He turned to Dosia after he had rung the bell and said, “Good night.”

“Aren’t you coming in to see my cousin?”

“Oh, yes; but this is our farewell. Please make it as touching as you

can.”

She looked up frankly as she gave him her hand and said:

“Thank you for taking charge of me.”

“And making a fool of myself? It was in a good cause, at any rate. But

what I wanted you to say was——”

She did not hear, for the door had opened, and he only waited a moment

inside the house to explain her husband’s absence to Mrs. Alexander. The

news arrested her greeting to Dosia, whom she held tentatively by the

hand as she repeated:

“Justin went back to the fire! Oh, I’m so sorry! Do you think that it

was very bad?”

“The paper said not.”

“It must be out now, anyway. I’m so disappointed that he did not come

home, and I have such a nice little dinner. Will you not stay, Lawson?”

“Thank you—I wish I could.” There was a penetrative, lingering flash of

those still quizzical eyes at Dosia as he made his adieus, and then he

was gone. Why should she feel alone?

Her cousin’s arms were at last around her in welcome, the warmer for

being deferred; and the little Zaidee, whom she would have known from

Justin’s description of her, was standing first on one tiptoe and then

on the other, waiting to be kissed before going off to bed, as she

announced. From above came the sound of small running feet, and a

child’s voice calling:

“Cousin Dosia—I want to see my Cousin Dosia!” A bare foot and leg

surmounted by a fluttering scrap of white raiment was thrust through the

balusters, followed by a protesting scream as his nurse heavily pursued

the fugitive with upraised voice:

“Coom back, Reginald, coom back!” There was the noise of a scuffle as

Dosia, with her escort, laughingly ascended the stairs, to elicit a

shriek of terror and a rear view of the mercurial Reginald in full

flight for the nursery door, which banged after him, and behind which he

still raised his voice, to the shrill accompaniment of the nurse.

“_I’ll_ go in and keep him quiet,” said Zaidee reassuringly, in answer

to her mother’s look of appeal, and she also disappeared beyond the

prison bars, after a whisk of her short crisp pink skirt, and a smile at

Dosia in which her little white teeth gleamed in an infantile glee that

only accentuated her air of preternatural capability.

Her cousin’s kindly hands helped Dosia to remove the traces of travel,

when she had definitely refused the offer pressed upon her to be

undressed and go to bed and have her dinner brought up to her. It was

sweet to be in feminine care once more, and be pitied for the terrors

she had undergone, and feel the bond of relationship assert itself in

spite of the fact that the cousins had not seen each other since Dosia’s

early childhood. She did not want to be alone up-stairs, and sat instead

in Justin’s place at the table, clad in a soft silken tea-gown of Lois’

that was in itself restful, trying to eat and drink and keep up her part

in the conversation about her journey and the absent members of the

family. Changes had crowded so upon poor Dosia that she felt as if she

were living in a kaleidoscope that rattled her every minute or two into

a new position; the glittering table and her cousin’s form would

presently dissolve, and leave her perhaps out in the crowded, unknown

streets, with wild-eyed faces pressing near her.

After all, she only changed to an arm-chair in the little drawing-room,

with her head against a cushion and her feet on a foot-stool, and her

cousin still beside her, pulling back the window-curtains once in a

while to take a peep outside for her missing husband; in spite of the

real kindness of her welcome, Dosia felt a certain preoccupation in it.

Her coming was only accessory to the real importance of his, when she

herself should have been the event; the warmth of heart which she had

expected to feel toward her cousin somehow seemed to fail of expression

in this attitude. At the same time, Lois was also conscious of a lack of

response, a dullness, in Theodosia. Perhaps the likeness of relationship

was answerable for a certain reserve of manner, a formality which

neither knew how to break then or at a later time, and which was to last

until the barriers were swept away by a mighty flood; but the real cause

of the lack of sympathy lay in something much deeper. The strong thought

of self is inevitably insulating—it is as restrictive of human contact

as a live wire. Dosia, whose young life had all been spent in

unselfishness, was experiencing unexpectedly the other swing of the

pendulum in an intense and absorbing desire to have everything now as

she wanted it. She was tired of thinking of other people; the scene

should be set now for _her_. This desire was a huge mushroom growth,

sprung up in a night; it had no real root in her nature, and would

vanish as suddenly as it had come, but the shadow of it distorted her.

The house was very much smaller than Dosia had imagined, and her eyes

roved over the little drawing-room in some perplexity, trying to make it

come up to her anticipation. All dwellers in small country places, where

economy is Heaven’s first law, expect to be dazzled by the grandeur and

elegance of “the city.” People in Balderville never dreamed of buying

new furniture from towns twenty or thirty miles away; as chair-legs

broke off, or rockers split, or tables came to pieces, all sorts of

domestic devices were resorted to by all but shiftless householders who

tamely submitted to ruin, in coaxing the article into seeming wholeness

and keeping it still in active use. The best families were learned in

all the little ways and capabilities of string and wire, and wooden

cleats and old hinges and tacks, and pieces of tin cut from tomato-cans,

and in the glueing on of piano-keys, black-walnut excrescences,

ornaments, and sofa-arms.

Mended furniture has, however, a deprecating expression of its own, not

to be concealed by any art. Dosia recognized the absence of it in these

trim chairs that stood nattily on their slender curved legs, in the

little shining tables which did not require to be hidden by a hanging

cloth, and in the china and bric-à-brac placed boldly where they could

be seen on all sides. She wondered a little at the low wicker arm-chair

in which she was sitting, for they had wicker furnishings in the

Balderville hotel, but the blue-skyed water-color sketches on the walls

caught her fancy, and the vista of a blue-and-white dining-room, seen

through half-closed reddish portières, was charming. For all the shine

and polish and multiplicity of small ornaments in the tiny apartment, it

seemed to lack a kind of comfort to which she was used, and of which she

had caught a glimpse in the sitting-room as she passed it. She gave an

exclamation of delight as her eyes fell on a stand in one corner of the

room on which was a long glass filled with pink roses.

“How beautiful these are! I haven’t seen any finer ones in Balderville,

and you know we are famed for our roses there.”

“Oh,” said Lois, “to think that you have been in the house for over an

hour and I never told you about them! Justin’s not coming upset

everything. They were sent to you this afternoon.”

“Sent to _me_?”

“Yes—by Mr. Sutton. Didn’t you say you met him with Justin on the

boat?—a short, stout man with sandy hair.”

“Yes, Justin introduced him, but he hardly spoke to me.”

“That doesn’t make any difference, he sent them before he saw you at

all. I told him you were coming, and these arrived this afternoon. You

needn’t feel particularly flattered; he sends them to everybody.”

“Sends them to everybody!” Dosia looked amazed.

“Oh, yes; he’s rich, and devoted to girls. They laugh at him, but I

notice that they are quite ready to accept his flowers and candy and

tickets for the opera. I believe that he wants to get married; but he

really is sensible and quite nice underneath it all.”

“Oh!” said Dosia, indefinably revolted. “And—and is Mr. Barr like that,

too?”

“Who, Lawson? Oh, dear, no; he can’t even support himself, let alone

sending presents.”

“He said such queer things,” ventured Dosia, with a shy desire to talk

about him. “I did not know what to make of it at first.”

“Oh, nobody pays any attention to what Lawson says,” said Lois

indifferently.

Dosia longed to ask why, with an instant wave of resentment at this way

of speaking; a cloud seemed suddenly to have descended upon the

glittering possibilities of her future. She fixed her eyes on her

cousin, who sat in a high, slender chair, one arm gowned in yellow silk

thrown over the back of it, and her cheek upon her arm—her rich

coloring, the grace of her attitude, the sweep of her long black skirt,

made a deep impression on the mind of the little country girl, who

seemed slight and meager and insignificant to herself. And this other

woman had been loved—she had passed through all the experiences to

which Dosia looked forward. Was it that which gave her this charm thrown

over her like a gauzy veil?

“What a beautiful waist you have on!” she exclaimed impulsively. “Yellow

is such a lovely color.”

“Do you think so?” said Lois. “This is an old thing that I mended to

wear because Justin always likes it. I do wish he’d come.” She rose and

walked restlessly to the window. “I’m worried about him.”

“Yes,” said Dosia, still looking, and pleased that the remark bore out

her fancy. But she wondered; married women in Balderville looked

different—the hot Southern sun had burned the color out of their

cheeks, and the gowns they mended were of cotton, not of yellow silk;

this fresh youthfulness and self-sufficiency both attracted and

repelled, it seemed so beyond her. Her heart bounded at the thought that

Aunt Theodosia had sent money for her clothes as well as for her music

lessons.

She did not resist the second attempt to send her to bed, although

Justin was still absent. Lois had brought her all the things she needed

in the absence of her wrecked luggage, and kissed her good night with

tenderness, saying, “I hope you’ll be very happy here, Dosia,” and she

answered, “Thank you so much for having me.”

In spite of her helpless fatigue, she lay awake for a long time in her

tiny room. The brass bed, the polished floor with the crimson rug on it,

the dainty dressing-table, had all seemed charmingly luxurious and like

a book, but now that she was in darkness, she only saw vividly a pair of

sparkling eyes looking into hers, and caught the sound of a kind,

half-mocking voice. Every word of the conversation repeated itself again

to her excited mind; it was delightful to remember, because she had

acquitted herself so well; if she had replied stupidly she would have

died of vexation now. How clever he had been, and how really

considerate!—for she was glad to think that he had said foolish things

to her to keep her from breaking down.

“Do I look like a person of whom you would approve?”

“I haven’t considered the subject.” She flashed the answer back again,

and laughed, with her cheek glowing on the pillow. Why had Lois spoken

of him so strangely? She vainly strove to fathom the significance of the

words, which she resented, although they had coincided with an

instinctive feeling she had that he was not at all the kind of man she

would ever want to marry. She had already taken that provisionary leap

into a mythical future which is one of the perfunctory attitudes of

maidenhood.

But who wanted to think of marrying now, anyway? That was something so

far off that it seemed like the end of all things to Dosia, who at

present only innocently desired plenty of emotions to live

upon—costlier living than she knew, poor child! The very instinct that

warned her against it added a heightened charm to the perilous pleasure.

And the other man—Mr. Sutton—had already sent her flowers! Oh, this

was life, life—the life she had read of and longed for, where dark eyes

looked at you and made you feel how interesting you were; where you

could have pretty clothes, and look like other people, and be brilliant

and witty and sought after. She blushed with pleasure and excitement.

Then she said a little prayer, with palm pressed to palm under the

covers, and the glamour faded away as a sweet and pure feeling welled up

from the clear depths of her heart. Her hand was once more held in

safety. In her drowsiness, it was as if she had lifted her soft cheek to

be kissed.

To the eager inquiries of Lois, Justin answered that he had had his

dinner long before and wanted nothing.

He asked if she and the children were all right,—his usual

question,—and she waited until he had dropped down in the arm-chair in

the sitting-room up-stairs, after changing his shoes for slippers,

before questioning him. Then she sat down by him and asked:

“Well, how was it?”

She spoke with eagerness, holding one of his hands in hers tenderly,

although it hung limp after the first strong, responsive clasp.

“The fire was out before I got there.”

“Do they know how it started?”

“Not yet.”

“Was the place burned much?”

“No, not much.”

“Did it do any damage to the machinery?”

“Some.”

Lois looked at him in despair.

“Aren’t you going to tell me _anything_?”

“There really isn’t anything to tell, dear.” He strove to speak with

attention. “You know just about as much of it all as I do.”

“Oh, but I’m so sorry for you! Will it put you back any?”

“I suppose so.”

“Oh, _dear_!” she moaned helplessly. “Isn’t it too bad! If only you had

not been obliged to take that journey! Do you suppose it would have

happened if you had stayed at home?”

“I really can’t tell. The fire might have been discovered earlier; it

started at noon, when most of the clerks were out at lunch.”

“I see. But no one can hold you responsible.”

“I am responsible for everything. If you do not mind, Lois, I’ll go to

bed. I’m tired; I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

“Yes, of course.” She smoothed his hair with her fingers in remorseful

tenderness, leaning against him, with her laces touching his cheek.

“Such a long, long, tiresome journey! It’s such a pity you had to go.”

“Oh, well, I had to, and that’s the end of it. Don’t let’s talk about it

any more. I hope that poor girl gets some sleep to-night; she needs it.

She can’t hear us, can she?”

“No. Didn’t you think she was sweet?”

“Yes, she seemed nice enough; she’s pretty—a little stupid, perhaps.”

“Oh, poor Dosia!” said Lois, “stupid! I should think she might have

been, after all she had gone through. But then, you’re so used to my

cleverness!” She looked up at him with provocative eyes, into which he

smiled faintly, in recognition of what was expected of him; then he

said, with a sudden appealing change of tone, “I’m _very_ tired, Lois.”

She kissed him good night tenderly, with magnanimous concession to his

unresponsiveness; there was no room for her in his thoughts to-night,

and she had been so longing to see him! But she would tell him all about

it to-morrow.

Justin laid his head upon the pillow, but his eyes burned into the

darkness; there was a proud and bitter disappointment at his heart, even

while reason adjusted his losses to their proper place. Before him in

disagreeable force came the face of Leverich, and it was not the face of

a man to whom one would care to make excuse or from whom one would

challenge reproof; he could see the heavy jowl, the piercing eyes, the

half-pompous, half-shrewd expression of one who respected nothing but

success. This tangle up of the machinery, unusual and costly in its

parts and appointments—Heaven only knew what far-reaching complications

the delay of its repair might occasion! Justin had seen only too well in

others how a false step at the first may count.

Whether or not Dosia and the typometer were united in their destinies,

they had at least one thing in common—they were both embarked upon

perilous ways.