ISABEL

There were two dwellings in the Winslow garden,--one as far across at

the right of the Byington house as the other was at the left. The one on

the right may have contained six or eight bedchambers; the other had but

three. The larger stood withdrawn from the public way, a well-preserved

and very attractive example of colonial architecture, refined to the

point of delicacy in the grace and harmony of its details. Here dwelt

Arthur Winslow, barely six weeks a clergyman, alone but for two or three

domestics and the rare visits of Godfrey, his only living relation. The

other and older house, in the garden's southern front corner, was a gray

gambrel-roofed cottage, with its threshold at the edge of the sidewalk;

and it was from this cottage that Isabel and her mother stepped,

gratefully answering the affectionate wave of Ruth's hand,--Mrs. Morris

with the dignity of her forty-odd years, and Isabel with a sudden eager

fondness. The next moment the two couples were hidden from each other by

the umbrageous garden and by the tall white fence, in which was repeated

the architectural grace of the larger house.

Mother and daughter conversed quietly, but very busily, as they came

along this enclosure; but presently they dropped their subject to bow

cordially across to the father of Ruth, and when he endeavored to say

something to them Mrs. Morris moved toward him. Isabel took a step or

two more in the direction of the Winslow elm and its inviting bench, but

then she also turned. She was of a moderate feminine stature and perfect

outline, her step elastic, her mien self-contained, and her face so

young that a certain mature tone in her mellow voice was often the cause

of Ruth's fond laughter. As winsome, too, she was, as she was beautiful,

and "as pink as a rose," said the old-time soldier to himself, as he

came down his short front walk, throwing half his glances forward to

her, quite unaware that he was equally the object of her admiration.

Though white-haired and somewhat bent he was still slender and handsome,

a most worthy figure against the background of the red brick house,

whose weathered walls contrasted happily with the blossoming shrubs

about their base, and with the green of lawn and trees.

"Good-afternoon, Isabel. I was saying to your mother, I hope such days

as this are some offset for the Southern weather and scenery you have

had to give up."

"You shouldn't tempt our Southern boastfulness, General," Isabel

replied, with an air of meek chiding. She had a pretty way of

skirmishing with men which always brought an apologetic laugh from her

mother, but which the General had discovered she never used in a company

of less than three.

"Oh! ho, ho!" laughed Mrs. Morris, who was just short, plump, and pretty

enough to laugh to advantage. "Why, General,"--she sobered abruptly, and

she was just pretty and plump and short enough to do this well,

also,--"my recovered health is offset enough for me."

"For _us_, my dear," said the daughter. "My mother's restored

health is offset enough for us, General. Indeed, for me"--addressing the

distant view--"there is no call for off-set; any landscape or climate is

perfect that has such friends in it as--as this one has."

"Oh! ho, ho!" laughed the mother again. Nobody ever told the Morrises

they had a delicious Southern accent, and their words are given here

exactly as they thought they spoke them.

"My dear," persisted Isabel, rebukingly, "I mean such friends as Ruth

Byington."

Mrs. Morris let go her little Southern laugh once more. "Don't you

believe her, General--don't you believe her. She means you every bit as

much as she means Ruth. She means everybody on Bylow Hill."

"I'm at the mercy of my interpreter," said Isabel. "But I thought"--her

eyes went out upon the skyline again--"I thought that men--that men--I

thought that men--My dear, you've made me forget what I thought!"

They laughed, all three. Isabel, with a playful sigh, clutched her

mother's hand, and the pair drew off and moved away to the bench.

"He puts you in good spirits," said the mother, breaking a silence.

"Good spirits! He puts me in pure heartache. Oh, why did you tell him?"

"Tell him? My child! I have not told him!"

"Oh, mother, do you not see you've told him point-blank that it's all

settled?"

"No, dearie, no! I only see that your distress is making you fanciful.

But why should he not be told, Isabel?"

"I'm not ready! Oh, I'm not ready! It may suit him well enough to hear

it, for he knows Leonard is too fine and great for me; but I'm not ready

to tell him."

"My darling, he knows you are good enough for any Leonard he can bring."

"Oh yes, on the plane of the Ten Commandments." The girl smiled

unhappily.

"But precious, he loves Arthur deeply, and thinks the world of him."

"Mother, what is it like, to love deeply?"

The query was ignored. "And the old gentleman is fond of you,

sweetheart."

"Oh, he likes me. What a tame old invalid that word 'fond' has grown to

be! You can be fond of two or three persons at once, nowadays. My soul!

I wish I were fond of Arthur Winslow in the old mad way the word meant

when it was young!"

"Pshaw, dearie! you'll be fond enough of him, once you're his. He's

brilliant, upright, loving and lovable. You see, and say, he is so, and

I know your fondness will grow with every day and every experience,

happy or bitter."

"Yes.... Yes, I could not endure not to give my love bountifully

wherever it rightly belongs. But oh, I wish I had it ready to-day,--a

fondness to match his!"

"Now, Isabel! Why, pet, thousands of happy and loving wives will tell

you"--

"Oh, I know what they will tell me."

"They'll not tell you they get along without love, dearie. But ten years

from now, my daughter, not how fond you were when you first joined

hands, but what you have"--

"Oh yes,--been to each other, done for each other, borne from each

other, will be the true measure. Oh, of course it will; but there's so

much in the right start!"

"Beyond doubt! Understand me, precious: if you have the least ground to

fear"--

"Mother! mother! No! no! What! afraid I may love some one else? Never!

never! Oh, without boasting, and knowing what I am as well as Leonard

Byington knows"--

"Oh, pshaw! Leonard Byington!"

"He knows me, mother,--as if he lived at a higher window that looked

down into my back yard." The speaker smiled.

"Then he knows," exclaimed the mother, "you're true gold!"

"Yes, but a light coin."

"My pet! He knows you're the tenderest, gentlest dear he ever saw."

"But neither brave nor strong."

"Oh, you not brave! you not strong! You're the lovingest, truest"--

"Only inclined to be a bit too hungry after sympathy, dear."

"You never bid for it, love, never."

"Well, no matter; I shall never love any one but myself too much. I

think I shall some day love Arthur as I wish I could love him now. I

never did really love Leonard,--I couldn't; I haven't the stature. That

was my trouble, dearie: I hadn't the stature. I never shall have; and if

it's he you are thinking of, you are wasting your dear, sweet care. But

he's going to be our best and nearest friend, mother,--he and Ruth and

Godfrey, together and alike. We've so agreed, Arthur and I. Oh, I'm not

going to come in here and turn the sweet old nickname of this happy spot

into a sneer."

"Then why are you not happy, precious?"

"Happy? Why, my dear, I am happy!"

"With touches of heartache?"

"Oh, with big wrenches of heartache! Why not? Were you never so?"

"I'm so right now, dearie. For after all is said"--

"And thought that can't be said"--murmured Isabel.

"Yes," replied the mother, "after all is said and thought, I should

rather give you to Arthur than to any other man I know. Leonard will

have a shining career, but it will be in politics."

"I tried to dissuade him," broke in the daughter, "till I was ashamed."

"In politics," continued Mrs. Morris,--"and Northern politics, Isabel.

Arthur's will be in the church!"

"Yes," said the other, but her whole attention was within the fence at

their side, where a rough stile, made in boyhood days by the two

brothers and Leonard, led over into the garden. She sprang up. "Let's

go, mother; he's coming!"

"Who, my child?"

"Both! Come, dear, come quickly! Oh, I don't know why we ever came out

at all!"

"My dear, it was you proposed it, lest some one should come in!"

The daughter had moved some steps down the road, but now turned again;

for Ruth and Godfrey, returning, came out through the garden's high

gateway. However, they were giving all their smiles to the greetings

which the General sent them from his piazza.

"Come over, mother!" called Isabel, in a stifled voice. "Cross to the

hill path!" But before they could reach it Arthur and Leonard came into

full view on the stile. Isabel motioned her mother despairingly toward

them, wheeled once more, and with a gay call for Ruth's notice hurried

to meet her in the middle of the way.