maria, you don't know
how happy I am!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am very glad,&rdquo; Maria repeated, brushing her hair
smoothly from her neck. &ldquo;He seems like a very fine young man.
I think you have made a wise choice, Lily.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily flung herself into a chair and looked at Maria. &ldquo;Oh,
Maria dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I wish you were as happy as I.
I hope you will be some time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed, and there was not a trace of bitterness in her
laugh. &ldquo;Well, I shall not cry if I never am,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;What a little goose you are, Lily, to cry!&rdquo; She swept
the hair back from her face, and her color had returned. She looked
squarely at Lily's reflection in the glass, and there was an odd,
triumphant expression on her face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it,&rdquo; sobbed Lily. &ldquo;I always have
cried when I was very happy, and I never was so happy as this; and
last night, before he&mdash;before George asked me&mdash;I was so
miserable I wanted to die. Only think, Maria, mother is going to
marry Dr. Ellridge, and he and his three horrid girls are coming to
live at our house. I don't know how I could have stood it if George
hadn't asked me. Now I shall live with him in his house, of course,
with his mother. I have always liked George's mother. I think she
is sweet.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she is a very sweet woman, and I should think you
could live very happily with her,&rdquo; said Maria, twisting her
hair carefully. Maria had a beautiful neck showing above the lace
of her underwaist. Lily looked at it. Her tears had ceased, and
left not a trace on her smooth cheeks. The lace which Maria's
upward-turned hair displayed had set her flexible mind into a new
channel.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Say, Maria,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it is to be a very
short engagement. It will have to be, on account of mother. A
double wedding would be too ridiculous, and I want to get away
before all those Ellridges come into our house. Dr. Ellridge can't
let his house before spring, and so I think in a month, if I can
get ready.&rdquo; Lily blushed until her face was like the heart of
a rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you have a number of very pretty dresses
now,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I should think you could get
ready.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall have to get a wedding-dress made, and a tea-gown,
and one besides for receiving calls,&rdquo; said Lily. &ldquo;Then
I must have some underwear. Will you go shopping with me in
Westbridge some Saturday, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should be very glad to do so, dear,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is a very pretty lace on your waist,&rdquo; Lily
said, meditatively. &ldquo;I think I shall get ready-made things.
It takes so much time to make them one's self, and besides I think
they are just as pretty. Don't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think one can buy very pretty ready-made things,&rdquo;
Maria said. She slipped on her blouse and fastened her collar.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall be so much obliged to you if you will go,&rdquo;
said Lily. &ldquo;I won't ask mother. To tell you the truth, Maria,
I think it is dreadful that she is going to marry again&mdash;a
widower with three grown-up daughters, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why,&rdquo; Maria said, dropping her black
skirt over her head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't see why?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, not if it makes her happy. People have a right to all
the happiness they can get, at all ages. I used to think myself
that older people were silly to want things like young people, but
now I have changed my mind. Dr. Ellridge is a good man, and I dare
say your mother will be happier, especially if you are going
away.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, if she had not been going to get married herself, I
should rather have lived at home, after I was married,&rdquo; said
Lily. She looked reflectively at Maria as she fastened her belt.
&ldquo;It's queer,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but I do believe my
feeling so terribly about mother's marrying made George ask me
sooner. Of course, he must have meant to ask me some time, or he
would not have asked me at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Maria, getting her hat from the
closet-shelf.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But he walked home with me from the concert last night,
and I couldn't help crying, I felt so dreadfully. Then he asked me
what the matter was, and I told him, and then he asked me right
away. I think maybe he had thought of waiting a little, but that
hastened him. Oh, Maria, I am so happy!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria fastened on her hat carefully. &ldquo;I am very glad,
dear,&rdquo; she said. She turned from the glass, and Lily's face,
smiling at her, seemed to give out light like a star. It might not
have been the highest affection which the girl, who was one of
clear and limpid shadows rather than depths, felt; it might have
had its roots in selfish ends; but it fairly glorified her. Maria
with a sudden impulse bent over her and kissed her. &ldquo;I am
very glad, dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and now I must run, or I
shall be late. My coat is down-stairs.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't say anything before your aunt Maria, will
you?&rdquo; said Lily, rising and following her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, of course, if you don't want me to.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course it will be all over town before night,&rdquo;
said Lily, &ldquo;but someway I would rather your aunt Maria did
not hear it from me. She doesn't like me a bit.&rdquo; Lily said
the last in a whisper.</p>
<p>Both girls went down-stairs, and Maria took her coat from the
rack in the hall.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria opened the sitting-room door. She had a little
satchel with Maria's lunch. &ldquo;Here is your luncheon,&rdquo;
said she, in a hard tone, &ldquo;and you'd better hurry and not
stop to talk, or you'll be late.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going right away, Aunt Maria,&rdquo; said Maria. She
took the satchel, and kissed her aunt on her thin, sallow
cheek.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-morning, Miss Stillman,&rdquo; said Lily, sweetly,
as she followed Maria.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria said nothing at all; she gave Lily a grim nod, while
her lips were tightly compressed. She turned the key in the door
with an audible snap.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, good-bye, dear,&rdquo; said Lily to Maria. &ldquo;I
hope you will be as happy as I am some day, and I know you
will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily's face was entirely sweet and womanly as she turned it
towards Maria for a kiss, which Maria gave her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-bye, dear,&rdquo; she said, gently, and was off.</p>
<p>Nobody knew how glad she was to be off. She had a stunned,
shocked feeling; she realized that her knees trembled, but she held
up her head straight and went on. She realized that worse than
anything else would be the suspicion on the part of any one that
Lily's engagement to George Ramsey troubled her. All the time, as
she hurried along the familiar road, she realized that strange,
shocked feeling, as of some tremendous detonation of spirit. She
bowed mechanically to people whom she met. She did not fairly know
who they were. She kept on her way only through inertia. She felt
that if she stopped to think, she would scarcely know the road to
the school-house. She wondered when she met a girl somewhat older
than herself, just as she reached the bridge, if that girl, who was
plain and poorly dressed, one of those who seem to make no
aspirations to the sweets of life, if she had ever felt as she
herself did. Such a curiosity possessed her concerning it that she
wished she could ask the girl, although she did not know her. She
dreaded lest Jessy Ramsey should run to meet her, and her dread was
realized. However, Maria was not as distressed by it as she
thought. She stooped and kissed Jessy quite easily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-morning, dear,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>A shock of any kind has the quality of mercy in that it benumbs
as to pain. Maria's only realization was that something monstrous
had happened, something like mutilation, but there was no sting of
agony. She entered the school-house and went about her duties as
usual. The children realized no difference in her, but all the time
she realized the difference in herself. Something had gone from
her, some essential part which she could never recover, not in
itself, no matter what her future life might be. She was shorn of
her first love, and that which has been never can be again.</p>
<p>When Maria reached the bridge on her way home, there was Lily
waiting for her, as she had half expected she would be.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria, dear,&rdquo; said Lily, with a pretty gesture of
pleading, &ldquo;I had to come and meet you, because I am so happy,
and nobody else knows, except mother, and, somehow, her being
pleased doesn't please me. I suppose I am wicked, but it makes me
angry. I know it is awful to say such a thing of my own mother, but
I can't help feeling that she thinks now she can have my room for
Mabel Ellridge, and won't have to give up the spare chamber. I have
nobody to talk to but you, Maria. George won't come over before
evening, and I am scared to go in and see his mother. I am so
afraid she won't like me. Do you think she will like me, Maria
dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why she should not,&rdquo; replied Maria.
Lily had hold of her arm and was nestling close to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you, honest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear. I said so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't mind my coming to meet you and talk it over, do
you, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I don't! Why should I?&rdquo; asked Maria,
almost angrily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought you wouldn't. Maria, do you think a blue
tea-gown or a pink one would be prettier?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think pink is your color,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I rather like the idea of pink myself. Mother says
I shall have enough money to get some nice things. I suppose it is
very silly, but I always thought that one of the pleasantest things
about getting married, must be having some pretty, new clothes. Do
you think I am very silly, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say most girls feel so,&rdquo; said Maria,
patiently.</p>
<p>As she spoke she looked away from the other girl at the wintry
landscape. There was to the eastward of Amity a low range of hills,
hardly mountains. These were snow-covered, and beneath the light of
the setting sun gave out wonderful hues and lights of rose and blue
and pearl. It was to Maria as if she herself, being immeasurably
taller than Lily and the other girls whom she typified, could see
farther and higher, even to her own agony of mind. It is a great
deal for a small nature to be pleased with the small things of
life. A large nature may miss a good deal in not being pleased with
them. Maria realized that she herself, in Lily's place, could have
no grasp of mind petty enough for pink and blue tea-gowns, that she
had outgrown that stage of her existence. She still liked pretty
things, but they had now become dwarfed by her emotions, whereas,
in the case of the other girl, the danger was that the emotions
themselves should become dwarfed. Lily was typical, and there is
after all a certain security as to peace and comfort in being one
of a kind, and not isolated.</p>
<p>Lily talked about her bridal wardrobe all the way until they
reached the Ramsey house; then she glanced up at the windows and
bowed, dimpling and blushing. &ldquo;That's his mother,&rdquo; she
said to Maria. &ldquo;I wonder if George has told her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think he must have,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am so glad you think she will like me. I wonder what
room we shall have, and whether there will be new furniture. I
don't know how the up-stairs rooms are furnished, do
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, how should I? I was never up-stairs in the house in
my life,&rdquo; said Maria. Again she gazed away from Lily at the
snow-covered hills. Her face wore an expression of forced patience.
It really seemed to her as if she were stung by a swarm of
platitudes like bees.</p>
<p>Lily kissed her at her door. &ldquo;I should ask if I couldn't
come over this evening, and sit up in your room and talk it
over,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but I suppose he will be likely to
come. He didn't say so, but I suppose he will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should judge so,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>When she entered the sitting-room, her aunt, who was knitting
with a sort of fierce energy, looked up. &ldquo;Oh, it's
you!&rdquo; said she. Her face had an expression of hostility and
tenderness at once.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, Aunt Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria surveyed her scrutinizingly. &ldquo;You don't mean to
say you didn't wear your knit jacket under your coat, such a bitter
day as this?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have been warm enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria sniffed. &ldquo;I wonder when you will ever be old
enough to take care of yourself?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;You need
to be watched every minute like a baby.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was warm enough, Aunt Maria,&rdquo; Maria repeated,
patiently.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, sit down here by the stove and get heated through
while I see to supper,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, crossly. &ldquo;I've
got a hot beef-stew with dumplings for supper, and I guess I'll
make some chocolate instead of tea. That always seems to me to warm
up anybody better.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you want me to help?&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No; everything is all done except to make the chocolate.
I've had the stew on hours. A stew isn't good for a thing unless
you have it on long enough to get the goodness out of the
bone.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria opened the door leading to the dining-room. In winter
it served the two as both kitchen and dining-room, having a
compromising sort of stove on which one could cook, and which still
did not look entirely plebeian and fitted only for the kitchen.
Maria saw through the open door the neatly laid table, with its red
cloth and Aunt Maria's thin silver spoons and china. Aunt Maria had
a weakness in one respect. She liked to use china, and did not keep
that which had descended to her from her mother stored away, to be
taken out only for company, as her sister-in-law thought she
properly should do. The china was a fine Lowestoft pattern, and it
was Aunt Maria's pride that not a piece was missing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;As long as I take care of my china myself, and am not
dependent on some great, clumsy girl, I guess I can afford to use
it,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>As Maria eyed the delicate little cups a savory odor of stew
floated through the room. She realized that she was not hungry,
that the odor of food nauseated her with a sort of physical
sympathy with the nausea of her soul, with life itself. Then she
straightened herself, and shut her mouth hard. The look of her New
England ancestresses who had borne life and death without flinching
was on her face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will be hungry,&rdquo; Maria said to herself.
&ldquo;Why should I lose my appetite because a man who does not
care for me is going to marry another girl, and when I am married,
too, and have no right even to think of him for one minute even if
he had been in earnest, if he had thought of me? Why should I lose
my appetite? Why should I go without my supper? I will eat. More
than that, I will enjoy eating, and neither George Ramsey nor Lily
Merrill shall prevent it, neither they nor my own self.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria sniffed the stew, and she compelled herself, by sheer
force of will, to find the combined odor of boiling meat and
vegetables inviting. She became hungry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That stew smells so good,&rdquo; she called out to her
aunt, and her voice rang with triumph.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess it <em>is</em> a good stew,&rdquo; her aunt
called back in reply. &ldquo;I've had it on four hours, and I've
made dumplings.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lovely!&rdquo; cried Maria. She said to herself defiantly
and proudly, that there were little zests of life which she might
have if she could not have the greatest joys, and those little
zests she would not be cheated out of by any adverse fate. She said
practically to herself, that if she could not have love she could
have a stew, and it might be worse. She smiled to herself over her
whimsical conceit, and her face lost its bitter, strained look
which it had worn all day. She reflected that even if she could not
marry George Ramsey, and had turned the cold shoulder to him, he
had been undeniably fickle; that his fancy had been lightly turned
aside by a pretty face which was not accompanied by great mental
power. She had felt a contempt for George, and scorn for Lily, but
now her face cleared, and her attitude of mind. She had gained a
petty triumph over herself, and along with that came a clearer view
of the situation. When Aunt Maria called her to supper, she jumped
up, and ran into the dining-room, and seated herself at the
table.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am as hungry as a bear,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria behind her delicate china teacups gave a sniff of
satisfaction, and her set face softened. &ldquo;Well, I'm glad you
are,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I guess the stew is good.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course it is,&rdquo; said Maria. She lifted the cover
of the dish and began ladling out the stew with a small, thin,
silver ladle which had come to Aunt Maria along with the china from
her mother. She passed a plate over to her aunt, and filled her
own, and began eating. &ldquo;It is delicious,&rdquo; said she. The
stew really pleased her palate, and she had the feeling of a
conqueror who has gained one of the outposts in a battle. Aunt
Maria passed her a thin china cup filled with frothing chocolate,
and Maria praise that too. &ldquo;Your chocolate is so much nicer
than our cook used to make,&rdquo; said she, and Aunt Maria
beamed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I've got some lemon-cake, too,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I call this a supper fit for a queen,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought I would make the cake this afternoon. I thought
maybe you would like it,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, smiling. Her own
pride was appeased. The feeling that Maria, her niece whom she
adored, had been slighted, had rankled within her all day. Now she
told herself that Maria did not care; that she might have been
foolish in not caring and taking advantage of such a matrimonial
chance, but that she did not care, and that she consequently was
not slighted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I s'pose Lily told you the news this
morning?&rdquo; she said, presently. &ldquo;I s'pose that was why
she wanted to see you. I s'pose she was so tickled she couldn't
wait to tell of it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You mean her engagement to Mr. Ramsey?&rdquo; said Maria,
helping herself to more stew.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. Eunice came in and told before you'd been gone half
an hour. She'd been down to the store, and I guess Lily's mother
had told it to somebody there. I s'pose Adeline Merrill is tickled
to death to get Lily out of the way, now she's going to get married
herself. She would have had to give up her spare chamber if she
hadn't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It seems to me a very nice arrangement,&rdquo; said
Maria, taking a spoonful of stew. &ldquo;It would have been hard
for poor Lily, and now she will live with Mr. Ramsey and his
mother, and Mrs. Ramsey seems to be a lovely woman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she is,&rdquo; assented Aunt Maria. &ldquo;She was
built on a different plan from Adeline Merrill. She came of better
stock. But I don't see what George Ramsey is thinking of, for my
part.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lily is very pretty and has a very good
disposition,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I think she will make him a
good wife.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria sniffed. &ldquo;Now, Maria Edgham,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;what's the use. You know it's sour grapes he's getting. You
know he wanted somebody else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Whom?&rdquo; asked Maria, innocently, sipping her
chocolate.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You know he wanted you, Maria Edgham.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He got over it pretty quickly then,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe he hasn't got over it. Lily Merrill is just one of
the kind of girls who lead a man on when they don't know they're
being led. He is proud, too; he comes of a family that have always
held their heads high. He wanted you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can't tell me. I know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria,&rdquo; said Maria, with sudden earnestness,
&ldquo;if you ever tell such a thing as that out, I don't know what
I shall do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I ain't going to have folks think you're slighted,&rdquo;
said Aunt Maria. She had made up her mind, in fact, to tell Eunice
after supper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Slighted!&rdquo; said Maria, angrily. &ldquo;There is no
question of slight. Do you think I was in love with George
Ramsey?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't, for if you had been you would have had him
instead of letting a little dolly-pinky, rosy-like Lily Merrill get
him. I think he was a good match, and I don't know what possessed
you, but I don't think you wanted him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you talk about it you will make people think
so,&rdquo; said Maria, passionately; &ldquo;and if they do I will
go away from Amity and never come back as long as I
live.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria looked with sharp, gleaming eyes at her niece.
&ldquo;Maria Edgham, you've got something on your mind,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you have, and I want to know what it is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;My mind is my own,&rdquo; said Maria, indignantly, even
cruelly. Then she rose from the table and ran up-stairs to her own
room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You have gone off without touching the lemon-cake,&rdquo;
her aunt called after her, but Maria made no response.</p>
<p>Lemon-cake was an outpost which she could not then take. She had
reached her limit, for the time being. She sat down beside her
window in the dark room, lighted only by the gleam from the Merrill
house across the yard and an electric light on the street corner.
There were curious lights and shadows over the walls; strange
flickerings and wavings as of intangible creatures, unspoken
thoughts. Maria rested her elbows on the window-sill, and rested
her chin in her hands, and gazed out. Presently, with a quiver of
despair, she saw the door of the Merrill house open and Lily come
flitting across the yard. She thought, with a shudder, that she was
coming to make a few more confidences before George Ramsey arrived.
She heard a timid little knock on the side door, then her aunt's
harsh and uncompromising, &ldquo;No, Maria ain't at home,&rdquo;
said she, lying with the utter unrestraint of one who believes in
fire and brimstone, and yet lies. She even repeated it, and
emphasized and particularized her lie, seemingly with a grim
enjoyment of sin, now that she had taken hold of it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria went out right after supper,&rdquo; said she. Then,
evidently in response to Lily's low inquiry of where she had gone
and when she would be home, she said: &ldquo;She went to the
post-office. She was expecting a letter from a gentleman in Edgham,
I guess, and I shouldn't wonder if she stopped in at the Monroes'
and played cards. They've been teasing her to. I shouldn't be
surprised if she wasn't home till ten o'clock.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria heard her aunt with wonder which savored of horror, but
she heard the door close and saw Lily flit back across the yard
with a feeling of immeasurable relief. Then she heard her aunt's
voice at her door, opened a narrow crack.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you warm enough in here?&rdquo; asked Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, plenty warm enough.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You'd better not light a lamp,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
coolly; &ldquo;I just told that Merrill girl that you had gone
out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I hadn't,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I knew it; but there are times when a lie ain't a lie,
it's only the truth upside-down. I knew that you didn't want that
doll-faced thing over here again. She had better stay at home and
wait for her new beau. She was all prinked up fit to kill. I told
her you had gone out, and I meant to, but you'd better not light
your lamp for a little while. It won't matter after a little while.
I suppose the beau will come, and she won't pay any attention to
it. But if you light it right away she'll think you've got back and
come tearing over here again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I'll sit here a
little while, and then I'll light my lamp. I've got some work to
do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I'm going into the other side, after I've finished the
dishes,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You won't&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I won't. Let George Ramsey chew his sour grapes if he
wants to. I sha'n't say anything about it. Anybody with any sense
can't help knowing a man of sense would have rather had you than
Lily Merrill. I ain't afraid of anybody thinking you're
slighted.&rdquo; There was indignant and acrid loyalty in Aunt
Maria's tone. She closed the door, as was her wont, with a little
slam and went down-stairs. Aunt Maria walked very heavily. Her
steps jarred the house.</p>
<p>Maria continued sitting at her window. Presently a new light, a
rosy light of a lamp under a pink shade, flashed in her eyes. The
parlor in the Merrill house was lighted. Maria saw Lily draw down
the curtain, upon which directly appeared the shadows of growing
plants behind it in a delicate grace of tracery. Presently Maria
saw a horse and sleigh drive into the Merrill yard. She saw Mrs.
Merrill open the side-door, and Dr. Ellridge enter. Then she
watched longer, and presently a dark shadow of a man passed down
the street, of which she could see a short stretch from her window,
and she saw him go to the front door of the Merrill house. Maria
knew that was George Ramsey. She laughed a little, hysterical laugh
as she sat there in the dark. It was ridiculous, the two pairs of
lovers in the two rooms! The second-hand, warmed-over, renovated
love and the new. After Maria laughed she sobbed. Then she checked
her sobs and sat quite still and fought, and presently a strange
thing happened, which is not possible to all, but is possible to
some. With an effort of the will which shocked her house of life,
and her very soul, and left marks which she would bear to all
eternity, she put this unlawful love for the lover of another out
of her heart. She closed all her doors and windows of thought and
sense upon him, and the love was gone, and in its place was an
awful emptiness which yet filled her with triumph.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not love him at all now,&rdquo; she said, quite
aloud; and it was true that she did not. She rose, pulled down her
curtains, lighted her lamp, and went to work.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXVI</h4>
<p>Maria, after that, went on her way as before. She saw, without
the slightest qualm, incredible as it may seem, George Ramsey
devoted to Lily. She even entered without any shrinking into Lily's
plans for her trousseau, and repeatedly went shopping with her. She
began embroidering a bureau-scarf and table-cover for Lily's room
in the Ramsey house. It had been settled that the young couple were
to have the large front chamber, and Mrs. Merrill's present to Lily
was a set of furniture for it. Mrs. Ramsey's old-fashioned walnut
set was stowed away. Maria even went with Mrs. Merrill to purchase
the furniture. Mrs. Merrill had an idea, which could not be
subdued, that Maria would have liked George Ramsey for herself, and
she took a covert delight in pressing Maria into this service, and
descanting upon the pleasant life in store for her daughter. Maria
understood with a sort of scorn Mrs. Merrill's thought; but she
said to herself that if it gave her pleasure, let her think so. She
had a character which could leave people to their mean and
malicious delights for very contempt.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I guess Lily's envied by a good many girls in
Amity,&rdquo; said Mrs. Merrill, almost undisguisedly, when she and
Maria had settled upon a charming set of furniture.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I dare say,&rdquo; replied Maria. &ldquo;Mr. Ramsey seems
a very good young man.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's the salt of the earth,&rdquo; said Mrs. Merrill. She
gave a glance of thwarted malice at Maria's pretty face as they
were seated side by side in the trolley-car on their way home that
day. Her farthest imagination could discern no traces of chagrin,
and Maria looked unusually well that day in a new suit. However,
she consoled herself by thinking that Maria was undoubtedly like
her aunt, who would die before she let on that she was hit, and
that the girl, under her calm and smiling face, was stung with envy
and slighted affection.</p>
<p>Lily asked Maria to be her maid of honor. She planned to be
married in church, but George Ramsey unexpectedly vetoed the church
wedding. He wished a simple wedding at Lily's house. He even
demurred at the bridal-gown and veil, but Lily had her way about
that. Maria consented with no hesitation to be her maid of honor,
although she refused to allow Mrs. Merrill to purchase her dress.
She purchased some white cloth, and had it cut and fitted, and she
herself made it, embroidering it with white silk, sitting up far
into the night after school. But, after all, she was destined not
to wear the dress to Lily's wedding and not to be her maid of
honor.</p>
<p>The wedding was to be the first week of Maria's spring vacation,
and she unexpectedly received word from home that her father was
not well, and that she had better go home as soon as her school was
finished. Her father himself wrote. He wrote guardedly, evidently
without Ida's knowledge. He said that, unless her heart was
particularly set upon attending the wedding, he wished she would
come home; that her vacation was short, at the best, that he had
not seen her for a long time, and that he did not feel quite
himself some days. Maria read between the lines, and so did her
aunt Maria, to whom she read the letter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father's sicker than he lets on,&rdquo; Aunt Maria
said, bluntly. &ldquo;You'd better go. You don't care anything
particular about going to that Merrill girl's wedding. She can get
Fanny Ellwell for her maid of honor. That dress Fanny wore at Eva
Granger's wedding will do for her to wear. Your dress will come in
handy next summer. You had better go home.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria sat soberly looking at the letter. &ldquo;I am afraid
father is worse than he says,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know he is. Harry Edgham wasn't ever very strong, and
I'll warrant his wife has made him go out when he didn't feel equal
to it, and she has had stacks of company, and he must have had to
strain every nerve to meet expenses, poor man! You'd better go,
Maria.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course, I am going,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>That evening she went over and told Lily that she could not be
her maid of honor, that her father was sick, and she would be
obliged to go home as soon as school closed. George Ramsey was
calling, and Lily's face had a lovely pink radiance. One could
almost seem to see the kisses of love upon it. George acted a
little perturbed at sight of Maria. He remained silent during
Lily's torrent of regrets and remonstrances, but he followed Maria
to the door and said to her how sorry he was that her father was
ill.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope it is nothing serious,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I hope not, but I
don't think my father is very strong, and I feel that I ought to
go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said George. &ldquo;We shall be sorry
to miss you, but, if your father is ill, you ought to
go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think one day would make any difference?&rdquo;
said Lily, pleadingly, putting up her lovely face at Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It would mean three days, you know, dear,&rdquo; Maria
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course it would,&rdquo; said George; &ldquo;and Miss
Edgham is entirely right, Lily.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want Fanny Ellwell one bit for maid of
honor,&rdquo; Lily said, poutingly.</p>
<p>Maria did not pay any attention. She was thinking anxiously of
her father. She realized that he must be very ill or he would not
have written her as he had done. It was not like Harry Edgham to
deprive any one of any prospective pleasure, and he had no reason
to think that being maid of honor at this wedding was anything but
a pleasure to Maria. She felt that the illness must be something
serious. Her school was to close in three days, and she was almost
too impatient to wait.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ida Edgham ought to be ashamed of herself for not writing
and letting you know that your father was sick before,&rdquo; said
Aunt Maria. &ldquo;She and Lily Merrill are about of a
piece.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe father didn't want her to,&rdquo; said Maria.
&ldquo;Father knew my school didn't close until next Thursday. If I
thought he was very ill I would try to get a substitute and start
off before.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But I know your father wouldn't have written for you to
come unless he wasn't well and wanted to see you,&rdquo; said Aunt
Maria. &ldquo;I shouldn't be a mite surprised, too, if he suspected
that Ida would write you not to come, and thought he'd get ahead of
her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria was right. In the next mail came a letter from Ida,
saying that she supposed Maria would not think she could come home
for such a short vacation, especially a she had to stay a little
longer in Amity for the wedding, and how sorry they all were, and
how they should look forward to the long summer vacation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She doesn't say a word about father's being ill,&rdquo;
said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course she doesn't! She knew perfectly well that if
she did you would go home whether or no; or maybe she hasn't got
eyes for anything aside from herself to see that he is
sick.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria grew so uneasy about her father that she engaged a
substitute and went home two days before her vacation actually
commenced. She sent a telegram, saying that she was coming, and on
what train she should arrive. Evelyn met her at the station in
Edgham. She had grown, and was nearly as tall as Maria, although
only a child. She was fairly dancing with pleasurable expectation
on the platform, with the uncertain grace of a butterfly over a
rose, when Maria caught sight of her. Evelyn was a remarkably
beautiful little girl. She had her mother's color and dimples, with
none of her hardness. Her forehead, for some odd reason, was high
and serious, like Maria's own, and Maria's own mother's. Her dark
hair was tied with a crisp white bow, and she was charmingly
dressed in red from head to foot&mdash;a red frock, red coat, and
red hat. Ida could at least plead, in extenuation of her faults of
life, that she had done her very best to clothe those around her
with beauty and grace. When Maria got off the car, Evelyn made one
leap towards her, and her slender, red-clad arms went around her
neck. She hugged and kissed her with a passionate fervor odd to see
in a child. Her charming face was all convulsed with emotion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, sister!&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Oh,
sister!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria kissed her fondly. &ldquo;Sister's darling,&rdquo; she
said. Then she put her gently away. &ldquo;Sister has to get out
her trunk-check and see to getting a carriage,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mamma has gone to New York,&rdquo; said Evelyn,
&ldquo;and papa has not got home yet. He comes on the next train.
He told me to come and meet you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria, after she had seen to her baggage and was seated in the
livery carriage with Evelyn, asked how her father was. &ldquo;Is
father ill, dear?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Evelyn looked at her with surprise. &ldquo;Why, no, sister, I
don't think so,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Mamma hasn't said
anything about it, and I haven't heard papa say anything,
either.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does he go to New York every day?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, of course,&rdquo; said Evelyn. The little girl had
kept looking at her sister with loving, adoring eyes. Now she
suddenly cuddled up close to her and thrust her arm through
Maria's. &ldquo;Oh, sister!&rdquo; she said, half sobbingly
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There, don't cry, sister's own precious,&rdquo; Maria
said, kissing the little, glowing face on her shoulder. She
realized all at once how hard the separation had been from her
sister. &ldquo;Are you glad to have me home?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>For answer Evelyn only clung the closer. There was a strange
passion in the look of her big eyes as she glanced up at her
sister. Maria was too young herself to realize it, but the child
had a dangerous temperament. She had inherited none of her mother's
hard phlegmaticism. She was glowing and tingling with emotion and
life and feeling in every nerve and vein. As she clung to her
sister she trembled all over her lithe little body with the
violence of her affection for her and her delight at meeting her
again. Evelyn had made a sort of heroine of her older sister. Her
imagination had glorified her, and now the sight of her did not
disappoint her in the least. Evelyn thought Maria, in her brown
travelling-gown and big, brown-feathered hat, perfectly beautiful.
She was proud of her with a pride which reached ecstasy; she loved
her with a love which reached ecstasy.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So father goes to New York every day?&rdquo; said Maria
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Evelyn. Then she repeated her ecstatic
&ldquo;Oh, sister!&rdquo;</p>
<p>To Maria herself the affection of the little girl was
inexpressibly grateful. She said to herself that she had something,
after all. She thought of Lily Merrill, and reflected how much more
she loved Evelyn than she had loved George Ramsey, how much more
precious a little, innocent, beautiful girl was than a man. She
felt somewhat reassured about her father's health. It did not seem
to her that he could be very ill if he went to New York every
day.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mamma has gone to the matin&eacute;e,&rdquo; said Evelyn,
nestling luxuriously, like a kitten, against Maria. &ldquo;She said
she would bring me some candy. Mamma wore her new blue velvet gown,
and she looked lovely, but&rdquo;&mdash;Evelyn hesitated a second,
then she whispered with her lips close to Maria's
ear&mdash;&ldquo;I love you best.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn, darling, you must not say such things,&rdquo;
said Maria, severely. &ldquo;Of course, you love your own mother
best.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't,&rdquo; persisted Evelyn. &ldquo;Maybe it's
wicked, but I don't. I love papa as well as I do you, but I don't
love mamma so well. Mamma gets me pretty things to wear, and she
smiles at me, but I don't love her so much. I can't help
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is a naughty little girl,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it,&rdquo; said Evelyn. &ldquo;Mamma can't
love anybody as hard as I can. I can love anybody so hard it makes
me shake all over, and I feel ill, but mamma can't. I love you so,
Maria, that I don't feel well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; said Maria, but she kissed Evelyn
again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't&mdash;honest,&rdquo; said Evelyn. Then she added,
after a second's pause, &ldquo;If I tell you something, won't you
tell mamma&mdash;honest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't promise if I don't know what it is,&rdquo; said
Maria, with her school-teacher manner.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It isn't any harm, but mamma wouldn't understand. She
never felt so, and she wouldn't understand. You won't tell her,
will you, sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I guess not,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Promise.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I won't tell her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn looked up in her sister's face with her wonderful dark
eyes, a rose flush spread over her face. &ldquo;Well, I am in
love,&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>Maria laughed, although she tried not to. &ldquo;Well, with
whom, dear?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;With a boy. Do you think it is wrong, sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't think it is very wrong,&rdquo; replied Maria,
trying to restrain her smile.</p>
<p>&ldquo;His first name is pretty, but his last isn't so
very,&rdquo; Evelyn said, regretfully. &ldquo;His first name is
Ernest. Don't you think that is a pretty name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very pretty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But his last name is only Jenks,&rdquo; said Evelyn, with
a mortified air. &ldquo;That is horrid, isn't it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody can help his name,&rdquo; said Maria,
consolingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course he can't. Poor Ernest isn't to blame because
his mother married a man named Jenks; but I wish she hadn't. If we
ever get married, I don't want to be called Mrs. Jenks. Don't
people ever change their names, sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sometimes, I believe.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I shall not marry him unless he changes his name.
But he is such a pretty boy. He looks across the school-room at me,
and once, when I met him in the vestibule, and there was nobody
else there, he asked me to kiss him, and I did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think you ought to kiss boys,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would rather kiss him than another girl,&rdquo; said
Evelyn, looking up at her sister with the most limpid passion, that
of a child who has not the faintest conception of what passion
means.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, sister would rather you did not,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I won't if you don't want me to,&rdquo; said Evelyn,
meekly. &ldquo;That was quite a long time ago. It is not very
likely I shall meet him anywhere where we could kiss each other,
anyway. Of course, I don't really love him as much as I do you and
papa. I would rather he died than you or papa; but I am in love
with him&mdash;you know what I mean, sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wouldn't think any more about it, dear,&rdquo; said
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I like to think about him,&rdquo; said Evelyn, simply.
&ldquo;I like to sit whole hours and think about him, and make sort
of stories about us, you know&mdash;how me meet somewhere, and he
tells me how much he loves me, and how we kiss each other again. It
makes me happy. I go to sleep so. Do you think it is wrong,
sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria remembered her own childhood. &ldquo;Perhaps it isn't
wrong, exactly, dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but I wouldn't, if I
were you. I think it is better not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I will try not to,&rdquo; said Evelyn, with a sigh.
&ldquo;He told Amy Jones I was the prettiest girl in school. Of
course we couldn't be married for a long time, and I wouldn't be
Mrs. Jenks. But, now you've come home, maybe I sha'n't want to
think so much about him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria found new maids when she reached home. Ida did not keep
her domestics very long. However, nobody could say that was her
fault in this age when man-servants and maid-servants buzz angrily,
like bees, over household tasks and are constantly hungering for
new fields.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We have had two cooks and two new second-girls since you
went away,&rdquo; Evelyn said, when they stood waiting for the
front door to be opened, and the man with Maria's trunk stood
behind them. &ldquo;The last second-girl we had
stole&rdquo;&mdash;Evelyn said the last in a horrified
whisper&mdash;&ldquo;and the last cook couldn't cook. The cook we
have now is named Agnes, and the second-girl is Irene. Agnes lets
me go out in the kitchen and make candy, and she always makes a
little cake for me; but I don't like Irene. She says things under
her breath when she thinks nobody will hear, and she makes up my
bed so it is all wrinkly. I shouldn't be surprised if she stole,
too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then the door opened and a white-capped maid, with a rather
pretty face, evidently of the same class as Gladys Mann,
appeared.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is my sister, Miss Maria, Irene,&rdquo; said
Evelyn.</p>
<p>The maid nodded and said something inarticulate.</p>
<p>Maria said &ldquo;How do you do?&rdquo; to her, and asked her to
tell the man where to carry the trunk.</p>
<p>When the trunk was in Maria's old room, and Maria had smoothed
her hair and washed her face and hands, she and Evelyn sat down in
the parlor and waited. The parlor looked to Maria, after poor Aunt
Maria's sparse old furnishings, more luxurious than she had
remembered it. In fact, it had been improved. There were some
splendid palms in the bay-window, and some new articles of
furniture. The windows, also, had been enlarged, and were hung with
new curtains of filmy lace, with thin, red silk over them. The
whole room seemed full of rosy light.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish you would ask Irene to fix the hearth fire,&rdquo;
Evelyn had said to Maria when they entered the room, which did seem
somewhat chilly.</p>
<p>Maria asked the girl to do so, and when she had gone and the
fire was blazing Evelyn said:</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't like to ask her, sister. She doesn't realize
that I am not a baby, and she does not like it. So I never ask her
to do anything except when mamma is here. Irene is afraid of
mamma.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed and looked at the clock. &ldquo;How long will it
be before father comes, do you think, dear?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Papa comes home lately at five o'clock. I guess he will
be here very soon now; but mamma won't be home before half-past
seven. She has gone with the Voorhees to the matin&eacute;e. Do you
know the Voorhees, sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess they came to Edgham after you went away. They
bought that big house on the hill near the church. They are very
rich. There are Mr. Voorhees and Mrs. Voorhees and their little
boy. He doesn't wear long stockings in the coldest weather; his
legs are quite bare from a little above his shoes to his knees. I
should think he would be cold, but mamma says it is very stylish.
He is a pretty little boy, but I don't like him; he looks too much
like Mr. Voorhees, and I don't like him. He always acts as if he
were laughing at something inside, and you don't know what it is.
Mrs. Voorhees is very handsome, not quite so handsome as mamma, but
very handsome, and she wears beautiful clothes and jewels. They
often ask mamma to go to the theatre with them, and they are here
quite a good deal. They have dinner-parties and receptions, and
mamma goes. We had a dinner-party here last week.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Doesn't father go to the theatre with them?&rdquo; asked
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, he never goes. I don't know whether they ask him or
not. If they do, he doesn't go. I guess he would rather stay at
home. Then I don't believe papa would want to leave me alone until
the late train, for often the cook and Irene go out in the
evening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked anxiously at her little sister, who was sitting as
close to her as she could get in the divan before the fire.
&ldquo;Does papa look well?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, yes, I guess so. He looks just the way he always
has. I haven't heard him say he wasn't well, nor mamma, and he
hasn't had the doctor, and I haven't seen him take any medicine. I
guess he's well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked at the clock, a fine French affair, which had been
one of Ida's wedding gifts, standing swinging its pendulum on the
shelf between a Tiffany vase and a bronze. &ldquo;Father must be
home soon now, if he comes on that five-clock train,&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I guess he will.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In fact, it was a very few minutes before a carriage stopped in
front of the house and Evelyn called out: &ldquo;There he is! Papa
has come!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria did not dare look out of the window. She arose with
trembling knees and went out into the hall as the front door
opened. She saw at the first glance that her father had
changed&mdash;that he did not look well. And yet it was difficult
to say why he did not look well. He had not lost flesh, at least
not perceptibly; he was not very pale, but on his face was the
expression of one who is looking his last at the things of this
world. The expression was at once stern and sad and patient. When
he saw Maria, however, the look disappeared for the time. His face,
which had not yet lost its boyish outlines, fairly quivered between
smiles and tears. He caught Maria in his arms.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Father's blessed child!&rdquo; he whispered in her
ear.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, father,&rdquo; half sobbed Maria, &ldquo;why didn't
you send for me before? Why didn't you tell me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Hush, darling!&rdquo; Harry said, with a glance at
Evelyn, who stood looking on with a puzzled, troubled expression on
her little face. Harry took off his overcoat, and they all went
into the parlor. &ldquo;That fire looks good,&rdquo; said Harry,
drawing close to it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I got Maria to ask Irene to make it,&rdquo; Evelyn said,
in her childish voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That was a good little girl,&rdquo; said Harry. He sat
down on the divan, with a daughter on each side of him. Maria
nestled close to her father. With an effort she kept her quivering
face straight. She dared not look in his face again. A knell seemed
ringing in her ears from her own conviction, a voice of her inner
consciousness, which kept reiterating, &ldquo;Father is going to
die, father is going to die.&rdquo; Maria knew little of illness,
but she felt that she could not mistake that expression. But her
father talked quite gayly, asking her about her school and Aunt
Maria and Uncle Henry and his wife. Maria replied mechanically.
Finally she mustered courage to say:</p>
<p>&ldquo;How are you feeling, father? Are you well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am about the same as when you went away, dear,&rdquo;
Harry replied, and that expression of stern, almost ineffable
patience deepened on his face. He smiled directly, however, and
asked Evelyn what train her mother had taken.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She won't be home until the seven-thirty train,&rdquo;
said Harry, &ldquo;and there is no use in our waiting dinner. You
must be hungry, Maria. Evelyn, darling, speak to Irene. I hear her
in the dining-room.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn obeyed, and Harry gave his orders that dinner should be
served as soon as possible. The girl smiled at him with a
coquettish air.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Irene is pleasanter to papa than to anybody else,&rdquo;
Evelyn observed, meditatively, when Irene had gone out. &ldquo;I
guess girls are apt to be pleasanter to gentlemen than to little
girls.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry laughed and kissed the child's high forehead.
&ldquo;Little girls are just as well off if they don't study out
other people's peculiarities too much,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;They are very interesting,&rdquo; said Evelyn, with an
odd look at him, yet an entirely innocent look.</p>
<p>Maria was secretly glad that this first evening She was not
there, that she could dine alone with her father and Evelyn. It was
a drop of comfort, and yet the awful knell never ceased ringing in
her ears&mdash;&ldquo;Father is going to die, father is going to
die.&rdquo; Maria made an effort to eat, because her father watched
her anxiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are not as stout as you were when you went away,
precious,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am perfectly well,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I must say you do look well,&rdquo; said Harry,
looking admiringly at her. He admired his little Evelyn, but no
other face in the world upon which he was soon to close his eyes
forever was quite so beautiful to him as Maria's. &ldquo;You look
very much as your own mother used to do,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Was Maria's mamma prettier than my mamma?&rdquo; asked
Evelyn, calmly, without the least jealousy. She looked
scrutinizingly at Maria, then at her father. &ldquo;I think Maria
is a good deal prettier than mamma, and I suppose, of course, her
mamma must have been better-looking than mine,&rdquo; said she,
answering her own question, to Harry's relief. But she straightway
followed one embarrassing question with another. &ldquo;Did you
love Maria's mamma better than you do my mamma?&rdquo; she
asked.</p>
<p>Maria came to her father's relief. &ldquo;That is not a question
for little girls to ask, dear,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see why,&rdquo; said Evelyn. &ldquo;Little girls
ought to know things. I supposed that was why I was a little girl,
in order to learn to know everything. I should have been born grown
up if it hadn't been for that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you must not ask such questions, precious,&rdquo;
said Maria. &ldquo;When you are grown up you will see
why.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Harry insisted upon Evelyn's going to bed directly after dinner,
although she pleaded hard to be allowed to sit up until her mother
returned. Harry wished for at least a few moments alone with Maria.
So Evelyn went off up-stairs, after teary kisses and good-nights,
and Maria was left alone with her father in the parlor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are not well, father?&rdquo; Maria said, immediately
after Evelyn had closed the door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear,&rdquo; replied Harry, simply.</p>
<p>Maria retained her self-composure very much as her mother might
have done. A quick sense of the necessity of aiding her father, of
supporting him spiritually, came over her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What doctor have you seen, father?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The doctor here and three specialists in New
York.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And they all agreed?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked interrogatively at her father. Her face was very
white and shocked, but it did not quiver. Harry answered the
look.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I may have to give up almost any day now,&rdquo; he said,
with an odd sigh, half of misery, half of relief.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does Ida know?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear, she does not suspect. I thought there was no
need of distressing her. I wanted to tell you while I was able,
because&mdash;&rdquo; Harry hesitated, then he continued:
&ldquo;Father wanted to tell you how sorry he was not to make any
better provision for you,&rdquo; he said, pitifully. &ldquo;He
didn't want you to think it was because he cared any the less for
you. But&mdash;soon after I married Ida&mdash;well, I realized how
helpless she would be, especially after Evelyn was born, and I had
my life insured for her benefit. A few years after I tried to get a
second policy for your benefit, but it was too late. Father hasn't
been well for quite a long time.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope you don't think I care about any money,&rdquo;
Maria cried, with sudden passion. &ldquo;I can take care of myself.
It is <em>you</em> I think of.&rdquo; Maria began to weep, then
restrained herself, but she looked accusingly and distressedly at
her father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had to settle the house on her, too,&rdquo; said Harry,
painfully. &ldquo;But I felt sure at the time&mdash;she said
so&mdash;that you would always have your home here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is all right, father,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All father can do for his first little girl, the one he
loves best of all,&rdquo; said Harry, &ldquo;is to leave her a
little sum he has saved and put in the savings-bank here in her
name. It is not much, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is more than I want. I don't want anything. All I want
is you!&rdquo; cried Maria. She had an impulse to rush to her
father, to cling about his neck and weep her very heart out, but
she restrained herself. She saw how unutterably weary her father
looked, and she realized that any violent emotion, even of love,
might be too much for his strength. She knew, too, that her father
understood her, that she cared none the less because she restrained
herself. Maria would never know, luckily for her, how painfully and
secretly poor Harry had saved the little sum which he had placed in
the bank to her credit; how he had gone without luncheons, without
clothes, without medicines even how he had possibly hastened the
end by his anxiety for her welfare.</p>
<p>Suddenly carriage-wheels were heard, and Harry straightened
himself. &ldquo;That is Ida,&rdquo; he said. Then he rose and
opened the front door, letting a gust of frosty outside air enter
the house, and presently Ida came in. She was radiant, the most
brilliant color on her hard, dimpled cheeks. The blank dark light
of her eyes, and her set smile, were just as Maria remembered them.
She was magnificent in her blue velvet, with her sable furs and
large, blue velvet hat, with a blue feather floating over the black
waves of her hair. Maria said to herself that she was certainly a
beauty, that she was more beautiful than ever. She greeted Maria
with the most faultless manner; she gave her her cool red cheek to
be kissed, and made the suitable inquiries as to her journey, her
health, and the health of her relatives in Amity. When Harry said
something about dinner, she replied that she had dined with the
Voorhees in the Pennsylvania station, since they had missed the
train and had some time on their hands. She removed her wraps and
seated herself before the fire.</p>
<p>When at last Maria went to her own room, she was both pleased
and disturbed to find Evelyn in her bed. She had wished to be free
to give way to her terrible grief. Evelyn, however, waked just
enough to explain that she wanted to sleep with her, and threw one
slender arm over her, and then sank again into the sound sleep of
childhood. Maria lay sobbing quietly, and her sister did not awaken
at all. It might have been midnight when the door of the room was
softly opened and light flared across the ceiling. Maria turned,
and Ida stood in the doorway. She had on a red wrapper, and she
held a streaming candle. Her black hair floated around her
beautiful face, which had not lost its color or its smile, although
what she said might reasonably have caused it to do so.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your father does not seem quite well,&rdquo; she said to
Maria. &ldquo;I have sent Irene and the cook for the doctor. If you
don't mind, I wish you would get up and slip on a wrapper and come
into my room.&rdquo; Ida spoke softly for fear of waking Evelyn,
whom she had directly seen in Maria's bed when she opened the
door.</p>
<p>Maria sprang up, got a wrapper, put it on over her night-gown,
thrust her feet into slippers, and followed Ida across the hall.
Harry lay on the bed, seemingly unconscious.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't seem to rouse him,&rdquo; said Ida. She spoke
quite placidly.</p>
<p>Maria went close to her father and put her ear to his mouth.
&ldquo;He is breathing,&rdquo; she whispered, tremulously.</p>
<p>Ida smiled. &ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I don't think
it anything serious. It may be indigestion.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Maria turned on her. &ldquo;Indigestion!&rdquo; she
whispered. &ldquo;Indigestion! He is dying. He has been dying a
long time, and you haven't had sense enough to see it. You haven't
loved him enough to see it. What made you marry my father if you
didn't love him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Ida looked at Maria, and her face seemed to freeze into a
smiling mask.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is dying!&rdquo; Maria repeated, in a frenzy, yet
still in a whisper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dying? What do you know about it?&rdquo; Ida asked, with
icy emphasis.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know. He has seen three specialists besides the doctor
here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And he told you instead of me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He told me because he knew I loved him,&rdquo; said
Maria. She was as white as death herself, and she trembled from
head to foot with strange, stiff tremors. Her blue eyes fairly
blazed at her step-mother.</p>
<p>Suddenly the sick man began to breathe stertorously. Even Ida
started at that. She glanced nervously towards the bed. Little
Evelyn, in her night-gown, her black fleece of hair fluffing around
her face like a nimbus of shadow, came and stood in the
doorway.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is the matter with papa?&rdquo; she whispered,
piteously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is asleep, that is all, and breathing hard,&rdquo;
replied her mother. &ldquo;Go back to bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go back to bed, darling,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; asked Evelyn. She burst into a
low, frightened wail.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go back to bed this instant, Evelyn,&rdquo; said her
mother, and the child fled, whimpering.</p>
<p>Maria stood close to her father. Ida seated herself in a chair
beside the table on which the lamp stood. Neither of them spoke
again. The dying man continued to breathe his deep, rattling
breath, the breath of one who is near the goal of life and pants at
the finish of the race. The cook, a large Irishwoman, put her face
inside the door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The doctor is comin' right away,&rdquo; said she. Then in
the same breath she muttered, looking at poor Harry, &ldquo;Oh, me
God!&rdquo; and fled, doubtless to pray for the poor man's
soul.</p>
<p>Then the doctor's carriage-wheels were heard, and he came
up-stairs, ushered by Irene, who stood in the doorway, listening
and looking with a sort of alien expression, as if she herself were
immortal, and sneered and wondered at it all.</p>
<p>Ida greeted the doctor in her usual manner. &ldquo;Good-evening,
doctor,&rdquo; she said, smiling. &ldquo;I am sorry to have
disturbed you at this hour, but Mr. Edgham has an acute attack of
indigestion and I could not rouse him, and I thought it hardly wise
to wait until morning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The doctor, who was an old man, unshaven and grim-faced, nodded
and went up to the bed. He did not open his medicine-case after he
had looked at Harry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose you can give him something, doctor?&rdquo; Ida
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is nothing that mortal man can do, madam,&rdquo;
said the doctor, surlily. He disliked Ida Edgham, and yet he felt
apologetic towards her that he could do nothing. He in reality felt
testily apologetic towards all mankind that he could not avert
death at last.</p>
<p>Ida's brilliant color faded then; she ceased to smile. &ldquo;I
think I should have been told,&rdquo; she said, with a sort of hard
indignation.</p>
<p>The doctor said nothing. He stood holding Harry's hand, his
fingers on the pulse.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You surely do not mean me to understand that my husband
is dying?&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He cannot last more than a few hours, madam,&rdquo;
replied the doctor, with pitilessness, yet still with the humility
of one who has failed in a task.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think we had better have another doctor at once,&rdquo;
said Ida. &ldquo;Irene, go down street to the telegraph operator
and tell him to send a message for Dr. Lameth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He has been consulted, and also Dr. Green and Dr.
Anderson, not four weeks ago, and we all agree,&rdquo; said the
doctor, with a certain defiance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Go, Irene,&rdquo; said Ida.</p>
<p>Irene went out of the room, but neither she nor the cook left
the house.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The madam said to send a telegram,&rdquo; Irene told the
cook, &ldquo;but the doctor said it was no use, and I ain't goin'
to stir out a step again to-night. I'm afraid.&rdquo;</p>
<p>The cook, who was weeping beside the kitchen table, hardly
seemed to hear. She wept profusely and muttered surreptitiously
prayers on her rosary for poor Harry's soul, which passed as day
dawned.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXVII</h4>
<p>Maria had always attended church, and would have said, had she
been asked, that she believed in religion, that she believed in
God; but she had from the first, when she had thought of such
matters at all, a curious sort of scorn, which was half shame, at
the familiar phrases used concerning it. When she had heard of such
and such a one that &ldquo;he was serious,&rdquo; that he had
&ldquo;experienced conviction,&rdquo; she had been filled with
disgust. The spiritual nature of it all was to her mind treated
materially, like an attack of the measles or mumps. She had seen
people unite with the church of which her mother had been a member,
and heard them subscribe to and swear their belief in articles of
faith, which seemed to her monstrous. Religion had never impressed
her with any beauty, or sense of love. Now, for the first time,
after her father had died, she seemed all at once to sense the
nearness of that which is beyond, and a love and longing for it,
which is the most primitive and subtlest instinct of man, filled
her very soul. Her love for her father projected her consciousness
of him beyond this world. In the midst of her grief a strange peace
was over her, and a realization of love which she had never had
before. Maria, at this period, had she been a Catholic, might have
become a religious devotee. She seemed to have visions of the
God-man crowned with thorns, the rays of unutterable and eternal
love, and sacred agony for love's sake. She said to herself that
she loved God, that her father had gone to him. Moreover, she took
a certain delight in thinking that her own mother, with her keen
tongue and her heart of true gold, had him safe with her. She
regarded Ida with a sort of covert triumph during those days after
the funeral, when the sweet, sickly fragrance of the funeral
flowers still permeated the house. Maria did not weep much after
the first. She was not one to whom tears came easily after her
childhood. She carried about with her what seemed like an aching
weight and sense of loss, along with that strange new conviction of
love and being born for ultimate happiness which had come to her at
the time of her father's death.</p>
<p>The spring was very early that year. The apple-trees were in
blossom at an unusual time. There was a tiny orchard back of the
Edgham house. Maria used to steal away down there, sit down on the
grass, speckled with pink-and-white petals, and look up through the
rosy radiance of bloom at the infinite blue light of the sky. It
seemed to her for the first time she laid hold on life in the midst
of death. She wondered if she could always feel as she did then.
She had a premonition that this state, which bordered on ecstasy,
would not endure.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria does not act natural, poor child,&rdquo; Ida said
to Mrs. Voorhees. &ldquo;She hardly sheds a tear. Sometimes I fear
that her father's marrying again did wean her a little from
him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She may have deep feelings,&rdquo; suggested Mrs.
Voorhees. Mrs. Voorhees was an exuberant blonde, with broad
shallows of sentimentality overflowing her mind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps she has,&rdquo; Ida assented, with a peculiar
smile curling her lips. Ida looked handsomer than ever in her
mourning attire. The black softened her beauty, instead of bringing
it into bolder relief, as is sometimes the case. Ida mourned Harry
in a curious fashion. She mourned the more pitifully because of the
absence of any mourning at all, in its truest sense. Ida had borne
in upon her the propriety of deep grief, and she, maintaining that
attitude, cramped her very soul because of its unnaturalness. She
consoled herself greatly because of what she esteemed her devotion
to the man who was gone. She said to herself, with a preen of her
funereal crest, that she had been such a wife to poor Harry as few
men ever had possessed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I have the consolation of thinking that I have done
my duty,&rdquo; she said to Mrs. Voorhees.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course you have, dear, and that is worth
everything,&rdquo; responded her friend.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I did all I could to make his home attractive,&rdquo;
said Ida, &ldquo;and he never had to wait for a meal. How pretty he
thought those new hangings in the parlor were! Poor Harry had an
&aelig;sthetic sense, and I did my best to gratify it. It is a
consolation.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said Mrs. Voorhees.</p>
<p>If Ida had known how Maria regarded those very red silk parlor
hangings she would have been incredulous. Maria thought to herself
how hard her poor father had worked, and how the other hangings,
which had been new at the time of Ida's marriage, could not have
been worn out. She wanted to tear down the filmy red things and
stuff them into the kitchen stove. When she found out that her
father had saved up nearly a thousand dollars for her, which was
deposited to her credit in the Edgham savings-bank, her heart
nearly broke because of that. She imagined her father going without
things to save that little pittance for her, and she hated the
money. She said to herself that she would never touch it. And yet
she loved her father for saving it for her with a very anguish of
love.</p>
<p>Ida was manifestly surprised when Henry's will was read and she
learned of Maria's poor little legacy, but she touched her cool red
lips to Maria's cheek and told her how glad she was. &ldquo;It will
be a little nest-egg for you,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and it will
buy your trousseau. And, of course, you will always feel at perfect
liberty to come here whenever you wish to do so. Your room will be
kept just as it is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria thanked her, but she detected an odd ring of insincerity
in Ida's voice. After she went to bed that night she speculated as
to what it meant. Evelyn was not with her. Ida had insisted that
she should occupy her own room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will keep each other awake,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Evelyn had grown noticeably thin and pale in a few days. The
child had adored her father. Often, at the table, she would look at
his vacant place, and push away her plate, and sob. Ida had become
mildly severe with her on account of it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear child,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;of course we all
feel just as you do, but we control ourselves. It is the duty of
those who live to control themselves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I want my papa!&rdquo; sobbed Evelyn convulsively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better go away from the table, dear,&rdquo; said
Ida calmly. &ldquo;I will have a plate of dinner kept warm for you,
and by-and-by when you feel like it, you can go down to the kitchen
and Agnes will give it to you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In fact, poor little Evelyn, who was only a child and needed her
food, did steal down to the kitchen about nine o'clock and got her
plate of dinner. But she was more satisfied by Agnes bursting into
tears and talking about her &ldquo;blissed father that was gone,
and how there was niver a man like him,&rdquo; and actually holding
her in her great lap while she ate. It was a meal seasoned with
tears, but also sweetened with honest sympathy. Evelyn, when she
slipped up the back stairs to her own room after her supper, longed
to go into her sister's room and sleep with her, but she did not
dare. Her little bed was close to the wall, against which, on the
other side, Maria's bed stood, and once Evelyn distinctly heard a
sob. She sobbed too, but softly, lest her mother hear. Evelyn felt
that she and Maria and Agnes were the only ones who really mourned
for her father, although she viewed her mother in her mourning
robes with a sort of awe, and a feeling that she must believe in a
grief on her part far beyond hers and Maria's. Ida had obtained a
very handsome mourning wardrobe for both herself and Evelyn, and
had superintended Maria's. Maria paid for her clothes out of her
small earnings, however. Ida had her dress-maker's bill made out
separately, and gave it to her. Maria calculated that she would
have just about enough to pay her fare back to Amity without
touching that sacred blood-money in the savings-bank. It had been
on that occasion that Ida had made the remark to her about her
always considering that house as her home, and had done so with
that odd expression which caused Maria to speculate. Maria decided
that night, as she lay awake in bed, that Ida had something on her
mind which she was keeping a secret for the present. The surmise
was quite justified, but Maria had not the least suspicion of what
it was until three days before her vacation was to end, when Ida
received a letter with the Amity post-mark, directed in Aunt
Maria's precise, cramped handwriting. She spoke about it to Maria,
who had brought it herself from the office that evening after
Evelyn had gone to bed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had a letter from your aunt Maria this morning,&rdquo;
she said, with an assumed indifference.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; I noticed the Amity post-mark and Aunt Maria's
writing,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Ida looked at her step-daughter, and for the first time in her
life she hesitated. &ldquo;I have something to say to you,
Maria,&rdquo; she said, finally, in a nervous voice, so different
from her usual one that Maria looked at her in surprise. She waited
for her to speak further.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The Voorhees are going abroad,&rdquo; she said,
abruptly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, they sail in three weeks&mdash;three weeks from next
Saturday.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria still waited, and still her step-mother hesitated. At
last, however, she spoke out boldly and defiantly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mrs. Voorhees's sister, Miss Angelica Wyatt, is going
with them,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Mrs. Voorhees is not going to
take Paul; she will leave him with her mother. She says travelling
is altogether too hard on children.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Does she?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; and so there are three in the party. Miss Wyatt has
her state-room to herself, and&mdash;they have asked me to go. The
passage will not cost me anything. All the expense I shall have
will be my board, and travelling fares abroad.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked at her step-mother, who visibly shrank before her,
then looked at her with defiant eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you are going?&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. I have made up my mind that it is a chance which
Providence has put in my way, and I should be foolish, even wicked,
to throw it away, especially now. I am not well. Your dear father's
death has shattered my nerves.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked, with a sarcasm which she could not repress, at her
step-mother's blooming face, and her rounded form.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have consulted Mrs. Voorhees's physician, in New
York,&rdquo; said Ida quickly, for she understood the look.
&ldquo;I consulted him when I went to the city with Mrs. Voorhees
last Monday, and he says I am a nervous wreck, and he will not
answer for the consequences unless I have a complete change of
scene.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What about Evelyn?&rdquo; asked Maria, in a dry
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wrote to your aunt Maria about her. The letter I got
this morning was in reply to mine. She writes very
brusquely&mdash;she is even ill-mannered&mdash;but she says she is
perfectly willing for Evelyn to go there and board. I will pay four
dollars a week&mdash;that is a large price for a child&mdash;and I
knew you would love to have her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I should; I don't turn my back upon my own flesh and
blood,&rdquo; Maria said, abruptly. &ldquo;I guess I shall be glad
to have her, poor little thing! with her father dead and her mother
forsaking her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think you must be very much like your aunt
Maria,&rdquo; said Ida, in a cool, disagreeable voice. &ldquo;I
would fight against it, if I were you, Maria. It is not
interesting, such a way as hers. It is especially not interesting
to gentlemen. Gentlemen never like girls who speak so quickly and
emphatically. They like girls to be gentle.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care what gentlemen think,&rdquo; said Maria,
&ldquo;but I do care for my poor, forsaken little sister.&rdquo;
Maria's voice broke with rage and distress.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are exceedingly disagreeable, Maria,&rdquo; said Ida,
with the radiant air of one who realizes her own perfect
agreeableness.</p>
<p>Maria's lip curled. She said nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn's wardrobe is in perfect order for the
summer,&rdquo; said Ida. &ldquo;Of course she can wear her white
frocks in warm weather, and she has her black silk frocks and coat.
I have plenty of black sash ribbons for her to wear with her white
frocks. You will see to it that she always wears a black sash with
a white frock, I hope, Maria. I should not like people in Amity to
think I was lacking in respect to your father's memory.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I will be sure that Evelyn wears a black sash with a
white frock,&rdquo; replied Maria, in a bitter voice.</p>
<p>She rose abruptly and left the room. Up in her own chamber she
threw herself face downward upon her bed, and wept the tears of one
who is oppressed and helpless at the sight of wrong and disloyalty
to one beloved. Maria hardly thought of Evelyn in her own
personality at all. She thought of her as her dead father's child,
whose mother was going away and leaving her within less than three
weeks after her father's death. She lost sight of her own happiness
in having the child with her, in the bitter reflection over the
disloyalty to her father.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She never cared at all for father,&rdquo; she muttered to
herself&mdash;&ldquo;never at all; and now she does not really care
because he is gone. She is perfectly delighted to be free, and have
money enough to go to Europe, although she tries to hide
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria felt as if she had caught sight of a stone of shame in the
place where a wife's and mother's heart should have been. She felt
sick with disgust, as if she had seen some monster. It never
occurred to her that she was possibly unjust to Ida, who was, after
all, as she was made, a being on a very simple and primitive plan,
with an acute perception of her own welfare and the means whereby
to achieve it. Ida was in reality as innocently self-seeking as a
butterfly or a honey-bee. She had never really seen anybody in the
world except herself. She had been born humanity blind, and it was
possibly no more her fault than if she had been born with a
hump.</p>
<p>The next day Ida went to New York with Mrs. Voorhees to complete
some preparations for her journey, and to meet Mrs. Voorhees's
sister, who was expected to arrive from the South, where she had
been spending the winter. That evening the Voorheeses came over and
discussed their purchases, and Miss Wyatt, the sister, came with
them. She was typically like Mrs. Voorhees, only younger, and with
her figure in better restraint. She had so far successfully fought
down an hereditary tendency to avoirdupois. She had brilliant
yellow hair and a brilliant complexion, like her sister, and she
was as well, even better, dressed. Ida had purchased that day a
steamer-rug, a close little hat, and a long coat for the voyage,
and the women talked over the purchases and their plans for travel
with undisguised glee. Once, when Ida met Maria's sarcastic eyes,
she colored a little and complained of a headache, which she had
been suffering with all day.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, there is no doubt that you are simply a nervous
wreck, and you would break down entirely without the sea-voyage and
the change of scene,&rdquo; said Mrs. Voorhees, in her smooth,
emotionless voice and with a covert glance at Maria. Ida had
confided to her the attitude which she knew Maria took with
reference to her going away.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All I regret&mdash;all that mars my perfect delight in
the prospect of the trip&mdash;is parting with my darling little
Paul,&rdquo; Mrs. Voorhees said, with a sigh.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is the way I feel with regard to Evelyn,&rdquo; said
Ida.</p>
<p>Maria, who was sewing, took another stitch. She did not seem to
hear.</p>
<p>The next day but one Maria and Evelyn started for Amity. Ida did
not go to the station with them. She was not up when they started.
The curtains in her room were down, and she lay in bed, drawing
down the corners of her mouth with resolution when Maria and Evelyn
entered to bid her good-bye. Maria said good-bye first, and bent
her cheek to Ida's lips; then it was Evelyn's turn. The little girl
looked at her mother with fixed, solemn eyes, but there were no
tears in them.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mamma is so sorry she cannot even go to the station with
her darling little girl,&rdquo; said Ida, &ldquo;but she is
completely exhausted, and has not slept all night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn continued to look at her, and there came into her face an
innocent, uncomplaining accusation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mamma cannot tell you how much she feels leaving her
precious little daughter,&rdquo; whispered Ida, drawing the little
figure, which resisted rigidly, towards her. &ldquo;She would not
do it if she were not afraid of losing her health
completely.&rdquo; Evelyn remained in her attitude of constrained
affection, bending over her mother. &ldquo;Mamma will write you
very often,&rdquo; continued Ida. &ldquo;Think how nice it will be
for you to get letters! And she will bring you some beautiful
things when she comes back.&rdquo; Then Ida's voice broke, and she
found her handkerchief under her pillow and put it to her eyes.</p>
<p>Evelyn, released from her mother's arm, regarded her with that
curiosity and unconscious accusation which was more pitiful than
grief. The child was getting her first sense, not of loss, for one
cannot lose that which one has never had, but of non-possession of
something which was her birthright.</p>
<p>When at last they were on the train, Evelyn surprised her sister
by weeping violently. Maria tried to hush her, but she could not.
Evelyn wept convulsively at intervals all the way to New York. When
they were in the cab, crossing the city, Maria put her arm around
her sister and tried to comfort her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it, precious?&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Do you
feel so badly about leaving your mother?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; sobbed the little girl. &ldquo;I feel so badly
because I don't feel badly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria understood. She began talking to her of her future home in
Amity, and the people whom she would see. All at once Maria
reflected how Lily would be married to George Ramsey when she
returned, that she should see George's wife going in and out the
door that might have been the door of her own home, and she also
had a keen pang of regret for the lack of regret. She no longer
loved George Ramsey. It was nothing to her that he was married to
Lily; but, nevertheless, her emotional nature, the best part of
her, had undergone a mutilation. Love can be eradicated, but there
remains a void and a scar, and sometimes through their whole lives
such scars of some people burn.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXVIII</h4>
<p>Evelyn was happier in Amity, with Maria and her aunt, than she
had ever been. It took a little while for her to grow accustomed to
the lack of luxury with which she had always been surrounded; then
she did not mind it in the least. Everybody petted her, and she
acquired a sense of importance which was not offensive, because she
had also a sense of the importance of everybody else. She loved
everybody. Love seemed the key-note of her whole nature. It was
babyish love as yet, but there were dangerous possibilities which
nobody foresaw, except Henry Stillman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know what will become of that child when she
grows up if she can't have the man she falls in love with,&rdquo;
he told Eunice one night, after Maria and Evelyn, who had been in
for a few moments, had gone home.</p>
<p>Eunice, who was not subtle, looked at him wonderingly, and her
husband replied to her unspoken question.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That child's going to take everything hard,&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see what makes you think so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is like a harp that's overstrung,&rdquo; said
Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How queer you talk!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, she is; and if she is now, what is she going to be
when she's older? Well, I hope the Lord will deal gently with her.
He's given her too many feelings, and I hope He will see to it that
they ain't tried too hard.&rdquo; Henry said this last with the
half-bitter melancholy which was growing upon him.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she will get along all right,&rdquo; said Eunice,
comfortably. &ldquo;She's a pretty little girl, and her mother has
looked out for her clothes, if she did scoot off and leave her. I
wonder how long she's going to stay in foreign parts?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Henry shook his head. &ldquo;Do you want to know how
long?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. What do you mean, Henry?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's going to stay just as long as she has a good time
there. If she has a good time there she'll stay if it's
years.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't mean you think she would go off and leave that
darling little girl a whole year?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I said years,&rdquo; replied Henry.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Land! I don't believe it. You're dreadful hard on women,
Henry.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wait and see,&rdquo; said Henry.</p>
<p>Time proved that Henry, with his bitter knowledge of the
weakness of human nature, was right. Ida remained abroad. After a
year's stay she wrote Maria, from London, that an eminent physician
there said that he would not answer for her life if she returned to
the scene wherein she had suffered so much. She expressed a great
deal of misery at leaving her precious Evelyn so long, but she did
not feel that it was right for her to throw her life away. In a
postscript to this letter she informed Maria, as if it were an
afterthought, that she had let the house in Edgham furnished. She
said it injured a house to remain unoccupied so long, and she felt
that she ought to keep the place up for her poor father's sake, he
had thought so much of it. She added that the people who rented it
had no children except a grown-up daughter, so that everything
would be well cared for. When Maria read the letter to her aunt the
elder woman sniffed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;H'm,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I ain't surprised, not a
mite.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It keeps us here quartered on you,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So far as that goes, I am tickled to death she has rented
the house,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria. &ldquo;I had made up my mind
that you would feel as if you would want to go to Edgham for your
summer vacation, anyway, and I thought I would go with you and keep
house, though I can't say that I hankered after it. The older I
grow the more I feel as if I was best off in my own home, but I
would have gone. So far as I am concerned I am glad she has let the
house, but I must say I ain't surprised. You mark my words, Maria
Edgham, and you see if what I say won't come true.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Ida Slome will stay over there, if she has a good time.
She's got money enough with poor Harry's life insurance, and now
she will have her house rent. It don't cost her much to keep Evelyn
here, and she's got enough. I don't mean she's got enough to
traipse round with duchesses and earls and that sort, but she's got
enough. Those folks she went with have settled down there, haven't
they?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I believe so,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;Mr. Voorhees
was an Englishman, and I believe he is in some business in
London.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, Ida Slome is going to stay there. I shouldn't be
surprised if Evelyn was grown up before she saw her mother
again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't quite believe that,&rdquo; Maria said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;When you get to be as old as I am you will believe
more,&rdquo; said her aunt Maria. &ldquo;You will see that folks'
selfishness hides the whole world besides. Ida Slome is that
kind.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think she is selfish myself,&rdquo; said Maria,
&ldquo;but I don't believe she can leave Evelyn as long as
that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wait and see,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, in much the same
tone that her brother had used towards his wife.</p>
<p>Maria Stillman was right. Evelyn remained in Amity. She outgrew
Maria's school, and attended the Normal School in Westbridge. Maria
herself outgrew her little Amity school, and obtained a position as
teacher in one of the departments of the Normal School, and still
Ida had not returned. She wrote often, and in nearly every letter
spoke of the probability of her speedy return, and in the same
breath of her precarious health. She could not, however, avoid
telling of her social triumphs in London. Ida was evidently having
an aftermath of youth in her splendid maturity. She was evidently
flattered and petted, and was thoroughly enjoying herself. Aunt
Maria said she guessed she would marry again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's too old,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wait till you're old yourself and you won't be so ready
to judge,&rdquo; said her aunt. &ldquo;I ain't so sure she
won't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn was a young lady, and was to graduate the next year, and
still her mother had not returned. She was the sweetest young
creature in the world at that time. She was such a beauty that
people used to turn and stare after her. Evelyn never seemed to
notice it, but she was quite conscious, in a happy, childlike
fashion, of her beauty. She resembled her mother to a certain
extent, but she had nothing of Ida's hardness. Where her mother
froze, she flamed. Two-thirds of the boys in the Normal School were
madly in love with her, but Evelyn, in spite of her temperament,
was slow in development as to her emotions. She was very childish,
although she was full of enthusiasms and nervous energy. Maria had
long learned that when Evelyn told her she was in love, as she
frequently did, it did not in the least mean that she was, in the
ordinary acceptation of the term. Evelyn was very imaginative. She
loved her dreams, and she often raised, as it were, a radiance of
rainbows about some boy of her acquaintance, but the brightness
vanished the instant the boy made advances. She had an almost
fierce virginity of spirit in spite of her loving heart. She did
not wish to touch her butterflies of life. She used to walk between
her aunt and Maria when they were coming out of church, so that no
boy would ask leave to go home with her. She clung to the girls in
her class for protection when she went to any entertainment.
Consequently her beautiful face, about which clustered her dark,
fine hair like mist, aroused no envy. The other girls said that
Evelyn Edgham was such a beauty and she did not know it. But Evelyn
did know it perfectly, only at that time it filled her with a sort
of timidity and shame. It was as if she held some splendid, heavy
sword of victory which she had not the courage to wield. She loved
her sister better than anybody else. She had no very intimate
friend of her own sex with whom she fell in love, after the fashion
of most young girls. That might have happened had it not been for
her sister, whom Evelyn thought of always as excelling everybody
else in beauty and goodness and general brilliancy. Maria, when
nearing thirty, was, in fact, as handsome as she had ever been. Her
self-control had kept lines from her face. She was naturally
healthy, and she, as well as Evelyn, had by nature a disposition to
make the most of herself and a liking for adornment. Aunt Maria
often told Eunice that Maria was full as good-looking as Evelyn, if
she was older, but that was not quite true. Maria had never had
Evelyn's actual beauty, her perfection as of a perfect flower;
still she was charming, and she had admirers, whom she always
checked, although her aunt became more and more distressed that she
did so. Always at the bottom of Maria's heart lay her secret. It
was not a guilty secret. It was savored more of the absurd of
tragedy than anything else. Sometimes Maria herself fairly laughed
at the idea that she was married. All this time she wondered about
Wollaston Lee. She thought, with a sick terror, of the possibility
of his falling in love, and wishing to marry, and trying to secure
a divorce, and the horrible publicity, and what people would say
and do. She knew that a divorce would be necessary, although the
marriage was not in reality a marriage at all. She had made herself
sufficiently acquainted with the law to be sure that a divorce
would be absolutely necessary in order for either herself or
Wollaston Lee to marry again. For herself, she did not wish to
marry, but she did wonder uneasily with regard to him. She was not
in the least jealous; all her old, childish fancy for him had been
killed by that strenuous marriage ceremony, but she dreaded the
newspapers and the notoriety which would inevitably follow any
attempt on either side to obtain a divorce. She dreamed about it
often, and woke in terror, having still before her eyes the great,
black letters on the first pages of city papers. She had never seen
Wollaston Lee since she had lived in Amity. She had never even
heard anything about him except once, when somebody had mentioned
his name and spoken of seeing him at a reception, and that he was a
professor in one of the minor colleges. She did not wish ever to
repeat that experience. Her heart had seemed to stand still, and
she had grown so white that a lady beside her asked her hurriedly
if she were faint. Maria had thrown off the faintness by a sheer
effort of will, and the color had returned to her face, and she had
laughingly replied with a denial. Sometimes she thought uneasily of
Gladys Mann. The clergyman who, in his excess of youthful zeal, had
performed the ceremony was dead. She had seen his obituary notice
in a New York paper with a horrible relief. He had died quite
suddenly in one of the pneumonia winters. But Gladys Mann and her
possession of the secret troubled her. Gladys Mann, as she
remembered her, had been such a slight, almost abortive character.
She asked herself if she could keep such a secret, if she would
have sense enough to do so. Gladys had married, too, a man of her
own sort, who worked fitfully, and spent most of his money in
carousing with John Dorsey and her father. Gladys had had a baby a
few months after her marriage, and she had had two more since. The
last time Maria had been in Amity was soon after Gladys's first
baby was born. Maria had met her one day carrying the little thing
swathed in an old shawl, with a pitiful attempt of finery in a
white lace bonnet cocked sidewise on its little head, which waggled
over Gladys's thin shoulder. Gladys, when she saw Maria, had
colored and nodded, and almost run past her without a word.</p>
<p>It was just before the beginning of Evelyn's last year at school
when Maria received a letter from Gladys's mother. It was a curious
composition. Mrs. Mann had never possessed any receptivity for
education. The very chirography gave evidence of a rude, almost
uncivilized mind. Maria got it one night during the last of August.
She had gone to the post-office for the last mail, and all the time
there had been over her a premonition of something unwonted of much
import to her. The very dusty flowers and weeds by the way-side
seemed to cry out to her as she passed them. They seemed no longer
mere flowers and weeds, but hieroglyphics concerning her future,
which she could almost interpret.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder what is going to happen?&rdquo; she thought.
&ldquo;Something is going to happen.&rdquo; She was glad that
Evelyn was not with her, as usual, but had gone for a drive with a
young friend who had a pony-carriage. She felt that she could not
have borne her sister's curious glances at the letter which she was
sure would be in the post-office box. It was there when she entered
the dirty little place. She saw one letter slanted across the dusty
glass of the box. It was not a lock box, and she had to ask the
postmaster for the letter.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Number twenty-four, please,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>The postmaster was both bungling and curious. He was a long time
finding the box, then in giving her the letter. Maria felt dizzy.
When at last he handed it to her with an inquisitive glance, she
almost ran out of the office. When she was out-doors she glanced at
the post-mark and saw it was Edgham. When she came to a lonely
place in the road, when she was walking between stone-walls
overgrown with poison-ivy, and meadowsweet, and hardhack, and
golden-rod, she opened the letter. Just as she opened it she heard
the sweet call of a robin in the field on her left, and the low of
a cow looking anxiously over her bars.</p>
<p>The letter was written on soiled paper smelling strongly of
tobacco, and it enclosed another smaller, sealed envelop. Maria
read:</p>
<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;Deer Miss,&mdash;I now tak my pen in hand to
let you no that Gladys she is ded. She had a little boy bon, and he
and she both died. Gladys she had been coffin for some time befoar,
and jest befor she was took sick, she give me this letter, and sed
for me to send it to you if ennything happened to her.<br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&ldquo;Excuse hast and a bad
pen.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Mrs. Mann.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria trembled so that she could hardly stand. She looked
hastily around; there was no one in sight. She sank down on a large
stone which had fallen from the stone wall on the left. Then she
opened the little, sealed letter. It was very short. It contained
only one word, one word of the vulgar slang to which poor Gladys
had become habituated through her miserable life, and yet this one
word of slang had a meaning of faithfulness and honor which
dignified it. Maria read, &ldquo;Nit.&rdquo; and she knew that
Gladys had died and had not told.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXIX</h4>
<p>It is frequently a chain of sequences whose beginnings are lost
in obscurity which lead to events. The principal of the Normal
School in Westbridge, which Evelyn attended and in which Maria
taught, had been a certain Professor Lane. If he had not gone to
Boston one morning when the weather was unusually sultry for the
season, and if an east wind had not come up, causing him, being
thinly clad, to take cold, which cold meant the beginning of a
rapid consumption which hurried him off to Colorado, and a year
later to death; if these east winds had not made it impossible for
Wollaston Lee's mother, now widowed, to live with him in the
college town where he had been stationed, a great deal which
happened might not have come to pass at all. It was &ldquo;the wind
which bloweth where it listeth, and no man knoweth whence it cometh
and whither it goeth,&rdquo; which precipitated the small tragedy
of a human life.</p>
<p>The Saturday before the fall term commenced, Evelyn came home
from Westbridge, where she had been for some shopping, and she had
a piece of news. She did not wait to remove her hat, but stood
before Maria and her aunt, who were sewing in the sitting-room,
with the roses nestling against the soft flying tendrils of her
black hair. It was still so warm that she wore her summer hat.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you think!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I have such a
piece of news!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it, dear?&rdquo; asked Maria. Aunt Maria looked
up curiously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Professor Lane has had to give up. He starts for
Colorado Monday. He kept hoping he could stay here, but he went to
a specialist, who told him he could not live six months in this
climate, so he is starting right off. And we are to have a new
principal.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who is he?&rdquo; asked Maria. She felt herself
trembling, for no reason that she could define.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Addie Hemingway says he is a handsome young man. He has
been a professor in some college, but his mother lives with him,
and the climate didn't agree with her, and so he had resigned and
was out of a position, and they have sent right away for him, and
he is coming. In fact, Addie says she thinks he has come, and that
he and his mother are at Mrs. Land's boarding-house; but they are
going to keep house. Addie says she has heard he is a young man and
very handsome.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is his name?&rdquo; asked Maria, faintly.</p>
<p>Evelyn looked at her and laughed. &ldquo;The funniest thing
about it all is,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that he comes originally
from Edgham, and you must have known him, Maria. I don't remember
him at all, but I guess you must. His name is Lee, and his first
name&mdash;I can't remember his first name. Did you know a young
man about your age in Edgham named Lee?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wollaston?&rdquo; asked Maria. She hardly knew her own
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; that is it&mdash;Wollaston. It is an odd name. How
queer it will seem to have a handsome young man for principal
instead of poor old Professor Lane. I am sorry, for my part; I
liked Professor Lane. I went to the book-store in Westbridge and
bought a book for him to read on the journey, and left it at the
door. I sent in my remembrances, and told the girl how sorry I was
that Professor Lane was not well.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That was a good girl,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I am glad
you did.&rdquo; She was as white as death, but she continued sewing
steadily.</p>
<p>Evelyn went to the looking-glass and removed her hat, and
readjusted her flying hair around her glowing face. She did not
notice her sister's pallor and expression of shock, almost of
horror, but Aunt Maria did. Finally she spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What on earth ails you, Maria Edgham?&rdquo; she said,
harshly. When Aunt Maria was anxious, she was always harsh, and
seemed to regard the object of her solicitude as a culprit.</p>
<p>Evelyn turned abruptly and saw her sister's face, then she ran
to her and threw her arms around her neck and pulled her head
against her shoulder. &ldquo;What is it? What is it?&rdquo; she
cried, in her sobbing, emotional voice, which any stress
aroused.</p>
<p>Maria raised her head and pushed Evelyn gently away.
&ldquo;Nothing whatever is the matter, dear,&rdquo; she said,
firmly, and took up her work again.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Folks don't turn as white as sheets if nothing is the
matter,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, still in her harsh, accusing voice.
&ldquo;I want to know what is the matter. Did your dinner hurt you?
You ate that lemon-pie.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I feel perfectly well, Aunt Maria,&rdquo; replied Maria,
making one of her tremendous efforts of will, which actually sent
the color back to her face. She smiled as she spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You do look better,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria
doubtfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you do,&rdquo; said Evelyn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe it was the light,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria in a
reassured tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There isn't much light to see to sew by, I know
that,&rdquo; Maria said in an off-hand tone. &ldquo;I believe I
will take a little run down to the post-office for the night mail.
Evelyn, you can help Aunt Maria get supper, can't you,
dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I can,&rdquo; said Evelyn. &ldquo;But are you
sure you are well enough to go alone?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo; said Maria, rising and folding her
work.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think anything is the matter with sister?&rdquo;
Evelyn asked Aunt Maria after Maria had gone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't ask me,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria curtly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Professor Lane isn't married. You don't suppose sister&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What a little goose you are, Evelyn Edgham!&rdquo; cried
Aunt Maria, almost fiercely turning upon her. &ldquo;Do you suppose
if Maria Edgham had wanted any man she couldn't have got
him?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose she could,&rdquo; said Evelyn meekly.
&ldquo;And I know Professor Lane is so much older, but he always
seemed to like sister, and I didn't know but she felt badly because
he was so ill.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stuff!&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;Come, you had
better set the table. I have got to make some biscuits for supper.
They won't be any more than done by the time Maria gets
back.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you think she looked so very pale?&rdquo; asked
Evelyn, following her aunt out of the room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I didn't think she looked pale at all when I came to
look at her,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, sharply. &ldquo;She looked
just as she always does. It was the light.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria unhesitatingly lied. She knew that her niece had been
pale, and she believed that it was on account of Professor Lane.
She thought to herself what fools girls were. There Maria had
thrown away such a chance as George Ramsey, and was very likely
breaking her heart in secret over this consumptive, old enough to
be her father.</p>
<p>Evelyn also believed, in her heart of hearts, that her sister
was in love with Professor Lane, but she took a more sentimental
view of the matter. She was of the firm opinion that love has no
age, and then Professor Lane had never seemed exactly old to her,
and he was a very handsome man. She thought of poor Maria with the
tenderest pity and sympathy. It almost seemed to her that she
herself was in love with Professor Lane, and that his going so far
away to recover his health was a cruel blow to her. She thought of
poor Maria walking to the post-office and brooding over her
trouble, and her tender heart ached so hard that it might have been
Maria's own.</p>
<p>But Maria, walking to the post-office, realized not so much an
ache in her heart as utter horror and terror. She asked herself how
could she possibly continue teaching in that school if Wollaston
Lee were principal; how could she endure the daily contact with him
which would be inevitable. She wondered if he could possibly have
known that she was teaching in that school when he accepted the
position. Such a deadly fear was over her that her class-room and
the great pile of school buildings seemed to her fancy as horrible
as a cage of wild beasts. She felt such a loathing of the man who
was legally, although not really, her husband, that the loathing
itself filled her with shame and disgust at herself. She told
herself that it was horrible, horrible, that she could not endure
it, that it was impossible. She was in a fairly desperate mood. She
had a sudden impulse to run away and leave everybody and
everything, even Evelyn and her aunt, whom she loved so well. She
felt pitiless towards everybody except herself. She took out her
pocket-book and counted the money which it contained. There were
fifteen dollars and some loose change. The railroad station was on
a road parallel to the one on which she was walking. An express
train flashed by as she stood there. Suddenly Maria became
possessed of one of those impulses which come to everybody, but to
which comparatively few yield in lifetimes. The girl gathered up
her skirts and broke into a run for the railroad station. She knew
that there was an accommodation train due soon after the express.
She reached the dusty platform, in fact, just as the train came in.
There were no other passengers from Amity except a woman whom she
did not know, dragging a stout child by the arm. The child was
enveloped in clothing to such an extent that it could scarcely
walk. It stumbled over its voluminous white coat. Nobody could have
told its sex. It cast a look of stupid discomfort at Maria, then
its rasped little face opened for a wail. &ldquo;Shet up!&rdquo;
said the mother, and she dragged more forcibly at the podgy little
arm, and the child broke into a lop-sided run towards the cars.</p>
<p>Maria had no time to get a ticket. She only had time for that
one glance at the helpless, miserable child, before she climbed up
the steep car-steps. She found an empty seat, and shrugged close to
the window. She did not think very much of what she was doing. She
thought more of the absurdly uncomfortable child, over-swathed in
clothing, and over-disciplined with mother-love, she could not have
told why. She wondered what it would be like to have an ugly,
uninteresting, viciously expostulating little one dragging at her
hand. The mother, although stout and mature-looking, was not much
older than she. It seemed to her that the being fond of such a
child, and being happy under such circumstances, would involve as
much of a vital change in herself as death itself. And yet she
wondered if such a change were possible with all women, herself
included. She gazed absently at the pale landscape past which the
train was flying. The conductor had to touch her arm before he
could arouse her attention, when he asked for her ticket. Then she
looked at him vacantly, and he had to repeat his &ldquo;Ticket,
please.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria opened her pocket-book and said, mechanically, the name of
the first station which came into her head,
&ldquo;Ridgewood.&rdquo; Ridgewood was a small city about fifteen
miles distant. She had sometimes been there shopping. She gave the
conductor a five-dollar bill, and he went away, murmuring something
about the change. When he returned with the rebate-slip and the
change, he had to touch her shoulder again to arrest her
attention.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Change, miss,&rdquo; said the conductor, and &ldquo;you
can get ten cents back on this at the station.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria took the change and the slip and put them in her
pocket-book, and the conductor passed on with a quick, almost
imperceptible backward glance at her. Maria sat very still. The
child who had got on at Amity began to wail again, and its outcries
filled the whole car. To Maria it seemed like the natural outburst
of an atmosphere overcharged with woe, and the impotent rage and
regret of the whole race, as a cloud is charged with electricity.
She felt that she herself would like to burst into a wild wail, and
struggle and wrestle against fate with futile members, as the child
fought against its mother with its fat legs in shoes too large, and
its bemittened hands. However, she began to get a certain comfort
from the rapid motion. She continued to stare out of the window at
the landscape, which fast disappeared under the gathering shadows.
The car lamps were lit. Maria still looked, however, out of the
window; the lights in the house windows, and red and green
signal-lights, gave her a childish interest. She forgot entirely
about herself. She turned her back upon herself and her complex
situation of life with infinite relief. She did not wonder what she
would do when she reached Ridgewood. She did not think any more of
herself. It was as if she had come into a room of life without any
looking-glasses, and she was no longer visible to her own
consciousness. She did not look at the other passengers. All that
was evident to her of the existence of any in the car besides
herself was the unceasing wail of the child, and its mother's
half-soothing, half-scolding voice. She did not see the passengers
who boarded the train at the next station beyond Amity, and that
Wollaston Lee was one of them. Indeed, she might not at once have
recognized him, although the man retained in a marked degree the
features of the boy. Wollaston had grown both tall and
broad-shouldered, and had a mustache. He was a handsome fellow,
well dressed, and with an easy carriage, and he had an expression
of intelligent good-humor which made more than one woman in the car
look at him. Although Maria did not see him, he saw her at once,
and recognized her, and his handsome face paled. The ridiculous
complexity of his position towards her had not tended to make him
very happy. He had kept the secret as well as Maria; for him, as
for her, a secret was a heavy burden, almost amounting to guilt. He
continued to glance furtively at her from time to time. He thought
that she was very pretty, and also that there was something amiss
with her. He, as well as the girl, had entirely gotten over his
boyish romance, but the impulse to honorable dealing and duty
towards her had not in the least weakened.</p>
<p>When the train stopped at Ridgewood he rose. Maria did not stir.
Wollaston stopped, and saw the conductor touch Maria, and heard him
say, &ldquo;This is your station, lady.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria rose mechanically and followed the conductor through the
car. When she had descended the steps Wollaston, who had gotten off
just in advance, stood aside and waited. He felt uneasy without
just knowing why. It seemed to him that there was something strange
about the girl's bearing. He thought so the more when she stood
motionless on the platform and remained there a moment or more
after the train had moved out; then she went towards a bench
outside the station and sat down. Wollaston made up his mind that
there was something strange, and that he must speak to her.</p>
<p>He approached her, and he could hear his heart beat. He stood in
front of her, and raised his hat. Maria did not look up. Her eyes
seemed fixed on a fringe of wood across the track in which some
katydids were calling, late as it was. That wood, with its
persistent voices of unseen things, served to turn her thought from
herself, just as the cry of the child had done.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Edgham,&rdquo; said Wollaston, in a strained voice.
It suddenly occurred to him that that was not the girl's name at
all, that she was in reality Mrs. Lee, not Miss Edgham.</p>
<p>Maria did not seem to see him until he had repeated her name
again. Then she gave a sudden start and looked up. An electric
light on the platform made his face quite plain. She knew him at
once. She did not make a sound, but rose with a sudden stealthy
motion like that of a wild, hunted thing who leaves its covert for
farther flight. But Wollaston laid his hand on her shoulder and
forced her gently back to her seat. There was no one besides
themselves on the platform. They were quite alone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't be afraid,&rdquo; he said. But Maria, looking up at
him, fairly chattered with terror. Her lips were open, she made
inarticulate noises like a frightened little monkey. Her eyes
dilated. This seemed to her incredibly monstrous, that in fleeing
she should have come to that from which she fled. All at once the
species of mental coma in which she had been cleared away, and she
saw herself and the horrible situation in which her flight had
placed her. The man looked down at her with the utmost kindness,
concern, and pity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't be afraid,&rdquo; he said again; but Maria
continued to look at him with that cowering, hunted look.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo; asked Wollaston, and suddenly
his voice became masterful. He realized that there was something
strange, undoubtedly, about all this.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; Maria said, dully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I don't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria raised her head and looked down the track. &ldquo;I am
going on the train,&rdquo; said she, with another wild impulse.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What train?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The next train.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The next train to where?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The next train to Springfield,&rdquo; said Maria,
mentioning the first city which came into her mind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are you going to Springfield for so late? Have you
friends there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria, in a hopeless voice.</p>
<p>Wollaston sat down beside her. He took one of her little, cold
hands, and held it in spite of a feeble struggle on her part to
draw it away. &ldquo;Now, see here, Maria,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I
know there is something wrong. What is it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>His tone was compelling. Maria looked straight ahead at the
gloomy fringe of woods, and answered, in a lifeless voice, &ldquo;I
heard you were coming.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And that is the reason you were going away?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;See here, Maria,&rdquo; said Wollaston, eagerly,
&ldquo;upon my honor I did not know myself until this very
afternoon that you were one of the teachers in the Westbridge
Academy. If I had known I would have refused the position, although
my mother was very anxious for me to accept it. I would refuse it
now if it were not too late, but I promise you to resign very soon
if you wish it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't care,&rdquo; said Maria, still in the same
lifeless tone. &ldquo;I am going away.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Going where?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;To Springfield. I don't know. Anywhere.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston leaned over her and spoke in a whisper. &ldquo;Maria,
do you want me to take steps to have it annulled?&rdquo; he asked.
&ldquo;It could be very easily done. There was, after all, no
marriage. It is simply a question of legality. No moral question is
involved.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A burning blush spread over Maria's face. She snatched her hand
away from his. &ldquo;Do you think I could bear it?&rdquo; she
whispered back, fiercely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Bear what?&rdquo; asked the young man, in a puzzled
tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The publicity, the&mdash;newspapers. Nobody has known,
not one of my relatives. Do you think I could bear it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will keep the secret as long as you desire,&rdquo; said
Wollaston. &ldquo;I only wish to act honorably and for your
happiness.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is only one reason which could induce me to give my
consent to the terrible publicity,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is that?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If&mdash;you wished to marry anybody else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said Wollaston, with a half-bitter
laugh. &ldquo;You can have your mind easy on that score. I have not
thought of such a thing as possible for me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria cast a look of quick interest at him. Suddenly she saw his
possible view of the matter, that it might be hard for him to
forego the happiness which other young men had.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would not shrink at all,&rdquo; she said, gently,
&ldquo;if at any time you saw anybody whom you wished to marry. You
need not hesitate. I am not so selfish as that. I do not wish your
life spoiled.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston laughed pleasantly. &ldquo;My life is not to be
spoiled because of any such reason as that,&rdquo; he said,
&ldquo;and I have not seen anybody whom I wished to marry. You know
I have mother to look out for, and she makes a pleasant home for
me. You need not worry about me, but sometimes I have worried a
little about you, poor child.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You need not, so far as that is concerned,&rdquo; cried
Maria, almost angrily. A sense of shame and humiliation was over
her. She did not love Wollaston Lee. She felt the same old terror
and disgust at him, but it mortified her to have him think that she
might wish to marry anybody else.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I am glad of that,&rdquo; said Wollaston. &ldquo;I
suppose you like your work.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;After all, work is the main thing,&rdquo; said
Wollaston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; assented Maria, eagerly.</p>
<p>Wollaston returned suddenly to the original topic. &ldquo;Were
you actually running away because you heard I was coming?&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I suppose I was,&rdquo; Maria replied, in a
hopeless, defiant sort of fashion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you actually know anybody in Springfield?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Have you much money with you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had fifteen dollars and a few cents before I paid my
fare here.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; cried Wollaston. Then he added, after a
pause of dismay, almost of terror, during which he looked at the
pale little figure beside him, &ldquo;Do you realize what might
have happened to you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think I realized much of anything except to get
away,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>Wollaston took her hand again and held it firmly. &ldquo;Now
listen to me, Maria,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;On Monday I shall have
to begin teaching in the Westbridge Academy. I don't see how I can
do anything else. But now listen. I give you my word of honor, I
will not show by word or deed that you are anything to me except a
young lady who used to live in the same village with me. I shall
have to admit that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not anything else to you,&rdquo; Maria flashed
out.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course not,&rdquo; Wollaston responded, quietly.
&ldquo;But I give you my word of honor that I will make no claim
upon you, that I will resign my position when you say the word,
that I will keep the wretched, absurd secret until you yourself
tell me that you wish for&mdash;an annulment of the fictitious tie
between us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria sat still.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will not think of running away now, will you?&rdquo;
Wollaston said, and there was a caressing tone in his voice, as if
he were addressing a child.</p>
<p>Maria did not reply at once.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell me, Maria,&rdquo; said Wollaston. &ldquo;You will
not think of doing such a desperate thing, which might ruin your
whole life, when I have promised you that there is no
reason?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I will not,&rdquo; Maria said.</p>
<p>Wollaston rose and went nearer the electric light and looked at
his watch. Then he came back. &ldquo;Now, Maria, listen to me
again,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I have some business in Ridgewood. I
would not attend to it to-night but I have made an appointment with
a man and I don't see my way out of breaking it. It is about a
house which I want to rent. Mother doesn't like the boarding-house
at Westbridge, and in fact our furniture is on the road and I have
no place to store it, and I am afraid there are other parties who
want to rent this house, that I shall lose it if I do not keep the
appointment. But I have only a little way to go, and it will not
keep me long. I can be back easily inside of half an hour. The next
train to Amity stops here in about thirty-seven minutes. Now I want
you to go into the waiting-room, and sit there until I come back.
Can I trust you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Maria, with a curious docility. She
rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better buy your ticket back to Amity, and when I
come into the station, I think it is better that I should only bow
to you, especially if others should happen to be there. Can I trust
you to stay there and not get on board any train but the one which
goes to Amity?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you can,&rdquo; said Maria, with the same docility
which was born of utter weariness and the subjection to a stronger
will.</p>
<p>She went into the waiting-room and bought her ticket, then sat
down on a settee in the dusty, desolate place and waited. There
were two women there besides herself, and they conversed very
audibly about their family affairs. Maria listened absently to
astonishing disclosures. The man in the ticket-office was busy at
the telegraph, whose important tick made an accompaniment to the
chatter of the women, both middle-aged, and both stout, and both
with grievances which they aired with a certain delight. One had
bought a damaged dress-pattern in Ridgewood, and had gone that
afternoon to obtain satisfaction. &ldquo;I set there in Yates &amp;
Upham's four mortal hours,&rdquo; said she, in a triumphant tone,
&ldquo;and they kep' comin' and askin' me things, and sayin' would
I do this and that, but I jest stuck to what I said I would do in
the first place, and finally they give in.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What did you want?&rdquo; asked the other woman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I wanted my money back that I had paid for the
dress, and I wanted the dressmaker paid for cuttin' it&mdash;it was
all cut an' fitted&mdash;and I wanted my fares back and forth paid,
too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't mean to say they did all that?&rdquo; said the
other woman, in a tone of admiration.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, sir, they did. Finally Mr. Upham himself came and
talked with me, and he said he would allow me what I asked. I tell
you I marched out of that store, when I'd got my money back,
feelin' pretty well set up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think you would have,&rdquo; said the other
woman, in an admiring tone. &ldquo;You do beat the
Dutch!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then the women fell to talking about the niece of one of them
who had been jilted by her lover. &ldquo;He treated her as mean as
pusley,&rdquo; one woman said. &ldquo;There he'd been keepin'
company with poor Aggie three mortal years, comin' regular every
Wednesday and Sunday night, and settin' up with her, and keepin'
off other fellers.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think he treated her awful mean,&rdquo; assented the
other woman. &ldquo;I don't know what I would have said if it had
been my Mamie.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria detected a covert tone of delight in this woman's voice.
She realized instinctively that the woman had been jealous that her
companion's niece had been preferred to her daughter, and was
secretly glad that she was jilted. &ldquo;How does she take
it?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She just cries her eyes out, poor child,&rdquo; her
friend answered. &ldquo;She sets and cries all day, and I guess she
don't sleep much. Her mother is thinkin' of sendin' her to visit
her married sister Lizzie down in Hartford, and see if that won't
divert her mind a little.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I should think that would be a very good idea,&rdquo;
said the other woman. Maria, listening listlessly, whirled about
herself in the current of her own affairs, thought what a cat that
woman was, and how she did not in the least care if she was a
cat.</p>
<p>Wollaston Lee was not gone very long. He bowed and said
good-evening to Maria, then seated himself at a little distance.
The two women looked at him with sharp curiosity. &ldquo;It would
be the best thing for poor Aggie if she could get her mind set on
another young man,&rdquo; said the woman whose niece had been
jilted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; assented the other woman.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There's as good fish in the sea as has ever been caught,
as I told her,&rdquo; said the first woman, with speculative eyes
upon Wollaston Lee.</p>
<p>It was not long before the train for Amity arrived. Wollaston,
with an almost imperceptible gesture, looked at Maria, who
immediately arose. Wollaston sat behind her on the train. Just
before they reached Amity he came forward and spoke to her in a low
voice. &ldquo;I have to go on to Westbridge,&rdquo; he said.
&ldquo;Will there be a carriage at the station?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;There always is,&rdquo; Maria replied.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't think of walking up at this hour. It is too late.
What&mdash;&rdquo; Wollaston hesitated a second, then he
continued, in a whisper, &ldquo;What are you going to tell your
aunt?&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must. I don't see any other way, unless I tell
lies.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston lifted his hat, with an audible remark about the
beauty of the evening, and passed through into the next car, which
was a smoker. The two women of the station were seated a little in
the rear across the aisle from Maria. She heard one of them say to
the other, &ldquo;I wonder who that girl was he spoke to?&rdquo;
and the other's muttered answer that she didn't know.</p>
<p>Contrary to her expectations, Maria did not find a carriage at
the Amity station, and she walked home. It was late, and the
village houses were dark. The electric lights still burned at wide
intervals, lighting up golden boughs of maples until they looked
like veritable branches of precious metal. Maria hurried along. She
had a half-mile to walk. She did not feel afraid; a sense of
confusion and relief was over her, with another dawning sense which
she did not acknowledge to herself. An enormous load had been
lifted from her mind; there was no doubt about that. A feeling of
gratitude and confidence in the young man who had just left her
warmed her through and through. When she reached her aunt's house
she saw a light in the sitting-room windows, and immediately she
turned into the path the door opened and her aunt stood there.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham, where have you been?&rdquo; asked Aunt
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have been to walk,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Been to walk! Do you know what time it is? It is 'most
midnight. I've been 'most crazy. I was just goin' in to get Henry
up and have him hunt for you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am glad you didn't,&rdquo; said Maria, entering and
removing her hat. She smiled at her aunt, who continued to gaze at
her with the sharpest curiosity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where have you been to walk this time of night?&rdquo;
she demanded.</p>
<p>Maria looked at her aunt, and said, quite gravely, &ldquo;Aunt
Maria, you trust me, don't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I do; but I want to know. I have a right to
know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you have,&rdquo; said Maria, &ldquo;but I shall
never tell you as long as I live where I have been
to-night.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall never tell you were I have been, only you can
rest assured that there is no harm&mdash;that there has been no
harm.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't mean to ever tell?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No.&rdquo; Maria took a lamp from the sitting-room table,
lighted it, and went up-stairs.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are just like your mother&mdash;just as set,&rdquo;
Aunt Maria called after her, in subdued tones. &ldquo;Here I've
been watchin' till I was 'most crazy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am real sorry,&rdquo; Maria called back.
&ldquo;Good-night, Aunt Maria. Such a thing will never happen
again.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Directly Maria was in her own room she pulled down her
window-shades. She did not see a man, who had followed at a long
distance all the way from the station, moving rapidly up the
street. It was Wollaston Lee. He had seen, from the window of the
smoker, that there was no carriage waiting, had jumped off the
train, entered the station, then stolen out and followed Maria
until he saw her safely in her home. Then the last trolley had
gone, and he walked the rest of the way to Westbridge.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXX</h4>
<p>The next morning, which was Sunday, Maria could not go to
church. An utter weariness and lassitude, to which she was a
stranger, was over her. Evelyn remained at home with her. Evelyn
still had the idea firmly fixed in her mind that Maria was grieving
over Professor Lane. It was also firmly fixed in Aunt Maria's mind.
Aunt Maria, who had both suspicion and imagination, had conceived a
reason for Maria's mysterious absence the night before. She knew
that Professor Lane was to take a night train from Westbridge. She
jumped at the conclusion that Maria had gone to Westbridge to see
him off, and had missed the trolley connection. There were two
trolley-lines between Amity and Westbridge, and that accounted for
her walking to the house. Aunt Maria was mortified and angry. She
would have been mortified to have her niece so disturbed over any
man who had not proposed marriage to her, but when she reflected
upon Professor Lane, his sunken chest, his skinny throat, and his
sparse gray hair, although he was yet a handsome man for his years,
she experienced a positive nausea. She was glad when Evelyn came
down in the morning and said that Maria had called to her, and said
she did not want any breakfast and did not feel able to go to
church.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think sister is going to be sick, Aunt
Maria?&rdquo; Evelyn said, anxiously. Then her sweet eyes met her
aunt's, and both the young and the old maid blushed at the thought
which they simultaneously had.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sick? No,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria, crossly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I will stay home with her, anyway,&rdquo; Evelyn
said, timidly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, you can do jest as you are a mind to,&rdquo; said
Aunt Maria. &ldquo;I'm goin' to meetin'. If folks want to act like
fools, I ain't goin' to stay at home and coddle them.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Aunt Maria, I don't think sister acts like a
fool,&rdquo; Evelyn said, in her sweet, distressed voice.
&ldquo;She looks real pale and acts all tired out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess she'll survive it,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria,
pouring the coffee.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think I had better make some toast and a cup of
tea for her, if she does say she doesn't want any
breakfast?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham is old enough to know her own mind, and if
she says she don't want any breakfast I'd let her go without till
she was hungry,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. She adored Maria above any
living thing, and just in proportion to the adoration she felt
angry with her. It was a great relief to her not to see her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aren't you going up-stairs and see if you think sister is
sick?&rdquo; Evelyn asked, as Aunt Maria was tying her
bonnet-strings.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I ain't,&rdquo; replied Aunt Maria. &ldquo;It's all I
can do to walk to church. I ain't goin' to climb the stairs for
nothin'. I ain't worried a mite about her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After Aunt Maria was gone Evelyn made a slice of toast, placed
it on a pretty plate, and made also some tea, which she poured into
a very dainty cup. Then she carried the toast and tea on a little
tray up to Maria's room.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Please sit up and drink this tea and eat this toast,
sister,&rdquo; she said, pleadingly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you, dear,&rdquo; said Maria, &ldquo;but I don't
feel as if I could eat anything.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It's real nice,&rdquo; said Evelyn, looking with a
childish wistfulness from her sister to the toast. Maria could not
withstand the look. She raised herself in bed and let Evelyn place
the tray on her knees. Then she forced herself to drink the tea and
eat the toast. Evelyn all the time watched her with that sweet
wistfulness of expression which was one of her chief charms.
Evelyn, when she looked that way, was irresistible. There was so
much anxious love in her tender face that it made it fairly
angelic. Evelyn's dark hair was tumbling about her face like a
child's, in a way which she often wore it when at home when there
was no company. It was tied with a white ribbon bow. She wore a
black skirt and a little red breakfast-jacket faced with white. As
her sister gradually despatched the tea and toast, the look of
wistfulness on her face changed to one of radiant delight. She
clapped her hands.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I knew you would eat your
breakfast if I brought it to you. Wasn't that toast
nice?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Delicious.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I made it my own self. Aunt Maria was cross. Don't you
think it is odd that any one who loves anybody should ever be
cross?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It often happens,&rdquo; said Maria, laying back on her
pillows.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course, Aunt Maria loves us both, but she loves you
especially; but she is often cross with you. I don't understand
it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She doesn't love me any better than she does you,
dear,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes, she does; but I am not jealous. I am very glad I
am not, for I could be terribly jealous.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense, precious!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I could. Sometimes I imagine how jealous I could be,
and it frightens me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must not imagine such things, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have always imagined things,&rdquo; said Evelyn. Her
face took on a very serious, almost weird and tragic expression.
Maria had as she had often had before, a glimpse of dangerous
depths of emotion in her sister's character.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is no reason why you should always imagine,&rdquo;
she said, with a little, weary sigh.</p>
<p>Directly the look of loving solicitude appeared on Evelyn's
face. She went close to her sister, and laid her soft, glowing
cheek against hers.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am so sorry, dearest,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Sorry for
whatever troubles you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What makes you think anything troubles me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You seem to me as if something troubled you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing does,&rdquo; said Maria. She pushed Evelyn gently
away and sat up. &ldquo;I was only tired out,&rdquo; she said,
firmly. &ldquo;The breakfast has made me feel better. I will get up
now and write some letters.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Wouldn't you rather lie still and let me read to
you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear, thank you. I will get up now.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn remained in the room while her sister brushed her hair
and dressed. &ldquo;I wonder what kind of a man the new principal
will be?&rdquo; she said, looking dreamily out of the window. She
had, in fact, already had her dreams about him. As yet she had
admitted men to her dreams only, but she had her dreams. She did
not notice her sister's change of color. She continued to gaze
absently out of the window at the autumn landscape. A golden maple
branch swung past the window in a crisp breeze, now and then a leaf
flew away like a yellow bird and became a part of the golden carpet
on the ground. &ldquo;Addie Hemingway says he is very
handsome,&rdquo; she said, meditatively. &ldquo;Do you remember
him, sister&mdash;that is, do you remember how he looked when he
was a boy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;As I remember him he was a very good-looking boy,&rdquo;
Maria said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder if he is engaged?&rdquo; Evelyn said.</p>
<p>Suddenly her soft cheeks flamed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see what that matters to you,&rdquo; Maria
retorted, in a tone which she almost never used towards
Evelyn&mdash;&ldquo;to you or any of the other girls. Mr. Lee is
coming to teach you, not to become engaged to his
pupils.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I know he is,&rdquo; Evelyn said, humbly.
&ldquo;I didn't mean to be silly, sister. I was only
wondering.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;The less a young girl wonders about a man the
better,&rdquo; Maria said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I won't wonder, only it does seem rather natural to
wonder. Didn't you use to wonder when you were a young girl,
sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It does not make it right if I did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think you could do anything wrong, sister,&rdquo;
Evelyn returned, with one of her glances of love and admiration.
Suddenly Maria wondered herself what a man would do if he were to
receive one of those glances.</p>
<p>Evelyn continued her little chatter. &ldquo;Of course none of us
girls ever wondered about Professor Lane, because he was so
old,&rdquo; she said. Then she caught herself with an anxious
glance at her sister. &ldquo;But he was very handsome, too,&rdquo;
she added, &ldquo;and I don't know why we shouldn't have thought
about him, and he wasn't so very old. I think Colorado will cure
him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope so,&rdquo; Maria said, absently. She had no more
conception of what was in Evelyn's mind with regard to herself and
Professor Lane than she had of the thought of an inhabitant of
Mars. Ineffable distances of surmise and imagination separated the
two in the same room.</p>
<p>Evelyn continued: &ldquo;Mr. Lee isn't married, anyway,&rdquo;
she said. &ldquo;Addie said so. His mother keeps house for him.
Wasn't that a dreadful thing in the paper last night,
sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;About that girl's getting another woman's husband to fall
in love with her, and get a divorce, and then marrying him. I don't
see how she could. I would rather die than marry a man who had been
divorced. I would think of the other wife all the time. Don't you
think it was dreadful, sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why do you read such things?&rdquo; asked Maria, and
there was a hard ring in her voice. It seemed to her that she was
stretched on a very rack of innocence and ignorance.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was all there was in the paper to read,&rdquo; replied
Evelyn, &ldquo;except advertisements. There were pictures of the
girl, and the wife, and the man, and the two little children. Of
course it was worse because there were children, but it was
dreadful anyway. I would never speak to that girl again, not if she
had been my dearest friend.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You had better read a library book, if there is nothing
better than that to read in a paper,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There wasn't, except a prize-fight, and I don't care
anything about prize-fights, and I believe there were races, too,
but I don't know anything about races.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't see that you know very much about marriage and
divorce,&rdquo; Maria said, adjusting her collar.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you angry with me, sister? Don't you want me to
fasten your collar?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I can fasten it myself, thank you, dear. No, I am not
angry with you, only I do wish you wouldn't read such stuff. Put
the paper away, and get a book instead.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I will if you want me to, sister,&rdquo; replied
Evelyn.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXI</h4>
<p>The Monday when the fall term of the academy at Westbridge
opened was a very beautiful day. The air was as soft as summer, but
with a strange, pungent quality which the summer had lacked. There
was a slightly smoky scent which exhilarated. It was a scent of
death coming from bonfires of dead leaves and drying vegetation,
and yet it seemed to presage life. When Maria and Evelyn went out
to take the trolley for Westbridge, Maria wore a cluster of white
chrysanthemums pinned to her blouse. The blouse itself was a very
pretty one, worn with a black plaited skirt. It was a soft silk of
an old-rose shade, and it was trimmed with creamy lace. Maria had
left off her mourning. Evelyn looked with a little surprise at
Maria's blouse.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, you've got on your pink blouse, sister,&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>Maria colored softly, for no ostensible reason.
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't generally wear it to school.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought as long as it was the first day,&rdquo; Maria
said, in a slightly faltering tone. She bent her head until her
rose-wreathed hat almost concealed her face. The sisters stood in
front of the house waiting for their car. Evelyn made a sudden
little run back into the yard.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You hold the car!&rdquo; she cried.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know that they will wait; you must not
stop,&rdquo; Maria called out. But the car had just stopped when
Evelyn returned, and she had a little cluster of snowberries pinned
in the front of her red gown. She looked bewitchingly over them at
Maria when they were seated side by side in the car.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess I was going to wear flowers as well as some other
folks,&rdquo; she whispered with a soft, dark glance at her sister
from under her long lashes. Maria smiled.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't need to wear flowers,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why not as well as you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, you are a flower yourself,&rdquo; Maria said, looking
fondly at her.</p>
<p>Indeed, the young girl looked like nothing so much as a rose,
with her tenderly curved pink cheeks, the sweet arch of her lips,
and her glowing radiance of smiles. Maria looked at her critically,
then bade her turn that she might fasten a hook on her collar which
had become unfastened.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now you are all right,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Evelyn smiled. &ldquo;Don't you think these snowberries are
pretty with this red dress?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Lovely.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder what the new principal will be like,&rdquo;
Evelyn said, musingly, after riding awhile in silence.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I presume he will be very much like other young men. The
main thing to consider is, if he is a good teacher,&rdquo; Maria
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What makes you cross, sister?&rdquo; Evelyn whispered
plaintively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not cross, only I don't want you to be
silly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not silly. All the girls are wondering, too. I am
only like other girls. You can't expect me to be just like you,
Maria. Of course you are older, and you don't wonder, and then,
too, you knew him when he was a boy. Is he light or
dark?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Light,&rdquo; Maria replied, looking out of the
window.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Sometimes light children grow dark as they grow
older,&rdquo; said Evelyn. &ldquo;I hope he hasn't. I like light
men better than dark, don't you, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't like one more than another,&rdquo; said Maria
shortly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course I know you don't in one way. Don't be so
cross,&rdquo; Evelyn said in a hurt way. &ldquo;But almost
everybody has an opinion about light and dark men.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked out of the window, and Evelyn said no more, but she
felt a sorrowful surprise at her sister. Evelyn was so used to
being petted and admired that the slightest rebuff, especially a
rebuff from Maria, made her incredulous. It really seemed to her
that Maria must be ill to speak so shortly to her. Then she
remembered poor Professor Lane, and how in all probability Maria
was thinking about him this morning, and that made her irritable,
and how she, Evelyn, ought to be very patient. Evelyn was in
reality very patient and very slow to take offence. So she snuggled
gently up to her sister, until her slender, red-clad shoulder
touched Maria's, and looked pleasantly around through the car, and
again wondered privately about the new principal.</p>
<p>They had a short walk after leaving the car to the academy. As
they turned into the academy grounds, which were quite beautiful
with trees and shrubs, a young man was mounting the broad flight of
granite steps which led to the main entrance. Evelyn touched Maria
agitatedly on the arm. &ldquo;Oh, Maria,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is that&mdash;he?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think so. I saw only his back, but I should think so. I
don't see what other young man could be going into the building. It
was certainly not the janitor, nor Mr. Hughes&rdquo; (Mr. Hughes
was the music-teacher) replied Maria calmly, although she was
pale.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, if that was he, I think he is splendid,&rdquo;
whispered Evelyn.</p>
<p>Maria said nothing as the two proceeded along the fine gravel
walk between hydrangeas, and inverted beech-trees, and
symmetrically trimmed firs.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He is light,&rdquo; Evelyn said, meditatively. &ldquo;I
am glad of that.&rdquo; As she spoke she put her hand to her head
and adjusted her hair, then her hat. She threw back her shoulders.
She preened herself, innocently and unconsciously, like a little
bird. Maria did not notice it. She had her own thoughts, and she
was using all her power of self-control to conceal her agitation.
It seemed to her as she entered the building as if her secret was
written upon her face, as if everybody must read as they ran. But
she removed her coat and hat, and took her place with the other
assistants upon the platform in the chapel of the academy where the
morning exercises were held. She spoke to the other teachers, and
took her usual seat. Wollaston was not yet there. The pupils were
flocking into the room, which was picturesque with a dome-shaped
ceiling, and really fine frescoed panels on the walls. Directly
opposite the platform was a large oriel-window of stained glass,
the gift of the founder. Rays of gold and green and blue and
crimson light filtered through, over the assembling school. Maria
saw Evelyn with her face turned towards the platform eagerly
watching. She was not looking at Maria, but was evidently expecting
the advent of the new principal. It did not at that time occur to
Maria to attribute any serious meaning to the girl's attitude. She
merely felt a sort of impatience with her, concerning her attitude,
when she herself knew what she knew.</p>
<p>Suddenly a sort of suppressed stir was evident among those of
the pupils who were seated. Maria felt a breeze from an open door,
and knew that Wollaston had entered. He spoke first to her, calling
her by name, and bidding her good-morning, then to the other
teachers. The others were either residents of Westbridge, or
boarded there, and he had evidently been introduced to them before.
Then he took his seat, and waited quietly for the pupils to become
seated. It lacked only a few minutes of the time for opening the
school. It was not long before the seats were filled, and Maria
heard Wollaston's voice reading a selection from the Bible. Then
she bent her head, and heard him offering prayer. She felt a sort
of incredulity now. It seemed to her inconceivable that the boy
whom she had known could be actually conducting the opening
exercises of a school with such imperturbability and
self-possession. All at once a great pride of possession seized
her. She glanced covertly at him between her fingers. The secret
which had been her shame suddenly filled her with the possibility
of pride. Wollaston Lee, standing there, seemed to her the very
grandest man whom she had ever seen. He was undoubtedly handsome,
and he had, moreover, power. When he had finished his prayer, and
had begun his short address to the scholars, she glanced at him
again, and saw what splendid shoulders he had, how proudly he held
his head, and yet what a boyish ingenuousness went with it all.
Maria did not look at Evelyn at all. Had she done so, she would
have been startled. Evelyn was gazing at the new principal with the
utmost unreserve, the unreserve of awakened passion which does not
know itself because of innocence and ignorance. Evelyn, gazing at
the young man, had never been so unconscious of herself, and at the
same time she had never been so conscious. She felt a life to which
she had been hitherto a stranger tingling through every vein and
nerve of her young body, through every emotion of her young soul.
She gazed with wide-open eyes like a child, the rose flush deepened
on her cheeks, her parted lips became moist and deep crimson,
pulses throbbed in her throat. She smiled involuntarily, a smile of
purest delight and admiration. Love twofold had awakened within her
emotional nature. Love of herself, as she might be seen in
another's eyes, and love of another. And yet she did not know it
was love, and she felt no shame, and no fright, nothing but
rapture. She was in the broad light of the present, under the
direct rays of a firmament of life and love. Another girl, Addie
Hemingway, who was no older than Evelyn, but shrewd beyond her
years, with a taint of coarseness, noticed her, and nudged the girl
at her right. &ldquo;Just look at Evelyn Edgham,&rdquo; she
whispered.</p>
<p>The other girl looked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I suppose she thinks she'll catch him, she's so awful
pretty,&rdquo; whispered Addie maliciously.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think she is so very pretty,&rdquo; whispered
back the other girl, who was pretty herself and disposed to assert
her own claims to attention.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She thinks she is,&rdquo; whispered back Addie.
&ldquo;Just see how bold she looks at him. I should think she would
be ashamed of herself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;So should I,&rdquo; nodded the other girl.</p>
<p>But Evelyn had no more conception of the propriety of shame than
nature itself. She was pure nature. Presently Wollaston himself,
who had been making his address to his pupils with a vague sense of
an upturned expanse of fresh young faces of boys and girls, without
any especial face arresting his attention, saw Evelyn with a start
which nobody, man or woman, could have helped. She was so beautiful
that she could no more be passed unnoticed than a star. Wollaston
made an almost imperceptible pause in his discourse, then he
continued, fixing his eyes upon the oriel-window opposite. He
realized himself as surprised and stirred, but he was not a young
man whom a girl's beauty can rouse at once to love. He had,
moreover, a strong sense of honor and duty. He realized Maria was
his legal wife. He was, although he had gotten over his boyish
romance, which had been shocked out of him at the time of his
absurd marriage, in an attitude of soul which was ready for love,
and love for his wife. He had often said to himself that no other
honorable course was possible for either Maria or himself: that it
was decidedly best that they should fall in love with each other
and make their marriage a reality. At the same time, something more
than delicacy and shyness restrained him from making advances. He
was convinced that Maria not only disliked but feared him. A great
pity for her was in his heart, and also pride, which shrank from
exposing itself to rebuffs. Yet he did not underestimate himself.
He considered that he had as good a chance as any man of winning
her affection and overcoming her present attitude towards him. He
saw no reason why he should not. While he was not conceited, he
knew perfectly well his advantages as to personal appearance. He
also was conscious of the integrity of his purpose as far as she
was concerned. He knew that, whenever she should be willing to
accept him, he should make her a good husband, and he recognized
his readiness and ability to love her should she seem ready to
welcome his love. He, however, was very proud even while conscious
of his advantages, and consequently easily wounded. He could not
forget Maria's look of horror when she had recognized him the
Saturday before. A certain resentment towards her because of it was
over him in spite of himself. He said to himself that he had not
deserved that look, that he had done all that mortal man could do
to shield her from a childish tragedy, for which he had not been to
blame in any greater degree than she. He said to himself that she
might at least have had confidence in his honor and his generosity.
However, pity for her and that readiness to do his duty&mdash;to
love her&mdash;were uppermost. The quick glance which he had given
Maria that morning had filled him with pleasure. Maria, in her
dull-rose blouse, with her cluster of chrysanthemums, with her
fair, emotional face held by sheer force of will in a mould of
serenity, with her soft yellow coils of hair and her still childish
figure, was charming. After that one glance at Evelyn, with her
astonishing beauty, he thought no more about her. When his address
was finished the usual routine of the school began.</p>
<p>He did not see Maria again all day. She had her own class-room,
and at noon she and Evelyn ate their luncheon together there.
Evelyn did not say a word about the new principal. She was very
quiet. She did not eat as usual.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you feel well, dear?&rdquo; asked Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, sister,&rdquo; replied Evelyn. Then suddenly her
lips quivered and a tear rolled down the lovely curve of her
cheek.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Evelyn, precious, what is the matter?&rdquo; asked
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; muttered Evelyn. Then suddenly, to her
sister's utter astonishment, the young girl sprang up and ran out
of the room.</p>
<p>Maria was sure that she heard a muffled sob. She thought for a
second of following her, then she had some work to do before the
afternoon session, and she also had a respect for others' desires
for secrecy, possibly because of her long carrying about of her own
secret. She sat at her table with her forehead frowning uneasily,
and wrote, and did not move to follow Evelyn.</p>
<p>Evelyn, when she rushed out of the class-room, took
instinctively her way towards a little but dense grove in the rear
of the academy. It was a charming little grove of firs and maples,
and there were a number of benches under the trees for the
convenience of the pupils. It was rather singular that there was
nobody there. Usually during the noon-hour many ate their luncheons
under the shadow of the trees. However, the wind had changed, and
it was cool. Then, too, the reunions among the old pupils were
probably going on to better advantage in the academy, and many had
their luncheons at a near-by restaurant. However it happened,
Evelyn, running with the tears in her eyes, her heart torn with
strange, new emotion which as yet she could not determine the
nature of, whether it was pain or joy, found the grove quite
deserted. The cold sunlight came through the golden maple boughs
and lay in patches on the undergrowth of drying golden-rod and
asters. Under the firs and pines it was gloomy, and a premonition
of winter was in the air. Evelyn sat down on a bench under a
pine-tree, and began to weep quite unrestrainedly. She did not know
why. She heard the song of the pine over her head, and it seemed to
increase her apparently inconsequent grief. In reality she wept the
tears of the world, the same which a new-born child sheds. Her
sorrow was the mysterious sorrow of existence itself. She wept
because of the world, and her life in it, and her going out of it,
because of its sorrow, which is sweetened with joy, and its joy
embittered with sorrow. But she did not know why she wept. Evelyn
was cast on very primitive moulds, and she had been very
unrestrained, first by the indifference of her mother, then by the
love of her father and sister and aunt. It was enough for Evelyn
that she wished to weep that she wept. No other reason seemed in
the least necessary to her. In front of where she sat was a large
patch of sunlight overspreading a low growth of fuzzy weeds, which
shone like silver, and a bent thicket of dry asters which were
still blue although withered.</p>
<p>All at once Evelyn became aware that this patch of sunlight was
darkened, and she looked up in a sweet confusion. Her big, dark
eyes were not in the least reddened by her tears; they only
glittered with them. Her lips, slightly swollen, only made her
lovelier.</p>
<p>Directly before her stood the new principal, and he was gazing
down at her with a sort of consternation, pity, and embarrassment.
Wollaston was in reality wishing himself anywhere else. A woman's
tears aroused in him pity and irritation. He wished to pass on, but
it seemed too impossible to do so and leave this lovely young
creature in such distress without a word of inquiry. He therefore
paused, and his slightly cold, blue eyes met Evelyn's brilliant,
tearful ones with interrogation.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is there anything I can do for you?&rdquo; he asked.
&ldquo;Shall I call any one? Are you ill?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn felt hurt and disturbed by his look and tone. New tears
welled up in her eyes. She shook her head with a slight pout.
Wollaston passed on. Evelyn raised her head and gazed after him
with an indescribable motion, the motion of a timid, wild thing of
the woods, which pursues, but whose true instinct is to be pursued.
Suddenly she rose, and ran after him, and was by his side.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am ashamed you should have seen&mdash;&rdquo; she
said, brokenly. &ldquo;I was crying for nothing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston looked down at her and smiled. She also was smiling
through her tears. &ldquo;Young ladies should not cry for
nothing,&rdquo; he said, with a whimsical, school-master
manner.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It seems to me that nothing is the most terrible thing in
the whole world to cry for,&rdquo; replied Evelyn, with unconscious
wisdom, but she still smiled. Again her eyes met the young man's,
and her innocently admiring gaze was full upon his, and that
happened which was inevitable, one of the chain of sequences of
life itself. His own eyes responded ardently, and the girl's eyes
fell before the man's. At the same time there was no ulterior
significance in the man's look, which was merely in evidence of a
passing emotion to which he was involuntarily subject. He had not
the slightest thought of any love, which his look seemed to express
for this little beauty of a girl, whose name he did not even know.
But he slackened his pace, and Evelyn walked timidly beside him
over the golden net-work of sunlight in the path. Evelyn spoke
first.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You came from Edgham, Mr. Lee,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Wollaston looked at her. &ldquo;Yes. Do you know anybody
there?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn laughed. &ldquo;I came from there myself,&rdquo; she
said, &ldquo;and so did my sister, Maria. Maria is one of the
teachers, you know.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn wondered why Mr. Lee's face changed, not so much color
but expression.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, you are Miss Edgham's sister?&rdquo; he
exclaimed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes. I am her sister&mdash;her half-sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Let me see; you are in the senior class.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Evelyn. Then she added, &ldquo;Did
you remember my sister?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh yes,&rdquo; replied Wollaston. &ldquo;We used to go to
school together.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She cannot have altered,&rdquo; said Evelyn. &ldquo;She
always looks just the same to me, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She does to me,&rdquo; said Lee, and there was in
inflection in his voice which caused Evelyn to give a startled
glance at him. But he continued, quite naturally, &ldquo;Your
sister looks just as I remember her, only, of course, a little
taller and more dignified.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria is dignified,&rdquo; said Evelyn, &ldquo;but of
course she has taught school a long time, and a school-teacher has
to be dignified.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Are you intending to teach school?&rdquo; asked Lee, and
even as he asked the question he felt amused. The idea of this
flower-like thing teaching school, or teaching anything, was
absurd. She was one of the pupils of life, not one of the
expounders.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I think not,&rdquo; said Evelyn. Then she said,
&ldquo;I have never thought about it.&rdquo; Then an
incomprehensible little blush flamed upon her cheeks. Evelyn was
thinking that she should be married instead of doing anything else,
but that the man did not consider. He was singularly unversed in
feminine nature.</p>
<p>A bell rang from the academy, and Evelyn turned about with
reluctance. &ldquo;There is the bell,&rdquo; said she. She was
secretly proud although somewhat abashed at being seen walking back
to the academy with the new principal. Addie Hemingway was looking
out of a window, and she said to the other girl, the same whom she
had addressed in the chapel:</p>
<p>&ldquo;See, Evelyn Edgham has got him in tow already.&rdquo;</p>
<p>That night, when Maria and Evelyn arrived home, Aunt Maria asked
Evelyn how she liked the new principal. &ldquo;Oh, he's perfectly
splendid,&rdquo; replied Evelyn. Then she blushed vividly. Aunt
Maria noticed it and gave a swift glance at Maria, but Maria did
not notice it at all. She was so wrapped in her own dreams that she
was abstracted. After she went to bed that night she lay awake a
long time dreaming, just as she had done when she had been a little
girl. Her youth seemed to rush back upon her like a back-flood. She
caught herself dreaming of love-scenes in that same little wood
where Wollaston and Evelyn had walked that day. She never thought
of Evelyn and the possibility of her thinking of Wollaston. But
Evelyn, in her little, white, maiden bed, was awake and dreaming
too. Outside the wind was blowing and the leaves dropping and the
eternal stars shining overhead. It seemed as if so much
maiden-dreaming in the house should make it sound with song, but it
was silent and dark to the night. Only the reflection of the
street-lamp made it evident at all to occasional passers. It is
well that the consciousness of human beings is deaf to such
emotions, or all individual dreams would cease because of the
multiple din.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXII</h4>
<p>Evelyn, as the weeks went on, did not talk as much as she had
been accustomed to do. She did not pour her confidences into her
sister's ears. She never spoke of the new principal. She studied
assiduously, and stood exceedingly well in all her classes. She had
never taken so much pains with her pretty costumes. When her mother
sent her a Christmas present of a Paris gown, she danced with
delight. There was to be a Christmas-tree in the academy chapel,
and she planned to wear it. Although it was a Paris gown it was
simple enough, a pretty, girlish frock of soft white cloth, with
touches of red. &ldquo;I can wear holly in my hair, and it will be
perfectly lovely,&rdquo; Evelyn said. But she came down with such a
severe cold and sore throat at the very beginning of the holidays
that going to Westbridge was out of the question. Evelyn lamented
over the necessity of her staying at home like a child. She even
cried.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wouldn't be such a baby,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. At
times Aunt Maria could not quite forgive Evelyn for being Ida
Slome's child, especially when she showed any weakness. She looked
severely now at poor Evelyn, in her red house-wrapper, weeping in
her damp little handkerchief. &ldquo;I should think you were about
ten,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Evelyn wiped her eyes and sniffed. Her throat was very sore, and
her cold was also in her head. Her pretty lips were disfigured with
fever-sores. Her eyes were inflamed.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You wouldn't want to go looking the way you do,
anyhow,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, pitilessly.</p>
<p>After Aunt Maria went out of the room, Maria, who was putting
some finishing-touches to the gown which she herself was to wear to
the Christmas-tree, went over to her sister and knelt down beside
her. &ldquo;Poor darling,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Don't you want me
to stay at home with you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn pushed her away gently, with a fresh outburst of tears.
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Don't come so close, Maria, or
you will catch it. Everybody says it is contagious. No, I wouldn't
have you stay at home for anything. I am not a pig, if I am
disappointed. But Aunt Maria need not be so cross.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Aunt Maria does not mean to be cross, sweetheart,&rdquo;
said Maria, stroking her sister's fluffy, dark head. &ldquo;Are you
sure that you do not want me to stay home with you,
dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perfectly sure,&rdquo; replied Evelyn. &ldquo;I want you
to go so you can tell me about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn had not the slightest idea of jealousy of Maria. While
she admired her, it really never occurred to her, so na&iuml;ve she
was in her admiration of herself, that anybody could think her more
attractive than she was and fall in love with her, to her neglect.
She had not the least conception of what this Christmas-tree meant
to her older sister: the opportunity of seeing Wollaston Lee, of
talking with him, of perhaps some attention on his part. Maria was
to return to Amity on the last trolley from Westbridge. It was
quite a walk from the academy. She dreamed of Wollaston's escorting
her to the trolley-line. She dressed herself with unusual care when
the day came. She had a long, trailing gown of a pale-blue cloth
and a blue knot for her yellow hair. She also had quite a
pretentious blue evening cloak. Christmas afternoon a long box full
of pale-yellow roses arrived. There was a card enclosed which Maria
caught up quickly and concealed without any one seeing her.
Wollaston had sent her the roses. Her heart beat so hard and fast
that it seemed the others must hear it. She bent over the roses.
&ldquo;How perfectly lovely!&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria took up the box and lifted the flowers out carefully.
&ldquo;There isn't any card,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I wonder who
sent them?&rdquo; All at once a surmise seized her that Professor
Lane, who was said to be regaining his health in Colorado, had sent
an order to the Westbridge florist for these flowers.
Simultaneously the thought came to Evelyn, but Eunice, who was in
the room, looked bewildered. When Maria carried the roses out to
put them in water, she turned to her sister-in-law. &ldquo;Who on
earth do you suppose sent them?&rdquo; she whispered.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria looked at her, and formed Professor Lane's name
noiselessly with her lips, giving her at the same time a knowing
nod. Eunice looked at Evelyn, who also nodded, although with a
somewhat disturbed expression. She still did not feel quite
reconciled to the idea of her sister's loving Professor Lane.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't know,&rdquo; said Eunice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nobody knows; but we sort of surmise,&rdquo; said Aunt
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, he's old enough to be her father,&rdquo; Eunice
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What of that, if he only gets cured of his
consumption?&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. She herself felt disgusted,
but she had a pleasure in concealing her disgust from her
sister-in-law. &ldquo;Lots of girls would jump at him,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wouldn't have when I was a girl,&rdquo; Eunice
remarked, in a mildly reminiscent manner.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You don't know what you would have done if you hadn't got
my brother,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would never have married anybody,&rdquo; Eunice
replied, with a fervent, faithful look. As she spoke, she seemed to
see Henry Stillman as he had been, when a young man and courting
her, and she felt as if a king had passed her field of memory to
the exclusion of all others.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe you wouldn't have,&rdquo; said her sister-in-law,
&ldquo;but nowadays girls have to take what they can get. Men ain't
so anxious to marry. When a man had to have all his shirts and
dickeys made he was helpless, to say nothing of his pants, but
nowadays he can get everything ready-made, and it doesn't make so
much difference to him whether he gets married or not. He can have
a good deal more for himself, if he's an old bachelor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maybe you are right,&rdquo; said Eunice, &ldquo;but I
know when I was a girl Maria's age I wouldn't have let an old man
like Professor Lane, with the consumption, too, tie my shoes. Do
you suppose he really sent her the roses?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who else could have sent them?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;They must have cost an awful sight of money,&rdquo; said
Eunice, in an awed tone. Then she stopped, for Maria re-entered the
room with the roses in a tall vase. She wore some of them pinned to
the shoulder of her blue gown that evening. She knew who had sent
them, and it seemed to her that she did not overestimate the
significance of the sending. When she started for Westbridge that
evening she was radiant. She had the roses carefully pinned in
tissue-paper to protect them from the cold; her long, blue cloak
swept about her in graceful folds, she wore a blue hat with a long,
blue feather.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why didn't you wear a head tie?&rdquo; asked Aunt Maria.
&ldquo;Ain't you afraid you will spoil that hat if you take it off?
The feather will get all mussy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall put it in a safe place,&rdquo; replied Maria,
smiling. She blushed as she spoke. She knew perfectly well herself
why she wore that hat, because she thought Wollaston might escort
her to the trolley, and she wished to appear at her best in his
eyes. Maria no longer disguised from herself the fact that she
loved this man who was her husband and not her husband. She knew
that she was entirely ready to respond to his advances, should he
make any, that she would be happier than she had ever been in her
whole life if the secret which had been the horror of her life
should be revealed. She wondered if it would not be better to have
another wedding. That night she had not much doubt of Wollaston's
love for her. When she entered the car, and saw besides herself
several young girls prinked in their best, who were also going to
the Christmas-tree, she felt a sort of amused pride, that all their
prinking and preening was in vain. She assumed that all of them had
dressed to attract Wollaston. She could not think of any other man
whom any girl could wish to attract. She sat radiant with her long,
blue feather sweeping the soft, yellow puff of her hair. She gave
an affect of smiling at everybody, at all creation. She really felt
for the first time that she could remember a sense of perfect
acquiescence with the universal scheme of things, therefore she
felt perfect content and happiness. She thought how wonderful it
was that poor Gladys Mann, lying in her unmarked grave this
Christmas-time, should have been the means, all unwittingly, of
bringing such bliss to herself. She thought how wonderful that
Evelyn's loss should have been the first link in such a sequence.
She thought of Evelyn with a sort of gratitude, as if she had done
something incalculable for her. She also thought of her as always
with the utmost love and pride and tenderness. She reflected with
pleasure on the gift which she herself had hung on the tree for
Evelyn, and how pleased the child would be. It was a tiny gold
brooch with a pearl in the centre. Evelyn was very fond of
ornaments. Maria did not once imagine of the possibility that
Evelyn could have any dreams herself with regard to Wollaston. She
did not in reality think of Evelyn as old enough to have any dreams
at all which need be considered seriously, and least of all about
Wollaston Lee. She nodded to a young man, younger than herself, who
was in Evelyn's class at the academy, who sat across the aisle, and
he returned the nod eagerly. He was well grown, and handsome, and
looked as old as Maria herself. Presently as the car began to fill
up, he crossed the aisle, and asked if he might sit beside her.
Maria made room at once. She smiled at the young fellow with her
smile which belonged in reality to another man, and he took it for
himself. Perhaps nothing on earth is so misappropriated as smiles
and tears. The seat was quite narrow. It was necessary to sit
rather close, in any event, but presently Maria felt the boy's
broad shoulder press unmistakably against hers. She shrank away
with an imperceptible motion. She did not feel so much angry as
amused at the thought that this great boy should be making love to
her, when all her heart was with some one else, when she could not
even give him a pleasant look which belonged wholly to him. Maria
leaned against the window, and gazed out at the flying shadows.
&ldquo;I am glad it is so pleasant,&rdquo; she said in a perfectly
unconcerned voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, so am I,&rdquo; the boy replied, but his voice shook
with emotion. Maria thought again how ridiculous it was. Then
suddenly she reflected that this might not be on her account but
Evelyn's. She thought that the boy might be trying to ingratiate
himself with her on her sister's account. She felt at once
indignation and a sense of pity. She was sure that Evelyn had never
thought of him. She glanced at the boy's handsome, manly face,
which, although manly, wore still an expression of ingenuousness
like a child's. She reflected that if Evelyn were to marry when she
were older, that perhaps this was a good husband for her. The boy
came of one of the best families in Amity. She turned towards him
smiling.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn was very much disappointed that she could not come
to-night,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>The boy brightened visibly at her tone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She has a very severe cold,&rdquo; Maria added.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am sorry,&rdquo; said the boy. Then he said in a low
tone whose boldness and ardor were unmistakable, that it did not
make any difference to him who was there as long as she was. Maria
could scarcely believe her ears. She gave the boy a keen,
incredulous glance, but he was not daunted. &ldquo;I mean
it,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense,&rdquo; said Maria. She looked out of the window
again. She told herself that it was annoying but too idiotic to
concern herself with. She made up her mind that when they changed
trolleys she would try to find a seat with some one else. But when
they changed she found the boy again beside her. She was quite
angry then, and made no effort to disguise it. She sat quite still,
gazing out of the window, shrugged against it as closely as she was
able to sit, and said nothing. However, her face resumed its happy
smile when she thought again of Wollaston, and the boy thought the
smile meant for him. He leaned over her tenderly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wish I could have a picture of you as you look
to-night,&rdquo; he said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I am afraid that you will have to do without
it,&rdquo; Maria said shortly. Still the boy remained insensible to
rebuff.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What are you carrying, Miss Edgham?&rdquo; he asked,
looking at her roses enveloped in tissue paper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Some roses which a friend sent me,&rdquo; Maria
replied.</p>
<p>Then the boy colored and paled a little. He jumped at once to
the conclusion that the friend was a man. &ldquo;I suppose you are
going to wear them,&rdquo; he said pitifully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I am,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>The boy in his turn sat as far away as possible in his corner of
the seat, and gazed ahead with a gloomy air.</p>
<p>When they reached the academy grounds he quite deserted Maria,
who walked to the chapel with one of the other teachers, who
entered at the same time. She was a young lady who lived in
Westbridge. Maria caught the pale glimmer of an evening gown under
her long, red cloak trimmed with white fur, and reflected that
possibly she also had adorned herself especially for Wollaston's
benefit, and again she felt that unworthy sense of pride and
amusement. The girl herself echoed her thoughts, for she said soon
after Maria had greeted her:</p>
<p>&ldquo;I saw Mr. Lee and his mother starting.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you?&rdquo; returned Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think he is very handsome?&rdquo; asked the
girl in a sentimental tone which irritated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria sharply, although she lied.
&ldquo;I don't think he is handsome at all. He looks intelligent
and sensible, but as for handsome&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, don't you think so?&rdquo; cried the other. Then she
caught herself short, for Wollaston Lee, with his mother on his
arm, came up. They said good-evening, and all four passed in.</p>
<p>The platform of the chapel was occupied by a great
Christmas-tree. The chapel itself was trimmed with evergreens and
holly. The moment Maria entered, after she had removed her hat in a
room which was utilized as a dressing-room, and pinned her roses on
her shoulder, she became sensible of a peculiar intoxication as of
some new happiness and festivity, of a cup of joy which she had
hitherto not tasted. The spicy odor of the evergreens, even the
odor of oyster-stew from a room beyond where supper was to be
served, that, and cake, and the sweetness of her own roses, raised
her to a sense of elation which she had never before had. She sat
with the other teachers well towards the front. Wollaston was with
his mother on the right. Maria saw with a feeling of relief the
people with whom the Lees had formerly boarded presently enter and
sit with them. She thought that Wollaston would be free to walk to
the trolley with her if he so wished. She felt surer and surer that
he did so wish. Once she caught him looking at her, and when she
answered his smile she felt her own lips stiff, and realized how
her heart pounded against her side. She experienced something like
a great pain which was still a great joy. Suddenly everything
seemed unreal to her. When the presents were distributed, it was
still so unreal that she did not feel as pleased as she would have
done with the number for poor little Evelyn at home. She hardly
knew what she received herself. They were the usual useless and
undesirable tokens from her class, and others more desirable from
the other lady teachers. Wollaston Lee's name was often called.
Again Maria experienced that unworthy sensation of malicious glee
that all this was lavished upon him when he was in reality hers and
beyond the reach of any of these smiling girls with eyes of covert
wistfulness upon the handsome young principal.</p>
<p>After the festivities were over, Maria adjusted her hat in the
dressing-room and fastened her long, blue cloak. She wrapped her
roses again in the tissue-paper. They were very precious to her.
The teacher whom she had met on entering the academy was fastening
her cloak, and she gazed at Maria with a sort of envious
admiration.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You look like a princess, all in blue, Miss
Edgham,&rdquo; said she. Her words were sweet, but her voice rang
false.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said Maria, and went out swiftly. She
feared lest the other teacher attach herself to her, and the other
teacher lived on the road towards the trolley. When Maria went out
of the academy, that which she had almost feared to hope for
happened. Wollaston stepped beside her, and she heard him ask if he
might walk with her to the trolley.</p>
<p>Maria took his arm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mother is with the Gleasons,&rdquo; said Wollaston. His
voice trembled.</p>
<p>Just then the boy who had sat with Maria on the car coming over
walked with a defiant stride to her other side.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-evening, Mr. Lee,&rdquo; he said, lifting his hat.
&ldquo;Good-evening, Miss Edgham,&rdquo; as if that was the first
time that evening he had seen her. Then he walked on with her and
Wollaston, and nothing was to be done but accept the situation. The
young fellow was fairly belligerent with jealous rage. He had lost
his young head over his teacher, and was doing something for which
he would scorn himself later on.</p>
<p>Wollaston pressed Maria's hand closely under his arm, and she
felt her very soul thrill, but they all talked of the tree and the
festivities of the evening, with an apparent disregard of the
terrible undercurrent of human emotions which had them all in its
grasp. Wollaston carried Maria's presents and Evelyn's. When they
reached the trolley-line, and he gave them to her, she managed to
whisper a thank you for his beautiful roses, and he pressed her
hand and said good-night. The boy asked with a mixture of humility
and defiance if he could not carry her parcels (he himself had
nothing but three neckties and a great silk muffler, which he did
not value highly, as he was well stocked already, and he had thrust
them into his pockets). &ldquo;No, thank you,&rdquo; said Maria,
&ldquo;I prefer to carry them myself.&rdquo; She was curt, but she
was so lit up with rapture that she could not help smiling at him
as she spoke, and he again sat in the same car-seat. She hardly
spoke a word all the way to Amity, but he walked to her door with
her, alighting from the car at the same time she did, although he
lived half a mile farther on.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You will have to walk a half mile,&rdquo; Maria observed,
when he handed her off and let the car go on.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I like to walk,&rdquo; the boy said, fervently.</p>
<p>Maria had her latch-key. She opened the door hurriedly and ran
in. She was half afraid that this irrepressible young man might
offer to kiss her. &ldquo;Good-night,&rdquo; she said, and almost
slammed the door in his face.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria had left a light burning low on the hall table. Maria
took it and went up-stairs. She gathered up the skirt of her gown
into a bag to hold the presents, hers and Evelyn's.</p>
<p>When she entered her own room and set the lamp on the dresser,
she was aware of a little, nestling movement in the bed, and
Evelyn's dark head and lovely face raised itself from the
pillow.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I came in here,&rdquo; said Evelyn, &ldquo;because I
wanted to see you after you came home. Do you mind?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, darling, of course I don't mind,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>She displayed Evelyn's presents, and the girl examined them
eagerly. Maria thought she seemed disappointed even with her own
gift of the brooch which she had expected would so delight her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo; Evelyn said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All?&rdquo; laughed Maria. &ldquo;Why, you little, greedy
thing, what do you expect?&rdquo;</p>
<p>To her astonishment Evelyn began suddenly to cry. She sobbed as
if her heart would break, and would not tell her sister why she was
so grieved. Finally, Maria having undressed and got into bed, her
sister clung closely to her, still sobbing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn, darling, what is it?&rdquo; whispered Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You'll laugh at me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I won't, honest, precious.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Honest?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, honest, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Were those all the presents I had?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, of course, I brought you all you had,
dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn murmured something inarticulate against Maria's
breast.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it, dear, sister didn't hear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hung a book on the tree for him,&rdquo; choked Evelyn,
&ldquo;and I thought maybe&mdash;I thought&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Thought what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought maybe he would&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Who would?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought maybe Mr. Lee would give me something,&rdquo;
sobbed Evelyn.</p>
<p>Maria lay still.</p>
<p>Evelyn nestled closer. &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;I
love him so! I can't help it. I can't. I love him so,
sister!&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXIII</h4>
<p>There was a second's hush after Evelyn had said that. It seemed
to Maria that her heart stood still. A sort of incredulity, as of
the monstrous and the super-human seized her. She felt as one who
had survived a railroad accident might feel looking down upon his
own dismembered body in which life still quivered. She could not
seem to actually sense what Evelyn had said, although the words
still rang in her ears. Presently, Evelyn spoke again in her
smothered, weeping voice. &ldquo;Do you think I am so very
dreadful, so&mdash;immodest, to care so much about a man who has
never said he cared about me?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;He has never said anything?&rdquo; asked Maria, and her
voice sounded strange in her own ears.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, never one word that I could make anything of, but he
has looked at me, he has, honest, sister.&rdquo; Evelyn burst into
fresh sobs.</p>
<p>Then Maria roused herself. She patted the little, soft, dark
head.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Evelyn, precious,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you are
imagining all this. You can't care so much about a man whom you
have seen so little. You have let your mind dwell on it, and you
imagine it. You don't care. You can't, really. You wait, and
by-and-by you will find out that you care a good deal more for
somebody else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But then Evelyn raised herself and looked down at her sister in
the dark, and there was a ring in her voice which Maria had never
before heard. &ldquo;Not care,&rdquo; she said&mdash;&ldquo;not
care! I will stand everything but that. Maria, don't you dare tell
me I don't care!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you don't know him at all, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know him better than anybody else in the whole
world,&rdquo; said Evelyn, still in the same strained voice.
&ldquo;The very minute I saw him I loved him, and then it seemed as
if a great bright light made him plain to me. I do love him, Maria.
Don't you ever dare say I don't. That is the only thing that makes
me feel that I am not ashamed to live, the knowing that I do love
him. I should be dreadful if I didn't love him&mdash;really love
him, I mean, with the love that lasts. Do you suppose that if I
only felt about him as some of the other girls do, that I would
have told you? I <em>do</em> love him!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What makes you so sure?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What makes me so sure? Why, everything. I know there is
not another man in the whole world for me that can possibly equal
him, and then&mdash;I feel as if my whole life were full of him. I
can't seem to remember much before he came. When I look back, it is
like looking into the dark, and I can't imagine the world being at
all without him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Would you be willing to be very poor, to go without
pretty things if you&mdash;married him, to live in a house like the
Ramsey's on the other side of the river, not to have enough to eat
and drink and wear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would have enough to eat and drink and wear. I would
have as much as a queen if I had him,&rdquo; cried Evelyn.
&ldquo;What do you think I care about pretty things, or even food
and life itself, when it comes to anything like this? Live in a
house like the Ramsey's! I would live in a cave. I would live on
the street, and I should never know it was not a palace. Maria, you
do know that I love him, don't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I know that you think you do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, say I do.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I know you do,&rdquo; Maria said.</p>
<p>Then Evelyn lay down again, and wept quietly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I love him,&rdquo; she moaned, &ldquo;but he does
not love me. You don't think he does, do you? I know you
don't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria said nothing. She was sure that he did not.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, he does not. I see you know it,&rdquo; Evelyn sobbed,
&ldquo;and all I cared about going to the Christmas-tree and
wearing my new gown was on account of him, and I sent a beautiful
book. I thought I could do that. All the girls in the senior class
gave him something, and I have been saving up every cent, and he
never gave me anything, not even a box of candy or flowers. Do you
think he gave any of the other girls anything, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help hoping he did not. And I don't believe it is
so very wicked, because I know that none of the other girls can
possibly love him as much as I do. But, Maria&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I do love him enough not to complain if he really loved
some other girl, and she was good, and would make him happy. I
would go down on my knees to her to love him. I would, Maria,
honest.&rdquo; Evelyn was almost hysterical. Maria soothed her, and
evaded as well as she was able her repeated little, piteous
questions as to whether she thought Mr. Lee could ever care for
her. &ldquo;I know I am pretty,&rdquo; Evelyn said na&iuml;vely.
&ldquo;I really think I must be prettier than any other girl in
school. I have heard so, and I really think so myself, but being
pretty means so little when it comes to anything like this with a
man like him. He might love Addie Hemingway instead of me, so far
as looks were concerned, but I don't think Addie would make him
very happy&mdash;do you, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear. I am quite sure he will never think of her. Now
try and be quiet and go to sleep.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cannot go to sleep,&rdquo; moaned Evelyn, but it was
not very long before she was drawing long, even breaths. Her youth
had asserted itself. Then, too, she had got certain comfort from
this baring of her soul before the soothing love of her sister.</p>
<p>As soon as Maria became sure that Evelyn was soundly asleep she
gently unwound the slender, clinging arms and got out of bed, and
stole noiselessly into Evelyn's own room, which adjoined hers. She
did not get into bed, but took a silk comfortable off, and wrapped
it around her, then sat down in a low chair beside the window. It
seemed to her that if she could not have a little while to think by
herself that she should go mad. The utterly inconceivable to her
had happened, and the utterly inconceivable fairly dazzles the
brain when it comes to pass. Maria felt as if she were outside all
hitherto known tracks of life, almost as if she were in the fourth
dimension. The possibility that her own sister might fall in love
with the man whom she had married had never entered her mind
before. She had checked Evelyn's wonder concerning him, but she had
thought no more of it than of the usual foolish exuberance of a
young girl. Now she believed that her sister really loved
Wollaston. She recalled the fears which she had had with regard to
her strenuous nature. She did not believe it to be a passing fancy
of an ordinary young girl. She recalled word for word what Evelyn
had said, and she believed. Maria sat awhile gazing out of the
window at the starlit sky in a sort of blank of realization, of
adjustment. She could not at first formulate any plan of action.
She could only, as it were, state the problem. She gazed up at the
northern constellations, at the mysterious polar star, and it
seemed to steady her mind and give it power to deal with her petty
problem of life by its far-away and everlasting guiding light. The
window was partly open, and the same pungent odor of death and life
in one which had endured all day came in her nostrils. She seemed
to sense heaven and earth and herself as an atom, but an atom
racked with infinite pain between the two.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is the great polar star,&rdquo; she said to
herself, &ldquo;there are all the suns and stars, here is the
earth, and here am I, Maria Edgham, who am on the earth, but must
some day give up my mortal life and become a part of it, and part
of the material universe and perhaps also of the spiritual. I am as
nothing, and yet this pain in my heart, this love in my heart,
makes me shine with my own fire as much as the star. I could not be
unless the earth existed, but it is of such as myself that the
earth is made up, and without such as myself it could not shine in
its place in the heavens.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria began to attach a certain importance to her individual
existence even while she realized the pettiness of it,
comparatively speaking. She was an infinitesimal part, but the
whole could not be without that part. Suddenly the religious
instruction which she had drank in with her mother's milk took
possession of her, but she had a breadth of outlook which would
have terrified her mother. Maria said to herself that she believed
in God, but that His need of her was as much as her need of Him.
She said to herself that without her tiny faith in Him, her tiny
speck of love for Him, He would lack something of Himself. Then all
at once, in a perfect flood of rapture, something which she had
never before known came into her heart: the consciousness of the
love of God for herself, of the need of God for herself, poor
little Maria Edgham, whose ways of life had been so untoward and so
absurd that she almost seemed to herself something to be laughed at
rather than pitied, much less loved. But all at once the knowledge
of the love of God was over her. She gazed up again at the great
polar star overlooking with its eternal light the mysteries of the
north, and for the first time in her whole life the primitive
instinct of worship asserted itself within her. Maria rose, and
fell on her knees, and continued to gaze up at the star which
seemed to her like an eye of God Himself, and love seemed to
pervade her whole being. She thought now almost lightly of
Wollaston Lee. What was any earthly love to love like this, which
took hold of the beginning and end of things, of the eternal? A
resolution which this sense of love seemed to inspire came over
her. It was a resolution almost grotesque, but it was sacred
because her heart of hearts was in it, and she made it because of
this love of God for her and her new sense of worship for something
beyond the earth and all earthly affections which had taken
possession of her. She rose, undressed herself, and went to bed.
She did not say any prayer as usual. She seemed an incarnate prayer
which made formulas unnecessary. Why was it essential to say
anything when she was? At last she fell asleep, and did not wake
until the dawn light was in the room. She did not wake as usual to
a reunion with herself, but to a reunion with another self. She did
not feel altogether happy. The resolution of the night before
remained, but the ecstasy had vanished. She was not yet an angel,
only a poor, human girl with the longings of her kind, which would
not be entirely stifled as long as her human heart beat. But she
did what she had planned. Maria had an unusually high forehead. It
might have given evidence of intellect, of goodness, but it was not
beautiful. She had always fluffed her blond hair over it,
concealing it with pretty waves. This morning she brushed all her
hair as tightly back as possible, and made a hard twist at an ugly
angle at the back of her head. By doing this she did not actually
destroy her beauty, for her regular features and delicate tints
remained, but nobody looking at her would have called her even
pretty. Her delicate features became pronounced and hardened, her
nose seemed sharpened and elongated, her lips thinner. This display
of her forehead hardened and made bold all her face and made her
look years older than she was. Maria looked at herself in the glass
with a sort of horror. She had always been fond of herself in the
glass. She had loved that double of herself which had come and gone
at her bidding, but now it was different. She was actually afraid
of the stern, thin visage which confronted her, which was herself,
yet not herself. When she was fully dressed it was worse still. She
put on a gray gown which had never been becoming. It was not
properly fitted. It was short-waisted, and gave her figure a short,
chunky appearance. This chunky aspect, with her sharp face and
strained back hair, made her seem fairly hideous to herself. But
she remained firm. Her firmness, in reality, was one cause of the
tightening and thinning of her lips. She hesitated when about to go
down-stairs. She had not heard Evelyn go down. She wondered whether
she had better wait until she went, or go into her room. She
finally decided upon the latter course. Evelyn was standing in
front of her dresser brushing her hair. When Maria entered she
threw with a quick motion the whole curly, fluffy mass over her
face, which glowed through it with an intensity of shame. Evelyn,
when she awoke that morning, felt as if she had revealed some
nakedness of her very soul. The girl was fairly ill. She could not
believe that she had said what she remembered herself to have
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good-morning, dear,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Evelyn did not notice her changed appearance at all. She
continued to brush away at the mist of hair over her face.
&ldquo;Oh, sister!&rdquo; she murmured.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Never mind, precious, we won't say anything more about
it,&rdquo; said Maria, and her voice had maternal inflections.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I ought not,&rdquo; stammered Evelyn, but Maria
interrupted her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have forgotten all about it, dear,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;Now you had better hurry or you will be late.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;When I woke up this morning and remembered, I felt as if
I should die,&rdquo; Evelyn said, in a choked voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;You won't die, and it
will all come out right. Don't worry anything about it or think
anything more about it. Why don't you wear your red dress to school
to-day? It is pleasant.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, perhaps I had better,&rdquo; Evelyn said. She threw
back her hair then, but still she did not look at Maria.</p>
<p>She arranged her hair and removed her little dressing-sack
before she looked at Maria, who had seated herself in a
rocking-chair beside the window. Aunt Maria always insisted upon
getting breakfast without any assistance. The odor of coffee and
baking muffins stole into the room. Evelyn got her red dress from
the closet and put it on, still avoiding Maria's eyes. But at last
she turned towards her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am all ready to go down,&rdquo; she said, in a weak
little voice; then she gave a great start, and stared at Maria.</p>
<p>Maria bore the stare calmly, and rose.</p>
<p>&ldquo;All right, dear,&rdquo; she replied.</p>
<p>But Evelyn continued standing before her, staring incredulously.
It was almost as if she doubted Maria's identity.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Maria Edgham!&rdquo; she said, finally. &ldquo;What
is the matter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What do you mean, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What have you done to yourself to make you look so queer?
Oh, I see what it is! It's your hair. Maria, dear, what have you
strained it off your forehead in that way for? It makes you
look&mdash;why&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Then Maria lied. &ldquo;My hair has been growing farther and
farther off my forehead lately,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I
thought possibly the reason was because I covered it. I thought if
I brushed my hair back it would be better for it. Then, too, my
head has ached some, and it seemed to me the pain in my forehead
would be better if I kept it cooler.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But, Maria,&rdquo; said Evelyn, &ldquo;you don't look so
pretty. You don't, dear, honest. I hate to say so, but you
don't.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well I am afraid the pretty part of it will have to
go,&rdquo; said Maria, going towards the door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, Maria, please pull your hair over your forehead just
a little.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear, I have it all fixed for the day, and it must
stay as it is.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn followed Maria down-stairs. She had a puzzled expression.
Maria's hair was diverting her from her own troubles. She could not
understand why any girl should deliberately make herself homely.
She felt worried. It even occurred to wonder if anything could be
the matter with Maria's mind.</p>
<p>When the two girls went into the little dining-room, where
breakfast was ready for them, Aunt Maria began to say something
about the weather, then she cut herself short when she saw
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;what on earth&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria took her place at the table. &ldquo;Those gems look
delicious,&rdquo; she observed. But Aunt Maria was not to be
diverted.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want to hear anything about gems,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;They are good enough, I guess. I always could make
gems, but what I want to know is if you have gone clean
daft.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't think so,&rdquo; replied Maria, laughing.</p>
<p>But Aunt Maria continued to stare at her with an expression of
almost horror.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What under the sun have you got your hair done up that
way for?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>Maria repeated what she had told Evelyn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Stuff!&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;It will make the
hair grow farther back straining it off your forehead that way, I
can tell you that. You don't use common-sense, and as for your
headache, I guess the hair didn't make it ache. It's the first I've
heard of it. You look like a fright, I can tell you
that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I can't help it,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I shall
have to behave well to make up.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham, you don't mean to say you are going to
school looking as you do now!&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed, and buttered a gem.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You look old enough to be your own grandmother. You have
spoiled your looks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Looks don't amount to much,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham, are you crazy?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I hope not.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I told sister she didn't look so pretty,&rdquo; said
Evelyn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look so pretty? She looks like a homely old maid. Your
nose looks a yard long and your chin looks peaked and your mouth
looks as if you were as ugly as sin. Your forehead is too high; it
always was, and you ought to thank the Lord that he gave you pretty
hair, and enough of it to cover up your forehead, and now you've
gone and strained it back just as tight as you can and made a knot
like a tough doughnut at the back of your head. You look like a
crazy thing, I can tell you that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria said nothing. She ate her breakfast, while Aunt Maria and
Evelyn could not eat much and were all the time furtively watching
her.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria took Evelyn aside before the sisters left for school,
and asked her in a whisper if she thought anything was wrong with
Maria, if she had noticed anything, but Evelyn said she had not.
But she and Aunt Maria looked at each other with eyes of frightened
surmise.</p>
<p>When Maria had her hat on she looked, if anything, worse.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Good land!&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, when she saw her.
&ldquo;Well, if you are set on making a spectacle of yourself, I
suppose you are.&rdquo;</p>
<p>After the girls had gone she went into the other side of the
house and told Eunice. &ldquo;There she has gone and made herself
look like a perfect scarecrow,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I wonder if
there is any insanity in her father's family?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did she look so bad?&rdquo; asked Eunice, with a stare of
terror at her sister-in-law.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Look so bad! She looked as old and homely as you and I
every bit.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria made as much of a sensation on the trolley as she had done
at home. The boy who had persecuted her the night before with his
attentions bowed to Evelyn, and glanced at her evidently with no
recognition. After a while he came to Evelyn and asked where her
sister was that morning. Maria laughed, and he looked at her, then
he fairly turned pale, and lifted his hat. He mumbled something and
returned to his seat. Maria was conscious of his astonished and
puzzled gaze at her all the way. When she reached the academy the
other teachers&mdash;that is, the women&mdash;assailed her openly.
One even attempted to loosen by force Maria's tightly strained
locks.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, Miss Edgham, you fairly frighten me,&rdquo; she
said, when Maria resisted.</p>
<p>Maria realized the amazement of the pupils when they entered her
class-room, the amazement of incredulity and almost disgust.
Everybody seemed amazed and almost disgusted except Wollaston Lee.
He did, indeed, give one slightly surprised glance at her, then he
seemed to notice nothing different in her appearance. The man's
sense of duty and honor was so strong that in reality his sense of
externals was blunted. He had a sort of sublime short-sightedness
to everything that was not of the spirit. He had been convinced the
night previous that Maria was beginning to regard him with favor,
and being convinced of that made him insensible to any mere outward
change in her. She looked to him, on the whole, prettier than usual
because he seemed to see in her love for himself.</p>
<p>When the noon intermission came he walked into her class-room,
and invited Maria and Evelyn to go with him to a near-by restaurant
and lunch.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I would ask you to go home with me,&rdquo; he said,
apologetically, to Maria, &ldquo;but mother has a cold.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned pale. She wondered if he had possibly told his
mother. Then she remembered how he had promised her not to tell
without her permission, and was reassured. Evelyn blushed and
smiled and dimpled, and cast one of her sweet, dark glances at him,
which he did not notice at all. His attention was fixed upon Maria,
who hesitated, regarding him with her pale, pinched face. Evelyn
took it for granted that Mr. Lee's invitation was only on her
account, and that Maria was asked simply as a chaperon, and
because, indeed, he could not very well avoid it. She jumped up and
got her hat.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It will be perfectly lovely,&rdquo; she said, and faced
them both, her charming face one glow of delight.</p>
<p>But Maria did not rise. She looked at the basket of luncheon
which she had begun to unpack, and replied, coldly, &ldquo;Thank
you, Mr. Lee, but we have our luncheon with us.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston looked at her in a puzzled way.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you could have something hot at the
restaurant,&rdquo; he said. The words were not much, but in reality
he meant, and Maria so understood him, &ldquo;Why, what do you
mean, after last night? You know how I feel about you. Why do you
refuse?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria took another sandwich from her basket. &ldquo;Thank you
for asking us, Mr. Lee,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but we have our
luncheon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Her tone was fairly hostile. The hostility was not directed
towards him, but towards the weakness in herself. But that he could
not understand.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; he said, in a hurt manner. &ldquo;Of
course I will not urge you, Miss Edgham.&rdquo; Then he walked out
of the room, hollowing his back and holding his head very straight
in a way he had had from a boy when he was offended.</p>
<p>Evelyn pulled off her hat with a jerk. She looked at Maria with
her eyes brilliant with tears. &ldquo;I think you were mean,
sister,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;awful mean; so
there!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought it was better not to go,&rdquo; Maria replied.
Her tone was at once stern and pitiful. Evelyn noticed only her
sternness. She began to weep softly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There, he wanted me, too,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and of
course he had to ask you, and you knew&mdash;I think you might
have, sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought it was better not,&rdquo; repeated Maria.
&ldquo;Now, dear, you had better eat your luncheon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want any luncheon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria began to eat a sandwich herself. There was an odd meekness
and dejectedness in her manner. Presently she laid the half-eaten
sandwich on the table and took out her handkerchief, and shook all
over with helpless and silent sobs.</p>
<p>Then Evelyn looked at her, her pouting expression relaxed
gradually. She looked bewildered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, what are you crying for?&rdquo; she asked, in a low
voice.</p>
<p>Maria did not answer.</p>
<p>Presently Evelyn rose and went over to her sister, and laid her
cheek alongside hers and kissed her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't, sister,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;I am sorry. I
didn't mean to be cross. I suppose you were right not to go, only I
did want to.&rdquo; Evelyn snivelled a little. &ldquo;I know he was
hurt, too,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>Maria raised her head and wiped her eyes. &ldquo;I did not think
it was best,&rdquo; she said yet again. Then she looked at Evelyn
and tried to smile. &ldquo;Don't worry, precious,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;Everything will come out all right.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn gazed wonderingly at her sister's tear-stained face.
&ldquo;I don't see what you cried for, and I don't see why you
wouldn't go,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The scholars will see you have
been crying, and he will see, too. I don't see why you feel badly.
I should think I was the one to feel badly.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Everything will come out all right,&rdquo; repeated
Maria. &ldquo;Don't worry, sister's own darling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Everybody will see that you have been crying,&rdquo; said
Evelyn, who was in the greatest bewilderment. &ldquo;What did make
you cry, Maria?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing, dear. Don't think any more about it,&rdquo; said
Maria rising. She took a tumbler from the lunch-basket. &ldquo;Go
and fill this with water for me, that is a dear,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;Then I will bathe my eyes. Nobody would know that you have
been crying.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;That is because I am not so fair-skinned,&rdquo; said
Evelyn; &ldquo;but I don't see.&rdquo;</p>
<p>She went out with the tumbler, shaking her head in a puzzled
way. When she returned, Maria had the luncheon all spread out on
the table, and looked quite cheerful in spite of her swollen eyes.
The sisters ate together, and Evelyn was very sweet in spite of her
disappointment. She was in reality very sweet and docile before all
her negatives of life, and always would be. Her heart was always in
leading-strings of love. She looked affectionately at Maria as they
ate the luncheon.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am so sorry I was cross,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I
suppose you thought that it would look particular if we went out to
lunch with Mr. Lee.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think it might have,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I suppose it would,&rdquo; said Evelyn with a sigh,
&ldquo;and I know all the other girls are simply dying for him, but
he asked us, after all.&rdquo; Evelyn said the last with an
indescribable air of sweet triumph. It was quite evident that she
regarded the invitation as meant for herself alone, and that she
took ineffable delight in it in spite of the fact that it had been
refused. She kept glancing out of the window as she ate. Presently
she looked at her sister and laughed. &ldquo;There he is coming
now,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and he is all alone. He didn't take
anybody else to luncheon.&rdquo;</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXIV</h4>
<p>Wollaston Lee, approaching the academy on his return from his
solitary lunch, was quite conscious of being commanded by the
windows of Maria's class-room. He was so conscious that his stately
walk became almost a strut. He felt resentment at Maria. He could
not help it. He had not been, in fact, so much in love with her, as
in that attitude of receptivity which invites love. He felt that
she ought to be in love, and he wooed not only the girl but love
itself. Therefore resentment came more readily than if he had
actually loved. He had been saying to himself, while he was eating
his luncheon which mortified pride had rendered tasteless, that if
it had not been for the fact of his absurd alliance with Maria she
was the last girl in the world to whom he would have voluntarily
turned, now that he was fully grown, and capable of estimating his
own character and hers. He said to himself that she was pretty,
attractive, and of undeniable strength of character, and yet that
very strength of character would have repelled him. He was not a
man who needed a wife of great strength of character, of consistent
will. He himself had sufficient. His chances of happiness would
have been greater with a wife in whom the affections and emotions
were predominant; there would have been less danger of friction.
Then, too, his wife would necessarily have to live with his mother,
and his mother was very like himself. He said to himself that there
would certainly be friction, and yet he also said that he could not
abandon his attitude of readiness to reciprocate should Maria wish
for his allegiance.</p>
<p>Now, for the first time, Wollaston had Evelyn in his mind. Of
course he had noticed her beauty, and admired her. The contrary
would not have been possible, but now he was conscious of a
distinct sensation of soothed pride, when he remembered how she had
smiled and dimpled at his invitation, and jumped up to get her
hat.</p>
<p>&ldquo;That pretty little thing wanted to come, anyhow. It is a
shame,&rdquo; he thought. Then insensibly he fell to wondering how
he should feel if it were Evelyn to whom he were bound instead of
her sister. It did not seem possible to him that the younger
sister, with her ready gratitude and her evident ardor of
temperament, could smile upon him at night and frown the next
morning as Maria had done. He considered, also, how Evelyn would
get on better with his mother. Then he resolutely put the thought
out of his mind.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not Evelyn, but Maria,&rdquo; he said to himself,
and shut his mouth hard. He resumed his attitude of obedience to
duty, but one who is driven by duty alone almost involuntarily
balks in spirit.</p>
<p>Wollaston was conscious of balking, although he would not
retreat. When he saw Maria again after the exercises of the day
were closed, and he encountered her as she was leaving the academy,
she looked distinctly homely to him, and yet such was the honor of
the man that he did not in the least realize that the homeliness
was an exterior thing. It seemed to him that he saw her encompassed
with the stiffness of her New England antecedents, as with an
armor, and that he got a new and unlovely view of her character. On
the contrary, Evelyn's charming, half-smiling, half-piteous face
turned towards him seemed to afford glimpses of sweetest affections
and womanly gentleness and devotion. Evelyn wished to say that she
was sorry that they were obliged to refuse his invitation, but she
did not dare. Instead, she gave him that little, half-smiling,
half-piteous glance, to which he responded with a lighting up of
his whole face and lift of his hat. Then Evelyn smiled entirely,
and her backward glance at him was wonderfully alluring, yet
maidenly, almost childish. Wollaston, on his way home, thought
again how different it would be if Evelyn, instead of Maria, were
his wife. Then he put it out of his head resolutely.</p>
<p>The next morning Maria arranged her hair as usual. She had
comprehended that something more than mere externals were needful
to change the mind of a man like Wollaston, and she gave up the
attempt, it must be acknowledged, with a little pleasure. Feminine
vanity was inherent in Maria. Nobody knew what the making herself
hideous the day before had cost her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I am so glad you have done up your hair the old
way,&rdquo; Evelyn cried, when she saw her, and Aunt Maria remarked
that she was glad to see that she had not quite lost her
common-sense.</p>
<p>Maria began herself to think that she had not evinced much sense
in her procedure of the day before. She had underestimated the
character of the man whom she had married, and had made herself
ridiculous for nothing. The boy who was infatuated with her, when
he saw her on the trolley that morning, made a movement to go
forward and speak to her, then he sat still with frequent puzzled
glances at her. He was repelled if Wollaston was not. This changing
of the face of a woman in a day's time filled him with suspicion.
He looked hard at Maria's soft puff of hair, and reflected that it
might be a wig; that anyway he was not so much in love as he had
thought, with a girl who could look as Maria had done the day
before.</p>
<p>When Maria reached the academy, the teachers greeted her with
enthusiasm. One who was given to exuberance fairly embraced
her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Now you are my own beautiful Miss Edgham again,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>Wollaston, during the opening exercises, only glanced once at
her, then he saw no difference. But he did look at Evelyn, and when
she turned her lovely face away before his gaze and a soft blush
rose over her round cheeks he felt his pulses quicken. But he did
not speak a word to Maria or Evelyn all day.</p>
<p>When Evelyn went home that night she was very sober. She would
not eat her supper, and Maria was sure that she heard her sobbing
in the night. The next morning the child looked pale and wan, and
Aunt Maria asked harshly if she were sick. Evelyn replied no
quickly. When she and Maria were outside waiting for the trolley,
Evelyn said, half catching her breath with a sob even then:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Mr. Lee didn't speak a word to me all day yesterday. I
know he did not like it because we didn't go to lunch with
him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense, dear,&rdquo; said Maria. Then she added, with
an odd, secretive meaning in her voice: &ldquo;Don't worry,
precious.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I can't help it,&rdquo; said Evelyn.</p>
<p>When the term was about half finished it became evident to Maria
that she and Evelyn must call upon Mrs. Lee, Wollaston's mother.
She had put it off as long as she could, although all the other
teachers had called, and Aunt Maria had kept urging her to do
so.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is going to think it is awful funny if you don't
call,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;when you used to live in the same
place, too.&rdquo;</p>
<p>In reality, Aunt Maria, now that George Ramsey had married, was
thinking that Wollaston might be a good match for Maria, and she
wished to prevent her marriage with Professor Lane should he return
from Colorado cured.</p>
<p>At last Maria felt that she was fairly obliged to go, and one
Saturday afternoon she and Evelyn went to Westbridge for the
purpose. Wollaston and his mother lived in an exceedingly pretty
house. Mrs. Lee had artistic taste, and the rooms were unusual
though simple. Maria looking about, felt a sort of homesick
longing. She realized how perfectly a home like this would have
suited her. As for Evelyn, she looked about with quick, bright
glances, and she treated Mrs. Lee as if she were in love with her.
She was all the time wondering if Wollaston would possibly come in,
and in lieu of him, she played off her innocent graces with no
reserve upon his mother. Wollaston did not come in. He had gone to
the city, but when he came home his mother told him of the
call.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Those Edgham girls who used to live in Edgham, the one
who teaches in your school, and her sister, called this
afternoon,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did they?&rdquo; responded Wollaston. He turned a page of
the evening paper. It was after dinner, and the mother and son were
sitting in a tiny room off the parlor, from which it was separated
by some eastern porti&egrave;res. There was a fire on the hearth.
The two windows, which were close together, were filled up with red
and white geraniums. There was a red rug, and the walls were lined
with books. Outside it had begun to snow, and the flakes drifted
past the windows filled with red and white blossoms like a silvery
veil of the storm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Mrs. Lee. Then she added, with a keen
although covert glance at her son: &ldquo;I like the younger
sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is considered quite a beauty, I believe,&rdquo; said
Wollaston.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Quite a beauty; she is a perfect beauty,&rdquo; said his
mother with emphasis. &ldquo;It seemed to me I never had seen such
a perfectly beautiful, sweet girl. I declare, I actually wanted to
take her in my arms. Anybody could live with that girl. As for her
sister, I don't like her at all.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Mrs. Lee was very like her son. She had the same square jaw and
handsome face, which had little of the truly feminine in it. Her
clear blue eyes surveyed every new person with whom she came in
contact in her new dwelling place, with impartial and pitiless
scrutiny. When she liked people she said so. When she did not she
also said so, and, as far as she could, let them alone. When she
spoke now, she looked as if Maria's face was actually before her.
She did not frown, but her expression was one of complete hostility
and unsparing judgment.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't you like her?&rdquo; asked her son, with his
eyes upon his paper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why don't I like her? She is New England to the backbone,
and one who is New England to the backbone is insufferable. She is
stiff and set in her ways. She would go to the stake for a fad, or
send her nearest and dearest there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is a very good teacher, and the pupils like
her,&rdquo; said Wollaston. He kept his voice quite steady.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She may be a very good teacher,&rdquo; said his mother.
&ldquo;I dare say she is. I can't imagine anybody not learning a
task which she set them, but I don't like her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is pretty&mdash;at least, she is called so,&rdquo;
said Wollaston. Then he added, with an impulse of loyalty: &ldquo;I
think myself that she is very pretty.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't call her at all pretty,&rdquo; said his mother.
&ldquo;She has a nose which looks as if it could pierce fate, and
she sets her mouth as though she was deciding the laws of the
universe. It is all very well in a man, that kind of a face, but I
can't call it pretty in a woman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Wollaston glanced at his mother, and an expression of covert
amusement was on his face as he reflected that his mother herself
answered her own description of poor Maria, and did not dream of
it. In fact, the two, although one was partly of New England
heritage, and the other of a wholly different, more southern State,
they were typically alike. They could meet only to love or quarrel;
there could never be neutrality between them. Wollaston said no
more, but continued reading his paper. He did not in reality sense
one word which he read. He acknowledged to himself that he was very
unhappy. He was caught in a labyrinth from which he saw no way of
escape into the open. He realized that love for Maria had become
almost impossible&mdash;that is, spontaneous love&mdash;even if she
should change her attitude towards him. He realized a lurking sense
of guilt as to his sentiments towards Evelyn, and he realized also
that his mother and Maria could never live together in peace. Once
Mrs. Lee took a dislike, her very soul fastened upon it as with a
grip of iron jaws. Doubtless if she knew that her son was in honor
bound to Maria she would try to make the best of it, but the best
of it would be bad enough. He wondered while he sat with the paper
before his face what Maria's real attitude towards him was. He
could not understand such apparent inconsistencies in a woman of
his mother's type, and he had been almost sure that one night that
Maria loved him.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXV</h4>
<p>Maria, after that call, faced her future course more fully than
ever. She had disliked Mrs. Lee as much as Mrs. Lee had disliked
her. Only the fact that she was Wollaston's mother made her
endurable to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Isn't Mrs. Lee perfectly lovely?&rdquo; said Evelyn, when
she and Maria were on their way home.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Maria answered, but she did not think so.
Mrs. Lee shone for her only with reflected glory.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder where Mr. Lee was?&rdquo; Evelyn murmured,
timidly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know,&rdquo; Maria said with an absent air.
&ldquo;We did not go to call on him.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course we didn't,&rdquo; said Evelyn. &ldquo;Don't be
cross, sister.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not in the least cross,&rdquo; Maria answered with
perfect truth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I didn't know but you were, you spoke so,&rdquo; said
Evelyn. She leaned wearily against her sister, and looked ahead
with a hollow, wistful expression.</p>
<p>Evelyn had grown thin and lost much of her color. Aunt Maria and
Eunice talked about it when they were alone.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder if there is any consumption in her mother's
family?&rdquo; Aunt Maria said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said Eunice. &ldquo;I don't like the way
she looks.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, don't say anything about it to Maria, for she will
worry herself sick,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;She sets her
eyes by Evelyn.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you think she notices?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, she hasn't said a word about it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Aunt Maria was wrong. Maria had noticed. That afternoon,
returning from Westbridge, she looked anxiously down at her
sister.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you feel well, dear?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perfectly well,&rdquo; Evelyn replied languidly,
&ldquo;only I am a little tired.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Perhaps it is the spring weather,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Evelyn nodded. It was the beginning of the spring term, and
spring came like a flood that year. The trees fairly seemed to
burst forth in green-and-rosy flames, and the shrubs in the
door-yards bloomed so boldly that they shocked rather than
pleased.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I like the spring to come slowly, so one does not feel
choked with it,&rdquo; Evelyn said after a little, as she gazed out
of the window. &ldquo;There are actually daisies in that field.
They have come too soon.&rdquo; Evelyn spoke with an absurd
petulance which was unusual with her.</p>
<p>Maria laughed. &ldquo;Well, dear, we can't help it,&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If this world is for people, and not the people for this
world, it seems to me we ought to be able to help a little,&rdquo;
said Evelyn with perfectly unconscious heresy. &ldquo;There it
rained too much last week, and this week it is too hot, and the
apple blossoms have come too soon after the cherry blossoms. It is
like eating all your candy in one big pill.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed again, but Evelyn sighed wearily. The car was very
hot and close.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall be thankful when we get home,&rdquo; Evelyn
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you will feel better when you get home and have some
supper,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want any supper,&rdquo; said Evelyn.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you don't eat any supper you cannot study this
evening.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I must study,&rdquo; said Evelyn with a feverish light in
her eyes.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You can't unless you eat.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I will drink some milk,&rdquo; said Evelyn. She was
studying very hard. She was very ambitious, both naturally and
because of her feeling for Wollaston Lee. It seemed to her that she
should die if she did not stand well in her class. Evelyn had
received so little notice from Wollaston that she had made up her
mind that he did not care for her, and the conviction was breaking
her heart, but she said to herself that she would graduate with
honors that she might have that much, that she must.</p>
<p>The graduating with honors would have been easy to the girl, for
she had naturally a quick grasp of knowledge, but her failing
health and her almost unconquerable languor made it hard for her to
work as usual. However, she persisted. It became evident that she
would stand first among the girls of her class, and only second to
one boy, who had a large brain and little emotion, and was so
rendered almost impregnable. Ida sent Evelyn a graduating costume
from Paris, and the girl brightened a little after she had tried it
on. She could not quite give up all hope of being loved when she
saw herself in that fluffy white robe, and looked over her slender
shoulder at her graceful train, and reflected how she would not
only look pretty but acquit herself with credit. She said to
herself that if she were a man she should love herself. There was
about Evelyn an almost comical na&iuml;vet&eacute; and
truthfulness.</p>
<p>Ida also sent Maria a gown for the graduating exercises. Hers
was a pale blue, very pretty, but not as pretty as Evelyn's. The
night after the gowns came Maria was startled by a sudden rush into
her room when she was almost asleep, and Evelyn nestling into her
arms and sobbing out that she was sorry, she was sorry, but she
could not help it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can't help what, darling?&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Can't help being glad that my dress is so much prettier
than yours,&rdquo; wept Evelyn. &ldquo;I am sorry, sister, but I
can't help it, and I am so ashamed I had to come in and tell
you.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria laughed and kissed her. &ldquo;Sister is very glad yours
is the prettiest,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I am so sorry I am so selfish,&rdquo; sobbed Evelyn.
Then she added, in a tiny whisper, &ldquo;I know now he won't ever
think of me, but I can't help being glad I shall look nice for him
to see, anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn was asleep long before her sister. Maria lay awake, with
the little, frail body in her arms, realizing with horror how very
frail and thin it was. Evelyn was of the sort whom emotion can
kill. She was being consumed like a lamp which needed oil. Love was
for the girl not only a need but a condition of life. Maria was
realizing it. At the same time she said to herself that possibly
after school was over and Evelyn could rest she might regain her
strength. There seemed to be no organic trouble. The local
physician had been consulted, and said that nothing whatever was
the matter, yet had gone away with a grave face after prescribing a
simple tonic. The fact was that life was flickering low, as it
sometimes does, with no ostensible reason which science could
grasp. Evelyn was beyond science. She was assailed in that citadel
of spirit which overlooks science from the heights of eternity. No
physician but fate itself could help her.</p>
<p>All this time, while Maria was suffering as keenly as her
sister, her suffering left no evidence. She had inherited from her
mother a tremendous strength of will, which sustained her. She said
to herself that she had her work to do, that her health must not
fail. She said that probably Wollaston did not care for her,
although she could not help thinking that she had the power to make
him care, and that she would be lacking in all that meant her true
and best self should she give way to her unhappiness and let it
master her. She therefore mastered it. In those days to Maria, who
had a ready imagination, her unhappiness seemed sometimes to assume
a material shape like the fabulous dragon. She seemed to be
fighting something with tooth and claw, a monstrous verity; but she
fought, and she kept the upper hand. Maria did not lose flesh. She
ate as usual, she retained her interest in her work, and all the
time whenever a moment of solitude came she renewed the conflict.
She thought as little as possible of Wollaston; she avoided even
looking at him. He thought that he really was an object of aversion
to her. He began to question the advisability of his retaining his
position another year. He told himself that it was hardly fair to
Maria to subject her to such annoyance, that it was much easier for
him to obtain another position than it was for her. He wanted to
ask her with regard to it, but in the days before commencement she
so manifestly shrank from even looking at him that he hardly liked
to approach her even with a question which concerned her own
happiness.</p>
<p>Wollaston in those days used sometimes to glance at Evelyn, and
notice how very thin and delicate she looked, and an anxiety which
was almost paternal was over him. He used almost to wish that she
was not so proficient in her studies. One day, meeting her in the
vestibule when no one was in sight, he could not resist the impulse
which led him to pat her little, dark, curly head and say, in a
voice broken with tenderness:</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't study too hard, little one.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn gave an upward glance at him and ran away. Wollaston
stood still a moment, dazed. He was not naturally a conceited man.
Then, too, he had always regarded himself as so outside the pale
that he doubted the evidence of his own senses. If he had not been
tied to Evelyn's sister he would have said to himself, in a
rapture, that that look of the young girl's meant, could mean, only
one thing: that all her innocent heart was centred upon himself. It
would have savored no more of conceit that the seeing his face in a
mirror. He would simply have thought it the truth. But now, since
he was always forgetting that other women did not know the one
woman's secret, and looked upon him as an unmarried man, and
therefore a fit target for their innocent wiles, the preening of
their dainty dove plumage, he said to himself that he must have
been mistaken. That Evelyn had looked at him as she had done only
because she was nervous and overwrought, and the least thing was
sufficient to disturb her equilibrium.</p>
<p>However, he was very careful not to address Evelyn particularly
again, but that one little episode had been sufficient for the girl
to build another air castle upon. That night when she went home she
was radiant with happiness. Her color had returned, smiles lit her
whole face. Ineffable depths of delight sparkled in her eyes. It
seemed almost a sacrilege to look at the young girl, whose heart
was so plainly evident in her face. Maria looked at her, and felt a
chill in her own heart.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Something must have happened,&rdquo; she said to herself.
She thought that Evelyn would tell her, but she did not; she ate
her supper with more appetite than she had shown for many a week.
Her gayety in the evening, when some neighbors came in, was so
unrestrained and childlike that it was fairly infectious. They sat
out on the front door-step. It had been a warm day, and the evening
cool was welcome and laughter floated out into the street. It was
laughter over nothing, but irresistible, induced because of the
girl's exuberant mood. She felt that night as if there was no
meaning in the world except happiness and fun. George Ramsey, going
home about nine o'clock, heard the laughter, and shrugged his
shoulders rather bitterly. Lily had made him such a good wife,
according to the tenets of wifehood, that he had apparently no
reason to complain. She was always perfectly amiable and
affectionate, not violently affectionate, but with the sort of
affection which does not ruffle laces nor disarrange hair, and that
he had always considered the most desirable sort of affection in
the long-run. She and his mother got on very well also&mdash;that
is, apparently. Lily, it was true, always had her way, but she had
it so gently and unobtrusively that one really doubted if she were
not herself the conceder. She always looked the same, she dressed
daintily, and arranged her fair hair beautifully. George did not
own to himself that sameness irritated him when it was such
charming sameness. However, he did sometimes realize, and sternly
put it away from him, a little sting when he happened to meet
Maria. He had a feeling as if he had gone from a waxwork show and
met a real woman.</p>
<p>To-night when he heard the peals of laughter from the front door
of the Stillman house he felt the sting again, and an unwarrantable
childish indignation as if he had been left out of something and
slighted. He was conscious of wishing when he reached home that his
wife would greet him with a frown and reproaches; in fact, with
something new, instead of her sweet, gentle smile of admiration,
looking up from her everlasting embroidering, from where she sat
beside the sitting-room lamp. George felt furious with her for
admiring him. He sat down moodily and took up the evening paper.
His mother was not there. She had gone to her room early with a
headache.</p>
<p>Finally, Lily remarked that it was a beautiful night, and it was
as exactly what might have been expected from her flower-like lips
as the squeaking call for mamma of a talking doll. George almost
grunted a response, and rattled his paper loudly. Lily looked at
him with a little surprise, but with unfailing love and admiration.
George had sometimes a feeling that if he were to beat her she
would continue to admire him and think it lovely of him. Lily had,
in fact, the soul of an Oriental woman in the midst of New England.
She would have figured admirably in a harem. George, being
Occidental to his heart's core, felt an exasperation the worse
because it was needfully dumb, on account of this adoration. He
thought less of himself because his wife thought he could do no
wrong. The power of doing wrong is, after all, a power, and George
had a feeling of having lost that power and of being in a negative
way wronged. Finally he spoke crossly to Lily over his
newspaper.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why do you stick so to that everlasting
fancy-work?&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Why on earth don't you sometimes
run out of an evening? You never go into the next house
nowadays.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Lily arose directly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We will go over there now if you wish,&rdquo; said she.
She laid down her work and smoothed her hair with her doll-like
gesture, which never varied.</p>
<p>George looked at her surlily and irresolutely.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, I guess we had better not to-night,&rdquo; he
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I had just as lief, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>George rose, letting his paper slide to the floor.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;they are all out on the
front door-step, and I think some of the neighbors are there, too.
We might run over a moment. It is too hot to stay in the house,
anyway.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But when George and Lily came alongside the Stillman house the
laughter was hushed, and there was a light in Aunt Maria's bedroom,
and lights also in the chambers behind the drawn curtains.</p>
<p>&ldquo;We are too late,&rdquo; said George. &ldquo;They have
gone to bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think they have,&rdquo; replied Lily, looking up at the
lighted bedroom windows. Then she added, &ldquo;I will go over
there any evening you wish, dear,&rdquo; and looked at him with
that unfailing devotion which unreasonably angered him.</p>
<p>He answered her quite roughly, and was ashamed of himself
afterwards.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is a frightfully monotonous life we lead
anyhow,&rdquo; said he, as if she, Lily, were responsible for
it.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Suppose we go away a week somewhere next month,&rdquo;
said Lily.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I'll think of it,&rdquo; said he, striding along by
her side. Even that suggestion, which was entirely reasonable,
angered him, and he felt furious and ashamed of himself for being
so angered.</p>
<p>Lily was constantly making him ashamed of himself for not being
a god and for feeling unreasonable anger when she did nothing to
provoke it. Once in a while a man likes to have a reasonable cause
for resentment in order to prove himself in the right.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, I am ready to go whenever you wish to do so,
dear,&rdquo; said Lily. &ldquo;My wardrobe is in order.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, we'll see,&rdquo; George grunted again, as he and
Lily retraced their steps.</p>
<p>They sat down again in the sitting-room, and Lily took up her
embroidery, and he read a murder case in his paper.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Maria, after putting out her lamp, was lying awake in
bed thinking that Evelyn would come in and make some confidence to
her, but she did not come. Maria felt horribly uneasy. She could
not understand her sister's sudden change of mood, and yet she did
not for a moment doubt Wollaston. She said to herself that as far
as she was concerned she would brave the publicity if Wollaston
loved Evelyn, but she recalled as exactly as if she had committed
them to heart what Evelyn had said with regard to divorce and the
horror which she had expressed of a divorced man or woman
remarrying. Then she further considered how much worse it would be
if the divorced man married her own sister. That course seemed to
her impossible. She imagined the horrible details, the surmises,
the newspaper articles, and she said to herself that even if she
herself were willing to face the ordeal it would be still more of
an ordeal for Wollaston and Evelyn. She said to herself that it was
impossible; then she also said to herself, with no bitterness, but
with an acquiescence in the logic of it, that it would be much
better for them all if she, Maria, should die.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXVI</h4>
<p>Evelyn's return of appetite and spirits endured only a few days.
Then she seemed worse than she had been before. In fact, Wollaston,
thinking that he had done wrong in yielding for only a second to
his impulse of tender protection and admiration for the young girl,
went too far in the opposite direction. In order to make amends to
Maria, himself, and Evelyn, he was actually rude, almost brutal. He
scarcely spoke to Evelyn. On one occasion he even reprimanded her
severely in a class for a slight mistake. Evelyn turned pale, and
gave him a glance like that of some pretty, little, harmless animal
which has nothing except love and devotion in its heart, and whose
very mistakes are those of love and over-anxiety to please.
Wollaston was struck to the heart by the look, but he did not relax
one muscle of his stern face.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I think Mr. Lee treated you mean, so there,&rdquo; Addie
Hemingway said to Evelyn when they had left the room.</p>
<p>Evelyn said nothing. Her face continued pale and shocked. It was
inconceivable to her that anybody, least of all Mr. Lee, could have
spoken so to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;He's treating you like a child,&rdquo; Addie Hemingway
continued. &ldquo;Mr. Lee has no right to speak so to
seniors.&rdquo; Addie's words were in themselves sympathetic, but
there was an undertone of delight at the other girl's discomfiture
in her voice which she could not eliminate. In reality she was
saying to herself that Evelyn Edgham, in spite of her being so
pretty, had had to meet a rebuff, and she exulted in it.</p>
<p>Evelyn still said nothing. She left Addie abruptly and joined
Maria in her class-room. It was the noon-hour. Maria glanced
anxiously at her sister as she entered.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Why, darling, what is the matter?&rdquo; she cried.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied Evelyn. An impulse of loyalty
seized her. She would not repeat, not even to Maria, the unkind
words which Mr. Lee had used towards her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you look so pale, dear,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It was warm in there,&rdquo; said Evelyn, with a quiet,
dejected air unusual to her.</p>
<p>Maria could not get any admission that anything was wrong from
her. Evelyn tried to eat her luncheon, making more of an effort
than usual, but she could not. At last she laid her head down on
her sister's table and wept with the utter abandon of a child, but
she still would not tell what caused her tears.</p>
<p>After that Evelyn lost flesh so rapidly that it became alarming.
Maria and her aunt wondered if they ought to allow her to go
through the strain of the graduation exercises, but neither dared
say anything about it to her. Evelyn's whole mind seemed fastened
upon her graduation and the acquitting of herself with credit. She
studied assiduously. She often used to go into the spare chamber
and gaze at her graduating dress, which was spread out on the bed
there covered with a sheet.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She's so set on that graduation and wearing that
dress,&rdquo; Aunt Maria said to Eunice Stillman, her
sister-in-law, one day when she was alone with her in her parlor
and heard Evelyn's light step overhead. &ldquo;She goes in there
almost every day and looks at it.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Eunice sighed. &ldquo;Well, I wish she looked better,&rdquo;
said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;So do I. It seems to me that she loses every
day.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Did you ever think&mdash;&rdquo; began Eunice. Then she
stopped and hesitated.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Think what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If&mdash;anything happened to her, that that dress&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, for the land sake, stop, Eunice!&rdquo; cried Aunt
Maria, impatiently. &ldquo;Ain't I had it on my mind the whole
time. And that dress looks just as if it was laid out
there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Do you think Maria notices?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, she's just as worried as I am. But what can we do?
Maybe if Evelyn gets through the graduation she will be better. I
shall be thankful when it's over, for my part.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How that child's mother could have gone off and left her
all this time I don't see,&rdquo; Eunice said. &ldquo;If I were in
her place and anything happened to her, I should never forgive
myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Trust Ida Slome to forgive herself for most
anything,&rdquo; Aunt Maria returned, bitterly. &ldquo;But as far
as that goes, I guess the child has had full as good care here as
she would have had with her ma.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I guess so, too,&rdquo; said Eunice;
&ldquo;better&mdash;only I should never forgive myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>That was only a week before the graduation day, which was on a
Wednesday. It was a clear June day, with a sky of blue, veiled here
and there with wing-shaped clouds. It was quite warm. Evelyn
dressed herself very early. She was ready long before it was time
to take the car. Evelyn, in her white graduating dress, was fairly
angelic. Although she had lost so much flesh, it had not affected
her beauty, only made it more touching. Her articulations and bones
were so fairy-like and delicate that even with her transparent
sleeved and necked dress there were no unseemly protuberances. Her
slenderness, moreover, was not so apparent in her fluffy gown.
Above her necklace of pink corals her lovely face showed. It was
full of a gentle and uncomplaining melancholy, yet that day there
was a tinge of hope in it. The faintest and most appealing smile
curved her lips. She looked at everybody with a sort of wistful
challenge. It was as if she said: &ldquo;After all, am I not
pretty, and worthy of being loved? Am I not worthy of being loved,
even if I am not, and I have all my books in my head,
too?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria had given her a bouquet of red roses. When Evelyn in her
turn came forward to read her essay, holding her red roses, with
red roses of excitement burning on her delicate cheeks, there was a
low murmur of admiration. Then it was that Maria, in her blue gown,
seated among the other teachers, caught the look on Wollaston Lee's
face. It was unmistakable. It was a look of the utmost love and
longing and admiration, the soul of the man, for the minute, was
plainly to be read. In a second, the look was gone, but Maria had
seen. &ldquo;He is in love with her,&rdquo; she told herself,
&ldquo;only he is so honorable that he chokes the love back.&rdquo;
Maria turned very pale, but she listened with smiling lips to
Evelyn's essay. It was very good, but not much beyond the usual
rate of such productions. Evelyn had nothing creative about her,
although she was even a brilliant scholar. But the charm of that
little flutelike voice, coming from that slight, white-clad beauty,
made even platitudes seem like something higher than wisdom.</p>
<p>When Evelyn had finished there was a great round of applause and
a shower of flowers. She returned again and again, and bowed,
smiling delightedly. She was flushed with her triumph. She thought
that even Mr. Lee must be pleased with her, if he did not love her,
and be proud to have such a pupil.</p>
<p>That evening there was to be a reception for the teachers, and
the graduating-class, at Mr. Lee's house. Evelyn and Maria had
planned to go to one of the other teacher's, who lived in
Westbridge, have supper, and go from there to the reception. But
when the exercises were over, and they had reached the teacher's
home, Evelyn's strength gave way. She had a slight fainting fit.
The teacher, an elderly woman who lived alone, gave her home-made
wine and made her take off her dress, put on one of her own
wrappers, and lie down and rest until the last minute, in the hope
that she would be able to go to the reception. But it became
evident that the girl was too exhausted. When Maria and the teacher
were fastening her dress again, she fainted the second time. The
teacher, who was a decisive woman, spoke.</p>
<p>&ldquo;There is no sense whatever in this child's leaving this
house to-night,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Maria, you go to the
reception, and I will stay and take care of her.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;If Evelyn is not able to
go, I think we had better take the trolley at once for home.&rdquo;
Maria was as decided as the other teacher. When the white-clad
graduates and the teachers were gathering at Wollaston Lee's, she
and Evelyn boarded the trolley for Amity. Evelyn still held fast to
her bouquet of red roses, and Maria was laden with baskets and
bouquets which had been strewn at her shrine. Evelyn leaned back in
her seat, with her head resting against the window, and did not
speak. All her animation of the morning had vanished. She looked
ghastly. Maria kept glancing furtively at her. She herself looked
nearly as pale as Evelyn. She realized that she was face to face
with a great wall of problem. She was as unhappy as Evelyn, but she
was stronger to bear unhappiness. She had philosophy, and logic,
and her young sister was a creature of pure emotion, and at the
same time she was so innocent and ignorant that she was completely
helpless before it. Evelyn closed her eyes as she leaned against
the window-frame, and a chill crept over her sister as she thought
that she could not look much different if she were dead. Then came
to Maria the conviction that this sister's life meant more than
anything else in the world to her. That she could bear the loss of
everything rather than that, and when she too would not be able to
avoid the sense of responsibility for it. If she had not been so
headlong and absurdly impetuous years ago, Evelyn might easily have
been happy and lived.</p>
<p>When they reached home, Aunt Maria, who had come on an earlier
car, was already in her bedroom and the front-door was fastened and
the sitting-room windows were dark. Maria knocked on the door, and
presently she heard footsteps, then Aunt Maria's voice, asking,
with an assumption of masculine harshness, who were there.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is only I and Evelyn,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>Then the door was opened, and Aunt Maria, in her ruffled
night-gown and cap, holding a streaming lamp, stood back hastily
lest somebody see her. &ldquo;Come in and shut the door quick, for
goodness sake!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I am all
undressed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria and Evelyn went in, and Maria closed and locked the
door.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What have you come home for?&rdquo; asked Aunt Maria.
&ldquo;Why didn't you go to the reception, and stay at Miss
Thomas's, the way you said you were going to, I'd like to
know?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Evelyn didn't feel very well, and I thought we'd better
come home,&rdquo; replied Maria, with a little note of evasion in
her voice.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria turned and looked sharply at Evelyn, who was leaning
against the wall. She was faint again, and she looked, in her white
dress with her slender curves, like a bas-relief. &ldquo;What on
earth is the matter with her?&rdquo; asked Aunt Maria in her angry
voice, which was still full of the most loving concern. She caught
hold of Evelyn's slight arm. &ldquo;You are all tired out, just as
I expected,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I call the whole thing pure
tomfoolery. If girls want to get educated, let them, but when it
comes to making such a parade when they are all worn out with
education there is no sense in it. Maria, you get her up-stairs to
bed.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Evelyn was too exhausted to make any resistance. She allowed
Maria to assist her up-stairs and undress her. When her sister bent
over her to kiss her good-night, she said, soothingly, &ldquo;There
now, darling; go to sleep. You will feel better now school is done
and you will have a chance to rest.&rdquo;</p>
<p>But Evelyn responded with the weakest and most hopeless little
sob.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't cry, precious,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Won't you tell if I tell you something?&rdquo; said
Evelyn, raising herself on one slender arm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, dear.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well&mdash;he does&mdash;care a good deal about me. I
know now. I&mdash;I met him out in the grove after the exercises
were over, and&mdash;there was nobody there, and he&mdash;he caught
hold of my arms, and, Maria, he looked at me, but&mdash;&rdquo;
Evelyn burst into a weak little wail.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is it, dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, I don't know what it is, but for some reason he
thinks he can't tell me. He did not say so, but he made me know,
and&mdash;and oh, Maria, he is going away! He is not coming back to
Westbridge at all. He is going to get another place!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense!&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, it is so. He said so. Oh, Maria! you will think I am
dreadful, and I do love you and Aunt Maria and Uncle Henry and Aunt
Eunice, but I can't help minding his going away where I can never
see him, more than anything else in the world. I can't help loving
him most. I do feel so very badly, sister, that I think I shall
die.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nonsense, darling.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I shall. And I am not ashamed now. I was ashamed
because I thought so much about a man who did not care anything
about me, but now I am not ashamed. I am just killed. A person is
not to blame for being killed. I am not ashamed. I am killed. He is
going away, and I shall never see him again. The sight of him was
something; I shall not even have that. You don't know, sister. I
don't love him for my own self, but for himself. Just the knowing
he is near is something, and I shall not even have that.&rdquo;
Evelyn was too weak to cry tumultuously, but she made little,
futile moans, and clung to Maria's hand. Maria tried to soothe her,
and finally the child, worn out, seemed to be either asleep or in
the coma of exhaustion.</p>
<p>Then Maria went into her own room. She undressed, and sat down
beside the window with a wrapper over her night-gown. Now she had
to solve her problem. She began as she might have done with a
problem in higher algebra, this problem of the human heart and its
emotions. She said to herself that there were three people. Evelyn,
Wollaston and herself, three known quantities, and an unknown
quantity of happiness, and perhaps life itself, which must be
evolved from them. She eliminated herself and her own happiness not
with any particular realization of self-sacrifice. She came of a
race of women to whom self-sacrifice was more natural than
self-gratification. She was unhappy, but there was no struggle for
happiness to render the unhappiness keener. She thought first of
Evelyn. She loved Wollaston. Maria reasoned, of course, that she
was very young. This first love might not be her only one, but the
girl's health might break under the strain, and she took into
consideration, as she had often done, the fairly abnormal strength
of Evelyn's emotional nature in a slight and frail young body.
Evelyn was easily one who might die because of a thwarted love.
Then Maria thought of Wollaston, and, loving him as she did, she
acknowledged to herself coolly that he was the first to be
considered, his happiness and well being. Even if Evelyn did break
her heart, the man must have the first consideration. She tried to
judge fairly as to whether she or Evelyn would on the whole be the
best for him. She estimated herself, and she estimated Evelyn, and
she estimated the man. Wollaston Lee was a man of a strong nature,
she told herself. He was capable of self-restraint, of holding his
head up from his own weaknesses forever. Maria reasoned that if he
had been a weaker man she would have loved him just the same, and
in that case Evelyn would have been the one to be sacrificed. She
thought that a girl like Evelyn would not have been such a good
wife for a weak man as she herself, who was stronger. But Wollaston
did not need any extraneous strength. On the contrary, some one who
was weaker than he might easily strengthen his strength. It seemed
to her that Evelyn was distinctly better for the man than she. Then
she remembered the look which she had seen on his face when Evelyn
began her essay that day.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If he does not love her now it is because he is bound to
me,&rdquo; she thought. &ldquo;He would most certainly love her if
it were not for me.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Again it seemed to Maria distinctly better that she should die,
better&mdash;that is, for Evelyn and the man. But she had the
thought, with no morbid desire for suicide or any bitterness. It
simply seemed to her as if her elimination would produce that
desirable unknown quantity of happiness.</p>
<p>Elimination and not suicide seemed to her the only course for
her to pursue. She sat far into the night thinking it over. She had
great imagination and great daring. Things were possible to her
which would not have been possible to many&mdash;that is, she
considered things as possibilities which would have seemed to many
simply vagaries. She thought of them seriously, with a belief in
their fulfilment. It was almost morning, the birds had just begun
to sing in scattering flute-like notes, when she crept into
bed.</p>
<p>She hardly slept at all. She heard the gathering chorus of the
birds, in a half doze, until seven o'clock. Then she got up and
dressed herself. She peeped cautiously into Evelyn's room. The girl
was sleeping, her long, dark lashes curled upon her wan cheeks. She
looked ghastly, yet still lovely. Maria looked at her, and her
mouth compressed. Then she turned away. She crept noiselessly down
the stairs and into the kitchen where Aunt Maria was preparing
breakfast. The stove smoked a little and the air was blue.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How is she?&rdquo; asked Aunt Maria, in a hushed
voice.</p>
<p>&ldquo;She is fast asleep.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Better let her sleep just as long as she will,&rdquo;
said Aunt Maria. &ldquo;These exhibitions are pure tomfoolery. She
is just tuckered out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I think she is,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria looked keenly at her, and her face paled and
lengthened.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Maria Edgham, what on earth is the matter with
<em>you?</em>&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You look as bad as she does.
Between both of you I am at my wit's end.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing ails me,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Nothing ails you? Look at yourself in the glass
there.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria stole a look at herself in a glass which hung over the
kitchen-table, and she hardly knew her own face, it had gathered
such a strange fixedness of secret purpose. That had altered it
more than her pallor. Maria tried to smile and say again that
nothing ailed her, but she could not. Suddenly a tremendous pity
for her aunt came over her. She had not thought so much about that.
But now she looked at things from her aunt's point of view, and she
saw the pain to which the poor old woman must be put. She saw no
way of avoiding the giving her the pain, but she suffered it
herself. She went up to Aunt Maria and kissed her.</p>
<p>Aunt Maria started back, and rubbed her face violently.
&ldquo;What did you do that for?&rdquo; said she, in a frightened
voice. Then she noticed Maria's dress, which was one which she
seldom wore unless she was going out. &ldquo;What have you got on
your brown suit for this morning?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought I would go down to the store after breakfast
and get some embroidery silk for that centre-piece,&rdquo; replied
Maria.</p>
<p>As she spoke she seemed to realize what a little thing a lie
was, and how odd it was that she should realize it, who had been
brought up to speak the truth.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your gingham would have been enough sight better to have
worn this hot morning,&rdquo; said Aunt Maria, still with that air
of terror and suspicion.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh, this dress is light,&rdquo; replied Maria, going
out.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Where are you going now?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Into the parlor.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Aunt Maria stood still, listening, until she heard the parlor
door open. She was still filled with vague suspicion. She did not
hear quite as acutely as formerly, and Maria had no difficulty
about leaving the parlor unheard the second after she entered it,
and getting her hat and coat and a small satchel which she had
brought down-stairs with her from the hat-tree in the entry. Then
she opened the front door noiselessly and stole out. She went
rapidly down the street in the direction of the bridge, which she
had been accustomed to cross when she taught school in Amity. She
met Jessy Ramsey, now grown to be as tall as herself, and pretty
with a half-starved, pathetic prettiness. Jessy was on her way to
work. She went out by the day, doing washings. She stopped when she
met Maria, and gave a little, shy look&mdash;her old little-girl
look&mdash;at her. Maria also stopped. &ldquo;Good-morning,
Jessy,&rdquo; said she. Then she asked how she was, if her cough
was better, and where she was going to work. Then, suddenly, to
Jessy's utter amazement and rapture, she kissed her. &ldquo;I never
forget what a good little girl you were,&rdquo; said she, and was
gone. Jessy stood for a moment staring after her. Then she wiped
her eyes and proceed to her scene of labor.</p>
<p>Maria went to the railroad station. She was just in time for a
train. She got on the rear car and sat in the last seat. She looked
about and did not see anybody whom she knew. She recalled how she
had run away before, and how Wollaston had brought her back. She
knew that it would not happen so again. She was on a through train
which did not stop at the station where he had found her. When the
train slowed up a little in passing that station, she saw the bench
on the platform where she had sat, and a curious sensation came
over her. She was like one who has made the leap and realizes that
there is nothing more to dread, and who gets even a certain
abnormal pleasure from the sensation. When the conductor came
through the car she purchased her ticket for New York, and asked
when the train was due in the city. When she learned that it was
due at an hour so late that it would be impossible for her to go,
as she had planned, to Edgham that night, she did not, even then,
for the time being, feel in the least dismayed. She had plenty of
money. Her last quarter's salary was in her little satchel. The
train was made up of Pullmans only, and it was by a good chance
that she had secured a seat. She gazed out of the large window at
the flying landscape, and again that sense of pleasure in the midst
of pain was over her. The motion itself was exhilarating. She
seemed to be speeding past herself and her own anxieties, which
suddenly appeared as petty and evanescent as the flying
telegraph-poles along the track. &ldquo;It has to be over some
time,&rdquo; she reflected. &ldquo;Nothing matters.&rdquo; She felt
comforted by a realization of immensity and the continuance of
motion. She comprehended her own atomic nature in the great scheme
of things. She had never done so before. Her own interests had
always loomed up before her like a beam in the eye of God. Now she
saw that they were infinitesimal, and the knowledge soothed her.
She leaned her head back and dozed a little. She was awakened by
the porter thrusting a menu into her hands. She ordered something.
It was not served promptly, and she had no appetite. There was some
tea which tasted of soap.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXVII</h4>
<p>There were very few people in this car, for the reason that
there had recently been a terrible rear-end collision on the road,
and people had flocked into the forward cars. There were three
young girls who filled the car with chatter, and irritated Maria
unreasonably. They were very pretty and well dressed, and with no
reserve. They were as inconsequently confidential about their own
affairs as so many sparrows, but more intelligible. One by one the
men left and went into the smoker, before this onslaught of harsh
trebles shrieking above the roar of the train, obtruding their
little, bird-like affairs, their miniature hoppings upon the stage
of life, upon all in the car.</p>
<p>Finally, there were none left in the car except Maria, these
young girls, an old lady, who accosted the conductors whenever they
entered and asked when the train was due in New York (a tremulous,
vibratory old lady in antiquated frills and an agitatedly sidewise
bonnet, and loose black silk gloves), and across the aisle a tiny,
deformed woman, a dwarf, in fact, with her maid. This little woman
was richly dressed, and she had a fine face. She was old enough to
be Maria's mother. Her eyes were dark and keen, her forehead
domelike, and her square, resigned chin was sunken in the laces at
her throat. Her maid was older than she, and waited upon her with a
faithful solicitude. The little woman had some tea, which the maid
produced from a small silver caddy in a travelling-bag, and the
porter, with an obsequious air, brought boiling water in two squat,
plated tea-pots. It was the tea which served to introduce Maria.
She had just pushed aside, with an air half of indifference, half
of disgust, her own luke-warm concoction flavored with soap, when
the maid, at her mistress's order, touched the bell. When the
porter appeared, Maria heard the dwarf ask for another pot of
boiling water, and presently the maid stood beside her with a cup
of fragrant tea.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Blair wishes me to ask if you will not drink this
instead of the other, which she fears is not quite
satisfactory,&rdquo; the maid said, in an odd, acquired tone and
manner of ladyism, as if she were repeating a lesson, yet there
seemed nothing artificial about it. She regarded Maria with a
respectful air. Maria looked across at the dwarf woman, who was
looking at her with kindly eyes which yet seemed aloof,
and a half-sardonic, half-pleasant smile.</p>
<p>Maria thanked her and took the tea, which was excellent, and
refreshed her. The maid returned to her seat, facing her mistress.
They had finished their luncheon. She leaned back in her chair with
a blank expression of face. The dwarf looked out of the window, and
that same half-pleasant, half-sardonic smile remained upon her
face. It was as if she regarded all nature with amused acquiescence
and sarcasm, at its inability to harm her, although it had made the
endeavor.</p>
<p>Maria glanced at her very rich black attire, and a great pearl
cross which gleamed at her throat, and she wondered a little about
her. Then she turned again to the flying landscape, and again that
sense of unnatural peace came over her. She did not think of Evelyn
and Wollaston, or her aunts and uncle, whom she was leaving, except
with the merest glance of thought. It was as if she were already in
another world.</p>
<p>The train sped on, and the girls continued their chatter, and
their high-shrieking trebles arose triumphant above all the
clatter. It was American girlhood rampant on the shield of their
native land. Still there was something about the foolish young
faces and the inane chatter and laughter which was sweet and even
appealing. They became attractive from their audaciousness and
their ignorance that they were troublesome. Their confidence in the
admiration of all who saw and heard almost compelled it. Their
postures, their crossing their feet with lavish displays of
lingerie and dainty feet and hose, was possibly the very boldness
of innocence, although Maria now and then glanced at them and
thought of Evelyn, and was thankful that she was not like them.</p>
<p>The little dwarf also glanced now and then at them with her
pleasant and sardonic smile and with an unruffled patience. She
seemed either to look up from the depths of, or down from the
heights of, her deformity upon them, and to hardly sense them at
all. None of the men returned until a large city was reached, where
some of them were to get off. Then they lounged into the car, were
brushed, took their satchels, and when the train reached the
station swung out, with the unfailing trebles still in their
ears.</p>
<p>Before the train reached New York, all the many appurtenances
had vanished from the car. The chattering girls also had alighted
at a station, with a renewed din like a flock of birds, and there
were then left in the rear car only Maria, the dwarf woman, and her
maid.</p>
<p>It was not until the train was lighted, and she could no longer
see anything from the window except signal-lights and lighted
windows of towns through which they whirled, that Maria's unnatural
mood disappeared. Suddenly she glanced around the lighted car, and
terror seized her. She was no longer a very young girl; she had
much strength of character, but she was unused to the world. For
the first time she seemed to feel the cold waters of it touch her
very heart. She thought of the great and terrible city into which
she was to launch herself late at night. She considered that she
knew absolutely nothing about the hotels. She even remembered,
vaguely, having heard that no unattended woman was admitted to one,
and then she had no baggage except her little satchel. She glanced
at herself in the little glass beside her seat, and her pretty face
all at once occurred to her as being a great danger rather than an
advantage. Now she wished for her aunt Maria's face instead of her
own. She imagined that Aunt Maria might have no difficulty even
under the same adverse circumstances. She looked years younger than
she was. She thought for a moment of going into the lavatory and
rearranging her hair, with a view to making herself look plain and
old, as she had done before, but she recalled the enormous change
it had made in her appearance, and she was afraid to do that lest
it should seem a suspicious circumstance to the conductors and her
fellow-passengers. She glanced across the aisle at the dwarf woman,
and their eyes met, and suddenly a curious sort of feeling of
kinship came over the girl. Here was another woman outside the pale
of ordinary life by physical conditions, as she herself was by
spiritual ones. The dwarf's eyes looked fairly angelic and heavenly
to her. She saw her speak in a whisper to her maid, and the woman
immediately arose and came to her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Miss Blair wishes me to ask if you will be so kind as to
go and speak to her; she has something which she wishes to say to
you,&rdquo; she said, in the same parrot-like fashion.</p>
<p>Maria arose at once, and crossed the aisle and seated herself in
the chair which the maid vacated. The maid took Maria's at a nod
from her mistress.</p>
<p>The little woman looked at Maria for a moment with her keen,
kind eyes and her peculiar smile deepened. Then she spoke.
&ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>Maria hesitated.</p>
<p>The dwarf looked across at her maid. &ldquo;She will not
understand anything you say,&rdquo; she remarked. &ldquo;She is
well trained. She can hear without hearing&mdash;that is her great
accomplishment.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Still Maria said nothing.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You got on at Amity,&rdquo; said the dwarf. &ldquo;Is
that where you live?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What is your name?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria closed her mouth firmly.</p>
<p>The dwarf laughed. &ldquo;Oh, very well,&rdquo; said she.
&ldquo;If you do not choose to tell it, I can. Your name is
Ackley&mdash;Elizabeth Ackley. I am glad to meet you, Miss
Ackley.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria paled a little, but she said nothing to disapprove this
extraordinary statement.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My name is Blair&mdash;Miss Rosa Blair,&rdquo; said the
dwarf. &ldquo;I am a rose, but I happened to bloom outside the
pale.&rdquo; She laughed gayly, but Maria's eyes upon her were
pitiful. &ldquo;You are also outside the pale in some way,&rdquo;
said Miss Blair. &ldquo;I always know such people when I meet them.
There is an affinity between them and myself. The moment I saw you
I said to myself: she also is outside the pale, she also has
escaped from the garden of life. Well, never mind, child; it is not
so very bad outside when one becomes accustomed to it. I am.
Perhaps you have not had time; but you will have. What is the
matter?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am running away,&rdquo; replied Maria then.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Running away! From what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is better for me to be away,&rdquo; said Maria,
evading the question. &ldquo;It would be better if I were
dead.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;But you are not,&rdquo; said the dwarf, with a quick
movement almost of alarm.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Maria; &ldquo;and I see no reason why I
shall not live to be an old woman.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't either,&rdquo; said Miss Blair. &ldquo;You look
healthy. You say, better if you were dead&mdash;better for whom,
yourself or others?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Others.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Miss Blair. She remained quietly
regardful of Maria for a little while, then she spoke again.
&ldquo;Where are you going when you reach New York?&rdquo; she
asked.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I was going out to Edgham, but I shall miss the last
train, and I shall have to go to a hotel,&rdquo; replied Maria, and
she looked at the dwarf with an expression of almost childish
terror.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Don't you know that it may be difficult for a young girl
alone? Have you any baggage?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked at her little satchel, which she had left beside
her former chair.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo; asked Miss Blair.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You must certainly not think of trying to go to a hotel
at this time of night,&rdquo; said the dwarf. &ldquo;You must go
home with me. I am entirely safe. Even your mother would trust you
with me, if you have one.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have not, nor father, either,&rdquo; replied Maria.
&ldquo;But I am not afraid to trust you for myself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>A pleased expression transfigured Miss Blair's face. &ldquo;You
do not distrust me and you do not shrink from me?&rdquo; she
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Maria, looking at her with
indescribable gratitude.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then it is settled,&rdquo; said the dwarf. &ldquo;You
will come home with me. I expect my carriage when we arrive at the
station. You will be entirely safe. You need not look as frightened
as you did a few moments ago again. Come home with me to-night;
then we will see what can be done.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Miss Blair turned her face towards the window. Her big chair
almost swallowed her tiny figure, the sardonic expression had
entirely left her face, which appeared at once noble and loving.
Maria gazed at her as she sat so, with an odd, inverted admiration.
It seemed extraordinary to her she should actually admire any one
like this deformed little creature, but admire her she did. It was
as if she suddenly had become possessed of a sixth sense for an
enormity of beauty beyond the usual standards.</p>
<p>Miss Blair glanced at her and saw the look in her eyes, and a
look of triumph came into her own. She bent forward towards
Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are sheltering me as well as I am sheltering
you,&rdquo; she said, in a low voice.</p>
<p>Maria did not know what to say. Miss Blair leaned back again and
closed her eyes, and a look of perfect peace and content was on her
face.</p>
<p>It was not long before the train rolled into the New York
tunnel. Miss Blair's maid rose and took down her mistress's
travelling cloak of black silk, which she brushed with a little,
ivory brush taken from her travelling-bag.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This young lady is going home with us, Adelaide,&rdquo;
said Miss Blair.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, ma'am,&rdquo; replied the maid, without the
slightest surprise.</p>
<p>She took Maria's coat from the hook where it swung, and brushed
it also, and assisted her to put it on before the porter entered
the car.</p>
<p>Maria felt again in a daze, but a great sense of security was
over her. She had not the slightest doubt of this strange little
creature who was befriending her. She felt like one who finds a
ledge of safety on a precipice where he had feared a sheer descent.
She was content to rest awhile on the safe footing, even if it were
only transient.</p>
<p>When they alighted from the train at the station a man in livery
met them and assisted Miss Blair down the steps with
obsequiousness.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How do you do, James?&rdquo; said Miss Blair, then went
on to ask the man what horses were in the carriage.</p>
<p>&ldquo;The bays, Miss Blair,&rdquo; replied the man,
respectfully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am glad of that,&rdquo; said his mistress, as she went
along the platform. &ldquo;I was afraid Alexander might make a
mistake and put in those new grays. I don't like to drive with them
at night very well.&rdquo; Then she said to Maria: &ldquo;I am very
nervous about horses, Miss Ackley. You may wonder at it. You may
think I have reached the worst and ought to fear nothing, but there
are worsts beyond worsts.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Maria replied, vaguely. She kept close to
Miss Blair. She realized what an agony of fear she should have felt
in that murky station with the lights burning dimly through the
smoke and the strange sights and outcries all around her.</p>
<p>Miss Blair's carriage was waiting, and Maria saw,
half-comprehendingly, that it was very luxurious indeed. She
entered with Miss Blair and her maid, then after a little wait for
baggage they drove away.</p>
<p>When the carriage stopped, the footman assisted Maria out after
Miss Blair, and she followed her conductress's tiny figure toiling
rather painfully on the arm of her maid up the steps. She entered
the house, and stood for a second fairly bewildered.</p>
<p>Maria had seen many interiors of moderate luxury, but never
anything like this. For a second her attention was distracted from
everything except the wonderful bizarre splendor in which she found
herself. It was not Western magnificence, but Oriental; hangings of
the richest Eastern stuffs, rugs, and dark gleams of bronzes and
dull lights of brass, and the sheen of silken embroideries.</p>
<p>When Maria at last recovered herself and turned to Miss Blair,
to her astonishment she no longer seemed as deformed as she had
been on the train. She fitted into this dark, rich, Eastern
splendor as a misformed bronze idol might have done. Miss Blair
gave a little, shrewd laugh at Maria's gaze, then she spoke to
another maid who had appeared when the door opened.</p>
<p>&ldquo;This is my friend Miss Ackley, Louise,&rdquo; she said.
&ldquo;Take her to the west room, and call down and have a supper
tray sent to her.&rdquo; Then she said to Maria that she must be
tired, and would prefer going at once to her room. &ldquo;I am
tired myself,&rdquo; said Miss Blair. &ldquo;Such persons as I do
not move about the face of the earth with impunity. There is a wear
and tear of the soul and the body when the body is so small that it
scarcely holds the soul. You will have your supper sent up, and
your breakfast in the morning. At ten o'clock I will send Adelaide
to bring you to my room.&rdquo; She bade Maria good-night, and the
girl followed the maid, stepping into an elevator on one side of
the vestibule. She had a vision of Miss Blair's tiny figure with
Adelaide moving slowly upward on the other side.</p>
<p>Maria reflected that she was glad that she had her toilet
articles and her night-dress at least in her satchel. She felt the
maid looking at her, although her manner was very much like
Adelaide's. She wondered what she would have thought if she had not
at least had her simple necessaries for the night when she followed
her into a room which seemed to her fairly wonderful. It was a
white room. The walls were hung with paper covered with sheafs of
white lilies; white fur rugs&mdash;wolf-skins and skins of polar
bears&mdash;were strewn over the polished white floor. All the
toilet articles were ivory and the furniture white, with
decorations of white lilies and silver. In one corner stood a bed
of silver with white draperies. Beyond, Maria had a glimpse of a
bath in white and silver, and a tiny dressing-room which looked
like frost-work. When the maid left her for a moment Maria stood
and gazed breathless. She realized a sort of delight in externals
which she had never had before. The externals seemed to be
farther-reaching. There was something about this white, virgin room
which made it seem to her after her terror on the train like
heaven. A sense of absolute safety possessed her. It was something
to have that, although she was doing something so tremendous to her
self-consciousness that she felt like a criminal, and the ache in
her heart for those whom she had left never ceased. The maid
brought in a tray covered with dainty dishes of white and silver
and a little flask of white wine. Then, after Maria had refused
further assistance, she left her. Maria ate her supper. She was in
reality half famished. Then she went to bed. Nestling in her white
bed, looking out of a lace-curtained window opposite through which
came the glimpse of a long line of city lights, Maria felt more
than ever as if she were in another world. She felt as if she were
gazing at her past, at even her loves of life, through the wrong
end of a telescope.</p>
<p>The night was very warm but the room was deliciously cool. A
breath of sweet coolness came from one of the walls. Maria,
contrary to her wont, fell asleep almost immediately. She was
exhausted, and an unusual peace seemed to soothe her very soul. She
felt as if she had really died and gotten safe to Heaven. She said
her prayers, then she was asleep. She awoke rather late the next
morning, and took her bath, and then her breakfast was brought.
When that was finished and she was dressed, it was ten o'clock, and
the maid Adelaide came to take her to her hostess. Maria went down
one elevator and up another, the one in which she had seen Miss
Blair ascend the night before. Then she entered a strange room, in
the midst of which sat Miss Blair. To Maria's utter amazement, she
no longer seemed in the least deformed, she no longer seemed a
dwarf. She was in perfect harmony with the room, which was
low-ceiled, full of strange curves and low furniture with curved
backs. It was all Eastern, as was the first floor of the house.
Maria understood with a sort of intuition that this was necessary.
The walls were covered with Eastern hangings, tables of lacquer
stood about filled with squat bronzes and gemlike ivory carvings.
The hangings were all embroidered in short curve effects. Maria
realized that her hostess, in this room, made more of a harmony
than she herself. She felt herself large, coarse, and common where
she should have been tiny, bizarre, and, according to the usual
standard, misformed. Miss Blair had planned for herself a room
wherein everything was misformed, and in which she herself was in
keeping. It had been partly the case on the first floor of the
house. Here it was wholly. Maria sat down in one of the squat,
curved-back chairs, and Miss Blair, who was opposite, looked at
her, then laughed with the open delight of a child.</p>
<p>&ldquo;What a pity I cannot make the whole earth over to suit
me,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;instead of only this one room! Now I
look entirely perfect to you, do I not?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; Maria replied, looking at her with
wonder.</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is my vanity room,&rdquo; said Miss Blair, and she
laughed as if she were laughing at herself. Then she added, with a
little pathos, &ldquo;You yourself, if you had been in my place,
would have wanted one little corner in which you could be
perfect.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, I should,&rdquo; said Maria. As she spoke she
settled herself down lower in her chair.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes, you do look entirely too tall and straight in
here,&rdquo; said Miss Blair, and laughed again, with genuine glee.
&ldquo;Beauty is only a matter of comparison, you know,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;If one is ugly and misshapen, all she has to do is to
surround herself with things ugly and misshapen, and she gets the
effect of perfect harmony, which is the highest beauty in the
world. Here I am in harmony after I have been out of tune. It is a
comfort. But, after all, being out of tune is not the worst thing
in the world. It might be worse. I would not make the world over to
suit me, but myself to suit the world, if I could. After all, the
world is right and I am wrong, but in here I seem to be right. Now,
child, tell me about yourself.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria told her. She left nothing untold. She told her about her
father and mother, her step-mother, and Evelyn, and her marriage,
and how she had planned to go to Edgham, get the little sum which
her father had deposited in the savings-bank for her, and then
vanish.</p>
<p>&ldquo;How?&rdquo; asked Miss Blair.</p>
<p>Maria confessed that she did not know.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course your mere disappearance is not going to right
things, you know,&rdquo; said Miss Blair. &ldquo;That matrimonial
tangle can only be straightened by your death, or the appearance of
it. I do not suppose you meditate the stereotyped hat on the bank,
and that sort of thing.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't know exactly what to do,&rdquo; said Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are quite right in avoiding a divorce,&rdquo; said
Miss Blair, &ldquo;especially when your own sister is concerned.
People would never believe the whole truth, but only part of it.
The young man would be ruined, too. The only way is to have your
death-notice appear in the paper.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;How?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Everything is easy, if one has money,&rdquo; said Miss
Blair, &ldquo;and I have really a good deal.&rdquo; She looked
thoughtfully at Maria. &ldquo;Did you really care for that young
man?&rdquo; she asked.</p>
<p>Maria paled. &ldquo;I thought so,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then you did.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It does not make any difference if I did,&rdquo; said
Maria, with a little indignation. She felt as if she were being
probed to her heart-strings.</p>
<p>&ldquo;No, of course it does not,&rdquo; Miss Blair agreed
directly. &ldquo;If he and your sister have fallen in love, as you
say, you have done obviously the only thing to do. We will have the
notice in the papers. I don't know quite how I shall arrange it;
but I have a fertile brain.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria looked hesitatingly at her. &ldquo;But it will not be
telling the truth,&rdquo; she said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;But what did you plan to do, if you told the truth when
you came away?&rdquo; asked Miss Blair with a little
impatience.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I did not really plan anything,&rdquo; replied Maria
helplessly. &ldquo;I only thought I would go.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You are inconsequential,&rdquo; said Miss Blair.
&ldquo;You cannot start upon a train of sequences in this world
unless you go on to the bitter end. Besides, after all, why do you
object to lying? I suppose you were brought up to tell the truth,
and so was I, and I really think I venerate the truth more than
anything else, but sometimes a lie is the highest truth. See here.
You are willing to bear all the punishment, even fire and
brimstone, and so on, if your sister and this man whom you love,
are happy, aren't you?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; replied Maria.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, if you tell a lie which can hurt only yourself, and
bless others, and are willing to bear the punishment for it, you
are telling the truth like the angels. Don't you worry, my dear.
But you must not go to Edgham for that money. I have enough for us
both.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I have nearly all my last term's salary, except the sum I
paid for my fare here,&rdquo; Maria said, proudly.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, dear, you shall spend it, and then you shall have
some of mine.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I don't want any money, except what I earn,&rdquo; Maria
said.</p>
<p>&ldquo;You may read to me, and earn it,&rdquo; Miss Blair said
easily. &ldquo;Don't fret about such a petty thing. Now, will you
please touch that bell, dear. I must go and arrange about our
passage.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Our passage?&rdquo; repeated Maria dully.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Yes; to-day is Thursday. We can catch a Saturday steamer.
We can buy anything which you need ready-made in the way of
wearing-apparel, and get the rest on the other side.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria gasped. She was very white, and her eyes were dilated. She
stared at Miss Rosa Blair, who returned her stare with curious
fixedness. Maria seemed to see depths within depths of meaning in
her great dark eyes. A dimness swept over her own vision.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Touch the bell, please, dear,&rdquo; said Miss Blair.</p>
<p>Maria obeyed. She touched the bell. She was swept off her feet.
She had encountered a will stronger than any which she had ever
known, a will which might have been strengthened by the tininess of
the body in which its wings were bent, but always beating for
flight. And she had encountered this will at a moment when her own
was weakened and her mind dazed by the unprecedented circumstances
in which she was placed.</p>
<h4 align="center">Chapter XXXVIII</h4>
<p>Three days later, when they were on the outward-bound steamer,
Miss Rosa Blair crossed the corridor between her state-room, which
she occupied with her maid, to Maria's, and stood a moment looking
down at the girl lying in her berth. Maria was in that state of
liability to illness which keeps one in a berth, although she was
not actually sea-sick.</p>
<p>&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said Miss Blair. &ldquo;I think I may as
well tell you now. In the night's paper before we left, I saw the
death-notice of a certain Maria Edgham, of Edgham, New Jersey.
There were some particulars which served to establish the fact of
the death. You will not be interested in the
particulars?&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria turned her pale face towards the port-hole, against which
dashed a green wave topped with foam. &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said
she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I thought you would not,&rdquo; said Miss Blair.
&ldquo;Then there is something else.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria waited quiescent.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Your name is on the ship's list of passengers as Miss
Elizabeth Blair. You are my adopted daughter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria started.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Adelaide does not remember that you were called Miss
Ackley,&rdquo; said Miss Blair. &ldquo;She will never remember that
you were anything except my adopted daughter. She is a model maid.
As for the others, Louise is a model, too, and so is the coachman.
The footman is discharged. When we return, nobody in my house will
have ever known you except as Elizabeth Blair.&rdquo; Miss Blair
went out of the state-room walking easily with the motion of the
ship. She was a good sailor.</p>
<p>The next afternoon Maria was able to sit out on deck. She leaned
back in her steamer-chair, and wept silently. Miss Blair stood at a
little distance near the rail, talking to an elderly gentleman whom
she had met years ago. &ldquo;She is my adopted daughter
Elizabeth,&rdquo; said Miss Blair. &ldquo;She has been a little
ill, but she is much better. She is feeling sad over the death of a
friend, poor child.&rdquo;</p>
<p><br>
It was a year before Maria and Miss Blair returned to the United
States. Maria looked older, although she was fully as handsome as
she had ever been. Her features had simply acquired an expression
of decision and of finish, which they had not before had. She also
looked more sophisticated. It had been on her mind that she might
possibly meet her step-mother abroad, but she had not done so; and
one day Miss Blair had shown her a London newspaper in which was
the notice of Ida's marriage to a Scotchman. &ldquo;We need not go
to Scotland,&rdquo; said Miss Blair.</p>
<p>The day after they landed was very warm. They had gone straight
to Miss Blair's New York house; later they were to go to the
sea-shore. The next morning Maria went into Miss Blair's vanity
room, as she called it, and a strange look was on her face.
&ldquo;I have made up my mind,&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well?&rdquo; Miss Blair said, interrogatively.</p>
<p>&ldquo;I cannot let him commit bigamy. I cannot let my sister
marry&mdash;my husband. I cannot break the laws in such a fashion,
nor allow them to do so.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;You break no moral law.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am not so sure. I don't know where the dividing-line
between the moral and the legal comes.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then&mdash;?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I am going to take the train to Amity this
noon.&rdquo;</p>
<p>Miss Blair turned slightly pale, but she regarded Maria
unflinchingly. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I have
always told you that I would not oppose you in any resolution which
you might make in the matter.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;It is not because I love him,&rdquo; said Maria. &ldquo;I
do love him; I think I always shall. But it is not because of
that.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I know that. What do you propose doing after you have
disclosed yourself?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Tell the truth.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;And then what?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shall talk the matter over with Wollaston and Evelyn,
and I think they can be made to see that a quiet divorce will
straighten it all out.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Not as far as the man's career is concerned, if he
marries your sister, and not so far as your sister is concerned.
People are prone to believe the worst, as the sparks fly
upward.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Then they will,&rdquo; Maria said, obstinately. &ldquo;I
have made up my mind I dare not undertake the
responsibility.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;What will you do afterwards, come back to me?&rdquo; Miss
Blair said, wistfully. &ldquo;You will come back, will you not,
dear?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;If you wish,&rdquo; Maria said, with a quick, loving
glance at her.</p>
<p>&ldquo;If I wish!&rdquo; repeated Miss Blair. &ldquo;Well, go if
you must.&rdquo;</p>
<p><br>
Maria did not reach Amity until long after dark. Behind her on the
train were two women who got on at the station before Amity. She
did not know them, and they did not know her, but they presently
began talking about her. &ldquo;I saw Miss Maria Stillman at the
Ordination in Westbridge, Wednesday,&rdquo; said one to the other.
This woman had a curiously cool, long-reaching breath when she
spoke. Maria felt it like a fan on the back of her neck.</p>
<p>The other woman, who was fat, responded with a wheezy voice.
&ldquo;It was queer about that niece of hers, who taught school in
Westbridge, running away and dying so dreadful sudden, wasn't
it?&rdquo; said she.</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dreadful queer. I guess her aunt and sister felt pretty
bad about it, and I s'pose they do now; but it's a year ago, and
they've left off their mourning.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Of course,&rdquo; said the other woman. &ldquo;They would
leave it off on account of&mdash;&rdquo;</p>
<p>Maria did not hear what followed, for a thundering freight-train
passed them and drowned the words. After the train passed, the fat
woman was saying, with her wheezy voice, &ldquo;Mr. Lee's mother's
death was dreadful sudden, wasn't it?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Dreadful.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I wonder if he likes living in Amity as well as
Westbridge?&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;I shouldn't think he would, it isn't as convenient to the
academy.&rdquo;</p>
<p>&ldquo;Well, maybe he will go back to Westbridge after a
while,&rdquo; said the other woman, and again her breath fanned
Maria's neck.</p>
<p>She wondered what it meant. A surmise came to her, then she
dismissed it. She was careful to keep her back turned to the women
when the train pulled into Amity. She had no baggage except a
suit-case. She got off the train, and disappeared in the familiar
darkness. All at once it seemed to her as if she had returned from
the unreal to the real, from fairy-land to the actual world. The
year past seemed like a dream to her. She could not believe it. It
was like that fact which is stranger than fiction, and therefore
almost impossible even to write, much less to live. Miss Rosa
Blair, and her travellings in Europe, and her house in New York,
seemed to her like an Arabian Night's creation. She walked along
the street towards her aunt's house, and realized her old self and
her old perplexities. When she drew near the house she saw a light
in the parlor windows and also in Aunt Maria's bedroom. Aunt Maria
had evidently gone to her room for the night. Uncle Henry's side of
the house was entirely dark.</p>
<p>Maria stole softly into the yard, and paused in front of the
parlor windows. The shades were not drawn. There sat Evelyn at work
on some embroidery, while opposite to her sat Wollaston Lee,
reading aloud. In Evelyn's lap, evidently hampering her with her
work, was a beautiful yellow cat, which she paused now and then to
stroke. Maria felt her heart almost stand still. There was
something about it which renewed her vague surmise on the train. It
was only a very few minutes before Wollaston laid down the paper
which he had been reading, and said something to Evelyn, who began
to fold her work with the sweet docility which Maria remembered.
Wollaston rose and went over to Evelyn and kissed her as she stood
up and let the yellow cat leap to the floor. Evelyn looked to Maria
more beautiful than she had ever seen her. Maria stood farther back
in the shadow. Then she heard the front door opened, and the cat
was gently put out. Then she heard the key turn in the lock, and a
bolt slide. Maria stood perfectly still. A light from a lamp which
was being carried by some one, flitted like a will-o'-the-wisp over
the yard, and the parlor windows became dark. Then a broad light
shone out from the front chamber windows through the drawn white
shade, and lay in a square on the grass of the yard. The cat which
had been put out rubbed against Maria's feet. She caught up the
little animal and kissed it. Then she put it down gently, and
hurried back to the station. She thought of Rosa Blair, and an
intense longing came over her. She seemed to suddenly sense the
highest quality of love: that which realizes the need of another,
rather than one's own. The poor little dwarf seemed the very child
of her heart. She looked up at the stars shining through the plumy
foliage of the trees, and thought how many of them might owe their
glory to the radiance of unknown suns, and it seemed to her that
her own soul lighted her path by its reflection of the love of God.
She thought that it might be so with all souls which were faced
towards God, and that which is above and beyond, and it was worth
more than anything else in the whole world.</p>
<p>She questioned no longer the right or wrong of what she had
done, as she hurried on and reached the little Amity station in
time for the last train.</p>
<p align="center">THE END</p>








<pre>





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