PART II

I

DAHLIA AND THE PROFESSOR

Amen

Stuck in my throat.

--_Macbeth._

The Skeptic and his wife, Hepatica, being happily established in a

beautifully spacious flat in town, measuring thirty feet by forty over

all, invited me to visit them. As both had spent considerable time at my

country home in summer, they insisted that it was only just for me to

allow them, that second winter after their marriage, to return my

hospitality. This argument alone would hardly have sufficed, for winter

in the country--connected by trolley with the town--is hardly less

delightful to me than summer itself. But there were other and convincing

arguments, and they ended by bringing me to the city for a month's visit

in the heart of the season.

On the first morning at breakfast--I had arrived late the night

before--there was much to talk about.

"It's a curious fact," said the Skeptic, stirring a cup of yellow-brown

coffee with which his wife had just presented him, "as Hepatica and I

discovered only the other day, that three of those girls who visited you

that summer four years ago, when she and I were avoiding each other----"

"You--avoiding!" I interpolated.

"Well--I was trying to avoid being avoided by her," he explained. "Three

of those girls are married and living in town."

"Yes, I know," said I. "At least I know Camellia and Althea are. Who

else? Azalea lives across the river, doesn't she?"

"Yes. You haven't heard of the latest matrimonial alliance, then?" The

Skeptic chuckled. Hepatica looked at him, and he looked at her, and then

they both looked at me. "Dahlia was married yesterday," the Skeptic

announced with relish, "in a manse study, with two witnesses."

I was astounded. I had just come from home, and Dahlia was my next

neighbour. She had been away more or less all winter, but there had

been no announcement of any engagement--nor sign of one.

The Skeptic, enjoying my stupefaction, proceeded to give what he

considered an explanation. "I don't see why you should be so surprised,"

he said. "You knew Dahlia's methods. Her net was always spread, and

though a certain wise man declares it in vain to spread it in the sight

of any bird, humans are not always so wary. A man who chanced to be

walking along with his head in the clouds might get his feet entangled

in a cunningly laid net. And so it happened to the Professor."

"The Professor!" I ejaculated. "Not--our Professor?"

The Skeptic nodded solemnly.

"He was our Professor," he amended. "He's hers now. And day before

yesterday he was free!"

He glanced at his watch, folded his napkin in haste, seized his coat and

hat, kissed his wife, patted her shoulder, nodded at me, and was gone. A

minute later we heard the whirr and slide of his car, and Hepatica, at

the window, was returning his wave.

"He's looking extremely well," I observed. "He must be twenty pounds

heavier than he was that summer. Avoiding being avoided was probably

rather thinning."

"He does seem to enjoy his food," admitted Hepatica, regarding the

Skeptic's empty plate with satisfaction.

"Not much doubt of that," I agreed, remembering the delicately hearty

breakfast we had just consumed.

"It's really quite dreadful about Dahlia and the poor Professor, isn't

it?" said Hepatica presently. "And it's just as Don says: he was

literally caught in her net. I presume he couldn't tell to-day precisely

how it happened."

"I've no doubt she could," said I ungenerously. "I shall be anxious to

see them."

"Oh, you'll see them. It's in the middle of term--he couldn't take her

away. And his old quarters are just two blocks below us. She knew you

were coming. You'll probably see them within forty-eight hours."

We did, though not where we could do more than take observations upon

them. The Philosopher came in that evening--he had known of my coming

from the moment that Hepatica had planned to ask me. He was looking

rather less well-fed than the Skeptic, but quite as philosophical, and

altogether as friendly as ever. He looked hard at me, and wrung my hand,

and immediately began to lay out a programme for my visit. As a

beginning he had procured tickets for the Philharmonic Society concert

to be given on the following evening.

We told him about Dahlia. He had not heard. He looked quickly and

dumbfoundedly at the Skeptic, and the Skeptic grinned back at him. "You

feel for him, don't you, Philo?" he queried.

The Philosopher shook his head, and seemed, for a time, much depressed;

upon which the Skeptic rallied him. "You ought to be jubilant to think

it's not yourself," he urged his friend. "You know, there was one time

when you feared even to go home with her, though you were to be within

call from the porch all the way."

But the Philosopher cheered up presently in the pleasure of talking over

old times at the Farm. He had spent the past summer tramping through

Germany, and he and I had not met for many months.

We went to the concert next evening, we four, in a jovial mood. There

was considerable sly joking, on the Skeptic's part, concerning the

change of conditions which now made Hepatica my chaperon, instead of, as

in former days, my being alert to protect her from visiting philosophers

and skeptics. The Philosopher and I took it quite in good part, for

nothing could be more settled than the unimpassioned character of our

old friendship--as there could be nothing more satisfactory.

We had not more than taken our seats when the Skeptic leaned past

Hepatica to call my attention to two people who had come down the aisle

and were finding their places just across it and in the row ahead of us.

I turned to the Philosopher.

"There they are," I whispered. So our four pairs of eyes gazed

interestedly that way.

As she settled into place, Dahlia, whose pretty, flushed face had been

turned in every direction over the house as she got out of her evening

coat, caught sight of us. She bowed and smiled with great cordiality,

and immediately called her companion's attention to us. The

Professor--eighteen years Dahlia's senior, but one of the best men who

ever walked the earth, as we had long since discovered--turned and

scanned us over his spectacles. Then he also responded to our smiling

recognitions with a somewhat subdued but pleased acknowledgment. Dahlia

continued to whisper to him, still glancing back at us from time to time

with looks of good-fellowship, and he appeared to lend an attentive ear,

though he did not again turn toward us.

As for us, in the interest of our observation of the bridal pair, we

fell rather silent. I was conscious that the Philosopher, regarding them

somewhat steadily, drew a deep breath which sounded like a sigh of

dissatisfaction. Noting how thin the Professor's ash-coloured hair

seemed to be, over the crown of his head, in comparison with Dahlia's

luxuriant and elaborately dressed chestnut locks, I felt depressedly

that the disparity in age was more marked than is often seen. This, in

itself, of course, was nothing; but taken in connection with----

The Skeptic leaned forward again.

"What'll you wager I couldn't get up a flirtation with her to-night, if

I happened to sit next her?" he challenged in a whisper.

"Don!" murmured Hepatica; but she smiled.

"I'm not anywhere near his age," continued the Skeptic. "My auburn

tresses are thick upon my head, my evening clothes were made a decade

later than his. If I were only sitting next her!"

At this moment some more people came down the aisle and were shown to

the seats immediately beyond our friends. As the Professor and Dahlia

stood up to let them through, we saw that though the newcomers passed

the Professor without recognition, the young man exchanged greetings

with Dahlia. As they took their seats the man, a floridly handsome

person, was at Dahlia's elbow.

For the third time the Skeptic leaned forward. "It's just as well,

perhaps," he whispered, "that my observations are to be made upon a

proxy. What do you think the new chap's chances are for fun on both

sides of him?"

I did not condescend to answer. And without further delay the famous

conductor of a famous orchestra came commandingly to the front of the

stage, welcomed by an outburst of applause, and with the rest of the

audience we became silent.

But amidst all the delights of the ear which were ours that evening, the

eyes of all of us would wander, from time to time, across the aisle. The

Professor sat, with arms folded and head bent, drinking in the beauties

of sound which beat against his welcoming ears. Next him, Dahlia, the

bride of three days, was vindicating the Skeptic's opinion of her

undiminished accomplishments. The young man upon her right proved an

able second. The girl on his other side, by the time the concert was

half over, was holding her head high, or bending it to study a programme

which I am sure she did not see, while her companion played Dahlia's old

game with a trained hand.

"Can the Ethiopian change his skin?" breathed the Philosopher in my ear,

during an intermission.

"I'm afraid not," I assented dubiously. "But, of course, she may make a

devoted wife, nevertheless. That sort of thing doesn't mean anything to

her, you know. She merely does it as a matter of habit."

"It can't be precisely an endearing habit to a husband," protested the

Philosopher. "If she would address a remark now and then to the poor man

at her left one might excuse her. And if she could carry on a

conversation with the other one in an ordinarily well-bred, friendly

way--and confine it to the intervals between numbers--one might be able

to forget her, which would be a relief. But all those silly tricks of

hers--those smiles, those archings of the neck--those lengthy looks up

into the eyes of that fool----"

"Don't look at them," I advised.

"I can't help looking at them. Everybody else is looking at

them--including yourself."

It was quite true--everybody was, even people considerably out of range.

If Dahlia herself was conscious of this--and I'm sure she must have

been--she probably ascribed it to the charm of her appearance. She is

even prettier than she used to be. But, as we were wont to say of her

when we had owned to all her attractiveness--"if only!"

"After all," urged Hepatica, on the homeward way, "we've no right to

judge by seeing them under those conditions. Wait till we've had them

alone with us. Dahlia told me on the way out that they were planning to

come and see us very soon.--I suggested to-morrow night, so they will

come then."

"I'll be there," accepted the Philosopher--quite before he was asked.

So on the following evening we saw them, alone with ourselves. The dear

Professor seemed to us, more than before, the pitiable victim of a woman

in every way unsuited to him. Yet he looked at Dahlia as if he cared for

her very much, and was only a trifle bewildered by her manner with other

men.

"What dear times we used to have on the river!" said Dahlia to the

Philosopher, at a moment when nobody else happened to be speaking. She

accompanied this observation by a glance. It was Dahlia's glances which

gave life to her remarks.

"I haven't fished in that river for three summers," replied the

Philosopher, in his most unsentimental tone.

"You used to have better luck when you went alone," said Dahlia. "Do

you remember how we could never stop talking long enough to lure any

fish our way?"

"Nevertheless, there has been considerable fishing done on that river,

first and last," asserted the Skeptic, with a twinkle at the

Philosopher, who looked uncomfortable. The Professor's gentle gaze was

fixed upon each speaker in turn, and as he now waited upon the

Philosopher's reply I saw the latter person frown slightly.

"I never considered the fishing on that river very good," said he.

"Oh, it didn't need to be," cried Dahlia. "I can shut my eyes now and

see the water rippling in the moonlight! Can't you?" She appealed to

the Skeptic.

"I can't," said the Skeptic. "I never noticed how it rippled in the

moonlight. The big porch is my favourite haunt at the Farm. The smoking

is good there--keeps away the midges."

"Midges!" Dahlia gave a little shriek. "There aren't any midges in that

part of the country."

"There are some kinds of little, annoying insects that come around in

the evening, then," persisted the Skeptic, "just when people want to

settle down and have themselves to themselves. The Philosopher was

always more annoyed by them than I. He has a sensitive skin."

Once started on this sort of allusive nonsense it was difficult for us

to head off the Skeptic. But presently, noting the Professor's kindly

face assuming a puzzled expression as he watched his wife's kittenish

demeanour, the Skeptic desisted. It did not seem necessary for him to

demonstrate to us that, quite as of old, he could attract Dahlia to his

side and keep her there. Before the evening was over he found himself

occupied--also quite as of old--with keeping out of her way. Altogether,

it was certainly not Dahlia's fault if the Professor did not gain the

impression that both the Skeptic and the Philosopher were rejected

suitors of her own.

When they had gone, and the door had closed upon the last of the bride's

backward looks at our two men, the Skeptic dropped into a chair.

"Hepatica, will you kindly mix a few drops of soothing syrup for me?"

he requested.

But the Philosopher fell to marching up and down, his hands in his

pockets, and a deeper gloom on his brow than we had ever seen there.

Although a decade the Philosopher's elder, the Professor had long

shared bachelor quarters with him in past days; it had been only

within a year or two that the necessities of their occupations had

caused them to separate.

"Why did I ever let him go off by himself?" the Philosopher muttered

remorsefully. "Why didn't I keep an eye on him?"

"It would have made no difference," the Skeptic offered dismally as

consolation. "'Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad!' You

couldn't have prevented his madness."

"I could have seen to it that such deadly instruments as marriage

licences and irresponsible clergymen were kept out of his way," groaned

the Philosopher.

"Come, cheer up!" cried Hepatica, making haste to light the spirit-lamp

under her tea-kettle. "I'm going to brew you all a cup of comfort with

lemons and sugar and things."

"Look at her!" commanded the Skeptic, rallying, "and tell me if marriage

is a failure."

The Philosopher paused. "You know well enough what I think of your

marriage," he owned.

II

CAMELLIA AND THE JUDGE

I am ashamed that women are so simple

To offer war when they should kneel for peace.

--_Taming of the Shrew._

"We are invited to spend the week-end with Camellia," announced my

hostess at the breakfast-table one morning, glancing up from a note

which the hall-boy had just brought to the door.

The Skeptic jumped in his chair. "Those same old sensations come over

me," he announced, digging away vengefully at his grapefruit. "What have

I to wear? My only consolation now is that Camellia married a man who

cares about as much what he wears as I do."

"It's not Camellia's clothes that bother me now," said Hepatica

thoughtfully, "so much as the formality of her style of entertaining.

My dear, she has a butler."

"How horrible!" I agreed. "Can I hope to please the eye of the butler?"

"Camellia's husband is a downright good fellow," said the Skeptic

warmly. "The fuss and feathers of his wife's hospitality can't

prevent his giving you the real thing. Even Philo likes to go

there--particularly when Camellia is away. I presume Philo's

invited now?"

"So she says," assented Hepatica, studying her note again, with a care

not to look at me which made me quite as self-conscious as if she had.

Why the dear people will all persist in thinking things which do not

exist! Of course I was glad the Philosopher was to be there. What

enjoyment is not the keener for his friendly sharing of it? But what of

that? Has it not been so for many years?--and will be so, I trust, for

all to come.

* * * * *

Hepatica and I packed with care, selecting the most expensive things we

owned. Hepatica scrutinized the Skeptic's linen critically before she

put it in. When we departed we were as correctly attired as time and

thought could make us. When we arrived we were doubly glad that this

was so, for the sight of the butler, admitting us, gave us much the same

feeling of being badly dressed that Camellia's own presence had been

wont to do.

Camellia herself was as exquisitely arrayed as ever, but she looked

considerably older than I had expected. I wondered if constant

engagements with her tailor and dressmaker, to say nothing of incessant

interviews with those who see to the mechanism of formal entertaining,

had not begun to wear upon her. But she was very cordial with us, and

her husband, the Judge, was equally so. He was considerably her

senior--quite as much so, I decided, as the Professor was Dahlia's--but

on account of Camellia's woman-of-the-world air the contrast was not so

pronounced.

We sat through an elaborate dinner, during which I suffered more or less

strain of anxiety concerning my forks. But the Judge, at whose right

hand I sat, diverted me so successfully by means of his own most

interesting personality and delightful powers of conversation, that in

time I forgot both forks and butler, and was only conscious of the

length of the dinner by the sense, toward its close, of having had more

to eat than I wanted.

[Illustration: "Camellia herself was as exquisitely arrayed as ever"]

"They have this sort of thing every night of their unfortunate lives,

to a greater or less degree," murmured the Skeptic in my ear, as the men

came into the impressively decorated room where Camellia and Hepatica

and I were talking over common memories. "The gladdest man to get into

his summer camp in Maine is the Judge, and the life of absolute abandon

to freedom he lives there ought to teach his wife a thing or two--if she

were wise enough to heed it. Why two people--but I've just eaten their

salt," he acknowledged in reply to what I suppose must have been my

accusing look, and forbore to say more.

"I think I'll give a little dinner for you to-morrow night," said

Camellia reflectively, as we sat about. "A very informal one, of

course--just some of our neighbours."

I felt my spirits drop. I saw those of Hepatica and the Skeptic and the

Philosopher drop, although they made haste to prop their countenances

up again.

But the Judge protested. "Why give anything, my dear?" he questioned. "I

doubt if our friends would prefer meeting our neighbours, whom they

don't know, to visiting with ourselves, whom they do--however egotistic

that may sound."

"I want to make things gay for you," explained Camellia; "and the

Latimers and the Elliots are very gay."--The Judge only lifted his

handsome eyebrows.--"And the Liscombes are lovely," went on Camellia.

"Mrs. Liscombe sings."

The Judge ran his hand through the thick, slightly graying locks above

his broad forehead. He did not need to tell us that he did not enjoy

hearing Mrs. Liscombe sing, and doubted if we should.

"Harry Hodgson recites--we always have him when we want to make things

go. Oh, he's not a professional, of course. He only gives readings among

his special friends. I believe I'll run and telephone him now. He's so

likely to have engagements." Camellia hastened away.

* * * * *

We could hardly tell the Judge we fully agreed with his feeling about

to-morrow's proposed festivities, neither could we discuss his wife's

tastes with him. He and we talked of other things until Camellia came

back, having made her engagement with Mr. Harry Hodgson, and so having

sealed our fate for the succeeding evening.

The Skeptic and the Philosopher spent much of the following day--it was

a legal holiday--with the Judge in his private den up on the third

floor. This, as Camellia showed us once when the men were away, was a

big, bare room--this was her characterization--principally fireplace,

easy-chairs, books and windows. I liked it better than any other place

in the house, for it was unencumbered with useless furniture of any

sort, and the view from its windows was much finer than that from

below stairs.

"But we're not invited up here, you observe," was Camellia's comment. "I

don't come into it once a month. The Judge spends his evenings

here--when I don't actually force him to go out with me--and I spend

mine down in the pleasanter quarters. I have the Liscombes and the

Latimers in very often, but he never comes down if he can avoid it. They

understand he's eccentric, and we let it go at that."

She spoke with the air of being a most kindly and forbearing wife.

I followed her downstairs, pondering over points of view.

Eccentric--because he preferred wide fires and elbow-room and

outlook to Camellia's crowded and over-decorated rooms below, and

his books to Mrs. Liscombe's music and Mr. Harry Hodgson's "readings."

I felt that I knew Mrs. Liscombe and Mr. Hodgson and the rest quite

without having seen them.

* * * * *

I found, the next evening, that my imagination had not gone far astray.

Camellia's friends were certainly quite as "gay" as she had pictured

them, and gorgeously dressed. I felt, as I attempted to maintain my part

among them, like a country mouse suddenly precipitated into the society

of a company of town-bred squirrels.

Mrs. Liscombe sang for us. I could not make out what it was she sang,

being unfamiliar with the music and unable to understand the words. She

possessed a voice of some beauty, but was evidently determined to be

classed among the sopranos who are able to soar highest, and when she

took certain notes I experienced a peculiar and most disagreeable

sensation in the back of my neck.

"I wonder if we couldn't bring in a stepladder for her," murmured the

Skeptic in my ear. "It gives me a pang to see a woman, alone and

unassisted, attempt to reach something several feet above her head!"

Mr. Hodgson recited for us with great fervour. He fought a battle on the

drawing-room floor, fought and bled and died, all in a harrowing tenor

voice. He was slender and pale, and it seemed a pity that he should have

to suffer so much with so many stalwart men at hand. From the first

moment, when he drew his sword and leaped into the fray, our sympathies

were with him, although he personified a doughty man of battles, and led

ten thousand lusty followers. There were moments when one could not

quite forget the swinging coat-tails of his evening attire, but on the

whole he was an interesting study, and I was much diverted.

"Dear little fellow!"--it was the Skeptic again. "How came they to let

him go to war--and he so young and tender?"

I exchanged observations with Mr. Hodgson after his final reading; I

can hardly say that I conversed with him, for our patchwork interview

could not deserve that name. At the same time I noted with interest the

Philosopher's expression as he and Mrs. Liscombe turned over a pile of

music. If I had not known him so well I should have been deceived by

that grave and interested air of his--a slight frown of concentrated

attention between his well-marked eyebrows--into thinking him deeply

impressed by the lady's dicta and by her somewhat dashing manner as she

delivered them. But, familiar of old with the quizzical expression which

at times could be discovered to underlie the exterior of charmed

absorption, I understood that the Philosopher was quietly and skilfully

classifying a new, if not a rare, specimen.

When the guests had lingeringly departed I saw, as I went to my room,

three male forms leaping up the second flight of stairs toward the

Judge's den.

"Don't you envy them the chance to soothe their nerves with a pipe

beside the fire up there?" I asked Hepatica as, with hair down and

trailing, loose garments, she came into my room through the door which

we had discovered could be opened between our quarters.

"Indeed I do. They went up those stairs like three dogs loosed from the

leash, didn't they? Can one blame them?"

"One cannot."

Hepatica gazed at me. I stared back. But we were under our host's roof.

"Mrs. Liscombe really has quite a voice," said Hepatica, examining the

details of the tiny travelling workbag I always carry with me.

"So she has."

"It was a wonderful dinner, wasn't it?"

"It was, indeed. Would you mind having quite specially simple things to

eat for a day or two after we go back?"

"I've been planning them," admitted Hepatica.

"Mr. Hodgson's readings were--entirely new to me; were they to you? I

had never heard of the authors."

"Few people can have heard of them, I think. Several were original."

"Indeed!"

"Would you mind taking off your society manner?" requested Hepatica, a

trifle fractiously. "I'm a little tired of seeing you wear it so

incessantly."

"I shall be delighted," I agreed.

I sprang up and she met me half-way, and seizing me about the neck

buried her face in my shoulder. I felt her shaking with smothered

laughter, and had great difficulty in keeping my own emotions under

control.

We went home on Sunday afternoon, the Skeptic pleading the necessity of

his being up at an early hour next morning. By unanimous consent we went

to the evening service of a church where one goes to hear that which is

worth hearing, and invariably hears it. The music there is also worth a

long journey, though it is not at all of an elaborate sort.

"There, I feel better after that," declared the Skeptic heartily, as we

came out. "It seems to take the taste of last evening out of my mouth."

Nobody said anything directly about our late visit until we had reached

home. Then the Skeptic fired up his diminutive gas grate--which is much

better than none at all--and turned off the electrics. We sat before

the cheery little glow, luxuriating in a sense of relaxation.

"It seems ungracious, somehow to discuss people, when one has just left

their hospitality," suggested Hepatica, as the Skeptic showed signs of

letting loose the dogs of war.

"Not between ourselves, dear," affirmed the Skeptic. "We four constitute

a private Court of Inquiry into the Condition of Our Friends. When I

think of the Judge----"

"He has his own way, after all, when it comes to refusing to join in the

sort of thing that pleases Camellia," said I.

"Of course he does. He's too much of a man not to have it. But living

upstairs while my wife lives downstairs isn't precisely my ideal of

married happiness."

The Philosopher shoved his hands far down into his pockets and laid his

head back, gazing up at the ceiling. "What puzzles me," he mused, "is

the attraction such a woman has, at the start, for such a man."

"Camellia was a most attractive girl," said I.

"You mean her clothes were most attractive," amended the Skeptic. "They

even befuddled me for a few brief hours, as I remember--till I

discovered that not all is gold that----"

"You didn't discover that yourself," the Philosopher reminded him. "We

had to do it for you. You don't mind our recalling his temporary

paralysis of intellect?" he questioned Hepatica suddenly. "It was all

your fault, anyhow, for retiring to the background and allowing the

fireworks to have full play."

Hepatica smiled. The Skeptic put out his hand and got hold of hers and

drew it over to his knee, where he retained it. "She knows I never

swerved a point off my allegiance to her," he declared with confidence.

"Do you suppose," suggested Hepatica, "if the Judge and Camellia were to

lose all their money and had to come down to living in a little home

like this, it would help things any?"

The Skeptic shook his head. The Philosopher shook his, thoughtfully.

"It's too late," said the latter. "Her ideals are a fixed quantity now,

to be reckoned with. So are his. Under any conditions there would be

absolute diversity of tastes."

"I don't think there's any ideal more hopelessly fixed than the fine

clothes ideal." The Skeptic looked at his wife.

"I like nice clothes," said she, smiling at him.

"So you do," he rejoined; "thank heaven! A woman who doesn't is

abnormal. But when we walk down certain streets together you can see

something besides the shop-windows."

"I look away so I won't want the things," confessed Hepatica.

The Skeptic laughed, and the Philosopher and I joined him.

"I passed Mrs. Hepatica the other day when she didn't see me," said the

Philosopher to me. "She was staring fixedly in at a shop-window. I stole

up behind her to see what held such an attraction for her.--It often

lets a great light in on a friend's character, if you can see the

particular object in a shop-window which fixes his longing attention.

When I had discovered what she was looking at I stole away again,

chuckling to myself."

"What was it?" I asked.

"I'll wager half I own that the wife of our friend the Judge wouldn't

have given that window a second glance," pursued the Philosopher.

"It was probably a bargain sale of paper patterns," guessed the Skeptic.

But we knew he didn't think it.

"A bargain sale of groceries, more likely," said Hepatica herself.

"It was no bargain sale of anything," denied the Philosopher. "It was a

most expensive edition of the works of Charles Dickens."

"Good for you, Patty!" cried the Skeptic.

III

AZALEA AND THE CASHIER

A mother is a mother still,

The holiest thing alive.

--_S. T. Coleridge._

"I am to spend the day with Azalea to-morrow," I announced, as I said

good night, one evening, "and I shall not come back until so late that

you mustn't sit up for me. Azalea couldn't ask me to stay all night, on

account of using the guest-room for a nursery during the winter, but

she's very anxious to have me there in the evening, for it's the only

chance I shall have to see her husband."

"Remain late enough to see her husband, by all means," urged the

Skeptic. "I want to hear what sort of man had the courage to marry a

musical genius who could wipe only one teaspoon at a time."

"Azalea was a lovely girl," said Hepatica warmly. "It couldn't take much

courage to marry her."

"All right--we'll hear about it when our guest comes back. And I'll be

over to bring you home, if you'll telephone about an hour before you'll

be ready to start."

"Thank you--it really won't be necessary for you to come," I replied.

The Skeptic eyed me narrowly. Then he glanced at Hepatica and grinned.

"Good night," said I, again, and walked away to my room.

"Good night," the Skeptic called after me. "But don't hesitate to call

me if anything should detain Philo."

I arrived at Azalea's home early next morning, having been earnestly

asked to come in time to see the babies take their bath. There is

nothing I like better than to see a baby take a bath, and to see two at

once was a bribe indeed.

Azalea met me at the door of her suburban home, the larger of her two

children--the two-year-old--on her arm. He was evidently just ready for

his bath, for he was wrapped in a blanket, and one pink foot stuck

temptingly out from its folds. Azalea greeted me with enthusiasm,

pushing back the loose, curling locks from her forehead as she did so,

explaining that Bud had just pulled them down. She did not look in the

least like the girl who had sung for us, but it occurred to me that,

enveloped in the big flannel bath-apron, she was even more engaging than

she had been upon the porch at the Farm.

I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much as I enjoyed seeing

Azalea give that bath. The little baby was asleep in her crib when we

went into the nursery--which had been the guest-room before the second

baby came--so Azalea gave Bud his splash all by himself. He was plump

and dimpled and jolly, and he cried only once--when his mother

inadvertently rubbed soap in his eyes while talking with me. When he

smiled again he was a cherub of cherubs, but he had waked his small

sister, and Azalea gave me permission to take her up while she finished

with Bud. She was six months old, and she was afraid of me only for a

minute or two, and I held her and cuddled her and wanted to take her

away with me so fiercely that I had all I could do to give her over to

Azalea for her bath. Boy babies are delightful, but girl babies are

heavenly!

* * * * *

We had a busy day--made up of babies, with more or less talk between,

which didn't matter in the least. Late in the afternoon Azalea put

everything straight in the rooms, more or less upset by Bud during the

day; and dressed herself for the evening. She dressed both children,

also, making them fresh as rosebuds. I saw her putting flowers on the

table in the dining-room, lighting a special reading-lamp at a table in

the corner of the living-room, and pulling an easy chair to stand close

beside it. There was a small grand piano in the room. It had been closed

all day, for Bud's fingers could just reach the keyboard. Azalea opened

it.

"You haven't had time to-day," said I, "but I'm looking forward to

hearing you sing this evening."

"It's my husband you are to hear sing," said Azalea contentedly. "He has

a splendid voice."

"I shall be delighted," I agreed; "but surely you will sing too."

"My voice seems to wake up the children," said she, "Arthur's never

does. It's odd, for his voice is much heavier, of course. But I can

never take really high notes without hearing a wail from either Bud or

Dot. And that's not worth while."

"Won't you sing now, then," I begged, "while they are awake? I really

can't go away without hearing you. And you know when the Philosopher

comes he will be so anxious to have you sing."

"The babies will go to bed before dinner," she insisted, "so I can't

very well sing for the Philosopher. But I'll sing for you now, of

course."

She laid little Dot in my lap, but Dot was already sleepy and protested.

So Azalea went to the piano with Dot on her arm. Bud, seeing her go,

followed and stood by her knee--on her trailing skirts. I don't know how

she managed to play her own accompaniment, but she did--at least subdued

chords enough to carry the harmony of the song. There were no notes

before her on the rack, and she looked down into one or the other of the

two small faces as she sang. And, of course, it was a lullaby which

fell like notes of pearl and silver from her lips.

When she finished, I could only smile at her through an obscuring mist.

Never, in all the times I had heard her sing, had she reached my heart

like this. But, somehow, the picture of her, sitting in the half light

at the grand piano, with the babies in her arms and at her knee, singing

lullabies and leaving the fine music for her husband to sing by and by,

was quite irresistible. Somehow, as I listened, I was troubled by no

doubts lest she had not learned deftly to wipe ten teaspoons at once.

Her husband came home presently; a tall, thin, young bank cashier, with

a face I liked at once. He was plainly weary, but his eyes lit up with

satisfaction at sight of the three who met him at the door, and the

welcome his young son gave him showed that Bud recognized a play-fellow.

I heard the pair romping upstairs as the Cashier made dressing for

dinner a game in which the little child could join.

[Illustration: "The picture of her, sitting in the half light at the

grand piano, with the babies in her arms and at her knee ... was quite

irresistible"]

But before we sat down to dinner both babies had been put to bed. The

Cashier remained with me while Azalea was busy at this task, but he

excused himself toward the last, and went tiptoeing upstairs, where I

think he must have offered his services in getting the children tucked

away. While he was gone the Philosopher arrived.

I let him in myself, motioning the maid away. It was a small house, and

I knew she was needed in the kitchen. "Don't make a bit of noise," I

cautioned him, as he came smiling into the little hall. "The babies are

going to bed."

"Babies!" whispered the Philosopher, in an awestruck way. "I didn't know

there were any babies."

"Of course you knew it," I whispered back, leading him into the room.

"If you would only store away really important facts in that capacious

mind of yours, instead of limiting it to----"

"Tell me how many babies, and of what sex--quick!" commanded the

Philosopher, "or I shall say the wrong thing. And how on earth do they

come to know enough to put their babies to bed before they ask a

bachelor to dine, anyhow?"

I hastily set him straight upon these points, adding that Azalea had

developed wonderfully.

"You mean she can soar to high Q now, I suppose?" interpreted the

Philosopher.

"Not at all. I mean that she's----"

But they were coming downstairs together. The Cashier's arm was about

his wife's shoulders; he removed it only just in time to save his

dignity as he entered.

"I'm disappointed not to see the boy and girl," declared the Philosopher

genially. The Cashier took him by the shoulders and turned him toward

the light, laughing. "That was bravely said," he answered. "How did you

know but we might go and wake them up for you to see?"

The dinner was quite unpretentious, but very good. Evidently Azalea had

a capable servant. We talked gaily, the Cashier proving an adept at

keeping the ball in the air, and keenly appreciative of others' attempts

to meet him at the sport.

By and by, when we were back in the room where the grand piano stood,

and conversation had reached a momentary halt, Azalea went to the piano.

"Come, Arthur," she said, sitting down at it and patting a pile of

music, "I want our friends to hear 'The Toreador.'"

The Cashier looked up protestingly. "You are the one they want to hear,

dear," he declared.

She shook her head. "They've heard me often, but never you, I think.

Besides, it wakes the babies, you know, for me to sing."

"You don't need to sing high notes, Azalea," I urged. "I'd like nothing

so well as the lullaby you sang to the babies."

But she shook her head again. "That's their song," she said. "You were

specially privileged to hear it at all. But I can't do it for company.

Come, Arthur--please."

So the Cashier sang. The Philosopher and I found it necessary to avoid

each other's eyes as he did it. The Cashier could roar 'The Toreador,'

no doubt of that. The voice of the bull of Bashan would have been as the

summer wind in the trees beside it. Where so much volume came from we

could not tell, as we looked at the thin frame of the performer. Why the

babies did not wake up will ever remain a mystery. Why Azalea did not

desert her accompaniment to press her hands over bursting ear drums I

cannot imagine, for it was with difficulty that I surrendered my own to

the shock. But Azalea played on to the end, and looked up into the

Cashier's flushed face at the last note with a smile of proprietary

triumph. Then she turned about to us.

"That fairly takes me off my feet!" cried the Philosopher. I groped

hurriedly for a compliment which would match the equivocal fervour of

this, but I could not equal it.

"How much you must enjoy singing together," I said, "when the babies are

awake,"--and felt annoyed that I could have said it, for I could really

not imagine the two voices together.

Azalea glowed. The Cashier grinned. He is as quick-witted as he is

good-humoured. "You're a clever pair," he chuckled.

"I've trained him myself," said Azalea. "When I knew him first he'd

never thought of singing. I only discovered his voice by accident. It

needs much more work with it, of course, but it's powerful, and it has a

quality that will improve with cultivation."

The Cashier patted her shoulders. "Now you sing some soft little thing

for them, my girl," he commanded--and looking up at him again, Azalea

obeyed. She chose an old ballad, one with no chance in it to show the

range of her voice. She sang it exquisitely, and the Cashier stood by

and turned her music as if he considered it a high privilege. Yet,

half-way through, the little Dot woke up. Azalea broke off in the middle

of a bar, and fled up the stairs.

"The truth is, I'm afraid," said the Cashier, looking after her with an

expression on his face which indicated that he wanted to flee, too,

"nothing really counts in this house but the babies."

"They--and something else," suggested the Philosopher gently.

The Cashier looked at him. He nodded. "Yes--and something else," he

agreed with his bright smile.

We came away rather late. The Philosopher looked up at the house as the

door closed upon the warm farewells which had sent us out into the

night. "It's a little bit of a house, isn't it?" he commented.

I looked up, too--at the nursery windows where the faintest of

night-lights showed. "Yes, it's very small," I agreed. "Yet quite big

enough, although it holds so much."

"One would hardly have said, four years ago, that anything smaller than

the biggest musical auditorium in the city would have been big enough to

hold Azalea's voice," he mused.

"If you could have heard her sing her lullaby to those babies," I

replied, as we walked slowly on, "you would have said her voice would be

wasted on a concert audience."

"It seems a pleasant home."

"It _is_ one."

"Somehow, one distrusts the ability of musical prodigies to make

pleasant homes."

"I wonder why. Shouldn't the knowledge of any art make one appreciative

of other arts?"

"It took some time for a certain exhibition of the domestic art to

strike in, at your home, that summer," said the Philosopher. "But I

believe Azalea came to envy our Hepatica at the last, didn't she?"

"Indeed she did. And she's never got over envying her her

accomplishments. She asked me ever so many questions to-day about

Hepatica's housekeeping. I wish I had had a chance before I went to tell

her that I was sure her will to succeed would make her home as dear a

one as even Hepatica's could be."

"One thing is sure--as long as she lets the Cashier do the singing in

the limelight, while she looks after the babies, there'll be no occasion

for their friends to demand more music of an evening than is good for

her pride of spirit," chuckled the Philosopher. "What--are we at our

station already? I say--let's not make a quick trip by train--let's make

a slow one, by cab."

"By cab! It would take two hours! No, no--here comes our train."

"This is the first time we've gone anywhere since you've been here

without two alert chaperons--younger than myself," grumbled the

Philosopher.

"The more reason, then, that we should give them no anxiety on my

account."

"I'd like to walk the whole way," said he.

I laughed as I obeyed the signal of an impatient guard and rushed upon

the train. "Now, talk to me," said I, as we took our seats.

"My lungs weren't built for the Toreador song," he objected.

IV

ALTHEA AND THE PROMOTER

What an interesting fellow our host is! He is almost more

interesting because of the qualities he does not possess, than

because of the qualities that he does possess.

--_Arthur Christopher Benson._

"'_Be it ever so humble_,'" quoted the Skeptic under his breath to me,

"'_there's no place like_----'"

Hepatica turned and gave him a smiling look which nevertheless conveyed

warning. He needed it. The Skeptic was in a mad and merry mood to-night,

and no glance shot at him which, being interpreted, meant that we were

under our hosts' roof, had thus far been of avail. "We are not under

their roof," he argued defiantly, in reply to one of these silent

remonstrances. "This isn't their roof. This is the roof of the Hotel

Amazon. That's a very different thing. So different that if I lived

under it I'd----"

But the Promoter was approaching us again, with the news that dinner

had just been announced as served. He immediately led the way with me,

Hepatica followed with the Philosopher, and Althea and the Skeptic

brought up the rear. It was on the great staircase that the Skeptic,

pausing to gaze upward, at a command from the Promoter, who had just bid

him observe certain mural decorations done by the distinguished hand of

some man of whom I fear none of us had ever heard, murmured the

well-known words concerning the humble home.

"I always like to walk down this staircase when I'm not in a hurry," I

had heard Althea saying to the Skeptic behind us, "to get the effect

from the landing. Isn't it wonderful?"

We all paused upon the landing, which was about thirty feet square. The

Skeptic, leaning against the marble balustrade, gazed out over the scene

with an air of prostrating himself before a shrine. Awe and wonder

dominated his aspect. Only we who were familiar with a certain curving

line over his left eyebrow knew that he was longing to break into an

apostrophe on the magnificence before him which would have alienated

Althea and her husband forevermore.

"These columns are of the purest (something) marble," declared the

Promoter, laying his hand upon one of them. He rather mumbled the name,

and I think none of us were able to recognize it.

"Indeed!" said the Skeptic, and laid his hand upon the column. "It

seems stout."

"It's the same that is used in the Royal Palace at Athens," added

the Promoter.

"That must be why it feels so Greece-y to the touch," murmured the

Skeptic; but, luckily, nobody heard him but myself.

In due course of time, proceeding across a gorgeous lobby and traversing

an impressive corridor, passing lackeys in livery and guests in evening

finery, we arrived at the doorway of the most elaborately ornate dining

hall I had ever seen. The Promoter paused in the doorway to let the

first impression sink in.

"I could have had our dinner served in a private dining-room, of

course," said he to us, "but Althea and I decided that you would enjoy

this better. There's nothing like it anywhere. It's absolutely

cosmopolitan. People from all over the world are dining here

to-night--are every night. Every tenth man is worth his millions. Notice

the third table on the right as we go by. That's Joseph L. Chrysler, the

iron magnate. With his party is a French actress--worshipped on both

sides the water. Keep your eyes peeled."

A bowing potentate motioned us forward. A bending waiter put us in our

places. Orchids decorated our table. An extraordinarily expensive

orchestra celebrated our arrival with strains from a popular opera then

raging. People all around glanced at us and immediately away again. I

suppose we showed by our appearance that we were the possessors neither

of millions nor of world-renowned accomplishments.

The Promoter leaned back in his chair with the demeanour of a large and

puffy young frog on the edge of a pool. He settled his white waistcoat

and looked from side to side with the superior glance of a man who owns

the whole thing. Althea, in her place, also wore a self-conscious air of

being hostess to a party which must appreciate the privilege of dining

under such auspices.

Our table was a circular one, and the Skeptic sat upon my right. The

Promoter at my left occupied himself with Hepatica much of the

time--Hepatica had never looked lovelier than to-night, though her

simple, white evening frock was not cut half so low as Althea's pink,

embroidered one, nor cost half so much as my plain pale-gray. Althea

devoted herself to the Philosopher--she and the Skeptic had never got on

very well. Meanwhile the Skeptic was saying things into my ear, under

cover of the orchestra and the loud hum of talk.

"This is a crowd," he commented. "This certainly is a crowd! Men of

millions, and men who don't know how they're going to meet the next note

due, but bluffing it through. Somebodies and nobodies. Kingfish and

minnows--and some of the kingfish are going to swallow the minnows at

the next gulp----What in the name of time is this we're eating now?"

I expressed my ignorance.

"And what's this we're to have with it?" he pursued. "Look out!"

He had known I would thank him for the warning. I shielded my glass from

an imminent bottle. It was the third time already, and the dinner was

not far on its way. I saw Hepatica shield hers--also for the third time.

A tiny flush was beginning to creep up Althea's cheeks. She had refused

only the first offering of the waiter.

The Promoter turned and viewed my empty glasses with ill-disguised

contempt. "We'll have to get you to stay in town long enough to overcome

those notions of yours," said he. "Look around you. I'll wager there's

not another in the room."

If I flushed it was not for either of the reasons which caused the

brilliant cheeks I saw all about me. "I think you are quite right," said

I, as I looked. I saw a garrulous lady at the table on my right, whose

high laughter was beginning to carry far; I observed a sleepy one at my

left, who had spilled champagne down the front of her elaborate corsage

and was nodding over her ices. I glanced at Hepatica. Her pretty head

was held high; her eyes, too, sparkled, but not with wine.

The Promoter began to talk of investments, telling stories of great

_coups_ made by men who had the daring.

"Not necessary for them to have the money, I suppose?" queried the

Philosopher.

"Not at all," agreed the Promoter. "Life's a game of poker. If you're

not afraid to sit in, and have the nerve to bluff it through, you can

win out with a hand that would make a quitter commit suicide."

Althea listened with pride to her husband's discourse. "He's a man of

the world," one could see she was thinking, "who is making the eyes drop

out of the heads of these simple people."

"I'm so impressed," said the Skeptic to me, "that I can hardly eat.

Think of living in a place like this--having this every day--common,

like the dust under your feet. Can I ever eat creamed codfish and

johnny-cake again, think you? Hepatica must name the hash by a French

name and serve me grape juice with it, or I can't condescend to eat it.

I say--the smoke is getting a bit thick here for you ladies, isn't it?"

We had been late in coming down, and at many tables people were nearing

the end of the dinner. For some time the odour of expensive cigars had

been growing heavier throughout the room; a blue haze hung over the more

distant tables.

"I don't think my lungs mind it so much as my feelings," I answered. "I

shall never be able to make it seem to me just--just----"

"Try to subdue the expression which dominates your countenance at the

present moment," counselled the Skeptic gently, "or you will be quietly

led away from the scene as dangerous to your fellow-men."

After what seemed like many hours we reached the end of the dinner. I

felt that I should be glad to reach the quiet and comparative purity of

air to be found in the room in which our hosts had received us--a

private drawing-room. But this was not to be. We were taken from place

to place about the hotel, to look in on this or that scene of

entertainment, of banqueting, of revelry. Gorgeousness upon gorgeousness

was revealed to us. Althea, now very gay and sparkling in manner, her

carefully dressed hair a little loosened, her mind full of schemes for

our diversion, took the lead, showing off everything with that air of

personal possession I have often observed in the frequenters of

hostelries like the Amazon.

Hepatica, in spite of evident effort to maintain her part, grew a trifle

silent. As I regarded her I was reminded of a white dove in the company

of a pair of peacocks. The Philosopher adjusted his eyeglasses from time

to time as if they did not fit well; he seemed to feel his vision

growing distorted. I became intensely fatigued with it all, and found

myself longing for a quiet corner and a book. As for the Skeptic--but

the Skeptic was incorrigible.

"How much does it cost, do you say," he inquired of the Promoter, "to

buy a postage stamp at the desk here? I want to put one on a letter I

have in my pocket. May I slip it into the post-box myself, or do I have

to call a flunkey, present him with a dollar, and respectfully request

him to insert it in the slit for me?"

The Promoter smiled. "Oh, people make a joke of the Amazon," said he.

"But I notice they're the same ones who breathe deep when they go by

it, hoping to inhale the atmosphere free of charge."

The Skeptic inflated his lungs. "I'm going to do it here, inside," said

he, "where it's more highly charged."

At length they took us to their own rooms. I have forgotten how many

floors up they were, but it didn't matter, in a luxurious elevator,

padded and mirrored. In one of the mirrors I caught the Philosopher's

eye regarding me so steadily that I felt a sudden sense of relief at the

realization that some time we should be out and away together in the

fresh air again. It seemed to me a long while since I had been able to

see things from the Philosopher's point of view.

We looked at our hosts' private apartments with interest. As the Skeptic

passed me on his way to inspect a system of electrical devices on the

wall, to which the Promoter was calling his attention, he was softly

humming an air. It was, "_Be it ever so humble_," again.

The rooms were very elaborately furnished; the hangings were heavy and

sumptuous. A massive oak mantelpiece harboured a fire of gas-logs.

There were a few--not many--apparently personal belongings about the

rooms; _bric-à-brac_ and photographs--the latter mostly of actors and

opera singers. In Althea's bedroom we came upon a dressing-table which

reminded me of my own, upon the occasion of Althea's visit to me, a few

years before. Althea calmly stirred over everything upon it in the

effort to find a small jewel-case whose contents she wished to show me.

She found it in the end, although for a time the task seemed hopeless.

We sat down in the outer room and listened again to the Promoter's tales

of the great strokes of business he had brought off--"deals," he called

them. The stories contained much food for thought in the shape of

revelations of character in this or that man of prominence. What we

should have talked about if he had not thus held the floor I could not

guess. I had noted that there were upon a ponderous table six popular

novels, as many magazines, and piles of the great dailies. Nowhere could

I descry even a small collection of books of the sort which may furnish

material for conversation. I tried to imagine the Philosopher drawing a

certain beloved book of essays from his pocket, settling himself

comfortably with his back to the drop-light, and beginning to read aloud

to us, as he is accustomed to do in the Skeptic's little rooms. Here was

not even a drop-light for him to do it by, only electric sconces set

high upon the walls, and a fanciful centre electrolier. He must,

perforce--for he needs a strong light for reading--have stood close

under one of the sconces to read from his book of essays. I tried to

fancy Althea and the Promoter politely listening--or appearing to

listen. This really drew too heavily upon my imagination, and I gave it

up.

At a late hour we escaped. I learned afterward that before we left the

Promoter took our men aside and offered them one more thing to drink.

This really seemed superfluous, and--judging by the straightforward gait

of our escorts, to say nothing of my knowledge of their habits--there is

no doubt that it was.

Outside the hotel the Philosopher, looking away from it and from

the other great buildings which surrounded us on every side, sent

his gaze upward to the starry winter's sky. He drew in deep breaths

of the frosty air.

"Getting the Amazon out of your blood?" inquired the Skeptic. "Amazon's

a mighty good name for it. It thinks it's sophisticated and refined--but

it isn't. It's a great, blowsy, milkmaid of a hotel, with all her best

clothes on, perpetually going to a fair."

"I'm not so much re-filling my insulted lungs," said the Philosopher,

"as drawing breaths of relief that I got away without buying a block of

stock in something, or putting my name down to be one of a company for

the development of something else."

"Oh, we were safe enough," the Skeptic declared. "This was a private

dinner with ladies present; the Promoter gave us only a delicate sample

of what he could do. Wait till he gets you at luncheon with him in the

grill-room, all by yourself--then you can find out what he is when he's

after game. Unless you're tied to the mast, so to speak, with your ears

stopped with wax, you'll land on the shore of the enchanted country he

pictures for you. He's deadly, I assure you. That's why he can afford to

live at the Amazon."

"I wonder how Althea likes it?" speculated Hepatica.

"Likes it down to the ground--and up to the roof," asserted the Skeptic.

"That's plain enough. It saves housekeeping--and picking up her room,"

he added softly to Hepatica--but I heard him. Hepatica did not reply.

"Let's not stop at this station," proposed the Skeptic as we walked on,

"but keep on up to the next. A fast walk will do us all good after that

feast of porpoises."

"I suppose they call that living," said the Philosopher, as we turned

aside into quieter streets.

"Of course they do, and so does everybody else at those tables

to-night--with four exceptions."

"Oh, come," demurred the Philosopher, "possibly there were a few other

wise men in that company besides ourselves. Who would have known from

your appearance as you sat there gorging with the rest, that you were

inwardly protesting, and greatly preferred the simple life? Don't

flatter yourself that you had the aspect of an ascetic. There were

moments during that meal when any unprejudiced observer who didn't know

you would have sworn that you were deeply gratified that no other

engagement had prevented you from dining in your favourite haunt."

"Don't throw stones," retorted the Skeptic. "I saw you when you caught

sight of some particularly prosperous looking people at another table

and bowed convivially to them as one who says, 'You here, too? Of

course. Our set, you know!'"

"Quits!" admitted the Philosopher. "Well then--it's the ladies who did

succeed in looking like visitants from another world."

This was rather poetical for the Philosopher, and of course it led us to

wonder wherein he thought we differed. Hepatica asked anxiously if she

really had looked so very old-fashioned in the white evening frock which

had been three times made over.

"Hopelessly old-fashioned," assented the Philosopher. "Hopelessly

old-fashioned. But not so much in the matter of the frock as in some

other things. Heaven forbid that it should be otherwise!"

"Amen!" responded the Skeptic fervently.

V

RHODORA AND THE PREACHER

When the fight begins within himself

A man's worth something.

--_Robert Browning._

The Skeptic brought up the letter with him as he came home to dinner; it

had arrived in the last mail. The Philosopher happened to be dining with

us that night, so we four were together when the news came upon us. As

Hepatica read it aloud we stared at one another, astonished.

The letter was from Grandmother, inviting us to Rhodora's wedding, which

was to take place under her roof. Rhodora herself had been practically

under Grandmother's roof for four years now, except as she had been sent

to a school of Grandmother's selection. Rhodora had no mother. Her

father, an absorbed man of business, had, at Grandmother's suggestion,

been glad to let her have the girl to bring up--or to finish bringing

up--according to her own ideas. When we had first seen Rhodora there

could be no question that she sadly needed bringing up by somebody. To

that date she had, apparently, only come up by herself.

"I, for one, have never seen her since that none-too-short visit she

made you, that summer," said the Skeptic reminiscently. "It has never

occurred to me to long to see her again. She was a mere lusty infant

then. And now she's to be married. How time gets on! What did you say

was the name of the unfortunate chap?"

"'The Reverend Christopher Austen,'" re-read Hepatica from the letter.

"He will need all the fortitude the practice of his profession can have

developed in him, if my recollections can be depended upon to furnish a

basis for the present outlook," said the Skeptic gloomily.

"You don't know that he will, at all," I disputed. "Rhodora was only a

girl when you saw her. She has been four years under Grandmother's

influence since then. Can you imagine that has accomplished nothing?"

The Skeptic shook his head. "That would be like a dove attempting the

education of a hawk. The girl has probably learned not to break into the

conversation of her elders with an axe," he speculated, "nor to walk

ahead of Grandmother when she comes into a room. Any girl learns those

things--in time--unless she is an idiot. But there are other things to

learn. You can't make fine china out of coarse clay."

"But you can make very, very beautiful pottery," cried Hepatica. "And

the lump of clay that came into contact with Grandmother's wheel----"

She paused. Metaphors are sometimes difficult things to handle. The

Philosopher, musing, did not notice that she had not finished.

"It's rather curious that I should be asked," he said. "I never saw

either of them but once."

"You made a great conquest on that one occasion, though," said the

Skeptic.

"Nonsense!" The Philosopher coloured like a boy. "That girl----"

"Not that girl," explained the Skeptic. "The Old Lady. She has never

ceased to ask after you whenever we have seen her or heard from her. As

I remember, you presented her with a bunch of garden flowers as big as

your head, and looked at her as if she were eighteen and the beauty she

undoubtedly once was.--Well, well--a preacher! What has Rhodora become

that she has blinded the eyes of a preacher? Not that their eyes are not

easily blinded!"

"Why do you say 'preacher?'" inquired his wife. "Grandmother's letter

says a young clergyman."

"He's no clergyman," insisted the Skeptic. "He's not even a minister.

He's just a preacher--a raw youth, just out of college--knows as much

about women as a puppy about elephant training. Rhodora probably sang a

hymn at one of his meetings and finished him. Well, well--I suppose this

means another wedding present?" He looked dubiously at Hepatica.

"It does, of course," she admitted.

"Send her a cut-glass punch-bowl," he suggested, preparing savagely to

carve a plump, young duck. "Anything less adapted to the use of a

preacher's family I can't conceive. And that's the main object in buying

wedding gifts, according to my observation."

The day of Rhodora's wedding arrived, and we went down together to

Grandmother's lovely old country home--a stately house upon the banks of

a wide, frozen river. Our train brought us there two hours before the

one set for the ceremony, and we found not only Grandmother but Rhodora

and the Preacher in the fine old-time drawing-room to greet us. The

wedding was to be a quietly informal one, and such of the other guests

as had already arrived were in the room also, having a cup of tea before

they should go upstairs to dress.

Rhodora herself was pouring the tea, and the Preacher was helping hand

the cups about. It was a beautiful opportunity to observe the pair

before their marriage.

Grandmother gave us the welcome only Grandmother knows how to give. In

her own home she looks like a fair, little, old queen, receiving

everybody's homage, yet giving so much kindness in return that one can

never feel one's self out of debt to her hospitality. Her greeting to

the Philosopher was an especially cordial one.

"I ventured to ask you," she said to him, "because I have always wanted

to see you again--not merely because I have heard of you in the world

where you are making a name for yourself. And I wanted, too, in justice

to my granddaughter, to have you see her again."

Before the Philosopher could formulate an appropriate reply, Rhodora

herself, leaving her tea-table, and crossing the room with a swift and

graceful tread, was giving us welcome.

It was amusing to see our two men look at Rhodora. Hepatica and I had

been, in a way, prepared to see a transformation, having heard sundry

rumours to that effect; but the Skeptic and the Philosopher, having

classified Rhodora once and for all, had since received no impression

sufficient to efface or modify the original one. I can say for them that

to one who did not know them well their surprise would have been

undiscoverable, yet to Hepatica and me it was perfectly evident that

they considered a miracle had been wrought.

As to personal appearance, Rhodora had developed, as she had promised to

do, into a remarkable beauty. If she had kept on as she had begun, she

would have become one of those exuberant beauties who look as if they

had but lately quitted the stage and must shortly return thither. Even

yet, it would have taken but an error in dress, a reversion to a certain

type of manner which too often goes with looks like these, to make of

the girl that which it had seemed she must become. But, somehow, she had

not become that thing.

Rhodora presently turned and beckoned to the Preacher, and putting down

his teacups he came to her side. She presented him, and we saw that he

was, indeed, no clergyman, no minister even--in the sense that the

Skeptic had differentiated these terms--but a preacher--and an embryo

one at that--a big, red-cheeked, honest-eyed boy, a straightforward,

clean-hearted, large-purposed young fellow, who meant to do all the good

in the world, in all the ways that he could bring about. He was but

lately graduated from his seminary, had yet to preach his first sermon

after the dignities of his ordination, but--one could not tell how--one

began to believe in him at once.

"No, I haven't a bit of experience," he owned to me, as we stood talking

together, getting acquainted. "Not a bit--except a little mission work a

few of us went in for this last year. I'm as raw a recruit as ever put

on a uniform and fell in with the rest of the company for his first

drill. But--I mean to count one!"

"I'm sure you will," said I, regarding him with growing pleasure in

the sight.

"And Rhodora will count two," said he, his eyes following her. "One and

two, side by side, you know, stand for twelve."

"So they do," said I. "And seeing Rhodora as she looks now, I should

think she would make an efficient comrade."

His face glowed. Together we observed Rhodora, standing close by

Grandmother's side. The two, with Hepatica and our two men, made a

group, of which not the bride-elect, but Grandmother, was the precise

centre. The moment Rhodora had reached Grandmother's side she had put

herself in the background. Although she towered above the little old

lady she did not overwhelm her, and Grandmother herself had never seemed

a more gently dominating figure than now, in her sweeping black gown

with its rare laces, her white hair, in soft puffs, framing her delicate

face. And as, at a turn in the conversation, Grandmother looked up at

Rhodora, and Rhodora, bending a little, smiled back at her, answering in

the most deferential way, it was clear to me that the most efficient

element in the education of the girl had been her intercourse with this

old-time gentlewoman.

"It was seeing those two together," said the Preacher rather shyly, in

my ear, "that attracted me first. I never knew that Youth and Age could

set each other off like that till I saw them. And I saw at once that a

girl who could be such friends with an old lady must be very much worth

while herself. They are great chums, you know--it's quite unusual, I

think. And it's a mighty fine thing for any one to know Grandmother.

I've learned more from Grandmother than from any one I ever knew."

"She's a very rare and adorable old lady," I agreed heartily. "We all

worship her--we all feel that to be near her is a special fortune for

any one. She has plainly grown very fond of Rhodora--she will miss her."

"No doubt of that," he agreed--but, quite naturally, more with triumph

than with sympathy.

We went upstairs presently to make ready for the wedding. When we were

dressed, we met, according to previous agreement, in the big, square,

upper hall, with its spindled railing making a gallery about the quaint

and stately staircase. It was a little too early to go down, and we drew

some high-backed chairs together and sat down to look at one another in

our wedding garments.

"I'd like to get married myself again to-night," declared the Skeptic,

forcibly pulling on his gloves with a man's brutal disregard for the

possible instability of seams. He eyed his wife possessively. "Tell

me--will the Preacher's bride put her in the shade?"

"Don!" But Hepatica's falling lashes could not quite conceal her

pleasure in his pride.

"Not for a minute." The Philosopher's benevolent gaze approved of his

friend's wife from the top of her masses of shining hair to the tip of

her white-shod foot. "At the same time, I don't feel quite such a

dispirited compassion for the Preacher himself as I did on the way down.

Can that possibly be the same girl who treated Grandmother as if she

were an inconvenient, antique family relic, and the rest of us as if she

endured but was horribly bored by us?"

"I have never supposed grandmothers," said the Skeptic thoughtfully, "to

be particularly influential members of society. Evidently ours is

different. But there must have been other elements in the metamorphosis

of Rhodora."

"Miss Eleanor Lockwood's school," suggested Hepatica.

"You mention that with bated breath," said the Skeptic, "precisely as

every one, including its graduates, mentions it. I admit that Miss

Lockwood's school is a place where rich young savages are turned out

polished members of society. But there's been more than that."

"The Preacher himself?" I suggested.

The Skeptic looked at me. "Do you mean to imply," said he, with raised

eyebrows, "that any woman would admit the possibility of

acquaintanceship with any particular man's having had a formative

influence on her character? After school-days, I mean of course."

"Why not?" I inquired. "What influence could be greater?"

The Skeptic looked at the Philosopher, who returned his gaze calmly.

"Did you ever expect to hear that?" asked the Skeptic.

"I should not think of denying the influence of woman upon man," replied

the Philosopher. "Why should not the rule work both ways?"

"I never heard it thus flatly formulated before," declared the Skeptic.

"It does me good, that's all. So you think the Preacher has had a hand

in the reformation?"

"You have seen the Preacher," said I. "You know the family from which

he comes--he's of good stock. You've only to hear him speak to see

that he's a man of purpose, of action, of training--boy as he looks.

How could he fail to have a strong influence upon a girl who cared

for him?"

The Skeptic looked at Hepatica. "Do you agree with her?" he inquired.

"Of course I agree with her," responded Hepatica, looking from him to

me--and back again. "You are only pretending to doubt us both. It's very

clever of you, but we know perfectly that you understand how far--very

far--we are affected by your ideals, your judgments, your whole estimate

of life. Therefore--you must be very careful how you use your influence

with us!"

The Skeptic gave her back the look he saw in her eyes. "Ah, you two

belong to the wise ones!" he said. "The wise ones, who, magnifying our

hold on you, thus acquire a far more tremendous hold on us! Eh, Philo?"

The Philosopher smiled--inscrutably. Probably he felt that an

inscrutable smile was his safest means of navigating waters like these.

We went down to the wedding. The Preacher stood up very straight while

he was being married, and though his boyish cheek paled and reddened

again as the ceremony proceeded, his responses were clear-cut. Rhodora

made a bonny bride. The absurd vision I had had of her, ever since I

had heard she was to be married, of her taking the officiating

clergyman's book out of his hand and steering the service for herself,

melted away before the vision of her serious young beauty as she made

her vows, and turned from the clergyman's felicitations, at the

conclusion of the service, to take Grandmother into a tender embrace.

"I owe it all to you," she said to Grandmother by and by, in my hearing,

as we three happened to be for a little alone together. She turned to

me. "I was a barbarian when she took me," she said. "A barbarian of

barbarians. If it hadn't been for Grandmother I should be one yet, and

he"--her glance went off for an instant toward her young husband--"would

never have dreamed of looking at me."

"You were not very different, my dear," said Grandmother, in her gentle

way, "from many girls of this day."

"Forgive me, dear," responded Rhodora, "but I was so much worse that

only a grandmother like you could have shown me what I was."

"I never tried to show you what you were," said Grandmother. "Only what

you could be. And now--I must lose you."

The Preacher came up, the Skeptic by his side. The Philosopher and

Hepatica, seeing the old magic circle forming, promptly added

themselves.

It fell out, presently, that the Philosopher and I, a step away from the

others, were observing them as we talked together. The Philosopher had

adjusted his eyeglasses, having carefully polished them. He seemed to

want to see things clearly to-day.

"This is a scene I've witnessed a good many times, first and last," said

he. "Each time it impresses me afresh with the daring of the

participants. Brave young things, setting sail upon a mighty ocean, in a

small boat, which may or may not be seaworthy--some of them, it seems,

sometimes, with neither chart nor compass--certainly with little

knowledge of the crew. It's a trite comparison, I suppose."

"You talk as if you stood safely on the shore," I ventured. "Is life no

ocean to you, then--and do you never feel adrift upon it?"

The Philosopher stared curiously at me. It was, I admit, a strange

speech for me to make to him, but I had not been thinking of him. I had

been thinking of Lad, my big boy, now away at school, and of the day

when he should reach this experience for himself, and I should have to

give him up--my one near tie. I should surely feel adrift in that

day--far adrift.

"Does it seem to you like that?" he asked, very gently, after a minute.

I looked up, and saw a new and quite strange expression in his kindly

eyes. "No, no," I said hastily. "How could it--with so many and such

good friends?"

I think he would have questioned me further, but the Skeptic at that

moment turned my way, and I laid hold upon him--figuratively

speaking--and did not let go again till all danger of a discussion with

the Philosopher on the subject of my loneliness was past.

VI

WISTARIA--AND THE PHILOSOPHER

Friendship needs delicate handling.

--_Hugh Black._

"After all this dining and wine-ing of you," said Hepatica suddenly one

morning, toward the close of my visit, "you are not to escape without

our giving a dinner for you."

"Oh, my dear," I began, "after all you have done for me, surely that

isn't necessary. I have had----"

"Yes, I know. You have had dinners and dinners, including the

Philosopher's bachelor repast, which might or might not be called by

that name, but was certainly great fun. But I want to give you a dinner

myself."

"Better let her," advised the Skeptic, who was putting on his overcoat

at the time, preparatory to leaving us for the day. "It won't be like

anything of that name you have ever tried before. Besides she wants you

to meet Wistaria."

"Who is Wistaria?" I asked.

They both looked at me. Then they looked at each other.

"Hasn't Philo told you about Wistaria?" inquired the Skeptic, in evident

surprise. "Wasn't she at his----Oh, that's right--she was out of town.

Well, she's back, and you must meet her. She's a mighty fine girl--or,

if not exactly a girl, woman. Philo admires her rather more than he

condescends to admire most women, I should say. Any errands for me,

Patty? All right--good-bye, dear."

He kissed her and ran for his car. I stood looking out of the window

after him. It struck me rather suddenly that it was a gray day outside,

with heavy clouds threatening to make the sky even darker. There was a

touch of gloom in the whole outer aspect of things.

Hepatica immediately set about making preparations for her dinner. It

would be most informal, she assured me, and as I heard her giving her

invitations over the telephone I recognized from their character that

it would be so, even though I heard her inviting quite a party,

including Camellia and the Judge, Dahlia and the Professor, Althea and

the Promoter, and Azalea and the Cashier. A strange man, a Mining

Engineer, was included in the list, to make the tale of numbers evenly

divided. I judged he was likely to fall to me in the final disposition

of the guests at Hepatica's table, and inquired what he was like.

"He's delightful," replied Hepatica enthusiastically. "You'll be sure to

like him. He lost his wife about five years ago, but hasn't re-married,

and lives mostly at his club, as he has no children. He's devoted to his

work, and has a good, big reputation, though he's still in the early

forties."

Hepatica would not tell me what she meant to have for her dinner, but on

the appointed day shut herself up in her kitchen with a young woman whom

she had engaged, and would allow me only to set her table for her. As I

laid the required number of forks and spoons I realized that she meant

to be true to her word and serve a quite simple dinner. For this I was

thankful. For some reason, which I could not just understand myself, I

was dreading that dinner more than anything that had happened for a long

time.

The evening came. I dressed without enthusiasm, putting on the pale-gray

frock which Hepatica had insisted upon, and pinning on a bunch of

violets which arrived for me at almost the last moment, without any card

in the box. Hepatica had three magnificent red roses at the same time.

It was like the Skeptic to be so thoughtful.

The guests arrived--Camellia superbly attired, Althea gorgeously so,

Dahlia in youthful pink and white, Azalea in a demurely simple dress

whose laces were just a thought rumpled about the neck, and had to be

straightened out by my assisting fingers. Little Bud, she explained, had

insisted on hugging her violently at the last moment, before he would

allow her to come away.

Wistaria came last, so that, as we all stood grouped about the little

rooms I had a fine chance to see her arrival. She had to go through the

room in which we were to reach Hepatica's bedroom, and I saw a tall and

graceful figure, all in black under a white evening cloak, and caught a

glimpse of a pair of brilliant dark eyes under the white silken scarf

which enveloped her hair. But when she came out, in Hepatica's company,

I saw, undisguised, one of the most attractive women I had ever met.

"She's unusual, isn't she?" said the Skeptic in my ear, as, having

welcomed the new guest, and watched Hepatica present her to me, he fell

back at my side. Wistaria had greeted the Philosopher with the quiet

warmth of manner which means assured acquaintance, and the two had

remained together while we waited for the serving of the dinner.

"She is very charming," I agreed. "It is her manner, quite as much as

her face, isn't it? She must be well worth knowing."

"We think so," said he. He seemed to be regarding me quite steadily. I

wondered uneasily if I were not looking well. The rooms seemed rather

over-warm. The presence of so many people in such a small space is apt

to make the air oppressive. Also I remembered that the effect of

pale-gray is not to heighten one's colouring.

Wistaria, all in filmy black, from which her white shoulders rose like

a flower, wore one splendid American Beauty rose. Somehow I felt, quite

suddenly, that pale-gray is a meaningless tint, the mere shadow of a

colour, of less character than white, of immeasurably less beauty than

simple black itself. I caught the Philosopher's eye apparently fixed for

a moment upon my violets, and I wondered, with a queer little sensation

of disquiet, if even they seemed to be without character also.

Then dinner was announced, and I shook myself mentally, and looked up

smiling at my Mining Engineer, who was truly a man worth knowing and a

most pleasant gentleman besides, and went to dinner with him determined

that if I must look characterless I would not be characterless, nor make

my companion long to get away.

Wistaria and the Philosopher sat exactly opposite. The Mining Engineer

on my one side, and the Judge on my other, kept me too busy to spend

much time in noting Wistaria's captivating presence or the Philosopher's

absorption. Yet, at moments when some sally of the Skeptic's, who sat

upon Wistaria's other side, brought the attention of the whole company

to bear upon that quarter of the table, I found myself unable to help

noting two things. One was that I had never seen the Philosopher so

roused and ready of speech; the other, that I had never quite

appreciated how distinguished he has, of late years, grown in

appearance. Possibly this was because I had not had the chance to

view him under just these conditions; possibly, also, it was because

he literally was growing distinguished in the world of scientific

research, and his name becoming one cited as an authority in a certain

important field.

The dinner itself I cannot describe, for the sufficient reason that I

cannot now recall one solitary thing I ate. But the impression remains

with me that it was really an extraordinarily simple dinner, that

everything was delicious, and that one rose up from it with a sense of

having been daintily fed, not stuffed. I'm sure I could not pay it a

higher or a rarer compliment.

After dinner the Promoter told stories of "deals," to which the

Professor listened curiously, watching the speaker as he might have

gently eyed some strange specimen in the world of insects or of birds.

The Judge and the Cashier hobnobbed for a while; then the Judge made his

way to the side of Wistaria and remained there for an indefinite period,

both looking deeply interested in their conversation. The Engineer

attempted to make something of Althea, but presently gave it up, spent a

few moments with Camellia, and came back to me. By and by Azalea and the

Cashier sang a duet for us, and after some persuasion Azalea then sang

alone. Altogether, the evening got on somehow--it is all very hazy in my

mind, except for one singular fact--I did not spend a moment with the

Philosopher. How this happened I do not know, and it was so unusual that

it seemed noteworthy. It was not because he was not several times in my

immediate vicinity, but I was always at the moment so engaged with

whomever happened to be talking with me that I had not time to turn and

include the Philosopher in the interview.

When our guests departed they went together, having one and the same car

to catch. All but Wistaria, who had come in her own private carriage,

which was late in arriving to take her home. The Philosopher had

remained with her, and he took her down to her carriage. I cannot

remember seeing anything more attractive than Wistaria's personality as

she said good night, her sparkling face all winsome cordiality, her

white scarf lying lightly upon the masses of her black hair, the crimson

rose nodding from the folds of her long, white cloak.

"Pretty fine looking pair, aren't they?" observed the Skeptic, with an

expansive grin, the moment the door had closed upon Wistaria and the

Philosopher. He threw himself into a chair and yawned mightily.

"Wistaria's almost as tall as Philo, isn't she? A superb woman."

"I never saw her looking so well," agreed Hepatica, straightening chairs

and settling couch pillows, trailing here and there in her pretty frock

with all the energy of the early morning, as if it were not half-after

eleven by the little mantel clock. "Didn't you like her, dear?" She

threw an eager glance at me. She was in the restless mood of the hostess

who wishes to be assured that everything has gone well.

"I was charmed with her," said I--I had not meant to take a seat again;

I was weary and wanted to get away to bed--"I never knew how beautiful

an American Beauty rose was till I saw it beneath her face."

The Skeptic turned in his chair and looked at me. "Well done!" he cried.

"Couldn't have said it better myself. We must tell Philo that speech.

He'll be deeply gratified. He has every confidence in your taste."

"The dinner was perfect," I went on. "I never imagined one so cleverly

planned. And everybody seemed in great spirits--there wasn't a dull

moment."

"You dear thing!" said Hepatica, and came and dropped a kiss upon my

hair. "It's fun to do things for you, you're so appreciative. Didn't you

enjoy your Mining Engineer?"

"He was so entertaining," said I, "that if it had been any other dinner

than that one I shouldn't have known what I was eating."

"Hear, hear!" applauded the Skeptic. "Bouquets for us all! Didn't I make

an ideal host?"

"Your geniality was rivalled only by your tact," I declared.

They laughed together. Then the Skeptic sat up. He got up and strode

over to the window and peered down. "Philo is taking a disgracefully

long time to see the lady into her carriage," he observed. "I supposed

he'd be back, to talk it over, as usual. The best of entertaining is the

talking your guests over after they've gone--eh, Patty, girl? I don't

seem to see the carriage. Perhaps he's gone home with her."

I laid my hand upon the door of my room. "I don't know why I am so

sleepy," I apologized. "It only came over me since the door closed. But

you must both be tired, too--and we have to be up in the morning at the

usual hour."

Hepatica looked regretful, but she did not urge me to remain. I felt

guilty at leaving a wide-awake host and hostess who wanted to talk

things over, but really I--the perfume from my violets had been stealing

away my nerves all the evening. I felt that I must take them off or grow

faint at their odour, which seemed stronger as they drooped. I opened my

door, turned to smile back at the pair, and shut it upon the inside. A

moment later I was standing by my window which I had thrown wide, and

the winter wind was lifting the violets which I had already forgotten to

take off.

I heard the murmur of voices in the room outside, but it soon ceased.

With no third person to praise the feast it was probably dull work

congratulating each other on its success. By and by--I don't know when

it happened--I heard the electric entrance-bell whirr in the tiny hall,

and the Skeptic go to answer it. Then I heard voices again--men's

voices. There was an interval. Then came a small knock at my door. I

opened it to Hepatica.

"The Philosopher has come back," she whispered. I had not lit my

light--I had closed my window and had been sitting by it, my elbows on

the sill. Hepatica put out her hand and felt of me. "Oh, you haven't

undressed," she said. "Then won't you go out and see him? He seemed so

disappointed when Don said you had gone. It seems he's called out of

town quite suddenly--he's afraid he may not be back before you go--he

says he didn't have a chance to tell you about it this evening."

There was no help for it--I had no excuse. I did not dare to snap on my

light and look at myself. I put my hands to my hair to feel if it was

still snug; then I went.

Hepatica had mercifully turned off all the lights but the rose-shaded

drop-light on the reading-table and two of the electric candles in the

dining-room. It was a relief to feel the glare gone. The air from the

window had freshened me. The Philosopher stood by the reading-table,

upon which he had laid his hat. His overcoat was on a chair. Evidently

he was not waiting merely to say good-bye and go.

The Skeptic, upon my entrance, immediately crossed the room to the door

of the hall, upon which his own room opened. "You people will excuse

me," he said. "I don't know _why_ I am so sleepy." His tone was

peculiar, and I recognized that he was quoting my words of a half-hour

before. "It only came over me since the door closed on our guests. And I

have to be up in the morning at the usual hour. But don't let that hurry

you, Philo, old man." And he vanished.

The Philosopher looked as if he did not mean to let it hurry him. He

drew his chair near mine, facing me, after a fashion he has, and looked

at me in silence for a minute.

"You are tired," he said.

"A little. The rooms were very warm."

"They were. They made the violets droop, I see."

I put up my hand. "Yes. I meant to take them off."

"Perhaps you don't like violets. If I could have found a bunch of

sweet-williams to send you instead, like those in your own garden, I

should have preferred it. I know what you like among summer flowers, but

with these florist's offerings I'm not so familiar. I'm afraid I'm not

much versed in the sending of flowers."

"Did you send these?" I put my hand up to them again. They certainly

were drooping sadly. Perhaps if they had known who sent them----

"To be sure I did."

"There was no card. I thought it was Don--and forgot to thank

him--luckily. Let me thank you now. They have been so sweet all the

evening."

"Too sweet, haven't they? You looked a bit pale to-night, I thought."

"It was my frock. Gray always makes people look pale."

"Does it? I've liked that frock so much--and I had an idea gray and

purple went together."

"They do--beautifully. And to-morrow, after the violets have been in

water, they'll be quite fresh--and so shall I. To tell the honest truth,

so many dinners--well, I'm not used to them. I'm just a little bit glad

to remember that spring is coming on soon, and I can get out in my old

garden and dig and rake, and watch the things come out."

"Yes--you're one of the outdoor creatures," said the Philosopher,

leaning back in his chair in the old way--he had been sitting up quite

straight. "I understand it--I like gardens myself. And your garden most

of all. Do you realize, between your absences and my long stay in

Germany, it's three summers since I've strolled about your garden?"

"So long? Yes, it must be."

"But I mean to be at home this summer. Do you?"

[Illustration: "And so we renewed the old vow"]

"I? Yes, I think so. After so long a winter outing--or inning--I

couldn't bear to miss the garden this year. And Lad will be home--his

first vacation. He is fond of the old garden, too."

"May I come?" asked the Philosopher rather abruptly.

"To stroll about the garden? Haven't you always been welcome?"

"I want a special welcome--from you--from my friend. When a man has only

one friend, that one's welcome means a good deal to him."

"Only one! You have so many."

"Have I? Yes, so I have, and pleasant friends they are, too. But

friendship--with only one. Come, Rhexia--you understand that as well as

I. Why pretend you don't? That's not like you."

He was looking at me very steadily. He leaned forward, stretching out

his hand. I laid mine in it. And so we renewed the old vow.