PART I_A Court of Inquiry

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[Illustration: "'We four,' declared the Skeptic, 'constitute a private

Court of Inquiry into the Condition of Our Friends'"]

A COURT

OF INQUIRY

By GRACE S. RICHMOND

Author of "Red Pepper Burns," "Mrs. Red Pepper,"

"Second Violin," Etc.

[Illustration]

WITH FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

114-120 East Twenty-third Street--New York

PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.

_Copyright_, 1909, 1916, _by_

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

_All rights reserved, including that of

translation into foreign languages,

including the Scandinavian_

C. R. P. AND M. B. P.

CONTENTS

PART I

PAGE

I. Althea 3

II. Camellia 16

III. Dahlia 31

IV. Rhodora 44

V. Azalea 58

VI. Hepatica 72

PART II

I. Dahlia and the Professor 87

II. Camellia and the Judge 102

III. Azalea and the Cashier 117

IV. Althea and the Promoter 131

V. Rhodora and the Preacher 146

VI. Wistaria--and the Philosopher 162

PART III

I. Sixteen Miles to Boswell's 181

II. Honour and the Girl 220

III. Their Word of Honour 241

IV. "Half a League Onward" 261

PART I

A Court of Inquiry

and Other Tales

ALTHEA

Nothing impaired

but all disordered.

--_Midsummer Night's Dream._

There are four guest-rooms in my house. It is not a large house, and how

there came to be so many rooms to spare for the entertaining of friends

is not a story to be told here. It is only a few years since they were

all full--and not with guests. But they are nearly always full now. And

when I assign each room it is after taking thought.

There are two men's rooms and two for women. The men's rooms have

belonged to men, and therefore they suit other men, who drop into them

and use their belongings, and tell me they were never more comfortable.

The third room is for one after another of the girls and women who

visit me. The fourth room----

"Is anybody really good enough to sleep in this place?"

It was the Skeptic, looking over my shoulder. He had chanced to be

passing, saw me standing in the doorway in an attitude of adoration,

and glanced in over my head. He had continued to look from sheer

astonishment.

"I should expect to have to take off my shoes, and put on a white

cassock over my tennis flannels before I could enter here," he observed.

"You would not be allowed to enter, even in that inappropriate costume,"

I replied. "I keep this room only for the very nicest of my girl

friends. The trouble is----"

"The trouble is--you're full up with our bunch, and have got to put Miss

Althea here, whether she turns out to be the sort or not."

I had not expected the Skeptic to be so shrewd--shrewd though he often

is. Being also skeptical, his skepticism sometimes overcolours his

imagination.

"Suppose she should leave her slippers kicking around over those

white rugs, drop her kimono in the middle of that pond-lily bed,

and--er--attach a mound of chewing-gum to the corner of the mirror,"

he propounded.

"I should send her home."

"No--you could do better than that. Make her change rooms with the

Philosopher. He wouldn't leave a speck the size of a molecule on all

that whiteness."

"I don't believe he would," I agreed. As the Skeptic went laughing away

downstairs I turned again into the room, in order that I might tie back

the little inner muslin curtains, to let the green branches outside show

between.

* * * * *

Althea arrived at five. The Skeptic, in tennis flannels, was lounging on

the porch as she came up the steps, and scanned her critically over the

racquet he still held, after a brisk set-to with the Gay Lady, who is

one of my other guests. (We call her the Gay Lady because of her

flower-bright face, her trick of smiling when other people frown, and

because of a certain soft sparkle and glow about her whole personality,

as indescribable as it is captivating). The Gay Lady had gone indoors to

dress for the evening, and the Philosopher had not returned from the

long daily tramp by which he keeps himself in trim. The Lad was on the

porch mending some fishing-tackle--my Lad, with the clear young eyes

which see things.

Althea gave the Skeptic a glance, the Lad a smile, and me a hearty

embrace. I had never seen her before, and her visit had been brought

about by a request from her mother, an old friend, who was anxious to

have her daughter spend a pleasant vacation in the absence of most of

the girl's family.

It was impossible not to like my new guest at once. She was a healthy,

hearty, blooming sort of girl, good to look at, pleasant company to have

about, and, as I soon learned, sweet-tempered to a degree which it

seemed nothing could upset. She followed me upstairs, talking brightly

all the way, and made her entrance into the white room as a pink

hollyhock might drop unconcernedly into a pan of milk.

"What a lovely, cool-looking room!" she cried, and dropped her coat

and umbrella upon the bed.

The Lad, following with her handbag, stopped to look at his tennis shoes

before he set foot upon the white rug, and dusted off the bag with a

somewhat grimy handkerchief before he stood it on the white-tiled

hearth. The Lad knows how I feel about the room, and though he races

into his own with muddy feet, stands in awe of the place where only

girls are made at home.

* * * * *

I have but two maid-servants, both of whom must be busy in kitchen and

dining-room when the house is full of guests. So I always make the

rounds of the bedrooms in the evening, to see to lights and water, and

to turn down the coverings on the beds. The Skeptic's room needed only a

touch here and there to put it in order for the night. The Philosopher's

needed none. The Gay Lady had left her pretty, rose-hung quarters

looking as if a lady lived in them, and had but dropped a dainty

reminder of herself here and there to give them character--an

embroidered dressing-case on the bureau, an attractive travelling

work-box on the table by her bed, a photograph, a lace-bordered

handkerchief, a gossamer scarf on a chair-back ready for use if she

should need it for a stroll in the moonlight with the Skeptic. The

closet door, ajar, gave a glimpse of summer frocks, hanging in order on

padded hangers brought in a trunk; beneath, a row of incredibly small,

smart shoes stood awaiting their turn. Even the Gay Lady's trunk was

clad in a trim, beflowered cover of linen, and looked a part of the

place. I smiled to myself as I turned down the white sheets over my best

down-filled quilt of pale pink, and thought of the Gay Lady's delightful

custom of keeping her room swept and dusted without letting anybody know

when she did it.

* * * * *

I felt my way across Althea's room to light the lamp--there are no

electrics in my old country home. As I went in I stumbled over a rug

whose corner had been drawn into a bunch by the edge of a trunk which

had been pulled too far toward the middle of the room. I encountered

a chair hung full with clothing; I pushed what felt like a shoe out

of my path.

It took some time for me to find the match-box, which ordinarily

stands on a corner of the dressing-table. My groping hand encountered

all sorts of unfamiliar objects in its quest, and it was not without

a premonition of what I was about to see that I finally lit the lamp

and looked around me.

Well--of course she had unpacked hurriedly, as hurriedly dressed for

dinner, and she had been detained downstairs ever since. I should not

judge in haste. Doubtless in the morning she would put things to rights.

I removed a trunk-tray from the bed, hung up several frocks in the

closet, cleared away the rest of the belongings from the counterpane,

and arranged Althea's bed for the night. I did the rest of my work

quickly, and returned to lower the light.

It couldn't be--really, no--it couldn't be! There must be some other way

of accounting for those scratches on the hitherto spotless white wall,

now marred by five long, brown marks, where a match had been drawn again

and again before it struck into light!

It _couldn't_ have been Althea. Yet--those marks were never there

before. It was full daylight when my guest had arrived; she could have

had no need for artificial light. Wait--there lay a long, black object

on the white cover of the dressing-table--a curling iron!

In the hall I ran into the Skeptic.

"I beg your pardon," he cried under his breath. "I came up for her

scarf. She said it was just inside her door, on her trunk. May I go in?"

"I'll get it for you," said I, and turned inside. The Skeptic stood

outside the door, looking into the dimness. I could not find the scarf.

I would not turn up the light. I searched and searched vainly.

"Let me give you something to see by," said the Skeptic, and before I

could prevent him he had bolted into the room and turned up the lamp.

"Here it is," said he, and caught up some article of apparel from the

dressing-table. "Oh, no--this must be--a sash," said he, and dropped it.

He stood looking about him.

"Go away," said I sternly. "I'll find it."

"I don't think you will," said he, "in this--er--this--pandemonium."

I walked over to the dressing-table and put out the lamp. "Now will you

go away?" said I.

"You were expeditious," said he, making for the hall, and stumbling over

something as he went, "but not quite expeditious enough. Never mind

about the scarf. I think I'll let the Philosopher take the Girl Guest to

walk--the Gay Lady's good enough for me. I say"--as he moved toward the

staircase and I followed--"don't you think we'd better move the

Philosopher in to-morrow?"

"To-morrow," said I with assumed conviction, "it will be different.

Please reserve your judgment."

I tried to reserve my own. I did not go into Althea's room again until

the next evening at the same hour. I found ten articles strewn where

five had lain before. A bottle of something green had been tipped over

upon the white embroidered cover of my dressing-table. A spot of ink

adorned the edge of the sheet, and the condition of the bed showed

plainly that an afternoon nap upon it had ended with some letter

writing. I think Althea's shoes had been dusted with one of my best

towels. I did not stay to see what else had been done, but I could not

help noting three more brown scratches on my white wall.

* * * * *

At the end of the week Althea went away. When she had gone I went up to

her room. I had been at work there for some time when a tap at the door

interrupted me. The Skeptic stood outside with a hoe and a

bushel-basket.

"Want some help?" offered he.

"It's not gentlemanly of you to notice," said I weakly.

"I know it," said he. He came in and inverted the bushel-basket on the

hearth and sat down upon it. "But the door was always open, and I

couldn't help seeing. If it wasn't shoes and a kimono in the middle of

the floor it was a raincoat and rubber boots. Sometimes I stopped to

count the things on that dressing----"

"It was _very_ ungentlemanly of you!"

"Guilty," he admitted again--but not meekly. There was a sparkle in his

eye. "But it isn't often, you see, that a man gets a chance to take

notes like this. An open door--it's an invitation to look in. Now, the

Gay Lady doesn't leave her door open, except by chance, but I know how

it looks inside--by the Gay Lady herself."

"How?" I questioned, my curiosity getting the better of me. "I mean--how

can you tell by the look of the Gay Lady that she keeps her room in

order?--for she certainly does."

"I knew it," said he triumphantly.

"But how?"

"And I know that you keep yours in order."

"But _how_?"

"Oh, you think we are creatures of no discernment," said he. "But we can

see a few things. When a woman, no matter how pretty, pins the back of

her collar with a common brass pin----"

I felt of the back of my white stock. Of course I never use them, but

his eyes are so keen and----

He laughed. "The Philosopher liked Miss Althea."

"She has many lovely qualities----" I began.

"Of course. That sort always have. It's their beautiful good-nature that

makes them so easy on themselves. Er--by-the-way----Well, well----"

The Skeptic's gaze had fallen upon the brown marks on the white wall,

above the lamp. There were now twenty-seven in all. He got up from his

bushel-basket and walked over to them. He stood and studied them for a

minute in silence. Finally he turned around, looked at me, made a dive

for the bushel-basket and the hoe, and hurried out of the door.

"I'll bring up a pail of whitewash," he called.

* * * * *

I shall ask Althea again some time. She really has a great many lovely

qualities, as I said to the Skeptic. But there is a little room I have,

which I do not call a guest-room, into which I shall put Althea. It has

a sort of chocolate paper on the walls, on which I do not think the

marks of matches would much show, and it has a general suitableness to

this particular guest. I have sometimes harboured small boys there, for

the toilet appointments are done in red on brown linen, and curling

irons could be laid on them without serious damage. And I've no doubt

that she would like that room quite as well.

CAMELLIA

You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town.

--_Tennyson._

"Did you say Camellia is going to stop here on her way home?" asked the

Gay Lady.

"For a few days," I assented.

The Gay Lady was standing in front of the closet in her room, in which

hung a row of frocks, on little hangers covered with pale blue ribbon.

She sighed pensively as she gazed at the garments. Then she looked at me

with a smile. "Would you mind if I keep to my room while Camellia is

here?" she asked.

"I should mind very much," said I. "Besides, I've only two good dresses

myself."

I went down to the porch. "Camellia is going to stop and make us a short

visit on her way home from the South," I announced.

The Skeptic sat up. "Great guns!" he ejaculated. "I must send all my

trousers to be pressed."

"Who's Camellia?" queried the Philosopher, looking up calmly from

his book.

"Wait and see," replied the Skeptic.

"Probably I shall," agreed the Philosopher. "Meanwhile a little

information might not come amiss. Sending all one's trousers to be

pressed at once sounds to me serious. Is the lady a connoisseur in

men's attire?"

"She may or may not be," said the Skeptic. "The effect is the same. At

sight of her my cravat gets under my ear, my coat becomes shapeless, my

shoes turn pigeon-toed. We have to dress for dinner every night when

Miss Camellia is here."

"I won't," said the Philosopher shortly.

"Wait and see," chuckled the Skeptic. He looked at me. "Ask her,"

he added.

The Philosopher's fine blue eyes were lifted once more from his book. It

was a scientific book, and the habit of inquiry is always strong upon

your scientist. "Do _you_ dress for dinner when Miss Camellia is here?"

he asked of me. "That is--I mean in a way which requires a dinner-coat

of us?"

"I think I won't--before she comes," I said. "Afterward--I get out the

best I have."

"Which proves none too good," supplemented the Skeptic.

"It's July," said the Philosopher thoughtfully. He looked down at his

white ducks. "Couldn't you wire her not to come?" he suggested after

a moment.

The Skeptic grinned at me. I shook my head. He shook his head.

"We don't want her not to come," he said, more cheerfully. "She's worth

it. To see her is a liberal education. To clothe her would be ruin and

desolation. Brace up, Philo--she's certainly worth all the agony of mind

she may cause you. I only refrain from falling head over ears in love

with her by keeping my hand in my pocket, feeling over my loose change

and reminding myself that it's all I have--and it wouldn't buy her a

handkerchief."

The Gay Lady spent the morning freshening her frocks--which were

somehow never anything but fresh, no matter how much she wore them. It

was true that there were not very many of them, and that none of them

had cost very much money, but they were fascinating frocks nevertheless,

and she had so many clever ways of varying them with knots of ribbon and

frills of lace, that one never grew tired of seeing her wear them.

The Skeptic sent several pairs of trousers to be pressed and a bundle of

other things to be laundered. I got out a gown I had expected to wear

only on state occasions, and did something to the sleeves. The

Philosopher was the only person who remained unaffected by the news that

Camellia was coming. We envied him his calm.

* * * * *

Camellia arrived. Three trunks arrived at the same time. Camellia's

appearance, as she came up the porch steps, while trim and attractive,

gave no hint to the Philosopher's eyes, observant though they were, of

what was to be expected. He had failed to note the trunks. This was not

strange, for Camellia had a beautiful face, and her manner was, as

always, charming.

"I don't see," said the Philosopher in my ear, at a moment when Camellia

was occupied with the Skeptic and the Gay Lady, "what there is about

that to upset you all."

"Don't you?" said I pityingly. Evidently, from what he had heard us say,

he had expected her to arrive in an elaborate reception gown--or

possibly in spangles and lace!

Camellia went to her room--the white room. This time I had no fears for

the embroidered linen on my dressing-table or for the purity of my white

wall. I repaired to my own room--_to dress for dinner_. As I passed the

porch door on my way I looked out. The Gay Lady had vanished--so had the

Skeptic. The Philosopher was walking up and down--in white ducks. He

hailed me as I passed.

"See here," he said under his breath. "I thought you people were all

guying in that talk about dressing for dinner while--while Miss Camellia

is here. But the Skeptic has gone to do it--if he's not bluffing. Is it

true? Do you mean it? We--that is--we haven't been dressing for

dinner--except, of course, you ladies seem always to--but that's

different. And it's awfully hot to-night," he added plaintively.

"Don't do it," said I hurriedly. "I don't know any reason why we

should--in the country--in July."

He looked at me doubtfully. "But is the Skeptic going to--really?"

"I presume he really is. You see--he has met Camellia before. He knows

how she will be looking when she comes down. He admires Camellia very

much, and he might possibly feel a little odd--in tennis flannels----"

"It's queer," murmured the Philosopher. "But perhaps I'd better not be

behind in the procession, even if I wilt my collar." He fingered

lovingly the soft, rolled-over collar of his white shirt, with its

loose-knotted tie, and sighed again. Then he moved toward the stairs.

We were all on the porch when Camellia came down. The Gay Lady had put

on a white muslin--the finest, simplest thing. The Philosopher, pushing

a finger between his collar and his neck, to see if the wilting process

had begun, eyed the Gay Lady approvingly. "Whatever she wears," he

whispered to her, "she can't win over you."

The Gay Lady laughed. "Yes, she can," she declared.

* * * * *

She did. Camellia was a vision when she came floating out upon the

porch. The Philosopher was glad he had on his dinner-coat--I saw it in

his eye. The Skeptic's tanned cheek turned a reddish shade--he looked as

if he felt pigeon-toed. The Gay Lady held her pretty head high as she

smiled approval on the guest. Camellia's effect on the Gay Lady was to

make her feel like a school-girl--she had repeatedly avowed it to me

in private.

Camellia never seemed conscious of her fine attire--that could always

truthfully be said. Although on the present occasion she was dressed as

duchesses dress for a lawn-party, she seemed supremely unconscious of

the fact. The only trouble was that the rest of us could not be

unconscious of it.

The dinner moved slowly. We all did our best, including the Philosopher,

whose collar was slowly melting, so that he had to keep his chin well

up, lest it crush the linen hopelessly beneath. The Skeptic joked

ceaselessly, but one could see that all the time he feared his cravat

might be awry. The dinner itself was a much more formal affair than

usual--somehow that always seemed necessary when Camellia was one's

guest. We were glad when it was over and we could go back to the cool

recesses of the porch.

The next morning Camellia wore an unpretentious dress of white--one

which made the thing the Gay Lady had worn at dinner the evening before

seem to her memory poor indeed. Later in the morning the Skeptic took

Camellia boating on the river, and she went up and dressed for it in a

yachting suit of white flannel. It was some slight consolation that she

came back from the river much bedraggled about the skirts, for the boat

had sprung a leak and all the Skeptic's gallantry could not keep her

dry. But this necessitated a change before luncheon, and some of us were

nearly unable to eat with Camellia sitting there in the frock she had

put on at the last minute. She was a dream in the pale pink of it, and

the Skeptic appeared to be losing his head. On the contrary, the

Philosopher was seen to examine her thoughtfully through the eyeglasses

he sometimes wears for reading, and which he had forgotten to remove.

On the morning of the third day I discovered the Gay Lady mending a

little hole in the skirt of a tiny-flowered dimity, her bright eyes

suspiciously misty.

"I'm a g-goose, I know," she explained, smiling at me through

the mist, "but it does make me absurdly envious. My things look

so--so--_duddy_--beside hers."

"They're not duddy!" I cried warmly. "But I know what you mean. My

very best gown, that I had made in town by Lautier herself, seems

countrified. Don't mind. Our things will look quite right again--next

week."

"What do you suppose she will wear to-night?" sighed she.

"Heaven only knows," I answered feebly.

What she wore was a French frock which finished us all. I had fears for

the sanity of the Skeptic. I was sure he did not know what he was

eating. He could not, of course, sit with his hands in his trousers'

pockets, from time to time giving his loose change a warning jingle, to

remind himself that he could not buy her handkerchiefs. But the

Philosopher appeared to retain his self-control. I caught his scientific

eye fixed upon the pearl necklace Camellia wore. It struck me that the

Philosopher and the Skeptic had temporarily exchanged characters.

In the late afternoon, at the end of the sixth day, Camellia left us.

The Skeptic and the Philosopher came to dinner in flannels--it had grown

slightly cooler. The Gay Lady and I wore things we had not worn for a

week--and I was sure the Gay Lady had never looked prettier. After

dinner, in the early dusk, we sat upon the porch. For some time we were

more or less silent. Then the Skeptic, from the depths of a bamboo

lounging chair, his legs stretching half-way across the porch in a

relaxed attitude they had not worn for a week, heaved a sigh which

seemed to struggle up from the depths of his interior.

The Philosopher rolled over in the hammock, where he had been reposing

on his back, his hands clasped under his head, and looked scrutinizingly

at his friend.

"Don't take it too hard," he counselled gently. "It's not worth it."

"I know it," replied the Skeptic with another sigh. "But I wish I were

worth--millions."

"Oh, no, you don't," argued the Philosopher.

The Gay Lady and I exchanged glances--through the twilight. We would

have arisen and fled, but the Skeptic caught at my skirts.

"Don't go," he begged. "I'm not really insane--only delirious. It'll

wear off."

"It will," agreed the Philosopher.

"I suppose," began the Skeptic, after some further moments of silence,

"that it's really mostly clothes."

"She's a very charming girl," said the Gay Lady quickly. "I don't blame

you."

"Honestly," said the Skeptic, sitting up and looking at her, "don't you

think her clothes are about all there is of her?"

"No," said the Gay Lady stoutly.

"Yes," said the Philosopher comfortably.

"Yes--and no," said I, as the Skeptic looked at me.

"A girl," argued the Philosopher, suddenly pulling himself out of the

hammock and beginning to pace the floor, "who could come here to this

unpretentious country place with three trunks, and then wear their

contents----Look here"--he paused in front of me and looked at me as

piercingly as somewhat short-sighted blue eyes can look in the

twilight--"did she ever wear the same thing twice?"

"I believe not," I admitted.

"A girl who could come to a place like this and make a show figure of

herself in clothes that any fool could see cost--Cæsar, what must they

cost!--and change four times a day--and keep us dancing around in

starched collars----"

"You didn't have to----"

"Yes, we did--pardon me! We did, not to be innocently--not

insolently--mistaken for farm hands. I tell you, a girl like that would

keep a man humping to furnish the wherewithal. For what," continued the

Philosopher, growing very earnest--"what, if she'd wear that sort of

clothes here, would she consider necessary for--for--visiting her rich

friends? Tell me that!"

We could not tell him that. We did not try.

The Gay Lady was pinching one of her little flowered dimity ruffles into

plaits with an agitated thumb and finger. I was sure the Skeptic's

present state of mind was of more moment to her than she would ever let

appear to anybody.

The Skeptic rose slowly from his chair.

"Will you walk down the garden path with me?" he asked the Gay Lady.

They sauntered slowly away into the twilight.

* * * * *

The Philosopher came and sat down by me.

"He's not really hit," said he presently; "he's only temporarily upset.

I was a trifle bowled over myself. She's certainly a stunning girl. But

when I try to recall what she and I talked about when we sat out here

together, at such times as he was willing to leave her in my company, I

have really no recollection. When it was too dark to see her

clothes--or her smile--I remember being once or twice distinctly bored.

Now--the Gay Lady--don't you think she always looks well?"

"Lovely," I agreed heartily.

"I may not know much about it, being a man," said he modestly, "but I

should naturally think the Gay Lady's clothes cost considerably less

than Miss Camellia's."

"Considerably."

"Though I never really thought about them before," he owned. "I don't

suppose a man usually does think much about a woman's clothes--unless

he's forced to. During this last week it occurs to me we've been forced

to--eh?"

"Somewhat." I was smiling to myself. I had never imagined that the

Philosopher troubled himself with such matters at all.

"And I don't think," he went on, "I like being forced to spend my time

speculating on the cost of anybody's clothing.--How comfortable it is on

this porch! And how jolly not to have to sit up in a black coat--on a

July evening!"

The Skeptic and the Gay Lady returned--after an hour. The Skeptic, as he

came into the light which streamed out across the porch from the hall,

looked decidedly more cheerful than when he had left us. Although it had

been too dark in the garden to see either the Gay Lady's clothes or her

smile, I doubted if he had been bored.

III

DAHLIA

O, weary fa' the women fo'k,

For they winna let a body be!

--_James Hogg._

My neighbour Dahlia has returned. There is a considerable stretch

of lawn, also a garden and a small orchard, intervening between her

father's property and mine, not to mention a thick hedge; but in spite

of these obstructions it did not take Dahlia long to discover that

there were guests upon my porch. I think she recognized the Skeptic's

long legs from her window, which looks down my way through a vista

of tree-tops. At all events, on the morning after her arrival she

appeared, coming through the hedge, down the garden path and across

the lawn, a fresh and attractive figure in a pink muslin with ruffles,

and one of those coquettish, white-frilled sunbonnets summer-girls wear

in the country.

Dahlia is very pretty, very good company, and likable from many points

of view. If only----

"Who's this coming to invade our completeness?" queried the Philosopher,

looking up from his book of trout flies. Fishing, in its scientific

aspect, presents many attractions to our Philosopher, although he spends

so much time in getting ready to do it scientifically that he seldom

finds much left in which to fish.

The Skeptic glanced at the figure coming over the lawn. Then he made a

gesture as if he were about to turn up his coat collar. He hitched

himself slightly behind one of the white pillars of the porch.

"Keep cool; you'll soon know," he replied to the Philosopher. "And once

knowing, you'll always know."

The Philosopher looked slightly mystified at this oracular information,

and gazed rather curiously at Dahlia as she came near, before he dropped

his eyes to his trout flies.

The Skeptic appeared to be absorbed in a letter which he had hastily

extracted from his pocket. It was merely a brief business communication

in type, as I could not help seeing over his shoulder, but he withdrew

his attention from it with difficulty as Dahlia paused before him. Her

first greeting was for him, although I had risen just behind him.

"Oh--how do you do, Miss Dahlia?" cried the Skeptic, getting to his feet

and receiving her outstretched hand in his own. Then he made as if to

pass her on to me, but she wouldn't be passed until she had said

something under her breath to him, smiling up into his face, her fingers

clinging to his.

"Been--er--horribly busy," I heard him murmur in reply. I thought his

hand showed symptoms of letting go before hers did.

I greeted Dahlia, introducing her to the Gay Lady, who smiled at her

from over a handkerchief she was embroidering with my initials. I

presented the Philosopher, who immediately presented his trout flies.

She scanned him closely--the Philosopher is very good-looking

(almost--but not quite--better-looking than the Skeptic)--then she

dropped down upon one of the porch cushions by his side. He politely

offered her a chair, but she insisted that she liked the cushion better,

and we found it impossible to doubt that she did. At all events she

remained upon it, close beside the Philosopher, as long as he retained

his position; and she appeared to become absorbed in the trout flies,

asking many questions, and exclaiming over some of them in a way which

showed her to be of a most sympathetic disposition.

* * * * *

Finally the Philosopher seized upon an opportunity and rose. "Well," he

observed, "I believe I'll go and try my luck."

Dahlia looked up at him. Her pretty face took on a beseeching

expression.

The Philosopher regarded her uncomprehendingly.

"You will excuse----" he began.

But Dahlia did not let him finish. "I simply love to go fishing," she

said softly.

"Do you?" said the Philosopher, blinking stupidly. "It is great sport, I

think, myself."

Even then I believe he would have turned away. He is not used to it--at

least, in Dahlia's style. But she detained him.

"Are you really not going to ask me?" she said, looking like a

disappointed child.

I saw the Gay Lady look at her. The Skeptic glanced at the Gay Lady. I

observed the Skeptic. But the Philosopher rose to the occasion. He is

invariably courteous.

"Why, certainly," he responded, "if you would really care to go. It's

rather a long walk to the stream and--I'm afraid the boat leaks

considerably, but----"

"Oh, I don't mind that," she exulted, jumping up, her cheeks pink with

delight. "In fact, I know that boat of old----" She gave the Skeptic a

look from under her eyelashes, but he was looking at the Gay Lady and it

failed to hit him. "Are you ready? All right. And I've my

sunbonnet--just the thing. You shall see what we'll catch," she called

back to us, as the two walked away.

* * * * *

The Skeptic got the pillar between himself and the departing pair. His

face was convulsed with mirth. He slapped his knee. "I said he'd soon

know," he chuckled, holding himself in with an effort, "but I didn't

think he'd find out quite so soon. Smoke and ashes--but that was quick

work!"

He turned about and looked up at the Gay Lady. "Will you go fishing?" he

inquired, still chuckling.

"No, thank you," responded the Gay Lady, smiling at her embroidery

without looking up.

"Will you go fishing?"

The inquiry was directed at me.

I shook my head.

The Skeptic fell into an attitude of mock despair. Then he sat up. "I'm

going to go down and hide behind the big tree at the bend," he declared.

"I want to see Philo when she----"

The Gay Lady spoke to me. "Do you think I'm getting that K too heavy?"

she asked.

The Skeptic laughed, and strolled away--not in the direction of the

trout stream.

Dahlia and the Philosopher came back just as luncheon was served. Dahlia

was looking pinker than ever, and I thought the Philosopher's tan had

rather a pinkish hue, also. I felt obliged to ask Dahlia to stay to

luncheon and she promptly accepted. Throughout the meal she was very

gay, sitting at my round table between the Philosopher and the Skeptic,

and plying both with attentions. It is a singular phrase to use, in

speaking of a girl, but I know no other that applies so well--in

Dahlia's case.

After luncheon the Philosopher bolted. His movements are usually

deliberate, but I never saw a quicker exit made from a dining-room which

has only two doors. One door leads into the hall, the other to the

pantry. The rest of us went out the hall door. When we reached the porch

the Philosopher was missing. There is no explanation except that he went

out by the pantry door.

On the porch the Skeptic said, "I must run down to the barn and look

after Skylark's foot. He cut himself when I was out on him yesterday."

He hastened away down the driveway.

Dahlia looked after him.

"Is Skylark here?" she asked. "Oh, how I want to see the dear thing!

And he's cut his foot!--I'm going to run down to the barn, too, and

see him."

And she hurried away after the Skeptic.

"I think I'll go in and sleep a while," said the Gay Lady to me. Her

expressive lips had a curious little twist of scorn.

"I should, too, if I hadn't a new guest," said I.

We tried not to smile at each other, but we couldn't quite help it.

The Gay Lady went away to her room. I heard her close the blinds on the

side that looked off toward the barn, and, glancing up, saw that she had

turned down the slats tightly.

* * * * *

I think it must have been well on toward four in the afternoon when the

white sunbonnet at last disappeared through the gap in the hedge. The

Skeptic came back up the garden path at the pace of an escaping convict,

and went tearing up the stairs to his room. I heard him splashing like a

seal in his bath. Presently he came out, freshly attired and went away

down the road, in the opposite direction from that in which lay the

house beyond the hedge.

Dahlia came over at twilight that evening--to bring me a great bunch of

golden-glow. She was captivatingly arrayed in blue. She remained for an

hour or so. When she went away the Skeptic walked home with her. He was

forced to do it. The Philosopher had disappeared again, quite without

warning, some twenty minutes earlier.

She came over the next afternoon. On the day following she practically

took up her residence with us. I thought of inviting her to bring a

trunk and occupy the white room. On the fourth night I accidentally

overheard a brief but pregnant colloquy which took place just inside the

library door, toward the last of the evening.

"You've got to take her home to-night, old man."

"I won't." It was the Philosopher.

"You've got to. It's your turn. No shirking."

"I'll be hanged if I will."

"I'll be hanged if _I_ will. There's a limit."

"I'd always supposed there was. There doesn't seem to be."

"Come along--stand up to it like a man. It's up to you to-night. She

can't carry you off bodily."

"I'm not so sure of that." The Philosopher's tone was grim.

So far I had been transfixed. But now I hurried away. I was consumed

with anxiety during the next ten minutes, lest they come to blows in

settling it. But when they appeared I could tell that they had settled

it somehow.

When Dahlia arose and said that she positively must go they both

accompanied her. The transit occupied less time than it had done on any

previous occasion.

* * * * *

From this time on there was concerted action on the part of our two men.

Where one was, the other was. The Gay Lady and I received less attention

than we were accustomed to expect--the two men were too busy standing by

each other to have much time for us.

"I'm so sorry," said Dahlia, coming over after dinner on the tenth

evening, "but I'm going away to-morrow. I've an invitation that I'm

simply not allowed to refuse."

The Philosopher's face lit up. He attempted to conceal it by burying his

head in his handkerchief for a moment, in mock distress, but his

satisfaction showed even behind his ears. The Skeptic bent down and

elaborately tied his shoe-ribbon. The Gay Lady regarded Dahlia sweetly,

and said, "That's surely very nice for you."

"I think," observed Dahlia, looking coyly from the Skeptic to the

Philosopher, "that I shall have to let each of you take me for a

farewell walk to-night. You first"--she indicated the Philosopher. "Or

shall it be a row for one and a walk for the other?"

She and the Philosopher strolled away toward the river. There had been

no way out for him.

"The Englishman, the Scotsman and the Irishman," began the Skeptic, in a

conversational tone, "being about to be hanged, were given their choice

of a tree. 'The oak for me,' says the Englishman. 'The Scotch elm for

mine,' says the Scotsman. 'Faith,' says the Irishman, 'I'll be afther

takin' a gooseberry bush.' 'That's too small,' says the hangman. 'I'll

wait for it to grow,' says the Irishman contentedly."

Whereat he disappeared. When Dahlia and the Philosopher returned he had

not come back. I was amazed at him, but my amazement did not produce

him, and the Philosopher accompanied Dahlia home. When they were well

away the Skeptic swung himself up over the side of the porch, from among

some bushes.

"'All's fair in love and war,'" he grinned. "Besides, the campaign's

over. Philo's gained experience. He's a veteran now. He'll never be such

easy game again. Haven't we behaved well, on the whole?" he asked the

Gay Lady, dropping upon a cushion at her feet.

"I don't think you have," said the Gay Lady gently.

"We haven't! Why not?"

She shook her head. "I refuse to discuss it," she said, as gently as

before, but quite firmly.

The Skeptic sighed. "I'm sorry," he declared. "You really don't

know----"

"I don't want to know," said the Gay Lady. "Isn't it a lovely, lovely

evening?"

"Yes, it's a lovely evening," said the Skeptic, looking up at her. "It

would be delightful on the river."

She shook her head again.

"Not nicer than here," she answered.

The Philosopher came back. When he was half-way across the lawn the

Skeptic jumped up and rushed forward and offered his shoulder for the

Philosopher to lean upon.

"Clear out," said the Philosopher shortly.

"I'm glad to hear it," rejoined the Skeptic. "I feared you might be

clear in."

"It's not your fault that I'm not," grunted the Philosopher.

He dropped down upon the porch step in an exhausted way.

The Gay Lady rose.

"The air is making me sleepy," said she in her musically sweet voice.

"Good-night."

The Skeptic and the Philosopher looked after her retreating figure even

after it ceased to be visible, drifting down the wide, central hall.

"The worst of it is," grumbled the Skeptic, "that an exhibition of that

sort of thing always makes the other kind draw off, for fear we may

possibly think they're in the same class."

I, too, now said good-night, and went away to let them have it out

between them.

RHODORA

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.

--_Gray._

This morning we had a surprise. Grandmother and Rhodora drove over from

Langdale, ten miles away, to spend two days. Grandmother does not belong

to us exclusively--she is Grandmother to a large circle of people, all

of whom are glad to see her whenever they have the opportunity. Rhodora

is a new granddaughter of the old lady--by which I mean to say that

Rhodora never saw Grandmother till a fortnight ago, when the girl

arrived to pay her a visit.

"I wanted to see you people so much," explained Rhodora, coming breezily

upon the porch a step or two in advance of the old lady, "that I thought

I'd drive over. Grandmother wanted to come too, so I brought her."

Grandmother's dark eyebrows below her white curls went up a trifle. It

was quite evident that she thought she had brought Rhodora, inasmuch as

the carriage, the horses, and the old family coachman were all her own.

But she did not correct the girl. She is a tiny little lady, with a

gentle, somewhat hesitating manner, but her black eyes are very bright,

and she sees things with almost as keen a vision as Lad himself.

The Gay Lady was charmed with Grandmother. She put the frail visitor

into the easiest chair on the porch, untied her bonnet-strings, smoothed

her soft, white curls, and brought a footstool for her little feet. Then

she sat by her, listening and talking--doing much more listening than

talking--leaving Rhodora to me.

"I'm sorry our men are away to-day," I said to Rhodora, "and Lad is with

them. They went early this morning to climb Bluebeard Mountain, and

won't be back till night. It is rather quiet here without them."

"Are they young and jolly?" inquired Rhodora.

"They are extremely jolly. As for being young, that depends upon one's

point of view," said I. "They are between twenty-five and thirty-five, I

believe."

"Pretty wide margin," laughed Rhodora. "And how old is Lad?"

"Fifteen."

"I've had the bad luck to be stuck off with old people all the while

lately," remarked Rhodora. She looked at me as she spoke. I wondered if

she considered me "old people." Then she glanced at the Gay Lady.

"How old is she?" she inquired.

"I have never asked her."

"Looks like a girl, but I guess she isn't. A real girl would never

settle down like that to talk to an old lady like Grandmother," she

observed sagely.

I opened my lips--and closed them. I had known Miss Rhodora only about

ten minutes, and one does not make caustic speeches to one's guests--if

one can help it. But one does take observations upon them. I was taking

observations upon Rhodora.

She was decidedly a handsome girl--handsome seems the word. She was

rather large, well-proportioned, blooming in colour, with somewhat

strikingly modeled features. She wore sleeves to her elbows, and her

arms were round and firm. She sat in a nonchalant attitude in which her

arms were considerably in evidence.

"Rhodora," said Grandmother, turning to look our way, "did I bring my

little black silk bag from the carriage?"

"Didn't see it," replied Rhodora. "Which way is Bluebeard Mountain?" she

inquired of me.

The Gay Lady and I arose at the same instant. I went into the house to

search for the bag, and when I could not find it the Gay Lady went away

down to the red barn to find if the black silk bag had been left in the

carriage. She came back bringing it.

"Thank you, my dear," said Grandmother, with a smile which might have

repaid anybody for a much longer trip than that to the carriage.

* * * * *

After a time I managed to exchange places with the Gay Lady, feeling

that Rhodora very plainly did consider me an elderly person, and that,

in spite of her confidence that the Gay Lady was not "a real girl," as

girls of Rhodora's age use the term, she might take her as a substitute

for one.

The Gay Lady took Rhodora down to the river, and out in the boat. I

understood from what I heard later that the Gay Lady, although a fine

oarswoman, did not row Rhodora about the river. Rhodora began by

dropping into the stern seat among the cushions, but the Gay Lady fitted

two sets of oars into the rowlocks, and offered Rhodora the position of

stroke. The Gay Lady is very sweet and courteous in manner, but I could

quite understand that when she offered the oars to Rhodora, Rhodora

accepted them and did her best.

When they came back it was time for luncheon, and I took my guests to

the white room.

"What a cool, reposeful room, my dear," said Grandmother. She patted her

white curls in front of the mirror, which is an old-fashioned, oblong

one, in which two people cannot well see themselves at the same time.

Rhodora came up behind her, stooped to peer over her shoulder, and

seized upon the ivory comb which lay on the dressing-table. Her elbow,

as she ran the comb through her fluffy hair, struck Grandmother's

delicate shoulder. The old lady turned and regarded her granddaughter in

astonishment.

"Want the comb?" inquired Rhodora, having finished with it herself.

Rhodora went over to the washstand, and washed and splashed, and used

one of the towels and threw it back upon the rack so that it overhung

all the other fresh towels. Grandmother used one end of Rhodora's towel,

and carefully folded and put it in place, looking regretfully at its

rumpled condition. She took a clean pocket-handkerchief out of her bag.

Rhodora caught sight of it.

"Oh, Grandmother, have you got a spare handkerchief?" she cried. "I've

lost mine, I'm afraid."

Grandmother handed her the little square of fine linen, exquisitely

embroidered with her own monogram, and took another and plainer one from

her bag.

"Try not to lose that one, Granddaughter," she said, in her gentle way.

Rhodora pushed it inside her sleeve. "Oh, I seldom lose two in one day,"

she assured the handkerchief's owner.

I fear it was rather a dull afternoon for Rhodora. The Gay Lady took

Grandmother away after luncheon into the quiet, green-hung library, and

tucked her up on the couch, and covered her with a little silk quilt

from her own room, and went away and played softly upon the piano in the

distance until the old lady fell asleep. Late in the afternoon

Grandmother awoke much refreshed, and found the Gay Lady sitting by the

window, keeping guard.

"It does one's eyes good to look at you, my dear," were Grandmother's

first words, after she had lain for some time quietly observing the

figure by the window, freshly dressed in white. The Gay Lady got up and

came over to the couch and bent down, smiling.

* * * * *

Just in time for a late dinner our men came home, sunburned and hungry.

Seeing guests upon the porch they made for their rooms, and reappeared

presently in that irreproachable trim which the dustiest and most

disreputable-looking of them seems able to achieve, being given plenty

of water, in the twinkling of an eye.

They were presented to Grandmother. At almost the same moment we were

summoned to dinner. The Skeptic gave the old lady his arm. The

Philosopher picked up her black silk bag from the porch floor, and

followed with it dangling from his hand. Just as she reached the table

she dropped her handkerchief, and the Lad sprang for it as a retriever

springs for a stick, and handed it to her with his best boyish bow. The

old lady beamed. Quite evidently this was the sort of thing to which she

was accustomed.

At luncheon Rhodora had rather monopolized the conversation. At dinner

she found herself unable to do so. The Philosopher and the Skeptic were

too much occupied with Grandmother to be able to attend to Rhodora,

beyond lending a polite ear to her remarks now and then and immediately

afterward returning to the elderly guest. Grandmother was really a most

interesting talker when occasion required it of her, as it certainly did

now. We were all charmed with her clever way of putting things, her

shrewd observation, her knowledge of and interest in affairs in general.

After dinner the Philosopher escorted her out to her chair on the porch.

The Skeptic sat down beside the Gay Lady on a wide, wooden settle close

by, and both listened, smiling, to the discussion which had arisen

between Grandmother and the Philosopher. It was well worth listening to.

The Philosopher, while wholly deferential, held his ground staunchly,

but Grandmother worsted him in the end. Her cheeks grew pink, her black

eyes shone. It was a captivating spectacle.

I called Rhodora's attention to it. Finding nobody else to do her honour

she had entered into conversation with the Lad. Both looked up as I

spoke to them.

"Yes, isn't she great!" agreed the Lad softly. "Nicest old lady I

ever saw."

"It's too exciting for her, I should say," commented her granddaughter.

"I didn't think she ought to come. I could have come alone just as

well--I'd a good deal rather. She's getting pretty old."

The Skeptic and the Philosopher each did his duty by Rhodora before the

evening was over. The Skeptic played four sets of tennis with her--she

is an admirable player--but he beat her until he discovered that she was

growing very much annoyed--then he allowed her to win the last set by a

game. The Lad, who was watching the bout, announced it to me under his

breath with a laugh. Then the Philosopher took Rhodora through the

garden and over the place generally.

"I think you should have a shawl about your shoulders, Rhodora," said

Grandmother, when the girl and the Philosopher had returned and taken

their seats upon the steps of the porch. The twilight had fallen, and

the Gay Lady had just wrapped Grandmother in a light garment of her own.

Rhodora shrugged her shoulders. "Heavens, no!" she ejaculated. "Old

people are always fussing," she remarked, in a slightly lower tone to

the Philosopher. "Because she's frozen is no reason why I should be."

"One could almost pretend to be frozen to please her," returned the

Philosopher, in a much lower tone than Rhodora's. "She is the most

beautiful old lady I ever saw."

"Goodness, I don't see how you can see anything beautiful about old

persons," said the girl. "They give me the creeps."

The Philosopher opened his mouth--and closed it again, quite as I had

done in the morning. He looked curiously at Rhodora. By his expression I

should judge he was thinking: "After all--what's the use?"

* * * * *

The next afternoon Grandmother and Rhodora went home. When Grandmother

was in the carriage the Skeptic tucked her in and put cushions behind

her back and a footstool under her feet. Then the Philosopher laid a

great nosegay of garden flowers in her lap. She was so pleased she

coloured like a girl, and put out her delicate little old hand in its

black silk mitt, and he took it in both his and held it close for a

minute, looking at her with his blue eyes full of such a boyish

expression of affection as his own mother might have seen now and then,

years before. I think she would have liked to kiss him, and I am sure he

wanted to kiss her, but we were all looking on, and they had known each

other but a few hours. Nevertheless, there was something about the

little scene which touched us all--except Rhodora, who exclaimed:

"Gracious, Grandmother--I suppose that brings back the days when you had

lots of beaux! What a gorgeous jumble of old-fashioned flowers that is,

anyhow. I didn't know there were so many kinds in the world!"

The Skeptic hustled her into the carriage, rather as if she were a bag

of meal, handed her belongings in after her, shook hands with

Grandmother in his most courtly fashion, and stood aside. We waved our

hands and handkerchiefs, and Grandmother's fat old horses walked away

with her down the driveway.

"It's a pity," said the Skeptic to me impatiently, when they were out of

sight around the corner, and we had turned to go back to the house,

"that a girl like that can't see herself."

"Rhodora is very young yet," said I. "Perhaps by the time she is even as

old as the Gay Lady----"

"You don't think it," declared the Skeptic, looking ahead at the Gay

Lady as she walked by the Philosopher over the lawn toward the house.

"The two are no more the same sort--than----" he looked toward the

garden for inspiration and found it, as many a man before him has found

it, when searching after similes for the women he knows--"than those

yellow tiger-lilies of yours are like--a clump of hepaticas that you

find in the woods in spring."

* * * * *

That evening the Gay Lady had left us, as she sometimes does, and gone

in to play soft, old-time melodies on my piano, while the rest of us sat

silently listening. The men know well enough that it is useless to

follow her in when she goes to play in the twilight--if they did she

would send them back again, or stop playing. And as it is worth much to

hear her play when she has a certain mood upon her, nobody does anything

to break the spell. Sometimes the listening grows almost painful, but

before we are quite overwrought she comes back and makes us gay again.

"When I was a boy," said the Skeptic, very softly to me, after the music

stopped, "I used to pick out men to admire and follow about, and

consume myself with wishing that some day I could be like them. How

could a girl like that one we've had here to-day look at our Gay Lady

and not want to copy her to the last hair on her head?"

"There are some things which can't be copied," I returned. "She is one

of them."

The Skeptic gave me a grateful glance. "You never said a truer thing

than that," said he.

Perceiving that he was in a sentimental mood, and that the Gay Lady had

stopped playing and was coming out again upon the porch, I turned my

attention to the Philosopher. In spite of the music he seemed not in a

sentimental mood.

"You have a lot of girl company, first and last, don't you?" he queried,

when he and I had agreed upon the beauty of the night.

"It happens so, for some reason," I admitted.

He shook his head regretfully. "If I thought you were going to have

anything more like that to-day soon, I should take to the woods,"

said he.

AZALEA

It all depends upon a consciousness of values, a sense of proportion.

--_Arthur Christopher Benson._

"The heavens have fallen!" I announced in the doorway of the Gay Lady's

room. "Cook is ill--I had the doctor for her in the night. And my little

waitress went home just yesterday to her sister's wedding."

"And breakfast to get," responded the Gay Lady, arriving instantly at

the point, as she always does. She had been dressing leisurely. Now she

made all speed and instead of white linen she slipped into a

blue-and-white-checked gingham. "Don't worry--I'll be down in three

minutes," she assured me cheerily.

I found Lad building the kitchen fire--in the country we do not have gas

ranges. "I'll have her roaring in a jiff," he cried. "I learned a dandy

way camping last year."

Breakfast came off nearly on schedule time. The Gay Lady's omelet was a

feathery success, her coffee perfect, my muffins above reproach. Lad had

helped set the table, he had looked over the fruit, he had skimmed the

cream.

Azalea came in a little late. She had been my guest for a week, and a

delightful guest, too. She has a glorious voice for singing, and she is

very clever and entertaining--everybody likes her.

* * * * *

Of course, when I arose to take away the fruit-plates and bring on the

breakfast, the fact that I was servantless came out. To the Philosopher

and the Skeptic, who were immediately solicitous, I explained that we

should get on very well.

"We'll see that you do," promised the Skeptic. "There are a few things I

flatter myself I can do as well as the next man--or woman. Consider me

at your service."

"The same here," declared the Philosopher. "And--I say--don't fuss

too much. Have a cold lunch--bread and milk, you know, or something

like that."

I smiled, and said that would not be necessary. Nor was it. For five

years after my marriage I had been my own maid-servant--and those were

happy days. My right hand had by no means forgotten her cunning. As for

both the Gay Lady's pretty hands--they were very accomplished in

household arts. And she had put on the blue-and-white gingham.

"I can wipe dishes," offered the Philosopher, as we rose from the table.

"It's a useful art," said the Gay Lady. "In ten minutes we'll be ready

for you."

The Skeptic looked about him. Then he hurried away without saying

anything. Two minutes later I found him making his bed.

"Go away," he commanded me. "It'll be ship-shape, never fear. You

remember I was sent to a military school when I was a youngster."

From below, as I made Azalea's bed, the strains of one of the Liszt

Hungarian Rhapsodies floated up to me. Azalea was playing. We had fallen

into the habit of drifting into the living-room, where the piano stood,

every morning immediately after breakfast, to hear Azalea play. In the

evenings she sang to us; but one does not sing directly after breakfast,

and only second in delight to hearing Azalea's superb voice was

listening to her matchless touch upon the keyboard. I said to myself, as

I went about the "upstairs work"--work that the Skeptic, with all his

good will, could not do, not being allowed to cross certain

thresholds--that we should sorely miss Azalea's music when she should go

away next week.

The Gay Lady and I managed luncheon with very little exertion, we had so

much assistance. Dinner cost us rather more trouble, for Cook's dinners

are always delicious, and we could not have a falling off under our

régime. But it was a great success, and our men praised us until we felt

our labours fully repaid. Still, we were a trifle fatigued at the end of

the day. Cook had needed a good deal of waiting upon, and though the Gay

Lady had insisted on sharing this service with me it had required many

steps and the exercise of some tact--Cook having been fully persuaded

all day that her end was near.

"I have told her six times that people don't die of lumbago," said the

Gay Lady, "but her tears flow just as copiously as ever. I've written

three letters to her friends for her. To-morrow I suppose I shall have

to write her last will and testament."

* * * * *

But on the morrow Cook was enough better to be able to indite her own

documents, though as yet unable to come downstairs. It was well that she

did not require much of our time, however, for just before noon a party

of touring motorists drove up to our door and precipitated themselves

upon us with warm greetings--and hungry looks toward our dining-room.

"Smoke and ashes!" cried the Skeptic, under his breath, appearing in the

kitchen, whither the Gay Lady and I had betaken ourselves as soon as we

had furnished our guests with soap and water and clothes-brushes, and

left them to remove as much of the dust of the road from their persons

as could be done without a full bath--"why didn't you send them on to

the village inn? Of all the nerve!--and you don't know any of them

intimately, do you?"

I shook my head. "One of them was my dearest enemy in school-days," I

admitted, "and I never saw but one of the others. Never mind. Do you

suppose you could saddle Skylark and post over to town for some

beefsteak? I've sent Lad to the neighbours for other things. Beefsteak

is what they must have--porterhouse--since I've not enough broilers in

the ice-box to go around that hungry company."

"Sure thing," and the Skeptic was off. But he came back to say in my

ear: "See here, why doesn't Miss Azalea come out and help? She's just

sitting on the porch, looking pretty."

"Somebody ought to play hostess, since I must be here," I responded,

without meeting his inquiring eye. I did urgently need some one to beat

the oil into the salad dressing I was making, for there were other

things I must do. The Gay Lady was already accomplishing separate things

with each hand, and directing Lad at the same time. The Skeptic looked

at her appreciatively.

"She mourns because she can't sing!" said he, and laughed quietly to

himself as he swung away. Yet he had seemed much impressed with

Azalea's singing all the week, and had turned her music for her

devotedly.

We got through it somehow. "I thought they'd eat their heads off,"

commented the Philosopher, who had carved the beefsteak and the

broilers, and had tried to give everybody the tenderloin and the white

breast meat, and had eaten drumsticks and end pieces himself, after the

manner of the unselfish host.

* * * * *

There were piles and mountains of dishes after that luncheon. They

looked the bigger to us because we had been obliged to leave them for

two hours while we sat upon the porch with our motorists, who said they

always took a good rest in the middle of the day, and made up by running

many extra miles at night. When they had gone, loudly grateful for our

hospitality--two of the men had had to have some more things to eat and

drink before they could get up steam with which to start--the Gay Lady

and I stood in the door of the kitchen and drew our first sighs over the

state of things existing.

"If Cook doesn't get down pretty soon----" said I dejectedly, and did

not try to finish the sentence. Somehow that hasty cookery for five

extra people had been depressing. I couldn't think of a thing that

had been left in the house that would do for dinner--due now in three

short hours.

But the Gay Lady rallied nobly.

"There's plenty of hot water," said she, "and those dishes will melt

away in no time. Then--you're going to have a long sleep, whether we get

any dinner to-night or not."

The Skeptic spoke from behind us. "Here's a fresh recruit," said he in a

jovial tone, which I understood at once was manufactured for the

occasion. We looked around and saw Azalea at his elbow. She was smiling

rather dubiously. I wondered how he had managed it. Afterward I learned

that he had boldly asked her if she didn't want to help.

"I hope I shan't break anything," murmured Azalea, accepting a

dish-towel. The Skeptic took another. "Oh, no," he assured her. "That

delicate touch of yours--why, I never heard anybody who could play

_pianissimo_--_legato_--_cantabile_--like you. You wouldn't break a

spun-glass rainbow."

Azalea did not break anything. I think it was because she did not dry

more than one article to the Skeptic's three and the Gay Lady's six.

Once she dropped a china cup, but the Skeptic caught it and presented it

to her with a bow. "Don't mention it," said he. "I'm an old

first-baseman."

The Philosopher came through the kitchen with a broom and dustpan. He

had been attempting to sweep the dining-room floor--which is of

hardwood, with a centre rug--and had had a bad time of it. The Skeptic

jeered at him and mentioned the implements he should have used. Azalea

looked at them both wonderingly.

"How in the world do you men come to know so much about housework?" she

inquired, wiping a single teaspoon diligently. The Gay Lady had just

lifted a dozen out of the steaming pan for her, but Azalea had laid them

all down on the table, and was polishing them one by one.

"I find it comes in handy," said the Skeptic. "You never stay anywhere,

you know, that sooner or later something doesn't happen unexpectedly

to the domestic machinery. Besides, I like to show off--don't you? See

here"--he turned to me. There was a twinkle in his wicked eye. "See

here, why not let Miss Azalea and me be responsible for the dinner

to-night--with Philo as second assistant? You and the Gay Lady are

tired out. Miss Azalea can tell me what to do, and I'll promise to

do it faithfully."

He had not the face to look at the guest as he made this daring

suggestion. His audacity took my breath away so completely that I could

make no rejoinder, but the Gay Lady came to the rescue. I don't know

whether she had seen Azalea's face, but I had.

"I have a surprise for to-night," said she, picking up a trayful of

china, "and I don't intend anybody shall interfere with it. Nobody is

even to mention dinner in my presence."

The Skeptic took the tray away from her. "There are some other things I

should like to mention in your presence," said he, so softly that I

think nobody heard him but myself, who was nearest. "And one of them is

that somebody I know never looked sweeter than she does this----"

I rattled the saucers in the pan that nobody might catch it. The Gay

Lady was colouring so brilliantly that I feared the Skeptic might drop

the tray, for he was not looking at all where he was going. But she

disappeared into the pantry, and there was nothing left for him to do

but to place the tray on the shelf outside, ready for her to take the

contents in through the window.

* * * * *

The Gay Lady put me upon my own bed, tucked me up, drew the curtains,

and left me to my nap. She left a kiss on my cheek also, and as she

dropped it there I thought of the Skeptic again--I don't know why. I

wondered casually what he would give for one like it.

When I awoke my room was so nearly dark that I was startled into

thinking it next morning. The Lad's voice, speaking eagerly through my

door, was what had roused me. He was summoning me to dinner. "It's all

ready," he was calling.

I dressed dazedly, refreshed and wondering. I went down to preside at

the most delicious meal I had eaten in a month. The Gay Lady--in white

muslin, with cheeks like roses--seemed not in the least fatigued. The

Skeptic looked like a young commanding general who had seen his forces

win triumphantly against great odds. The Philosopher was hilarious.

Azalea seemed somewhat quiet and thoughtful.

When the dishes were done and the kitchen in order--matters which were

dispatched like wildfire--we gathered upon the porch as usual.

"There is nothing in the world I should like so much," said the Gay Lady

presently, from the low chair where she sat, with the Skeptic on a

cushion so near to her feet that in the shadow his big figure seemed to

melt into her slight one, "as some music. Is it asking too much, dear,

after all those dishes?"

"I don't feel a bit like singing," answered Azalea.

The Philosopher sat beside her on the settle, and he turned to add his

request to the Gay Lady's.

The Skeptic spoke heartily from his cushion.

"If you knew how much pleasure you've given us all these mornings and

evenings," he said, "never having to be urged, but being so generous

with your great art----"

"Somehow it doesn't look so great to me to-night," said Azalea quietly.

I almost thought there were tears in her voice. She has a beautiful

speaking voice, as singers are apt to have.

Everybody was silent for an instant, in surprise--and anxiety. Azalea

was a very lovely girl--nobody had meant to hurt her.

Had the Skeptic's shot in the kitchen gone home? Nobody would be sorrier

than he to deal a blow where only a feather's touch was meant.

"It looks so great to me," said the Gay Lady very gently, "that I would

give--years of my life to be able to sing one song as you sing

Beethoven's '_Adelaide_.'"

"Of course I can't refuse, after that," said Azalea modestly, though

more happily, I thought, and the Philosopher went away with her into the

half-lit living room.

"May I say anything?" asked the Skeptic, looking up into the Gay Lady's

face, in the way he has when he wants to say things very much but is

doubtful how she will take them--a condition he is frequently in.

She shook her head--I think she must have been smiling. It was so

evident--that which he wanted to say. He wanted to assure her that her

own accomplishments----

But the Gay Lady shook her head. "Let's just listen," she said.

So we listened. It was worth it. But, after all, I doubt if the Skeptic

heard.

HEPATICA

Here's metal more attractive.

--_Hamlet._

The Gay Lady had gone away for a week and a day. Although four of us

remained, the gap in our number appeared prodigious. The first dinner

without her seemed as slow and dull as a dance without music, in spite

of the fact that we did our best, each one of us, not to act as if

anything were wrong.

When we had escaped from the dining-room to the porch, Lad was the first

to voice his sentiments upon the subject of our drooping spirits. "I

didn't know her being here made such a lot of difference--till she got

away," he said dismally. "There's nobody to laugh, now, when I make a

joke."

"Don't the rest of us laugh at your jokes, son?" inquired the

Philosopher, laying a friendly hand upon the Lad's arm as the boy stood

on the porch step below him.

"You do--if she does," replied Lad. "Lots of times you'd never notice

what I say if she didn't look at you and laugh. Then you burst out and

laugh too--to please her, I suppose," he added.

The Philosopher glanced at me over the boy's head. "Here's a pretty

sharp observer," said he, "with a gift at analysis. I didn't know before

that I take my cue from the Gay Lady--or from any one else--when it

comes to laughing at jokes. Try me with one now, Lad, and see if I don't

laugh--all by myself."

Lad shook his head. "That wouldn't be any good. I'd know you didn't mean

it. She always means it. Besides--she thinks things are funny that you

don't. She's 'most as good as a boy--and I don't see how she can be,

either," he reflected, "because she isn't the least bit like one."

"You're right enough about that," observed the Philosopher. "She's

essentially feminine, if ever a girl was."

"Girl!" repeated the Lad. "She isn't a girl. That is--I thought she

was, till she told me herself she wasn't. She's twenty-seven."

The Philosopher grinned. The Skeptic, who had lit his pipe and was

puffing away at it, sitting on the settle with his back to the

sunset--which was unusually fine that evening--gave utterance to a deep

note of derision at the Lad's point of view. I smiled, myself. If ever

there was an irresistible combination of the girlish and the womanly it

was to be found in our Gay Lady. As to her looks--even the blooming

youth of Althea, and the more cultivated charms of Camellia, had not

made the Gay Lady less lovely in our eyes, although she was by no means

what is known as a "beauty."

"She's a whole lot nicer than any of those girls we've had here this

summer," the Lad went on. He seemed to have the floor. There could be no

doubt that the subject of his musings was of interest to all his

hearers. "And they weren't so bad, either--except Dahlia. I can't stand

her," he added resentfully.

The Philosopher shook his head slightly as one who would have said "Who

could?" if it had been allowable. The Skeptic removed his pipe from his

mouth and gazed intently into its bowl. I felt it my duty to stand by

Dahlia, for the sake of the Lad, who must not learn to sneer at women

behind their backs.

"There are a great many nice things about Dahlia," I said. "And she has

surely given you many good times, Lad. Think how often she has gone out

on the river with you--and helped you make kites, and rigged little

ships for you----"

"Oh, yes," cried the Lad scornfully, "she'll take me--when she can't get

a man!"

The Skeptic's shoulders heaved as he turned away to cough violently.

Evidently he had swallowed a pipeful of smoke. The Philosopher abruptly

removed his hand from the Lad's shoulder and dropped down on the porch

step, where his face was hidden from the bright young eyes above him. I

shook my head at Lad. Presently he ran off to the red barn to look after

some small puppies down there in the hay.

* * * * *

We three left behind settled down for the evening. At least I did, and

the others made a show of doing so. But the Skeptic was both restless

and moody, the Philosopher unsociable. Finally the Skeptic flung an

invitation to the Philosopher to go off for a walk. The Philosopher

consented with a nod, and they strolled away, taking leave of me with

formal politeness. I understood them, and I did not mind. A wise woman

lets a man go--that he may return.

They came back just as twilight darkened into night, and sat down at my

feet on the step, shoulder to shoulder, like the good comrades that they

were. I wondered if they had been discussing the subject which the Lad

had introduced.

"How much," inquired the Philosopher quite suddenly, "do you suppose it

would cost to dress a girl like Miss Camellia?"

"I've really no idea," I answered, since the question seemed directed at

me. "It depends on a number of things. There are girls so clever with

their needles that they can produce very remarkable effects for a

comparatively small amount of money."

"Is she one of them?"

"I don't know."

"I fancy you do," was his comment. Presently he went on again. "You see,

I don't know much about all this," he declared. "So I've had rather an

observant eye on--on these young ladies you've had here from time to

time this summer, and I confess I'm filled with curiosity. Would you

mind telling me what you think the average girl of good family, and well

brought up, has in her mind's eye as a desirable future--I mean for the

next few years after school?--I don't know that I make myself clear.

What I want to get at is--You see, the great thing a young chap thinks

about is what he is going to make of himself--and how to do it. It

struck me as rather odd that not one of those girls seemed to have any

particular end in view--at least, that ever came out in her

conversation."

I couldn't help smiling, his tone was so serious.

The Skeptic chuckled. He had put up his pipe, and was sitting with his

hands clasped behind his head, as he leaned against one of the great

pillars of the porch. "They have one, just the same," he vouchsafed. "He

who runs may read."

The Philosopher regarded him thoughtfully, through the half-light from

the hall lamp. "I noticed you did a good deal of running, first and

last," he observed. "I suppose you read before you ran--unless you have

eyes in the back of your head. Well," he continued, "you can't make me

believe that all girls are so anxious to make a good impression, or they

wouldn't do some of the things they do."

"For instance?" I suggested, having become curious myself. Never before,

in an acquaintance dating far back, had I heard the Philosopher hold

forth upon this subject.

"They make themselves conspicuous," said he promptly--to my great

surprise. "As nearly as I can get at it, that's the cardinal fault of

the girl of to-day. Everywhere I go I notice it--in public--in private.

Wherever she is she holds the floor, occupies the centre of the stage.

If you'll pardon my saying it, every last girl you had here this summer

did that thing, each in her own way."

I thought about them--one after another. It was true. Each had, in her

own way, occupied the centre of the stage. And the Gay Lady, than whom

nobody has a better right to keep fast hold of her position in the

foreground of all our thoughts, had allowed each one to do it. And

somehow, in every case, after all, the real focus for all our eyes,

quite without her being able to help it, had been wherever the Gay Lady

had happened to be.

We all went to bed early that night. The Philosopher's observations,

though highly interesting, did not keep us from becoming very sleepy at

an untimely hour. It was the same way next evening. And the next. In

fact, up to the very night before the Gay Lady's expected return, we

continued to cut short our days of waiting by as much as we could

venture to do without exciting the suspicion that we were weary of one

another.

On that last evening the Skeptic fastened himself to me. He insisted on

my walking with him in the garden.

"So she comes back to-morrow," said he, as we paced down the path, quite

as if he had just learned of the prospect of her return.

"I can hardly wait," said I.

"Neither can I," he agreed solemnly. "I knew I should miss her,

but--smoke and ashes!--I didn't dream the week would be a period of time

long enough for a ray of light to travel from Sirius to the earth and

back again."

"If she could only hear that!" said I.

"She's going to hear it," he declared with great earnestness. "She's

kept me quiet all summer, but--by a man's impatience!--she can't keep me

quiet any longer. Do you blame me?" he inquired, wheeling to look

intently at me through the September twilight.

"Not a bit," said I. "I've only wished she could stand still until Lad

grows up."

"You must think well of her, to say that," said he delightedly. "And, on

my word, I don't know but she will continue to stand still, as far as

looks go. But in mind--and heart--well, the only thing is, I'm so far

below her I don't dare to hope. All I know is that, for sheer womanly

sweetness and strength, there's nobody her equal. And yet, when I try to

put my finger on what makes her what she is--I can't tell."

"One can't analyze her charm," said I, "except as you've just done

it--womanly sweetness and strength. Hepatica is--Hepatica. And being

that, we love her."

"We do," said he, half under his breath, and caught my hand and gave it

a grip which stung.

* * * * *

The next morning the Gay Lady came home. We had not expected her until

evening, and when we heard a light footstep approaching through the hall

as we sat at breakfast, we looked at one another in dumb astonishment

and disbelief. But the next instant she stood smiling at us from the

doorway.

She was glad to see us, too. From Lad's ecstatic embrace she came into

mine, and I heard her eager whisper--"I'm so glad to get back to _you!_"

The Skeptic and the Philosopher wrung her hand until I know her little

fingers ached, and they stared at her, the one like a brother, the other

like--well, she must have seen for herself. No, they were not rivals.

The Philosopher had seen the Skeptic's case, I think, from the first,

and being not only a philosopher but a man, and the Skeptic's best

friend, had never allowed himself to enter the race at all. I had

detected a wistful light in his eyes now and then, and had my own notion

of what might have happened if he had let it, but--there was only a very

warm brotherliness in the greeting he gave the Gay Lady, and she looked

back into his eyes too frankly for me to think he had ever let her see

anything else.

She sat down at the table with us for a little, while we finished, and

you should have seen the difference in the look of the room. It was

another place. She ran upstairs to her own room, and I followed her, and

from being a deserted bedroom with a lonely aspect it became a human

habitation with an atmosphere of home. She took off her travelling

dress, talking gayly to me all the while, and brushed her bright locks,

and put on one of the charming white frocks which her own hands had

made, and then came and held me tight, and laughed, and was very near

crying, and said there was never such another place as this.

"There certainly never is when you are in it, dear," I agreed, and

received such a reward for that as only the Gay Lady knows how to give.

All day she stayed by me, wherever I might be. The Skeptic watched and

waited--he got not the ghost of an opportunity. When I was upon the

porch with the others she was there--and not a minute after.

* * * * *

When evening fell it found the Gay Lady on a cushion close by my knee.

Presently the Philosopher went off with the Lad down to the river. The

Skeptic accompanied them part of the distance, then returned quite

unexpectedly by way of the shrubbery, and swung up over the porch rail

at the end at a moment when the Gay Lady, feeling safe in his absence,

had gone to that end to see the moonlight upon the river.

"'All's fair in love and war,'" exulted the Skeptic, somewhat

breathlessly. It seemed to be a favourite maxim with him. I recalled his

having excused himself for eluding Dahlia by that same well-worn

proverb. "No--don't run! Have I become suddenly so terrifying?"

"Why should you be terrifying?" asked Hepatica. "Come and sit down and

tell us what you've all been doing while I was away."

Her back was toward me. There was a long window open close beside me. My

sympathy was with the Skeptic. I slipped through it.

An hour later I went out upon the porch again. Nobody was there. I sat

down alone, feeling half excited and half depressed, and wholly anxious

to know the outcome of the Skeptic's tactics. I waited a long time, as

it seemed to me. Then, without warning, a voice spoke. I could hardly

recognize it for the Skeptic's voice, it was strung so tense--with joy.

"Don't shoot," it said. "We'll come down."

I looked toward the end of the porch, where the vines cast a deep

shadow. I could not see them, but they must have been there all the

time. And the shadow cast by the vines was not a wide shadow at all.