"CHAPTER I\n\n\nDr. Lavendar and Goliath had toiled up the hill to call on old Mr.\nBenjamin Wright; when they jogged back in the late afternoon it was\nwith the peculiar complacency which follows the doing of a disagreeable\nduty. Goliath had not liked climbing the hill, for a heavy rain in the\nmorning had turned the clay to stiff mud, and Dr. Lavendar had not\nliked calling on Benjamin Wright.\n\n\"But, Daniel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, addressing a small old dog who took\nup a great deal more room on the seat of the buggy than he was entitled\nto, \"Daniel, my boy, you don't consult your likings in pastoral calls.\"\nThen he looked out of the mud-spattered window of the buggy, at a house\nby the roadside--\"The Stuffed Animal House,\" Old Chester children\ncalled it, because its previous owner had been a taxidermist of some\nlittle local renown. \"That's another visit I ought to make,\" he\nreflected, \"but it can wait until next week. G'long, Goliath!\"\n\nGoliath went along, and Mrs. Frederick Richie, who lived in the Stuffed\nAnimal House, looking listlessly from an upper window, saw the hood of\nthe buggy jogging by and smiled suddenly. \"Thank Heaven!\" she said.\n\nBenjamin Wright had not thanked Heaven when Dr. Lavendar drove away. He\nhad been as disagreeable as usual to his visitor, but being a very\nlonely old man he enjoyed having a visitor to whom to be disagreeable.\nHe lived on his hilltop a mile out of Old Chester, with his \"nigger\"\nSimmons, his canary-birds, and his temper. More than thirty years\nbefore he had quarrelled with his only son Samuel, and the two men had\nnot spoken to each other since. Old Chester never knew what this\nquarrel had been about; Dr. Lavendar, speculating upon it as he and\nGoliath went squashing through the mud that April afternoon, wondered\nwhich was to blame. \"Pot and kettle, probably,\" he decided. \"Samuel's\ngoodness is very irritating sometimes, and Benjamin's badness is--well,\nit's not as distressing as it should be. But what a forlorn old critter\nhe is! And this Mrs. Richie is lonely too--a widow, with no children,\npoor woman! I must call next week. Goliath wouldn't like to turn round\nnow and climb the hill again. Danny, I fear Goliath is very selfish.\"\n\nGoliath's selfishness carried them home and landed Dr. Lavendar at his\nown fireside, rather tired and full of good intentions in regard to\ncalls. He confided these intentions to Dr. William King who looked in\nafter supper to inquire about his cold.\n\n\"Cold? I haven't any cold! You can't get a job here. Sit down and give\nme some advice. Hand me a match first; this ragamuffin Danny has gone\nto sleep with his head on my foot, and I can't budge.\"\n\nThe doctor produced the match; \"I'll advise you not to go out in such\nweather. Promise me you won't go out to-morrow.\"\n\n\"To-morrow? Right after breakfast, sir! To make calls on the people\nI've neglected. Willy, how can I find a home for an orphan child? A\nparson up in the mountains has asked me to see if I can place a little\nseven-year-old boy. The child's sister who took care of him has just\ndied. Do you know anybody who might take him?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Willy King, \"there's Mrs. Richie.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar looked at him over his spectacles. \"Mrs. Frederick\nRichie?--though I understand she calls herself Mrs. Helena Richie. I\ndon't like a young female to use her own name, William, even if she is\na widow! Still, she may be a nice woman I suppose. Do you think a\nlittle boy would have a good home with her?\"\n\n\"Well,\" the doctor demurred, \"of course, we know very little about her.\nShe has only been here six months. But I should think she was just the\nperson to take him. She is mighty good-looking, isn't she?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Dr. Lavendar said, \"she is. And other things being equal I\nprefer a good-looking woman. But I don't know that her looks are a\nguarantee that she can train up a child in the way he should go. Can't\nyou think of anybody else?\"\n\n\"I don't see why you don't like Mrs. Richie?\"\n\n\"I never said I didn't like her,\" protested Dr. Lavendar; \"but she's\na widow.\"\n\n\"Unless she murdered the late Richie, that's not against her.\"\n\n\"Widows don't always stay widows, Willy.\"\n\n\"I don't believe she's the marrying kind,\" William said. \"I have a sort\nof feeling that the deceased Richie was not the kind of husband who\nreceives the compliment of a successor--\"\n\n\"Hold on; you're mixing things up! It's the bad husband and the good\nwife that get compliments of that kind.\"\n\nWilliam laughed as he was expected to, but he stuck to his opinion that\nMrs. Richie had had enough of husbands. \"And anyway, she's devoted to\nher brother--though he doesn't come to see her very often.\"\n\n\"There's another point,\" objected Dr. Lavendar; \"what kind of a man is\nthis Mr. Pryor? Danny growled at him once, which prejudiced me against\nhim.\"\n\n\"I don't take to him much myself,\" William King confessed; \"though I\nmust say he seems a decent man enough. He doesn't cultivate\nacquaintances in Old Chester, but that only shows bad taste.\"\n\n\"She says he is not very well,\" Dr. Lavendar explained; \"she says he\nlikes to keep quiet when he comes down here.\"\n\n\"I don't see anything wrong with him.\"\n\n\"Hasn't taken any of your pills? Maybe he doesn't believe in doctors. I\ndon't myself.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said William King.\n\n\"There's too much fuss anyway over our precious carcasses! And you\nfellows encourage it,\" Dr. Lavendar grumbled. Then he said he wished he\nknew more about Mrs. Richie. \"I ask you for information and all you say\nis that she's good-looking, and her brother doesn't take your pills.\"\n\nWilliam laughed.\n\n\"She doesn't come to church very regularly, and she never stops\nafterwards to talk,\" Dr. Lavendar ruminated.\n\n\"Well, she lives 'way up there on the hill road--\"\n\n\"Yes, she does live pretty far out of town,\" Dr. Lavendar admitted,\n\"but that's not a reason for not being neighborly after church.\"\n\n\"She's shy,\" said William King, \"that's all. Shyness isn't anything\nvery wrong. And she's mighty pleasant when she does talk to you. I tell\nyou Dr. Lavendar, pleasantness goes a good way in this world. I'd say\nit was better than goodness--only they are the same thing.\"\n\n\"No, they're not,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"I grant she doesn't belong to the sewing society,\" William said\ngrinning. \"Martha says that some of the ladies say she doesn't show\nproper grief for her husband. She actually smiles sometimes! They say\nthat if the Lord were to remove _their_ beloved husbands, they would\nnever smile again.\"\n\n\"William,\" said Dr. Lavendar chuckling, \"I begin to like your widow.\"\n\n\"She's not my widow, thank you! But she's a nice woman, and she must be\npretty lonely up there all by herself.\"\n\n\"Wish I had gone in to see her this afternoon,\" the old man said\nthoughtfully. \"As you say she may be a suitable person to take this\nlittle boy. I wonder if she's going to stay in Old Chester?\"\n\n\"Sam Wright says she has spoken to him of buying the house. That looks\nas if she meant to settle down. Did you know that Sam's Sam is casting\nsheep's eyes at her?\"\n\n\"Why, she's old enough to be his mother!\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Oh, no. Sam's Sam is twenty-three, and one of my patients says that\nMrs. Richie will never see forty-five again. Which leads me to conclude\nthat she's about thirty.\"\n\n\"Of course she doesn't encourage him?\" Dr. Lavendar said anxiously.\n\n\"She lets him come to see her, and she took him out once in that\nwicker-work vehicle she has--looks like a clothes-basket on wheels. And\nshe provides the clothes to put into it. I'm told they're beautiful;\nbut that no truly pious female would be willing to decorate poor flesh\nand blood with such finery. I'm told--\"\n\n\"William! Is this the way I've brought you up? To pander to my\nbesetting sin? Hold your tongue!\" Dr. Lavendar rose chuckling, and\nstood in front of the fireplace, gathering the tails of his flowered\ncashmere dressing-gown under his arms. \"But Willy I hope Sam isn't\nreally smitten? You never can tell what that boy will do.\"\n\n\"Yes, he's a hair-trigger,\" the doctor agreed, \"a hair-trigger! And his\nfather understands him about as well as--as Danny there understands\nHebrew! I think it's a case of Samuel and his father over again. Dr.\nLavendar, do you suppose anybody will ever know what those two\nquarrelled about?\"\n\n\"Probably not.\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" William King ruminated, \"that you'd call Sam a genius?\"\n\n\"No, I wouldn't; he has no patience. You can't have genius without\npatience. Sam hasn't a particle.\"\n\n\"Well,\" the doctor explained, \"he hasn't the slightest sense of\nresponsibility; and I notice that when people have no sense of\nresponsibility, you call them either criminals or geniuses.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" said Dr. Lavendar dryly, \"I call 'em poor critters, either\nway. But Willy, about this little boy; the great point is who needs\nhim? I expect he'll be here on Saturday.\"\n\n\"What! This week? But you haven't found anybody to take him.\"\n\n\"Oh, he'll stay with me for a while, Mary'll look after him. And I'll\nplay marbles with him. Got any white alleys? Gimme six, and I'll give\nyou an agate.\"\n\n\"But Dr. Lavendar, that will be a nuisance to you,\" William King\nprotested. \"Let me take him. Or, at least--I'll ask Martha; she's\nhouse-cleaning now, and she says she's very tired; so I'm not sure--\"\nWilliam ended weakly.\n\n\"No, no; I want him myself,\" said the old minister.\n\n\"Well,\" Dr. King said with evident relief, \"shall I speak to Mrs.\nRichie about him? I'm going up there to-morrow; she's got a sick cook,\nand she asked me to call. What's his name?\"\n\n\"David Allison. You might sound her William, but don't be definite.\nDon't give her any chance to say yes or no. I want to know her a little\nbetter before I make up my mind. When the boy comes I'll happen along\nin my buggy with him, and then we'll see. And meantime Willy, keep your\neye on Sam's Sam. He mustn't get too much interested up there. A little\nfalling in love with an older woman doesn't hurt most boys; in fact,\nit's part of their growing up and likely as not it does 'em good. But\nSam's Sam isn't like most boys.\"\n\n\"That's so,\" said William King, \"he may not be a genius and he\ncertainly isn't a criminal, but he has about as much stability as a\nsky-rocket.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n\"You can't think of anybody who might like to take this little David\nAllison, can you, my dear?\" William King asked his wife at breakfast\nthe next morning.\n\n\"I certainly cannot,\" Martha said decidedly. \"I think it's a very\ndangerous thing to take unknown children into your family. I suppose\nyou think I ought to offer to do it? But in the first place, I'm very\ntired, and in the second place, I don't like boys. If it was a girl it\nmight be different.\"\n\n\"No doubt we could find a girl,\" William began, but she interrupted him.\n\n\"Girls are a great expense. And then, as I said--unknown\nchildren!--they might turn into anything. They might have evil\ntendencies; they probably have. If the parents die early, it's a sign\nof weakness of some sort. I've no doubt this boy's father drank. I\ndon't want to seem unkind, but I must say flatly and frankly that\nconsidering how hard it is for us to make both ends meet--as you keep\nup a sort of free practice--I don't think it's prudent to suggest any\nnew responsibilities and expenses.\"\n\n\"Oh, I wasn't making suggestions,\" William King said. \"I guess we're\nnot the people to bring up a child. I'd spoil him, I've no doubt.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you would!\" Martha said, greatly relieved. \"It would be the\nworst possible thing for him. But Willy, there's that Mrs. Richie?\"\n\n\"You think his evil tendencies wouldn't hurt her?\" the doctor said\ndryly.\n\n\"I think she's a rich woman, so why shouldn't she do a thing like that?\nI'll go and see her if you want me to--though she never makes you feel\nwelcome; and tell her about the boy?\"\n\n\"You needn't bother; Dr. Lavendar will see her himself.\"\n\n\"I don't understand that woman,\" Mrs. King said. \"She keeps herself to\nherself too much. It almost looks as if she didn't think we were good\nenough to associate with her!\"\n\nWilliam made no reply.\n\n\"Willy, does she use perfumery?\"\n\n\"How in the world should I know!\"\n\n\"Well, there's a sort of fragrance about her. It isn't like cologne,\nit's like--well, orris-root.\"\n\nWilliam made no comment.\n\n\"It's a kind of sachet, I guess; I'd like to know what it is. Willy,\nSam Wright's Sam went out walking with her yesterday. I met them on the\nRiver Road. I believe the boy is in love with her!\"\n\n\"He's got eyes,\" William agreed.\n\n\"_Tck!_\" said Martha, \"the idea of calling her good-looking! And I\ndon't think it speaks well for a woman of her age--she's forty if she's\na day--to let a boy trail round after her like that. And to fix herself\nup with sachet-powders and things. And her Sarah told the Draytons'\nJean that she had her breakfast in bed every morning! I'd like to know\nhow my housekeeping would go on if _I_ had breakfast in bed, though\ndear knows I'm very tired and it would be pleasant enough. But there's\none thing about me: I may not be perfect, but I don't do lazy things\njust because they are pleasant.\"\n\nThe doctor made no defence of Mrs. Richie. Instead he asked for another\ncup of coffee and when told that it would not be good for him, got up,\nthen paused patiently, his hand on the door-knob, to hear his Martha\nout.\n\n\"William, what do you suppose is the last thing Sam Wright's Sam has\ndone?\"\n\nThe doctor confessed his ignorance.\n\n\"Well, his father sent him to Mercer on Monday to buy supplies for the\nbank. He gave him seventy-five dollars. Back comes my young gentleman\nwith--what do you suppose? A lot of pictures of actors and actresses!\nAnd no supplies.\"\n\n\"What! you don't mean he spent the money on the pictures?\"\n\n\"Every bit of it! His mother came in and told me about it last night.\nShe said his father was frantic. She was dreadfully upset herself. As\nfor Sam, he kept saying that the 'prints,' as he called them, were very\nvaluable. Though I'm sure I can't see why; they were only of actor\npeople, and they had all died sixty or seventy years ago.\"\n\n\"Actors!\" the doctor said. \"Poor Samuel! he hates the theatre. I do\nbelieve he'd rather have pictures of the devil.\"\n\n\"Oh, but wait. You haven't heard the rest of it. It appears that when\nthe boy looked at 'em yesterday morning he found they weren't as\nvaluable as he thought--I don't understand that part of it,\" Martha\nacknowledged--\"so what does he do but march downstairs, and put 'em all\nin the kitchen stove! What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"I think,\" said William King, \"that he has always gone off at half-cock\never since he was born. But Martha, the serious thing is his spending\nmoney that didn't belong to him.\"\n\n\"I should think it was serious! If he'd been some poor little clerk in\nthe bank, instead of Mr. Samuel Wright's only son, he would have found\nit was serious! Willy, what do you make of him?\"\n\n\"He is queer,\" William said; \"queer as Dick's hatband; but that's all.\nSam wouldn't do a mean thing, or a dirty thing, any more than a girl\nwould.\"\n\n\"And now he thinks he's in love with this Richie woman,\" Martha went\non--but William made his escape. He had to go and hitch up, he said.\n\nBefore he took Jinny out of her stall he went into the harness-room and\nhunted about on a shelf until, behind a rusty currycomb and two empty\noil-bottles, he found a small mirror. It was misty and flecked with\nclear spots where the quicksilver had dropped away, but when he propped\nit against the cobwebbed window he could see himself fairly well.\nStaring into its dim depths he retied his necktie; then he backed the\nbuggy out of the carriage-house. But after he had put his mare between\nthe shafts he hesitated.... The buggy was very shabby; it sagged badly\non the right side and there was a rent in the faded cushion. The doctor\nlooked at his watch.... Then, hurriedly, led Jinny back to her stall,\ngot a bucket of water and a sponge, and washed off the dashboard and\nwheels. After that he fumbled along a dusty beam to find a bottle of\noil with which he touched up the harness. But when all was done he\nshook his head. The buggy was hopeless. Nevertheless, when he climbed\nin and slapped Jinny's flank with the newly oiled rein he was careful\nto sit in the middle of the seat to make the springs truer, and he\navoided the mud-puddles on the road up to the Stuffed Animal House.\nThere were a good many puddles, for it had rained the day before.\nTo-day the clouds had gathered up behind the hills into white domes,\nbut the sky was that faint April blue that dims easily into warm mists.\nThere was the smell of earth, the fainter scent of unopened buds, and\nfrom the garden borders of the Stuffed Animal House came the pungent\nodor of box.\n\nHelena Richie, standing by a bed of crown-imperials, bareheaded, a\ntrowel in her gloved hand, her smooth cheek flushed with the unwonted\nexertion of planting seeds, caught the exquisite breath of the box, and\nsighed; then, listlessly, she turned to walk back towards the house.\nBefore she reached it the gate clicked and Dr. King came up the path.\nShe saw him and looked hurriedly about, as if seeking a way of escape,\nbut it was too late.\n\n\"Gardening?\" he called to her.\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, and her smile like reluctant sunshine did not betray\nto the doctor that he was not welcome.\n\n\"Don't work too hard,\" he cautioned her. It seemed to William King,\nlooking at her with wondering admiration, that she was too delicate a\ncreature to handle a trowel. There was a certain soft indolence in the\nway she moved that was a delight to his eye. It occurred to him that he\nwould ask his Martha why she didn't wear gardening-gloves. Mrs. Richie\nwore them, and as she pulled one off he saw how soft and white her hand\nwas....\n\n\"How's the patient?\" he asked.\n\n\"Poor Maggie? Oh, she's pretty uncomfortable I'm afraid.\"\n\nThey had gone together to the front porch, and as she stood on the\nlower step looking up at him, the sunshine suddenly filled her eyes\nwith limpid brown light. \"Maggie is in her room in the ell--the first\ndoor on the left. Shall I show you the way?\"\n\n\"I know the way,\" he said.\n\nMrs. Richie sat down on the porch step to wait for him. She had nothing\nelse to do. She never had anything to do. She had tried to be\ninterested in the garden, and bought a trowel and some seeds and\nwandered out into the borders; but a manufactured interest has no\nstaying quality--especially if it involves any hard work. She was glad\nwhen William King came back and sat down beside her; sickness was not\nan agreeable topic, but it was a topic.\n\n\"Maggie will be all right in two or three days, but don't let her go\ninto the kitchen before Monday. A bad throat pulls you down. And she's\nhad a good deal of pain.\"\n\n\"Oh, poor Maggie!\" she said wincing.\n\n\"A sore throat is nothing so very dreadful,\" William assured her with\nopen amusement.\n\nShe drew a breath of relief. \"Oh, I'm glad! I can't bear to think of\npain.\" Then she looked at him anxiously. \"Don't you think she can cook\nbefore Monday? I'm so tired of scrappy dinners.\n\n\"I'm afraid not,\" William King said. \"I'm very sorry.\" But that his\nsorrow was not for Maggie was evident.\n\n\"Oh, dear!\" said Mrs. Richie; and then her eyes crinkled with gayety at\nhis concern. \"I don't really mind, Dr. King.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't blame you if you did. Nobody likes scrappy dinners. I wish\nyou would come down and have dinner with us?\"\n\n\"Oh, thank you, no,\" she said. And the sudden shy retreat into her\nhabitual reserve was followed by a silence that suggested departure to\nthe doctor. As he got up he remembered Dr. Lavendar and the little boy,\nbut he was at a loss how to introduce the subject. In his perplexity he\nfrowned, and Mrs. Richie said quickly:\n\n\"Of course she sha'n't do any work. I'm not so bad-tempered as you\nthink; I only meant that I don't like discomfort.\"\n\n\"_You_ bad-tempered?\" he said. \"No, indeed! You're just the opposite.\nThat's why I suggested you when I heard about this boy.\"\n\n\"What boy?\"\n\n\"Why, a little fellow of seven--David his name is--that Dr. Lavendar is\ntrying to find a home for. And I thought perhaps you--\"\n\n\"--would take him?\" cried Mrs. Richie in astonishment, and then she\nlaughed. \"_I!_\"\n\n\"Why, it occurred to me that perhaps you might be lonely, and--\"\n\nHelena Richie stopped laughing; she pulled off her other glove and\nlooked down at her white hands. \"Well, yes, I'm lonely. But--I don't\nlike children, Dr. King.\"\n\n\"You don't?\" he said blankly, and in his surprise he sat down again.\n\"Oh, I'm sure that's only because you don't know them. If you had ever\nknown a child--\"\n\n\"I have,\" Mrs. Richie said, \"one.\" Her voice was bleak; the gayety had\ndropped out of it; for an instant she looked old. William King\nunderstood.\n\n\"It died?\"\n\nShe nodded. She began to pull her gloves on again, smoothing down each\nfinger carefully and not looking at him.\n\n\"A little girl?\"\n\n\"Boy.\" She turned her face away, but he saw her chin tremble. There was\na moment's silence; then the doctor said with curious harshness.\n\n\"Well, anyhow, you know what it means to have owned your own.\"\n\n\"Better not have known!\"\n\n\"I can't feel that. But perhaps I don't understand.\"\n\n\"You don't understand.\" Her head, with its two soft braids wound around\nit like a wreath, was bent so that he could not see her face. \"Dr.\nKing, his father--hurt him. Yes; hurt a little baby, eight months and\ntwelve days old. He died seven weeks later.\"\n\nWilliam drew in his breath; he found no words.\n\n\"That was twelve years ago, but I can't seem to--to get over it,\" she\nsaid with a sort of gasp.\n\n\"But how--\" Dr. King began.\n\n\"Oh, he was not himself. He was--happy, I believe you call it 'happy'?\"\n\n\"How did you bear it!\"\n\n\"I didn't bear it I suppose. I never have borne it!\"\n\n\"Did he repent before he died?\" William King said passionately.\n\n\"Before he--?\" Her voice suddenly shook; she made elaborate pretence of\ncalmness, fastening her gloves and looking at them critically; then she\nsaid: \"Yes, Dr. King; he repented. He repented!\"\n\n\"If there ever was excuse for divorce, you had it!\"\n\n\"You don't think there ever is?\" she asked absently.\n\n\"No,\" William said. \"I suppose you'll think I'm very old-fashioned, but\nI don't, unless--\" he stopped short; he could not have put his\nqualifying thought into words to any woman, especially not to this\nwoman, so like a girl in spite of her thirty-odd years. \"You see,\" he\nsaid, awkwardly, \"it's such an unusual thing. It never happened in Old\nChester; why, I don't believe I ever saw a--a divorced person in my\nlife!\"\n\n\"Well,\" she said, \"anyhow, I didn't get a divorce.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie!\" he said, blushing to his temples, \"you didn't think I\nthought of such a thing?\"\n\nBut it was plain that she regretted her confidence; she rose with the\nevident purpose of changing the subject. \"I must go and put in some\nmore seeds. Why doesn't Dr. Lavendar keep this little boy? After all,\nhe's lonely himself.\"\n\n\"Well, he's an old man you know, and--\"\n\n\"Dr. King,\" she broke in, \"I don't mind having the child here for a\nweek while Dr. Lavendar is looking for somebody to take him. Not\nlonger. It wouldn't do. Really it wouldn't. But for a week, perhaps, or\nmaybe two!\"\n\n\"That would be a great help,\" William King said. \"Then Dr. Lavendar can\nhave plenty of time to find a home for him. I would have been glad to\ntake him myself, but just at present it happens that it is not--I\nshould say, Mrs. King is very tired, and--\"\n\n\"It is perfectly convenient for me,\" Mrs. Richie said, \"if you'll only\ncure Maggie! You must cure Maggie, so that she can make cookies for\nhim.\"\n\n\"I'll cure Maggie,\" the doctor assured her smiling, and went away much\npleased with himself. But when he got into his shabby old buggy he\nsighed.\n\n\"Poor soul!\" he said. \"Poor soul!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nWilliam King reported the result of his call to Dr. Lavendar, and when\nhe told the tragic story of the dead baby the old man blinked and shook\nhis head.\n\n\"Do you wonder she doesn't call herself Mrs. _Frederick_ Richie?\"\nWilliam demanded. \"I don't!\"\n\n\"No; that's natural, that's natural,\" Dr. Lavendar admitted.\n\n\"I suppose it was a dreadful thing to say,\" said William, \"but I just\nburst out and said that if ever there was an excuse for divorce, she\nhad it!\"\n\n\"What did she say?\"\n\n\"Oh, of course, that she hadn't been divorced. I was ashamed of myself\nthe next minute for speaking of such a thing.\"\n\n\"Poor child,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"living up there alone, and with such\nmemories! I guess you're right; I guess she'd like to have little\nDavid, if only for company. But I think I'll keep him for a week or two\nmyself, and let her get sort of acquainted with him under my eye. That\nwill give me a chance to get acquainted with her. But to think I\nhaven't known about that baby until now! It must be my fault that she\nwas not drawn to tell me. But I'm afraid I wasn't drawn to her just at\nfirst.\"\n\nYet Dr. Lavendar was not altogether at fault. This newcomer in Old\nChester was still a stranger to everybody, except to Sam Wright's Sam\nand to William King. To be sure, as soon as she was settled in her\nhouse Old Chester had called and asked her to tea, and was confused and\nannoyed because its invitations were not accepted. Furthermore, she did\nnot return the calls. She went to church, but not very regularly, and\nshe never stopped to gossip in the vestibule or the church-yard. Even\nwith Dr. Lavendar she was remote. The first time he went to see her he\nasked, with his usual directness, one or two questions: Did Mr. Pryor\nlive in Mercer? No; he had business that brought him there\noccasionally. Where did he live? In Philadelphia. Had she any relatives\nin this part of the world--except her brother? No, none; none anywhere.\nWas Mr. Pryor married? Yes. Had he any family? One daughter; his wife\nwas dead. \"And you have lost your husband?\" Dr. Lavendar said, gently.\n\"This is a lonely life for you here, I am afraid.\"\n\nBut she said oh, no; not at all; she liked the quiet. Then, with faint\nimpatience as if she did not care to talk about her own affairs, she\nadded that she had always lived in the East; \"but I find it very\npleasant here,\" she ended vaguely.\n\nDr. Lavendar had gone away uneasy and puzzled. Why didn't she live with\nher brother? Family differences no doubt. Curious how families fall\nout! \"You'd think they'd be glad to hang together,\" the solitary old\nman thought; \"and they are not necessarily bad folk who quarrel. Look\nat Sam and his boy. Both of 'em good as gold. But it's in the blood\nthere,\" he said to himself sighing.\n\nSam and his son were not bad folk. The boy had nothing bad about him;\nnothing worse than an unexpectedness that had provided Old Chester with\nsmiles for many years. \"No; he is not bad; I have seen to _that_,\" his\nfather used to say. \"He's hardly been out of my sight twenty-four hours\nat a time. And I put my foot down on college with all its temptations.\nHe's good--if he's nothing else!\" And certainly Samuel Wright was good\ntoo. Everybody in Old Chester said so. He said so himself. \"I, my dear\nEliza, have nothing with which to reproach myself,\" he used to tell his\nwife ponderously in moments of conjugal unbending. \"I have done my\nduty. I always do my duty; under all circumstances. I am doing my duty\nnow by Sam.\"\n\nThis was when he and his son fell out on one point or another, as they\nhad begun to do as soon as young Sam learned to talk; and all because\nthe father insisted upon furnishing the boy with his own most excellent\nprinciples and theories, instead of letting the lad manufacture such\nthings for himself. Now when Sam was twenty-three the falling-out had\nbecome chronic. No doubt it was in the blood, as Dr. Lavendar said.\nSome thirty years before, Sam senior, then a slim and dreamy youth,\nlight-hearted and given to writing verses, had fallen out with his\nfather, old Benjamin Wright; fallen out so finally that in all these\nyears since, the two men, father and son, had not spoken one word to\neach other. If anybody might have been supposed to know the cause of\nthat thirty-year-old feud it was Dr. Lavendar. He certainly saw the\nbeginning of it....\n\nOne stormy March evening Samuel Wright, then twenty-four years old,\nknocked at the Rectory door; Dr. Lavendar, shielding his lamp from the\nwind with one hand, opened it himself.\n\n\"Why, Sam, my boy,\" he said and stopped abruptly. He led the way into\nhis study and put the lamp down on the table. \"Something is the matter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"What is it, Samuel?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you, sir.\"\n\n\"Does your father know?\"\n\n\"My father knows.... I will tell you this, Dr. Lavendar--that so help\nme God, I will never speak to my father again.\"\n\nThe young man lifted one hand; his face was dreadful to look upon. Then\ntrying to speak in a natural voice he asked if he might stay at the\nRectory for that night.\n\nDr. Lavendar took two turns about his study, then he said, \"Of course\nyou may, Samuel, but I shall feel it my duty to acquaint your father\nwith the fact.\"\n\n\"Just as you please, sir.\"\n\n\"And Sam--I hope the night will bring wisdom.\"\n\nSam was silent.\n\n\"I shall see your father in the morning and try to clear this thing up.\"\n\n\"Just as you please, sir. I would like to go to my room now if you have\nno objection.\"\n\nAnd that was all Dr. Lavendar got out of the son.\n\nHe lighted a lamp and silently preceded his guest up-stairs; then he\nwent back to his study and wrote a line to the father. He sent it out\nto the Wright house and sat up until midnight waiting for an answer.\nNone came. \"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar at last trudging up to bed, \"the\nboy comes by his obstinacy honestly.\" The next morning he went early to\nsee Mr. Benjamin Wright. But as far as any straightening out of the\ntrouble went or any enlightenment as to its cause, he might as well\nhave stayed at home.\n\n\"Sam send you?\"\n\n\"No; I came to see what I could do for you both. I take it for granted\nthat Sam is at fault in some way? But he is a good boy, so I am sure he\ncan be made to see his error.\"\n\n\"Did he tell you what was the trouble?\"\n\n\"No; will you?\"\n\n\"Let him come back and behave himself!\" the older man said.\n\nDr. Lavendar thrust out his lower lip with a thoughtful frown. \"It\nwould expedite things, Wright, if you could tell me a little about the\naffair?\"\n\nMr. Wright hesitated. He thrust his hand down into a blue ginger-jar\nfor a piece of dried orange-skin and bit at it as if to steady his\nlips. \"Sam can tell you if he wants to. He has perhaps informed you\nthat he wishes to see the world? That he thinks life here very narrow?\nNo? Well, I sha'n't quote him. All I shall say, is that I am doing my\nduty to him. I've always done my duty to him. If he sees fit to set up\nhis own Ebenezer, and say he won't speak to me--I suppose he conveyed\nthat filial sentiment to you?--he can do so. When he gets hungry he can\nspeak. That's what other puppies do when they are hungry.\"\n\nAnd that was all Dr. Lavendar got out of the father....\n\nThis was thirty-two years ago. Sain Wright may have been hungry, but he\nnever spoke. Instead, he worked. Old Chester seethed with curiosity for\na while--to see Benjamin Wright pass his son with a contemptuous stare,\nto see Sam pass his father without a glance was very exciting. But\nexcitement ebbs in thirty-two years. For one thing, old Mr. Wright came\nless often into town--because he could not bear to meet his son, people\nsaid; and Samuel never took the hill road out of Old Chester for a\ncorresponding reason. Furthermore, it was hard to connect Samuel with\nanything so irrational as a quarrel, for every year he grew in solemn\ncommon sense. Benjamin Wright's growth was all in the way of temper; at\nleast so his boy Simmons, a freckled mulatto of sixty years, informed\nOld Chester.\n\n\"He 'ain't got no human feelin's, 'cept for them there canaries,\"\nSimmons used to say in an aggrieved voice; \"he'll stand and look at 'em\nand chirp to 'em by the hour--an' 'en he'll turn round and swear at you\n'nough to take your leg off,\" Simmons said, bitterly. Simmons did his\nbest for the canaries which he detested, cleaning out the cages and\nscraping the perches and seeing that the seed-trays and bath-tubs were\nalways full; he did his best conscientiously, and it was hard to be\n\"swore at when you 'ain't done nothin'.\" Perhaps Benjamin Wright had\nsome \"human feelings\" for his grandson, Sam; but certainly Simmons's\nopinion was justified by his treatment of his granddaughters. When by\ntheir father's orders the little girls came up to the lonely house on\nthe hill, the old man used to pitch small coins to them and tell them\nto go and look at the canaries,--\"and then clear out. Simmons, give 'em\nsome cake or something! Good-by. Good-by. Clear out.\" Long before he\nhad settled into such dreary living, the son with whom he had\nquarrelled had made a life of his own. His slimness and gayety had\ndisappeared as well as his dreaminess and versifying instincts.\n\"Poetry?\" he had been heard to say, \"why, there isn't a poem that was\never written that I'd take five minutes out of my business to read!\" It\nseemed as if the quarrel had wrenched him from the grooves, physical\nand spiritual, in which Nature had meant him to run and started him on\nlines of hard common sense. He was intensely positive; heavy and\npompous and painfully literal; inclined to lay down the law to\neverybody; richer than most of us in Old Chester, and full of solemn\nresponsibilities as burgess and senior warden and banker. His air of\naggressive integrity used to make the honestest of us feel as if we had\nbeen picking pockets! Yes; a good man, as Old Chester said.\n\nYears ago Dr. Lavendar had given up trying to reconcile the two\nWrights; years ago Old Chester's speculations languished and died out.\nOnce in a while some one remembered the quarrel and said, \"What in the\nworld could it have been about?\" And once in a while Samuel's own\nchildren asked awkward questions. \"Mother, what was father's row with\ngrandfather?\" And Mrs. Wright's answer was as direct as the question.\n\"I don't know. He never told me.\"\n\nWhen this reply was made to young Sam he dropped the subject. He had\nbut faint interest in his father, and his grandfather with whom he took\ntea every Sunday night was too important a person to connect with so\ntrivial an affair as a quarrel.\n\nThis matter of offspring is certainly very curious. Why should the\nsolid Samuel Wright and his foolish, obedient Eliza have brought into\nthe world a being of mist and fire? A beautiful youth, who laughed or\nwept or sung aloud, indifferent to all about him! Sometimes Sam senior\nused to look at his son and shake his head in bewildered astonishment;\nbut often he was angry, and oftener still--though this he never\nadmitted--hurt. The boy, always impersonally amiable, never thought it\nworth while to explain himself; partly because he was not interested in\nhis father's opinion of his conduct, and partly because he knew he\ncould not make himself understood.\n\n\"But who, my dear Eliza,\" Samuel would say to his wife--\"who could\nunderstand such a boy? Look at this last performance of his! Purchasing\npictures of _actors_! Where does he get such low tastes?--unless some\nof your family were interested in such things?\"\n\n\"Oh no, Samuel; no, indeed,\" Mrs. Wright protested nervously.\n\n\"And to use money not his own! Do you know what that is called, my dear\nEliza? It is called--\"\n\n\"Oh don't, Samuel.\" whimpered the poor mother.\n\n\"And to think how carefully I have trained him! And all I have done for\nhim. I let him buy that skiff he said he wanted. Absolute waste of\nmoney! Our old rowboat is good enough for the girls, so why isn't it\ngood enough for him? And I never laid a hand on him in punishment\neither; not many fathers can say that.\"\n\nAs for the bank supplies young Sam had explained to his mother that\nthey had been ordered and charged, so what _was_ the matter? And Mrs.\nWright kneading her tear-soaked handkerchief into a ball, cried some\nmore and said:\n\n\"Oh, Sam dear, why do you act so?\"\n\nSam looked at her attentively, wondering why her little nose always\nreddened when she cried. But he waited patiently, until she finished\nher rambling reproaches. It occurred to him that he would tell Mrs.\nRichie all about this matter of the prints. \"She will understand,\" he\nthought.\n\nSam's acquaintance with Mrs. Richie had begun when she was getting\nsettled in her new house. Sam senior, having no desire to climb the\nhill road, sent his various communications to his tenant by his son,\nand afterwards Sam junior had communications of his own to make. He\nfell into the habit of stopping there on Sunday afternoons, quite\noblivious of the fact that Mrs. Richie did not display any pleasure at\nseeing him. After one of these calls he was apt to be late in reaching\n\"The Top,\" as his grandfather's place was called, and old Benjamin\nWright, in his brown wig and moth-eaten beaver hat, would glare at him\nwith melancholy dark eyes.\n\n\"Gad-a-mercy, what do you mean,--getting here at six-five! I have my\ntea at six, sir; at six sharp. Either get here on time or stay away. I\ndon't care which. Do you hear?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" young Sam would murmur.\n\n\"Where have you been? Mooning after that female at the Stuffed Animal\nHouse?\"\n\n\"I had to leave a message, sir, about the lease.\"\n\n\"How long does it take to leave a message about a lease?\"\n\n\"She was not down-stairs and I had to wait--\"\n\n\"_I_ had to wait! That's more to the point. There, don't talk about it.\nYou drive me crazy with your chatter.\"\n\nThen they would sit down to supper in a black silence only broken by an\noccasional twitter from one of the many cages that hung about the room.\nBut afterwards young Sam had his reward; the library, a toby, long\nbefore he was old enough to smoke, and his grandfather reading aloud in\na wonderful voice, deep, sonorous, flexible--Shakespeare, Massinger,\nBeaumont and Fletcher. To be sure, there was nothing personal in such\nreading--it was not done to give pleasure to young Sam. Every night the\nold man rumbled out the stately lines, sitting by himself in this\ngloomy room walled to the ceiling with books, and warmed by a soft-coal\nfire that snapped and bubbled behind the iron bars of the grate.\nSometimes he would burst into angry ecstasy at the beauty of what he\nread \"There! What do you think of that?\"\n\n\"Oh, it's splendid!\"\n\n\"Hah! Much you know about it! There is about as much poetry in your\nfamily as there is in that coal scuttle.\"\n\nIt was when he was eighteen that once the old man let his grandson read\n_The Tempest_ with him. It was a tremendous evening to Sam. In the\nfirst place, his grandfather swore at him with a fury that really\nattracted his attention. But that night the joy of the drama suddenly\npossessed him. The deed was done; the dreaming youth awoke to the\npassion of art. As Benjamin Wright gradually became aware of it delight\nstruggled with his customary anger at anything unexpected. He longed to\nshare his pleasure with somebody; once he mentioned to Dr. Lavendar\nthat \"that cub, Sam, really has something to him!\" After that he took\nthe boy's training seriously in hand, and his artless pride concealed\nitself in a severity that knew no bounds of words. When Sam confessed\nhis wish to write a drama in blank verse, his grandfather swore at him\neagerly and demanded every detail of what he called the \"fool plot of\nthe thing.\"\n\n\"What does that female at the Stuffed Animal House say to the idea of\nyour writing a drama?\" he asked contemptuously.\n\n\"She says I may read it to her.\"\n\n\"Knows as much about dramatic poetry as you do I suppose? When you\nfinish the first act bring it to me. I'll tell you how bad it is.\"\n\nHis eager scoffing betrayed him, and every Sunday night, in spite of\nslaughtering criticism the boy took courage to talk of his poem. He had\nno criticism from Mrs. Richie.\n\nWhen he first began to call at the Stuffed Animal House she had been\ncoldly impatient, then uneasy then snubbing. But nothing can be so\nobtuse as a boy; it never occurs to him that he is not wanted. Sam\ncontinued to call and to tell her of his play and to look at her with\nbeautiful, tragic eyes, that by and by openly adored. Inevitably the\ncoldness to which he was so calmly impervious wore off; a boy's\ninnocent devotion must touch any woman no matter how self-absorbed she\nmay be. Mrs. Richie began to be glad to see him. As for his drama, it\nwas beautiful, she said.\n\n\"No,\" Sam told her, \"it isn't--yet. You don't know. But I like to read\nit to you, even if you don't.\" His candor made her laugh, and before\nshe knew it in spite of the difference in their years they were friends\nAs William King said, she was lonely, and Sam's devotion was at least\nan interest. Besides, she really liked the boy; he amused her, and her\nempty days were so devoid of amusement! \"I can't read novels _all_ the\ntime,\" she complained. In this very bread-and-butter sort of interest\nshe had no thought of possible consequences to Sam. A certain pleasant\nindolence of mind made it easy not to think of consequences at all. But\nhe had begun to love her--with that first passion of youth so divinely\ntender and ridiculous! After a while he talked less of his play and\nmore of himself. He told her of his difficulties at home, how he hated\nthe bank, and how stupid the girls were.\n\n\"Lydia is the nicest, but she has no more imagination than a turnip.\nThey are very uninteresting--my family,\" he said meditatively. \"I don't\nlike any of them--except mother. Mother hasn't any sense, but she's\ngood,\" Sam ended earnestly.\n\n\"Oh, but you mustn't say things like that!\"\n\n\"Why not? They're true,\" he said with a surprised look.\n\n\"Well, but we don't always tell the truth right out,\" she reminded him.\n\n\"I do,\" said Sam, and then explained that he didn't include his\ngrandfather in his generalization. \"Grandfather's bully; you ought to\nhear him swear!\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't want to!\" she said horrified.\n\n\"I told him that I burned the prints up,\" Sam went on. \"And he said,\n'good riddance to bad rubbish.' That was just like grandfather! Of\ncourse he did say that I was a d--I mean, a fool, to buy them in the\nfirst place; and I knew I was. But having bought them, the only thing\nto do was to burn them. But father!--\"\n\nMrs. Richie's eyes crinkled with mischievous gayety. \"Poor Mr. Wright!\"\n\nSam dropped his clasped hands between his knees. \"It's queer how I\nalways do the wrong thing. Though it never seems wrong to me. You know\nfather would not let me go to college for fear I'd go to the devil?\" he\nlaughed joyously. \"But I might just as well, for he thinks everything I\ndo in Old Chester is wrong.\" Then he sighed. \"Sometimes I get pretty\ntired of being disapproved of;--especially as I never can understand\nwhy it is. The fact is people are not reasonable,\" he complained. \"I\ncan bear anything but unreasonableness.\"\n\nShe nodded. \"I know, I never could please my grandmother--she brought\nme up. My mother and father died when I was a baby. I think grandmother\nhated me; she thought everything I did was wrong. Oh, I was so\nmiserable! And when I was eighteen I got married--and that was a\nmistake.\"\n\nSam gazed up at her in silent sympathy,\n\n\"I mean my--husband was so much older than I,\" she said. Then with an\nevident effort to change the subject she added that one would think it\nwould be simple enough to be happy; \"all my life I only wanted to be\nhappy,\" she said.\n\n\"You're happy now, aren't you?\" he asked,\n\nShe looked down at him--he was sitting on a stool before the fire near\nher feet--and laughed with a catching of the breath. \"Oh, yes, yes; I'm\nhappy.\"\n\nAnd Sara caught his breath too, for there were tears in her eyes.\n\nBut instantly she veered away from personalities. \"What is that scar on\nyour wrist?\"\n\nSam looked down at his hands clasped about his knees, and blushed\nfaintly. \"Oh, nothing; I was very young when that happened.\"\n\n\"How did it happen?\" she asked absently. It was often possible to start\nSam talking and then think her own thoughts without interruption.\n\n\"Why, I was about twelve, I believe,\" Sam said, \"and Miss Ellen\nBailey--she used to teach school here, then she got married and went\nout West;--she gave me a little gold image of Pasht, at least I thought\nit was gold. It was one of those things you ladies wear on your\nwatch-chains, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" she said indolently.\n\n\"Well, I took a tremendous fancy to it. But it seems it wasn't gold, it\nwas brass, and somebody told me so; I think it was Miss Ellen herself.\nI was so disappointed, I didn't want to live--queer! I can remember now\njust how I felt; a sort of sinking, here;\" Sam laid his hand on his\nbreast, \"So I decided to throw myself out of the window. I did; but\nunfortunately--\"\n\n \"You threw yourself out of the window!\" she is interrupted horrified.\n\nSam laughed. \"Oh, well, I wasn't successful: I continued to live.\nUnfortunately my trousers caught on the grape trellis under the window,\nand there I hung! It must have been pretty funny--though I didn't think\nso at the time. First place, I tore my wrist on a nail--that's the\nscar; and then father caught me and sent me to bed for being a fool; so\nI didn't gain anything.\" His lip drooped. His feeling for his father\nwas a candid mixture of amusement and contempt.\n\n\"But do you always act on the spur of the moment?\" she said astonished.\n\nSam laughed and said he supposed so. \"I am a good deal of a fool,\" he\nadded simply.\n\n\"Well,\" she said sighing, \"it's dangerous to be like that. I know,\nbecause I--I am a good deal of a fool myself.\" Then again, abruptly,\nshe changed the subject. \"What do you think? I'm going to have some\ncompany!\"\n\nSam frowned. \"Your brother?\"\n\n\"No, oh no; not--Mr. Pryor.\" Then she told him that Dr. Lavendar had\nasked her if she would look after a little boy for him for a few weeks.\n\nSam was not responsive. Little boys were a great deal of trouble, he\nsaid.\n\n\"Come now; how long since--\"\n\nSam's limpid deer's-eyes reproached her silently.\n\n\"How shall I amuse him?\" she said.\n\nAnd Sam eager to serve her promised to find a pair of rabbits for the\nchild. \"I used to like rabbits when I was young,\" he explained.\n\nAt last, after his hostess had swallowed many yawns, Sam reluctantly\nsaid good night. He went bounding down the hill in the darkness, across\nthe fields, through the woods. In the starlight, the great world lay\ndim and lovely before him--it belonged to him! He felt the joyous\nbuffet of the night wind upon his face, the brush of boughs against his\nshoulder, the scent of young ferns, and the give of the spongy earth\nunder his feet; he sprang in long leaps over the grass, the tears were\nwet upon his fresh cheeks, he sang aloud. But he did not know what he\nsang; in his young breast, Love, like some warm living thing, stirred,\nand lifted glorious wings and drove his voice throbbing and exultant to\nhis lips! As he came down Main Street, the church clock struck eleven.\nBut it might have struck twelve and he would not have been disturbed.\n\nStanding in the doorway of the Wright house in thunderous silence the\nsenior warden, lamp in hand awaited his son. As Sam entered, the\nsilence broke into a flash of crackling and scathing contempt.\n\n\"It does not occur to you, sir, I suppose, that a lady may find your\nsociety tiresome? It is after eleven!\"\n\nSam smiling to himself hung up his hat. He was reflecting that he must\nsee about those rabbits at once.\n\n\"You will understand, sir, if you please, that while you do me the\nhonor to live under my roof you will return to it at night at a\nrespectable hour. I will not sit up for you in this way. You will be in\nat ten o'clock. Do you hear?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Sam; and added with sudden awakening of interest, \"if\nyou would let me have a key, father, I--\"\n\n\"I will not let you have a key! I will have no boy entering my house at\nmidnight with a key! Do you understand?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Sam murmured falling back into his own thoughts.\n\nMr. Wright, still talking, stood at the foot of the stairs so that his\nson could not pass him. Sam yawned, then noticed how in oratorical\ndenunciation his father's long upper lip curved like the beak of a bird\nof prey; behind his hand he tried to arch his own lip in the same\nmanner. He really did not hear what was said to him; he only sighed\nwith relief when it was over and he was allowed to go up-stairs and\ntumble sleepily into bed.\n\nAs for his long-suffering hostess, when she was alone Helena Richie\nrubbed her eyes and began to wake up. \"That boy never knows when to\ngo!\" she said to herself with amused impatience. Then her mind turned\nto her own affairs. This little boy, David Allison, would be in Old\nChester on Saturday; he was to stay with Dr. Lavendar for a while, and\nthen come to her for a week or two. But she was beginning to regret the\ninvitation she had sent through Dr. King. It, would be pleasant to have\nthe little fellow, but \"I can't keep him, so why should I take him even\nfor a week? I might get fond of him! I'm afraid it's a mistake. I\nwonder what Lloyd would think? I don't believe he really loves\nchildren. And yet--he cared when the baby died.\"\n\nShe pulled a low chair up to the hearth and sat down, her elbows on her\nknees, her fingers ruffling the soft locks about her forehead. \"Oh, my\nbaby! my little, little baby!\" she said in a broken whisper. The old\npassion of misery swept over her; she shrank lower in her chair,\nrocking herself to and fro, her fingers pressed against her eyes. It\nwas thirteen years ago, and yet even now in these placid days in Old\nChester, to think of that time brought the breathless smother of agony\nback again--the dying child, the foolish brute who had done him to\ndeath.... If the baby had lived he would be nearly fourteen years old\nnow; a big boy! She wondered whether his hair would still have been\ncurly? She knew in her heart that she never could have had the courage\nto cut those soft curls off--and yet, boys hated curls, she thought;\nand smiled proudly. He would have been so manly! If he had lived, how\ndifferent everything would have been, how incredibly different! For of\ncourse, if he had lived she would have been happy in spite of\nFrederick. And happiness was all she wanted.\n\nShe brushed the tears from her flushed cheeks, and propping her chin in\nher hands stared into the fire, thinking--thinking.... Her childhood\nhad been passed with her father's mother, a silent woman who with\nbitter expectation of success had set herself to discover in Helena\ntraits of the poor, dead, foolish wife who had broken her son's heart.\n\"Grandmamma hated me,\" Helena Richie reflected. \"She begrudged me the\nleast little bit of pleasure.\" Yet her feeling towards the hard old\nwoman now was not resentment; it was only wonder. \"_Why_ didn't she\nlike me to be happy?\" she thought. It never occurred to her that her\ngrandmother who had guarded and distrusted her had also loved her. \"Of\ncourse I never loved her,\" she reminded herself, \"but I wouldn't have\nwanted her to be unhappy. She wanted me to be wretched. Curious!\" Yet\nshe realized that at that time she had not desired love; she had only\ndesired happiness. Looking back, she pondered on her astounding\nimmaturity; what a child she had been to imagine that merely to get\naway from that gray life with her grandmother would be happiness, and\nso had married Frederick. Frederick.... She was eighteen, and so\npretty. She smiled remembering how pretty she was. And Frederick had\nmade such promises! She was to have every kind of happiness. Of course\nshe had married him. Thinking of it now, she did not in the least blame\nherself. If the dungeon doors open and the prisoner catches a glimpse\nof the green world of sunshine, what happens? Of course she had married\nFrederick! As for love, she never thought of it; it did not enter into\nthe bargain--at least on her part. She married him because he wanted\nher to, and because he would make her happy. And, oh, how glad her\ngrandmother had been! At the memory of that passionate satisfaction,\nHelena clasped her hands over the two brown braids that folded like a\nchaplet around her head and laughed aloud, the tears still glittering\non her lashes. Her prayers, her grandmother said, had been answered;\nthe girl was safe--an honest wife! \"Now lettest Thou Thy servant--\" the\nold woman murmured, with dreadful gratitude in her voice.\n\nThinking of that gratitude, the tears dried upon Helena's cheeks, hot\nwith the firelight and with her thoughts. \"Suppose she had lived just a\nlittle longer?--just three years longer? Where would her gratitude have\nbeen then?\" Helena's face overflowed with sudden gay malice, but below\nthe malice was weariness. \"You are happy now--aren't you?\" Sam Wright\nhad said.... Why, yes, certainly. Frederick had \"repented,\" as Dr. King\nexpressed it; she had seen to his \"_repentance_\"! That in itself was\nsomething to have lived for--a searing flame of happiness. Enough one\nmight think to satisfy her--if she could only have forgotten the baby.\nAt first she had believed that she could forget him. Lloyd had told her\nshe would. How young she had been at twenty-one to think that any one\ncould forget! She smiled dryly at her childish hope and at Lloyd's\nignorance; but his tenderness had been so passionately convincing,--and\nhow good he had been about the baby! He had let her talk of him all she\nwanted to. Of course, after a while he got a little tired of the\nsubject, and naturally. It was Frederick's baby! And Lloyd hated\nFrederick as much as she did. How they used to talk about him in those\nfirst days of his \"repentance!\"... \"Have you heard anything?\" \"Yes;\nrunning down-hill every day.\" \"Is there any news?\" \"Yes, he'll drink\nhimself into his grave in six months.\" Ah, that was happiness\nindeed!--\"his _grave_, in six months!\"... She flung herself back in her\nchair, her hands dropping listlessly into her lap. \"Oh--my little, dead\nbaby!\"...\n\nIt was nearly midnight; the fire had burned quite out; the room had\nfallen into shadows. Oh, yes, as she told Sam Wright, she was happy.\nHer face fell into lines of dull indifference.\n\nShe got up, wearily, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, as a child\ndoes; then suddenly remembered that she had reached no conclusion about\nthis little boy Dr. Lavendar was interested in. Suppose she should get\nfond of him and want to keep him--how would Lloyd feel about it? Would\nhe think the child might take her thoughts from him? But at that she\nsmiled; he could not be so foolish! \"I'll write and ask him, anyhow. Of\ncourse, if he objects, I wouldn't dream of it. I wonder what he will\nthink?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nMr. Lloyd Pryor thought very deeply after he read Mrs. Richie's letter.\nHe sat in his office and smoked and reflected. And as he reflected his\nface brightened. It was a handsome face, with a mouth that smiled\neasily. His heavy-lidded eyes behind astonishingly thick and curling\nlashes were blue; when he lifted them the observer felt a slight shock,\nfor they were curiously motionless; generally, however, the heavy lids\ndrooped, lazily good-humored. He read Mrs. Richie's letter and tapped\nthe edge of his desk with strong, white fingers.\n\n\"Nothing could be better,\" he said.\n\nThen suddenly he decided that he would go to Old Chester and say so in\nperson. \"I suppose I ought to go, anyhow; I haven't been there for six\nweeks. Yes; this child is just what she needs.\"\n\nAnd that was how it came about that when he went home he pulled his\ndaughter Alice's pretty ear and said he was going away that night. \"I\nshall take the ten-o'clock train,\" he said.\n\nHis girl--a pleasant, flower-like young creature--scolded him\naffectionately. \"I wish you wouldn't take so many journeys. Promise to\nbe careful; I worry about you when I'm not with you to take care of\nyou,\" she said, in her sweet, anxious young voice. Her father, smiling,\npromised prudence, and for the mere joy of watching her let her pack\nhis bag, lecturing him as she did so about his health. \"Now that you\nhave undertaken all this extra business of the Pryor-Barr people, you\nowe it to your stockholders to be careful of your health,\" she told\nhim, refusing to notice his smile when he solemnly agreed with her.\n\n\"What would happen to the Company if anything happened to you?\" she\ninsisted, rubbing her soft cheek against his.\n\n\"Ruin, of course.\"\n\nBut she would not laugh. \"And what would happen to _me_?\"\n\n\"Ah, well, that's a different matter,\" he admitted, and kissed her and\nbade _her_ be careful. \"What would happen to me if anything happened to\nyou?\" he teased.\n\nShe hung about him, brooding over him like a little mother dove with a\nhundred questions. \"Are you going anywhere except to Mercer?\"\n\n\"Well, yes; possibly.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Oh, to a place called Old Chester.\"\n\n\"Who are you going to see there?\"\n\n\"Nobody you know, Gas-bag! I never heard of such curiosity!\"\n\n\"Ah, but I like to think about you when you are away, and know just\nwhere you are and what you are doing every minute of the time.\"\n\nAt which he laughed and kissed her, and was off to take the night train\nfor Mercer, which made it possible for him to catch the morning stage\nfor Old Chester.\n\nThere was one other passenger in the stage--a little boy with a soft\nthatch of straight, yellow hair that had been chopped short around the\nbowl of some domestic barber. He sat on the opposite seat and held a\nbundle in his arms, peering out over the top of it with serious blue\neyes.\n\n\"Well, young man, where are you bound?\" inquired Mr. Pryor. When the\nchild said \"Old Chester,\" Lloyd Pryor tossed a quarter out of the\nwindow to a hostler and bade him go into the stage-house and buy an\napple. \"Here, youngster,\" he said, when the man handed it up to him,\n\"take that.--Keep the change, my man.\"\n\nWhen it did not involve any personal inconvenience, Mr. Lloyd Pryor had\na quick and cordial kindliness which most people found very attractive.\nThe child, however, did not seem much impressed; he took the apple\ngravely, and said, \"Thank you, sir;\" but he was not effusive. He looked\nout of the window and hugged his bundle. Half-way to Old Chester he\nbegan to nibble the apple, biting it very slowly, so that he might not\nmake a noise, and thrusting it back into his pocket after each bite\nwith an apprehensive glance at the gentleman in the corner. When he had\nfinished it and swallowed the core, he said, suddenly:\n\n\"Mister, have you any little boys and girls?\"\n\nHis companion, who had quite forgotten him, looked over the top of his\nnewspaper with a start. \"What? What did you say? Oh--boys and girls?\nYes; I have a girl.\" He smiled as he spoke.\n\n\"Is she as big as me?\"\n\nLloyd Pryor put down his paper and twitched his glasses off. \"About\ntwice as big I should think,\" he said kindly.\n\n\"Twice as big! And twice as old?\"\n\n\"How old are you?\"\n\n\"I'm seven, going on eight.\"\n\n\"Well, then, let's see. Alice is--she is twice and five years more as\nold. What do you make of that?\"\n\nThe child began to count on his fingers, and, after looking at him a\nminute or two with some amusement, Mr. Pryor returned to his paper.\nAfter a while the boy said, suddenly, \"In the flood the ducks couldn't\nbe drowned, could they?\"\n\nBut Lloyd Pryor had become interested in what he was reading. \"You talk\ntoo much, young man,\" he said coldly, and there was no further\nconversation. The old stage jogged along in the uncertain sunshine;\nsometimes Mr. Pryor smoked, once he took a nap. While he slept the\nlittle boy looked at him furtively, but by and by he turned to the\nwindow, absorbed in his own affairs.\n\nAs the stage pulled into Old Chester, Mr. Pryor roused himself. \"Well,\nmy boy, here we are,\" he said.\n\nThe child quivered and his hands tightened on his bundle, but he said\nnothing. When they drew up at the tavern, there was Danny and Goliath\nand Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Mary gave me some gingerbread for him,\" Dr. Lavendar was saying to Van\nHorn. \"I've got it tied up in my handkerchief. Why,\" he interrupted\nhimself, screwing up his eyes and peering into the dusk of the old\ncoach--\"why, I believe here's Mrs. Richie's brother too!\"\n\nAs the horses came to a standstill, Dr. Lavendar was in quite a flutter\nof eagerness. But when the very little boy clambered out, the old\nminister only shook hands with him, man fashion, with no particular\ndisplay of interest.\n\n\"I'm glad to see you, David. I am Dr. Lavendar.\" Then he turned to say\n\"How do you do?\" to Mr. Pryor. \"Why, look here,\" he added in a cheerful\nafter-thought, \"I'm going up your way; get out and come along in my\nbuggy. Hey! Danny! Stop your snarling. The scoundrel's temper is\ngetting bad in his old age. Those snails Jonas drives can't keep up\nwith my trotter.\"\n\n\"But you have one passenger already,\" Mr. Pryor protested. \"I'll just\ngo on up in the stage, thank you.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Dr. Lavendar said, \"David's bundle is the biggest part of him,\nisn't it, David? We'll leave it with Van Horn and get it as we come\nback. Come along, Mr. Pryor. There, David, tuck yourself down in front;\nDanny can tag behind.\" There was a moment's hesitation, and then Mr.\nPryor did as he was bid. Dr. Lavendar climbed in himself and off they\njogged, while Jonas remarked to Van Horn that the old gentleman wasn't\njust the one to talk about snails, as he looked at it. But Mr. Pryor,\nwatching the April sunshine chased over the hills by warm cloud shadows\nand bursting into joy again on the low meadows, reflected that he had\ndone well for himself in exchanging the dark cavern of the stage for\nDr. Lavendar's easy old buggy and the open air. They stopped a minute\non the bridge to look at the creek swollen by spring rains; it was\ntugging and tearing at the branches that dipped into it, and heaping up\nrocking lines of yellow froth along the banks.\n\n\"In summer that's a fine place to wade,\" Dr. Lavendar observed. David\nglanced up at him and then down at the water in silence.\n\n\"Well, Goliath! at this rate Jonas could beat us,\" said Dr. Lavendar,\nand smacked a rein down on the shaggy old back. David looked around at\nMr. Pryor with sudden interest.\n\n\"Is your name Goliath?\" he asked.\n\nLloyd Pryor was greatly amused. \"I hope you haven't such a thing as a\nsling with you, David?\" he said.\n\nThe little boy grew very red, but made no reply.\n\n\"It's my horse's name,\" Dr. Lavendar told him, so kindly that David did\nnot hear the chuckle in his voice. But the color was hot in the child's\nface for many minutes. He had nothing to say for the rest of the pull\nup the hill, except briefly, \"'Bye,\" when Mr. Pryor alighted at the\ngreen gate of a foot-path that led up to the Stuffed Animal House.\n\n\"I'm very much obliged for the lift, Dr. Lavendar,\" he said in his\ncoldly courteous voice, and turned quickly at an exclamation behind him.\n\n\"Lloyd!\"\n\n\"I've brought your brother home, Mrs. Richie,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nHelena Richie was standing inside the hedge, her face radiant.\n\n\"Oh, Lloyd!\" she said again breathlessly.\n\nMr. Pryor laughed and shook hands with her in somewhat formal greeting.\n\n\"Do you see my other passenger?\" Dr. Lavendar called out. \"He came with\nyour brother. David, suppose you shake hands with Mrs. Richie? I\ngenerally take my hat off, David, when I shake hands with a lady.\"\n\n\"I don't, sir,\" said David, gently, putting a hand out across the\nwheel. Mrs. Richie had not noticed the little boy; but when she took\nhis hand her eyes lingered on his face, and suddenly she drew him\nforward and kissed him.\n\nDavid bore it politely, but he looked over her head at Mr. Pryor.\n\"Mister, Alice is nineteen.\"\n\n\"_What?_\" Mr. Pryor said, his heavy-lidded eyes opening with a blue\ngleam; then he laughed. \"Oh yes, I'd forgotten our sum in arithmetic;\nyes, Alice is nineteen.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Dr. Lavendar said, \"g'long, Goliath!\" and the buggy went\ntugging on up the hill. \"David, if you'll look in my pocket you'll find\nsome gingerbread.\"\n\n David thrust a hand down into the capacious pocket and brought up the\ngingerbread, wrapped in a red silk handkerchief. He offered it silently\nto Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"I don't believe I'll take any. Suppose you eat it, David?\"\n\n\"No, thank you, sir.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar shook his head in a puzzled way.\n\nDavid swallowed nervously. \"Please, sir,\" he said, \"was that lady that\ngentleman's sister?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Dr. Lavendar told him cheerfully.\n\n\"But if she is his sister,\" the little boy reasoned, \"why didn't she\nkiss him? Janey, she--she always gave me forty kisses.\"\n\n\"Just forty?\" Dr. Lavendar inquired, looking at the child over his\nspectacles.\n\nDavid was silent for a moment, then he said, earnestly: \"I never\ncounted. But Janey, she always said 'forty kisses.'\" His whole face\nquivered. A very large tear gathered, trembled, then rolled over; he\nheld his hands together under the lap-robe and looked the other way;\nthen he raised one shoulder and rubbed his cheek against it.\n\n\"I guess Janey was a pretty nice sister,\" Dr. Lavendar said.\n\nDavid's hands tightened; he looked up speechless, into the kind old\nface.\n\n\"David,\" said Dr. Lavendar in a business-like way, \"would you mind\ndriving for me? I want to look over my note-book.\"\n\n\"Driving?\" said David. \"Oh, _my!_\" His cheeks were wet but his eyes\nshone. \"I don't mind, sir. I'd just as lieves as not!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n\"So that's the youngster we're going to adopt, is it?\" Mr. Pryor said;\nthen he looked at Helena through his curling brown lashes, with open\namusement. Her eyes were full of tears.\n\n\"It has been--so long,\" she said faintly.\n\n\"I've been very busy,\" he explained.\n\nShe nodded and smiled. \"Anyhow, you are here now. But, oh, Maggie has a\nsore throat. I don't know what we're going to have for dinner. Oh, how\nglad I am you're here!\" Her face was glowing, but her chin trembled.\n\n\"Why, this is very flattering, I'm sure; I thought you were so taken up\nwith your orphan that you wouldn't care whether I came or not.\"\n\n\"You know that isn't true,\" she said gayly, brushing her cheek against\nhis arm; \"but isn't he a dear little fellow?--though I'm sorry his hair\nisn't curly.\" Then her face changed. \"What did he mean about Alice\nbeing nineteen?\"\n\n\"Oh, Alice? Why, he asked me in the stage if I had any children, and I\nput Alice's age as a sum in mental arithmetic for him. And he asked me\nif my name was Goliath.\"\n\nBut she had forgotten David. \"Lloyd! To think you are here!\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm here, and a hamper is here, too. I hope the stage will bring\nit up pretty soon. I don't believe I could stand an Old Chester bill of\nfare. It's queer about women; they don't care what they eat. I don't\nbelieve you've got anything on hand but bread and jam and tea?\"\n\n\"I care a great deal!\" she assured him laughing, and then looked\nworried. \"Yes, I really have been living on bread and jam.\" She was\nhanging on his arm, and once she kissed his hand. \"Will you go\nupstairs? And I'll see what we can do about food. That dreadful Maggie!\nShe's sick in bed.\"\n\nMr. Pryor looked annoyed. \"Can't she get us something to eat? Ask her,\nNelly; I don't believe it will hurt her. Here; give her that,\" and he\ntook a crumpled bill out of his waistcoat pocket.\n\nShe did not take the money, but her eyes shone. \"You are the most\ngenerous being!\" she said. Then, sobering, she thought of Maggie's\nthroat--hesitated--and Maggie was lost. For when she opened the woman's\ndoor, and in her sweet, appealing voice declared that Mr. Pryor had\ncome unexpectedly, and was so hungry--what _should_ they do?--Maggie,\nwho adored her, insisted upon going down to the kitchen.\n\n\"Oh, Maggie, you oughtn't to! I oughtn't to let you. Maggie, look here:\nyou will be careful, won't you?\"\n\n\"Now, you go right along back to your brother,\" the woman commanded\nsmiling. \"I'm goin' to get into my clothes; t'won't do me a bit of\nharm.\"\n\nAnd Helena, protesting and joyous, fled to her room and to her mirror.\nShe flung off her cambric morning dress and ran to hunt in her wardrobe\nfor something pretty. With girlish hurry she pulled her hair down,\nbraided it afresh, and fastened the burnished plats around her head\nlike a wreath; then she brushed the soft locks in the nape of her neck\nabout her finger, and let them fall into loose curls. She dressed with\nbreathless haste, and when she finished, stood for a minute, her lip\nbetween her teeth, staring at herself in the glass. And as she stared\nher face fell; for as the color and sparkle faded a little, care\nsuddenly looked out of the leaf-brown eyes--care and something like\nfright. But instantly drawing in her breath, she flung her head up as\none who prepares for battle. When she went down-stairs and found Mr.\nPryor waiting for her in the parlor, the sparkle had all come back. She\nhad put on a striped silk dress, faint rose and green, made very full\nin the skirt; her flat lace collar was fastened by a little old pin--an\noval of pearls holding a strand of hair like floss-silk.\n\n\"Why, Nelly,\" her visitor said, \"you look younger every time I see you.\"\n\nShe swept him a great courtesy, making her dress balloon out about her;\nthen she clasped her hands at her throat, her chin resting on the fluff\nof her white undersleeves, and looked up at him with a delighted laugh.\n\"We are not very old, either of us; I am thirty-three and you are only\nforty-six--I call that young. Oh, Lloyd, I was so low-spirited this\nmorning; and now--you are here!\" She pirouetted about the room in a\nburst of gayety.\n\nAs he watched her through half-shut eyes, the bored good humor in his\nface sharpened into something keener; he caught her hand as she whirled\npast, drawing her close to him with a murmured caress. She, pausing in\nher joy, looked at him with sudden intentness.\n\n\"Have you heard anything of--_Frederick?_\"\n\nAt which he let her go again and answered curtly: \"No; nothing.\nPerfectly well, the last I heard. In Paris, and enjoying himself in his\nown peculiar fashion.\"\n\nShe drew in her breath and turned her face away; they were both silent.\nThen she said, dully, that she never heard any news. \"Mr. Raynor sends\nme my accounts every three months, but he never says anything\nabout--Frederick.\"\n\n\"I suppose there isn't anything to say. Look here, Nelly, hasn't that\nstage-driver brought the hamper yet? When are we going to have\nsomething to eat?\"\n\n\"Oh, pretty soon,\" she said impatiently.\n\nThey were standing at one of the long windows in the parlor; through\nthe tilted slats of the Venetian blinds the April sunshine fell in pale\nbars across her hair and dress, across the old Turkey carpet on the\nfloor, across the high white wainscoting and half-way up the\nlandscape-papered walls. The room was full of cheerful dignity; the\nheavy, old-fashioned furniture of the Stuffed Animal House was\nunchanged, even the pictures, hanging rather near the ceiling, had not\nbeen removed--steel-engravings of Landseer's dogs, and old and very\ngood colored prints of Audubon's birds. The mantel-piece of black\nmarble veined with yellow was supported by fluted columns; on it were\ntwo blown-glass vases of decalcomania decoration, then two gilt lustres\nwith prisms, then two hand-screens of woolwork, and in the middle an\normolu clock--\"Iphigenia in Aulis\"--under a glass shade. In the recess\nat one side of the fireplace was a tall bookcase with closed doors, but\na claw-footed sofa stood out from the wall at an angle that prevented\nany access to the books. \"I can't read Stuffed Animal books,\" Helena\nhad long ago confided to Lloyd Pryor. \"The British Classics, if you\nplease! and Baxter's _Saint's Rest_, and _The Lady of the Manor_.\" So\nMr. Pryor made a point of providing her with light literature. He\npulled a paper-covered volume out of his pocket now, and handed it to\nher.\n\n\"Not improving, Nelly, I assure you; and there is a box of candy in the\nhamper.\"\n\nShe thanked him, but put the book down. \"Talk to me, Lloyd. Tell\nme--everything! How are you? How is Alice? Are you very busy with\npolitics and things? Talk to me.\"\n\n\"Well,\" he said good naturedly, \"where am I to begin? Yes: I'm very\nwell. And very busy. And unusually poor. Isn't that interesting?\"\n\n\"Oh, Lloyd! Are you in earnest? Lloyd, you know I have a lot of money,\nand of course, if you want it, it is yours.\"\n\nHe was lounging lazily on the sofa, and drew her down beside him,\nsmiling at her through his curling lashes. \"It isn't as bad as that. It\nis only that I have shouldered the debts of the old Pryor-Barr Co.,\nLimited. You know my grandfather organized it, and my father was\npresident of it, and I served my 'prenticeship to business in it.\"\n\n\"But I thought,\" she said, puzzled, \"you went out of it long ago,\nbefore--before--\"\n\n\"The flood? Yes, my dear, I did. I've only been a silent partner for\nyears--and that in a very small way. But I regret to say that the young\nasses who have been running it have got into trouble. And they propose\ngoing into bankruptcy, confound them! It is very annoying,\" Lloyd Pryor\nended calmly.\n\n\"But I don't understand,\" she said; \"what have you to do with it?\"\n\n\"Well, I've got to turn to and pay their damned debts.\"\n\n\"Pay their debts? But why? Does the law make you?\"\n\n\"The law?\" he said, looking at her with cold eyes. \"I suppose you mean\nstatute law? No, my dear, it doesn't.\"\n\n\"Then I can't understand it,\" she declared laughing.\n\n\"It's nothing very abstruse. I can't have stockholders who trusted our\nold firm cheated by a couple of cousins of mine. I've assumed the\nliabilities--that's all.\"\n\n\"But you don't _have_ to, by law?\" she persisted, still bewildered.\n\n\"My dear Nelly, I don't do things because of the _law_,\" he said dryly.\n\"But never mind; it is going to give me something to do. Tell me about\nyourself. How are you?\"\n\n\"I'm--pretty lonely, Lloyd,\" she said.\n\nAnd he answered, sympathetically, that he had been afraid of that. \"You\nare too much by yourself. Of course, it's lonely for you. I am very\nmuch pleased with this idea of the little boy.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I can't take him.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" he protested, and broke off. \"Nelly, look! You are going to\nhave company.\"\n\nHe had caught sight of some one fumbling with the latch of the green\ngate in the hedge. Helena opened her lips in consternation.\n\n\"Lloyd! It's old Mr. Benjamin Wright. He lives in that big house with\nwhite columns on the top of the hill. Do you suppose he has come to\n_call_?\"\n\n\"Tell your woman to say you are out.\"\n\nBut she shook her head, annoyed and helpless. \"Don't you see how tired\nhe is?--poor old man! Of course, he must come in. Go and help him,\nLloyd.\" She put her hands on his arm. \"Please!\" she said.\n\n\"No, thank you; I have no desire to help old gentlemen.\" And as she\nleft him and ran impetuously to open the door herself, he called after\nher, \"Nelly, don't have dinner held back!\"\n\nMr. Benjamin Wright stood, panting, at the foot of the porch steps; he\ncould hardly lift his head to look up at the figure in the doorway.\n\"You--Mrs. Richie?\" he gasped.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" she said. \"May I help you? These steps are so steep.\"\n\n\"No,\" he snarled. \"Do you think I'm so decrepit that I have to have a\nfemale help me up-stairs?\" Then he began toiling up the steps. \"My name\nis Wright. You know my grandson? Sam? Great fool! I've come to call on\nyou.\" On the porch he drew a long breath, pulled off his mangy old\nbeaver hat, and, with a very courtly bow, held out his hand. \"Madam,\npermit me to pay my respects to you. I am your neighbor. In fact, your\nonly neighbor; without me,\n\n  'Montium domina ut fores silvarumque virentium saltuumque reconditorum\n  amniumque sonantum.'\n\nUnderstand that? No? Good. I don't like learned females.\"\n\nShe took his hand in a bewildered way, glancing back over her shoulder\nat Mr. Pryor, uncertain what she ought to do. Mr. Wright decided for\nher.\n\n\"I know this house,\" he said, pushing past her into the dusky hall;\n\"friend of mine used to live here. Ho! This is the parlor. Well; who's\nthis?\" He stood chewing orange-skin and blinking up at Lloyd Pryor, who\ncame forward reluctantly.\n\n\"My name is Pryor, sir, I--\"\n\n\"Oh! Yes. _I_ know. _I_ know. The lady's brother. Here! Push that chair\nout for me.\"\n\nAnd Mr. Lloyd Pryor found himself bringing a chair forward and taking\nthe hat and stick from the trembling old hand. Helena had gone quickly\ninto the dining-room, and came back with a decanter and glass on a\nlittle tray. She gave a distressed glance at her other guest as though\nto say, \"I can't help it!\"\n\nBenjamin Wright's old head in its brown wig was still shaking with\nfatigue, but under the prickle of white on his shaven jowl the purplish\ncolor came back in mottled streaks. He sipped the sherry breathlessly,\nthe glass trembling in his veined and shrunken hand. \"Well,\" he\ndemanded, \"how do you two like this God-forsaken place?\"\n\nMr. Pryor, looking over their visitor's head at Helena, shrugged his\nshoulders.\n\n\"It is very nice,\" she said vaguely,\n\n\"It's a narrowing place,\" he demurred, \"very narrowing; sit down, sit\ndown, good people! I'll take some more sherry. My grandson,\" he went\non, as Helena filled his glass, \"is always talking about you, madam.\nHe's a great jackass. I'm afraid he bothers you with his calls?\"\n\n\"Oh, not at all,\" Helena said nervously. She sat down on the other side\nof the big rosewood centre-table, glancing with worried eyes at Lloyd\nPryor.\n\n\"Move that lamp contraption,\" commanded Mr. Wright. \"I like to see my\nhostess!\"\n\nAnd Helena pushed the astral lamp from the centre of the table so that\nhis view was unobstructed.\n\n\"Is he a nuisance with his talk about his drama?\"\n\nMr. Wright said, looking across at her with open eagerness in his\nmelancholy eyes.\n\n\"Why, no indeed.\"\n\n\"Do you think it's so very bad, considering?\"\n\n\"It is not bad at all,\" said Mrs. Richie.\n\nHis face lighted like a child's. \"Young fool! As if he could write a\ndrama! Well, madam, I came to ask you to do me the honor of taking\nsupper with me to-morrow night, and then of listening to this wonderful\nproduction. Of course, sir, I include you. My nigger will provide you\nwith a fairly good bottle. Then this grandson of mine will read his\ntruck aloud. But we will fortify ourselves with supper first.\"\n\nHis artless pride in planning this distressing festivity was so\nludicrous that Lloyd Pryor's disgust changed into involuntary mirth.\nBut Helena was plainly nervous. \"Thank you; you are very kind; but I am\nafraid I must say no.\"\n\nMr. Pryor was silently retreating towards the dining-room. As for the\nvisitor, he only had eyes for the mistress of the house.\n\n\"Why should you say no?\"\n\nShe tried to answer lightly. \"Oh, I like to be quiet.\"\n\n\"Quiet?\" cried Benjamin Wright, rapping the table with his wine-glass.\n\"At your age? Nonsense!\" He paused, cleared his throat, and then\nsonorously:\n\n\"'Can you endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister\nmew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to\nthe cold, fruitless moon?' Give me some more sherry. Of course you must\ncome. No use being shy--a pretty creatur' like you! And you said you\nliked the play,\" he added with childlike reproach.\n\nHelena, glad to change the subject, made haste to reassure him. \"I do,\nI do!\" she said, and for a few minutes she kept the old face beaming\nwith her praise of Sam and his work. Unlike his grandson, Mr. Wright\nwas not critical of her criticism. Nothing she could say seemed to him\nexcessive. He contradicted every statement, but he believed it\nimplicitly. Then with a sigh of satisfaction, he returned to his\ninvitation. Helena shook her head decidedly.\n\n\"No; thank you very much. Mr. Pryor couldn't possibly come. He is only\nhere over Sunday, and--\" She looked towards the dining-room for\nprotection, but the door had been gently closed.\n\n\"Hey?\" Benjamin Wright said blankly. \"Well, I won't insist; I won't\ninsist. We'll wait till he goes. Come Monday night.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, her voice fluttering, \"I am sorry but I really can't.\"\n\n\"Why can't you?\" he insisted. \"Come, tell the truth! The advantage of\ntelling the truth, young lady, is that neither God nor the devil can\ncontradict you!\" He laughed, eying her with high good humor.\n\n\"Oh, it's merely--\" she hesitated, and he looked affronted.\n\n\"What! Some female airs about coming to an unmarried man's house?\" Her\ninvoluntary mirth disarmed him. \"No? Well, I'm glad you've got some\nsense. Then you'll come?\"\n\n\"If I went to your house, it would seem unfriendly not to go to other\nhouses.\"\n\n\"Why shouldn't you go to other houses? Done anything you're ashamed\nof?\" He laughed uproariously at his own wit. \"Come now; don't be\nfinikin and ladylike!\"\n\n\"I don't make visits,\" she explained, the color rising angrily in her\ncheeks.\n\n\"Gad-a-mercy! Why not?\" he interrupted. \"Do you think you're too good\nfor us here in Old Chester?\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Wright!\"\n\n\"Or perhaps Old Chester is too good for you?\"\n\nHis face had softened wonderfully; he was looking at her with the same\nquizzical delight with which he would look at one of his canaries when\nhe caught it, and held it struggling in his hand. \"Are we too good for\nyou?\" he jeered, \"too--\"\n\nHe stopped abruptly, his laugh breaking off in the middle. Then his\nmouth fell slowly open in blank amazement; he leaned forward in his\nchair and stared at her without a word.\n\n\"I don't care for society,\" she said, in a frightened way, and rose as\nif to bring the visit to an end.\n\nBut Benjamin Wright sat still, slowly nodding his head. \"You don't care\nfor society? I wonder why.\"\n\n\"Oh, because I am--a very quiet person,\" she stammered.\n\nThe dining-room door opened and Sarah came in, looked about, found the\ndecanter, and withdrew.\n\n\"Where is--that gentleman?\" the old man demanded.\n\n\"Mr. Pryor went in to dinner,\" she said faintly. \"Please excuse him; he\nwas tired.\"\n\nThe silence that fell between them was like a blow. ... Mr. Wright\npulled himself to his feet, and with one shaking hand on the table felt\nhis way around until he stood directly in front of her; he put his face\nclose to hers and stared into her eyes, his lower lip opening and\nclosing in silence. Then, without speaking, he began to grope about on\nthe table for his hat and stick.\n\n\"I will bid you good day,\" he said.\n\nWithout another word he went shuffling out into the dark hall. At the\nfront door he turned and looked back at her; then, slowly, shook his\nhead.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nPoor Maggie paid for her good nature. On Sunday morning she was so\ndecidedly worse that William King, to the disgust of his Martha, was\nsummoned from his breakfast-table.\n\n\"Women who can't look after a simple sore throat without bothering\ntheir doctors are pretty inefficient creatures,\" she said coldly.\n\nWilliam thought of women who were so efficient that they did not\nhesitate to advise their doctors; but he only agreed with proper\nseriousness to Martha's declaration that it was too bad, for he would\nbe late for church--\"unless you hurry, William!\" she called after him.\n\nPerhaps he hurried when he was with Maggie, but certainly he displayed\nno haste when giving his directions to Mrs. Richie, nor even later when\njust as he was about to drive off, Mr. Pryor hailed him from the garden.\n\n\"How's your patient, doctor?\"\n\n\"Pretty sick. She didn't obey your sister's orders and keep in bed\nyesterday. So, of course, she's worse to-day.\"\n\nMr. Pryor leaned a comfortable elbow on the green gate. \"That's a nice\nprospect! What am I going to have to eat?\" he said, good-humoredly.\n\nYet behind the good humor there was annoyance. It came into William\nKing's mind that this fellow would not spare his sister his irritation,\nand with a sudden impulse of concern for her, he said, \"Well now, look\nhere, why don't you and Mrs. Richie come in this evening and take tea\nwith us? I don't know what you'll get, but come and take pot-luck.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" Lloyd Pryor said, \"but--\"\n\n\"Oh, come now,\" interrupted the doctor, gathering up his reins; \"you\ngood people are not neighborly enough. We'll expect you both at six.\"\n\n\"You are very kind, but I think--\" But William would not listen. He was\nin great spirits. \"It will be pot-luck, and my wife will be\ndelighted--\" then, his voice dragged--\"I hope you'll come,\" he said\nuncertainly.\n\nMr. Pryor began to protest, but ended with a laugh. \"Well, we'll come!\nThank you very much.\"\n\n\"That's good,\" the doctor said a little less cordially, indeed, as he\ndrove away he looked distinctly less cordial, and once he sighed....\nNow, how should he put it? \"Oh, Martha, by the way, Mr. Pryor and his\nsister will drop in to tea to-night. I suggested it, and--\" No, that\nwould not do.... \"Martha, it occurred to me it would be neighborly--\"\nNo. \"Confound it,\" William King muttered to himself, \"what did I do it\nfor, anyhow? 'Martha, my dear, I know you like to do a kindness, so I\nasked Mrs. Richie and her brother'\"--that was better. \"But I hate a\ncircumbendibus!\" William said, irritably, to himself. Then he drew a\nlong breath, and set his lips as a man may who is about to face the\ndomestic cannon's mouth.\n\nAfter he had driven on, screwing up his courage, it appeared that Mr.\nPryor also had a cannon to face. Helena Richie came out into the\ngarden, and found him sitting on a bench built round a great silver\npoplar. Her face was worried. \"I ought not to have made poor Maggie get\nup yesterday,\" she said, \"but I was so distressed not to have a good\ndinner for you.\"\n\n\"Well, at least you need have no anxieties about supper; we've had an\ninvitation.\"\n\n\"An invitation! From Dr. King? Well, that's very nice in him. But, of\ncourse--\"\n\n\"I told him we would come\"\n\n\"You told him we would come!\"\n\n\"I couldn't help it, Nelly. People who invite you face to face are\nperfect nuisances. But, really, it's no great matter--for once, And I\nknew it would be a convenience for you. Besides, I wanted a good\nsupper.\"\n\n\"Well, we must make some excuse.\"\n\n\"There isn't any excuse to make,\" he explained, good-naturedly: \"I\ntried to find one and couldn't. We've got to go.\"\n\n\"_I_ sha'n't go.\"\n\nHe looked at her from under his heavy eyelids; then blew two smoke\nwreaths slowly. \"You're a queer creature.\"\n\nShe turned on him hotly. \"Queer? Because I won't go out to supper with\nyou? I'd be queer if I did! I'm entirely satisfied with myself, Lloyd;\nI consider that I have a perfect right to be happy in my own way. You\nknow I don't care a copper for what you call 'morality'! it's nothing\nbut cowardly conventionality. But I won't go out to supper with you.\"\n\n\"Please don't let us have a tirade,\" he said \"I thought it would be\nmore convenient for you. That's always the way with your sex, Helena,\nyou do a thing to help them out, and they burst into tears.\"\n\n\"I haven't burst into tears,\" she said sullenly, \"but I won't go.\"\n\n\"Come, now! don't be a goose. I wouldn't make a practice of accepting\ntheir invitations; but for once, what does it matter?\"\n\n\"Can't you understand?\" she said passionately; \"_they are kind to me!_\"\n\nShe turned quickly and ran into the garden, leaving him to call after\nher: \"Well, you've got to go to-night, because I've accepted.\"\n\n\"I won't go to-night!\" she flung back, her voice breaking.\n\nLloyd Pryor shook his head. \"And she wonders I don't come oftener,\" he\nsaid to himself.\n\nSo the sleepy Sunday morning passed. Mr. Pryor roamed about the garden,\nlooking furtively over his shoulder now and then--but Helena had\ndisappeared. \"Sulking in her room, I suppose,\" he thought.\n\nHe had come at some inconvenience, to spend Sunday and talk over this\nproject of the child, \"for I'd like to see her happier,\" he told\nhimself; and now, instead of sitting down, sensibly, to discuss things,\nshe flared out over this invitation to supper. Her intensity fatigued\nhim. \"I must be getting old,\" he ruminated, \"and Helena will always be\nthe age she was ten years ago. Ten? It's thirteen! How time flies; she\nwas twenty. How interested I was in Frederick's health in those days!\"\n\nHe stretched himself out on the bench under the poplar, and lit another\ncigar. \"If _I'm_ willing to go, why is she so exercised? Women are all\nalike--except Alice.\" He smiled as he thought of his girl, and\ninstantly the hardness in his face lifted, as a cloud shadow lifts and\nleaves sunshine behind it. Then some obscure sense of fitness made him\npull himself together, and put his mind on affairs that had nothing in\ncommon with Helena; affairs in which he could include his girl without\noffending his taste.\n\nAfter a while he got up and wandered about between the borders, where\nthe clean, bitter scent of daffodils mingled with the box. Once he\nstood still, looking down over the orchard on the hill-side below him,\nat the bright sheen of the river edged with leafless maples; on its\nfarther side were the meadows, and then the hills, smoky in their warm\nhaze. Over all was the pale April sky with skeins of gray cloud in the\nwest. He wondered what Alice was doing at this moment, and looked at\nhis watch. She must be just coming back from church. When he was at\nhome Mr. Pryor went to church himself, and watched her saying her\nlittle prayers. This assumption of the Pryor-Barr liabilities would be\na serious check to the fortune he was building up for her; he set his\njaw angrily at the thought, but of course it couldn't be helped.\nFurthermore, Alice took great pride in the almost quixotic sense of\nhonor that had prompted the step; a pride which gave him a secret\nsatisfaction, quite fatuous and childlike and entirely out of keeping\nwith certain other characteristics, also secret.\n\nThere was a gleam of humor in his eyes, as he said to himself that he\nhoped Alice would not ask him how he had spent his Sunday morning.\nAlice had such a feeling about truth, that he did not like to tell her\neven little lies, little ones that she could not possibly find out. It\nwas the sentiment of fibbing to his girl that offended him, not the\nfib; for Mr. Lloyd Pryor had no doubt that, in certain matters, Truth\nmust be governed by the law of benefit.\n\nThinking of his daughter, and smiling to himself, he lounged aimlessly\nabout the garden; then it occurred to him to go into the stable and\nlook at Helena's pony. After that he strolled over to the\ncarriage-house where were stored a number of cases containing stuffed\ncreatures--birds and chipmunks and small furry things. Some larger\nanimals were slung up under the beams of the loft to get them out of\nthe way; there was a bear in one corner, and a great crocodile, and a\nshark; possessions of the previous owner of the Stuffed Animal House,\nstored here by her executor, pending the final settlement of the estate.\n\nLloyd Pryor stood at the doorway looking in. Through a grimed and\ncobwebbed window at the farther end of the room the light filtered down\namong the still figures; there was the smell of dead fur and feathers,\nand of some acrid preservative. One box had been broken in moving it\nfrom the house, and a beaver had slipped from his carefully bitten\nbranch, and lay on the dusty boards, a burst of cotton pushing through\nthe splitting belly-seam. Lloyd Pryor thrust it into its case with his\nstick, and started as he did so. Something moved, back in the dusk.\n\n\"It's I, Lloyd,\" Helena Richie said.\n\n\"You? My dear Nelly! Why are you sitting in this gloomy place?\"\n\nShe smiled faintly, but her face was weary with tears. \"Oh, I\njust--came in here,\" she said vaguely.\n\nShe had said to herself when, angry and wounded, she left him in the\ngarden, that if she went back to the house he would find her. So she\nhad come here to the dust and silence of the carriage-house, and\nsitting down on one of the cases had hidden her face in her hands.\nLittle by little anger ebbed. Just misery remained. But still she sat\nthere, looking absently at these dead creatures about her, or at a thin\nline of sunshine falling through a heart-shaped opening in a shutter,\nand moving noiselessly across the floor. A mote dipped into this stream\nof light, zigzagged through it, then sank into the darkness. She\nfollowed it with dull eyes, thinking, if she thought at all, that she\nwished she did not have to sit opposite Lloyd at dinner. But, of\ncourse, she would have to, the servants would think it strange if she\ndid not come to table with him. Suddenly the finger of sunshine\nvanished, and all the motes were gone. Raising her head with a long\nsigh she saw him in the doorway, his tall figure black against the\nsmiling spring landscape outside. Her heart came up into her throat\nwith a rush of delight. He was looking for her! Ah, this was the way it\nhad been in those first days, when he could not bear to let her out of\nhis sight!\n\nHe put his arm around her with careless friendliness and helped her to\nher feet. \"What a place this will be for your boy to play. He can be\ncast away on a desert island and surrounded by wild animals every day\nin the week.\" His voice was so kind that her anger of two hours ago\nseemed impossible--a mistake, a misunderstanding! She tried in a\nbewildered way to get back to it in her own mind, but he was so matter\nof fact about the stuffed animals and the little boy and the desert\nisland, that she could only say vaguely, \"Yes, it would be nice, but of\ncourse I'm not going to take him.\"\n\n\"Well now, that's just what I want to talk to you about,\" he said,\nwatching her through his long, curling eyelashes. \"That's why I came\ndown to Old Chester--\"\n\n\"Oh, is it?\"\n\nHe checked an impatient exclamation, and then went on: \"When I got your\nletter about this boy, I was really delighted.--Let's go out into the\nsunshine; the smell of this place is very disagreeable.--I think you\nwould find the child company; I really hope you will take him.\" His\nvoice was sincere and she softened.\n\n\"It's kind of you, Lloyd, to urge it. But no, it won't do.\"\n\n\"My dear, of course it will do. You'll give him a good home, and--\"\n\n\"No, no, I can't; you know I can't.\"\n\n\"My dear Nelly! What possible harm could you do the child?\"\n\nShe drew away from him sharply. \"_I_ do him any harm! I! Oh--you\nwouldn't have said such a thing, once!\" She pressed the back of her\nhand against her lips, and Lloyd Pryor studiously looked in another\ndirection.\n\n\"What have I said? That you wouldn't do him any harm? Is there anything\nunkind in that? Look here, Nell, you really mustn't be so unreasonable.\nThere is nothing a man hates so much as a fool. I am merely urging\nsomething for your pleasure. He would be company for you; I thought him\nquite an attractive youngster.\"\n\n\"And you wouldn't have me so much on your mind? You wouldn't feel you\nhad to come and see me so often!\"\n\n\"Well, if you want to put it that way,\" he said coldly. \"I'm a very\nbusy man. I can't get off whenever I feel like it.\"\n\n\"And you can't leave your beloved Alice.\"\n\nHe shot a blue gleam at her from under his heavy eyelids. \"No; I can't.\"\n\nShe quivered. But he went on quietly: \"I know you're lonely, Helena,\nand as I can't come and see you quite so often as I used to, I want you\nto take this little fellow, simply to amuse you.\"\n\nShe walked beside him silently. When they reached the bench under the\npoplar, she sat looking into the April distance without speaking. She\nwas saying to herself, miserably, that she didn't want the child; she\ndidn't want to lessen any sense of obligation that brought him to\nher;--and yet, she did not want him to come from a sense of obligation!\n\n\"You would get great fun out of him, Nelly,\" he insisted.\n\nAnd looking up, she saw the kindness of his face and yielded. \"Well,\nperhaps I will; that is, if Dr. Lavendar will let me have him. I'm\nafraid of Dr. Lavendar somehow.\"\n\n\"Good!\" he said heartily; \"that's a real weight off my mind.\" Her lip\ncurled again, but she said nothing. Lloyd Pryor yawned; then he asked\nher whether she meant to buy the house.\n\n\"I don't know; sometimes I think there is less seclusion in the country\nthan there is in town.\" She drew down a twig, and began to pull at the\nbuds with aimless fingers. \"I might like to come to Philadelphia and\nlive near you, you know,\" she said. The sudden malice in her eyes was\nanswered by the shock in his; his voice was disturbed when he spoke,\nthough his words were commonplace:\n\n\"It's a pleasant enough house.\"\n\nThen he looked at his watch, opening the case under the shelter of his\nhand--but she saw the photograph in the lid.\n\n\"Is that a good picture of Alice?\" she said with an effort.\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered, hastily snapping the lid shut. \"Helena, what are we\ngoing to have for dinner?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing very much, I'm afraid,\" she told him ruefully. Then\nrising, she held out her hand. \"Come! We mustn't quarrel again. I don't\nknow why we always squabble!\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't want to,\" he said. \"Nelly, you are prettier every\ntime I see you.\" He put a finger into one of the loose curls in the\nnape of her neck, and she looked up at him, her lip trembling.\n\n\"And do you love me?\"\n\n\"Of course I do!\" he declared, slipping his arm around her waist. And\nthey walked thus between the box borders, back to the house.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nBut she would not go to the Kings' to tea. \"No,\" she said, her eyes\ncrinkling with fun, \"I'm not going; but you've got to; you promised!\nAnd remember, I have 'a very severe headache.'\"\n\nHe laughed, with a droll look, and then explained that at home he was\nnever allowed to tell tarradiddles. \"Alice has a perfect mania about\ntruth,\" he said ruefully; \"it is sometimes very inconvenient. Yes; I'll\nenlarge upon your headache, my dear. But why in thunder did I say yes\nto that confounded doctor? I'd like to wring your cook's neck, Nelly!\"\n\n\"You'll have a good supper,\" she consoled him, \"and that's what you\nwant. They say Mrs. King is a great housekeeper. And besides, if you\nstayed at home you would probably have to entertain Mr. Sam Wright.\"\n\n\"I'll be darned if I would,\" he assured her, amiably, and started off.\n\nHe had the good supper, although when the doctor broke to his wife that\ncompany was coming, Mrs. King had protested that there was nothing in\nthe house to eat. \"And there's one thing about me, I may not be\nperfect, but I am hospitable, and--\"\n\n\"Just give them what we were going to have ourselves.\"\n\n\"Now, William! I must say, flatly and frankly--\"\n\n\"There's the office bell,\" murmured the doctor, sidling away and\nhearing the reproachful voice lessening in the distance--\"how hard I\ntry--nothing fit--\"\n\nThe office door closed; the worst was over. There would be a good\nsupper--William had no misgivings on that point. Mrs. Richie would talk\nto him, and he would tease her and make her laugh, and laugh himself.\nThe doctor did not laugh very much in his own house; domestic virtue\ndoes not necessarily add to the gayety of life. During the afternoon\nWilly tried on three different neckties, and twice put cologne on his\nhandkerchief. Then appeared Mr. Pryor to say that Mrs. Richie had one\nof her headaches! He was so sorry, but Mrs. King knew what a bad\nheadache was?\n\n\"Indeed I do,\" Martha said, \"only too well. But _I_ can't give way to\nthem. That's what it is to be a doctor's wife; the patients get all the\nprescriptions,\" Martha said; and William, out of the corner of his eye,\nsaw that she was smiling! Well, well; evidently Mrs. Richie's defection\ndid not trouble her; the doctor was glad of that. \"But I didn't bargain\non entertaining the brother,\" he said to himself crossly; and after the\nmanner of husbands, he left the entertaining to Martha.\n\nMartha, however, did her duty. She thought Mr. Pryor a very agreeable\ngentleman; \"far more agreeable than his sister,\" she told William\nafterwards. \"I don't know why,\" said Martha, \"but I sort of distrust\nthat woman. But the brother is all right; you can see that--and a very\nintelligent man, too. We discussed a good many points, and I found we\nagreed perfectly.\"\n\nMr. Pryor also had an opinion on that supper-table talk. He said to\nhimself grimly, that Nelly's bread and jam would have been better. But\nprobably bread and jam, followed by young Sam Wright, would have seemed\nless desirable than Mrs. King's excellent supper.\n\nIt was about seven when the boy appeared at the Stuffed Animal House.\nHad Mr. Pryor been at home, Helena would, no doubt, have found some way\nof dismissing him; as it was, she let him stay. He was bareheaded; he\nhad seen a bird flapping painfully about in the road, and catching it\nin gentle hands had discovered that its wing was broken, so put it\ntenderly in his cap and brought it to Mrs. Richie's door.\n\n\"Poor little thing!\" she cried, when he showed it to her. \"I wish Mr.\nPryor would come back; he would tell us what to do for it.\"\n\n\"Oh, is he here?\" Sam asked blankly.\n\n\"Well, not at this moment. He has gone to take tea at Dr. King's.\"\nSam's face lightened with relief.\n\n\"You mustn't tell anybody you saw me this evening,\" she charged him\ngayly. \"I didn't go to Mrs. King's because--I had such a very bad\nheadache!\"\n\n\"Is it better?\" he asked, so anxiously that she blushed.\n\n\"Oh, yes, yes. But before tea I--didn't want to go.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you didn't,\" he said, and forgot her in caring for the bird.\nHe ordered a box and some cotton batting--\"and give me your\nhandkerchief.\" As he spoke, he took it from her surprised hand and tore\nit into strips; then, lifting the broken wing with exquisite\ngentleness, he bound it into place. She looked at the bandages\nruefully, but Sam was perfectly matter-of-course. \"It would have been\nbetter without lace,\" he said; \"but it will do. Will you look at him\nsometimes? Just your touch will cure him, I think.\"\n\nMrs. Richie laughed.\n\n\"Well, you can laugh, but it's true. When I am near you I have no pain\nand no worry; nothing but happiness.\" He sat down beside her on the old\nclaw-footed sofa near the fire, for it was cool enough these spring\nevenings to have a little fire. He leaned forward, resting his chin on\nhis fist, and staring into the blaze. Once he put his hand out and\ntouched her dress softly, and smiled to himself. Then abruptly, he came\nout of his reverie, and spoke with joyous excitement:\n\n\"Why! I forgot what I came to tell you about--something extraordinary\nhas happened!\"\n\n\"Oh, what?\" she demanded, with a sweet eagerness that was as young as\nhis own.\n\n\"You could never guess,\" he assured her. \"Tonight, at supper,\ngrandfather suddenly told me that he wanted me to travel for a\nwhile--he wanted me to go away from Old Chester. I was perfectly\namazed. 'Go hunt up a publisher for your truck,' he said. He always\ncalls the drama my 'truck,'\" Sam said snickering; \"but the main thing,\nevidently, was to have me get away from home. To improve my mind, I\nsuppose. He said all gentlemen ought to travel. To live in one place\nall the time was very narrowing, he said. I told him I hadn't any\nmoney, and he said he'd give me some. He said, 'anything to get you\naway.' It wasn't very flattering, was it?\"\n\nHelena's face flashed into suspicion. \"Why did he want to get you\naway?\" she asked coldly. There was an alarmed alertness in her voice\nthat made the boy look at her.\n\n\"He said he wanted me to 'be able to know cakes and ale when I saw\nthem,'\" Sam quoted. \"Isn't that just like grandfather?\"\n\n\"Know cakes and ale!\" she stammered, and then looked at him furtively.\nShe took one of the little hand-screens from the mantel, and held it so\nthat he could not see her face. For a minute the pleasant firelit\nsilence fell between them.\n\n\"Oh, listen,\" Sam said in a whisper; \"do you hear the sap singing in\nthe log?\" He bent forward with parted lips, intent upon the exquisite\nsound--a dream of summer leaves rustling and blowing in the wind. He\nturned his limpid stag's eyes to hers to feel her pleasure.\n\n\"I think,\" Mrs. Richie said with an effort that made her voice hard,\n\"that it would be an excellent thing for you to go away.\"\n\n\"And leave you?\"\n\n\"Please don't talk that way. Your grandfather is quite right.\"\n\nThe boy smiled. \"I suppose you really can't understand? It's part of\nyour loveliness that you can't. If you could, you would know that I\ncan't go away. I told him I was much obliged, but I couldn't leave Old\nChester.\"\n\n\"Oh, please! you mustn't be foolish. I don't like you when you are\nfoolish. Will you please remember how much older I am than you? Let's\ntalk of something else. Let's talk about the little boy who is coming\nto visit me--his name is David.\"\n\n\"I would rather talk about you, and what you mean to me--beauty and\npoetry and good--\"\n\n\"Don't!\" she said sharply,\n\n\"Beauty and poetry and goodness.\"\n\n\"I'm not beautiful, and I'm not--poetical.\"\n\n\"And so I worship you,\" the young man went on in a low happy voice.\n\n\"Do please be quiet! I won't be worshipped.\"\n\n\"I don't see how you are going to help it,\" he said calmly. \"Mrs.\nRichie, I've got my skiff; it came yesterday. Will you go out on the\nriver with me some afternoon?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't think I care about boating,\" she said.\n\n\"You don't!\" he exclaimed blankly; \"why, I only got it because I\nthought you would go out with me!\"\n\n\"I don't like the water,\" she said firmly.\n\nSam was silent; then he sighed. \"I wish I'd asked you before I bought\nit. Father is so unreasonable.\"\n\nShe looked puzzled, for the connection was not obvious.\n\n\"Father always wants things used,\" Sam explained. \"Do you really\ndislike boating?\"\n\n\"You absurd boy!\" she said laughing; \"of course you will use it; don't\ntalk nonsense!\"\n\nSam looked into the fire. \"Do you ever have the feeling,\" he said in an\nempty voice, \"that nothing is worth while? I mean, if you are\ndisappointed in anything? A feeling as if you didn't care, at all,\nabout anything? I have it often. A sort of loss of appetite in my mind.\nDo you know it?\"\n\n\"Do I know it?\" she said, and laughed so harshly that the boy drew\nback. \"Yes, Sam; I know it.\"\n\nSam sighed; \"I hate that skiff.\"\n\nAnd at that she laughed again, but this time with pure gayety. \"Oh, you\nfoolish boy!\" she said. Then she glanced at the clock. \"Sam, I have\nsome letters to write to-night--will you think I am very ungracious if\nI ask you to excuse me?\" Sam was instantly apologetic. \"I've stayed too\nlong! Grandfather told me I ought never to come and see you--\"\n\n\"_What!_\"\n\n\"He said I bothered you.\"\n\n\"You don't bother me,\" she protested; \"I mean, when you talk about your\nplay you don't bother me. But to-night--\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Sam simply, and took himself off after one or two\ndirections about the bird.\n\nWhen the front door closed behind him she went back to her seat by the\nlamp, and took up her novel; but her eyes did not see the printed page.\nSuddenly she threw the book down on the table. It was impossible to\nread; Sam's talk had disturbed her to the point of sharp discomfort.\nWhat did old Mr. Wright mean by \"knowing cakes and ale\"? And his leer\nyesterday had been an offence! Why had he looked at her like that? Did\nhe--? Was it possible--! She wished she had spoken to Lloyd about it.\nBut no; it couldn't be; it was only his queer way; he was half crazy,\nshe believed. And it would do no good to speak to Lloyd. The one thing\nshe must not do, was to let any annoyance of hers annoy him. Yet below\nher discomfort at Sam's sentimentality and his grandfather's strange\nmanner lay a deeper discomfort--a disturbance at the very centres of\nher life.... _She was afraid._\n\nShe had been afraid for a long time. Even before she came to Old\nChester she was a little afraid, but in Old Chester the fear was\nintensified by the consciousness of having made a mistake in coming.\nOld Chester was so far away. It had seemed desirable when she first\nthought of it; it was so near Mercer where business very often called\nhim. Besides, New York, with its throngs of people, where she had lived\nfor several years, had grown intolerable; in Old Chester she and Lloyd\nhad agreed she would have so much more privacy. But how differently\nthings had turned out! He did not have to come to Mercer nearly so\noften as he had expected. Those visions of hers--which he had not\ndiscouraged--of weekly or certainly fortnightly visits, had faded into\nlengthening periods of three weeks, four weeks--the last one was more\nthan six weeks ago. \"He can't leave his Alice!\" she said angrily to\nherself; \"_I_ remember the time when he did not mind leaving her.\" As\nfor privacy, the great city, with its hurrying indifferent crowds, was\nmore private than this village of insistent friendliness.\n\nShe leaned back in her chair and pressed her hands over her eyes; then\nsat up quickly--she must not cry! Lloyd hated red eyes. But oh, she was\nafraid!--afraid of what? She had no answer; as yet her fear was without\na name. She picked up her book, hurriedly; \"I'll read,\" she said to\nherself; \"I won't think!\" But for a long time she did not turn a page.\n\nHowever, by the time Mr. Pryor came back from the tea-party she was\noutwardly tranquil, and looked up from her novel to welcome him and\nlaugh at his stories of his hostess. But he was instant to detect the\ntroubled background of her thoughts.\n\n\"You are lonely,\" he said, lounging on the sofa beside her; \"when that\nlittle boy comes you'll have something to amuse you;\" he put a\ncaressing finger under her soft chin.\n\n\"I didn't have that little boy, but I had another,\" she said ruefully.\n\n\"Did your admirer call?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"What!\" he exclaimed, for her manner told him.\n\n\"He tried to be silly,\" she said. \"Of course I snubbed him. But it\nmakes me horribly uncomfortable somehow.\"\n\nLloyd Pryor got up and slowly scratched a match under the mantel-piece;\nhe took a long time to light his cigar. Then he put his hands in his\npockets, and standing with his back to the fire regarded his boots.\nHelena was staring straight ahead of her with melancholy eyes.--(\"Do\nyou ever have the feeling,\" the boy had said, \"that nothing is worth\nwhile?\")\n\nLloyd Pryor looked at her furtively and coughed. \"I suppose,\" he\nsaid--and knocked the ashes from his cigar with elaborate care--\"I\nsuppose your adorer is a good deal younger than you?\"\n\nShe lifted her head sharply, \"Well, yes;--what of it?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing; nothing at all. In the first place, the health of our\nfriend, Frederick, is excellent. But if this fellow were not younger;\nand if apoplexy or judgment should--well; why, perhaps--\"\n\n\"Perhaps what?\"\n\n\"Of course, Helena, my great desire is for your happiness; but in my\nposition I--I am not as free as I once was to follow my own\ninclinations. And if--\"\n\n\"Oh, my _God!_\" she said violently.\n\nShe fled out of the room with flying feet. As he followed her up the\nstairs he heard her door slam viciously and the bolt slip. He came\ndown, his face flushed and angry. He stood a long while with his back\nto the fire, staring at the lamp or the darkness of the uncurtained\nwindow. By and by he shook his head and set his jaw in sullen\ndetermination; then he went up-stairs and knocked softly at her door.\nThere was no answer. Again, a little louder; silence.\n\n\"Nelly,\" he said; \"Nelly, let me speak to you--just a minute?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Nelly!\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Damn!\" said Lloyd Pryor, and went stealthily back to the parlor where\nthe fire was out and the lamp flickering into smoky darkness.\n\nA quarter of an hour later he went up-stairs again.\n\n\"How _could_ you say it!\" \"I didn't mean it, Nelly; it was only a\njoke.\" \"A joke! Oh, a cruel joke, a cruel joke!\" \"You know I didn't\nmean it. Nelly dearest, I didn't mean it!\" \"You do love me?\" \"I love\nyou.... Kiss me....\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n\"Well, now,\" said Dr. Lavendar that Sunday evening when he and David\ncame into the study after tea; \"I suppose you'd like me to tell you a\nstory before you go to bed?\"\n\n\"A Bible story?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" Dr. Lavendar admitted, a little taken aback.\n\n\"No, sir,\" said David.\n\n\"You don't want a Bible story!\"\n\nThe little boy shook his head.\n\n\"David,\" said Dr. Lavendar chuckling, \"I think I like you.\"\n\nDavid made no response; his face was as blank as an Indian's. He sat\ndown on a stool by the fire, and once he sighed. Danny had sniffed him,\nslowly, and turned away with a bored look; it was then that he sighed.\nAfter a while he got up and wandered about the room, his hands gripped\nin front of him, his lips shut tight. Dr. Lavendar watched him out of\nthe tail of his eye, but neither of them spoke. Suddenly David climbed\nup on a chair and looked fixedly at a picture that hung between the\nwindows.\n\n\"That is a Bible picture,\" Dr. Lavendar observed.\n\n\"Who,\" said David, \"is the gentleman in the water?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar blew his nose before answering. Then he said that that was\nmeant to be our Saviour when He was being baptized. \"Up in the sky,\"\nDr. Lavendar added, \"is His Heavenly Father.\"\n\nThere was silence until David asked gently, \"Is it a good photograph of\nGod?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar puffed three times at his pipe; then he said, \"If you\nthink the picture looks like a kind Father, then it is. And David, I\nknow some stories that are not Bible stories. Shall I tell you one?\"\n\n\"If you want to, sir,\" David said. Dr. Lavendar began his tale rather\ndoubtfully; but David fixed such interested eyes upon his face that he\nwas flattered into enlarging upon his theme. The child listened\nbreathlessly, his fascinated eyes travelling once or twice to the\nclock, then back to the kind old face.\n\n\"You were afraid bedtime would interrupt us?\" said Dr. Lavendar, when\nthe tale was done. \"Well, well; you are a great boy for stories, aren't\nyou?\"\n\n\"You've talked seven minutes,\" said David, thoughtfully, \"and you've\nnot moved your upper jaw once.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar gasped; then he said, meekly, \"Did you like the story?\"\n\nDavid made no reply,\n\n\"I think,\" said Dr Lavendar, \"I'll have another pipe.\"\n\nHe gave up trying to make conversation; instead, he watched the clock.\nMary had said that David must go to bed at eight, and as the clock\nbegan to strike, Dr. Lavendar, with some eagerness, opened his lips to\nsay good night--and closed them. \"Guess he'd rather run his own rig,\"\nhe thought. But to his relief, at the last stroke David got up.\n\n\"It's my bedtime, sir.\"\n\n\"So it is! Well, it will be mine after a while. Good night, my boy!\"\nDr. Lavendar blinked nervously. Young persons were generally kissed. \"I\nshould not wish to be kissed,\" he said to himself, and the two shook\nhands gravely.\n\nLeft alone, he felt so fatigued he had to have that other pipe. Before\nhe had finished it his senior warden looked in at the study door.\n\n\"Come in, Samuel,\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"Samuel, I feel as if I had\ndriven ten miles on a corduroy road!\"\n\nMr. Wright looked blank; sometimes he found it hard to follow Dr.\nLavendar.\n\n\"Sam, young persons are very exciting.\"\n\n\"Some of them are, I can vouch for that,\" his caller assured him grimly.\n\n\"Come, come! They are good for us,\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"I wish you'd\ntake a pipe, Sam; it would cheer you up.\"\n\n\"I never smoke, sir,\" said Samuel reprovingly, \"Well, you miss a lot of\ncomfort in life. I've seen a good many troubles go up in smoke.\"\n\nMr. Wright sat down heavily and sighed.\n\n\"Sam been giving you something to think about?\" Dr. Lavendar asked\ncheerfully.\n\n\"He always gives me something to think about. He is beyond my\ncomprehension! I may say candidly, that I cannot understand him. What\ndo you think he has done now?\"\n\n\"Nothing wicked.\"\n\n\"I don't know how you look at it,\" Samuel said, \"but from my point of\nview, buying prints with other people's money is dangerously near\nwickedness. This present matter, however, is just imbecility. I told\nhim one day last week to write to a man in Troy, New York, about a bill\nof exchange. Well, he wrote. Oh, yes--he wrote. Back comes a letter\nfrom the man, enclosing my young gentleman's epistle, with a line\nadded\"--Mr. Wright fumbled in his breast pocket to find the\ndocument--\"here it is: _'Above remarks about ships not understood by\nour House.'_ Will you look at that, sir, for the 'remarks about ships'?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar took the sheet stamped \"Bank of Pennsylvania,\" and hunted\nfor his spectacles. When he settled them on his nose he turned the\nletter over and read in young Sam's sprawling hand:\n\n\"Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the\ntopless towers of Ilium?\"\n\n\"What's this? I don't understand.\"\n\n\"Certainly you do not; no sensible person would. I showed it to my\nyoung gentleman, and requested an explanation. 'Oh,' he said, 'when you\ntold me to write to Troy, it made me think of those lines.' He added\nthat not wishing to forget them, he wrote them down on a sheet of\npaper, and that probably he used the other side of the sheet for the\nTroy letter--'by mistake.' 'Mistake, sir!' I said, 'a sufficient number\nof _mistakes_ will send me out of business.'\"\n\n\"Samuel,\" said Dr. Lavendar thoughtfully, \"do you recall whose face it\nwas that 'launched the thousand ships' on Troy?\"\n\nSamuel shook his head,\n\n\"Helen's\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nThe senior warden frowned, then suddenly understood. \"Oh, yes, I know\nall about that. Another evidence of his folly!\"\n\n\"I've no doubt you feel like spanking him,\" Dr. Lavendar said\nsympathetically, \"but--\" he stopped short. Sam Wright was crimson.\n\n\"I! _Spank_ him? I?\" He got up, opening and shutting his hands, his\nface very red. The old minister looked at him in consternation.\n\n\"Sam! what on earth is the matter with you? Can't a man have his joke?\"\n\nMr. Wright sat down. He put his hand to his mouth as though to hide\nsome trembling betrayal; his very ears were purple.\n\nDr. Lavendar apologized profusely. \"I was only in fun. I'm sure you\nknow that I meant no disrespect to the boy. I only wanted to cheer you\nup.\"\n\n\"I understand, sir; it is of no consequence. I--I had something else on\nmy mind. It is of no consequence.\" The color faded, and his face fell\ninto its usual bleak lines, but his mouth twitched. A minute afterwards\nhe began to speak with ponderous dignity. \"This love-making business\nis, of course, most mortifying to me; and also, no doubt, annoying to\nMrs. Richie. To begin with, she is eleven years older than he--he told\nhis mother so. He added, if you please! that he hoped to marry her.\"\n\n\"Well! Well!\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"I told him,\" Mr. Wright continued, \"that in my very humble opinion it\nwas contemptible for a man to marry and allow another man to support\nhis wife.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar sat up in shocked dismay. \"Samuel!\"\n\n\"I, sir,\" the banker explained, \"am his father, and I support him. If\nhe marries, I shall have to support his wife. According to my poor\ntheories of propriety, a man who lets another man support his wife had\nbetter not have one.\"\n\n\"But you ought not to have put it that way,\" Dr. Lavendar protested,\n\n\"I merely put the fact,\" said Samuel Wright \"Furthermore, unless he\nstops dangling at her apron-strings, I shall stop his allowance, I\nshall so inform him.\"\n\n\"You surely won't do such a foolish thing!\"\n\n\"Would you have me sit still? Not put up a single barrier to keep him\nin bounds?\"\n\n\"Samuel, do you know what barriers mean to a colt?\"\n\nMr. Wright made no response.\n\n\"They mean something to jump over.\"\n\n\"Possibly,\" said Mr. Wright with dignity, \"you are, to some extent,\ncorrect. But a man cannot permit his only son to run wild and founder.\"\n\n\"Sam won't founder. But he may get a bad strain. You'd better look out.\nHe is his father's son.\"\n\n\"I do not know, sir, to what you refer.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, you do,\" Dr. Lavendar assured him easily; \"and you know that\nno man can experience unforgiving anger, and not be crippled. You\ndidn't founder, Sam, but you gave yourself a mighty ugly wrench. Hey?\nIsn't that so?\"\n\nThe senior warden looked perfectly deaf; then he took up the tale again.\n\n\"If he goes on in his folly he will only be unhappy, and deservedly so.\nShe will have nothing to do with him. In stopping him, I shall only be\nkeeping him from future unhappiness.\"\n\n\"Samuel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"I never begrudge unhappiness to the\nyoung.\"\n\nBut Mr., Wright was too absorbed in his own troubles to get any comfort\nout of that.\n\n\"By the way,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"speaking of Mrs. Richie--do you think\nshe'd be a good person to take this little David Allison?\"\n\n\"I don't know why she shouldn't be, sir,\" Samuel said. \"I have no fault\nto find with _her_. She pays her rent and goes to church. Yes; a very\ngood person to take the boy off your hands.\"\n\n\"The rent is important,\" Dr. Lavendar agreed nodding; \"but going to\nchurch doesn't prove anything.\"\n\n\"All good people go to church,\" the senior warden reproved him.\n\n\"But all people who go to church are not good,\" Dr. Lavendar said dryly,\n\n\"I am afraid she lets Sam talk poetry to her,\" Sam's father broke out.\n\"Stuff! absolute stuff! His mother sometimes tells me of it. Why,\" he\nended piteously, \"half the time I can't understand what it's about;\nit's just bosh!\"\n\n\"What you don't understand generally _is_ bosh, isn't it, Sam?\" said\nDr. Lavendar thoughtfully.\n\n\"I am a man of plain common sense, sir; I don't pretend to anything but\ncommon sense.\"\n\n\"I know you don't, Samuel, I know you don't,\" Dr. Lavendar said sadly;\nand the banker, mollified, accepted the apology.\n\n\"On top of everything else, he's been writing a drama. He told his\nmother so. Writing a drama, instead of writing up his ledgers!\"\n\n\"Of course, he ought not to neglect his work,\" Dr. Lavendar agreed;\n\"but play-writing isn't one of the seven deadly sins.\"\n\n\"It is distasteful to me!\" Sam senior said hotly; \"most distasteful. I\ntold his mother to tell him so, but he goes on writing--so she says.\"\nHe sighed, and got up to put on his coat. \"Well; I must go home. I\nsuppose he has been inflicting himself upon Mrs. Richie this evening.\nIf he stays late, I shall feel it my duty to speak plainly to him.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar gave him a hand with his coat. \"Gently does it, Samuel,\ngently does it!\"\n\nHis senior warden shook his head. The sense of paternal helplessness,\nfelt more or less by all fathers of sons, was heavy upon him. He knew\nin a bewildered way, that he did not speak the boy's language. And yet\nhe could not give up trying to communicate with him,--shouting at him,\nso to speak, as one shouts at a foreigner when trying to make oneself\nunderstood; for surely there must be some one word that would reach\nSam's mind, some one touch that would stir his heart! Yet when he\nbrought his perplexity to Dr. Lavendar, he was only told to hold his\ntongue and keep his hands off. The senior warden said to himself,\nmiserably, that he was afraid Dr. Lavendar was getting old, \"Well, I\nmustn't bother you,\" he said; \"as for Sam, I suppose he will go his own\ngait! I don't know where he gets his stubbornness from. I myself am the\nmost reasonable man in the world. All I ever ask is to be allowed to\nfollow my own judgment. I asked his mother if obstinacy was a\ncharacteristic of her family, and she assured me it was not. Certainly\nEliza herself has no will of her own. I don't think a good woman ever\nhas. And, as I say, I never insisted upon my own way in my\nlife--except, of course, in matters where I knew I was right.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nThe parting at the Stuffed Animal House the next morning was dreary\nenough. The day broke heavy with threatening rain. The man, after that\nbrief flaming up of the embers of burned-out passion, had fallen into a\nweariness which he did not attempt to conceal. But the woman--being a\nwoman--still tried to warm herself at the poor ashes, wasting her\nbreath in a sobbing endeavor to blow them into some fitful ardor. There\nwas a hurried breakfast, and while waiting for the stage the desultory\ntalk that skims over dangerous topics for fear of getting into\ndiscussions for which there is no time. And with it the consciousness\nof things that burn to be said--at least on one side.\n\n\"I'm sorry I was cross last night,\" she murmured once, under her breath.\n\nAnd he responded courteously, \"Oh, not at all.\"\n\nBut she pressed him. \"You know it was only because I--love you so? And\nto make a joke of--\"\n\n\"Of course! Helena, when is that stage due? You don't suppose the\ndriver misunderstood, and expects to take me on at the Tavern?\"\n\n\"No, he was told to call here.... Lloyd, it's just the same? You\nhaven't--changed?\"\n\n\"Certainly not! I do hope he hasn't forgotten me? It would be extremely\ninconvenient.\"\n\nShe turned away and stood looking out of the window into the\nrain-sodden garden. Mr. Pryor lighted a cigar. After a while she spoke\nagain. \"You'll come soon? I hope you will come soon! I'll try not to\nworry you.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" he assured her; \"but I trust your cook will be well next\ntime, my dear.\"\n\n\"Give me a day's notice, and I will have another cook if Maggie should\nbe under the weather,\" she answered eagerly.\n\n\"Oh, that reminds me,\" he said, and thrusting his hand into his pocket\nhe went out to the kitchen. When he came back he went at once to the\nwindow, \"I'm afraid that stage-driver has forgotten me,\" he said,\nfrowning. But she reassured him--it really wasn't time yet; then she\nleaned her cheek on his shoulder.\n\n\"Do you think you can come in a fortnight, Lloyd? Come the first of\nMay, and everything shall be perfect. Will you?\"\n\nLaughing, he put a careless arm around her, then catching sight of the\nstage pulling up at the gate, turned away so quickly that she staggered\na little.\n\n\"Ah!\" he said in a relieved voice;--\"beg your pardon, Nelly;--There's\nthe stage!\"\n\nAt the door he kissed her hurriedly; but she followed him, bareheaded,\nout into the mist, catching his hand as they went down the path.\n\n\"Good-by!\" he called back from the hinged step of the stage. \"Get\nalong, driver, get along! I don't want to miss my train in Mercer.\nGood-by, my dear. Take care of yourself.\"\n\nHelena standing at the gate, followed the stage with her eyes until the\nroad turned at the foot of the hill. Then she went back to the bench\nunder the silver poplar and sat down. She said to herself that she was\nglad he was gone. His easy indifference to the annoyance to her of all\nthese furtive years, seemed just for a moment unbearable. He had not\nshowed a glimmer of sympathy for her position; he had not betrayed the\nslightest impatience at Frederick's astonishing health, so contrary to\nevery law of probability and justice; he had not even understood how\nshe felt at taking the friendship of the Old Chester people on false\npretences--oh, these stupid people! That dull, self-satisfied,\ncommonplace doctor's wife, so secure, so comfortable, in her right to\nOld Chester friendships! Of course, it was a great thing to be free\nfrom the narrowness and prejudice in which Old Chester was absolutely\nhidebound. But Lloyd might at least have understood that in spite of\nher freedom the years of delay had sometimes been a little hard for\nher; that it was cruel that Frederick should live, and live, and live,\nputting off the moment when she should be like--other people; like that\ncomplacent Mrs. King, even; (oh, how she detested the woman!) But Lloyd\nhad shown no spark of sympathy or understanding; instead he had made a\nhorrid joke.... Suddenly her eyes, sweet and kind and shallow as an\nanimal's, clouded with pain, and she burst out crying--but only for one\nconvulsive moment. She could not cry out here in the garden. She wished\nshe could get into the house, but she was sure that her eyes were red,\nand the servants might notice them. She would have to wait a while.\nThen she shivered, for a sharp wind blew from across the hills where in\nthe hollows the snow still lingered in grimy drifts, icy on the edges,\nand crumbling and settling and sinking away with every day of pale\nsunshine. The faint fragrance of wind-beaten daffodils reached her, and\nshe saw two crocuses, long gold bubbles, over in the grass. She put the\nback of her hand against her cheek--it was hot still; she must wait a\nlittle longer. Her chilly discomfort made her angry at Lloyd, as well\nas hurt.... It was nearly half an hour before she felt sure that her\neyes would not betray her and she could go into the house.\n\nSomehow or other the empty day passed; she had Lloyd's novel and the\ncandy. It was cold enough for a fire in the parlor, and she lay on the\nsofa in front of it, and read and nibbled her candy and drowsed. Once,\nlazily, she roused herself to throw some grains of incense on the hot\ncoals. Gradually the silence and perfume and warm sloth pushed the pain\nof the last twenty-four hours into the background of her mind, where it\nlay a dull ache of discontent. By and by even that ceased in physical\nwell-being. Her body had her in its grip, and her spirit sunk softly\ninto the warm and satisfied flesh. She bade Sarah bring her dinner into\nthe parlor; after she had eaten it she slept. When she awoke in the\nlate afternoon, she wished she could sleep again. All her thoughts ran\ntogether in a lazy blur. Somewhere, back of the blur, she knew there\nwas unhappiness, so this was best--to lie warm and quiet by the fire,\neating candy and yawning over her book.\n\nThe next few days were given up to indolence and apathy. But at the end\nof the week the soul of her stirred. A letter from Lloyd came saying\nthat he hoped she had the little boy with her, and this reminded her of\nher forgotten promise to Dr. Lavendar.\n\nBut it was not until the next Monday afternoon that she roused herself\nsufficiently to give much thought to the matter. Then she decided to go\ndown to the Rectory and see the child. It was another dark day of\nclouds hanging low, bulging big and black with wind and ravelling into\nrain along the edges. She hesitated at the discomfort of going out, but\nshe said to herself, dully, that she supposed she needed the walk. As\nshe went down the hill her cheeks began to glow with the buffet of the\nwind, and her leaf-brown eyes shone crystal clear from under her soft\nhair, crinkling in the mist and blowing all about her smooth forehead.\nThe mist had thickened to rain before she reached the Rectory, and her\ncloak was soaked, which made Dr. Lavendar reproach her for her\nimprudence.\n\n\"And where are your gums?\" he demanded. When she confessed that she had\nforgotten them, he scolded her roundly.\n\n\"I'll see that the little boy wears them when he comes to visit me,\"\nshe said, a comforted look coming into her face.\n\n\"David? David will look after himself like a man, and keep you in\norder, too. As for visiting you, my dear, you'd better visit him a\nlittle first. I tell you--stay and have supper with us to-night?\"\n\nBut she protested that she had only come for a few minutes to ask about\nDavid. \"I must go right home,\" she said nervously.\n\n\"No, no. You can't get away,--oh!\" he broke off excitedly--\"here he\nis!\" Dr. Lavendar's eagerness at the sight of the little boy who came\nrunning up the garden path, his hurry to open the front door and bring\nhim into the study to present him to Mrs. Richie, fussing and proud and\na little tremulous, would have touched her, if she had noticed him. But\nshe did not notice him,--the child absorbed her. She could not leave\nhim. Before she knew it she found herself taking off her bonnet and\nsaying she would stay to tea.\n\n\"David,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"I've got a bone in my leg; so you run and\nget me a clean pocket-handkerchief.\"\n\n\"Can I go up-stairs like a crocodile?\" said David.\n\n\"Certainly, if it affords you the slightest personal satisfaction,\" Dr.\nLavendar told him; and while the little boy crawled laboriously on his\nstomach all the way up-stairs, Dr. Lavendar talked about him. He said\nhe thought the child had been homesick just at first; he had missed his\nsister Janey. \"He told me 'Janey' gave him 'forty kisses' every night,\"\nsaid Dr. Lavendar; \"I thought that told a story--\" At that moment the\ncrocodile, holding a handkerchief between his teeth, came rapidly, head\nforemost, down-stairs. Dr. Lavendar raised a cautioning hand;--\"Mustn't\ntalk about him, now!\"\n\nThere was a quality in that evening that was new to Helena; it was\ndull, of course;--how very dull Lloyd would have found it! A childlike\nold man asking questions with serious simplicity of a little boy who\nwas full of his own important interests and anxieties;--the feeding of\nDanny, and the regretful wonder that in heaven, the little dog would\nnot be \"let in.\"\n\n\"Who said he wouldn't?\" Dr. Lavendar demanded, fiercely, while Danny\nyawned with embarrassment at hearing his own name.\n\n\"You read about heaven in the Bible,\" David said, suddenly shy; \"an' it\nsaid outside were dogs;--an' some other animals I can't remember the\nnames of.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar explained with a twinkle that shared with his visitor the\nhumor of those \"other animals\" itemized in the Revelations. It was a\nvery mild humor; everything was mild at the Rectory; the very air\nseemed gentle! There was no apprehension, no excitement, no antagonism;\nonly the placid commonplace of goodness and affection. Helena could not\nremember such an evening in all her life. And the friendship between\nyouth and age was something she had never dreamed of. She saw David\nslip from his chair at table, and run around to Dr. Lavendar's side to\nreach up and whisper in his ear,--oh, if he would but put his cheek\nagainst hers, and whisper in her ear!\n\nThe result of that secret colloquy was that David knelt down in front\nof the dining-room fire, and made a slice of smoky toast for Dr.\nLavendar.\n\n\"After supper you might roast an apple for Mrs. Richie,\" the old\nminister suggested. And David's eyes shone with silent joy. With\nanxious deliberation he picked out an apple from the silver wire basket\non the sideboard; and when they went into the study, he presented a\nthread to Mrs. Richie.\n\n\"Tie it to the stem,\" he commanded. \"You're pretty slow,\" he added\ngently, and indeed her white fingers blundered with the unaccustomed\ntask. When she had accomplished it, David wound the other end of the\nthread round a pin stuck in the high black mantel-shelf. The apple\ndropped slowly into place before the bars of the grate, and began--as\neverybody who has been a child knows--to spin slowly round, and then,\nslowly back again. David, squatting on the rug, watched it in silence.\nBut Mrs. Richie would not let him be silent. She leaned forward, eager\nto touch him--his shoulders, his hair, his cheek, hot with the fire.\n\n\"Won't you come and sit in my lap?\"\n\nDavid glanced at Dr. Lavendar as though for advice; then got up and\nclimbed on to Mrs. Richie's knee, keeping an eye on the apple that\nbobbed against the grate and sizzled.\n\n\"Will you make me a little visit, dear?\"\n\nDavid sighed. \"I seem to visit a good deal; I'd like to belong\nsomewhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, you will, one of these days,\" Dr. Lavendar assured him.\n\n\"I'd like to belong to you,\" David said thoughtfully.\n\nDr. Lavendar beamed, and looked proudly at Mrs. Richie.\n\n\"Because,\" David explained, \"I love Goliath.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dr. Lavendar blankly.\n\n\"It's blackening on one side,\" David announced, and slid down from Mrs.\nRichie's knee to set the apple spinning again.\n\n\"The red cheek is beginning to crack,\" said Dr. Lavendar, deeply\ninterested; \"smells good, doesn't it, Mrs. Richie?\"\n\n\"Have you any little boys and girls?\" David asked, watching the apple.\n\n\"Come and climb on my knee and I'll tell you,\" she bribed him.\n\nHe came reluctantly; the apple was spinning briskly now under the\nimpulse of a woolly burst of pulp through the red skin.\n\n\"Have you?\" he demanded.\n\n\"No, David.\"\n\nHere his interest in Mrs. Richie's affairs flagged, for the apple began\nto steam deliciously. Dr. Lavendar, watching her with his shrewd old\neyes, asked her one or two questions; but, absorbed in the child, she\nanswered quite at random. She put her cheek against his hair, and\nwhispered, softly: \"Turn round, and I'll give you forty kisses.\"\nInstantly David moved his head away. The snub was so complete that she\nlooked over at Dr. Lavendar, hoping he had not seen it. \"I once knew a\nlittle baby,\" she said, trying to hide her embarrassment, \"that had\ncurly hair the color of yours.\"\n\n\"It has begun to drip,\" said David briefly. \"Does Alice live at your\nhouse?\"\n\n\"_Alice!_\"\n\n\"The gentleman--your brother--said Alice was nineteen. I thought maybe\nshe lived at your house.\"\n\n\"No, dear. Look at the apple!\"\n\nDavid looked. \"Why not?\"\n\n\"Why, she lives at her own house, dear little boy.\"\n\n\"Does she pay you a visit?\"\n\n\"No. David, I think the apple is done. Why didn't you roast one for Dr.\nLavendar?\"\n\n\"I had to do it for you because you're company. Why doesn't she pay you\na visit?\"\n\n\"Because--oh, for a good many reasons. I'm afraid must go home now.\"\n\nThe child slipped from her knee with unflattering haste. \"You've got to\neat your apple first,\" he said, and ran to get a saucer and spoon. With\ngreat care the thread was broken and the apple secured. Then David sat\ncalmly down in front of her to watch her eat it; but after the first\ntwo or three mouthfuls, Dr. Lavendar had pity on her, and the smoky\nskin and the hard core were banished to the dining-room. While the\nlittle boy was carrying them off, she said eagerly, that she wanted him.\n\n\"You'll let me have him?\"\n\n\"I'm going to keep him for a while.\"\n\n\"Oh, do give him to me!\" she urged.\n\n\"Not yet. You come here and see him. I won't make ye eat a roast apple\nevery time.\" He smiled at her as he spoke, for she was clasping her\nhands, and her eyes were eager and shining.\n\n\"I must have him! I _must_!\"\n\n\"No use teasing--here comes Dr. King. He'll tell you I'm an obstinate\nold man. Hey, Willy, my boy! Ain't I an obstinate old man?\"\n\n\"You are,\" said William. He had walked in unannounced, in good Old\nChester fashion, and stood smiling in the doorway.\n\n\"Oh, plead my cause!\" she said, turning to him.\n\n\"Of course I will. But it isn't much use; we are all under his heel.\"\n\nThey were standing, for Mrs. Richie had said she must go, when Dr.\nLavendar had an idea: \"Would you mind seeing her home, Willy?\" he said,\nin an aside. \"I was going to send Mary, but this is a chance to get\nbetter acquainted with her--if you're not too tired.\"\n\n\"Of course I'm not too tired,\" the doctor said eagerly, and went back\nto the fireside where Mrs. Richie had dropped on her knees before\nDavid. \"I'm going to walk home with you,\" he announced. She looked up\nwith a quick protest, but he only laughed. \"If we let you go alone,\nyour brother will think we have no manners in Old Chester. Besides I\nneed the walk.\" And when she had fastened her cloak, and kissed David\ngood night, and thrown Dr. Lavendar an appealing look, William gave her\nhis hand down the two steps from the front door, and then made her take\nhis arm. Dr. Lavendar had provided a lantern, and as its shifting beam\nran back and forth across the path the doctor bade her be careful where\nshe stepped. \"These flag-stones are abominably rough,\" he said; \"I\nnever noticed it before. And one can't see in the dark.\"\n\nBut what with the lantern and the stars, there was light enough for\nWilliam King to see the stray curl that blew across her\nforehead--brown, was it? And yet, William remembered that in daylight\nher hair was too bright to be called brown. He was solicitous lest he\nwas making her walk too fast. \"I don't want your brother to think we\ndon't take care of you in Old Chester,\" he said; and in the starlight\nhe could see that her face flushed a little. Then he repeated some Old\nChester gossip, which amused her very much--and held his breath to\nlisten to the delicious gayety of her laugh.\n\n\"There ought to be a better path for you up the hill,\" he said; \"I must\nspeak to Sam Wright about it.\" And carefully he flung the noiseless\nzigzag of light back and forth in front of her, and told some more\nstories that he might hear that laugh again.\n\nWhen he left her at her own door she said with a sudden impetuous\ntimidity, \"Dr. King, _please_ make Dr. Lavendar give me the little boy!\"\n\n\"I will!\" he said, and laughed at her radiant face.\n\nIt seemed to the doctor as he went down the hill, that he had had a\nmost delightful evening. He could not recollect what they had talked\nabout, but he knew that they had agreed on every point. \"A very\nintelligent lady,\" he said to himself.\n\n\"William,\" said Martha, looking up from her mending as he entered the\nsitting-room, \"did you remember to tell Davis that the kitchen sink\nleaks?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said the doctor blankly; \"well--I'll tell him in the morning.\"\nThen, smiling vaguely, he dropped down into his shabby old easy-chair,\nand watched Martha's darning-needle plod in and out. \"Martha,\" he said\nafter a while, \"what shade would you call your hair if it was--well,\nkind of brighter?\"\n\n\"_What?_\" said Martha, looking at him over her spectacles; she put up\nher hard capable hand and touched her hair softly, as if she had\nforgotten it. \"My hair used to be a real chestnut. Do you mean\nchestnut?\"\n\n\"I guess I do. It's a pretty color.\"\n\nMartha looked at him with a queer shyness in her married eyes, then\ntossed her head a little and thrust her darning-needle into the gray\nstocking with a jaunty air. \"That's what you used to say,\" she said.\nAfter a while, noticing his tired lounge in the old chair, she said\nkindly, \"Why did you stay so long at Dr. Lavendar's, Willy? You look\ntired. Do go to bed.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" William explained, \"I didn't stay very long; he asked me to see\nMrs. Richie home. She had taken tea with him.\"\n\nMartha's face suddenly hardened. \"Oh,\" she said coldly. Then, after a\nshort silence: \"Mrs. Richie's hair is too untidy for my taste.\"\n\nWhen Dr. Lavendar went back into the study he found David curled up in\nan arm-chair in profound meditation.\n\n\"What are you thinking about so hard?\" Dr. Lavendar said.\n\n\"Yesterday. After church.\"\n\n\"Thinking about yesterday?\" Dr. Lavendar repeated puzzled. David\noffered no explanation, and the old minister searched his memory for\nany happening of interest after church ... but found none. He had come\nout of the vestry and in the church David had joined him, following him\ndown the aisle to the door and waiting close behind him through the\nusual Sunday greetings: \"Morning, Sam!\" \"Good morning, Dr. Lavendar.\"\n\"How are you, Ezra? How many drops of water make the mighty ocean,\nEzra?\" \"The amount of water might be estimated in tons, Dr. Lavendar,\nbut I doubt whether the number of minims could be compu--\" \"Hullo!\nthere's Horace; how d'ye do, Horace? How's Jim this morning?\"--and so\non; the old friendly greetings of all the friendly years.... Surely\nnothing in them to make the child thoughtful?\n\nSuddenly David got up and came and stood beside him.\n\n\"What is your name?\"\n\n\"N. or M.,\" Dr. Lavendar replied.\n\n\"What, sir?\" said David, in a troubled voice; and Dr. Lavendar was\nabashed.\n\n\"My name is Edward Lavendar, sir. Why do you want to know?\"\n\n\"Because, yesterday everybody said 'Dr. Lavendar.' I didn't think\nDoctor could be your front name. All the other people had front names.\"\n\n\"Well, I have a front name, David, but you see, there's nobody in Old\nChester to call me by it.\" He sighed slightly, and then he smiled. \"The\nlast one who called me by my front name is dead, David. John was his\nname. I called him Johnny.\"\n\nDavid looked at him with wide eyes, silent. Dr. Lavendar took his pipe\nout of his mouth, and stared for a minute at the fire.\n\n\"I should think,\" David said sadly, \"God would be discouraged to have\n_everybody_ He makes, die.\"\n\nAt that Dr. Lavendar came quickly out of his reverie. \"Oh, it's better\nthat way,\" he said, cheerfully. \"One of these days I'll tell you why.\nWhat do you say to a game of dominoes?\"\n\nDavid squeaked with pleasure. Then he paused to say: \"Is that lady,\nAlice's aunt?\" and Dr. Lavendar had to recall who \"Alice\" was before he\ncould say \"yes.\" Then a little table was pulled up, and the dominoes\nwere poured out upon it, with a joyful clatter. For the next half hour\nthey were both very happy. In the midst of it David remarked,\nthoughtfully: \"There are two kinds of aunts. One is bugs. She is the\nother kind.\" And after Dr. Lavendar had stopped chuckling they\ndiscussed the relative merits of standing the dominoes upright, or\nputting them on their sides, and Dr. Lavendar built his fence in\nalternate positions, which was very effective. It was so exciting that\nbedtime was a real trial to them both. At the last stroke of eight\nDavid clenched both hands.\n\n\"Perhaps the clock is fast?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar compared it with his watch, and shook his head\nsympathetically. \"No; just right. Tumble 'em back into the box. Good\nnight.\"\n\n\"Good night, sir,\" David said, and stood hesitating. The color came and\nwent in his face, and he twisted the top button of his jacket with\nlittle nervous fingers.\n\n\"Good night,\" Dr. Lavendar repeated, significantly.\n\nBut still David hesitated. Then he came and stood close beside Dr.\nLavendar. \"Lookee here,\" he said tremulously, \"_I'll_ call you Edward.\nI'd just as lieves as not.\"\n\nThere was a full minute's silence. Then Dr. Lavendar said, \"I thank\nyou, David. That is a kind thought. But no; I like Dr. Lavendar as a\nname. So many boys and girls have called me that, that I'm fond of it.\nAnd I like to have you use it. But I'm much obliged to you, David. Now\nI guess we'll say good night. Hey?\"\n\nThe child's face cleared; he drew a deep breath as if he had\naccomplished something. Then he said good night, and trudged off to\nbed. Dr. Lavendar looked after him tenderly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nApril brightened into May before David came to live at the Stuffed\nAnimal House. Dr. Lavendar had his own reasons for the delay, which he\ndid not share with anybody, but they resulted in a sort of intimacy,\nwhich Helena, eager for the child, could not refuse.\n\n\"He needs clothes,\" Dr. Lavendar put her off; \"I can't let him visit\nyou till Mary gets his wardrobe to rights.\"\n\n\"Oh, let me get his little things.\"\n\n--Now, who would have supposed that Dr. Lavendar was so deep! To begin\nwith, he was a man, and an old man, at that; and with never a chick or\na child of his own. How did he know what a child's little clothes are\nto a woman?--\"Well,\" he said, \"suppose you make him a set of\nnight-drawers.\"\n\nHelena's face fell. \"I don't know how to sew. I thought I could buy\nwhat he needed.\"\n\n\"No; he has enough bought things, but if you will be so kind, my dear,\nas to make--\"\n\n\"I will!\" she promised, eagerly, and Dr. Lavendar said he would bring\nDavid up to be measured.\n\nHer sewing was a pathetic blunder of haste and happiness; it brought\nDr. Lavendar and David up to the Stuffed Animal House very often, \"to\ntry on.\" David's coming was always a delight, but the old man fretted\nher, somehow;--he was so good. She said so to William King, who laughed\nat the humor of a good woman's objection to goodness. The incongruity\nof such a remark from her lips was as amusing as a child's innocently\nbase comment.\n\n[Illustration: Her sewing was a pathetic blunder of haste and\nhappiness. _Awakening of Helena Richie_]\n\nWilliam had fallen into the habit of drawing up and calling out \"good\nmorning\" whenever he and his mare passed her gate. Mrs. Richie's lack\nof common sense seemed to delight the sensible William. When he was\nwith her, he was in the frame of mind that finds everything a joke. It\nwas a demand for the eternal child in her, to which, involuntarily, she\nresponded. She laughed at him, and even teased him about his shabby\nbuggy with a gayety that made him tingle with pleasure. She used to\nwonder at herself as she did it--conscious and uneasy, and resolving\nevery time that she would not do it again. She had none of this\nlightness with any one else. With Dr. Lavendar she was reserved to the\npoint of coldness, and with young Sam Wright, matter-of-fact to a\ndiscouraging degree.\n\nBut she did not see Sam often in the next month. It had occurred to Sam\nsenior that Adam Smith might cure the boy's taste for 'bosh'; so, by\nhis father's orders, his Sunday afternoons were devoted to _The Wealth\nof Nations_. As for his evenings, his grandfather took possession of\nthem. Benjamin Wright's proposal that the young man should go away for\na while, had fallen flat; Sam replying, frankly, that he did not care\nto leave Old Chester. As Mr. Wright was not prepared to give any\nreasons for urging his plan, he dropped it; and instead on Sunday\nnights detained his grandson to listen to this or that drama or poem\nuntil the boy could hardly hide his impatience. When he was free and\ncould hurry down the hill road, as often as not the lights were out in\nthe Stuffed Animal House, and he could only linger at the gate and\nwonder which was her window. But when he did find her, he had an\nevening of passionate delight, even though occasionally she snubbed\nhim, lazily.\n\n\"Do you go out in your skiff much?\" she asked once; and when he\nanswered, \"No; I filled it with stones and sunk it, because you didn't\nlike rowing,\" she spoke to him with a sharpness that surprised herself,\nthough it produced no effect whatever on Sam.\n\n\"You are a very foolish boy! What difference does it make whether I\nlike rowing or not?\"\n\nSam smiled placidly, and said he had had hard work to get stones enough\nto fill the skiff. \"I put them in,\" he explained, \"and then I sculled\nout in mid-stream, and scuttled her. I had to swim ashore. It was\nnight, and the water was like flowing ink, and there was a star in\nevery ripple,\" he ended dreamily.\n\n\"Sam,\" she said, \"if you don't stop being so foolish, I won't let you\ncome and see me.\"\n\n\"Am I a nuisance about my drama?\" he asked with alarm.\n\n\"Not about your drama,\" she said significantly; but Sam was too happy\nto draw any unflattering deductions.\n\nWhen old Mr. Wright discovered that his stratagem of keeping his\ngrandson late Sunday evenings had not checked the boy's acquaintance\nwith Mrs. Richie, he tried a more direct method. \"You young ass! Can't\nyou keep away from that house? She thinks you are a nuisance!\"\n\n\"No, grandfather,\" Sam assured him earnestly, \"she doesn't. I asked\nher, and she said--\"\n\n\"Asked her?\" roared the old man, \"Do you expect a female to tell the\ntruth?\" And then he swore steadily for a minute. \"I'll have to see\nLavendar,\" he said despairingly.\n\nBut Mr. Wright's cause was aided by some one stronger than Dr.\nLavendar. Helena's attention was so fixed on the visitor who was coming\nto the Stuffed Animal House that Sam's conversation ceased to amuse\nher. Those little night-drawers on which she pricked her fingers\ninterested her a thousand times more than did his dramatic visions.\nThey interested her so much that sometimes she could almost forget that\nLloyd Pryor's visit was delayed. For though it was the first of May, he\nhad not come again. \"I am so busy,\" he wrote; \"it is impossible for me\nto get away. I suppose David will have his sling all ready for me when\nI do arrive?\"\n\nHelena was sitting on the porch with her clumsy needlework when Sarah\nbrought her the letter, and after she had read it, she tore it up\nangrily. \"He was in Mercer a week ago; I know he was, because there is\nalways that directors' meeting on the last Thursday in April, so he\nmust have been there. And he wouldn't come!\" Down in the orchard the\napple-trees were in blossom, and when the wind stirred, the petals fell\nin sudden warm white showers; across the sky, from west to east, was a\npath of mackerel clouds. It was a pastel of spring--a dappled sky,\napple blossoms, clover, and the river's sheen of gray-blue. All about\nher were the beginnings of summer--the first exquisite green of young\nleaves; oaks, still white and crumpled from their furry sheaths;\nhorse-chestnuts, each leaf drooping from its stem like a hand bending\nat the wrist; a thin flicker of elm buds, still distrustful of the sun.\nLater, this delicate dance of foliage would thicken so that the house\nwould be in shadow, and the grass under the locusts on either side of\nthe front door fade into thin, mossy growth. But just now it was\noverflowing with May sunshine. \"Oh, he _would_ enjoy it if he would\nonly come,\" she thought. Well, anyhow, David would like it; and she\nbegan to fell her seam with painstaking unaccustomed fingers.\n\nThe child was to come that day. Half a dozen times she dropped her work\nto run to the gate, and shielding her eyes with her hand looked down\nthe road to Old Chester, but there was no sign of the jogging hood of\nthe buggy. Had anything happened? Was he sick? _Had Dr. Lavendar\nchanged his mind?_ Her heart stood still at that. She debated whether\nor not she should go down to the Rectory and find out what the delay\nmeant? Then she called to one of the servants who was crossing the\nhall, that she wondered why the little boy who was to visit her, did\nnot come. Her face cleared at the reminder that the child went to\nschool in the morning.\n\n\"Why, of course! I suppose he will have to go every morning?\" she added\nruefully.\n\n\"My,\" Maggie said smiling, \"you're wan that ought to have six!\"\n\nMrs. Richie smiled, too. Then she said to herself that she wouldn't let\nhim go to school every day; she was sure he was not strong enough. She\nventured something like this to Dr. Lavendar when, about four o'clock,\nGoliath and the buggy finally appeared.\n\n\"Strong enough?\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"He's strong enough to study a\ngreat deal harder than he does, the little rascal! I'm afraid Rose\nKnight will spoil him; she's almost as bad as Ellen Bailey. You didn't\nknow our Ellen, did ye? No; she'd married Spangler and gone out West\nbefore you came to us. Ah, a dear woman, but wickedly unselfish. Rose\nKnight took the school when Spangler took Ellen.\" Then he added one or\ntwo straight directions: Every school-day David was to come to the\nRectory for his dinner, and to Collect Class on Saturdays. \"You will\nhave to keep him at his catechism,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"he is weak on\nthe long answers.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" Helena said, rather startled; \"you don't want me to teach\nhim--things like that, do you?\"\n\n\"Things like what?\"\n\n\"The catechism, and--to pray, and--\"\n\nDr. Lavendar smiled. \"You can teach folks to say their prayers, my\ndear, but nobody can teach them to pray. Only life does that. But\nDavid's been taught his prayers; you just let him say 'em at your knee,\nthat's all.\"\n\nDavid, dismissed to the garden while his elders talked, had discovered\nthe rabbit-hutch, and could hardly tear himself away from it to say\ngood-by. But when Dr. Lavendar called out that he was going, the little\nboy's heart misgave him. He came and stood by the step of the buggy,\nand picked with nervous fingers at the dry mud on the wheel--for Dr.\nLavendar's buggy was not as clean as it should have been.\n\n\"Well, David?\" Dr. Lavendar said cheerfully. The child with his chin\nsunk on his breast said something. \"What?\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nDavid mumbled a word or two in a voice that seemed to come from his\nstomach; it sounded like, \"Like you best.\" But Dr. Lavendar did not\nhear it, and David ran swiftly back to the rabbits. There Helena found\nhim, gazing through two large tears at the opal-eyed pair behind the\nwooden bars. Their white shell-like ears wavered at her step, and they\npaused in their nibbling; then went on again with timid, jewel-like\nglances in her direction.\n\nHelena, at the sight of those two tears, knelt down beside the little\nboy, eager to be sympathetic. But he did not notice her, and by and by\nthe tears dried up. After she had tried to make him talk;--of Dr.\nLavendar, of school, of his old home;--without drawing anything more\nfrom him than \"yes ma'am,\" or \"no ma'am,\" she gave it up and waited\nuntil he should be tired of the rabbits. The sun was warm, the smell of\nthe crushed dock leaves heavy in the sheltered corner behind the barn;\nit was so silent that they could hear the nibbling of the two\nprisoners, who kept glancing at them with apprehensive eyes that\ngleamed with pale red fires. David sighed with joy.\n\n\"What are their names?\" he said at last in a low voice.\n\n\"They haven't any names; you can name them if you like.\"\n\n\"I shall call them Mr. and Mrs. Smith,\" he said with decision. And then\nfell silent again.\n\n\"You came to Old Chester in the stage with Mr. Pryor,\" she said after a\nwhile; \"he told me you were a very nice little boy.\"\n\n\"How did he know?\" demanded David.\n\n\"He is very nice himself,\" Helena said smiling.\n\nDavid meditated. \"Is that gentleman my enemy?\"\n\n\"Of course not! he isn't anybody's enemy,\" she told him reprovingly.\n\nDavid turned silently to his rabbits.\n\n\"Why did you think he was your enemy?\" she persisted.\n\n\"I only just hoped he wasn't; I don't want to love him.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"If he was my enemy, I'd have to love him, you know,\" David explained\npatiently.\n\nHelena in her confused astonishment knew not what to reply. She\nstammered something about that being wrong; of course David must love\nMr. Pryor!\n\n\"They ought to have fresh water,\" David interrupted thoughtfully; and\nHelena had to reach into the hutch for a battered tin pan.\n\nShe watched him run to the stable and come back, holding the pan in\nboth hands and walking very slowly under the mottled branches of the\nbutton-woods; at every step the water splashed over the rusty brim, and\nthe sunshine, catching and flickering in it, was reflected in a\nrippling gleam across his serious face.\n\nAll that afternoon he permitted her to follow him about. He was gently\npolite when she spoke to him but he hardly noticed her until, as they\nwent down through the orchard, his little hand tightened suddenly on\nhers, and he pressed against her skirts.\n\n\"Are there snakes in this grass?\" he asked timorously. \"A snake,\" he\nadded, looking up at her confidingly, \"is the only insect I am afraid\nof.\"\n\nShe stooped down and cuddled him reassuringly, and he rewarded her by\nsnuggling up against her like a friendly puppy. She was very happy. As\nit grew dusk and cool, and all the sky was yellow behind the black line\nof the hills, she lured him into the house and watched him eat his\nsupper, forgetting to eat her own.\n\nWhen she took him up-stairs to bed, Dr. Lavendar's directions came back\nto her with a slight shock--she must hear him say his prayers. How was\nshe to introduce the subject? The embarrassed color burned in her\ncheeks as she helped him undress and tried to decide on the proper\nmoment to speak of--prayers. But David took the matter into his own\nhands. As he stepped into his little night-clothes, buttoning them\naround his waist with slow precision, he said:\n\n\"Now I'll say my prayers. Sit by the window; then I can see that star\nwhen I open my eyes. It's hard to keep your eyes shut so long, ain't\nit?\" he added confidentially.\n\nHelena sat down, her heart fluttering in her throat. David knelt beside\nher, shutting first one eye and then the other. \"'Now I lay me--\"' he\nbegan in a businesslike voice. At the Amen he opened his eyes and drew\na long breath. Helena moved slightly and he shut his eyes again; \"I've\nnot done yet.\n\n\"'Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night--'\"\n\nHe paused and looked up at Mrs. Richie. \"Can I say colt?\" Before she\ncould reply he decided for himself. \"No; colts don't have shepherds; it\nhas to be lamb.\"\n\nHer silent laughter did not disturb him. He finished with another\nsatisfied Amen. Helena put her arms about him to raise him from the\nfloor, but he looked up, aggrieved.\n\n\"Why, I've not done yet,\" he reproached her \"You've forgot the\nblessings.\"\n\n\"The blessings?\" she asked timidly.\n\n\"Why, of course,\" said David, trying to be patient; \"but I'm most\ndone,\" he encouraged her. \"God bless everybody--Dr. Lavendar taught me\nthe new blessings,\" he interrupted himself, his eyes snapping open,\n\"because my old blessings were all gone to heaven. God bless everybody;\nDr. Lavendar, an' Mary, an' Goliath--\" Helena laughed. \"He said I\ncould,\" David defended himself doggedly--\"an' Danny, an' Dr. King, an'\nMrs. Richie. And make me a good boy. For Jesus' sake Amen. Now I'm\ndone!\" cried David, scrambling happily to his feet.\n\n\"And--Mr. Pryor, too? Won't you ask God to bless Mr. Pryor?\"\n\n\"But,\" said David, frowning, \"I'm done.\"\n\n\"After this, though, it would be nice--\"\n\n\"Well,\" David answered coldly, \"God can bless him if He wants to. But\nHe needn't do it just to please me.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nWhen Dr. Lavendar left David at the Stuffed Animal House, he didn't\nfeel, somehow, like going home; the Rectory would be so quiet. It\noccurred to him that, as he was on the hill, he might as well look in\non Benjamin Wright.\n\nHe found the old gentleman in his beaver hat and green serge\ndressing-gown, tottering up and down the weedy driveway in front of his\nveranda, and repeating poetry.\n\n\"O great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o'er rank states, thou\ngrand decider Of dusty and old titles, that healest with blood--Hello!\n'Bout time you came to see me. I suppose you want to get some money out\nof me for something?\"\n\n\"Of course; I always want money out of somebody for something. There's\na leak in the vestry roof. How are you?\"\n\n\"How do you suppose I am? At eighty-one, with one foot in the grave!\nReady to jump over a five-barred gate?\"\n\n\"I'm seventy-two,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"and I played marbles yesterday.\"\n\n\"Come in and have a smoke,\" the older man said, hobbling on to the\nveranda, where four great white columns, blistered and flaked by time,\nsupported a roof that darkened the shuttered windows of the second\nstory.\n\nHe led the way indoors to the dining-room, growling that his nigger,\nSimmons, was a fool. \"He _says_ he closes the shutters to keep the\nflies out; makes the room as dark as a pocket, and there ain't any\nflies this time of year, anyhow. He does it to stop my birds from\nsinging; he can't fool me! To stop my birds!\" He went over to one of\nthe windows and pushed the shutters open with a clatter; instantly a\ntwitter ran from cage to cage, and the fierce melancholy of his old\nface softened. \"Hear that?\" he said proudly.\n\n\"I ought to come oftener,\" Dr. Lavendar reproached himself; \"he's\nlonely.\"\n\nAnd, indeed, the room with its mammoth sideboard black with age and its\nsolitary chair at one end of the long table, was lonely enough. On the\nwalls, papered a generation ago with a drab paper sprinkled over with\noccasional pale gilt medallions, were some time-stained engravings:\n\"The Destruction of Nineveh\"; \"The Trial of Effie Deans\"; \"The\nDeath-bed of Washington.\" A gloomy room at best; now, with the shutters\nof one window still bowed, and the faint twitter of the canaries, and\nthat one chair at the head of the table, it was very melancholy.\n\n\"Sit down!\" said Benjamin Wright. Still in his moth-eaten high hat, he\nshuffled about to fetch from the sideboard a fat decanter with a silver\nchain and label around its neck, and two tumblers.\n\n\"No,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"I'm obliged to you.\"\n\n\"What, temperance?\" snarled the other.\n\n\"Well, I hope so,\" Dr. Lavendar said, \"but not a teetotaler, if that's\nwhat you mean. Only I don't happen to want any whiskey at five o'clock\nin the afternoon.\"\n\nAt which his host swore softly, and lifting the decanter poured out two\ngood fingers.\n\n\"Mr. Wright,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"I will be obliged if you will not\nswear in my presence.\"\n\n\"You needn't talk to me,\" cried Benjamin Wright, \"I despise this damned\nprofanity there is about; besides, I am always scrupulously particular\nin my language before females and parsons. Well;--I wanted to see you,\nbecause that jack-donkey, Sam, my grandson, is causing me some anxiety.\"\n\n\"Why, Sam is a good boy,\" Dr. Lavendar protested.\n\n\"Too good. I like a boy to be human at twenty-three. He doesn't know\nthe wickedness of the world.\"\n\n\"Thank God,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Dominie, ignorance ain't virtue.\"\n\n\"No; but it's a fair substitute. I wouldn't want one of my boys to be\nable to pass an examination on wrong-doing.\"\n\n\"But you want him to recognize it when he sees it, don't you?\"\n\n\"If he knows goodness, you can trust him to recognize the other thing.\nTeach 'em goodness. Badness will label itself.\"\n\n\"Doesn't follow,\" Benjamin Wright said. \"But you're a parson; parsons\nknow about as much as females--good females. Look here! I have reasons\nfor saying that the boy ought to get out of Old Chester. I want your\nassistance.\"\n\n\"Get out of Old Chester!--to see how wicked the world is?\"\n\nMr. Wright shook his head. \"No; he could see that here--only the puppy\nhasn't got his eyes open yet. A little knocking about the world, such\nas any boy ought to have, will open 'em. Living in Old Chester is\nnarrowing; very narrowing. Besides, he's got--well, he's got some truck\nhe's written. It isn't entirely bad, Lavendar, and he might as well try\nto get it published, or, maybe, produced in some theatre. So let him go\nand hunt up a publisher or a manager. Now, very likely, his--his\n_mother_ won't approve. I want you to urge--her, to let him go.\"\n\n\"Travelling might be good for Sam,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"I admit\nthat--though not to learn the wickedness of the world. But I don't know\nthat it would be worth while to take a journey just on account of his\nwriting. He could put it in an envelope and mail it to a publisher;\nhe'd get it back just as soon,\" Dr. Lavendar said chuckling. \"Look\nhere, what's the matter? I can see you're concerned about the boy.\"\n\n\"Concerned?\" cried Benjamin Wright, pounding the table with his tumbler\nand chewing orange-skin rapidly. \"I'm damned concerned.\"\n\n\"I will ask, sir, that you will not swear in my presence.\"\n\nMr. Wright coughed. \"I will endeavor to respect the cloth,\" he said\nstiffly.\n\n\"If you will respect yourself, it will be sufficient. As for Sam, if\nthere's anything wrong, his father ought to know it.\"\n\n\"Well then, tell his--_mother_, that there is something wrong.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nMr. Wright got up, and clasping his hands behind him, shuffled about\nthe room. Instantly one of the canaries began to sing. \"Stop that!\" he\nsaid. The bird quivered with shrill music. \"Stop! You! ... There's no\nsuch thing as conversation, with these creatures about,\" he added in a\nproud aside. \"Did you ever hear such singing?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar, unable to make himself heard, shook his head.\n\n\"If you don't stop,\" said Mr. Wright, \"I'll wring your neck!\" and as\nthe bird continued, he opened the door. \"Simmons! You freckled nigger!\nBring me the apron.\" Then he stamped, and cursed the slowness of\nniggers. Simmons, however, came as fast as his old legs could carry\nhim, bearing a blue gingham apron. This, thrown over the cage, produced\nsilence.\n\n\"There! Now, perhaps, you'll hold your tongue? ... Lavendar, I prefer\nnot to say what is wrong. Merely tell Sam's--_mother_, that he had\nbetter go. If she is too mean to provide the money, I will.\"\n\n\"Sam's father is not too mean to do anything for Sam's welfare; but of\ncourse, a general accusation is not convincing; should not be\nconvincing--Why!\" said Dr. Lavendar, interrupting himself, \"bless my\nheart! I believe you mean that the boy is making sheep's-eyes at your\nneighbor here on the hill? Is that it? Why, Benjamin, the best way to\ncure that is to pay no attention to it.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said Mr. Wright, sinking into his chair breathlessly, and\ntapping the table with one veined old finger; \"when I was a young man,\nit was not thought proper to introduce the name of a female into a\ndiscussion between gentlemen.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Dr. Lavendar admitted, \"maybe not--when you were young. But all\nof us young folks in Old Chester know perfectly well that Sam is\nsmitten, and we are ignoring it.\"\n\n\"What! His--_mother_ knows it?\"\n\n\"His father knows it perfectly well,\" said Dr. Lavendar smiling.\n\nMr. Wright got up again, his fingers twitching with impatience.\n\"Lavendar,\" he began--another bird trilled, and snarling with\nannoyance, he pulled the blue apron from the first cage and threw it\nover the second. \"These creatures drive me distracted! ... Lavendar, to\nget Sam out of Old Chester, I might almost consent to see\nhis--_mother_, if there was no other way to accomplish it.\"\n\nAt that Dr. Lavendar stopped smiling. \"Benjamin,\" he said solemnly, \"if\nany foolishness on the part of the boy brings you to such wisdom, the\nhand of the Lord will be in it!\"\n\n\"I don't want to see--his relations!\" cried Benjamin Wright; \"but Sam's\ngot to get away from this place for a while, and if you won't persuade\nhis--_mother_ to allow it, why I might be driven to seeing--her. But\nwhy shouldn't he try to get his truck published?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar was very much moved. \"If you'll only see your son,\" he\nsaid, \"this other business will straighten itself out somehow. But--\"\nhe paused; \"getting Sam's play published isn't a very good excuse for\nseeing him. I'd rather have him think you were worried because the boy\nhad an attack of calf-love. No; I wouldn't want you to talk about\ntheatrical things,\" Dr. Lavendar ended thoughtfully.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Well, the fact is, Samuel has no sympathy with dramas or playhouses. I\ndo not myself approve of the theatre, but I am told respectable persons\nhave adopted the profession. Samuel, however, can't find any good in\nit.\"\n\n\"He can't, can't he? Well, well; it was efficacious--it was\nefficacious!\"\n\n\"What was efficacious?\"\n\nBenjamin Wright laughed loudly. \"You--don't know? He never told you?\"\n\n\"You mean what you and he quarrelled about? No; he never told me.\"\n\n\"He was a fool.\"\n\n\"Benjamin, if you were not a fool at twenty-four; you missed a good\ndeal.\"\n\n\"And now he objects to theatrical things?\"\n\n\"He objects so intensely,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"that, anxious as I am to\nhave you meet and bring this foolish and wicked quarrel to an end, I\nshould really hesitate to have you do so, if you insisted on discussing\nthat subject.\"\n\nBenjamin Wright lifted one trembling fist. \"It was efficacious!\"\n\n\"And you would give your right hand to undo it,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nThe very old man lowered his shaking right hand and looked at it; then\nhe said sullenly, \"I only wanted his own good. You ought to see that--a\nparson!\"\n\n\"But you forget; I don't know what it was about.\"\n\nMr. Wright's face twitched. \"Well,\" he said spasmodically, \"I'll-tell\nyou. I--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"I--\" his voice broke, then he coughed, then he tried to laugh. \"Simple\nenough; simple enough. I had occasion to send him to Mercer. He was to\ncome back that night.\" Mr. Wright stopped; poured some whiskey into his\nglass, and forgetting to add any water, drank it at a gulp, \"He didn't\ncome back until the next afternoon.\"\n\n\"Yes. Well?\"\n\n\"In those days I was of--of somewhat hasty temper.\"\n\n\"So I have heard,\" said Dr. Lavendar,\n\nBenjamin Wright glared. \"When I was young, listening to gossip was not\nthought becoming in the cloth. When he came, I learned that he had\nstayed over in Mercer--without my consent, mark you--_to go to the\ntheatre!_\"\n\n\"Well?\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"He was twenty-four. Why should he have your\nconsent?\"\n\nMr. Wright waved this question aside. \"When he came home, I spoke with\nsome severity.\"\n\n\"This quarrel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"is not built on such folly as that.\"\n\nBenjamin Wright shook his head, and made a careless gesture with his\ntrembling hand. \"Not--entirely. I reproved him, as I say. And he was\nimpertinent. Impertinent, mind you, to his father! And I--in those days\nmy temper was somewhat quick--I--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\nBut Mr. Wright seemed unable to proceed, except to say again,\n\"I--reproved him.\"\n\n\"But,\" Dr. Lavendar protested, \"you don't mean to tell me that Samuel,\njust for a reproof, an unkind and unjust reproof, would--why, I cannot\nbelieve it!\"\n\n\"It was not unjust!\" Benjamin Wright's melancholy eyes flamed angrily.\n\n\"I know, Samuel,\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"He is obstinate; I've told him so\na hundred times. And he's conceited--so's everybody, more or less; if\nin nothing else, we're conceited because we're not conceited. But he's\nnot a fool. So, whether he is right or not, I am sure he thinks he had\nsomething more to complain of than a good blowing-up?\"\n\n\"In a way,\" said the old man, examining his ridgy finger-nails and\nspeaking with a gasp, \"he had. Slightly.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar's stern lip trembled with anxiety. \"What?\"\n\n\"I--chastised him; a little.\"\n\n\"You--_what_?\"\n\nBenjamin Wright nodded; the wrinkled pouches under his eyes grew dully\nred. \"My God!\" he said plaintively; \"think of that--a hasty moment!\nThirty-two years; my God! I--spanked him.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar opened his lips to speak, but found no words.\n\n\"And he was offended! Offended? What right had he to be offended? _I_\nwas the offended party. He went to a low theatre. Apparently you see\nnothing wrong in that? Well, I've always said that every parson had the\nmaking of an actor in him. It's a toss-up--the stage or the pulpit.\nSame thing at bottom. But perhaps even you won't approve of his staying\naway all night? Smoking! Drinking! He'd been drunk. He confessed it.\nAnd there was a woman in it. He confessed that. Said they'd all 'gone\nto supper together.' Said that he was 'seeing the world'--which a man\n('_man_,' if you please!) of his years had a right to do. Well; I\nsuppose you'd have had me smile at him, and tuck him up in bed to sleep\noff his headache, and give him a stick of candy? That wasn't my way. I\nreproved him. I--chastised him. Perfectly proper. Perhaps--unusual. He\nwas twenty-four, and I laid him across my knee, and--well; I got over\nit in fifteen minutes. I was, perhaps, hasty My temper in those days\nwas not what it is now. But I forgave him in fifteen minutes; and he\nhad gone! He's been gone--for thirty-two years. My God!\"\n\nHe poured out another finger of whiskey, but forgot to drink it. A\ncanary-bird chirped loudly, then lapsed into a sleepy twitter.\n\n\"I was well rid of him! To make a quarrel out of a thing like that--a\njoke, as you might say. I laughed, myself, afterwards, at the thought\nof it. A fellow of twenty-four--spanked! Why didn't he swear and be\ndone with it? I would have reproved him for his profanity, of course.\nProfanity in young persons is a thing I will not tolerate; Simmons will\ntell you so. But it would have cleared the air. If he had done that,\nwe'd have been laughing about it, now;--he and I, together.\" The old\nman suddenly put both hands over his face, and a broken sound came from\nbehind them.\n\nDr. Lavendar shook his head, speechlessly.\n\n\"What's the matter with you?\" cried Benjamin Wright, pulling off his\nhat and banging it down on the table so fiercely that the crown\ncollapsed on one side like an accordion. \"Good God! Can't you see the\ntomfoolery of this business of thirty-two years of hurt feelings?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar was silent.\n\n\"What! You excuse him? When I was young, parsons believed in the Ten\nCommandments; 'Honor thy father and thy mother--'\"\n\n\"There is another scripture which saith, 'Fathers, provoke not your\nchildren to wrath.' And when it comes to the Commandments, I would\ncommend the third to your attention. As for Samuel, you robbed him.\"\n\n\"Robbed him?\"\n\n\"You took his self-respect. A young man's dignity, at twenty-four, is\nas precious to him as a woman's modesty. You stole it. Yes; you robbed\nhim. Our Heavenly Father doesn't do that, when He punishes us. We lose\nour dignity ourselves; but He never robs us of it. Did ye ever notice\nthat? Well; you robbed Samuel. My--my--_my!_\" Dr. Lavendar sighed\nwearily. For, indeed, the matter looked very dark. Here was the moment\nhe had prayed for--the readiness of one or the other of the two men to\ntake the first step towards reconciliation. Such readiness, he had\nthought, would mean the healing of the dreadful wound, whatever it was;\nforgiveness on the father's part of some terrible wrong-doing,\nforgiveness on the son's part of equally terrible hardness of heart.\nInstead he found a cruel and ridiculous mortification, made permanent\nby thirty-two unpardoning years. Here was no sin to command the\ndreadful dignity of repentance, with its divine response of\nforgiveness. The very lack of seriousness in the cause made the effect\nmore serious. He looked over at the older man, and shook his head....\nHow could they pay their debts to each other, this father and son?\nCould Benjamin Wright return the self-respect he had stolen away? Could\nSamuel offer that filial affection which should have blessed all these\nempty years? A wickedly ludicrous memory forbade the solemnity of a\nreconciliation: below any attempt the father might make, there would be\na grin, somewhere; below any attempt the son might make, there would be\na cringe, somewhere. The only possible hope was in absolute, flat\ncommonplace. Play-writing, as a subject of conversation, was out of the\nquestion!\n\n\"Benjamin,\" he said with agitation, \"I thank God that you are willing\nto see Samuel; but you must promise me not to refer to Sam's play. You\nmust promise me this, or the last end of the quarrel will be worse than\nthe first.\"\n\n\"I haven't said I was willing to see him,\" Mr. Wright broke out; \"I'm\n_not_ willing! Is it likely that I would hanker after an interview? All\nI want is to get the boy away from Old Chester; to 'see the world.'\nHis--father ought to sympathize with that! Yes; to get him away, I\nwould even--But if you will tell his--relatives, that in my judgment,\nhe ought to go away, that is all that is necessary.\"\n\n\"No! You must urge it yourself,\" Dr. Lavendar said eagerly. \"Put it on\nthe ground of calf-love, if you want to. I'll tell Samuel you want to\nget Sam out of town because you're afraid he's falling in love with\nMrs. Richie; and you'd like to consult him about it.\"\n\nBut the old man began a scrabbling retreat. \"No! No!\" he said, putting\non his hat with shaking hands. \"No, don't tell anybody anything. I'll\nfind some other way out of it. Let it go. Seeing his--relatives is a\nlast resource. If they are so virtuous as to object to plays, I'll try\nsomething else. Object?\" he repeated, \"Gad-a-mercy! My discipline was\nsuccessful!\" He grinned wickedly.\n\nDr. Lavendar made no reply. The interview had been a strain, and he got\nup a little feebly. Benjamin Wright, as he saw him to the door, swore\nagain at some misdemeanor on the part of Simmons, but was not rebuked.\n\nThe old minister climbed into his buggy, and told Goliath to \"g'long.\"\nAs he passed the Stuffed Animal House, he peered through the little\ndusty window of the hood; but David was not in sight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\n\"I think,\" said Dr. Lavendar, as he and Goliath came plodding into Old\nChester in the May dusk, \"I think I'll go and see Willy. He'll tell me\nhow much Sam's love-making amounts to.\"\n\nHis mind was on the matter to such an extent that he hardly heard\nMary's anxious scolding because he looked tired, but his preoccupation\nlifted at supper, in the consciousness of how lonely he was without\nDavid. He really wanted to get out of the house and leave the\nloneliness behind him. So after tea he put on his broad-brimmed felt\nhat and tied a blue muffler around his throat--Dr. Lavendar felt the\ncold a good deal; he said it was because the seasons were changing--and\nwalked wearily over to Dr. King's house. That talk with Benjamin Wright\nhad told on him.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, as the doctor's wife opened the door, \"how are you,\nMartha?\"\n\n\"Very tired,\" said Mrs. King. \"And dear me, Dr. Lavendar, you look\ntired yourself. You're too old to do so much, sir. Come in and sit\ndown.\"\n\n\"I'll sit down,\" said Dr. Lavendar, dropping into a chair in the\nparlor; \"but don't flatter yourself, Martha, that you'll ever be as\nyoung as I am!\" (\"He _is_ failing,\" Mrs. King told her husband\nafterwards. \"He gets his words all mixed up. He says 'young' when he\nmeans 'old.' Isn't that a sign of something, William?\" \"It's a sign of\ngrace,\" said the doctor shortly.)\n\n  \"I want Willy to come over and give my Mary a pill,\" Dr. Lavendar\nexplained. \"She is as cross as a bear, and cross people are generally\nsick people--although I suppose that's Mary's temperament,\" he added\nsighing.\n\nMartha shook her head. \"In my judgment _temperament_ is just another\nword for temper: I don't believe in making excuses for it. That's a\ngreat trick of William's, I'm sorry to say.\"\n\n\"I should have thought you'd have cured him of it by this time?\" Dr.\nLavendar murmured; and then he asked if the doctor was out.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Mrs. King, dryly; \"Willy always manages to get out in\nthe evening on one excuse or another. You'd think he'd be glad of a\nrestful evening at home with me, sometimes. But no. William's patients\nneed a surprising amount of attention, though his bills don't show it\nWhen Mrs. Richie's cook was sick--just as an instance--he went six\ntimes to see her. I counted.\"\n\n\"Well; she got well?\"' said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Got well? She'd have got well if he hadn't gone near her.\" Martha\nbegan to stroke the gathers on a bit of cambric with a precise needle\nthat suddenly trembled. \"The woman herself was not to blame it's only\njust to say that--And there's one thing about me, Dr. Lavendar; I may\nnot be perfect, but I am always just. No, she was not to blame; it was\nMrs. Richie who sent for William. She is the most helpless woman I ever\nsaw, for her years;--she is at least forty, though she uses\nsachet-powders, and wears undersleeves all trimmed with lace, as if she\nwere six teen! I don't want to find fault, Dr. Lavendar, but I must say\nthat _I_ wouldn't have trusted that little boy to her.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"I trusted _her_ to the little boy! She'll be\nso busy looking after his sleeves, she'll forget her own.\"\n\nMrs. King sniffed, doubtfully. \"I'm sure I hope you are right; but in\nmy opinion, she's a very helpless and foolish woman;--if nothing worse.\nThough according to my ideas, the way she lets Sam Wright's Sam behave\nis worse!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar was suddenly attentive, \"How does she let him behave?\"\n\n\"Well, he is so daft over--her that he neglects his work at the bank to\nwrite verses. Why doesn't she stop it?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said William King, appearing in the doorway, smelling\nhonestly of the barn and picking off a straw here and there from his\nsleeve; \"she knows nothing about it.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar and Martha both looked up, startled at his tone.\n\n\"Women,\" said the doctor, \"would gossip about a--a clam!\"\n\n\"I am not gossiping?\" Martha defended herself; but Dr. Lavendar\ninterrupted her, cheerfully,\n\n\"Well, I am, I came over to gossip with William on this very\nsubject.--Martha, will you let him put a match to that grate? I\ndeclare, the seasons are changing. When I was your age it wasn't cold\nenough to have a fire in May.--Look here, Willy, what do you mean by\nsaying Mrs. Richie doesn't know Sam's sentiments?\"\n\n\"I mean that women like Mrs. Richie are so unconscious, they don't see\nthings like that. She's as unconscious as a girl.\"\n\n\"Tck!\" said Martha.\n\n\"A girl!\" said Dr. Lavendar.--\"Say a tree, or a boy but don't say a\ngirl. Why, William, everybody sees it. Even Benjamin Wright. Of course\nshe knows it.\"\n\n\"She doesn't; she isn't the kind that thinks of things like that. Of\ncourse, some women would have discovered it months ago; one of your\nstrong-minded ladies, perhaps--only Sam wouldn't have been spoony on\nthat kind.\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Martha, \"I must say, flat--\"\n\nBut William interrupted her--\"To prove what I say: she lets him come in\nand bore her to death, just out of kindness. Do you suppose she would\ndo that if she knew he was such an idiot as to presume to--to--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"as there is so much ignorance about,\nperhaps Sam doesn't know he's lost his heart?\"\n\nBut at that William laughed, \"_He_ knows; Trust a young fellow! That's\njust the difference between a man and a woman, sir; the man always\nknows; the woman, if she's the right kind, doesn't--until she's told.\"\n\n\"Tck!\" said Martha,\n\nDr. Lavendar looked down at the bowl of his pipe then he said meekly,\n\"I was under the impression that Eve ate her apple before Adam had so\nmuch as a bite. Still, whether Mrs. Richie knows the state of Sam's\naffections or not, I do wish she would urge him to put his mind on his\nwork. That's what I came in to speak to you about. His father is all on\nedge about it, and now his grandfather has taken it into his head to be\nworried over it, too But you know her better than the rest of us do,\nand I thought perhaps you'd drop a hint that she would be doing\nmissionary work if she'd influence the boy to be more industrious.\"\n\n\"I'll go and talk it over with her,\" Martha volunteered. \"I am always\nready to advise any one.\"\n\nWilliam King got up and kicked at a lump of coal in the grate. \"I am\nsure you are,\" he said dryly; \"but no talking over is necessary., I\nshall probably be going up the hill in a few days, and I'll say a word\nif Dr. Lavendar wants me to. Nothing definite; just enlist her sympathy\nfor his father--and get her to protect herself, too. He must be an\nawful nuisance.\"\n\n\"That's it!\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"I'd do it myself, but you know her\nbetter than I do. I'm getting acquainted with her through David. David\nis really a remarkable child! I can't tell you how I miss him.\" And\nthen he began to relate David's sayings, while Martha sewed fiercely,\nand William stared at the hearth-rug \"The little rascal is no Peter\nGrievous,\" Dr Lavendar declared, proudly; and told a story of a badly\nbarked knee, and a very stiff upper-lip; \"and the questions he asks!\"\nsaid the old man, holding up both hands; \"theological questions; the\nHouse of Bishops couldn't answer 'em!\" He repeated some of the\nquestions, watching the husband and wife with swift glances over his\nspectacles; when he had wrung a reluctant laugh from the doctor, and\nMrs., King was not sewing so fast, he went home, not much rested by his\ncall.\n\nBut the result of the call was that at the end of the week Dr. King\nwent up to the Stuffed Animal House.\n\n\"We are shipwrecked!\" cried Mrs. Richie, as she saw him coming down the\ngarden path towards the barn. Her face was flushed and gay, and her\nhair, shaken from its shining wreath around her head, hung in two\nbraids down her back. She had had a swing put up under the big\nbuttonwood beside the stable, and David, climbing into it, had clung to\nthe rigging to be dashed, side wise, on to the rocks of the\ncarriageway, where Mrs. Richie stood ready to catch him when the vessel\nshould drive near enough to the shore. In an endeavor to save himself\nfrom some engulfing sea which his playmate had pointed out to him,\nDavid had clutched at her, breaking the top hook of her gown and\ntearing her collar apart, leaving throat, white and round, open to the\nhot sun. Before the doctor reached her, she caught her dress together,\nand twisted her hair into a knot. \"You can't keep things smooth in a\nshipwreck,\" she excused herself, laughing.\n\nDavid sighed, and looked into the carriage-house. In that jungle--Mrs.\nRichie had called it a jungle--were wild beasts; there were also\ncrackers and apples--or to be exact, breadfruit and citrons--hanging\nfrom what George called \"harness-racks,\" though of course, as\nthoughtful persons know, they were trees; David was to gather these\ntropical spoils, and then escape from the leopard, the shark, the\ncrocodile! And now there was Dr. King, spoiling everything.\n\nThe doctor sat down on a keg and looked at the two, smiling. \"Which is\nthe younger of you?\" he said. It came over him, in a gust of amusement,\nwhat Martha would say to such a scene, and he laughed aloud.\n\n\"Dr. King,\" said David, in a small distinct voice, \"won't Jinny run\naway, if you leave her so long at gate?\"\n\n\"Oh, David!\" cried Mrs. Richie, horrified. But the visitor threw back\nhis head with a shout.\n\n\"That's what my wife would call speaking 'flatly and frankly'! Well,\nMrs. Richie, I never wrote a better prescription in my life. You look\nlike a different woman, already.\"\n\nAnd, indeed, the youth in her face was as careless as David's own. But\nit flagged when he added that he hoped her brother would not think the\ncare of David would be too much for her.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" she said, briefly.\n\n\"I feel like saying 'I told you so'! I knew you would like to have a\nchild about.\"\n\n\"I do, but he is a tyrant. Aren't you, David? I have to get up for\nbreakfast!\"\n\n\"Terrible,\" said William delightedly.\n\n\"Why, but it _is_. I don't know when I've done such a thing! At first I\nthought I really couldn't. But I couldn't leave him all by himself,\ndown-stairs--could I, David?\"\n\n\"I'd just as lieves,\" said David, gently.\n\n\"Oh, how like your sex!\" Helena cried.\n\n\"What do you suppose I've come for?\" Dr. King began in the bantering\ntone one uses to a child. \"I've come to get you to exert your influence\nto improve business. _Business!_\" he repeated, delighted at his own\nabsurdity; \"a lady who finds it hard to get up in the mornings.\"\n\nShe looked at him ruefully; \"I'm lazy, I am afraid.\" \"No, you're\nnot--it's a very sensible thing to do, if you are not strong. Well, I\nmust tell you what we want; Sam Wright is anxious, because young Sam\nneglects his work at the bank, and--\"\n\n\"But he doesn't like business,\" she explained with a surprised look;\nand William laughed with pleasure.\n\n\"So that's a reason for not attending to it? Unfortunately, that's the\nyoung man's own point of view. He's a queer youngster,\" William added\nin his kind voice.\n\n\"I don't think it's queer not to like disagreeable things,\" Helena said.\n\n\"Well, no; but all the same, we've got to stand them. Sam has no\npatience with anything disagreeable. Why, when he was a little\nfellow--let me see, he was younger than David; about four, I think--he\nscratched his finger one day pretty severely; it smarted, I guess,\nbadly. Anyway, he roared! Then he picked up a pair of scissors and ran\nbawling to his mother; 'Mamma, cut finger off! It hurts Sam--cut finger\noff!' That's been his principle ever since: 'it hurts--get rid of it.'\"\n\n\"I don't blame him in the least,\" Helena protested gayly; \"I'm sure\nI've wanted to 'cut finger off.' And I have done it, too!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor with great pretence of gravity, \"I suppose,\nthen, we'll have to tell old Mr. Wright that nobody must ever do\nanything he doesn't want to do? It appears that he's worried, too,\nbecause the young gentleman isn't industrious. The fact is, he thinks\nSam would rather come up here than work over his ledgers,\" he teased.\n\nHelena sprung to her feet, nervously. \"But I wish he wouldn't come! I\ndon't want him to come. I can't help it; indeed I--I can't help it!\"\nShe spoke with a sort of gasp. Instantly David, who had been lounging\nin the swing, slipped down and planted himself directly in front of\nher, his arms stretched out at each side. \"I'll take care of you,\" he\nsaid protectingly.\n\nWilliam King caught his breath. No one could have heard the frightened\nnote in her voice without understanding David's impulse. The doctor\nshared it. Evidently Sam had been making love to her, and her very\ninnocence made her quick to feel herself rebuked! William felt an\nardent desire to kick Sam Wright's Sam.\n\nBut Mrs. Richie was herself again; she laughed, though not quite\nnaturally, and sat down in the swing, swaying slightly back and forth\nwith an indolent push of her pretty foot. David lounged against her\nknee, eying the doctor with frank displeasure. \"I am sure,\" she said,\n\"I wish Sam would attend to his ledgers; it would be much better than\nmaking visits.\"\n\n\"Dr. King,\" David said, gently, \"I'll shake hands now, and say good-by.\"\n\nThe laugh that followed changed the subject, although warm in William's\nconsciousness the thought remained that she had let him know what the\nsubject meant to her: he shared a secret with her! She had told him,\nindirectly perhaps, but still told him, of her troubles with young Sam.\nIt was as if she had put out her hand and said, \"Help me!\"\nInarticulately he felt what David had said, \"I'll take care of you!\"\nAnd his first care must be to make her forget what had distressed her.\nHe said with the air of one imparting interesting information, that\nsome time in the next fortnight he would probably go to Philadelphia on\nbusiness. \"Can I do any errands for you? Don't you ladies always want\nribbons, or something.\"\n\n\"Does Mrs. King let you buy ribbons for her?\" Helena asked.\n\n\"Ribbons! I am to buy yarn, and some particular brand of lye for soap.\"\n\n\"Lye! How do you make soap out of lye?\"\n\n\"You save all the \"--William hesitated for a sufficiently delicate\nword--\"the--fat, you know, in the kitchen, and then you make soft soap.\"\n\n\"Why! I didn't know that was how soap was made.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you didn't,\" said William King. \"I mean--it's disagreeable,\"\nhe ended weakly. And then, to David's open joy, he said good-by and\njogged off down the hill, leaving Mrs. Richie to her new\nresponsibilities of discipline.\n\n\"Now, David, come here. I've got to scold you.\"\n\nDavid promptly climbed up into the swing and settled himself in her\nlap. Then he snuggled his little nose down into her neck. \"I'm a bear,\"\nhe announced. \"I'm eating you. Now, you scream and I'll roar.\"\n\n\"Oh, David, you little monkey! Listen to me: you weren't very polite to\nDr. King.\"\n\n\"O-o-o-o-o-o!\" roared the bear.\n\n\"You should make him feel you were glad to see him.\"\n\n\"I wasn't,\" mumbled David.\n\n\"But you must have manners, dear little boy.\"\n\n\"I have,\" David defended himself, sitting up straight. \"I have them in\nmy head; but I only use them sometimes.\"\n\nUpon which the disciplinarian collapsed; \"You rogue!\" she said; \"come\nhere, and I'll give you 'forty kisses'!\"\n\nDavid was instantly silent; he shrank away, lifting his shoulder\nagainst his cheek and looking at her shyly. \"I won't, dear!\" she\nreassured him, impetuously: \"truly I won't.\"\n\nBut she said to herself she must remember to repeat the speech about\nmanners to the doctor; it would make him laugh.\n\nWilliam laughed easily when he came to the Stuffed Animal House.\nIndeed, he had laughed when he went away from it, and stopped for a\nminute at Dr. Lavendar's to tell him that Mrs. Richie was just as\nanxious as anybody that Sam Wright should attend to his business.\n\"_Business_!\" said the doctor, \"much she knows about it!\" And then he\nadded that he was sure she would do her part to influence the boy to be\nmore industrious. \"And you may depend on it, she won't allow any\nlove-making,\" said William.\n\nHe laughed again suddenly, out loud, as he ate his supper that night,\nbecause some memory of the after-noon came into his head. When Martha,\nstarting at the unusual sound, asked what he was laughing at, he told\nher he had found Mrs. Richie playing with David Allison. \"They were\nlike two children; I said I didn't know which was the younger. They\nwere pretending they were shipwrecked; the swing was the vessel, if you\nplease!\"\n\n\"I suppose she was trying to amuse him,\" Mrs. King said. \"That's a\ngreat mistake with children. Give a child a book, or put him down to\nsome useful task; that's my idea.\"\n\n\"Oh, she was amusing herself,\" William explained. Mrs. King was silent.\n\n\"She gets up for breakfast now, on account of David; it's evidently a\ngreat undertaking!\" the doctor said humorously.\n\nMartha held her lips hard together.\n\n\"You ought to hear her housekeeping ideas,\" William rambled on. \"I\nhappened to say you wanted some lye for soap. She didn't know soap was\nmade with lye! You would have laughed to hear her--\"\n\nBut at that the leash broke: \"_Laughed_? I hope not! I hope I wouldn't\nlaugh because a woman of her age has no more sense than a child. And\nshe gets up for breakfast, does she? Well, why shouldn't she get up for\nbreakfast? I am very tired, but I get up for breakfast. I don't mean to\nbe severe, William, and I never am; I'm only just. But I must say,\nflatly and frankly, that ignorance and laziness do not seem _funny_ to\nme. Laugh? Would you laugh if I stayed in bed in the mornings, and\ndidn't know how to make soap, and save your money for you? I guess not!\"\n\nThe doctor's face reddened and he closed his lips with a snap. But\nMartha found no more fault with Mrs. Richie. After a while she said in\nthat virtuous voice familiar to husbands, \"William, I know you don't\nlike to do it, so I cleaned all the medicine-shelves in your office\nthis morning.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" William said, curtly; and finished his supper in absolute\nsilence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\nDr. Lavendar was not sleeping very well that spring. He fell into the\nhabit of waking at about three, just when the birds begin the scattered\ntwittering that swells into full clamor and then dies suddenly into\nsilence. In that gray stillness, broken by bird-calls, he used to\noccupy himself by thinking of his people.\n\n\"The name of the large upper chamber, facing the east, was Peace.\" And\nso this old pilgrim found it, lying in his four-poster, listening to\nthe cries and calls in the jargonelle pear-tree in the corner of the\ngarden, and watching the ghostly oblong of the window that faced the\neast, glimmer and brighten into the effulgence of day. It was then,\nwith his old hands folded on his breast, that he thought about the\nWrights--all three of them....\n\nIt was a relief to know that Mrs. Richie would influence Sam to put his\nmind on his work; if the boy would do that, his father would be less\nirritated with him. And William's assurance that she would not allow\nany love-making ought to end his grandfather's worry. But while that\nworry lasted it must be utilized....\n\nThe room was slipping out of the shadows. Dr. Lavendar could see the\noutline of the window distinctly. The bureau loomed up in the grayness\nlike a rock; opposite the bed, under a high wooden mantel was the\ncavernous blackness of the chimney, Dr. Lavendar reflected that it must\nbe nearly four....\n\nThe question was, when should he use this weapon of Benjamin Wright's\nworry, on the two hard hearts? He had made several attempts to use it,\nonly to feel the blade turn in his hand: He had asked Mr. Wright when\nhe was going to talk things over with Samuel, and the old man had\ninstantly declared that he had changed his mind. He had mentioned to\nhis senior warden that Benjamin was troubled about his grandson's\nsheep's-eyes, and Samuel's studied deafness had put an end to\nconversation. So Dr. Lavendar had made up his mind that a matter of\nthis kind cannot be forced. A thirty-two-year-old wound is not to be\nhealed in a day. He took any chance that offered to drop a suggestive\nword; but he did not try to hurry his Heavenly Father. For it was Dr.\nLavendar's belief that God was more anxious about that reconciliation\nthan he was....\n\nA line of light threaded its way under the window-curtain, and fell in\na spot of fluid gold upon the mirror. He watched it move silently\nacross the powdery surface: suddenly another dimpling pool appeared on\nthe soot of the chimney-back, and his eye followed the tremulous beam\nto its entrance over the top of the shutter. The birds were shouting\nnow in full voice. How fond Benjamin was of his poor caged creatures.\nWell, he had so little else to be fond of; \"and I have so much,\"\nthought Dr. Lavendar, shamefacedly;--\"all my people. And David, the\nrascal!\" Then he chuckled; Dr. Lavendar was under the delusion that he\nwas unprejudiced in regard to David: \"a very unusual child!\" he assured\nhimself, gravely. No wonder Mrs. Richie liked to have him.--And he\nwould be the making of her! he would shake her out of her selfishness.\n\"Poor girl, I guess, by the way she talks, she has never known anything\nbut self. David will wake her up. But I've got to look out that she\ndoesn't spoil him.\" It was this belief of what David might do for Mrs.\nRichie that had reconciled him to parting with the little boy.\n\nHis eyes wandered to the window; a glittering strip of green light\nbetween the bowed shutters meant that the sun was in the trees. Yes; to\nbe sure, for the birds had suddenly stopped singing.\n\nDr. Lavendar yawned and looked at his watch; five o'clock. He would\nhave liked to get up, but Mary would be worried if she knew he was\nawake so long before breakfast. Well; he must try to have a nap, no,\nthe room was too light for that. He could see all the furniture; he\ncould count the pleats in the sun-burst of the tester; he could,\nperhaps, see to read? He put his hand out for _Robinson Crusoe_, and\nafter that he possessed his soul in patience until he knew that Mary\nwould allow him to come down-stairs.\n\nIt was in one of those peaceful dawns early in June that he decided\nthat the moment had come to strike a decisive blow: he would go and\ntalk to Benjamin of Sam's Sam, and though truth demanded that he should\nreport Mrs. Richie's good sense he did not mean to insist upon it too\nmuch; Benjamin's anxiety was the Lord's opportunity--so Dr. Lavendar\nthought. He would admit Sam's sentimentality and urge putting the\nmatter before his father. Then he would pin Benjamin down to a date.\nThat secured, he would present a definite proposal to Samuel. \"He is\nthe lion in the way,\" he told himself anxiously; \"I am pretty sure I\ncan manage Benjamin.\" Yet surely if he could only put it properly to\nSamuel, if he could express the pitiful trouble in the old father's\nsoul, the senior warden's heart would soften. \"It must touch him!\" Dr.\nLavendar thought, and closed his eyes for a moment....\n\nWhen he said _Amen_, the bird-calls were like flutes of triumph.\n\nOn his way up the hill that morning, he paused under a great chestnut\nto talk to David Allison, who, a strapful of books over his shoulder,\nwas running down the path to school. David was willing to be detained;\nhe pulled some grass for Goliath and told Dr. Lavendar that Mrs. Richie\nhad bought him a pair of suspenders. \"And I said a bad word yesterday,\"\nhe ended proudly.\n\n\"Well, now, I'm sorry to hear that.\"\n\n\"It's been in me a good while,\" David explained, \"but yesterday I said\nit. It was 'damn.'\"\n\n\"It's a foolish word, David; I never use it.\"\n\n\"You _don't_?\" David said blankly, and all his pride was gone. They\nparted with some seriousness; but Dr. Lavendar was still chuckling when\nhe turned in at Benjamin Wright's neglected carriage road where\nburdocks and plantains grew rank between the wheel-tracks. As he came\nup to the house he saw Mr. Wright sitting out in the sun on the gravel\nof the driveway, facing his veranda. A great locust was dropping its\nhoney-sweet blossoms all about--on his bent shoulders, on his green\ncashmere dressing-gown, on his shrunken knees, even one or two on the\ntall beaver hat. A dozen bird-cages had been placed in a row along the\nedge of the veranda, and he was nibbling orange-skin and watching the\ncanaries twittering and hopping on their perches. As he heard the\nwheels of the buggy, he looked around, and raised a cautioning hand:\n\n\"Look out! You scare my birds. Rein in that mettlesome steed of yours!\nThat green cock was just going to take a bath.\"\n\nGoliath stopped at a discreet distance, and Dr. Lavendar sat still.\nThere was a breathless moment of awaiting the pleasure of the green\ncock, who, balancing on the edge of his tub, his head on one side,\nlooked with inquisitive eyes at the two old men before deciding to\nreturn to his perch and attack the cuttle-fish stuck between the bars\nof his cage. Upon which Mr. Wright swore at him with proud affection,\nand waved his hand to his visitor.\n\n\"Come on! Sorry I can't take you indoors. I have to sit out here and\nwatch these confounded fowls for fear a cat will come along. There's\nnot a soul I can trust to attend to it, so I have to waste my valuable\ntime. Sit down.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar clambered out of the buggy, and came up to the porch where\nhe was told to \"_'Sh!_\" while Mr. Wright held his breath to see if the\ngreen cock would not bathe, after all.\n\n\"That nigger of mine is perfectly useless. Look at that perch! Hasn't\nbeen cleaned for a week.\"\n\n\"Yes, suh; cleaned yesterday, suh,\" Simmons murmured, hobbling up with\na handful of chickweed which he arranged on the top of one of the\ncages, its faint faded smell mingling with the heavy fragrance of the\nlocust blossoms.\n\n\"Whiskey!\" Mr. Wright commanded.\n\n\"Not for me,\" said Dr. Lavendar; and there was the usual snarl, during\nwhich Simmons disappeared. The whiskey was not produced.\n\n\"Lavendar, look at that cock--the scoundrel understands every word we\nsay.\"\n\n\"He does look knowing. Benjamin, I just dropped in to tell you that I\nthink you needn't worry so about Sam's Sam. Your neighbor has promised\nWilly King that she will help us with him. But I want you to talk the\nmatter over with Samuel, and--\" \"My _neighbor?_\" the older man\ninterrupted, his lower lip dropping with dismay. \"Ye don't mean--the\nfemale at the Stuffed Animal House?\"\n\n\"Yes; Mrs. Richie. She will snub him if it's necessary, William says;\nbut she'll help us, by urging him to attend to his business. See?\"\n\n\"I see--more than you do!\" cried Benjamin Wright. \"Much Willy King has\naccomplished! It's just what I've always said;--if you want a thing\ndone, do it yourself. It's another case of these confounded canaries.\nIf they are not to be eaten up by some devilish cat, I've got to sit\nout here and watch over 'em. If that boy is not to be injured, I've got\nto watch over him. My neighbor is going to help? Gad-a-mercy! Help!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar took off his broad-brimmed felt hat and wiped his forehead\nwith his big red bandanna. \"Benjamin, what's got into you? A little\nbeing in love won't hurt him. Why, before I was his age I had lost my\nheart to my grandmother's first cousin!\"\n\nBut the older man was not listening. His anger had suddenly hardened\ninto alarm; he even forgot the canaries. \"She's going to help?\nLavendar, this is serious; it is very serious. He's got to be sent\naway!--if I have to see\"--his voice trailed into a whisper; he looked\nat Dr. Lavendar with startled eyes.\n\nThe green cock hopped down into his glass tub and began to ruffle and\nsplash, but Benjamin Wright did not notice him. Dr. Lavendar beamed.\n\"You mean you'll see his father?\"\n\nThe very old man nodded. \"Yes; I'll have to see--my son.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Dominie,\" said Mr. Wright, \"it's better to make your manners when\nyou've got your 'baccy.' Yes; I'll have to see--his father; if there's\nno other way of getting him out of town?\"\n\n\"Of course there's no other way. Sam won't go without his father's\nconsent. But you mustn't make play-writing the excuse; you mustn't talk\nabout that.\"\n\n\"I won't talk about anything else,\" said Benjamin Wright.\n\nDr. Lavendar sighed, but he did not encourage perversity by arguing\nagainst it. \"Benjamin,\" he said, \"I will tell Samuel of your wish to\nsee him--\"\n\n\"My _wish!_\"\n\nDr. Lavendar would not notice the interruption. \"Will you appoint the\ntime?\"\n\n\"Oh, the sooner the better; get through with it! Get through with it!\"\nHe stared at his visitor and blinked rapidly; a moment later he shook\nall over. \"Lavendar, it will kill me!\" He was very frail, this shrunken\nold man in the green dressing-gown and high beaver hat, with his lower\nlip sucked in like a frightened child's. The torch of life, blown so\noften into furious flame by hurricanes of rage, had consumed itself,\nand it seemed now as if its flicker might be snuffed out by any\nslightest gust. \"He may come up to-night,\" he mumbled, shivering in the\nhot sunshine and the drift of locust blossoms, as if he were cold.\n\n\"It can't be to-night; he's gone out West. He gets back Saturday. I'll\nsend him up Sunday evening--if I can.\"\n\n\"Gad-a-mercy, Lavendar,\" Benjamin Wright said whimpering, \"you've got\nto come, too!\" He looked at his old friend with scared eyes. \"I won't\ngo to the gate with you. Can't leave these birds. I'm a slave to 'em.\"\n\nBut Dr. Lavendar saw that shaking legs were the real excuse; and he\nwent away a little soberly in spite of his triumph. Would there be any\ndanger to Benjamin from the agitation of the interview? He must ask\nWilly King. Then he remembered that the doctor had started for\nPhiladelphia that morning; so there was nothing to do but wait. \"I'm\nafraid there's some risk,\" he thought. \"But Benjamin had better die in\npeace than live in anger. Oh, this play-writing business! If I could\nonly depend on him to hold his tongue about it; but I can't.\" Then as\nhe and Goliath trudged along in the sun, he gave himself up to his own\nrejoicings. \"To think I was afraid to let him know that Mrs. Richie\ncould be depended upon to help us!\" He looked up as if in smiling\nconfession to some unseen Friend. \"Yes, indeed; 'He taketh the wise in\ntheir own craftiness.' It was the promise of Mrs. Richie's help that\nscared him into it! I won't be so crafty next time,\" he promised in\nloving penitence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\nIn the stage the day he started for Philadelphia, William King read\nover his Martha's memorandum with the bewildered carefulness peculiar\nto good husbands: ten yards of crash; a pitcher for sorghum; samples of\nyarn; an ounce of sachet-powder, and so forth.\n\n\"Now, what on earth does she want sachet-powder for?\" he reflected. But\nhe did not reflect long; it suddenly came into his mind that though\nMrs. Richie had not given him any commission, he could nevertheless do\nsomething for her. He could go, when he was in Philadelphia, and call\non her brother. \"How pleased she'll be!\" he said to himself. Naturally,\nwith this project in mind, he gave no more thought to sachet-powders.\nHe decided that he would turn up at Mr. Pryor's house at six o'clock,\nand Pryor would ask him to supper. It would save time to do that, and\nhe needed to save time, for this one day in Philadelphia was to be very\nbusy. He had those errands for Martha, and two medical appointments,\nand a visit to the tailor,--for of late William thought a good deal\nabout his clothes and discovered that he was very shabby. He wished he\nhad asked Mrs. Richie for her brother's address; it took so long to\nlook it up in the Directory. Happily, the first name was unusual; there\nwas only one Lloyd, or he would have given up the search. He could not\nhave called on all the Johns or Thomases!\n\nWhat with matching the yarn, and getting his drugs, and being terribly\ncowed by the tailor, William had a hurried day. However, he managed to\nreach Mr. Lloyd Pryor's house as the clock struck six. \"Just in good\ntime,\" he said to himself, complacently. Indeed, he was ahead of time,\nfor it appeared that Mr. Pryor had not yet come home.\n\n\"But Miss Alice is in, sir,\" the smiling darky announced.\n\n\"Very well,\" said William King; \"tell her 'Dr. King, from Old\nChester.'\" He followed the man into a parlor that seemed to the country\ndoctor very splendid, and while he waited, he looked about with artless\ncuriosity, thinking that he must tell Martha of all this grandeur. \"No\nwonder she thinks we are stupid people in Old Chester,\" he thought.\nNow, certainly Martha had never had so disloyal a thought! At that\nmoment he heard a girlish step, and Lloyd Pryor's daughter came into\nthe room,--a pretty young creature, with blond hair parted over a\ncandid brow, and sweet, frank eyes.\n\n\"Dr. King?\" she said smiling.\n\n\"Doesn't resemble her in the least,\" the doctor thought, getting on his\nfeet, and putting out a friendly, hand. \"I am just in from Old\nChester,\" he said, \"and I thought I'd come and say how-do-you-do to\nyour father, and tell you the latest news of Mrs. Richie--\"\n\nThe front door banged, and Lloyd Pryor pushed aside the\ncurtain.--William had wondered what Martha would say to a curtain\ninstead of a door! His blank panic as he heard the doctor's last word,\nturned his face white. (\"Bad heart?\" William asked himself.)\n\n\"_Dr. King!_ Alice, you needn't wait.\"\n\nAlice, nodding pleasantly, left them, and her father, setting his\nteeth, looked out through his curling eyelashes with deadly intentness.\n\n\"Thought I'd come in and say how-do-you-do?\" William King said, hungry\nand friendly, but a little bewildered.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Mr. Pryor.\n\nWilliam put out his hand; there was a second's hesitation, then Lloyd\nPryor took it--and dropped it quickly.\n\n\"All well?\" the doctor asked awkwardly.\n\n\"Yes; yes. All well. Very well, thank you. Yes.\"\n\n\"I was just passing. I thought perhaps your sister would be pleased if\nI inquired; she didn't know I was coming, but--\"\n\n\"You are very kind, I'm sure,\" the other broke in, his face relaxing.\n\"I am sorry that just at this moment I can't ask you to stay, but--\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" William King said shortly; \"I was just passing. If you\nhave any message for Mrs. Richie--\"\n\n\"Oh! Ah;--yes. Remember me to her. All well in Old Chester? Very kind\nin you to look me up. I am sorry I--that it happens that--good-by--\"\n\nDr. King nodded and took himself off; and Lloyd Pryor, closing the door\nupon him, wiped the moisture from his forehead. \"Alice, where are you?\"\n\n\"In the dining-room, daddy dear,\" she said. \"Who is Dr. King?\"\n\nHe gave her a furtive look and then put his arm over her shoulder.\n\"Nobody you know, Kitty.\"\n\n\"He said something about 'Mrs. Richie';--who is Mrs. Richie?\"\n\n\"Some friend of his, probably. Got anything good for dinner,\nsweetheart?\"\n\nAs for William King, he walked briskly down the street, his face very\nred. \"Confound him!\" he said. He was conscious of a desire to kick\nsomething. That evening, after a bleak supper at a marble-topped\nrestaurant table, he tried to divert himself by going to see a play; he\nsaw so many other things that he came out in the middle of it. \"I guess\nI can get all the anatomy I want in my trade,\" he told himself; and sat\ndown in the station to await the midnight train.\n\nIt was not until the next afternoon, when he climbed into the stage at\nMercer and piled his own and Martha's bundles on the rack above him,\nthat he really settled down to think the thing over.... What did it\nmean? The man had been willing to eat his bread; he had shown no\noffence at anything; what the deuce--! He pondered over it, all the way\nto Old Chester. When Martha, according to the custom of wives, inquired\ncategorically concerning his day in Philadelphia, he dragged out most\nirritatingly vague answers. As she did not chance to ask, \"Did you hunt\nup Mr. Lloyd Pryor? Did you go to his house? Did you expect an\ninvitation and not receive it?\" she was not informed on these topics.\nBut when at last she did say, \"And my sachet-powder?\" he was compelled\nto admit that he had forgotten it.\n\nMartha's lip tightened.\n\n\"I got the lye and stuff,\" her husband defended himself. \"And what did\nyou want sachet-powder for, anyway?\"\n\nBut Martha was silent.\n\nAfter supper William strolled over to Dr. Lavendar's, and sat smoking\nstolidly for an hour before he unbosomed himself. Dr. Lavendar did not\nnotice his uncommunicativeness; he had his own preoccupations.\n\n\"William, Benjamin Wright seems to be a good deal shaken this spring?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"He's allowed himself to grow old. Bad habit.\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"Got out of the way of doing things. Hasn't walked down the hill and\nback for three years. He told me so himself.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir?\"\n\n\"For my part,\" Dr. Lavendar declared, \"I have made a rule about such\nthings, which I commend to you, young man: _As soon as you feel too old\nto do a thing_, DO IT!\"\n\nWilliam gave the expected laugh.\n\n\"But he does seem shaken. Now, would it be safe, do you think, for him\nto--well, very much excited? Possibly angered?\"\n\n\"It wouldn't take much to anger Mr. Wright.\"\n\n\"No, it wouldn't,\" Dr. Lavendar admitted. \"William, suppose I could\ninduce Samuel and his father to meet--\"\n\n\"What!\" The doctor woke up at that; he sat on the edge of his chair,\nhis hands on his knees, his eyes starting in his head. \"_What!_\"\n\n\"Well, suppose I could?\" Dr. Lavendar said. \"I have a notion to try it.\nI don't know that I'll succeed. But suppose they met, and things\nshouldn't run smoothly, and there should be an explosion--would there\nbe danger to Benjamin?\"\n\nWilliam King whistled. \"After all these years!\" Then he reflected.\n\"Well, of course, sir, he is an old man. But he is like iron, Dr.\nLavendar. When he had quinsy two years ago, I thought he had come to\nthe end. Not a bit of it! He's iron. Only, of course, anger is a great\ndrain. Better caution Sam not to cross him.\"\n\n\"Then there would be some danger?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't like to see him get into a rage,\" the doctor admitted.\n\"But why should he get into a rage, if they are going to patch things\nup? Good Lord!\" said William King, gaping with astonishment; \"at last!\"\n\n\"I haven't said they would patch things up. But there is a chance that\nI can get 'em to talk over Benjamin's anxiety about Sam's Sam. Fact is,\nBenjamin is disturbed about the boy's sheep's-eyes. Sam thinks, you\nknow, that he is in love with Mrs. Richie, and--\"\n\n\"In love with Mrs. Richie!\" William broke in angrily. \"The idea of his\nbothering Mrs. Richie! it's outrageous. I don't wonder Mr. Wright is\nconcerned. It's disgraceful. He ought to be thrashed!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar drew a quick breath and let his pipe-hand fall heavily on\nthe table beside him. \"No, William, no; not thrashed. Not thrashed,\nWilliam.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know,\" the doctor said, doggedly; \"it might do him good;\na squirt of a boy!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar sighed. They smoked silently for a while, and, indeed, it\nwas not until it was almost time to go home that William burst out with\nhis own wrongs.\n\n\"Confound him!\" he ended, \"what do you make of it, sir? Why, Dr.\nLavendar, he sent his girl out of the room--didn't want her to talk to\nme! You'd have thought I was a case of measles. His one idea was to get\nrid of me as quickly as possible.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar thrust out his lower lip; then he scratched a match on the\nbottom of his chair, and held it out to Danny, who came forward with\ninstant curiosity, sniffed, sneezed, and plainly hurt, retired to the\nhearth-rug.\n\n\"William, 'a moral, sensible and well-bred man will not affront--'\"\n\n\"I'm not feeling affronted.\"\n\n\"Oh, aren't you?\"\n\n\"No,\" William declared boldly, \"not at all; not in the least! He's not\nworth it. But I'm all mixed up.\"\n\n\"Daniel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"how dare you lie on the rug? Willy, when\nI was young--I mean when I was younger--we children were never allowed\nto come nearer the fire than the outside edge of the hearth-rug. I feel\nwicked now, whenever I come over that edge. But look at that scoundrel\nDanny!\"\n\nDanny opened one eye and beat his stub of a tail softly on the rug.\nWilliam King was silent. Dr. Lavendar began to sing:\n\n  \"Queen Victoria's very sick;\n  Napoleon's got the measles.\n  Why don't you take Sebastopol?\n  Pop goes the weasel!\"\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar, why do you keep trying to change the subject? What do\nyou think about Mrs. Richie's brother?\"\n\n\"Well, Willy, my boy, I think he's not given to hospitality.\"\n\n\"Ah, now, no shenanigan!\" poor William pleaded. \"Do you suppose he's up\nto some monkey-shines? Do you suppose I took him unawares, and he was\nafraid to entertain me?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar chuckled. \"'Fraid he might entertain a Recording Angel\nunawares?\"\n\nWilliam shook his head. \"There was something wrong, or I don't know\nhuman nature.\"\n\n\"Willy, if you do know human nature, you are the only living man who\ndoes. But, perhaps, now, it really wasn't convenient?\"\n\n\"Convenient!\" William burst out. \"In Old Chester we don't talk about\n_convenience_ when a man knocks at the door at supper-time!\"\n\n\"But Philadelphia isn't Old Chester,\" Dr. Lavendar reminded him,\nmildly. \"When you've seen as much of the world as I have, you'll\nrealize that. I once was short of my railroad fare in New York.\nI--well, a poor creature asked me for some money to buy a coat. It was\na dreadfully cold day. It left me just three dollars short of my fare\nhome; so I stepped into the Bible House--you know the Bible House?--and\njust stated the case to the head clerk, and said I would be obliged if\nhe would lend me the amount. Willy,\" Dr. Lavendar got very red; \"I\nassure you--\"\n\n\"You don't say so, sir!\" said William King respectfully; but he bent\ndown and pulled Danny's ear.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"yes, indeed! I will not repeat what he said;\nyou would be indignant. I just mention the circumstance to show you how\ndifferently people look at things. If any gentleman got into such a fix\nin Old Chester, of course he would just speak to Sam Wright, or you, or\nme. Or take your own case; if any stranger came on business at\ndinner-time, you would say, 'Sit down, sir'!\"\n\nWilliam thought of Martha and moved uneasily in his chair.\n\n\"But,\" proceeded Dr. Lavendar, \"it is not so everywhere. Convenience is\nconsidered. It isn't hospitable; but you can't say it's wicked?\"\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar,\" said William King, \"you don't believe that was the\nreason.\"\n\nThe old minister sighed. \"I'm afraid I don't, my boy; but I thought\nmaybe you might.\"\n\n\"No, sir! There's something wrong with that fellow. I don't mean to\njudge, but somehow, instinctively, I don't trust him.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"I wouldn't judge; but--I'd trust my\ninstincts.\"\n\nWilliam grinned; then he sighed. \"I won't tell Mrs. Richie about seeing\nhim. She'd be mortified at his behavior. If she knew as much of the\nwickedness of the world as we do, she might even be suspicious! But,\nthank God, she's not that kind of a woman. I don't like worldly-wise\nladies.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar nodded. \"Black sheep can pull the wool over people's eyes\nbetter than white ones can. Do you know, one reason why I hesitated\nabout letting her have David, was just because I didn't take to her\nbrother? For that matter, David doesn't take to him either;--and Danny\ncan't abide him. And William, I have a great respect for the judgment\nof my betters in such matters! Yes; I almost kept the little monkey\nmyself; but I suppose it's better for him to be with a woman?\"\n\n\"Of course it is,\" said William King, and Dr. Lavendar's face fell. \"I\nthink she wants to adopt him,\" William added.\n\nDr. Lavendar shook his head. \"I haven't made up my mind about that yet.\nNot only because of the brother;--he comes so rarely he doesn't count.\nBut I want to make sure she can be trusted to bring a child up.\"\n\n\"I don't think there could be a better person,\" the doctor declared,\nwarmly. \"She has a lovely nature.\"\n\n\"A pretty creature,\" Dr. Lavendar ruminated; \"Martha fond of her?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes indeed,\" William said enthusiastically;--\"at least, I don't\nknow that I ever happened to hear her speak of it; but of course she\nis. Nobody could help it. She is a sweet woman, as you say.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"get Martha to be neighborly with her. She\nneeds neighboring. And Martha could teach her so many things--she's\nsuch a sensible woman.\"\n\n\"Yes; Martha is sensible,\" William agreed. \"Dr. Lavendar, did you ever\nnotice how, when she laughs, she has a way of putting her hands on the\ntop of her head, and sort of drawing them down over her eyes like a\ngirl? It's as pretty!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar tried to remember. \"Why, no,\" he said; \"I don't know that\nI ever noticed it. Martha doesn't laugh very often.\"\n\n\"Martha?\" William repeated puzzled. \"Oh--I was speaking of Mrs. Richie.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\nEvery Sunday morning Mr. Samuel Wright and Mr. Thomas Dilworth--the one\npale and pompous, the other rosy and smiling--took up the collection in\nSt. Michael's. A mahogany pole with a black velvet pouch on one end,\nwas thrust solemnly into each pew, then drawn back with very personal\npauses--which were embarrassing if you had forgotten to put some change\ninto your glove before starting for church. When these poles had raked\nevery pew, they were carried up the aisle to Dr. Lavendar, who, taking\nhold of the purple tassel on the bottom of each bag, turned the\ncontents into a silver plate. The change came out with a fine clatter;\nwe children used to keep awake on purpose to hear it. Once in a while a\nbill would rustle out with the silver and balance on the top of the\nlittle heap in such an exciting way that Dr. Lavendar had to put his\nhand over it to keep it from blowing off as he carried the plate to the\ncommunion-table--we did not say \"altar\" in Old Chester. This done, Mr.\nWright and Mr. Dilworth would tiptoe solemnly back to their respective\npews. When the service was over the senior warden always counted the\nmoney. On this summer Sunday morning, when he went into the vestry for\nthat purpose, he found Dr. Lavendar just hanging up his black gown\nbehind the door.\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar,\" said the senior warden, \"you will, I am sure, be\npleased when I inform you that there is a good collection. Mrs. Richie\nput in a five-dollar bill.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"we need it. Your father sent me a check the\nother day; but we need some more.\"\n\nMr. Wright did not comment upon his father's generosity; instead, he\nslid the money from the silver plate on to the table and began to count\nit. Dr. Lavendar looked at him over his spectacles; when only half a\ndozen coppers were left, he said suddenly:\n\n\"Samuel!\"\n\nThe senior warden looked up; \"Yes, sir?\"\n\n\"Samuel, your father has spoken to me of you.\"\n\nMr. Wright looked down; then he slowly picked up the last penny.\n\n\"Yes; he spoke of you. Samuel, I have something to say to you of a very\nserious nature.\"\n\n\"We have nine dollars and seventy-seven cents,\" said the senior warden.\n\n\"Your father,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"has expressed a willingness to see\nyou.\"\n\nMr. Wright put the money into a small canvas bag, and pulling the\ndrawing-string up, wound it round and round the top; his hands trembled.\n\n\"He has some concern about your Sam--as you have yourself. He is\ndisturbed because the boy has lost his heart to your tenant, Mrs.\nRichie.\"\n\n\"Call it twelve dollars,\" Samuel said, embarrassed to the point of\nmunificence. He put the canvas bag in his pocket, and rose. \"I'll\ndeposit this to-morrow, sir,\" he added, as he had added every Sunday\nmorning for the last twenty years.\n\n\"Samuel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, sternly, \"sit down!\"\n\nWith involuntary haste the senior warden sat down, but he would not\nlook at Dr. Lavendar. \"It is not my purpose or desire,\" he said, \"to be\ndisrespectful, but I must request you, sir--\"\n\n\"To mind my own business? I will, Sam, I will. My business is to\nadmonish you: _Leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way.\nFirst, be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift._\"\n\nSamuel Wright cleared his throat. \"I cannot, Dr. Lavendar, discuss this\nmatter with you. I must be my own judge.\"\n\n\"I have heard that a man might be his own lawyer,\" said Dr. Lavendar,\nsmiling; \"but you can't be your own judge. The Christian religion\njudges you. Samuel, and convicts you. Your father is willing to see\nyou; he has taken the first step. Think what that means to a man like\nyour father! Now listen to me; I want to tell you what it's all about.\"\n\n\"I have no desire, sir, to be informed. I--\"\n\nDr. Lavendar checked him gently: \"I am sure you will listen, Samuel, no\nmatter what your decision may be.\" Then, very cautiously, he began\nabout young Sam. \"Your father thinks he ought to get away from Old\nChester; he's worried because of Mrs. Richie.\"\n\n\"You know my sentiments, sir, in regard to my son's idiocy.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, come! Falling in love is a harmless amusement,\" said Dr.\nLavendar; \"but your father does take it a good deal to heart. He wants\nto get him out of town. However, to send him away without letting him\nknow why, is difficult; and the last thing would be to let him think we\ntake his love-making seriously! Therefore your father thinks some kind\nof excuse has to be made.\"\n\nHere Dr. Lavendar became elaborately casual; he had decided that he\nmust prepare his senior warden for a possible reference to a dangerous\ntopic. \"He mustn't be taken unawares,\" Dr. Lavendar had told himself.\nBut he quailed, now that the moment of preparation had come. \"Your\nfather thinks the excuse might be the finding a publisher for some\npoetry that Sam has written.\"\n\nSamuel Wright's large pallid face suddenly twitched; his dull eyes\nblazed straight at Dr. Lavendar; \"Finding a publisher--for poetry! Dr.\nLavendar, rather than have my son encouraged in making what you call\n'poetry,' I'd let him _board_ at Mrs. Richie's!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, easily, \"never mind about his poetry; your\nfather has an idea that life in a small place with only your own\ninterests, is narrowing; and I guess he's right to some extent. Anyway\nthis project of a journey isn't a bad one. Sam has never been further\nfrom his mother's apron-string in his life, than Mercer.\"\n\n\"My dear Dr. Lavendar,\" said Samuel, pompously, \"a boy attached to that\nstring will never have the chance to fall into temptation.\"\n\n\"My dear Samuel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"a boy attached to that string may\nnever have the chance to overcome temptation--which would be almost as\nserious. I tell you, Sam, safety that depends on an apron-string is\nvery unsafe!\"\n\n\"My son is not to be trusted, sir.\"\n\n\"Samuel!\" Dr. Lavendar protested with indignation, \"how can he become\nworthy of trust without being trusted? You have no more right to shut\nup a grown man in Old Chester for fear of temptation, than you would\nhave to keep a growing boy in his first pair of trousers! Why, Sam,\nthere isn't any virtue where there has never been any temptation.\nVirtue is just temptation, overcome. Hasn't that ever struck you?\nHowever, that's not the point. The point is, that your father has\nexpressed a willingness to meet you.\"\n\nMr. Wright made no answer.\n\n\"He will talk over with you this matter of Sam's falling in love.\nWhether you agree with him that the boy should go away, is not\nimportant. What is important is his desire to see you.\"\n\n\"I said,\" Samuel Wright broke out, with a violence that made Dr.\nLavendar start--\"I said I would never speak to him again! I took my\noath. I cannot break my oath. 'He that sweareth to his own hurt, and\nchangeth not--'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"'to his own hurt,' but not to somebody\nelse's hurt. You swore to your father's, to your children's, to the\ncommunity's hurt. Change as quickly as you can. Come up the hill with\nme to-night.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" Samuel Wright said hoarsely, and into his hard eyes came the\nsame look of childish terror that the old minister had seen in Benjamin\nWright's face when he sat in the hot sunshine watching the canaries.\n\nThen Dr. Lavendar began to plead....\n\nIt was a long struggle. Sometimes it really seemed as if, as the senior\nwarden had said, he \"could not\" do it; as if it were a physical\nimpossibility. And there is no doubt that to change a habit of thought\nwhich has endured for thirty-two years involves a physical as well as a\nspiritual effort, which may cause absolute anguish. Mr. Wright's face\nwas white; twice he wiped the perspiration from his forehead: half a\ndozen times he said in an agonized tone, \"I cannot do it; I _cannot._\"\n\n\"Samuel, your father is very old; he is very feeble; but he has had the\nstrength to take the first step. Haven't you the strength to take the\nsecond? Will you carry your wicked quarrel to his grave? No, Sam, no! I\nam sure you won't.\"...\n\nAn hour later, when Dr. Lavendar sat down to a dinner of more than\nordinary Sunday coldness, his old face was twinkling with pleasure.\nSamuel had promised to go with him that night to The Top! Perhaps as\nthe still afternoon softened into dusk his joy began to cast a shadow\nof apprehension. If so, he refused to notice it. It was the Lord's\nbusiness, and \"He moves in a mysterious way,\" he hummed to himself,\nwaiting in the warm darkness for Samuel to call for him,--for both the\nquailing men had made Dr. Lavendar's presence a condition of the\ninterview.\n\nAt half-past seven Mr. Wright arrived. He was in a shiny box-buggy,\nbehind a smart sorrel. He was dressed in his black and solemn best, and\nhe wore his high hat with a flat brim which only came out at funerals.\nHis dignity was so tremendous that his great bulk seemed to take even\nmore than its share of room in the buggy. When he spoke, it was with a\nlaboriousness that crushed the breath out of any possible answer. As\nthey drove up the hill he cleared his throat every few minutes. Once he\nvolunteered the statement that he had told Sam not to stay late at--at--\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"your father will pack him off;--he will\nprobably take the opportunity to call on Mrs. Richie,\" he added\nsmiling. But Sam's father did not smile. And, indeed, Dr. Lavendar's\nown face was sober when they turned in between the sagging old\ngate-posts at The Top.\n\nWhen the moment came to get out of the buggy, Samuel looked at his\ncompanion dumbly; a sort of paralysis seemed to hold him in his seat.\nWhen he did move, Dr. Lavendar heard him gasp for breath, and in the\ndarkness, as he hitched the sorrel to a staple in one of the big\nlocusts, his face went white. The large manner which had dominated Old\nChester for so many years was shrinking and shrivelling; the whole man\nseemed, somehow, smaller....\n\nBenjamin Wright, in his mangy beaver hat, sitting quaking in his\nlibrary, heard their steps on the veranda. As soon as supper was over,\nhe had dismissed his rejoicing grandson, and long before it was\nnecessary, had bidden Simmons light the lamps; but as night fell, it\noccurred to him that darkness would make things easier, and in a panic,\nhe shuffled about and blew them all out. A little later, he had a surge\nof terror; he couldn't bear _that voice_ in the dark!\n\n\"You! Simmons!\" he called across the hall. \"Light the lamps!\"\n\n\"I done lit 'em, suh--\" Simmons expostulated from the pantry, and then\nlooked blankly at the black doorway of the library. \"I 'clare to\ngoodness, they's gone out,\" he mumbled to himself; and came in, to\nstand on one leg and scratch a match on the sole of his carpet slipper.\n\n\"Don't light all four, you stupid nigger!\" the old man screamed at him.\n\nWhen Simmons left him he lit a cigar, his fingers trembling very much;\nit went out almost at once, and he threw it away and took another. Just\nas he heard that ponderous step on the veranda, he took a\nthird--[Illustration: Samuel slid into a chair near the door.] but only\nto throw it, too, still smouldering, into the empty fireplace.\n\nDr. Lavendar came in first. His face was very grave; he made no\nconventional pretence of ease. Behind him, in the doorway, loomed the\nother figure. Out in the hall, Simmons, his bent old back flattened\nagainst the wall, his jaw chattering with amazement, stood, clutching\nat the door-knob and staring after the visitors.\n\n\"Come in!\" said, Benjamin Wright. \"Hello, Lavendar. Hello--\"\n\nAlas! at that moment Samuel's cracked and patched-up self-respect\nsuddenly crumbled;--his presence of mind deserted him, and scrambling\nlike an embarrassed boy into a marked discourtesy, he thrust both hands\ninto his pockets. Instantly he realized his self-betrayal, but it was\ntoo late; his father, after a second's hesitation, occupied both his\nhands with the decanter and cigar-box.\n\n\"Well; here we are, Benjamin!\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Take a cigar,\" said the very old man; he held the box out, and it\nshook so that the loose cigars jarred within it. Dr. Lavendar helped\nhimself. \"Have one--\" Benjamin Wright said, and thrust the box at the\nsilent standing figure.\n\n\"I--do not smoke.\" Samuel slid into a seat near the door, and balancing\nhis hat carefully on his knees twisted one leg about the leg of his\nchair.\n\nHis father bustled around to the other side of the table. \"That\ndoggoned nigger brought up Kentucky instead of Monongahela!\" He lifted\nthe decanter and began to fill the glasses.\n\n\"Hold on! hold on! Don't swamp us,\" said Dr. Lavendar, He leaned over\nto rescue his tumbler, and his good-natured scolding made an instant's\nbreak in the intensity.\n\n\"Have some?\" said Mr. Wright, turning to his son.\n\n\"I--do not drink.\" The banker uncoiled his leg, and put his hat on the\nfloor.\n\nHis father pounded the decanter down on the table. \"Simmons!\" he called\nout; \"light the rest of these lamps, you--you freckled nigger!\nGad-a-mercy! niggers have no sense.\"\n\nSimmons came stumbling in, the whites of his yellow eyes gleaming with\nexcitement. While he was fumbling over the lamps, his lean brown\nfingers all thumbs, Benjamin Wright insisted upon filling Dr.\nLavendar's tumbler with whiskey until it overflowed and had to be\nsopped up by the old minister's red bandanna.\n\nAs soon as Simmons could get out of the room, Dr. Lavendar settled\nhimself to the business which had brought them together. He said to his\nsenior warden, briefly, that his father was concerned about Sam's\nattentions to Mrs. Richie; \"he thinks it would be an especially good\ntime to have the boy see a little of the world, if you will consent? He\nsays it's 'narrowing to live in Old Chester,\" said Dr. Lavendar, slyly\njocose;--but Samuel refused to smile, and the old minister went on with\ndetermined cheerfulness. \"I think, myself, that it would be good for\nSam to travel. You know\n\n  'Home-keeping youths\n  Have ever homely wits.'\"\n\n\"A boy,\" said the senior warden, and stopped; his voice cracked badly\nand he cleared his throat; \"a boy--Dr. Lavendar;--is better at home.\"\n\nThe old minister gave him a quick look--his senior warden was\ntrembling! The cloak of careful pomposity with which for so many years\nthis poor maimed soul had covered its scars, was dropping away. He was\nclutching at it--clearing his throat, swinging his foot, making\nelaborate show of ease; but the cloak was slipping and slipping, and\nthere was the man of fifty-six cringing with the mortification of\nyouth! It was a sight from which to turn away even the most pitying\neyes. Dr. Lavendar turned his away; when he spoke it was with great\ngentleness.\n\n\"I don't know that I quite agree with you, Sam, any more than with your\nfather; but still, if you don't want the boy to go away, can't we\nconvince your father that he is in no real danger of a broken heart? If\nhe goes too far, I am sure we can trust Mrs. Richie to snub him\njudiciously. You think so, don't you, Samuel?\"\n\n\"Yes;--Dr. Lavendar.\"\n\n\"Do you hear that, Wright?\"\n\nBenjamin Wright took off his hat and banged it down on the table. Then\nhe threw away another barely lighted cigar, put his hand into the blue\nginger-jar for some orange-skin, and looked closely at his son; his\nagitation had quite disappeared. \"I hear,\" he said calmly.\n\nBut as he grew calm, Mr. Samuel Wright's embarrassment became more\nagonizing, nor was it lessened by the very old man's quite obvious\ninterest in it; his head, in its brown wig, was inclined a little to\none side, like a canary's, and his black eyes helped out the\nlikeness--except that there was a carefully restrained gleam of humor\nin them. But he said nothing. To cover up the clamorous silence between\nfather and son, Dr. Lavendar talked a good deal, but rather at random.\nHe was confounded by the situation. Had he made a mistake, after all,\nin insisting upon this interview? In his own mind he was asking for\nwisdom, but aloud he spoke of the weather. His host gave no\nconversational assistance except an occasional monosyllable, and his\nsenior warden was absolutely dumb. As for the subject which brought\nthem together, no further reference was made to it.\n\n\"Take some more whiskey, Dominic,\" said Mr. Wright. His eyes were\nglittering; it was evident that he did not need any more himself.\n\nDr. Lavendar said, \"No, thank you,\" and rose. Samuel shot up as though\na spring had been released.\n\n\"Going?\" said Benjamin Wright; \"a short call, considering how long it\nis since we've met;--Lavendar.\"\n\nSamuel cleared his throat. \"'Night,\" he said huskily. Again there was\nno hand-shaking; but as they reached the front door, Benjamin Wright\ncalled to Dr. Lavendar, who stepped back into the library. Mr. Wright\nhad put on his hat, and was chewing orange-skin violently. \"It ain't\nany use trying to arrange anything with--So I'll try another tack.\" He\ncame close to Dr. Lavendar, plucking at the old minister's black\nsleeve, his eyes snapping and his jaws working fast; he spoke in a\ndelighted whisper. \"But, Lavendar--\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He wouldn't take a cigar.\"\n\n\"Samuel never smokes,\" Dr. Lavendar said shortly.\n\n\"And he wouldn't take a drink of whiskey.\"\n\n\"He's a very temperate man.\"\n\n\"Lavendar--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Lavendar--_it was efficacious!_\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\n\"The play is my life--next to you,\" Sam Wright's Sam was saying to his\nfather's tenant. He had left The Top before the two visitors arrived,\nand as Dr. Lavendar had foreseen, had gone straight to the Stuffed\nAnimal House....\n\nHelena was in a low chair, with David nestling sleepily in her arms;\nSam, looking up at her like a young St. John, half sat, half knelt, on\nthe step at her feet. The day had been hot, and evening had brought no\ncoolness; under the sentinel locusts on either side of the porch steps\nthe night was velvet black; but out over the garden there were stars. A\nfaint stirring of the air tilted the open bowls of the\nevening-primroses, spilling a heavy sweetness into the shadows. The\nhouse behind them was dark, for it was too hot for lamps. It was very\nstill and peaceful and commonplace--a woman, a dozing child, and the\nsoft night. Young Sam, so sensitive to moods, had fallen at once into\nthe peace and was content to sit silently at Helena's feet.... Then\nDavid broke in upon the tranquillity by remarking, with a sigh, that he\nmust go to bed.\n\n\"I heard the clock strike,\" he said sadly.\n\n\"I think you are a very good little boy,\" Helena declared with\nadmiration.\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar said I must,\" David explained crossly. \"You're\nmisbehavious if you don't do what Dr. Lavendar says. Mrs. Richie, is\nheaven up in the sky?\"\n\n\"Why, I suppose so,\" she said hesitating.\n\n\"What do they stand on?\" David inquired. \"There isn't any floor,\" he\ninsisted doggedly, for she laughed under her breath.\n\nHelena looked over at Sam, who was not in the least amused. Then she\nkissed the top of David's head. \"I wish I could make his hair curl,\"\nshe said. \"I knew a little boy once--\" she stopped and sighed.\n\nShe took the sleepy child up-stairs herself. Not for many guests would\nshe have lost the half-hour of putting him to bed. When she came back\nher mind was full of him: \"He hates to go to bed early,\" she told Sam,\n\"but he always walks off at eight, without a word from me, because he\npromised Dr. Lavendar he would. I think it is wonderful.\"\n\nSam was not interested,\n\n\"And he is so funny! He says such unexpected things. He told me\nyesterday that Sarah 'slept out loud';--Sarah's room is next to his.\"\n\n\"What did he mean?\" Sam said, with the curious literalness of the\npoetic temperament, entirely devoid of humor. But he did not wait for\nan answer; he locked his hands about his knee, and leaning his head\nback, looked up through the leaves at the stars. \"How sweet the locust\nblossoms are!\" he said. One of the yellow-white flakes fell and touched\nhis cheek.\n\n\"They are falling so now,\" she said, \"that the porch has to be swept\ntwice a day.\"\n\nHe smiled, and brushing his palm along the step, caught a handful of\nthem, \"Every night you sit here all alone; I wish--\"\n\n\"Oh, I like to be alone,\" she interrupted. As the balm of David's\npresence faded, and the worship in the young man's eyes burned clearer,\nthat old joke of Lloyd's stabbed her. She wished he would go. \"How does\nthe drama get on?\" she asked, with an effort.\n\nSam frowned and said something of his father's impatience with his\nwriting. \"But I am only happy when I am writing; and when I am with\nyou. The play is my life,--next to you.\"\n\n\"Please don't!\" she said; and then held her breath to listen. \"I think\nI hear David. Excuse me a minute.\" She fled into the house and\nup-stairs to David's room. \"Did you want me, precious?\" she said\npanting.\n\nDavid opened dreaming eyes and looked at her. He had called out in his\nsleep, but was quiet again, and did not need her eager arms, her lips\non his hair, her voice murmuring in his ear. But she could not stop\ncuddling the small warm body; she forgot Sam and his play, and even her\nown dull ache of discontent,--an ache that was bringing a subtle change\ninto her face, a faint line on her forehead, and a suggestion of depth,\nand even pain, in the pleasant shallows of her leaf-brown eyes. Perhaps\nthe discontent was mere weariness of the whole situation; if so, she\ndid not recognize it for what it was. Her fellow-prisoner, straining\nfurtively against the bond of the flesh which was all that held him to\nher, might have enlightened her, but he took her love so for granted,\nthat he never suspected the discontent. However, watching David, Helena\nwas herself unconscious of it; when she was sure the little boy was\nsound asleep she stole the \"forty kisses,\" which as yet he had not\ngranted; folded the sheet back lest he might be too hot; drew a thin\nblanket over his feet, and then stood and looked at him. Suddenly,\nremembering Sam Wright, she turned away; but hesitated at the door, and\ncame back for one more look. At last, with a sigh, she went downstairs.\n\n\"He loves your rabbits,\" she told Sam; \"he has named them Mr. George\nRufus Smith and Mrs. Minnie Lily Smith.\"\n\n\"It is all finished,\" said Sam.\n\n\"What is finished?\"\n\n\"The drama,\" the young man explained.\n\n\"Oh,\" she said, \"do forgive me! My mind is so full of David, I can't\nthink of anything else.\"\n\nHe smiled at that. \"You couldn't do anything I wouldn't forgive,\"\n\n\"Couldn't I?\"\n\nHe looked up at her, wistfully. \"I love you, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, please, please--\"\n\n\"I love you,\" he said, trembling.\n\n\"Sam,\" she said--and in her distress she put her hand on his\nshoulder--\"you don't really care for me. I am so much older, and--there\nare other reasons. Oh, why did I come here!\" she burst out. \"You\ndisplease me very much when you talk this way!\" She pushed her chair\nback, and would have risen but for his detaining hand upon her arm.\n\n\"Will you marry me?\"\n\n\"No! of course I won't!\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Because--\" she stopped; then, breathlessly; \"I only want to be let\nalone, I came to Old Chester to be alone. I didn't want to thrust\nmyself on you.--any of you!\"\n\n\"You never did,\" he said wonderingly. \"You? Why, there never was\nanybody so reserved, so--shy, almost. That's one reason I love you, I\nguess,\" he said boyishly.\n\n\"You mustn't love me.\"\n\n\"Will you marry me?\" he repeated. \"Oh, I know; it is like asking an\nangel to come down out of heaven--\"\n\n\"An angel!\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie, isn't it possible for you to care, just a little, and\nmarry me?\"\n\n\"No, Sam: indeed it isn't. Please don't think of it any more.\"\n\n\"Is it because you love him, still?\"\n\n\"Love--_him?_\" she breathed.\n\n\"He is dead,\" Sam said; \"and I thought from something you once said,\nthat you didn't really love him. But if you do--\"\n\n\"My--husband, you mean? No! I don't. I never did. That's not the\nreason; oh, why did I come here?\" she said in a distressed whisper.\n\nAt that he lifted his head. \"Don't be unhappy. It doesn't matter about\nme.\" His eyes glittered. \"'All is dross that is not Helena'! I shall\nlove you as long as I live, even if you don't marry me.\nPerhaps--perhaps I wouldn't if you did!\"\n\nHe did not notice her involuntary start of astonishment, he rose, and\nlifting his arms to the sky, stood motionless, rapt, as if in wordless\nappeal to heaven. Then his arms dropped. \"No,\" he said, speaking with\ncurious thoughtfulness: \"no; you would be human if you could marry a\nfool like me.\" Helena made a protesting gesture, but he went on,\nquietly: \"Oh, yes; I am a fool. I've been told so all my life; but I\nknew it, anyhow. Nobody need have told me. Of course you couldn't marry\nme! If you could, you would be like me. And I would not want that. No;\nyou are God to me. Stay divine.\"\n\nHelena put her hands over her ears.\n\n\"But please, can't you love me? We needn't be married, if you'd rather\nnot. If you'll just love me a little?\"\n\nThe innocence of the plea for love without marriage struck her with a\ndull humor that faded into annoyance that she should see the humor. It\nwas an uncomfortable sensation, and she hated discomfort; in her desire\nto escape from it, she spoke with quick impatience. \"No, Sam, of course\nnot,--not the way you want me to. Why, you are just a boy, you know!\"\nshe added, lightly.\n\nBut Sam threw himself on his knees beside her, and pressed his head\nagainst her skirts. \"Oh, are you _sure_, Mrs. Richie? Why, it seems to\nme you might--just a little? Can't you? You see, I'm so lonely,\" he\nended pitifully. His innocent solemn eyes were limpid with tears, and\nhe looked at her with terrified beseeching, like a lost child.\n\nThe tears that sprang to her eyes were almost motherly; for an\nimpetuous instant she bent over him, then drew back sharply, and the\ntears dried in a hot pang of shame. \"No, Sam; I can't. Oh, I am so\nsorry! Please forgive me--I ought not to have let you--but I didn't\nknow--yes; I did know! And I ought to have stopped you. It's my fault.\nOh, how selfish I have been! But it's horrible to have you talk this\nway! Won't you please not say anything more?\" She was incoherent to the\npoint of crying.\n\nSam looked out over the dark garden in silence. \"Well,\" he said slowly,\n\"if you can't, then I don't want to see you. It would hurt me too much\nto see you. I'll go away. I will go on loving you, but I will go away,\nso that I needn't see you. Yes; I will leave Old Chester--\"\n\n\"Oh, I wish you would,\" she said.\n\n\"You don't love me,\" he repeated, in a sort of hopeless astonishment;\n\"why, I can't seem to believe it! I thought you must--I love you so.\nBut no, you don't. Not even just a little. Well--\"\n\nAnd without another word he left her. She could not hear his step on\nthe locust flowers on the porch.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\n_\"I wish your confounded Old Chester people would mind their own\naffairs! This prying into things that are none of their business is--\"_\n\nLloyd Pryor stopped; read over what he had written, and ground his\nteeth. No; he couldn't send her such a letter. It would call down a\nstorm of reproach and anger and love. And, after all, it wasn't her\nfault; this doctor fellow had said that she did not know of his call.\nStill, if she hadn't been friendly with those people, the man wouldn't\nhave thought of \"looking him up\"! Then he remembered that he had been\nthe one to be friendly with the \"doctor fellow\"; and that made him\nangry again. But his next letter was more reasonable, and so more\ndeadly.\n\n_\"You will see that if I had not happened to be at home, it might have\nbeen a very serious matter. I must ask you to consider my position, and\ndiscourage your friends in paying any attention to me.\"_\n\nThis, too, he tore up, with a smothered word. It wouldn't do; if he\nwounded her too much, she was capable of taking the next train--! And\nso he wrote, with non-committal brevity:\n\n_\"I have to be in Mercer Friday night, and I think I can get down to\nOld Chester for a few hours between stages on Saturday. I hope your\ncook has recovered, and we can have some dinner? Tell David he can get\nhis sling ready; and do, for Heaven's sake, fend off visitors!\"_ Then he\nadded a postscript: _\"I want you all to myself.\"_ He smiled as he wrote\nthat, but half shook his head. He did not (such was his code) enjoy\nbeing agreeable for a purpose. \"But I can't help it,\" he thought,\nfrowning; \"she is so very difficult, just now.\"\n\nHe was right about the postscript; she read the letter with a curl of\nher lip. \"'A few hours,'\" she said; then--\"'I want you all to myself.'\"\nThe delicate color flooded into her face; she crushed the letter to her\nlips, her eyes running over with laughing tears.\n\n\"Oh, David,\" she cried,--\"let's go and tell Maggie--we must have such a\ndinner! He's coming!\"\n\n\"Who?\" said David.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Pryor, dear little boy. I want you to love him. Will you love\nhim?\"\n\n\"I'll see,\" said David; \"is Alice coming?\"\n\nInstantly her gayety flagged. \"No, dear, no!\"\n\n\"Well; I guess she's too old to play with;\" David consoled himself;\n\"she's nineteen.\"\n\n\"I must speak to Maggie about the dinner,\" Helena said dully. But when\nshe talked to the woman, interest came back again; this time he should\nnot complain of his food! Maggie smiled indulgently at her excitement,\n\n\"My, Mrs. Richie, I don't believe no wife could take as good care of\nMr. Pryor--and you just his sister!\"\n\nFor the rest of that glowing afternoon, Helena was very happy. She\nalmost forgot that uncomfortable scene with Sam Wright. She talked\neagerly of Mr. Pryor to David, quite indifferent to the child's lack of\ninterest. She had many anxious thoughts about what she should wear. If\nit was a very hot day, how would her white dimity do? Or the thin\nsprigged blue and white? it was so pretty--bunches of blue flowers on a\ncross-barred muslin, and made with three flounces and a bertha. She was\nwandering about the garden just before tea, trying to decide this\npoint, when David came to say that a gentleman wanted to see her. David\ndid not know his name;--he was the old tangled gentleman who lived in\nthe big house on the hill.\n\n\"_Oh!_\" Helena said; she caught her lip between her teeth, and looked\nat David with frightened eyes. The child was instantly alert.\n\n\"I'll run and tell him to go home,\" he said protectingly.\n\nBut she shook her head. \"I've got to see him--oh, David!\"\n\nThe little boy took hold of her skirt, reassuringly; \"I'll not let him\nhurt you,\" he said. She hardly noticed that he kept close beside her\nall the way to the house.\n\nMr. Benjamin Wright was sitting on the lowest step of the front porch.\nHis trembling head was sunk forward on his breast; he did not lift it\nat her step, but peered up from under the brim of his dusty beaver hat;\nthen seeing who it was, he rose, pushing himself up by gripping at the\nstep behind him and clutching his cane first in one hand, then in the\nother. His face like old ivory chiselled into superb lines of\nmelancholy power, was pallid with fatigue. On his feet, with\nexaggerated politeness, he took off his hat with a sweeping bow.\n\n\"Madam, your very obedient!\"\n\n\"Good afternoon,\" she said breathlessly.\n\nBenjamin Wright, tottering a little, changed his cane from his left to\nhis right hand, and chewed orange-skin fiercely. \"I have called,\nmadam--\"\n\nBut she interrupted him. \"Won't you come in and sit down, sir? And pray\nallow me to get you a glass of wine.\"\n\n\"Come in? No, madam, no. We are simple rustics here in Old Chester; we\nmust not presume to intrude upon a lady of such fashion as you. I fear\nthat some of us have already presumed too much\"--he paused for breath,\nbut lifted one veined old hand to check her protest--\"too much, I say!\nFar too much! I come, madam, to apologize, and to tell you--\" Again he\nstopped, panting; \"to tell you that I insist that you forbid further\nintrusion--at least on the part of my grandson.\"\n\n\"But,\" she said, the color hot in her face, \"he does not intrude. I\ndon't know what you mean. I--\"\n\n\"Oh, madam, you are too kind, I am sure you know what I mean; it is\nyour excessive kindness that permits the visits of a foolish\nboy--wearying, I am sure, to a lady so accustomed to the world. I will\nask you to forbid those visits. Do you hear me?\" he cried shrilly,\npounding the gravel with his cane. \"Gad-a-mercy! Do you hear me? You\nwill forbid his visits!\"\n\n\"You are not very polite, Mr. Old Gentleman,\" said David thoughtfully.\n\n\"David!\" Helena protested.\n\nBenjamin Wright, looking down at the little figure planted in front of\nher, seemed to see him for the first time.\n\n\"Who is this! Your child?\"\n\n\"A little boy who is visiting me,\" she said. \"David, run away.\"\n\nBenjamin Wright made a sneering gesture. \"No, no; don't dismiss him on\nmy account. But that a child should visit you is rather remarkable. I\nshould think his parents--\"\n\n\"Hush!\" she broke in violently, \"Go, David, go!\"\n\nAs the child went sulkily back to the garden, she turned upon her\nvisitor. \"How dare you! Dr. Lavendar brought him to me; I will not hear\nanother word! And--and I don't know what you mean, anyhow. You are a\ncruel old man; what have I ever done to you? I have never asked your\ngrandson to come here. I don't want him. I have told him so. And I\nnever asked you!\"\n\nBenjamin Wright cackled. \"No; I have not been so far honored. I admit\nthat. You have kept us all at arm's length,--except my boy.\" Then,\nbending his fierce brows on her, he added, \"But what does Lavendar mean\nby sending a child--to you? What's he thinking of? Except, of course,\nhe never had any sense. Old Chester is indeed a foolish place. Well,\nmadam, you will, I know, _protect yourself,_ by forbidding my grandson\nto further inflict his company upon you? And I will remove my own\ncompany, which is doubtless tiresome to you.\"\n\nHe bowed again with contemptuous ceremony, and turned away.\n\nThe color had dropped out of Helena's face; she was trembling very\nmuch. With a confused impulse she called to him, and even ran after him\nfor a few steps down the path. He turned and waited for her. She came\nup to him, her breath broken with haste and fear.\n\n\"Mr. Wright, you won't--\" Her face trembled with dismay. In her fright\nshe put her hand on his arm and shook it; \"you won't--?\"\n\nAs he looked into her stricken eyes, his own suddenly softened.\n\"Why--\" he said, and paused; then struck the ground with his stick\nsharply. \"There, there; I understand. You think I'll tell? Gad-a-mercy,\nmadam, I am a gentleman. And my boy Sam doesn't interest you? Yes, yes;\nI see that now. Why, perhaps I've been a trifle harsh? I shall say\nnothing to Lavendar, or anybody else.\"\n\nShe put her hands over her face, and he heard a broken sound. Instantly\nhe reddened to his ears.\n\n\"Come! Come! You haven't thought me harsh, have you? Why, you\npoor-_bird!_ It was only on my boy's account. You and I understand each\nother--I am a man of the world. But with Sam, it's different, now,\nisn't it? You see that? He's in love with you, the young fool! A great\nnuisance to you, of course. And I thought you might--but I ask your\npardon! I see that you wouldn't think of such a thing. My dear young\nlady, I make you my apologies.\" He put his hand out and patted her\nshoulder; \"Poor bird!\" he said. But she shivered away from his touch,\nand after a hesitating moment he went shuffling down the path by\nhimself.\n\nOn the way home he sniffled audibly; and when he reached the entrance\nto his own place he stopped, tucked his stick under his arm, and blew\nhis nose with a sonorous sound. As he stuffed his handkerchief back\ninto his pocket, he saw his grandson lounging against the gate,\nevidently waiting for him... The dilapidation of the Wright place was\nespecially obvious here at the entrance. The white paint on the two\nsquare wooden columns of the gateway had peeled and flaked, and the\ncolumns themselves had rotted at the base into broken fangs, and hung\nloosely upon their inner-posts; one of them sagged sidewise from the\nweight of the open gate which had long ago settled down into the\nburdocks and wild parsley that bordered the weedy driveway. What with\nthe canaries, and the cooking, and the slovenly housework, poor old\nSimmons had no time for such matters as repairing or weeding.\n\nSam, leaning on the gate, watched his grandfather's toiling progress up\nthe hill. His face was dull, and when he spoke all the youth seemed to\nhave dropped out of his voice.\n\n\"Grandfather,\" he said, when Mr. Wright was within speaking distance,\n\"I want to go away from Old Chester. Will you give me some money, sir?\"\n\nBenjamin Wright, his feet wide apart, and both hands gripping the top\nof his stick, came to a panting standstill and gaped at him. He did not\nquite take the boy's words in; then, as he grasped the idea that Sam\nwas agreeing to the suggestion which he had himself made more than a\nmonth before, he burst out furiously. \"Why the devil didn't you say so,\n_yesterday?_ Why did you let me--you young jackass!\"\n\nSam looked at him in faint surprise. Then he proceeded to explain\nhimself: \"Of course, father won't give me any money. And I haven't got\nany myself--except about twelve dollars. And you were kind enough, sir,\nto say that you would help me to go and see if I could get a publisher\nfor the drama. I would like to go to-morrow, if you please.\"\n\n\"Go?\" said Benjamin Wright, scowling and chewing orange-skin rapidly,\n\"the sooner the better! I'm glad to get rid of you. But, confound you!\nwhy didn't you tell me so yesterday? Then I needn't have--Well, how\nmuch money do you want? Have you told your--your mother that you are\ngoing? Come on up to the house, and I'll give you a check. But why\ndidn't you make up your mind to this yesterday?\" Snarling and snapping,\nand then falling into silence, he began to trudge up the driveway to\nhis old house.\n\nSam said briefly that he didn't know how much money he wanted, and that\nhe had not as yet told his family of his purpose. \"I'll tell mother\nto-night,\" he said. Then he, too, was silent, his young step falling in\nwith his grandfather's shuffling gait.\n\nWhen Mr. Wright left her, Helena stood staring after him, sobbing under\nher breath. She was terrified, but almost instantly she began to be\nangry....\n\nThat old man, creeping away along the road, had told her that he would\nnot betray her; but his knowledge was a menace, and his surprise that\nshe should have David, an insult! Of course, her way of living was\nconsidered \"wrong\" by people who cannot understand such\nsituations--old-fashioned, narrow-minded people. But the idea of any\nharm coming to David by it was ridiculous! As for Sam Wright, all that\nsort of thing was impossible, because it was repugnant. No married\nwoman, \"respectable,\" as such women call themselves, could have found\nthe boy's love-making more repugnant than she did. And certainly her\nconduct in Old Chester was absolutely irreproachable: she went to\nchurch fairly often; she gave liberally to all the good causes of the\nvillage; she was kind to her servants, and courteous to these stupid\nOld Chester people. And yet, simply because she had been forced by\nFrederick's cruelty into a temporary unconventionality, this dingy,\ngrimy old man despised her! \"He looked at me as if I were--I don't know\nwhat!\"\n\nAnger swept the color up into her face, her hands clenched, and she\nground her heel down into the path as if she were grinding the insolent\nsmile from his cruel old face. Horrible old man! Dirty, tremulous; with\nmumbling jaws chewing constantly; with untidy white hairs pricking out\nfrom under his brown wig; with shaking, shrivelled hands and blackened\nnails; this old man had fixed his melancholy eyes upon her with an\namused leer. He pretended, if you please! to think that she was\nunworthy of his precious grandson's company--unworthy of David's little\nhandclasp. She would leave this impudent Old Chester! She would tell\nLloyd so, as soon as he came. She would not endure the insults of these\nnarrow-minded fools.\n\n\"Hideous! Hideous old wretch!\" she said aloud furiously, between shut\nteeth. \"How dared he look at me like that, as if I were--Beast! I\nhate--I hate--I _hate_ him.\" Her anger was so uncontrollable that for a\nmoment she could not breathe. It was like a whirlwind, wrenching and\ntearing her from the soil of contentment into which for so many years\nher vanity and selfishness had struck their roots.\n\n  _\"But the Lord was not in the wind.\"_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\nWhen Helena went back to the house, her face was red, and her whole\nbody tingling; every now and then her breath came in a gasp of rage. At\nthat moment she believed that she hated everybody in the world--the\ncruel, foolish, arrogant world!--even the thought of David brought no\nsoftening. And indeed, when that first fury had subsided, she still did\nnot want to see the little boy; that destroying wind of anger had\nbeaten her complacency to the dust, and she could not with dignity meet\nthe child's candid eyes. It was not until the next day that she could\nfind any pleasure in him, or even in the prospect of Lloyd's visit; and\nwhen these interests began to revive, sudden gusts of rage would tear\nher, and she would fall into abrupt reveries, declaring to herself that\nshe would tell Lloyd how she had been insulted! But she reminded\nherself that she must choose just the right moment to enlist his\nsympathy for the affront; she must decide with just what caress she\nwould tell him that she meant to leave Old Chester, and come, with\nDavid, to live in Philadelphia. (Oh, would Frederick _ever_ die?)...\nBut, little by little, she put the miserable matter behind her, and\nfilled the days before Lloyd's arrival with plans for the few golden\nhours that they were to be together, when he was to have her \"all to\nhimself.\" But, alas, the plans were all disarranged by David.\n\nNow Saturday, when you come to think of it, is always a day of\njoy--even if there must be a visitor. To begin with, there is no\nschool, so you have plenty of time to attend to many important affairs\nconnected with playthings. Then, the gravel paths must be raked and the\ngarden made tidy for Sunday, and so there is brush and refuse to be\nburned; and that means baking potatoes in the ashes, and (as you will\nremember), unless you stand, coughing, in the smoke to watch them, the\npotatoes are so apt to burn. Also, the phaeton is washed with peculiar\ncare to make it fine for church; the wheels must be jacked up, one\nafter the other, and spun round and round; then, if you go about it the\nright way, you can induce George to let you take the big, gritty sponge\nout of the black water of the stable bucket, and after squeezing it\nhard in your two hands, you may wipe down the spokes of one wheel.\nBesides these things, there are always the rabbits. Right after\nbreakfast, David had run joyously out to see Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but\nwhile he poked lettuce leaves between the bars of their hutch, the\nthought struck him that this was the moment to demonstrate that\ninteresting fact in natural history, so well known to those of your\nfriends who happen to be stablemen, but doubted by Dr. Lavendar,\nnamely, that a hair from the pony's tail will, if soaked in water, turn\ninto a snake. David shuddered at the word, but ran to the stable and\ncarefully pulled two hairs from the pony's silvery-gray tail. The\noperation was borne with most obliging patience, but when he stooped to\npick up another beautiful long hair from the straw--for when you are\nmaking snakes you might as well make plenty, alas! the pony was so\nabsent-minded as to step back--and down came the iron-shod hoof on the\nsmall, eager hand!\n\nDavid's shriek and George's outcry brought the feminine household\nrunning and exclaiming, and at the sight of the bruised hand, with one\nhanging, helpless finger, Helena gathered the quivering little body\ninto her arms, and forgot everything but the child's pain. George was\nrushed off for William King, and Mrs. Richie and the two women hung\nover the boy with tears and tender words and entreaties \"not to cry\"!\nDavid, in point of fact, stopped crying long before they did; but, of\ncourse, he cried again, poor little monkey! during the setting of the\ntiny bone, though William King was as gentle and determined as was\nnecessary, and David, sitting in Helena's lap, responded to the demand\nfor courage in quite a remarkable way. Indeed, the doctor noticed that\nMrs. Richie quivered more than the child did. It was nearly eleven\nbefore it was all over, and William went off, smiling at Helena's\nanxiety, for she accompanied him to the gate, begging for directions\nfor impossible emergencies. When he had driven away, she flew back to\nthe house; but at the door of David's room looked at her watch, and\nexclaimed. Lloyd was due in half an hour! What should she do?\n\n\"Dear-precious,\" she said, kneeling down beside the little boy, \"Sarah\nshall come and sit with you while Mr. Pryor is here; you won't mind if\nI am not with you?\"\n\nDavid, who had begun to whimper again, was too interested in himself to\nmind in the least. Even when she said, distractedly, \"Oh, there's the\nstage!\" his unhappiness was not perceptibly increased. Helena, calling\nSarah to come and sit with the invalid, ran down-stairs to meet her\nguest. There had been no time to make herself charming; her face was\nmarked by tears, and her dress tumbled by David's little wincing body.\nBefore she could reach the gate, Lloyd Pryor had opened it, and,\nunwelcomed, was coming up the path. His surprised glance brought her\ntumultuous and apologetic explanation.\n\n\"Oh, I'm sorry!\" he said kindly; \"I must console him with a new dollar;\ndon't you think a dollar will be healing?\"\n\nShe laughed and possessed herself of his hand.\n\n\"You run a sort of hospital, Nelly, don't you? I must be a Jonah; it\nwas your cook the last time. How is she? I trust we are to have enough\nfood to sustain life?\"\n\n\"I meant to have such a fine dinner,\" she said, \"but we've all been so\ndistracted about David, I'm afraid things won't be as extraordinary as\nI planned. However, it will 'sustain life'!--Though you could go to Dr.\nKing's again,\" she ended gayly.\n\nThe instant irritation in his face sobered her. She began, carefully,\nto talk of this or that: his journey, the Mercer business, his\nhealth--anything to make him smile again. Plainly, it was not the\nmoment to speak of Mr. Benjamin Wright and her purpose of leaving Old\nChester.\n\n\"Now I must run up-stairs just one minute, and see David,\" she said in\nthe middle of a sentence. Her minute lengthened to ten, but when she\ncame back, explaining that she had stopped to wash David's face--\"it\nwas all stained by tears\"--he did not seem impatient.\n\n\"Your own would be improved by soap and water, my dear,\" he said with\nan amused look. \"No! no--don't go now; I want to talk to you, and I\nhaven't much time.\"\n\nShe knew him too well to insist; instead, she burst into what gayety\nshe could summon, for that was how he liked her. But back in her mind\nthere was a growing tremor of apprehension:--there was something wrong;\nshe could not tell what it was, but she felt it. She said to herself\nthat she would not speak of Mr. Benjamin Wright until after dinner.\n\nLittle by little, however, her uneasiness subsided. It became evident\nthat the excitement of the morning had not been too much for Maggie;\nthings were very good, and Lloyd Pryor was very appreciative, and\nHelena's charm more than once touched him to a caressing glance and a\nsoft word. But as they got up from the table he glanced at his watch,\nand she winced; then smiled, quickly. She brought him his cigar and\nstruck a light; and he, looking at her with handsome, lazy eyes, caught\nthe hand which held the flaming match, and lit his cigar in slow puffs.\n\n\"Now I must go and give a look at David,\" she said.\n\n\"Look here, Nelly,\" he protested, \"aren't you rather overdoing this\nadopted-mother business?\"\n\nShe found the child rather flushed and in an uneasy doze. Instantly she\nwas anxious. \"Don't leave him, Sarah,\" she said. \"I'll have Maggie\nbring your dinner up to you. Oh, I _wish_ I didn't have to go\ndownstairs!\"\n\n\"I'm afraid he is worse,\" she told Lloyd Pryor with a worried frown.\n\n\"Well, don't look as if it were an affair of nations,\" he said\ncarelessly, and drew her down on the sofa beside him. He was so\ngracious to her, that she forgot David; but she quivered for fear the\ngraciousness should cease. She was like a thirsty creature, drinking\nwith eager haste, lest some terror should drive her back into the\ndesert. But Lloyd Pryor continued to be gracious; he talked gayly of\nthis or that; he told her one or two stories that had been told him in\na directors' meeting or on a journey, and he roared with appreciation\nof their peculiar humor. She flushed; but she made herself laugh. Then\nshe began tentatively to say something of Old Chester; and--and what\ndid he think? \"That old man, who lives up on the hill, called, and--\"\n\nBut he interrupted her. \"You are very beguiling, Nelly, but I am afraid\nI must be thinking of the stage--it is after three. Before I go I just\nwant to say--\" then he broke off. \"Come in! Well? What is it?\" he\ndemanded impatiently.\n\n\"Please, ma'am,\" said Sarah, standing in the doorway, her face puckered\nalmost to tears, \"David's woke up, and he's crying, and I can't do\nnothing with him. He wants you, ma'am.\"\n\n\"Oh, poor darling! Tell him I'll come right up,\" Mrs. Richie said,\nrising in quick distress.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Lloyd Pryor, sharply. \"Sarah, tell the boy to behave\nhimself. Mrs. Richie can't come now.\"\n\nSarah hurried up-stairs, but Helena stood in painful indecision. \"Oh,\nLloyd, I _must_ go! I'll just sit with him a minute!\"\n\n\"You'll just sit with me a minute,\" he said calmly. \"Be sensible,\nHelena. I want to speak to you about something.\"\n\nBut she did not hear him; she was listening for David's voice. A little\nwhimpering cry reached her, and the tears sprung to her eyes. \"Lloyd! I\nmust. He is crying.\"\n\n\"Let him cry.\"\n\n\"He's takin' on so, please come up, ma'am,\" came Sarah's entreating\nvoice from over the banisters in the upper hall.\n\n\"Oh, Lloyd, I must!\" She turned; but he, springing up, caught her wrist\nand pulled her to him.\n\n\"Don't be a fool.\"\n\n\"Let me go! Oh, how cruel you are!\" She tried to wrench her wrist from\nhis grasp. \"I hate you!\"\n\n\"Hate me, do you?\" He laughed, and catching her in his arms, kissed her\nagain and again. Then he put his hands in his pockets and stepped back,\nleaving her free. \"Will you go?\"\n\nShe stood, vibrating between surprised affection and anguished longing\nfor the child. \"Lloyd!\" she said faintly; she put her hands over her\nface, and came towards him slowly, shivering a little, and murmuring\n\"_Lloyd!_\" Then, with a sudden gasp, she turned and fled up-stairs.\n\"David--I am coming--\"\n\nLloyd Pryor stood dumfounded; in his astonishment he almost laughed.\nBut at that instant he heard the crunch of wheels drawing up at the\ngate. \"The stage!\" he said to himself, and called out, angrily,\n\"Helena!\"\n\nBut it was not the stage; it was William King's shabby old buggy\nstanding in the shadow of the big locust by the roadside; and there was\nthe doctor himself coming up the path.\n\nLloyd Pryor swore under his breath.\n\nThe front door was open to the hot June afternoon, and unannounced the\ndoctor walked into the hall. As he took off his hat, he glanced into\nthe parlor, and for a second of consternation stood staring with angry\neyes. Then he nodded stiffly. \"I will be obliged if you will let Mrs.\nRichie know I am here.\"\n\n\"She is with that boy,\" said Lloyd Pryor. He made no motion of\ncivility; he stood where Helena had left him, his hands still in his\npockets. \"Will you be so good as to tell her to come down here to me?\nThe stage is due, and I must see her before I go.\"\n\nWilliam King, red and stolid, nodded again, and went up-stairs without\nanother look into the parlor.\n\nWhile he waited Lloyd Pryor's anger slowly rose. The presence of the\ndoctor froze the tenderness that, for an idle moment, her face and\nvoice and touch had awakened. The annoyance, the embarrassment, the\ndanger of that call, returned in a gust of remembrance. When she came\ndown-stairs, full of eager excuses, the touch of his rage seared her\nlike a flame.\n\n\"If you will kindly take five minutes from that squalling brat--\"\n\n\"Lloyd, he was in pain. I had to go to him. The instant the doctor\ncame, I left him. I--\"\n\n\"Listen to me, please. I have only a minute. Helena, this friend of\nyours, this Dr. King, saw fit to pry into my affairs. He came to\nPhiladelphia to look me up--\" \"_What!_\"\n\n\"He came to my house\"--he looked at her keenly through his curling\neyelashes--\"to my house! Do you understand what that means?\"\n\nIn her dismay she sat down with a sort of gasp; and looking up at him,\nstammered, \"But why? Why?\"\n\n\"Why? Because he is a prying suspicious jackass of a country doctor! He\ncame at exactly six o'clock. It was perfectly evident that he meant to\ngive me the pleasure of his company at dinner.\"\n\nAt that she sprang to her feet, her impetuous hands upon his arm. \"Then\nhe was not--suspicious! Don't you see? He was only friendly!\" She\ntrembled with the reaction of that instant of dismay. \"He was not\nsuspicious, or he wouldn't have been--been willing--\" Her voice trailed\ninto shamed silence.\n\nLloyd Pryor pushed her hand away, impatiently. \"I'm not anxious for his\nfriendship or even his acquaintance. You will please consider what\nwould have happened if I had not come home just as he arrived!\" He\npaused, his voice hardening: \"My daughter saw him.\"\n\nHelena stepped back, wincing and silent.\n\n\"You will be so good as to consider the result of such tomfoolery--to\nme.\"\n\n\"And what about me?\" she said. \"Your 'daughter'--I suppose you mean\nAlice--is not the only person in the world!\"\n\nBut Lloyd Pryor, having dealt his blow, was gracious again. \"My dear,\nyou needn't begin recriminations. Of course, I speak on your account as\nmuch as on my own. It would have been--well, awkward, all round. You\nmust see that it does not occur again. You will not get on terms with\nthese people that will encourage them to look me up. You understand?\"\n\nShe looked at him, terror-stricken. In all their squabbles and\ndifferences--and there had been many in the last few years--he had\nnever spoken in this extraordinary tone. It was not anger, it was not\nthe courteous brutality with which she was more or less familiar; it\nwas superiority. The color swept into her face; even her throat\nreddened. She said stammering, \"I don't know why you speak--in--in this\ntone--\"\n\n\"I am not going to speak any more in any tone,\" he said lightly;\n\"there's the stage! Good-by, my dear. I trust your boy may recover\nrapidly. Tell him I was prepared for his sling and the 'smooth stone\nout of the brook'! Sorry I couldn't have seen more of you.\" As he spoke\nhe went into the hall; she followed him without a word. He picked up\nhis hat, and then, turning, tipped her chin back and kissed her. She\nmade no response.\n\nWhen he had gone, she went into the parlor and Shut the door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\nDavid was quite a personage in Old Chester for a few days. Mrs. Richie\nwas his slave, and hardly left him day or night; Dr. King came to see\nhim five times in one week; Mrs. Barkley sent him some wine jelly in a\nsheaf-of-wheat mould; Dr. Lavendar climbed the hill on two afternoons,\nto play dominoes with him, though, as it happened, Mrs. Richie was not\npresent either day to watch the game. The first time she had just gone\nto lie down, Sarah said; the second time she had that moment started\nout to walk--\"Why, my goodness!\" said Sarah, \"she must 'a' _just_ gone!\nShe was here not a minute ago. I should 'a' thought she'd 'a' seen you\ntyin' up at the gate?\"\n\n\"Well, evidently she didn't,\" Dr. Lavendar said, \"or she would have\nwaited. Tell her I'm sorry to miss her, Sarah.\" Then, eagerly, he went\non up-stairs to David.\n\nWilliam King, too, was scarcely more fortunate; he only found her at\nhome once, so at the end of the week he was unable to tell her that\nDavid was improving. It was, of course, necessary that she should be\ntold this; so that was why he and Jinny continued to come up the hill\nfor another week. At any rate that was the explanation he gave his\nMartha. \"I must let her know just when David can go back to school,\" he\nsaid. And Martha, with a tightening lip remarked that she should have\nsupposed a woman of Mrs. Richie's years could use her own judgment in\nsuch a matter.\n\nWilliam's explanation to Dr. Lavendar was somewhat fuller: \"I make a\npoint of calling, on the plea of seeing David, but it's really to see\nher. She's so high strung, that this little accident of his has\ncompletely upset her. I notice that she sort of keeps out of the way of\npeople. I'm pretty sure that yesterday she saw me coming and slipped\nout into the garden to avoid me--think of that! Nervousness; pure\nnervousness. But I have a plan to brighten her up a little--a\nsurprise-party. What do you say?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar looked doubtful. \"William,\" he said, \"isn't life\nsurprising enough? Now, here's Sam Wright's Sam's performance.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar looked care-worn, and with reason. Sam Wright's Sam had\nindeed provided a surprise for Old Chester. He had quietly announced\nthat he was going to leave town.\n\n\"Going away!\" repeated the senior warden. \"What are you talking about?\"\n\nSam said briefly that he wanted to try to get a drama he had written,\npublished.\n\n\"You are out of your senses!\" his father said; \"I forbid it, sir. Do\nyou hear me?\"\n\nSam looked out of the window. \"I shall go, I think, to-morrow,\" he said\nthoughtfully.\n\nSamuel Wright stared at his wife in dumfounded silence. When he got his\nbreath, he said in awful tones, \"Eliza, he defies me! A child of mine,\nand lost to all sense of duty! I cannot understand it;--unless such\nthings have happened in _your_ family?\" he ended with sudden suspicion.\n\n\"Never!\" protested the poor mother; \"but Samuel, my dear--Sammy, my\ndarling--\"\n\nThe senior warden raised a majestic hand. \"Silence, if you please,\nEliza.\" Then he thrust his right hand into his bosom, rested his left\nfist on the marble-topped centre-table, and advanced one foot. Standing\nthus, he began to tell his son what he thought of him, and as he\nproceeded his anger mounted, he forgot his periods and his attitudes,\nand his voice grew shrill and mean. But, alas, he could not tell the\nboy all that he thought; he could not tell him of his high ambitions\nfor him, of his pitiful desire for his love, of his anguished fear lest\nhe might be unhappy, or foolish, or bad. These thoughts the senior\nwarden had never known how to speak. Instead, he detailed his\ngrievances and his disappointments; he told Sam with ruthless candor\nwhat the world called his conduct: dishonest, idiotic, ungrateful. He\nhad a terrifying string of adjectives, and through them all the boy\nlooked out of the window. Once, at a particularly impassioned period,\nhe glanced at his father with interest; that phrase would be fine in a\nplay, he reflected. Then he looked out of the window again.\n\n\"And now,\" Mr. Wright ended sonorously, \"what reply have you to make,\nsir?\"\n\nSam looked confused. \"I beg your pardon, father? I did not hear what\nyou were saying.\"\n\nSamuel Wright stared at him, speechless.\n\nAs for the boy, he said calmly, \"Good night, father,\" and went\nup-stairs to his own room where he began his packing. The next morning\nhe had gone.\n\n\"Where?\" asked Dr. Lavendar, when the angry father brought him the\nnews. \"I do not know,\" said the senior warden, \"and I do not--\"\n\n\"Yes, you do,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"but that's not the point. The point\nis that it doesn't really matter, except for our comfort, whether we\nknow or not. Sam is a man, and our protection is an impertinence. He's\ntaking a dive on his own account. And as I look at it, he has a right\nto. But he'll come up for breath, and then we'll get some information.\nAnd he'll get some sense.\"\n\nBut of course the Wright family was in a most distressed state. The\nmother was overwhelmed with anxious grief; the father was consumed with\nmortification and blazing with anger.\n\n\"He didn't take his second-weight flannels,\" moaned Mrs. Wright; \"he\nwill catch cold. Oh, where is he? And nobody knows how to cook his\nhominy for him but our Betsy. Oh, my boy!\"\n\n\"Good riddance,\" said Sam senior between his teeth; \"ungrateful puppy!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar had his hands full. To reassure the mother, and tell her\nthat the weather was so warm that Sam couldn't use the second-weight\nflannels if he had them, and that when he came back Betsy's hominy\nwould seem better than ever--\"Old Chester food will taste mighty good,\nafter a few husks,\" said Dr. Lavendar, cheerfully--to tell Sam senior\nthat a grateful puppy would be an abnormal monster, and to refrain from\ntelling him that whatever a father sows he is pretty sure to reap--took\ntime and strength. So Dr. Lavendar did not enter very heartily into\nWilliam King's plans for a surprise-party. However, he did promise to\ncome, if the doctor succeeded in getting Old Chester together.\n\nMeantime he and Danny and Goliath went up to The Top to tell Benjamin\nWright about Sam's Sam. The grandfather displayed no surprise.\n\n\"I knew he was going to clear out,\" he said; he was poking about among\nhis canaries when Dr. Lavendar came in, and he stopped and sat down,\npanting. \"These fowls wear me out,\" he complained. \"Whiskey? No? Dear\nme! Your senior warden's got you to sign the pledge, I suppose? Well, I\nwill; to drink the cub's health. He'll amount to something yet, if he\ndoesn't eat his fatted calf too soon. Fatted calf is very bad for the\ndigestion.\"\n\n\"Wright, I don't suppose you need to be told that you behaved\nabominably Sunday night? Do you know where Sam is?\"\n\n\"I don't; and I don't want to. Behaved abominably? He wouldn't shake\nhands with me! Sam told me he was going, and I gave him some\nmoney--well! why do you look at me like that? Gad-a-mercy, ain't he my\ngrandson? Besides, since our love-feast, ain't it my duty to help his\nfather along? I've had a change of heart,\" he said, grinning; \"where's\nyour joy over the one sinner that repenteth? I'm helping young Sam, so\nthat old Sam may get some sense. Lavendar, the man who has not learned\nwhat a damned fool he is, hasn't learned anything. And if I mistake\nnot, the boy will teach my very respectable son, who won't smoke and\nwon't drink, that interesting fact. As for the boy, he will come back a\nman, sir. A man! Anyway, I've done my part. I offered him money and\nadvice--like the two women grinding at the mill, one was taken and the\nother was left. Yes; I've done my part. I've evened things up. I gave\nhim his first tobie, and his first drink, and now I've given him a\nchance to see the world--which your senior warden once said was a\nnecessary experience for a young man. I've evened things up!\" He thrust\na trembling hand down into the blue ginger-jar for some orange-skin.\n\"He said he'd pay the money back; I said, 'Go to thunder!' As if I\ncared about the money. I've got him out of Old Chester; that's all I\ncare about.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"I hope you haven't got him merely out of\nthe frying-pan.\"\n\n\"So you think there is no fire in Old Chester? She's a pretty creetur,\nLavendar, ain't she? Poor thing!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar did not follow the connection of ideas in the older man's\nmind, but he did say to himself, as he and Goliath went away, that it\nwas queer how possessed Benjamin Wright was that Sam's love-making was\ndangerous. Then he sighed, and his face fell into troubled lines. For\nall his brave words, he wished he knew where the boy was; and though he\nwas already late for dinner, he drew up at William King's door to ask\nthe doctor if he had any new ideas on the subject.\n\nBut Willy was not at home. Martha was sitting under the grape-vine\ntrellis at the back door, topping and tailing gooseberries. From the\nkitchen behind her came the pleasant smell of preserving. She had a big\nyellow earthenware bowl in her lap, and excused herself for not rising\nwhen Dr. Lavendar came round the corner of the house to find her.\n\n\"_I_ am a housekeeper, Dr. Lavendar. William thinks it's pretty not to\nunderstand housekeeping; but I expect if he didn't have preserves for\nhis supper, he wouldn't think it was so pretty. No; he isn't at home,\nsir. He's gone out--with the thermometer at ninety--to see about that\nparty he is getting up for Mrs., Richie. So long as he has time to\nspare from his patients, I should think he would like to take up my\nspare-room carpet for me. But, oh dear, no. He has to see about\nparties!\"\n\n\"William is always doing friendly things,\" said Dr. Lavendar, sitting\ndown on the door-step and helping himself to a gooseberry from Martha's\nbowl. \"You are going to make some fool for the supper, of course?\" He\ntook off his hat, and wiped his forehead with his big red handkerchief.\n\n\"Oh, of course. I'm very tired, and I have my housekeeping to attend\nto; but I can make gooseberry fool. That's what I'm for.\"\n\n\"When is this party?\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"I declare, I've been so\nworried about Sam's Sam, I've forgotten.\"\n\n\"It's next week; Thursday. Yes; she can send that boy to his death,\nmaybe; but we must have parties to cheer her up.\"\n\n\"Oh, come now,\" Dr. Lavendar remonstrated; \"I don't believe a glimpse\nof the world will kill him. And nobody can blame Mrs. Richie for his\nfoolishness. I suppose we are all going?\"\n\n\"Everybody,\" Martha King said scornfully; \"even Samuel Wright. He told\nhis wife that he wouldn't have any nonsense about Sam, and she'd got to\ngo. I think it's positively cruel; because of course everybody knows\nthat the boy was in love with this housekeeper that doesn't know how to\nmake soap!\" Martha shook her bowl sharply, and the toppling green\npyramid crumbled. Dr. Lavendar looked at her over his spectacles;\ninstantly her face reddened, and she tossed her head. \"Of course, you\nunderstand that I haven't the slightest personal feeling about it.\nThat's one thing about me, Dr. Lavendar, I may not be perfect, but\nnobody despises anything like--that, more than I do. I merely regret\nWilliam's judgment.\"\n\n\"Regret William's judgment! Why, think of the judgment he displayed in\nchoosing a wife,\" said Dr. Lavendar. But when he climbed into his old\nbuggy he had the grace to be ashamed of himself; he admitted as much to\nDanny. \"For she's a sensible woman, Daniel, and, at bottom, kind.\"\nDanny yawned, and Dr. Lavendar added, \"Poor Willy!\"\n\nMrs. Richie's first hint of Dr. King's proposed festivity came a week\nlater from David, who happened to be at home to dinner, and who saw fit\nto mention that Lydia Wright wasn't to be allowed to come up with her\nfather and mother.\n\n\"Come up where?\" Mrs. Richie said, idly. She was leaning forward, her\nelbows on the table, watching the child eat. When he said, \"To your\nparty to-night,\" she sat up in astonished dismay.\n\n\"My _what?_ David! Tell me--exactly. Who is coming? Oh, dear!\" she\nended, tears of distress standing in her eyes.\n\nDavid continued to eat his rice pudding. \"Can I sit up till nine?\"\n\nMrs. Richie pushed her chair back from the table, and caught her lower\nlip between her teeth. What should she do? But even as she asked\nherself the question, Dr. King stood, smiling, in the French window\nthat opened on to the lawn.\n\n\"May I come in?\" he said.\n\nThe fact was, a misgiving had risen in William's mind; perhaps a\ncomplete surprise would not be pleasant. Perhaps she would rather have\nan idea of what was going to happen. Perhaps she might want to dress\nup, or something. And so he dropped in to give a hint: \"Half a dozen of\nus are coming in tonight to say how-do-you-do,\" he confessed, (\"Whew!\nshe doesn't need to dress up,\" he commented inwardly.) The red rose in\nher hair and her white cross-barred muslin with elbow sleeves seemed\nvery elegant to William. He was so lost in admiration of her toilet,\nthat her start of angry astonishment escaped him.\n\n\"Dr. King,\" said David, scraping up the sugar from his saucer, \"is God\ngood because He likes to be, or because He has to be?\"\n\n\"David,\" said William King, \"you will be the death of me!\"\n\n\"Because, if He likes to be,\" David murmured, \"I don't see why He gets\npraised; and if He has to be, why--\"\n\n\"Dr. King,\" said Helena breathlessly, \"I'm afraid--really, I'm not\nprepared for company; and--\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said William, cheerfully, \"don't bother about that. Mrs. King is\ngoing to bring up one or two little things, and I believe Mrs. Barkley\nhas some ideas on the subject. Well, I must be going along. I hope you\nwon't be sorry to see us? The fact is, you are too lonely up here with\nonly David to keep you busy, though I must say, if he fires off\nquestions like this one, I should think you would be pretty well\noccupied!\"\n\nWhen he had gone, Helena Richie sat looking blankly at David. \"What on\nearth shall I do!\" she said aloud.\n\n\"Did God make Sarah?\" David demanded.\n\n\"Yes, dear, yes!\"\n\n\"Did He make me, and the Queen, and my rabbits?\"\n\n\"Why, of course. Oh, David, you do ask so many questions!\"\n\n\"Everything has to be made,\" he ruminated.\n\nShe agreed, absently. David put his spoon down, deeply interested.\n\n\"Who made God?--another god, higher up?\"\n\n\"I think,\" she said, \"that I'll send word I have a headache!\"\n\nDavid sighed, and gave up theological research, \"Dr. King didn't look\nat my scar, but I made Theophilus Bell pay me a penny to show it to\nhim. Mrs. Richie, when I am a man, I'm _never_ going to wash behind my\nears. I tell Sarah so every morning, I'm going to see my rabbits, now.\nGood-by.\"\n\nHe slipped down from his chair and left her to her perplexity--as if\nshe had not perplexity enough without this! For the last few days she\nhad been worried almost to death about Mr. Benjamin Wright. She had not\nwritten to Lloyd yet of that terrible interview in the garden which\nwould drive her from Old Chester; she had been afraid to. She felt\ninstinctively that his mood was not hospitable to any plan that would\nbring her to live in the East. He would be less hospitable if she came\nbecause she had been found out in Old Chester. But her timidity about\nwriting to him was a curious alarm to her; it was a confession of\nsomething she would not admit even long enough to deny it.\nNevertheless, she did not write. \"I will to-morrow,\" she assured\nherself each day, But now, on top of her worry of indecision and\nunacknowledged fear, came this new dismay--a party! How furious Lloyd\nwould be if he heard of it; well, he must not hear of it. But what\ncould she do? If she put it off with a flimsy excuse, it would only\ndefer the descent upon her. How helpless she was! They would come,\nthese people, they would be friendly; she could not escape them.\n\n\"Oh, I must stop this kind of thing,\" she said to herself, desperately.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nWith the exception of Benjamin Wright, all Old Chester lent itself to\nWilliam King's project with very good grace. Mr. Wright said, gruffly,\nthat a man with one foot in the grave couldn't dance a jig, so he\npreferred to stay at home. But the rest of Old Chester said that\nalthough she was so quiet and kept herself to herself so much, Mrs.\nRichie was a ladylike person; a little shy, perhaps--or perhaps only\nproperly hesitant to push her way into society; at any rate it was but\nkind to show her some attention.\n\n\"Her modesty does her credit,\" Mrs. Barkley said, \"but it will be\ngratifying to her to be noticed. I'll come, William, and bring a cake.\nAnd Maria Welwood shall tell Ezra to take three bottles of Catawba.\"\n\nA little before eight, the company began to assemble, full of such\ncordial courtesy that Mrs. Richie's shrinking and awkward coldness only\nincited them to heartier friendliness. Dr. King, master of ceremonies,\nwas ably assisted by his Martha. Mrs. King may have been, as she told\nall the guests, very tired, but she could be depended upon to be\nefficient. It was she who had engaged Uncle Davy and his fiddle; she\nwho put the cakes and wine and fruit upon the dining-room table,\nalready somewhat meagerly arranged by Helena's reluctant hands; she who\nbustled about to find card-tables, and induced Tom Dilworth to sing;\n\n  \"_Thou--Thou reignest in this bosom!--_\"\n\nand got Mr. Ezra Barkley to ask statistical conundrums.\n\n\"It's well there is somebody to attend to things,\" she said in a dry\naside to William. \"Mrs. Richie just walks around as if she didn't\nbelong here. And she lets that child sit up until this hour! I can't\nunderstand how a sensible woman can deliberately spoil a child.--I'd\nlike to know what that perfume is that she uses,\" she ended frowning.\n\nIt was after supper, while the husband and wife, still oppressed with\ntheir responsibilities, were standing in the doorway looking in upon\nthe cheerful party now in full enjoyment of its own hospitality, that\nEddy Minns came up behind them and touched William King's arm.\n\n\"Dr. King,\" he said breathlessly, \"a telegram, sir. For Mrs. Richie.\nAnd mother said it was bad news!\"\n\n\"Oh, William!\" said Martha; \"bad news! Do you know what it is, Eddy?\"\n\n\"Somebody is dead,\" the boy said, important and solemn.\n\n\"Her brother?\" William King asked in dismay.\n\n\"Well, not the brother that comes here; his name is Lloyd, mother said.\nThis is somebody whose name begins with 'F.' Perhaps another brother.\nMother showed the despatch to me; it just said: 'F. died suddenly\nyesterday in Paris.' It was signed 'S. R.'\"\n\n\"It isn't from Pryor, then,\" William commented.\n\n\"Oh, William,\" Martha whispered, \"what shall we do? Must you give it to\nher _now?_--oh, William!\"\n\nDr. King stood staring at the orange-colored envelope in silence.\n\n\"Shall I call Dr. Lavendar?\" Martha asked breathlessly.\n\n\"Wait,\" her husband said; \"let me think: it may not be anybody very\nnear and dear; but whether it is or not, there is nothing she can do\nabout it to-night. The telegraph-office is closed. I don't see why her\nevening need be spoiled. No; I won't give it to her now. When the\npeople go--\"\n\n\"Oh, dear! Dr. Lavendar says we must end up with a reel. But I'll get\nthem off as soon as I can,\" Martha declared, in her capable voice, \"and\nthen I'll break it to her.\"\n\n\"I will tell her,\" the doctor said. He put the envelope in his pocket\nwith a troubled frown.\n\n\"If she is in affliction, a woman will be more comfort to her than a\nman,\" Martha instructed him. \"Look at her now, poor thing! She little\nthinks--No indeed; I must stay with her. I'm very tired, and she's not\nvery friendly, but I won't shirk my duty on that account. That's one\nthing about me: I may not be perfect, but I don't let personal feelings\ninterfere with duty.\"\n\n\"It isn't your duty,\" William said impatiently; \"you'd better arrange\nabout the reel.\" And with that he left her. But he was so uneasy at\nwithholding the telegram that he forgot to choose a partner, and let\nMartha push him into place opposite Miss Maggie Jay, who was so stout\nthat when the two large bodies went jigging down the lane, the clasping\nhands arched above their heads had to break apart to give them room.\n\n\"She may think I ought to have told her at once,\" William was saying to\nhimself, watching Mrs. Richie with such furtive attention that he\nforgot to turn his partner, until Martha's sharp reminder set him\nshuffling his feet, and grinning in a sickly way at panting Miss\nMaggie.... \"Who is 'F.'? Will 'F.'s death be a great grief? Will she\nsuffer?\" William King's kind heart began to beat thickly in his throat.\nIf she should cry! He bowed, with stiffly swinging arms to Miss Maggie.\nHe thought of Helena,--who was moving through the dance as a flower\nsways on its stalk,--as one thinks of a child in pain; with the impulse\nto hold out his arms. In his absorption he stood stock-still--but\nhappily the reel was over, and the people were beginning to say\ngood-by. He drew a long breath of relief at getting rid of them, and as\nhe stood waiting, Martha plucked at his sleeve. \"Give me the despatch;\nI'll break it to her.\"\n\nHe looked at her with absent eyes. \"No; I'll see to it. Do start,\nMartha, and maybe that will hurry them off!\"\n\nMrs. King drew back, affronted. \"Oh, very well,\" She said; and made her\ncold adieux.\n\nBut Helena Richie was oblivious of Mrs. King's coldness; her anxiety\nand dismay had grown into an uncontrollable nervousness, and when at\nlast, thinking she was alone, she threw up her arms with a gesture of\nrelief, the sight of William King, coming gravely towards her, made her\nbreak into an angry exclamation. But before she knew it, he had taken\nher hand, and was holding it in his kind clasp.\n\n\"Mrs. Richie, I am afraid I must give you bad news.\"\n\n\"Bad--news--?\"\n\n\"A telegram has come,\" he began, taking the envelope from his pocket;\nbut she interrupted him, Seizing it with a sort of gasp and tearing it\nopen. A moment later she stood quite still, looking at the despatch,\nthen with dilating eyes at the doctor, and again at the despatch. She\npressed her fingers hard against her lips, and he saw that she was\ntrembling.\n\n\"You must sit down,\" he said gently, and put his big, quiet hand on her\nshoulder. She sank under his firm touch into a chair.\n\n\"It is not--bad news.\"\n\n\"I am glad of that,\" William said. \"But you are a little pale,\" he\nadded smiling.\n\n\"It was a shock.\"\n\n\"I am glad it was nothing more.\"\n\nShe spread out the telegram and read it again. She did not seem to hear\nhim. Dr. King looked at her uneasily. There was certainly no grief in\nher face, yet her color did not come back.\n\n\"Some one is dead,\" she said. \"Not--a friend.\" William was silent. \"But\nit startled me.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" the doctor said.\n\n\"Oh, Dr. King!\" she cried violently; and put her hands over her face.\nHe thought with relief that tears had come. \"He was--an enemy,\" she\nsaid. \"He is dead, Mrs. Richie; forgive him.\"\n\nShe did not answer. It was all William King could do not to stroke the\nsoft hair of the bent head, and say \"Don't cry,\" as if to a child. But\nwhen she lifted her face, her eyes were quite dry; there was a flashing\nlook in them that broke into breathless, wavering laughter.\n\n\"I beg your pardon; it is just the--the shock, you know.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" the doctor said; \"I know.\" He could not help covering with his\nbig, warm palm, the shaking hands that were pulling and twisting the\ntelegram. \"There, there! My dear Mrs. Richie--where is that bromide I\ngave you for David? I want you to take some.\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't necessary; truly it isn't. I am not unhappy. I am just--\"\n\n\"You are startled; and you must have a good night's sleep. Is the\nbromide in David's room? I'll get it.\"\n\nWhen he came back with the medicine, she took it hurriedly--anything to\nget rid of him! \"Is there anything I can do?\" he said. \"Do you want to\nsend any reply? I can take it down to-night and send it the first thing\nin the morning.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" she exclaimed, \"what am I thinking of! Of course, a message--I\nmust send a message! Will you take it? Oh, I am afraid I trouble you\nvery much, but you are so kind. I'll go and write it.\"\n\nShe tried to rise, but she was still so shaken that involuntarily he\nput out his hand to help her. At the old mahogany desk between the\nwindows she hunted about for paper and pencil, and when she found them,\nwrote for a moment, rapidly; then paused, and tore the paper up.\nWilliam glanced at her side-wise; she was pressing the pencil against\nher lips, her left hand opening and closing with agitation. The doctor\nshook his head. \"That won't do,\" he said to himself. Again she wrote;\nagain hesitated; again tore the sheet of paper across. It seemed to him\nthat he waited a long time. But when she brought him the message, it\nwas very short; only: _\"F. is dead,\"_ and her initials. It was\naddressed to Mr. Lloyd Pryor.\n\n\"I am very much obliged to you,\" she said; her color was coming back,\nand she had evidently got control of herself. But she hardly noticed\nWilliam's farewell, and he had not reached the front door before she\nbegan to pace up and down the parlor.\n\n\"Well!\" said Martha, \"was it a brother, or sister? How did she take it?\nI suppose you think she found it easier because you broke it to her. I\nmust say, William, flatly and frankly, that I think a nice woman would\nrather have a woman near her when she is in trouble, than a man. I was\nvery tired, but I was perfectly willing to remain. Well! what relation\nwas this F.? A cousin?\"\n\n\"Why, I don't know,\" the doctor confessed blankly; \"she didn't say, and\nit never occurred to me to ask; and--\"\n\n\"Well, upon my word!\" said Martha King.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nHelena stood breathing quickly; it was as if she had been smothering,\nand suddenly felt free air. She was alone. The people--the terrible,\npersistently friendly, suffocating people, were gone! She could draw a\nfull breath; she could face her own blazing fact; ... _Frederick was\ndead._\n\nShe was walking back and forth, staring with unseeing eyes at the\nconfusion of the room--chairs pulled out from their accustomed places;\ntwo card-tables with a litter of cards and counters; the astral-lamp\nburning low on the rosewood table that was cluttered with old\ndaguerreotypes belonging to the house. The dining-room door was ajar,\nand as she passed it she had a glimpse of the empty disorder of the\nroom, and could hear her two women moving about, carrying off plates\nand glasses and talking to each other.\n\n\"Well, I like company,\" she heard Sarah say. \"I wish she'd have\nsomebody in every day.\"\n\nAnd Maggie's harsh murmur: \"You ain't got to cook for 'em.\" Then the\nclatter of forks and spoons in the pantry.\n\n\"Seemed to me like as if she wasn't real glad to see 'em,\" Sarah\ncommented. \"My! look at all this here good cake crumbled up on\nsomebody's plate.\"\n\n\"Well, a widow woman don't enjoy company,\" Maggie explained.\n\nA minute later Sarah came bustling in to close the parlor windows for\nthe night, and started to find the room still occupied. \"I thought you\nhad gone upstairs, ma'am,\" the girl stammered, wondering nervously if\nshe had said anything that she would not care to have overheard.\n\n\"I am going now,\" Mrs. Richie said, drawing a long breath, and opening\nand shutting her eyes in a dazed way;--\"like as if she'd been asleep\nand was woke up, sudden,\" Sarah told Maggie later.\n\nIn her own room, the door locked, she sank down in a chair, her clasped\nhands falling between her knees, her eyes staring at the floor.\n\n_Dead._\n\nHow long he had been about dying. Thirteen years ago Lloyd had said,\n\"He'll drink himself to death in six months; and then--!\" Well; at\nleast part of the programme was carried out: he drank. But he did not\ndie. No; he went on living, living, living! That first year they were\nconstantly asking each other for news of him: \"Have you heard\nanything?\" \"Yes; an awful debauch. Oh, he can't stand it. He'll be in\nhis grave before Christmas.\" But Christmas came, and Frederick was\nstill living. Then it was \"before spring\"--\"before fall\"--\"before\nChristmas\" again. And yet he went on living. And she had gone on\nliving, too. At first, joyously, except when she brooded over the\nbaby's death; then impatiently--for Frederick would not die! Then,\ngradually, gradually, with weary acceptance of the situation. Only in\nthe last two or three years had she begun to live anxiously, as she\nrealized how easily Lloyd was accepting Frederick's lease of life. Less\nand less often he inquired whether Mr. Raynor had mentioned Frederick's\nhealth in the letter that came with her quarterly statement. By and by,\nit was she, not Lloyd, who asked, \"Have you heard anything of\nFrederick?\"\n\nThe house was quite silent now, except when Sarah trudged up the back\nstairs with the clanking silver-basket on her arm. The lamp on the\ncorner of her bureau flickered, and a spark wavered up the chimney; the\noil was gone and the wick charring. She got up and blew the smouldering\nflame out; then sat down again in the darkness.... Yes; Lloyd was no\nlonger vitally interested in Frederick's health. She must make up her\nmind to that. But after all, what difference did that make? He loved\nher just the same, only men are not like women, they don't keep on\nsaying so,--for that matter, she herself did not say so as often as in\nthose first days. But of course she loved him just as much. She had\ngrown a little dull, she supposed. No; she would not distrust him. She\nwas sure he loved her. Yet behind her most emphatic assertions cowered\nthat dumb apprehension which had struck its cold talons into her heart\nthe day that David had hurt his hand: ... _Suppose Frederick's death\nshould be an embarrassment to Lloyd!_\n\nIn the darkness, with the brush of the locust branches against the\nclosed shutters of the east window, her face blazed with angry color,\nand she threw her head up with a surge of pride. \"If he doesn't want\nme, I don't want him!\" she said aloud. She pulled the lace bertha from\nher shoulders, and began to take out her hairpins, \"I sha'n't be the\none to say 'Let us be married.'\"\n\nWhen she lay down in the darkness, her eyes wide open, her arms\nstraight at her sides, it flashed into her mind that Frederick was\nlying still and straight, too. His face must be white, now; sunken,\nperhaps; the leer of his pale eyes changed into the sly smile of the\ndead. _Dead._ Oh, at last, at last!--and her mind rushed back to its\nown affairs....That horrible old Mr. Wright and his insinuations; how\nshe had worried over them and over the difficulty of getting away from\nOld Chester, only that afternoon. Ah, well, she need never think of\nsuch things again, for never again could any one have an insulting\nthought about her; and as for her fear that Lloyd would not want her to\nleave Old Chester--why, he would take her away himself! And once\noutside of Old Chester, she would have a place in the world like other\nwomen. She was conscious of a sudden and passionate elation: _Like\nother women._ The very words were triumphant! Yes; like that dreadful\nMrs. King; oh, how intolerably stupid the woman was, how she disliked\nher; but when Lloyd came and they went away together, she would be like\nMrs. King! She drew an exultant breath and smiled proudly in the\ndarkness. For the moment the cowering fear was forgotten....How soon\ncould he come? He ought to have the telegram by ten the next\nmorning--too late to catch the express for Mercer. He would take the\nnight train, and arrive at noon on Saturday. A day and a half to wait.\nAnd at that she realized with sudden astonishment that it was still\nThursday. It seemed hours and hours since she had read that telegram.\nYet it was scarcely an hour ago that she had been dancing the Virginia\nreel with those terrible people! A little later she had noticed William\nKing lingering behind the departing guests; how annoyed she had been at\nhis slowness. Then he had taken that envelope out of his pocket--she\ngasped again, remembering the shock of its contents.\n\nIn this tumult of broken and incoherent thought, the night passed. It\nwas not until dawn that her mind cleared enough for consecutive\nthinking, and when it did she was so fatigued that she fell asleep and\nslept heavily till awakened by an anxious knock at her door. Had Mrs.\nRichie one of her headaches? Should Sarah bring her some coffee?\n\n\"Why, what time is it? Has David gone to school? What! ten o'clock!\"\nShe was broad awake at that--he must have got the despatch. Allowing\nfor delays, his answer ought to reach her by noon.\n\nShe sprang up with the instinct to do something to get ready! She began\nto plan her packing, the thrill of action tingling through her. She\ndressed hurriedly, looking incessantly at the clock, and then laughing\nto herself. What difference did it make how late it was? By no\npossibility could Lloyd appear on the morning stage; unless, yes, it\n_was_ possible; Mr. Raynor might have telegraphed him. No; Mr. Raynor\nhad never recognized the situation. Lloyd could not reach her until\nnoon on Saturday; he could only telegraph. She sighed and resigned\nherself to facts, drinking the coffee Sarah brought her, and asking\nwhether David was all right. \"Poor darling, having his breakfast all\nalone,\" she said. Then she looked at the clock; Lloyd's despatch could\nhardly arrive for another hour.\n\nThe still, hot morning stretched interminably before her. A dozen times\nit was on her lips to order the trunks brought down from the garret. A\ndozen times some undefined sense of fitness held her back. When his\nanswer came, when he actually said the word--then; but not till\nthen.... What time was it? After eleven! She would go into the garden,\nwhere she could look down the road and have the first glimpse of Eddy\nMinns climbing the hill. With her thoughts in galloping confusion, she\nput on her flat hat with its twist of white lace about the crown, and\nwent out into the heat. From the bench under the big poplar she looked\nacross at the girdling hills, blue and hot in the still flood of noon;\nbelow her was the valley, now a sea of treetops islanded with Old\nChester roofs and chimneys; there was no gleam of the river through the\nmidsummer foliage. She took her watch out of the little watch-pocket at\nher waist--nearly twelve! If he had got the despatch at nine, it was\nsurely time for an answer. Still, so many things might have happened to\ndelay it. He might have been late in getting to his office; or, for\nthat matter, Eddy Minns might be slow about coming up the hill.\nEverybody was slow in Old Chester!\n\nThe empty road ran down to the foot of the hill, no trudging messenger\nclimbed its hot slope. Twelve.\n\n\"I'll not look at the road for five minutes,\" she told herself,\nresolutely, and sat staring at the watch open in her hand. Five minutes\nlater she snapped the lid shut, and looked. Blazing, unbroken sunshine.\n\"It ought to have been here by this time,\" she thought with a\ntightening of her lips. Perhaps he was away? Her heart sank at that;\nbut how absurd! Suppose he was. What did a few hours' waiting amount\nto? She had waited thirteen years.\n\nFor another hour she watched in the heat and silence of the garden;\nthen started to hear Sarah, at her elbow, saying that dinner was on the\ntable.\n\n\"Very well,\" she answered impatiently. \"I'll wait another five\nminutes,\" she said to herself. But she waited ten. When she sat down in\nthe dining-room, she ate almost nothing. Once she asked Sarah if she\nknew how long it took for a despatch to come from Philadelphia to Old\nChester. Sarah gaped at the question, and said she didn't know as she'd\never heard.\n\nIn the afternoon, with covert glances out of the window, she kept\nindoors and tried to put her mind on practical things: the arrangements\nwith her landlord for cancelling the lease; the packing and shipping of\nfurniture. At last, on a sudden impulse, she said to herself that she\nwould go and meet David as he came home from school--and call at the\ntelegraph-office.\n\nIn the post-office, where the telegraph bound Old Chester to the outer\nworld, Mrs. Minns, looking up from her knitting, saw the tense face at\nthe delivery window.\n\n\"No letters for you, Mrs. Richie,\" she said; then she remembered the\ntelegram that had by this time interested all Old Chester, and got up\nand came forward, sympathetically curious. \"Well'm; I suppose there's a\ngood deal of dyin' this time of year?\"\n\n\"Have you a despatch for me?\" Mrs. Richie said curtly.\n\n\"No'm;\" said Mrs. Minns.\n\n\"Did Dr. King send a telegram for me this morning?\" she asked in a\nsudden panic of alarm.\n\n\"Yes'm,\" the postmistress said, \"he sent it.\"\n\nMrs. Richie turned away, and began to walk about the office; up and\ndown, up and down. Once she stopped and read the names on the\npigeonholes of the letter-rack; once the telegraph instrument clicked,\nand she held her breath: \"Is that mine?\"\n\n\"It ain't,\" Mrs. Minns said laconically.\n\nHelena went to the open doorway, and gazed blankly out into Main\nStreet. She might as well go home; he wasn't going to telegraph. She\ntold herself that he was out of town, and had not received her\ndespatch. But her explanation was not convincing; if he was away, the\ndespatch would have been forwarded to him. It must be that as he was\ncoming on Saturday, he had not thought it worth while to telegraph. She\nwandered aimlessly out into the hot street--there was no use waiting\nany longer; and as for meeting David, he had gone home long ago.\n\nAs she went up the street, Dr. Lavendar stopped her. He had been told\nthat the news of the night before did not mean affliction, but Dr.\nLavendar knew that there are worse things than affliction, so he stood\nready to offer comfort if it was needed. But apparently it was not\nwanted, and after a minute's pause, he began to speak of his own\naffairs: \"I've been wondering if you would trust David to me for two or\nthree days in October.\"\n\n\"David?\" she repeated, blankly; her mind was very far away from David.\n\n\"I have to go to Philadelphia then;\" Dr. Lavendar was really eager;\n\"and if you will let me take him along--I guess Rose Knight will let\nhim off--we would have a fine time!\"\n\n\"Certainly, Dr. Lavendar,\" she said, courteously. But she thought\nquickly, that she and David would not be in Old Chester in October.\nHowever, she could not explain that to Dr. Lavendar. It was easier to\nsay yes, and be done with it. \"Good evening,\" she added impatiently,\nfor the old gentleman would have kept her indefinitely, talking about\nDavid.\n\nBut as she climbed the hill her mind went out to the child with the\nrelief of one who in darkness opens a door towards the light. She found\nhim in the parlor, curled up in a big chair by the window, looking at a\npicture-book. He climbed down immediately, and came and took her hand\nin his, a demonstration of affection so unusual that she caught him in\nher arms and might have cuddled him with the undesired \"forty kisses,\"\nif he had not gently moved his head aside. But her eyes were so blurred\nwith tears of fatigue and Fright she did not notice the rebuff.\n\nThe next twenty-four hours were tense with expectation and fear.\nHelena's mind veered almost with every breath: He had not telegraphed\nbecause he had not received her despatch; because he was away from\nhome; because he was coming on Saturday;--_because he was sorry\nFrederick was dead..._\n\nSaturday morning she and David watched the hill road from nine o'clock\nuntil stage-time. From the green bench under the poplar, the tavern\nporch on Main Street could just be seen; and at a little before twelve\nJonas's lean, shambling nags drew up before it. Mrs. Richie was very\npale. David, fretting at the dullness of the morning, asked her some\nquestion, but She did not hear him, and he pulled at her skirt. \"Does\neverything grow?\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, yes; I suppose so.\"\n\n\"How big is everything when it begins to grow?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear little boy, don't ask so many questions!\"\n\n\"When you began to grow, how big were you? Were you an inch big?\"\n\n\"If he has come,\" she said breathlessly, \"the stage will get up here in\nfifteen minutes!\"\n\nDavid sighed.\n\n\"Oh, why don't they start?\" she panted; \"what _is_ the matter!\"\n\n\"It's starting,\" David said.\n\n\"Come, David, hurry!\" she cried. \"We must be at the gate!\" She took his\nhand, and ran down the path to the gate in the hedge. As she stood\nthere, panting, she pressed her fingers hard on her lips; they must not\nquiver before the child. She kept her watch in her hand. \"It isn't time\nyet to see them; it will take Jonas ten minutes to get around to the\nfoot of the hill.\"\n\nOverhead the flicker of locust leaves cast checkering lights and\nshadows on her white dress and across the strained anxiety of her face.\nShe kept her eyes on her watch, and the ten minutes passed in silence.\nThen she went out into the road and looked down its length of noon-tide\nsunshine; the stage was not in sight. \"Perhaps,\" she thought, \"it would\ntake twenty minutes to get to the foot of the hill? I'll not look down\nthe road for ten minutes more.\" After a while she said faintly, \"Is\nit--coming?\"\n\n\"No'm,\" David assured her, \"Mrs. Richie, what does God eat?\"\n\nThere was no answer.\n\n\"Does he eat us?\"\n\n\"No, of course not.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\nHelena lifted her head, suddenly, \"It would take twenty-five\nminutes--I'm sure it would.\"\n\nShe got up and walked a little way down the road, David tagging\nthoughtfully behind her. There was no stage in sight. \"David, run down\nthe hill to the turn, and look.\"\n\nThe little boy, nothing loath, ran, at the turn he shook his head, and\ncalled back, \"No'm. Mrs. Richie, He _must_, 'cause there's nothing goes\nto heaven but us. Chickens don't,\" he explained anxiously. But she did\nnot notice his alarm.\n\n\"I'll wait another five minutes,\" she said. She waited ten; and then\nanother ten. \"David,\" she said, in a smothered voice, \"go; tell Maggie\nhe isn't coming--to dinner. You have your dinner, dear little boy.\nI--don't want any.\"\n\nShe went up-stairs to her own room, and shut and locked the door. All\nwas over....\n\nYet when, in the early afternoon, the mail arrived, she had a pang of\nhope that was absolute agony, for he had written.\n\nThere were only a dozen lines besides the \"Dearest Nelly\":\n\n\"I am just starting out West, rather unexpectedly, on business. I am\ntaking Alice along, and she is greatly delighted at the idea of a\njourney--her first. I don't know just when I'll get back; not for six\nweeks anyhow. Probably eight. Hope you and your youngster are all right.\n\n\"Yours, L. P.\n\n\"Your despatch received. We must talk things over the next time I come\nto Old Chester.\"\n\nShe passed her hand over her eyes in a bewildered way; for a moment the\nwords had absolutely no sense. Then she read them again: \"We must talk\nthings Over--\"\n\nWhat things? Why, their marriage, of course! Their marriage? She burst\nout laughing; and David, looking at her, shrank away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\n\nThe next few days were intolerable. But of course, after the first\npassion of disappointment, she began to hope; he would write fully in a\nfew days. She kept calculating how soon she might expect this fuller\nletter. She did not write to him, for as he had given no address it was\nevident that he did not wish to hear from her.\n\nThat week passed, and then another, and though he wrote, he did not\nwrite \"fully.\" In fact, he made no allusion whatever to Frederick, or\nthe future. Helena was instant with explanation: he was absorbed with\nbusiness; Alice was with him; he had no time. That these were absurd\nexcuses she knew. But they were the best she could find, and she had to\nhave excuses. It was at this time that she saw herself age. When still\nanother week passed, the tension lessened; indeed, she would have\nbroken down under the strain if she had not fallen into a sort of\napathy. She told herself that after all there was no reason why she\nshould leave Old Chester immediately. Mr. Benjamin Wright's insolence\nhad been outrageous and he was a horrible old man; but he had said that\nhe would not speak of her affairs. So as far as he was concerned she\ncould perfectly well wait until that Western trip was over; she would\njust try not to think of him. So she played with David, and talked to\nhim, and listened to his confidences about the journey to Philadelphia\nwhich Dr. Lavendar planned. It was more than two months off, but that\ndid not trouble David. He and Dr. Lavendar had long talks on the\nsubject, of which, occasionally, the little boy dropped condescending\nhints.\n\n\"Maybe I'll take you to Philadelphia,\" Helena said once, jealously;\n\"will you like that?\"\n\n\"Yes'm,\" said David, without enthusiasm.\n\nAt which she reproached him; \"I should think you would like to go with\nme, to see Liberty Bell?\"\n\nSilence.\n\n\"And maybe Mr. Pryor will take you to ride on a steamboat,\" she lured\nhim.\n\n\"I like Dr. Lavendar best,\" said David, with alarm.\n\nIt was only David with whom Helena talked in these days of waiting; Old\nChester found her still unsociable, and William King was obliged to\nadmit that his party had not accomplished much. However, he insisted\nupon being sociable himself, and continued to come frequently to see\nher on the ground that she was not very well. Before she knew it she\nyielded again to the temptation of friendliness, and was glad to see\nthe big, kind figure trudging up the garden path. He told her all the\nnews Old Chester afforded, which was not extensive, and she replied\nwith that listening silence which is so pleasant and that gave the\ndoctor the opportunity--so valued by us all--of hearing himself talk;\nan opportunity not often allowed him in his own house. The silence\ncovered bleak anxiety and often an entire absence of mind; but William,\nrambling on, could not know that. He was perfectly happy to look at\nher, although sometimes his face sobered, for hers had changed. It was\npaler; the delicate oval of her cheek had hollowed; the charming\nindolence had gone; the eyes had lost their sweet shallowness,\nsomething cowered in their depths that he could not clearly see--fear,\nperhaps, or pain. Or perhaps it was her soul. Sometimes when the body\nrelaxes its grip a little, the convict soul within struggles up to look\nwith frightened bewilderment out of the windows of its prison. Dr. King\nwatching the childlike droop of Helena's lip, admitted reluctantly that\nshe had changed. \"Depressed,\" he told himself. So he did his best to\ncheer her with Old Chester's harmless gossip; and one day--it was in\nSeptember--she did show a quick and even anxious interest.\n\n\"Sam Wright's Sam has come back,\" the doctor said, \"the young man\narrived on the noon stage. I wonder what monkey-shines he'll be up to\nnext!\"\n\n\"_Oh!_\" she said, and he saw her hands clasp in her lap; \"I wonder if\nhis grandfather knows?\"\n\nThe color was hot in her face, and William said to himself that the cub\nought to be thrashed! \"Maybe he's got some sense by this journey in\nsearch of a publisher,\" he announced comfortingly.\n\nIn her consciousness of old Mr. Wright's dismay, she hardly heard what\nthe doctor said; but she asked vaguely if Sam had found a publisher.\n\n\"Perhaps; I don't know. There are fools in every profession--except\nmedicine, of course! But I believe he has not imparted any information\non that point. His father merely told me he had come back.\" In spite of\nhimself, William's face fell into its own kind lines. \"His father is\nhard on him,\" he said; and then he began to tell her stories of the\nthree generations of Wrights; ending with the statement that, in a dumb\nsort of fashion, Samuel loved his son like the apple of his eye. \"But\nhe has always taken hold of him the wrong way,\" William said.\n\nCertainly the doctor's opinion was borne out by the way in which Sam\nsenior took hold of his son on his return. Reproaches were perhaps to\nbe expected, but, alas, the poor, sore-hearted father tried sneers as\nwell. A sneer is like a flame; it may occasionally be curative because\nit cauterizes, but it leaves a bitter scar. Of his dreadful anxiety in\nthese seven or eight weeks of absence, of his sleepless nights, of his\nself-accusings, of his anguished affection, the senior warden could\nfind nothing to say; but for anger and disappointment and contempt he\nhad fluent and searing words. Such words were only the recoil from\nanxiety; but Sam could not know that; he only knew that he was a\ndisgrace to his family. The information left him apparently unmoved. He\ndid not betray--very likely he really did not recognize in himself--the\nmoral let-down that is almost always the result of such upbraiding. He\nwas silent under his father's reproaches, and patient under his\nmother's embraces. He vouchsafed no information beyond, \"I had to come\nback,\" which was really no information at all. Mr. Wright sneered at\nit, but Mrs. Wright was moved, she said, her mild eyes swimming in\ntears, \"Of course, Sammy, dear. Mother understands. I knew you couldn't\nstay away from us.\"\n\nSam sighed, submitting to be kissed, and turned to go up-stairs; but\nsomething made him hesitate,--perhaps his mother's worn face. He came\nback, and bending down kissed her cheek. Mrs. Wright caught her breath\nwith astonishment, but the boy made no explanation. He went on up to\nhis own room and standing listlessly at the window, said again to\nhimself, \"I had to come back.\" After a while he added \"But I won't\nbother her.\" He had already forgotten the two sore hearts down-stairs.\n\nThe next morning he hurried to church; but Mrs. Richie was not there,\nand in his disappointment he was as blind to Old Chester's curious\nglances as he was deaf to Dr. Lavendar's sermon.\n\nThe long morning loitered past. After dinner the Wright family\ndispersed for its customary Sunday afternoon nap. The senior warden,\nwith _The Episcopalian_, as large as a small blanket, spread over his\nface, slept heavily in the library; Mrs. Wright dozed in her bedroom\nwith one finger marking her place in a closed volume of sermons; the\nlittle girls wandered stealthily about the garden, memorizing by their\nfather's orders their weekly hymn. The house was still, and very hot.\nAll the afternoon young Sam lay upon his bed turning the pages of _The\nWealth of Nations_, and brooding over his failures: he could not make\nMrs. Richie love him; he could not write a great drama; he could not\nadd up a column of figures; he could not understand his father's rages\nat unimportant things; \"and nobody cares a continental whether I am\ndead or alive!--except mother,\" he ended; and his face softened. At\nfive o'clock he reminded himself that he must go up to The Top for\nsupper. But it was nearly six before he had energy enough to rise. The\nfact was, he shrank from telling his grandfather that the drama was no\nlonger in existence. He had been somewhat rudely rebuffed by the only\nperson who had looked at his manuscript, and had promptly torn the play\nup and scattered the fragments out of the window of his boarding-house.\nThat was two days ago. The curious lassitude which followed this\n_acces_ of passion was probably increased by the senior warden's\nreproaches. But Sam believed himself entirely indifferent both to his\nliterary failure, and to his father's scolding. Neither was in his mind\nas he climbed the hill, and halted for a wistful moment at the green\ngate in the hedge; but he had no glimpse of Mrs. Richie.\n\nHe found his grandfather sitting on the veranda behind the big white\ncolumns, reading aloud, and gesticulating with one hand:\n\n  \"'But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown,\n  Heaven turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire\n  Or like the snaky wreath of Sisiphon--'\"\n\nHe looked up irritably at the sound of a step on the weedy driveway,\nthen his eyes snapped with delight.\n\n\"Hullo--hullo! what's this?\"\n\n\"I had to come back, grandfather,\" Sam said.\n\n\"Well! Well!\" said Benjamin Wright, his whole face wrinkling with\npleasure. \"'Had to come back?' Money gave out, I suppose? Sit down, sit\ndown! Hi, Simmons! Damn that nigger. Simmons, here's Master Sam. What\nhave you got for supper? Well, young man, did you get some sense\nknocked into you?\" He was trembling with eagerness. Marlowe, in\nworm-eaten calf, dropped from his hand to the porch floor. Sam picked\nthe book up, and sat down.\n\n\"If you wanted some more money, why the devil didn't you say so?\"\n\n\"I had money enough, sir.\"\n\n\"Well--what about the drama?\" his grandfather demanded.\n\n\"He said it was no good.\"\n\n\"Who said it was no good?\" Mr. Wright pulled off his hat, fiercely, and\nbegan to chew orange-skin. Sam, vaguely turning over the leaves of the\nbook upon his knee, mentioned the name of a publisher. \"Fool!\" said\nBenjamin Wright; \"what does he know? Well; I hope you didn't waste time\nover him. Then who did you send it to?\"\n\n\"Nobody.\"\n\n\"Nobody! What did you do with it?\"\n\n\"Oh, tore it up,\" Sam said patiently.\n\nHis grandfather fell back in his chair, speechless, A moment later, he\ntold Sam he was not only a fool, but a d--\n\n\"Supper's ready, suh,\" said Simmons. \"Glad you're back, Master Sam. He\nain't lookin' peart, suh?\" Simmons added confidentially to Mr. Wright.\n\n\"Well, you get some of that Maderia--'12,\" commanded the old man,\npulling himself up from his chair. \"Sam, you are a born idiot, aren't\nyou? Come and have some supper. Didn't I tell you you might have to try\na dozen publishers before you found one who had any sense? Your\nexperience just shows they're a fool lot. And you tore up your\nmanuscript! Gad-a-mercy!\" He grinned and swore alternately, and banged\nhis hat on to his head so that his ears flattened out beneath the brim\nlike two red flaps.\n\nThey sat down at either end of the dining-room table, Simmons standing\nat one side, his yellow eyes gleaming with interested affection and his\nfly-brush of long peacock feathers waving steadily, even when he moved\nabout with the decanter.\n\n\"I had to come back,\" Sam repeated, and drank his glass of '12 Maderia\nwith as much appreciation as if it had been water.\n\n\"I've got a new family,\" Mr. Wright declared, \"Simmons, unhook that\nsecond cage, and show him the nest. Look at that. Three of 'em.\nHideous, ain't they? Simmons, you didn't chop that egg fine enough. Do\nyou want to kill 'em all? A nigger has no more feeling for birds than a\ncat.\"\n\n\"I done chop it, as--\"\n\n\"Hold your tongue!\" said Mr. Wright, amiably \"Here; take that.\" He\nfumbled in his vest pocket, and the peacock feathers dipped dangerously\nas Simmons caught the expected cigar. \"Come, come, young man, haven't\nyou had enough to eat? Give him another glass of wine, Simmons, you\nfreckled nigger! Come out on the porch, and tell me your wanderings,\nUlysses.\"\n\nThe boy was faintly impressed by his grandfather's attentions; he felt\nthat he was welcome, which gave him a vague sort of pleasure. On the\nporch, in the hot dusk, Benjamin Wright talked; once or twice, apropos\nof nothing, he quoted some noble stanza, apparently for the joy of the\nrolling numbers. The fact was, he was full of happiness at his\ngrandson's return, but he had had so little experience in happiness\nthat he did not know how to express it. He asked a good many questions,\nand received apathetic answers.\n\n\"Have you got any notes of the drama?\"\n\n\"No, sir.\"\n\n\"Doggone your picter!--\n\n  \"'Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song,\n  And let the young lambs bound\n  As to the tabor's sound!\"\n\nSo you made up your mind to come home?\"\n\n\"I had to come back,\" Sam said.\n\nThere was a pause. Benjamin Wright was reminding himself that in\nhandling a boy, one must be careful not to Say the wrong thing; one\nmust express one's self with reserve and delicacy; one must weigh one's\nwords--boys were such jackasses.\n\n\"Well;\" he said, \"got over your fool falling in love with a female old\nenough to be your mother?\"\n\nSam looked at him.\n\n\"I hope your trip has put sense into you on that subject, anyhow?\"\n\n\"I love Mrs. Richie as much as I ever did, if that's what you mean,\nsir,\" Sam said listlessly.\n\nUpon which his grandfather flew into instant rage. \"As much in love as\never! Gad-a-mercy! Well; I give you up, sir, I give you up. I spend my\nmoney to get you out of this place, away from this female, old enough\nto be your grandmother, and you come back and say you are as much in\nlove with her as ever. I swear, I don't believe you have a drop of my\nblood in you!\" He flung his cigar away, and plunged his hand down into\nthe ginger-jar on the bench beside him; \"A little boy like you, just in\nbreeches! Why, your mother ought to put you over her knee, and--\" he\nstopped. \"You have no sense, Sam,\" he added with startling mildness.\n\nBut Sam's face was as red as his grandfather's. \"She is only ten years\nolder than I. That is nothing. Nothing at all. If she will overlook my\ncomparative youth and marry me, I--\"\n\n\"Damnation!\" his grandfather screamed.. \"_She_ overlook? _She_?\"\n\n\"I am younger,\" the boy said; \"but love isn't a matter of age. It's a\nmatter of the soul.\"\n\n\"A matter of the soul!\" said Benjamin Wright; \"a matter of--of a\nsugar-tit for a toothless baby! Which is just about what you are. That\nfemale, I tell you could have dandled you on her knee ten years ago.\"\n\nSam got up; he was trembling all over.\n\n\"You needn't insult me,\" he said.\n\nInstantly his grandfather was calm. He stopped chewing orange-skin, and\nlooked hard at his ridgy finger-nails.\n\n\"I shall ask her again,\" Sam said. \"I said I wouldn't, but I will. I\nmust. That was why I came back. And as for my age, that's her business\nand mine.\"\n\n\"You've drunk too much,\" said his grandfather, \"Sit down. I've\nsomething to say to you. You can't marry that woman. Do you understand\nme?\"\n\n\"You mean she doesn't care for me?\" Sam laughed noisily. \"I'll make\nher. Old--young--what does it matter? She must!\" He flung up his arms,\nand then sank down and hid his face in his hands.\n\n\"Sammy,\" said the old man, and stopped. \"Sam, it can't be. Don't you\nunderstand me? She isn't fit to marry.\"\n\nThe young man gaped at him, blankly.\n\n\"She's--bad,\" Benjamin Wright said, in a low voice.\n\n\"How dare you!\" cried the other, his frowning bewilderment changing\nslowly to fury; \"how dare you? If she had a relative here to protect\nher, you would never dare! If her brother was here, he would shoot you;\nbut she has me, and I--\"\n\n\"Her _brother_!\" said Benjamin Wright; \"Sam, my boy, he isn't her\nbrother.\"\n\n\"Isn't he?\" Sam flung back at him, \"well, what of that? I'm glad of it;\nI hate him.\" He stood up, his hands clenched, his head flung back.\n\"What difference does it make to me what he is? Her cousin, her\nfriend--what do I care? If she marries me, what do I care for\nrelations?\"\n\nHis grandfather looked up at him aghast; the young, insulted innocence\nof love blazed in the boy's face. \"Gad-a-mercy,\" said Mr. Wright, in a\nwhisper, \"_he doesn't understand!_\" He pulled himself on to his shaking\nlegs, and laid his hand on the young man's shoulder. \"Sam,\" he said\nvery gently, \"he is her lover, my boy.\" Sam's lips fell apart; he\ngasped heavily; his hands slowly opened and shut, and he swayed from\nside to side; his wild eyes were fixed on that old face, all softened\nand moved and pitying. Then, with a discordant shriek of laughter, he\nflung out his open hand and struck his grandfather full in the face.\n\n\"You old fool! You lie! You lie! Do you hear me?\"\n\nBenjamin Wright, staggering slightly from the blow, tried to speak, but\nthe boy, still laughing shrilly, leaped down the porch steps, and out\ninto the darkness.\n\n\"I'll ask her!\" he screamed back; \"you liar!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\n\nHelena had gone up-stairs to put David to bed. There was some delay in\nthe process, because the little boy wished to look at the stars, and\ntrace out the Dipper. That accomplished however, he was very docile,\nand willing to get into bed by shinning up the mast of a\npirate-ship--which some people might have called a bedpost. After he\nhad fallen asleep, Helena still sat beside him in the darkness, her\nabsent eyes fixed on the little warm body, where, the sheets kicked\noff, he sprawled in a sort of spread-eagle over the bed. It was very\nhot, and she would have been more comfortable on the porch, but she\ncould not leave the child. When she was with David, the sense of aching\napprehension dulled into the comfort of loving. After a while, with a\nlong sigh she rose, but stopped to draw the sheet over his shoulders;\nthen smiled to see how quickly he kicked it off. She pulled it up again\nas far as his knees, and to this he resigned himself with a despairing\ngrunt.\n\nThere was a lamp burning dimly in the hall; as she passed she took it\nup and went slowly down-stairs. Away from David, her thoughts fell at\nonce into the groove of the past weeks. Each hour she had tormented\nherself by some new question, and now she was wondering what she should\ndo if, when Lloyd came to fulfill his promise, she should see a shade,\noh, even the faintest hint, of hesitation in his manner. Well; she\nwould meet it! She threw her head up, and came down with a quicker\nstep, carrying the lamp high, like a torch. But as she lifted her eyes,\nin that gust of pride, young Sam Wright stood panting in the doorway.\nAs his strangled voice fell on her ear, she knew that he knew.\n\n\"I have--come--\"\n\nWithout a word she put the lamp down on the table at the foot of the\nstairs, and looked at him standing there with the darkness of the night\nbehind him. Instantly he was across the threshold and at her side. He\ngripped her wrist and shook it, his eyes burning into hers.\n\n\"You will tell me that he lied! I told him he lied. I didn't believe\nhim for a second. I told him I would ask you.\"\n\n\"Please let go of my arm,\" she said, faintly. \"I don't know what you\nare--talking about.\"\n\n\"Did he lie?\"\n\n\"Who?\" she stammered.\n\n\"My grandfather. He said your brother was not your brother. He said he\nwas your lover. My God! Your lover! Did he lie?\" He shook her arm,\nworrying it as a dog might, his nails cutting into her flesh; he\nsnarled his question out between shut teeth. His fury swept words from\nher lips.\n\nShe stepped back with a spring of terror, trying to pull her wrist from\nhis grasp; but he followed her, his dreadful young face close to hers.\nShe put her other hand behind her, and clutched at the banister-rail of\nthe stairs. She stared at him in a trance of fright. There was a long\nminute of silence.\n\nThen Sam said slowly, as though he were reading it word by word, aloud,\nfrom the open page of her face, \"He--did--not--lie.\" He dropped her\nwrist; flung it from him, even, and stood motionless. Again neither of\nthem spoke. Then Sam drew a long breath. \"So, _this_ is life,\" he said,\nin a curiously meditative way. \"Well; I have had enough of it.\" He\nturned as he spoke, and went quietly out into the night.\n\nHelena Richie sat down on the lowest step of the stairs. She breathed\nin gasps. Suddenly she looked at her arm on which were four deep red\nmarks; in two places the skin was broken. Upon the fierce pangs of her\nmind, flayed and stabbed by the boy's words, this physical pain of\nwhich she had just become conscious, was like some soothing lotion. She\nstroked her wrist tenderly, jealous of the lessening smart. She knew\nvaguely that she was really wincing lest the smart should cease and the\nother agony begin. She looked with blind eyes at the lamp, then got up\nand turned the wick down; it had been smoking slightly and a half-moon\nof black had settled on the chimney. \"Sarah doesn't half look after the\nlamps,\" she said aloud, fretfully--and drew in her lips; the nail-marks\nstung. But the red was dying out of them. Yes; the other pain was\ncoming back. She paled with fright of that pain which was coming;\ncoming; had come. She covered her face with her hands....\n\n\"Who,\" demanded a sleepy voice, \"was scolding?\"\n\nHelena looked around quickly; David, in his little cotton\nnight-drawers, was standing at the head of the stairs.\n\n\"Who scolded? I heard 'em,\" he said, beginning to come down, one little\nbare foot at a time; his eyes blinked drowsily at the lamp. Helena\ncaught him in her arms, and sank down again on the step. But he\nstruggled up out of her lap, and stood before her. \"It's too hot,\" he\nsaid, \"I heard 'em. And I came down. Was anybody scolding you?\"\n\n\"Yes, David,\" she said in a smothered voice.\n\n\"Were you bad?\" David asked with interest.\n\nHelena dropped her forehead on to his little warm shoulder. She could\nfeel his heart beating, and his breath on her neck.\n\n\"Your head's pretty heavy,\" said David patiently; \"and hot.\"\n\nAt that she lifted herself up, and tried to smile; \"Come, dear\nprecious, come up-stairs. Never mind if people scold me. I--deserve it.\"\n\n\"Do you?\" said David. \"Why?\"\n\nHe was wide awake by this time, and pleaded against bed. \"Tell me why,\non the porch; I don't mind sitting on your lap out there,\" he bribed\nher; \"though you are pretty hot to sit on,\" he added, truthfully.\n\nShe could not resist him; to have him on her knee, his tousled head on\nher breast, was an inexpressible comfort.\n\n\"When I go travelling with Dr. Lavendar,\" David announced drowsily, \"I\nam going to put my trousers into the tops of my boots, like George\ndoes. Does God drink out of that Dipper?\"\n\nHer doubtful murmur seemed to satisfy him; he shut his eyes, nuzzling\nhis head into her breast, and as she leaned her cheek on his\nhair--which he permitted because he was too sleepy to protest--the ache\nof sobs lessened in her throat. After a while, when he was sound asleep\nagain, she carried him up-stairs and laid him in his bed, sitting\nbeside him for a while lest he should awake. Then she went down to the\nporch and faced the situation....\n\nSometimes she got up and walked about; sometimes sat down, her elbows\non her knees, her forehead in her hands, one foot tapping, tapping,\ntapping. Her first idea was flight: she must not wait for Lloyd; she\nmust take David and go at once. By to-morrow, everybody would know. She\nwould write Lloyd that she would await him in Philadelphia. \"I will go\nto a hotel\" she told herself. Of course, it was possible that Sam would\nkeep his knowledge to himself, as his grandfather had done, but it was\nnot probable. And even if he did, his knowledge made the place\nabsolutely unendurable to her; she could not bear it for a day--for an\nhour! Yes; she must get off by tomorrow night; and--\n\nSuddenly, into the midst of this horrible personal alarm, came, like an\necho, Sam's last words. The memory of them was so clear that it was\nalmost as if he uttered them aloud at her side: \"Well; I have had\nenough of it.\" Enough of what? Of loving her? Ah, yes; he was cured now\nof all that. But was that what he meant? \"So this is life.... I have\nhad enough of it.\"\n\nHelena Richie leaped to her feet. It seemed to her as if all her blood\nwas flowing slowly back to her heart. There was no pain now in those\nnail-marks; there was no pain in her crushed humiliation. _\"I have had\nenough of it.\"..._\n\nGood God! She caught her skirts up in her hand and flew down the steps\nand out into the garden. At the gate, under the lacey roof of locust\nleaves, she stood motionless, straining her ears. All was still. How\nlong ago was it that he had rushed away? More than an hour. Oh, no, no;\nhe could not have meant--! But all the same, she must find him: \"_I\nhave had enough of it_.\" Under her breath she called his name. Silence.\nShe told herself distractedly that she was a fool, but a moment later\nshe fled down the hill. She must find Dr. King; he would know what to\ndo.\n\nShe was panting when she reached his gate, and after she had rung and\nwas beating upon the door with the palm of her hand, she had to cling\nto the knob for support.\n\n\"Oh come; oh, hurry! Hurry!\" she said, listening to Mrs. King's\ndeliberate step on the oilcloth of the hall.\n\n\"Where is Dr. King?\" she gasped, as the door opened; \"I want Dr. King!\"\n\nMartha, in her astonishment at this white-faced creature with skirts\ndraggled by the dew and dust of the grass-fringed road, started back,\nthe flame of the lamp she carried flickering and jumping in the\ndraught. \"What is the matter? Is David--\"\n\n\"Oh, where is Dr. King? Please--please! I want Dr. King--\"\n\nWilliam by this time was in the hall, and when he saw her face he, too,\nsaid:\n\n\"David?\"\n\n\"No. It's--May I speak to you a moment? In the office? I am alarmed\nabout--something.\"\n\nShe brushed past Mrs. King, who was still gaping at the suddenness of\nthis apparition from the night, and followed the doctor into the little\nroom on the left of the passage. Martha, deeply affronted, saw the door\nshut in her face.\n\nAs for Mrs. Richie, she stood panting in the darkness of the office:\n\n\"I am very much frightened. Sam Wright has just left me, and--\"\n\nWilliam King, scratching a match under the table and fumbling with the\nlamp chimney, laughed. \"Is that all? I thought somebody had hung\nhimself.\"\n\n\"Oh, Dr. King,\" she cried, \"I'm afraid, I'm afraid!\"\n\nHe put out his friendly hand and led her to a chair. \"Now, Mrs.\nRichie,\" he said in his comforting voice, \"sit down here, and get your\nbreath. There's nothing the matter with that scalawag, I assure you.\nHas he been making himself a nuisance? I'll kick him!\"\n\nAt these commonplace words, the tension broke in a rush of hysterical\ntears, which, while it relieved her, maddened her because for a moment\nshe was unable to speak. But she managed to say, brokenly, that the boy\nhad said something which frightened her, for fear that he might--\n\n\"Kill himself?\" said the doctor, cheerfully, \"No indeed! The people who\nthreaten to kill themselves, never do. Come, now, forget all about\nhim.\" And William, smiling, drew one of her hands down from her eyes.\n\"Gracious! what a wrist! Did David scratch you?\"\n\nShe pulled her hand away, and hid it in the folds of her skirt. \"Oh, I\ndo hope you are right; but Dr. King, he said something--and I was so\nfrightened. Oh, if I could just know he had got home, all safe!\"\n\n\"Well, it's easy to know that,\" said William. \"Come, let us walk down\nto Mr. Wright's; I bet a hat we'll find the young gentleman eating a\nlate supper with an excellent appetite. Love doesn't kill, Mrs.,\nRichie--at Sam's age.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\nWilliam took his lantern out of a closet, and made a somewhat elaborate\nmatter of lighting it, wiping off the oozing oil from the tank, and\nthen shutting the frame with a cheerful snap. It would give her time to\nget hold of herself, he thought.\n\n\"I must apologize to Mrs. King,\" Helena said. \"I was so frightened,\nthat I'm afraid I was abrupt.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" said Martha's husband, easily, and opened the\nouter door of the office. \"Come.\"\n\nShe followed him down the garden path to the street: there in the\ndarkness, broken by the gay zigzag of the lantern across the flagstones\nof the sidewalk, William found it easier to speak out:\n\n\"I hope you don't mind my referring to Sam's being in love, Mrs.\nRichie? Of course, we have all known that he had lost his heart. Boys\nwill, you know. And, honestly, I think if ever a boy had excuse\nfor--that sort of thing, Sam had. But it has distressed me to have you\nbothered. And to-night is the climax. For him to talk like a--a\njack-donkey, because you very properly snubbed him--you mustn't mind my\nspeaking plainly; I have understood the whole thing from the\nbeginning--makes me mad. You're really worn out. Confound that boy! You\nare too good, Mrs. Richie, that's the trouble. You let yourself be\nimposed upon.\"\n\nHer broken \"no--no\" seemed to him a lovely humility, and he laughed and\nshook his head.\n\n\"Yes, yes! When I see how gentle women are with us clods of men, I\nreally, I--you know--\" William had never since his courting days got\ninto such a bog of sentiment, and he stammered his way out of it by\nsaying that Sam was a perfect nuisance.\n\nWhen they reached the gateway of the senior warden's place, Mrs. Richie\nsaid that she would wait. \"I'll stand here in the road; and if you will\nmake some excuse, and find out--\"\n\n\"Very well,\" he said. \"I'll come back as quickly as I can, and tell you\nhe's all right. There isn't a particle of reason for anxiety, but it's\na better sedative for you than bromide. That's the why I'm doing it,\"\nsaid William candidly. He gave her the lantern, and said he did not\nlike to leave her. \"You won't be frightened? You can see the house from\nhere, and can call if you want me. I'll have to stay about ten minutes,\nor they wouldn't understand my coming in.\"\n\nShe nodded, impatient at his delay, and he slipped into the shadow of\nthe maples and disappeared. For a minute she could hear the crunch of\nhis footsteps on the gravel of the driveway. She sat down on the grass\nby the roadside, and leaned her head against the big white gate-post.\nThe lantern burned steadily beside her, casting on the ground a shower\nof yellow spots that blurred into a widening circle of light. Except\nfor the crickets all was still. The cooler air of night brought out the\nheavy scents of damp earth and leaves, and over in the deep grass a\nlate May-apple spilled from its ivory cup the heavy odor of death. A\nbob-white fluted in the darkness on the other side of the road.\n\nHer acute apprehension had ceased. William King was so certain, that,\nhad the reality been less dreadful she would have been ashamed of the\nfuss she had made. She wanted only this final assurance that the boy\nwas at home, safe and sound; then she would think of her own affairs.\nShe watched the moths fly about the lantern, and when one poor downy\npair of wings touched the hot, domed top and fell fluttering into the\nroad, she bent forward and looked at it, wondering what she could do\nfor it. To kill it would be the kindest thing,--to put it out of its\npain. But some obscure connection of ideas made her shudder back from\ndeath, even a moth's death; she lifted the little creature gently, and\nlaid it in the dewy grass.\n\nDown the Wrights' carriage road she heard a footstep on the gravel; a\nstep that grew louder and louder, the confident, comforting step of the\nkind friend on whom she relied as she had never relied on any human\nbeing.\n\n\"What did I tell you?\" William called to her, as he loomed out of the\ndarkness into the circle of light from the lantern.\n\n\"He is all right?\" she said trembling; \"you saw him?\"\n\n\"I didn't see him, but--\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she said blankly.\n\n\"I saw those who had, ten minutes before; won't that do?\" he teased\nher. \"I found the Wright family just going to bed--where you ought to\nbe this minute. I said I had just stopped in to say how-do-you-do.\nSamuel at once reproved me, because I hadn't been to evening church.\"\n\n\"And he--Sam? Was he--\"\n\n\"He was in the house, up-stairs, his mother said. I asked about him\nsort of casually, and she said he had just come in and gone up to his\nroom. His father made some uncomplimentary remarks about him. Samuel\noughtn't to be so hard on him,\" William said thoughtfully; \"he said he\nhad told Sam that he supposed he might look forward to supporting him\nfor the rest of his life--'as if he were a criminal or an idiot.'\nImagine a father saying a thing like that!\" William lifted his lantern\nand turned the wick up. \"Now, I'm only hard on him when he is a goose;\nbut his father--_What was that?_\"\n\nWilliam King stood bolt upright, motionless, his lips parted. Mrs.\nRichie caught at his arm, and the lantern swinging sharply, scattered a\nflying shower of light; they were both rigid, straining their ears, not\nbreathing. There was no sound except the vague movement of the leaves\noverhead, and faintly, from across the meadow--\"_Bob-white! bob-white!_\"\n\n\"I thought--I heard--\" the doctor said in a whisper. Helena, clutching\nat his arm, reeled heavily against him.\n\n\"Yes. It was. That was what it was.\"\n\n\"No! Impossible!\" he stammered. And they stood listening breathlessly;\nthen, just as the strain began to relax, down through the darkness from\nthe house behind the trees came a cry:\n\n\"Dr. King--\"\n\nAn instant later the sound of flying steps on the gravel, and a girl's\nshrill voice: \"Dr. King!\"\n\n\"Here, Lydia!\" William said, running towards the little figure; \"what's\nthe matter!\"\n\nHelena, in the shadow of the gate-post, only caught a word:\n\n\"Sam--\"\n\nAnd the doctor and the child were swallowed up in the night.\n\nWhen William King came out of that house of confusion and death, he\nfound her huddled against the gate-post, haggard, drenched with dew,\nwaiting for him. He started, with a distressed word, and lifted her in\nhis arms. \"Oh, you ought not to be here; I thought you had gone home\nlong ago!\"\n\n\"_Dead?_\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"He--shot--\n\n\"Yes. Poor boy; poor, foolish, crazy boy! But it wasn't your fault. Oh,\nmy poor child!\"\n\nShe shivered away from him, then without a word turned towards Old\nChester. The doctor walked at her side. It was nearly three, and very\ndark. No one saw them as they went through the sleeping streets; at\nWilliam's house she stopped, with a silent gesture of dismissal.\n\n\"I am going to take you home,\" he said gently. And a few minutes later\nhe began to tell her about it. \"He was dead when I got there. They\nthink it was an accident; and it is best they should. I am afraid I'll\nhave to explain to my wife, because she saw your apprehension. But\nnobody else need know. Except--I must tell Dr. Lavendar, of course; but\nnot until after the funeral. There is no use complicating things. But\nother people can just think it was an accident. It was, in one way. He\nwas insane. Everybody is, who does--that. Poor Samuel! Poor Mrs.\nWright! I could not leave them; but I thought you had gone home, or I\nwould have come. Mrs. Richie, promise me one thing: promise me not to\nfeel it was your fault.\"\n\nShe dropped her face in her hands. \"Not my fault! ... I killed him.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\n\n\"He was cleaning his father's pistol, and it went off--\" the poor,\ndazed mother said, over and over. The father said nothing. He sat, his\nelbow on his knee, his forehead resting in the palm of his hand.\nSometimes his heavy eyes glanced up, but he did not lift his head. He\nhad hardly spoken since the accident. Then, he had said to William King:\n\n\"I suppose he undertook to clean my revolver. He always did things at\nqueer times. I suppose it went off. It had a tricky hammer. It went\noff. By accident--not... He hadn't any reason to... He said, only\nyesterday, when he got back, that he couldn't stay away from home any\nlonger. He said he _had_ to come home. So, you see, there isn't any\nreason to think... He was cleaning it. And it went off. The hammer was\ntricky.\"\n\nThe slow, bewildered words were spoken with his eyes fixed blindly on\nthe floor. At the sight of his dreadful composure, his wife's loud\nweeping died into a frightened whimper. He did not repeat the\nexplanation. Dr. Lavendar heard it from Mrs. Wright, as she knelt\nbeside the poor, stony father, patting his hand and mothering him.\n\n\"It was an accident, Dr. Lavendar. Sammy took a notion to clean his\nfather's pistol. And it went off. And oh, he had just come back to us\nagain. And he was so glad to get home. He went to church yesterday\nmorning. I didn't have to urge him. He wanted to go. I feel sure he had\nbegun to think of his Saviour. Yes; and he wanted to go back to the\nbank, and write up his ledgers; he was so happy to be among us again.\nOh, Dr. Lavendar, he said to me, 'I just had to come home, mother, to\nyou and father,' And I kissed him, and I said, 'Yes, my darling; home\nis the best place,' And he kissed me, Dr. Lavendar. Sammy was not one\nto do that--a big boy, you know. Oh, I am so glad he _wanted_ to come\nhome. And now the Lord has taken him. Oh, Samuel, try, try to say:\n'Blessed be the name of the Lord!'\"\n\nThe senior warden stared in silence at her plump hand, shaking and\ntrembling on his knee. Dr. Lavendar did not urge any word of\nresignation. He sat beside the stricken pair, hearing the mother's\npitiful babble, looking at the father's bent gray head, saying what he\ncould of Sam--his truthfulness, his good nature, his kindness. \"I\nremember once he spent a whole afternoon making a splint for Danny's\nleg. And it was a good splint,\" said Dr. Lavendar. Alas! how little he\ncould find to say of the young creature who was a stranger to them all!\n\nDr. Lavendar stayed with them until noon. He had been summoned just as\nhe was sitting down to breakfast, and he had gone instantly, leaving\nMary wringing her hands at the double distress of a dreadful calamity\nand Dr. Lavendar's going without his breakfast. When he saw William\nKing he asked no questions, except:\n\n\"Who will tell his grandfather?\"\n\nBut of course there was only one person to tell Mr. Benjamin Wright,\nand Dr. Lavendar knew it. \"But you must come with me, William; Benjamin\nis very frail.\"\n\n\"Yes;\" said William King; \"only you've got to have something to eat\nfirst.\"\n\nAnd that gave Dr. Lavendar the chance to ask Mrs. Wright for some\nbreakfast, which made her stop crying, poor soul, for a little while.\n\nAs Goliath pulled them slowly up the hill, William told part of his\npart of the story. He had dropped in to the Wrights' the night before\nto say how-do-you-do. \"It was nearly ten. I only stayed a few minutes;\nthen I went off. I had got as far as the gate, and I was--was fixing my\nlantern, and I thought I heard a shot. And I said--'_What's that?_' And\nI stood there, sort of holding my breath, you know; I couldn't believe\nit was a shot. And then they called. When I got to the house, it was\nall over. It was instantaneous. Samuel told me that Sam had been\nfooling with his revolver, and--\"\n\n\"Yes;\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"that's what Eliza told me.\"\n\nBoth men were silent. Then Dr. Lavendar said \"Will it kill Benjamin?\"\n\n\"I don't know. I don't know;\" the doctor said, sighing. \"Oh, Dr.\nLavendar, why does the Lord hit the innocent over the guilty's\nshoulder? The boy is out of it; but his father and mother and\ngrandfather, and--and others, they have got to bear it.\"\n\n\"Why, Willy, my boy,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"that's where the comfort of\nit is. It means we're all one--don't you see? If we suffer in the boy's\nsuffering or wrong-doing, it is because we and he are one in Christ\nJesus.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said William respectfully. But he did not understand.\n\nWhen they reached The Top, it seemed to take them a long time to hitch\nGoliath. It was Dr. Lavendar who got himself together first and said\ncalmly, \"Come, William.\"\n\nThe front door was open, and the two bearers of heavy news entered\nunannounced. Benjamin Wright was in the dining-room, where the shutters\nwere bowed to keep out the heat. He had taken off his hat, and was\npottering about among his canaries, scolding Simmons and swearing at\nthe weather. Dr. Lavendar and William, coming from the white glare of\nsunshine, could hardly distinguish him as he shuffled back and forth\namong the shadows, except when he crossed the strip of dazzling green\nlight between the bowed shutters, Dr. Lavendar stopped on the\nthreshold; William stood a little behind him.\n\nMr. Wright was declaiming sonorously:\n\n  \"--Did you ever see the Devil,\n  With his wooden leg and shovel,\n  A-scratching up the gravel--\"\n\nHe paused to stick a cuttlefish between the bars of a cage, and\ncatching sight of the first figure, instantly began to snarl a reproach:\n\n\"I might have been in my grave for all you know, Edward Lavendar;\nexcept you'd have had to 'give hearty thanks for the good example' of\nthe deceased. What a humbug the burial service is--hey? Same thing for\nan innocent like me, or for a senior warden. Come in. Simmons!\nWhiskey\"--\n\nHe stopped short; William had moved in the shadows. \"Why, that's Willy\nKing,\" he said; and dropped the cuttlefish. \"Something's wrong. Two\nblack coats at this hour of the day mean something. Well! Out with it!\nWhat's happened?\"\n\n\"Benjamin,\" said Dr. Lavendar, coming into the room, \"Sam's Sam--\"\n\n\"Keep Willy King out!\" commanded the very old man in a high, peevish\nvoice. \"I'm not going to die of it. He's--killed himself? Well; it's my\nfault. I angered him,\" He took up his hat, clutching the brim with\nshaking hands and pulling it fiercely down over his eyes. \"Keep Willy\noff! I'm not--I'm not--\"\n\nSimmons caught him as he lurched back into a chair, and Dr. Lavendar\nbent over him, his old face moving with tears.\n\n\"It was an accident, Benjamin, either of the body or the soul--it\ndoesn't matter which.\"\n\nWilliam King, standing behind the chair that held the forlorn and\nquivering heap, ventured gently: \"Samuel says that Sam was cleaning his\npistol, and--\"\n\nBut Dr. Lavendar held up his hand and William was silent.\n\n\"Hold your tongue;\" said Benjamin Wright. \"Lavendar knows I don't like\nlies. Yes; my fault. I've done it again. Second time. Second time.\nSimmons! Get these--gentlemen some--whiskey.\"\n\nSimmons, his yellow jaws mumbling with terror, looked at Dr. Lavendar,\nwho nodded. But even as the old man got himself together, the brain\nflagged; William saw the twist come across the mouth, and the eyes\nblink and fix.\n\nIt was not a very severe shock, and after the first moments of alarm,\nthe doctor said quietly; \"He is not dying.\"\n\nBut he was, of course, perfectly helpless and silenced; his miserable\neyes seemed to watch them, fixedly, as they carried him to his bed, and\ndid what little could be done; but he could make no demand, and offer\nno explanation.\n\nIt was not until late in the afternoon that William King had time to go\nto the Stuffed Animal House. He had had a gravely absorbing day; not\nonly because of the Wrights' pitiful demands upon his time, but because\nof the necessary explanations and evasions to Old Chester. To his wife\nevasions were impossible, he gave her an exact statement of the facts\nas he knew them. Martha, listening, and wiping her eyes, was shocked\ninto fairness and sympathy.\n\n\"But, William, she was not to blame!\"\n\n\"That's what I told her.\"\n\n\"Poor thing!\" said Martha; \"why, I feel as if I ought to go right up\nand comfort her.\"\n\n\"No, no; it isn't necessary,\" William said. \"I'll go, on my way to The\nTop.\"\n\nMrs. King drew back, coldly, and sympathy wavered into common sense.\n\"Well, perhaps it's just as well you should. I'm afraid I couldn't make\nher feel that she had no responsibility at all,--as you seem to think.\nThat's one thing about me, I may not be perfect, but I am sincere; I\nthink she ought to have stopped Sam's love-making months ago!--Unless\nperhaps she returned it?\" Martha ended, in a tone that made William\nredden with silent anger. But he forgot his anger and everything else\nwhen he came into the long parlor at the Stuffed Animal House, late\nthat afternoon.\n\n\"I've thought of you all day,\" he said, taking Helena's hand and\nlooking pitifully into her face. It was strangely changed. Something\nwas stamped into it that had never been there before.... Weeks ago, a\nhurricane of anger had uprooted content and vanity and left confusion\nbehind it. But there was no confusion now; it had cleared into terror.\n\nWilliam found her walking restlessly up and down; she gave him a look,\nand then stood quite still, shrinking a little to one side, as if she\nexpected a blow. Something in that frightened, sidewise attitude made\nhim hesitate to tell her of Benjamin Wright; she hardly knew the old\ngentleman, but it would startle her, the doctor reasoned. And yet, when\nvery carefully, almost casually, he said that Mr. Wright had had a\nslight shock--\"his life is not in danger just now,\" said William, \"but\nhe can't speak;\"--she lifted her head and looked at him, drawing a full\nbreath, as if eased of some burdening thought.\n\n\"Will he ever speak?\" she said.\n\n\"I don't know; I think so. But probably it is the beginning of the end;\npoor old man!\"\n\n\"Poor old man,\" she repeated mechanically; \"poor old man!\"\n\n\"I haven't told Dr. Lavendar about--last night,\" William said; \"but if\nyou have no objection I would like to just hint at--at a reason. He\nwould know how entirely blameless you were.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! please, please, don't!\" she said. And William King winced at\nhis own clumsiness; her reticence made him feel as if he had been\nguilty of an impropriety, almost of an indelicacy.\n\nAfter a pause he said gently, that he hoped she would sit with Mrs.\nKing and himself at the funeral on Wednesday.\n\nHelena caught her hands together convulsively; \"_I_ go? Oh, no, no! I\nam not going.\"\n\nThe doctor was greatly distressed. \"I know it is hard for you, but I'm\nafraid Samuel and his wife will be so hurt if you don't come. They know\nthe boy was fond of you--you were always so good to him. I don't like\nto urge you, because I know it pains you but--\"\n\n\"Oh, I can't--I can't!\"\n\nShe turned so white that William had not the heart to say anything\nmore. But that same kind heart ached so for the father and mother, that\nhe was grateful to her when he saw her on Wednesday, among the people\ngathering at the church. \"Just like her unselfishness!\" he said to\nhimself.\n\nAll Old Chester, saddened and awed, came to show its sympathy for the\nstricken parents, and its pity, if nothing more, for the dead boy. But\nHelena, ghastly pale, had no room in her mind for either pity or\nsympathy. She heard Mr. Dilworth's subdued voice directing her to a\npew, and a few minutes afterwards found herself sitting between Dr. and\nMrs. King. Martha greeted her with an appropriate sigh; but Mrs.,\nRichie did not notice her. There was no sound in the waiting church\nexcept once in a while a long-drawn breath, or the faint rustle of\nturning leaves as some one looked for the burial service. The windows\nwith their little border of stained glass, were tilted half-way open\nthis hot morning, and sometimes the silence was stirred by the brush of\nsparrows in the ivy under the sills. On the worn carpet in the chancel\nthe sunshine lay in patches of red and blue and purple, that flickered\nnoiselessly when the wind moved the maple leaves outside; it was all so\nquiet that Helena could hear her own half-sobbing breaths. After a\nwhile, the first low note of the organ crept into the stillness, and as\nit deepened into a throbbing chord, there was the grave rustle of a\nrising congregation. Then from the church door came the sudden shock of\nwords:\n\n\"_I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord._\"\n\nHelena, clutching at the back of the next pew, stood up with the rest.\nSuddenly she swayed, as though the earth was moving under her feet....\nThe step of the bearers came heavily up the aisle. Her eyes fled from\nwhat they carried--(\"oh, was he so tall?\")--and then shuddered back\nagain to stare.\n\nMartha King touched her arm; \"We sit down now.\"\n\nHelena sat down. Far outside her consciousness words were being said:\n\"Now is Christ risen--\" but she did not hear them; she did not see the\npeople about her. She only saw, before the chancel, that long black\nshape. After a while the doctor's wife touched her again; \"Here we\nstand up.\" Mechanically, she rose; her lips were moving in a terrified\nwhisper, and Martha King, glancing at her sidewise, looked respectfully\naway. \"Praying,\" the good woman thought; and softened a little.\n\nBut Helena was far from prayer. As she stared at that black thing\nbefore the chancel, her selfishness uncovered itself before her eyes\nand showed its nakedness.\n\nThe solid ground of experience was heaving and staggering under her\nfeet, and in the midst of the elemental tumult, she had her first dim\nglimpse of responsibility. It was a blasting glimpse, that sent her\ncowering back to assertions of her right to her own happiness. Thirteen\nyears ago Lloyd had made those assertions, and she had accepted them\nand built them into a shelter against the assailing consciousness that\nshe was an outlaw, pillaging respect and honor from her community.\nUntil now nothing had ever shaken that shelter. Nor had its dark walls\nbeen pierced by the disturbing light of any heavenly vision declaring\nthat when personal happiness conflicts with any great human ideal, the\nright to claim such happiness is as nothing compared to the privilege\nof resigning it. She had not liked the secrecy which her shelter\ninvolved, no refined temperament likes secrecy. But the breaking of the\nlaw, in itself, had given her no particular concern; behind her\nexcusing platitudes she had always been comfortable enough. Even that\nwhirlwind of anger at Benjamin Wright's contempt had only roused her to\nbuttress her shelter with declarations that she was not harming\nanybody. But sitting there between William King and his wife, in the\nmidst of decorously mournful Old Chester, she knew she could never say\nthat any more; not only because a foolish and ill-balanced youth had\nbeen unable to survive a shattered ideal, but because she began\nsuddenly and with consternation to understand that the whole vast\nfabric of society rested on that same ideal. And she had been secretly\nundermining it! Her breath caught, strangling, in her throat. In the\ncrack of the pistol and the crash of ruined family life she heard for\nthe first time the dreadful sound of the argument of her life to other\nlives; and at that sound the very foundation of those excuses of her\nright to happiness, rocked and crumbled and left her selfishness naked\nbefore her eyes.\n\nIt was so unbearable, that instantly she sought another shelter:\nobedience to the letter of the Law--Marriage. To marry her fellow\noutlaw seemed to promise both shelter and stability--for in her\nconfusion she mistook marriage for morality. At once! Never mind if he\nwere tired of her; never mind if she must humble what she called her\npride, and plead with him to keep his word; never mind anything--except\nthis dreadful revelation: that no one of us may do that which, if done\nby all, would destroy society. Yes; because she had not understood\nthat, a boy had taken his own life.... Marriage! That was all she\nthought of; then, suddenly, she cowered--the feet of the bearers again.\n\n\"I will be married,\" she said with dry lips, \"oh, I will-I _will_!\" And\nMartha King, looking at her furtively, thought she prayed.\n\nIt was not a prayer, it was only a promise. For with the organic\nupheaval into her soul of the primal fact of social responsibility, had\ncome the knowledge of guilt.\n\n_But the Lord was not in the earthquake._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\n\nBenjamin Wright lay in his great bed, that had four mahogany posts like\nfour dark obelisks. ... He had not spoken distinctly since the night of\nhis seizure, though in about a fortnight he began to babble something\nwhich nobody could understand. Simmons said he wanted his birds, and\nbrought two cages and hung them in the window, where the roving,\nunhappy eyes could rest upon them. He mumbled fiercely when he saw\nthem, and Simmons cried out delightedly: \"There now, he's better--he's\nswearin' at me!\" The first intelligible words he spoke were those that\nhad last passed his lips: \"M-m-my f-f--,\" and from his melancholy eyes\na meagre tear slid into a wrinkle and was lost.\n\nDr. Lavendar, sitting beside him, put his old hand over the other old\nhand, that lay with puffed fingers motionless on the coverlet. \"Yes,\nBenjamin, it was your fault, and mine, and Samuel's. We were all\nresponsible because we did not do our best for the boy. But remember,\nhis Heavenly Father will do His best.\"\n\n\"M-m-my f--\" the stammering tongue began again, but the misery lessened\nin the drawn face. Any denial of the fact he tried to state would have\nmaddened him. But Dr. Lavendar never denied facts; apart from the\nquestion of right and wrong, he used to say it was not worth while. He\naccepted old Mr. Wright's responsibility as, meekly, he had accepted\nhis own, but he saw in it an open door.\n\nAnd that was why he went that evening to the Wright house. It was a\nmelancholy house. When their father was at home, the little girls\nwhispered to each other and slipped away to their rooms, and when they\nwere alone with their mother, they quivered at the sight of her tears\nthat seemed to flow and flow and flow. Her talk was all of Sam's\ngoodness and affection and cleverness. \"He read such learned books!\nWhy, that very last afternoon, when we were all taking naps, he was\nreading a big leather-covered book from your father's library, all\nabout the Nations. And he could make beautiful poetry,\" she would tell\nthem, reading over and over with tear-blinded eyes some scraps of verse\nshe had found among the boy's possessions. But most of all she talked\nof Sam's gladness in getting home, and how strange it was he had taken\nthat notion to clean that dreadful pistol. No wonder Lydia and her\nsisters kept to themselves, and wandered, little scared, flitting\ncreatures, through the silent house, or out into the garden, yellowing\nnow and gorgeous in the September heats and chills.\n\nDr. Lavendar came in at tea-time, as he had lately made a point of\ndoing, and sat down beside Mrs. Wright in Sam's chair.\n\n\"Samuel,\" said he, when supper was over and the little girls had\nslipped away; \"you must comfort your father. Nobody else can.\"\n\nThe senior warden drew in his breath with a start.\n\n\"He blames himself, Samuel.\"\n\n\"Blames himself! What reason has _he_ got to blame himself? It was my\nfault.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear,\" said the poor mother, \"you couldn't tell that he was\ngoing to clean your pistol.\"\n\nSamuel Wright looked heavily over at Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Well,\" said the old minister, \"he gave Sam the money to go away. I\nsuppose that's on his mind, for one thing. He may think something went\nwrong, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" broke in the mother, beginning to cry, \"he Was so glad to get\nhome; he said to me the night he got back, 'Mother, I just had to come\nhome to you and father; I couldn't stay away any longer.' I'm sure he\ncouldn't have said anything more loving, could he? And he kissed me.\nYou know he wasn't one to kiss much. Yes; he couldn't bear to be away\nfrom us. He said so.\"\n\n\"Go and see him, Samuel,\" urged Dr. Lavendar. \"You, too, have lost a\nson, so you know now how he has felt for thirty-two years. His was a\nloss for which he knows he was to blame. It is a cruel knowledge, Sam?\"\n\n\"It is,\" said the senior warden. \"It is.\"\n\n\"Then go and comfort him.\"\n\nSamuel went. A great experience had wiped the slate so clean of all the\nyears of multiplications and additions of resentment and mortification,\nthat the thought of facing his father did not stir his dull\nindifference to the whole dreary matter. When Simmons saw him coming up\nthe garden path, he said under his breath, \"Bless the Lawd!\" Then,\nmindful of hospitality, offered whiskey.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Samuel Wright; and the old habit of being\ndispleased made his voice as pompous as if he cared--one way or the\nother. \"Can you make him understand that I'm here, Simmons? Of course,\nI won't go up-stairs unless he wants to see me.\"\n\n\"He'll want to see you, suh, he'll want to see you,\" said Simmons. \"He's\nright smart to-day. He kin use his left hand. He dun shuck that fist at\nme this mawnin'. Oh, laws, yes, he'll want to see you.\"\n\n\"Go and ask him.\"\n\nSimmons went, and came back triumphantly. \"I tole him. He didn't say\nnothin'. So it's all right.\"\n\nThe visitor went ponderously up-stairs. On the first landing he caught\nhis breath, and stood still.\n\nDirectly opposite him, across the window of the upper hall was a\nhorsehair-covered sofa, with great, shiny, slippery mahogany ends.\nSamuel Wright put his hand up to his throat as if he were\nsmothering.... He used to lie on that sofa on hot afternoons and study\nhis declensions. It had no springs; he felt the hardness of it in his\nbones, now, and the scratch of the horsehair on his cheek. Instantly\nwords, forgotten for a generation, leaped up:\n\nStella Stellae Stellae Stellam--\n\nMechanically his eyes turned to the side wall; an old secretary stood\nthere, its glass doors curtained within by faded red rep. He had kept\nhis fishing-tackle in its old cupboard; the book of flies was in a\ngreen box on the second shelf, at the left. Samuel looked at those\ncurtained doors, and at the shabby case of drawers below them where the\nveneer had peeled and blistered under the hot sun of long afternoons,\nand the sudden surge of youth into his dry, middle-aged mind, was\nsuffocating. Something not himself impelled him on up the half-flight\nfrom the landing, each step creaking under his heavy tread; drew him\nacross the hall, laid his hand on the door of the secretary.... Yes;\nthere they were: the green pasteboard box, the flannel book to hold the\nflies. He put out his hand stealthily and lifted the book;--rust and\nmoth-eaten rags.\n\nThe shock of that crumbling touch and the smell of dust made him\ngasp--and instantly he was back again in middle age. He shut the\nsecretary quietly, and looked around him. On the right side of the hall\nwas a closed door. _His_ door. The door out of which he had rushed that\nwindy March night thirty-two years ago. How hot with passion he had\nbeen then! How cold he was now. On the other side of the hall a door\nwas ajar; behind it was his father. He looked at it with sombre\nindifferent eyes; then pushed it open and entered. He saw a little\nfigure, sunk in the heap of pillows on the big bed; a little shrunken\nfigure, without a wig, frightened-eyed, and mumbling. Samuel Wright\ncame forward with the confidence of apathy. As he stood at the foot of\nthe bed, dully looking down, the thick tongue broke into a whimpering\nstammer:\n\n\"M-m-my f--\"\n\nAnd at that, something seemed to melt in the poor locked heart of the\nson.\n\n_\"Father!\"_ said Samuel Wright passionately. He stooped and took the\nhelpless fingers, and held them hard in his own trembling hand. For a\nmoment he could not speak. Then he said some vague thing about getting\nstronger. He did not know what he said; he was sorry, as one is sorry\nfor a suffering child. The figure in the bed looked at him with scared\neyes. One of the pillows slipped a little, and Samuel pulled it up,\nclumsily to be sure, but with the decided touch of pity and purpose,\nthe touch of the superior. That fixing the pillow behind the shaking\nhelpless head, swept away the last traces of the quarrel. He sat down\nby the gloomy catafalque of a bed, and when Benjamin Wright began to\nsay again, \"M-m-my f--\" he stopped him with a gesture.\n\n\"No, father; not at all. He would have gone away anyhow, whether you\nhad given him the money or not. No; it was my fault,\" the poor man\nsaid, dropping back into his own misery. \"I was hard on him. Even that\nlast night, I spoke harshly to him. Sometimes I think that possibly I\ndidn't entirely understand him.\"\n\nHe dropped his head in his hand, and stared blankly at the floor. He\ndid not see the dim flash of humor in the old eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\n\nThe day that Sam Wright was buried Helena had written to Lloyd Pryor.\nShe must see him at once, she said. He must let her know when he would\ncome to Old Chester--or she would come to him, if he preferred. \"It is\nmost important,\" she ended, \"_most_ important.\" She did not say why;\nshe could not write of this dreadful thing that had happened. Still\nless could she put down on paper that sense of guilt, so alarming in\nits newness and so bewildering in its complexity. She was afraid of it,\nshe was even ashamed of it; she and Lloyd had never talked\nabout--things like that. So she made no explanation. She only summoned\nhim with a peremptoriness which had been absent from their relations\nfor many years. His answer, expected and despaired of, came three weeks\nlater.\n\nIt was early in October one rainy Friday afternoon. Helena and David\nwere in the dining-room. She had helped him with his lessons,--for it\nwas Dr. Lavendar's rule that Monday's lessons were to be learned on\nFriday; and now they had come in here because the old mahogany table\nwas so large that David could have a fine clutter of gilt-edged saucers\nfrom his paint-box spread all around. He had a dauby tumbler of water\nbeside him, and two or three _Godey's Lady's Books_ awaiting his eager\nbrush. He was very busy putting gamboge on the curls of a lady whose\npetticoats, by a discreet mixture of gamboge and Prussian blue, were a\nmost beautiful green.\n\n\"Don't you think crimson-lake is pretty red for her lips?\" Helena\nasked, resting her cheek on his thatch of yellow hair.\n\n\"No, ma'am,\" David said briefly; and rubbed on another brushful. Helena\nput an eager arm about him and touched his ear with her lips; David\nsighed, and moved his head. \"No; I wasn't going to,\" she reassured him\nhumbly; it was a long time since she had dared to offer the \"forty\nkisses.\" It was then that Sarah laid the mail down on the table; a\nnewspaper and--Lloyd Pryor's letter.\n\nHelena's start and gasp of astonishment were a physical pang. For a\nlong time afterwards she could not bear the smell of David's\nwater-colors; gamboge, Chinese white and Prussian blue made her feel\nalmost faint. She took up the letter and turned it over and over, her\npallor changing into a violent rush of color; then she fled up-stairs\nto her own room, tearing the letter open as she ran.\n\nHer eyes blurred as she began to read it, and she had to stop to wipe\naway some film of agitation. But as she read, the lines cleared sharply\nbefore her. The beginning, after the \"Dear Nelly,\" was commonplace\nenough. He was sorry not to have answered her letter sooner; he had\nbeen frightfully busy; Alice had not been well, and letter-writing, as\nshe knew, was not his strong point. Besides, he had really expected to\nbe in Old Chester before this, so that they could have talked things\nover. It was surprising how long Frederick had hung on, poor devil. In\nregard to the future, of course--here the page turned. Helena gasped,\nfolding it back with trembling fingers: \"Of course, conditions have\nchanged very much since we first considered the matter. My daughter's\nage presents an embarrassment which did not exist a dozen years ago.\nNow, if we carried out our first arrangement, some kind friend would\nput two and two together, and drop a hint, and Alice would ask\nquestions. Nevertheless\"--again she turned a page--nevertheless, Lloyd\nPryor was prepared to carry out his promise if she wished to hold him\nto it. She might think it over, he said, and drop him a line, and he\nwas, as ever, hers, L. P.\n\nHelena folded the letter, laying the edges straight with slow\nexactness.... He would carry out his promise if she held him to it. She\nmight drop him a line on the subject.... While her dazed mind repeated\nhis words, she was alertly planning her packing: \"Can Sarah fold my\nskirts properly?\" she thought; but even as she asked herself the\nquestion, she was saying aloud, \"Marry him? Never!\" She slapped the\nletter across her knee. Ah, he knew that. He knew that her pride would\ncome to his rescue! The tears stung in her eyes, but they did not\nfall.... Sarah must begin the next morning; but it would take a week to\nclose everything up.... Well; if he had ceased to want her, she did not\nwant him! What a letter she would write him; what indifference, what\nassurances that she did not wish to hold him to that \"first\narrangement\"; what anger, what reproach! Yes; she would \"drop him that\nline\"! Then it came over her that perhaps it would be more cutting not\nto write to him at all. She raised her rag of pride but almost\ninstantly it fell shuddering to the dust--_Sam Wright_....\n\nShe sat up in her chair, trembling. Yes; she and David would start on\nMonday; she would meet Lloyd in Philadelphia on Tuesday, and be married\nthat morning. Her trunks could follow her; she would not wait for the\npacking. George must do up the furniture in burlap; a railroad journey\nacross the mountains would injure it very much, unless it was carefully\npacked.\n\nShe rose hurriedly, and taking her travelling-bag out of the wardrobe,\nbegan to put various small necessities into it. Suddenly she stopped\nshort in her work, then went over to the mantel-piece, and leaning her\narms upon it looked into the mirror that hung lengthwise above it. The\nface that gazed back at her from its powdery depths was thinner; it was\npaler: it was--not so young. She looked at it steadily, with frightened\neyes; there were lines on the forehead; the skin was not so firm and\nfresh. She spared herself no details of the change, and as she\nacknowledged them, one by one, the slow, painful red spread to her\ntemples. Oh, it was horrible, it was disgusting, this aging of the\nflesh! The face in the mirror looked back at her helplessly; it was no\nweapon with which to fight Lloyd Pryor's weariness! Yet she must fight\nit, somehow. It was intolerable to think that he did not want her; it\nwas more intolerable to think that she could not match his mood by\ndeclaring that she did not want him. \"But that's only because of Sam\nWright,\" she assured herself, staring miserably at the white face in\nthe glass; \"if it wasn't for that--! But I must get more sleep; I\nmustn't let myself look so worn out.\"\n\nIn such cross-currents of feeling, one does not think consecutively.\nDesires and motives jumbled together until Helena said to herself\ndesperately, that she would not try to answer Lloyd's letter for a day\nor two. After all, as he had so clearly indicated, there was no hurry;\nshe would think it over a little longer.\n\nBut as she thought, the next day and the next, the wound to her\naffection and her vanity grew more unbearable, and her feeling of\nresponsibility waned. The sense of guilt had been awakened in her by\nher recognition of a broken Law; but as the sense of sin was as far\nfrom her consciousness as ever, she was able to argue that if no one\nknew she was guilty, no further harm could be done. So why kill what\nlingering love there might be in Lloyd's heart by insisting that he\nkeep his promise? With that worn face of hers, how could she insist!\nAnd suppose she did not? Suppose she gave up that hungry desire to be\nlike other people, arranged to leave Old Chester--on that point she had\nno uncertainty--but did not make any demand upon him? It was perfectly\npossible that he would be shamed into keeping his promise. She said to\nherself that, at any rate, she would wait a week until she had calmed\ndown and could write with moderation and good humor.\n\nLittle by little the purpose of diplomacy strengthened, and with it a\ndetermination to keep his love--what there was of it--at the price of\nthat \"first arrangement.\" For, after all, the harm was done; Sam Wright\nwas dead. She was his murderer, she reminded herself, sullenly, but\nnothing like that could ever happen again, so why should she not take\nwhat poor happiness she could get?\n\nOf course this acceptance of the situation veered every day in gusts of\nmisery and terror; but, on the whole, the desire for peace prevailed.\nYet the week she had allowed herself in which to think it over,\nlengthened to ten days before she began to write her letter. She sat\ndown at her desk late in the afternoon, but by tea-time she had done\nnothing more than tear up half a dozen beginnings. After supper David\nrattled the backgammon-board significantly.\n\n\"You are pretty slow, aren't you?\" he asked, as she loitered about her\ndesk, instead of settling down to the usual business of the evening.\n\n\"Don't you think, just to-night, you would rather read a story?\" she\npleaded.\n\n\"No, ma'am,\" said David, cheerfully.\n\nSo, sighing, she opened the board on her knees. David beat her to a\ndegree that made him very condescending, and also extremely displeased\nby the interruption of a call from William King.\n\n\"Nobody is sick,\" David said politely; \"you needn't have come.\"\n\n\"Somebody is sick further up the hill,\" William excused himself,\nsmiling.\n\n\"Is Mr. Wright worse?\" Helena said quickly. She lifted the\nbackgammon-board on to the table, and whispered a word of manners to\nDavid, who silently stubbed his copper-toed shoe into the carpet.\n\n\"No,\" the doctor said, \"he's better, if anything. He managed to ask\nSimmons for a poached egg, which made the old fellow cry with joy; and\nhe swore at me quite distinctly because I did not get in to see him\nthis morning. I really couldn't manage it, so I went up after tea, and\nhe was as mad as--as David,\" said William, slyly. And David, much\nconfused, kicked vigorously.\n\n\"Do you think he will ever be able to talk?\" she said.\n\nWilliam would not commit himself. \"Perhaps; and perhaps not. I didn't\nget anything clear out of him to-night, except--a bad word.\"\n\n\"Damn?\" David asked with interest.\n\nWilliam chuckled and then remembered to look proper. But David feeling\nthat he was being laughed at, hid his face on Helena's shoulder, which\nmade her lift him on to her knee. There, in the drowsy warmth of the\nlittle autumn fire, and the quiet flow of grown people's meaningless\ntalk, he began to get sleepy; gradually his head slipped from her\nshoulder to her breast, and when she gathered his dangling legs into\nher lap, he fell sound asleep.\n\n\"It isn't his bedtime yet,\" she excused herself. She rested her cheek\non the child's head and looked over at the doctor. She wore a dark\ncrimson silk, the bosom filled with sheer white muslin that was caught\ntogether under her soft chin by a little pearl pin; her lace\nundersleeves were pushed back so that William could see the lovely\nlines of her white wrists. Her parted hair fell in soft, untidy waves\ndown over her ears; she was staring absently across David's head into\nthe fire.\n\n\"I wish,\" William said, \"that you would go and call on old Mr. Wright\nsome time. Take David with you. It would cheer him up.\" It seemed to\nWilliam King, thinking of the forlorn old man in his big four-poster,\nthat such a vision of maternity and peace would be pleasant to look\nupon. \"He wouldn't use David's bad word to you, I am sure.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't he?\" she said.\n\nFor once the doctor's mind was nimble, and he said in quick\nexpostulation: \"Come, come; you mustn't be morbid. You are thinking\nabout poor Sam and blaming yourself. Why, Mrs. Richie, you are no more\nresponsible for his folly than I am.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"That day at the funeral, I thought how they used\nto bring the murderer into the presence of the man he had killed.\"\n\nWilliam King was really displeased. \"Now, look here, you must stop this\nsort of thing! It's not only foolish, but it's dangerous. We can none\nof us play with our consciences without danger; they cut both ways.\"\n\nMrs. Richie was silent. The doctor got up and planted himself on the\nhearth-rug, his back to the fire, and his hands under his coat tails.\n\n\"Let's have it out: How could you help it because that poor boy fell in\nlove? You couldn't help being yourself--could you? And Sam couldn't\nhelp being sentimental. Your gentleness and goodness were like\nsomething he had never seen before. But you had to stop the\nsentimentality, of course; that was just your duty. And I know how\nwisely you did it--and kindly. But the boy was always a self-absorbed\ndreamer; the mental balance was too delicate; it dipped the wrong way;\nhis mind went. To feel it was your fault is absolute nonsense. Now\nthere! I've never been so out of patience with you before,\" he ended\nsmiling; \"but you deserve it.\"\n\n\"I don't deserve it,\" she said; \"I wish I did.\"\n\n\"When I spoke about goodness,\" the doctor amended, \"I didn't mean to\nreflect on his father and mother. Mrs. Wright is one of the best women\nin the world. I only meant--\" William sat down and looked into the\nfire. \"Well; just plain goodness isn't necessarily--attractive. A\nman--at least a boy like Sam, admires goodness, of course; but he does\nsort of hanker after prettiness;\" William's eyes dwelt on her bent\nhead, on the sheer muslin under David's cheek, on the soft incapable\nhands that always made him think of white apple-blossoms, clasped\naround the child's yielding body;--\"Yes; something pretty, and\npleasant, and sweet; that's what a man--I mean a boy, Sam was only a\nboy; really wants. And his mother, good as she is, is not,--well; I\ndon't know how to express it.\"\n\nHelena looked over at him with a faint smile. \"I thought goodness was\nthe finest thing in the world; I'm sure I used to be told so,\" she\nended dully.\n\n\"Of course, _you_ would feel that,\" the doctor protested; \"and it is,\nof course it is! Only, I can understand how a boy might feel. Down at\nthe Wrights' there was just nothing but plain goodness, oh, very plain,\nMrs. Richie. It was all bread-and-butter. Necessary; I'm the last\nperson to say that bread-and-butter isn't necessary. But you do want\ncake, once in a while; I mean when you are young. Sam couldn't help\nliking cake,\" he ended smiling.\n\n\"Cakes and ale,\" Helena said.\n\nBut the connection was not clear to William. \"At home, there was just\nplain, ugly goodness; then he met you. And he saw goodness, and other\nthings!\"\n\nHelena's fingers opened and closed nervously. \"I wish you wouldn't call\nme good,\" she said; \"I'm not. Truly I'm not.\"\n\nWilliam laughed, looking at her with delighted eyes. \"Oh, no; you are a\nterrible sinner!\"\n\nAt which she said with sudden, half-sobbing violence, \"Oh, _don't;_ I\ncan't bear it. I am not good.\"\n\nThe doctor sobered. This really was too near the abnormal to be safe;\nhe must bring her out of it. He must make her realize, not only that\nshe was not to blame about Sam Wright, but that the only shadow on her\ngoodness was this same morbid feeling that she was not good. He got up\nagain and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at her with\ngood-natured determination.\n\n\"Now look here!\" he said, \"conscience is a good thing; but conscience,\nunrestrained by common sense, does a fine work for the devil. That\nisn't original, Dr. Lavendar said it; but it's true. I wish Dr.\nLavendar knew of this morbid idea of yours about responsibility--he'd\nshake it out of you! Won't you let me tell him?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! no! Please don't!\"\n\n\"Well, I won't; but he would tell you that it was wrong not to see\nstraight in this matter; it's unfair to your--to Providence,\" William\nsaid. He did not use religious phrases easily, and he stumbled over\n\"unfair to your Heavenly Father,\" which was what Dr. Lavendar had said\nin some such connection as this: \"Recognize your privileges and be\ngrateful for the help they have been in making you as good as you are.\nTo deny what goodness you have is not humility, it's only being unfair\nto your Heavenly Father.\" But William could not say a thing like that;\nso he blundered on about Providence, while Helena sat, trembling, her\ncheek on David's hair.\n\n\"You are as good as any mortal of us can be,\" William declared, \"and\nbetter than ninety-nine mortals in a hundred. So there! Why Mrs.\nRichie\"--he hesitated, and the color mounted slowly to his face; \"your\nloveliness of character is an inspiration to a plain man like me.\"\n\nIt was intolerable. With a breathless word, she rose, swaying a little\nunder the burden of the sleeping child; then, moving swiftly across the\nroom, she laid him on a sofa. David murmured something as she put him\ndown, but she did not stop to hear it. She came back and stood in front\nof William King, gripping her hands together in a passion of denial.\n\n\"Stop. I can't bear it. I can't sit there with David in my arms and\nhear you say I am good. It isn't true! I can't bear it--\" She stopped\nshort, and turned away from him, trembling very much.\n\nThe doctor, alarmed at this outbreak of hysteria, and frowning with\nconcern, put out his kind protesting hands to take hers. But she\ncringed away from him.\n\n\"Don't,\" she said hoarsely; and then in a whisper: \"He is not--my\nbrother.\"\n\nWilliam, his hand still outstretched, stared at her, his mouth falling\nslowly open.\n\n\"I told you,\" she said, \"that I wasn't--good.\"\n\n_\"My God!\"_ said William King. He stepped back sharply, then suddenly\nsat down, leaning his head on his clenched hand.\n\nHelena, turning slightly, saw him. \"I always told you I wasn't,\" she\ncried out angrily; \"why would you insist on saying I was?\"\n\nHe did not seem to notice her, though perhaps he shrank a little. That\nmovement, even if she only imagined it, was like the touch of flame.\nShe felt an intolerable dismay. It was more than anger, far more than\nterror; it seemed to envelop her whole body with a wave of scarlet. It\nwas a new, unbearable, burning anguish. It was shame.\n\nShe had an impulse to tear it from her, as if it were some tangible\nhorror, some blazing film, that was covering her flesh. With a cry, she\nbroke out:\n\n\"You don't understand! I am not wicked. Do you hear me? I am not\nwicked. You must listen!\"\n\nHe made no answer.\n\n\"I am not wicked--the way you think. My husband killed my baby. I told\nyou that, long ago. And I could not live with him. I couldn't I Don't\nyou see? Oh, listen, please! Please listen! And Lloyd loved me, and he\nsaid I would be happy. And I went away. And we thought Frederick would\ndivorce me, so we could be married. But he didn't. Oh, he didn't _on\npurpose_! And we have been waiting for him to die. And he didn't\ndie--he wouldn't die!\" she said with a wail. \"But now he is dead, and--\"\n\nAnd what? Alas, what? She waited a second, and then went on, with\npassionate conviction, \"And now I am to be married. Yes, you see, I am\nnot as wicked as you think. I am to be married; you won't think me\nwicked then, will you? Not when I am married? I couldn't have you say\nthose things while I sat and held David. But now I am to be married.\"\nIn her excitement she came and stood beside him, but he would not look\nat her. Silence tingled between them. Over on the sofa, David stirred\nand opened his eyes.\n\n\"The child!\" William King said; \"be careful.\" He went and lifted David\nto his feet. \"Go up-stairs, my boy.\" He did not look at Mrs. Richie,\nwho bent down and kissed David, mechanically.\n\n\"I dreamed,\" the little boy mumbled, \"'at my rabbits had earrings;\nan'--\"\n\n\"Go, dear,\" she said; and David, drowsily obedient, murmured\ngood-night. A minute later they heard him climbing up-stairs.\n\nHelena turned dumb eyes towards the silent figure on the hearth-rug,\nbut he would not look at her. Under his breath he said one incredulous\nand tragic word:\n\n\"_You?_\"\n\nThen he looked at her.\n\nAnd at his look she hid her face in her bent arm. That new sensation,\nthat cleansing fire of shame, swept over her again with its intolerable\nscorch.\n\n\"No! No! I am going to be married; I--\"\n\nThe front door closed behind him. Helena, alone, crouched, sobbing, on\nthe floor.\n\n_But the Lord was not in the fire._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\n\n\"Is old Mr. Wright worse?\" Martha called downstairs, when the doctor\nlet himself in at midnight.\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Well, where on earth have you been?\" Mrs. King demanded. She was\nleaning over the banisters in her gray flannel dressing-gown, her\ncandle in its hooded candlestick, throwing a flickering light on her\nsquare, anxious face.\n\nWilliam, locking the front door, made no answer. Martha hesitated, and\nthen came down-stairs.\n\n\"I must say, William, flatly and frankly, that you--\" she paused. \"You\nlook tired out, Willy?\"\n\nWilliam, fumbling with the guard-chain, was silent.\n\n\"Come into the dining-room and I'll get you something to eat,\" said his\nwife.\n\n\"I don't want anything to eat.\"\n\nMartha glanced at him keenly. His face was white and haggard, and\nthough he looked at her, he did not seem to see her; when she said\nagain something about food, he made no answer. \"Why, William!\" she said\nin a frightened voice. Then with quick common sense, she put her alarm\nbehind her. \"Come up-stairs, and go to bed. A good night's sleep will\nmake a new man of you.\" And in a sort of cheerful silence, she pushed\nhim along in front of her. She asked no more questions, but just as he\ngot into bed she brought him a steaming tumbler of whiskey and water.\n\"I guess you have taken a little cold, my dear,\" she said.\n\nWilliam looked at her dumbly; then realizing that there was no escape,\ndrank his whiskey, while Martha, her candle in one capable hand, waited\nto make sure that he drained the last drop. When he gave the glass back\nto her, she touched his shoulder gently and bade him go to sleep. As\nshe turned away, he caught that capable hand and held it in both of his\nfor a moment.\n\n\"Martha,\" he said, \"I beg your pardon.\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" said Martha, \"of course, a doctor often has to be out late.\nIf you only don't come down with a cold on your lungs, it's all right.\"\n\n\"I sha'n't come down with a cold on my lungs,\" said William King.\n\nThe letter Helena wrote Lloyd Pryor after she had picked herself up,\nsobbing, from the floor, had no diplomacy about it. Things had\nhappened; she would not go into them now, she said, but things had\nhappened which made her feel that she must accept his offer to carry\nout their original plan. \"When I got your letter, last week, I did\nhesitate,\" she wrote, \"because I could not help seeing that you did not\nfeel about it as you used to. But I can't hesitate any longer. I must\nask you--\"\n\nLloyd Pryor read as far as that, and set his teeth. \"Lloyd, my friend,\"\nhe said aloud, \"it appears you have got to pay the piper.\"\n\nSwearing quietly to himself he tore the letter into many small pieces,\nand threw them into the fire. \"Well,\" he said grimly, \"I have never\nrepudiated yet, but I propose to claim my ninety days,--if I can't\nsqueeze out of it before that!\" He sat a long time in his inner office,\nthinking the thing over: if it had to be, if the piper was inexorable,\nif he could not squeeze out, how should he safeguard Alice? Of course,\na girl of nineteen is bound to resent her father's second marriage; her\nannoyance and little tempers Lloyd Pryor could put up with, if only she\nneed never know the truth. But how should the truth be covered? They\ncould all three go to Europe for a year. If there was going to be any\ngossip--and really the chance of gossip was rather remote; very few\npeople had known anything about Frederick Richie or his affairs, and\nHelena had absolutely no relatives,--but if they went to Europe for a\nyear, any nine days' wonder would have subsided before they got back.\nAs for the offensiveness of presenting Helena to his daughter as a\nstepmother, Pryor winced, but admitted with a cold impartiality, that\nshe was not intrinsically objectionable. It was only the idea which was\nunpleasant. In fact, if things were not as they were, she would make an\nadmirable stepmother--\"and she is good-looking still,\" he thought, with\nan effort to console himself, But, of course, if he could squeeze out\nof it--And so his answer to Helena's letter was a telegram to say he\nwas coming to Old Chester.\n\nWilliam King, driving down the hill in the October dusk, had a glimpse\nof him as the stage pulled up at the gate of the Stuffed Animal House,\nand the doctor's face grew dully red. He had not seen Helena since that\nblack, illuminating night; he had not seen Dr. Lavendar; he had\nscarcely seen his own wife. He devoted himself to his patients, who, it\nappeared, lived back among the hills. At any rate, he was away from\nhome from morning until night. William had many things to face in those\nlong drives out into the country, but the mean self-consciousness that\nhe had been fooled was not among them. A larger matter than\nmortification held him in its solemn grip. On his way home, in the\nchill October twilights, he usually stopped at Mr. Benjamin Wright's.\nBut he never drew rein at the green gate in the hedge; as he was\npassing it the night that Pryor arrived, he had to turn aside to let\nthe stage draw up. A man clambered out, and in the dull flash of the\nstage lanterns, William saw his face.\n\n\"Lloyd?\" some one said, in a low voice; it was Mrs. Richie, waiting for\nhim inside the gate. William King's face quivered in the darkness.\n\n\"That you, Nelly?\" Mr. Pryor said;--\"no, no; I'll carry my own bag,\nthank you. Did a hamper come down on the morning stage? Good! We'll\nhave something to eat. I hope you haven't got a sick cook this time.\nWell, how are you?\"\n\nHe kissed her, and put his arm around her; then withdrew it, reminding\nhimself not to be a fool. Yet she was alluring! If only she would be\nsensible, there was no reason why things should not be as pleasant as\never. If she obliged him to pay the piper, Lloyd Pryor was coldly aware\nthat things would never be pleasant again.\n\n\"So many dreadful things have happened!\" she burst out; but checked\nherself and asked about his journey; \"and--and Alice?\"\n\n\"Oh, pleasant enough, rather chilly. She's well, thank you.\" And then\nthey were at the door, and in the bustle of coming in, and taking off\nhis coat, and saying \"Hullo, David! Where's your sling?\" disagreeable\ntopics were postponed. But in the short twilight before the parlor\nfire, and at the supper-table, the easy commonplaces of conversation\ntingled with the consciousness of the inevitable reappearance of those\nsame topics. Once, at the table, he looked at her with a frown.\n\n\"What's the matter, Nelly? You look old! Have you been sick?\"\n\n\"Things have happened,\" she said with an effort; \"I've been worried.\"\n\n\"What things?\" he said; but before she could reply, Sarah came in with\nhot waffles, and the subject was dropped.\n\n\"You need more cinnamon with this sugar,\" Mr. Pryor said with\nannoyance. And Helena, flushing with anxiety, told the woman to add\nsome cinnamon at once. \"Oh, never mind now,\" he said.--\"But you ought\nto look out for things like that,\" he added when Sarah had left the\nroom. And Helena said quickly, that she would; she was so sorry!\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar,\" David announced, \"he won't let you say you don't like\nthings. He says it ain't polite. But I don't like--\"\n\n\"Dry up! dry up!\" Mr. Pryor said irritably; \"Helena, this young man\ntalks too much.\"\n\nHelena whispered to David to be quiet. She had already arranged with\nhim that he was not to come into the parlor after supper, which was an\nagreeable surprise to him; \"For, you know, I don't like your brother,\"\nhe said, \"nor neither does Danny.\" Helena was too absorbed to\nremonstrate; she did, however, remember to tell Mr. Pryor that David\nhad asked if she was coming up to hear him say his prayers.\n\n\"I told him I couldn't to-night; and what do you suppose he said? He\nsaid, 'Does God like ladies better than gentlemen? I do.'\"\n\nIt made him laugh, as she had hoped it would. \"I fancy that is a\nreflection upon me,\" he said. \"The young man has never liked me.\" And\nwhen he had clipped off the end of his cigar and struck a match under\nthe mantelpiece, he added, \"So you hear him say his prayers? I didn't\nknow you were so religiously inclined.\"\n\n\"I'm not religiously inclined; but, of course, one has to teach a child\nto say his prayers.\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't object to religion,\" Mr. Pryor assured her; \"in fact, I\nlike it--\"\n\n\"In other people?\" she interrupted gayly.\n\n\"Well, yes; in other people. At any rate in your charming sex. Alice is\nvery religious. And I like it very much. In fact, I have a good deal of\nfeeling about it. I wouldn't do anything to--to shock her, you know. I\nreally am perfectly sincere about that, Helena.\"\n\nHe was sincere; he looked at her with an anxiety that for once was\nquite simple.\n\n\"That's why I wrote you as I did about the future. I am greatly\nembarrassed about Alice.\"\n\nShe caught her breath at the suddenness of his reference, but she knew\nhim well enough not to be much surprised. If a disagreeable topic was\nto be discussed, the sooner it was taken up and disposed of, the\nbetter. That was Lloyd's way.\n\n\"Of course,\" he went on, \"if Alice knew of our--ah, acquaintance, it\nwould shock her. It would shock her very much.\" He paused. \"Alice's\ngreat charm is her absolute innocence,\" he added thoughtfully.\n\nThat comment was like a blow in the face. Helena caught her breath with\nthe shock of it. But she could not stop to analyze its peculiar terror.\n\"Alice needn't know,\" she began--but he made an impatient gesture.\n\n\"If we married, it would certainly come out.\"\n\nHe was standing with his back to the fire, one hand in his pocket, the\nother holding his cigar; he blew three smoke rings, and smiled. \"Will\nyou let me off, Nelly?\"\n\n\"I know you don't love me,\" she broke out passionately--\n\n\"Oh, now, Helena, not a scene, please! My dear, I love you as much as\never. You are a charming woman, and I greatly value your friendship.\nBut I can love you just as much, not to say more, if you are here in\nyour own house in Old Chester, instead of being in my house in\nPhiladelphia. Why, it would be like sitting on a volcano!\"\n\n\"I cannot stay in Old Chester any longer,\" she said; \"dreadful things\nhave happened, and--\"\n\n\"What things? You said that before. Do explain these mysterious\nallusions.\"\n\n\"Mr., Wright's son,\" she began--and then her voice broke. But she told\nhim as well as she could.\n\nMr. Pryor gave a frowning whistle. \"Shocking! Poor Nelly!\"\n\n\"You see, I must go away,\" she said, wringing her hands; \"I can't bear\nit!\"\n\n\"But, my dear,\" he protested, \"it wasn't your fault. You were not to\nblame because a rash boy--\" Then a thought struck him, \"but how the\ndevil did he discover--?\"\n\nWhen Helena explained that she supposed old Mr. Wright had told his\ngrandson, Pryor's anger broke out: \"He knew? How did _he_ find out?\"\n\nHelena shook her head; she had never understood that, she said. Lloyd's\nanger always confused her, and when he demanded furiously why she had\nnot told him about the old fool--\"he'll blazon the whole thing!\"--she\nprotested, quivering, that Mr. Wright would not do that.\n\n\"I meant to tell you, but I--I forgot it. And anyway, I knew he\nwouldn't; he said he wouldn't; besides, he had a stroke when he heard\nabout Sam, and he hasn't spoken since. And Dr. King--\" she winced--\"Dr.\nKing says it's the beginning of the end.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" Lloyd said profoundly relieved. He stood frowning for a\nminute, then shrugged his shoulders, \"Well, of course, that settles it;\nyou can't stay here; there's no question about that. But there's a very\npleasant little town, on the other side of Mercer, and--\"\n\n\"It isn't just the going away,\" she broke in; \"it's being different\nfrom people. I never thought about it before; I never really minded.\nBut now, I can't help seeing that if you are--different, I mean just to\nplease yourself, you know, it--it hurts other people, somehow. Oh, I\ncan't explain,\" she said, incoherently, \"and I don't want to trouble\nyou, or talk about right and wrong, and religion, and--that sort of\nthing--\"\n\n\"No; please don't,\" he said, dryly.\n\n\"But you promised--you promised!\"\n\n\"I promised,\" he said, \"and I have a prejudice in favor of keeping my\nword. Religion, as you call it, has nothing to do with it. I will marry\nyou; I told you so when I wrote to you. But I felt that if I put the\nmatter before you, and told you how difficult the situation was, and\nappealed to your generosity, for Alice's sake--\"\n\n\"I appeal to _your_ generosity!--for the sake of other people. It isn't\nonly Alice who would be shocked, if it was found out. Lloyd, I don't\ninsist on living with you. Keep the marriage a secret, if you want to;\nonly, I must, I must be married!\" She got up and came and stood beside\nhim, laying her hands on his arm, and lifting her trembling face to\nhis; he frowned, and shrugged her hands away.\n\n\"Go and sit down, Nelly. Don't get excited. I told you that I had a\nprejudice in favor of keeping my word.\"\n\nShe drew back and sat down on the sofa, cowering a little in the\ncorner. \"Do you suppose I have no pride?\" she breathed. \"Do you suppose\nit is easy for me to--_urge?_\" He saw her fingers tremble as, with\nelaborate self-control, she pleated the crimson silk of her skirt in\nlittle folds across her knee. For a moment they were both silent.\n\n\"Secrecy wouldn't do,\" he said, \"To get married, and not tell, is only\nwhipping Satan round the stump as far as Alice is concerned. Ultimately\nit would make double explanations. The marriage would come out,\nsomehow, and then the very natural question would be: 'Why the devil\nwere they married secretly?' No; you can't keep those things hidden.\nAnd as for Alice, if she didn't think anything else, she'd think I had\nfibbed to her. And that would nearly kill her; she has a perfect mania\nabout truth! You see, it leads up to the same thing: Alice's discovery\nthat I have been--like most men. No; if it's got to be, it shall be\nopen and aboveboard.\"\n\nShe gasped with relief; his look of cold annoyance meant, just for the\nmoment, nothing at all.\n\n\"I shall tell her that I have met a lady with whom I was in love a long\ntime ago--\"\n\n\"_Was_ in love? Oh, Lloyd!\" she broke in with a cry of pain; at which\nintrusion of sentimentality Lloyd Pryor said with ferocity: \"What's\nthat got to do with it? I'm going to pay the piper! I'll tell Alice\nthat or any other damned thing I please. I'll tell her I'm going to be\nmarried in two or three months; I shall go through the form of an\nengagement. Alice won't like it, of course. No girl likes to have a\nstepmother; but I shall depend on you, Helena, to make the thing go as\nwell as possible. That's all I have to say.\"\n\nHe set his teeth and turning his back on her, threw his half-smoked\ncigar into the fire, Helena, cowering on the sofa, murmured something\nof gratitude, Mr. Pryor did not take the trouble to listen.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"the next thing is to get you away from this place.\nWe've got to stage the drama carefully, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"I can go at once.\"\n\n\"Well; you had better go to New York;--what will you do with your\nyoungster?\" he interrupted himself. \"Leave him on Dr. Lavendar's\ndoorstep, I suppose?\"\n\n\"My youngster?\" she repeated. \"Do you mean David?\"\n\nMr. Pryor nodded absently, he was not interested in David.\n\n\"Why,\" Helena said breathlessly, \"you didn't suppose I was going to\nleave David?\"\n\nAt which, in spite of his preoccupation, Pryor laughed outright. \"My\ndear Helena, even you can hardly be so foolish as to suppose that you\ncould take David with you?\"\n\nShe sat looking at him, blankly, \"Not take David! Why, you surely\ndidn't think that I would give up David?\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said Lloyd Pryor, \"you will either give him up, or you will\ngive me up.\"\n\n\"And you don't care which!\" she burst out passionately.\n\nHe gave her a deadly look. \"I do care which.\"\n\nAnd at that she blenched but clung doggedly to his promise. \"You must\nmarry me!\"\n\n\"There is no _must_ about it. I will. I have told you so. But _I_ did\nnot suppose it was necessary to make your giving up David a condition.\nNot that I mean to turn the young man out, I'm sure. Only, I decline to\ntake him in. But, good Heavens, Helena,\" he added, in perfectly genuine\nastonishment, \"it isn't possible that you seriously contemplated\nkeeping him? Will you please consider the effect upon the domestic\ncircle of a very natural reference on his part, to your _brother?_ You\nmight as well take your servants along with you--or your Old Chester\ndoctor! Really, my dear Nelly,\" he ended banteringly, \"I should have\nsupposed that even you would have had more sense.\"\n\nHelena grew slowly very white. She felt as if caught in a trap; and yet\nthe amused surprise in Lloyd Pryor's face was honest enough, and\nperfectly friendly. \"I cannot leave David here,\" she said faintly. And\nas terror and despair and dumb determination began to look out of her\neyes, the man beside her grew gayly sympathetic.\n\n\"I perfectly understand how you feel, He is a nice little chap. But, of\ncourse, you see it would be impossible?\"\n\n\"I can't give him up.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't,\" he said amiably. \"You can go away from Old Chester--of\ncourse you must do that--and take him with you. And I will come and see\nyou as often as I can.\"\n\nHe breathed more freely than he had for weeks; more freely than since\nthe receipt of that brief despatch:--\"F. is dead,\" and the initials H.\nR. So far from having used a sling and a smooth stone from the brook,\nthe boy had been a veritable armor-bearer to the giant! Well; poor\nNelly! From her point of view, it was of course a great disappointment.\nHe hated to have her unhappy; he hated to see suffering; he wished they\ncould get through this confounded interview. His sidewise, uneasy\nglance at her tense figure, betrayed his discomfort at the sight of\npain. What a pity she had aged so, and that her hands had grown so\nthin. But she had her old charm yet; certainly she was still an\nexquisite creature in some ways--and she had not grown too fat. He had\nbeen afraid once that she would get fat. How white her neck was; it was\nlike swan's-down where the lace fell open in the front of her dress.\nFor a moment he forgot his prudent resolutions; he put his arm around\nher and bent his head to touch her throat with his lips.\n\nBut she pushed him away with a flaming look. \"David saves you, does he?\nWell; he will save me!\"\n\nWithout another word she left him, as she had left him once before,\nalone in the long parlor with the faintly snapping fire, and the\ndarkness pressing against the uncurtained windows. This time he did not\nfollow her to plead outside her closed door. There was a moment's\nhesitation, then he shook his head, and took a fresh cigar.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"it's better this way.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\n\n\"If it was _me_ that was doin' it,\" said Sarah, \"I'd send for the\ndoctor.\"\n\n\"Well, but,\" Maggie protested, \"she might be mad.\"\n\n\"If it was me, I'd let her be mad.\"\n\n\"Well, then, why don't you?\" Maggie retorted.\n\n\"Send for him?\" Sarah said airily impersonal. \"Oh, it's none of my\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"Did you even it to her?\" Maggie asked in a worried way.\n\n\"I did. I says, 'You're sick, Mrs. Richie,' I says.--She looked like\nshe was dead--'Won't I tell George to run down and ask Dr. King to come\nup?' I says.\" \"An' what did she say?\" Maggie asked absently. She knew\nwhat Mrs. Richie had said, because this was the fourth time she and\nSarah had gone over it.\n\n\"'No,' she says, 'I don't want the doctor. There's nothing the matter.'\nAnd she like death! An' I says, 'Will you see Mr. Pryor, ma'am, before\nhe goes?' And she says, 'No,' she says; 'tell Mr. Pryor that I ain't\nfeelin' very well.' An' I closed the shutters again, an' come\ndown-stairs. But if it was me, I'd send for Dr. King. If she ain't well\nenough to see her own brother--and him just as kind!\"--Sarah put her\nhand into the bosom of her dress for a dollar bill--\"Look at that! And\nyou had one, too, though he's hardly ever set eyes on you, If she ain't\nwell enough to see him, she's pretty sick.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Maggie, angrily, \"I guess I earned my dollar as much as\nyou. Where would his dinner be without me? That's always the way. The\ncook ain't seen, so she gets left out.\"\n\n\"You ain't got left out this time, anyhow. He's a kind man; I've always\nsaid so. And she said she wasn't well enough to see him! Well; if it\nwas me's I'd send for Dr. King.\"\n\nSo the two women wrangled, each fearful of responsibility; until at\nlast, after Maggie had twice gone up-stairs and listened at that silent\ndoor, they made up their minds.\n\n\"David,\" Maggie said, \"you go and wait at the gate, and when the\nbutcher's cart comes along, you tell him you want on. An' you go down\nstreet, an' tell him you want off at Dr. King's. An' you ask Dr. King\nto come right along up here. Tell him Mrs. Richie's real sick.\"\n\n\"If it was me, I'd let him wait till he goes to school,\" Sarah began to\nhesitate; \"she'll be mad.\"\n\nBut Maggie had started in and meant to see the matter through: \"Let her\nbe mad!\"\n\n\"Well, it's not my doin',\" Sarah said with a fine carelessness, and\ncrept up-stairs to listen again at Mrs. Richie's door. \"Seemed like as\nif she was sort of--_cryin_'!\" she told Maggie in an awed whisper when\nshe came down.\n\nDavid brought his message to the doctor's belated breakfast table.\nWilliam had been up nearly all night with a very sick patient, and\nMartha had been careful not to wake him in the morning. He pushed his\nplate back, as David repeated Maggie's words, and looked blankly at the\ntable-cloth.\n\n\"She's never really got over the shock about Sam Wright's Sam, has\nshe?\" Martha said. \"Sometimes I almost think she was--\" Mrs. King's\nexpressive pantomime of eyebrows and lips meant \"in love with\nhim\"--words not to be spoken before a child.\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said William King curtly. \"No; I don't want any more\nbreakfast, thank you, my dear. I'll go and hitch up.\"\n\nMartha followed him to the back door. \"William, maybe she's lonely. I'm\nvery tired, but perhaps I'd better go along with you, and cheer her\nup?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he called back over his shoulder; \"it isn't necessary.\"\nThen he added hastily, \"but it's very kind in you, Martha, to think of\nit.\"\n\n\"I'd just as lieves,\" she insisted flushing with pleasure.\n\nHe tried to get his thoughts in order as he and Jinny climbed the hill.\nHe knew what, sooner or later, he must say to Mrs. Richie, and he\nthought with relief, that if she were really ill, he could not say it\nthat day. But the sight of David had brought his duty home to him. He\nhad thought about it for days, and tried to see some way of escape; but\nevery way was blocked by tradition or religion. Once he had said\nstumblingly to Dr. Lavendar, that it was wonderful how little harm came\nto a child from bad surroundings, and held his breath for the reply.\n\n\"An innocent child in a bad home,\" said Dr. Lavendar cheerfully,\n\"always makes me think of a water-lily growing out of the mud.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said the doctor, \"the mud doesn't hurt it.\"\n\n\"Not the lily; but unfortunately, Willy, my boy, every child isn't a\nlily. I wouldn't want to plant one in the mud to see how it would grow,\nwould you?\"\n\nAnd William admitted that he would not.\n\nAfter that he even put the matter to his wife \"Martha, you're a\nsensible woman, I'd like to ask you about a case.\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" said Martha simpering, \"I don't pretend to any very great\nwisdom, but I do know something about sickness.\"\n\n\"This isn't sickness; it's about a child. Do you think a child is\nsusceptible to the influence of an older person who is not of the\nhighest character? If, for instance, the mother was--not good, do you\nsuppose a child would be injured?\"\n\n\"Not good?\" said Martha, horrified. \"Oh, William' Somebody in Upper\nChester, I suppose?\"\n\n\"But she is a devoted mother; you couldn't be more conscientious\nyourself. So do you think her conduct could do any harm to a child?\"\n\n\"Oh, Willy! A child in the care of a bad woman? Shocking!\"\n\n\"Not bad--not bad--\" he said faintly.\n\n\"Most shocking! Of course a child would be susceptible to such\ninfluences.\"\n\nWilliam drew arabesques on the table-cloth with his fork, \"Well, I\ndon't know--\" he began.\n\n\"_I_ know!\" said Martha, and began to lay down the law. For if Martha\nprided herself upon anything, besides her common sense, it was the\ncorrectness of her views upon the training of children. But she stopped\nlong enough to say, \"William, please! the table-cloth.\" And William put\nhis fork down.\n\nHe thought of his wife's words very often in the next few days. He\nthought of them when David stood rattling the knob of the dining-room\ndoor, and saying \"Maggie says please come and see Mrs. Richie.\" He\nthought of them as Jinny pulled him slowly up the hill.\n\nSarah was lying in wait for him at the green gate. Maggie had sent for\nhim, she said; and having put the responsibility where it belonged, she\ngave him what information she could. Mrs. Richie wasn't well enough to\nsee her brother before he went away on the stage; she wouldn't eat any\nbreakfast, and she looked like she was dead. And when she (Sarah) had\ngiven her a note from Mr. Pryor, she read it and right afterwards kind\nof fainted away like. An' when she come to, she (Sarah) had said,\n\"Don't you want the doctor?\" An' Mrs. Richie said \"No.\" \"But Maggie was\nscared, Dr. King; and she just sent David for you.\"\n\n\"Quite right,\" said William King, \"Let Mrs. Richie know I am here.\"\n\nHe followed the woman to Helena's door, and heard the smothered\ndissenting murmur within; but before Sarah, evidently cowed, could give\nhim Mrs. Richie's message that she was much obliged, but did not\nwish--William entered the room. She was lying with her face hidden in\nher pillows; one soft braid fell across her shoulder, then sagged down\nand lay along the sheet, crumpled and wrinkled with a restless night.\nThat braid, with its tendrils of little loose locks, was a curious\nappeal. She did not turn as he sat down beside her, and he had to lean\nover to touch her wrist with his quiet fingers.\n\n\"I did not send for you,\" she said in a muffled voice; \"there is\nnothing the matter.\"\n\n\"You haven't had any breakfast,\" said William King. \"Sarah, bring Mrs.\nRichie some coffee.\"\n\n\"I don't want--\"\n\n\"You must have something to eat.\"\n\nHelena drew a long, quivering breath; \"I wish you would go away. There\nis nothing the matter with me.\"\n\n\"I can't go until you feel better, Mrs. Richie.\"\n\nShe was silent. Then she turned a little, gathering up the two long\nbraids so that they fell on each side of her neck and down across her\nbreast; their soft darkness made the pallor of her face more marked.\nShe was so evidently exhausted that when Sarah brought the coffee, the\ndoctor slipped his hand under her shoulders and lifted her while she\ndrank it.\n\n\"Don't try to talk; I want you to sleep.\"\n\n\"Sleep! I can't sleep.\"\n\n\"You will,\" he assured her.\n\nShe lay back on her pillows, and for the first time she looked at him.\n\"Dr. King, he has quarrelled with me.\"\n\nWilliam flinched, as though some wound had been touched; then he said,\n\"Don't talk of it now.\"\n\nShe turned her face sharply away from him, burying it in her pillow.\n\n\"Mrs. Richie, you must try to eat something. See, Maggie has sent you\nsome very nice toast.\"\n\n\"I won't eat. I wish you would go.\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment. Then, suddenly, she cried out, \"Well?\nWhat are you going to do, all of you? What did Dr. Lavendar say?\"\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar doesn't know anything about it.\"\n\n\"I don't know why I told you! I was out of my head, I think. And now\nyou despise me.\"\n\n\"I don't despise you.\"\n\nShe laughed. \"Of course you do.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie, I'm too weak myself to despise anybody.\"\n\n\"I wish you would go away,\" she repeated.\n\n\"I will; but you must have a sedative first.\"\n\n\"David's bromide?\" she said sarcastically, \"A broken finger, or a\nbroken--well, anything. Dr. King--you won't tell Dr. Lavendar?\"\n\n\"Tell? What kind of a man do you suppose I am! I wish you would tell\nhim yourself, though.\"\n\n\"Tell him myself?\" she gave him another swift look that faltered as her\neyes met his. \"You are crazy! He would take David away.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie,\" said William miserably, \"you know you can't keep David.\"\n\n\"Not keep David!\"\n\nShe sat up in bed, supported on each side by her shaking hands; she was\nlike a wild creature at bay, she looked him full in the face. \"Do you\nthink I would give him up, just to please you, or Dr. Lavendar, when I\nquarrelled with Lloyd, to keep him? Lloyd wouldn't agree that I should\nhave him. Yes; if it hadn't been for David, you wouldn't have the right\nto despise me! Why, he's all I've got in the world.\"\n\nWilliam King was silent.\n\n\"You think I am wicked! But what harm could I possibly do him?\" Her\nsupporting arms shook so that the doctor laid a gentle hand on her\nshoulder.\n\n\"Lie down,\" he said, and she fell back among her pillows.\n\n\"Who could do more for him than I can? Who could love him so much? He\nhas everything!\" she said faintly.\n\n\"Please take this medicine,\" William interposed, and his calm,\nimpersonal voice was like a blow, \"Oh, you despise me! But if you\nknew--\"\n\n\"I don't despise you,\" he said again. And added, \"I almost wish I did.\"\n\nBut this she did not hear. She was saying desperately, \"I will never\ngive David up. I wish I hadn't told you; but I will never give him up!\"\n\n\"I am going now,\" the doctor said. \"But sometime I am afraid I must\ntell you how I feel about David. But I'll go now. I want you to try to\nsleep.\"\n\nWhen he had gone, she took from under her pillow that letter which had\nmade her \"faint like.\" It was brief, but conclusive:\n\n\"The matter of the future has seemed to settle itself--I think wisely;\nand I most earnestly hope, happily, for you. The other proposition\nwould have meant certain unhappiness all round. Keep your boy; I am\nsure you will find him a comfort. I am afraid you are a little too\nexcited to want to see me again immediately. But as soon as you decide\nwhere you will go, let me know, and let me be of any service in finding\na house, etc. Then, when you are settled and feel equal to a visit,\nI'll appear. I should certainly be very sorry to let any little\ndifference of opinion about this boy interfere with our friendship.\nL.P.\"\n\nSitting up in bed, she wrote in lead-pencil, two lines;\n\n\"I will never see you again. I never want to hear your name again.\"\n\nShe did not even sign her name.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\n\nTo have David go away for the long-anticipated trip with Dr. Lavendar,\nwas a relief to Helena struggling up from a week of profound\nprostration. Most of the time she had been in bed, only getting up to\nsit with David at breakfast and supper, to take what comfort she might\nin the little boy's joyous but friendly unconcern. He was full of\nimportance in the prospect of his journey; there was to be one night on\na railroad-car, which in itself was a serious experience; another in an\nhotel; hotel! David glowed at the word. In Philadelphia they were to\nsee the sights in the morning; in the afternoon, to be sure, Dr.\nLavendar had warned him that it would be necessary to sit still while\nsome one talked. However, it is never necessary to listen. After the\ntalking, they would go and see the ships at the wharves, and Liberty\nBell. Then--David's heart sank; bed loomed before him, But it would be\nan hotel bed;--there was some comfort in that! Besides, it is never\nnecessary to sleep. The next day going home on the cars they would see\nthe Horseshoe Curve; the very words made his throat swell with\nexcitement.\n\n\"Did the locomotive engine ever drop off of it?\" he asked Helena.\n\n\"No, dear,\" she said languidly, but with a smile. She always had a\nsmile for David.\n\nAfter the Horseshoe Curve there would be a night at Mercer. Mercer, of\ncourse, was less exciting than Philadelphia; still, it was\n\"travelling,\" and could be boasted of at recess. But as David thought\nof Mercer, he had a bleak revelation. For weeks his mind had been on\nthis journey; beyond it, his thought did not go. Now, there rushed upon\nhim the staggering knowledge that after the night in Mercer, _life\nwould still go on!_ Yes, he would be at home; in Miss Rose Knight's\nschool-room; at supper with Mrs. Richie. It is a heavy moment, this\nfirst consciousness that nothing lasts. It made David feel sick; he put\nhis spoon down and looked at Mrs. Richie. \"I shall be back,\" he said\nblankly.\n\nAnd at that her eyes filled. \"Yes, darling! Won't that be nice!\"\n\nAnd yet his absence for the next few days would be a relief to her. She\ncould think the whole thing out, she said to herself. She had not been\nwell enough to think clearly since Lloyd had gone. To adjust her mind\nto the bitter finality meant swift oscillations of hate and the habit\nof affection--the spirit warring with the flesh. She would never see\nhim again;--she would send for him! she despised him;--what should she\ndo without him? Yet she never wavered about David. She had made her\nchoice. William King's visit had not shaken her decision for an\ninstant; it had only frightened her horribly. How should she defend\nherself? She meant to think it all out, undisturbed by the sweet\ninterruptions of David's presence. And yet she knew she should miss him\nevery minute of his absence. Miss him? If Dr. King had known what even\nthree days without David would mean to her, he would not have wasted\nhis breath in suggesting that she should give him up! Yet the\npossibility of such a thing had the allurement of terror; she played\nwith the thought, as a child, wincing, presses a thorn into its flesh\nto see how long it can bear the smart. Suppose, instead of this three\ndays' trip with Dr. Lavendar, David was going away to stay? The mere\nquestion made her catch him in her arms as if to assure herself he was\nhers.\n\nThe day before he started, Helena was full of maternal preoccupations.\nThe travelling-bag that she had begun to pack for herself--for so\ndifferent a journey!--had to be emptied of its feminine possessions,\nand David's little belongings stowed in their place. David himself had\nviews about this packing; he kept bringing one thing or another--his\nrubber boots, a cocoon, a large lump of slag honeycombed with\nair-holes; would she please put them into the bag?\n\n\"Why, but darling, you will be back again on Saturday,\" she consoled\nhim, as each treasure was rejected.--(\"Suppose he was _not_ coming\nback! How should I feel?\")\n\nHe was to spend the night before the journey at the Rectory, and after\nsupper Helena went down the hill with him. \"I wish I hadn't consented\nto it,\" she said to herself; \"do you like to go and leave me, David?\"\nshe pleaded.\n\nAnd David jumping along at her side, said joyously, \"Yes, ma'am.\"\n\nAt the Rectory he pushed the door open and bounded in ahead of her,\n\"I'm here!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar put down his _Spirit of Missions_, and looked over his\nspectacles. \"You don't say so! And you're here, too, Mrs. Richie? Come\nin!\"\n\nHelena, hesitating in the hall, said she had only come to leave David.\nBut Dr. Lavendar would not listen to that.\n\n\"Sit down! Sit down!\" he commanded genially.\n\nDavid, entirely at home, squatted at once upon the rug beside Danny.\n\"Dr. Lavendar,\" she said, \"you'll bring him back to me on Saturday?\"\n\n\"Unless I steal him for myself,\" said Dr. Lavendar, twinkling at David,\nwho twinkled back, cozily understanding.\n\nHelena stooped over him and kissed him; then took one of his reluctant\nhands from its clasp about his knees and held it, patting it, and once\nfurtively kissing it, \"Good-by, David. Saturday you'll be at home\nagain.\"\n\nThe child's face fell. His sigh was not personal; it only meant the\ntemporariness of all human happiness. Staring into the fire in sudden\nmelancholy, he said, \"'By.\" But the next minute he sparkled into\nexcited joy, and jumped up to hang about her neck and whisper that in\nPhiladelphia he was going to buy a false-face for a present for Dr.\nLavendar; \"or else a jew's-harp. He'll give it to me afterwards; and I\nthink I want a jew's-harp the most,\" he explained.\n\n\"David,\" Helena said in a whisper, putting her cheek down against his,\n\"Oh, David, won't you please, give me--'forty kisses'? I'm so--lonely.\"\n\nDavid drew back and looked hard into her face that quivered in spite of\nthe smile she had summoned to meet his eyes. It was a long look, for a\nchild; then suddenly, he put both arms around her neck in a breathless\nsqueeze. \"One--two--three--four--\" he began.\n\nWilliam King, coming in for his evening smoke, saw that quick embrace;\nhis face moved with pain, and he stepped back into the hall with some\nword of excuse about his coat. When he returned, she was standing up,\nhurrying to get away. \"Saturday,\" she repeated to Dr. Lavendar;\n\"Saturday, surely?\"\n\n\"Why,\" the old man said smiling, \"you make me feel like a thief. Yes;\nyou shall have him Saturday night. Willy, my boy, do you think Mrs.\nRichie ought to go up the hill alone?\"\n\n\"Oh, it will be bright moonlight in a few minutes,\" she protested\nnervously, not looking at the doctor.\n\n\"I will walk home with Mrs. Richie,\" William said.\n\n\"No! oh, no; please don't!\" The dismay in her voice was unmistakable.\n\nDr. Lavendar thrust out a perplexed lower lip. \"If she'd rather just go\nby herself, Willy, there are no highwaymen in Old Chester, and--\"\n\nBut William King interrupted him gently. \"I wish to speak to Mrs.\nRichie.\" And Dr. Lavendar held his tongue.\n\n\"I am sorry to bother you,\" William said, as he held the gate open for\nher; \"but I felt I must speak to you.\"\n\nHelena made no reply. All the way down the street, almost to the foot\nof the hill, Old Chester's evening stillness was unbroken, except for\nthe rustle of fallen leaves under their feet. Suddenly the great disk\nof the hunter's moon lifted slowly up behind the hills, and the night\nsplintered like a dark crystal; sheets of light spread sharply in the\nopen road, gulfs of shadow deepened under trees and beside walls. It\nwas as abrupt as sound. William King broke into hurried words as though\nhe had been challenged: \"I knew you didn't want me to walk home with\nyou, but indeed you ought not to go up the hill alone. Please take my\narm; the flagging is so uneven here.\"\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie, please don't feel that I am not your friend, just\nbecause--Indeed, I think I am more your friend than I ever was. You\nwill believe that, won't you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I suppose so; that is the way saints always talk to sinners.\"\n\n\"I am far enough from being a saint,\" William King said with an awkward\neffort to laugh; \"but--\"\n\n\"But I am a sinner?\" she interrupted.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Richie, don't let us talk this way! I have nothing but pity,\nand--and friendship. The last thing I mean to do, is to set myself as a\njudge of your actions; God knows I have no right to judge anybody! But\nthis matter of David, that's what I wanted to speak to you about. My\nresponsibility,\" he stopped, and drew in his breath. \"Don't you see, my\nresponsibility--\"\n\nHelena did not speak; she was marshalling all her forces to fight for\nher child. How should she begin? But he did not wait for her to begin.\n\n\"I would rather lose my right hand than pain you. I've gone all over\nit, a hundred times. I've tried to see some way out. But I can't. The\nonly way is for you to give him up. It isn't right for you to have him!\nMrs. Richie, I say this, and it is hard and cruel, and yet I never felt\nmore\"--William King stopped short--\"friendly,\" he ended brokenly.\n\nHe was walking at a pace she found hard to follow. \"I can't go quite so\nfast,\" she said faintly, and instantly he came to a dead stop.\n\n\"Dr. King, I want to explain to you--\"\n\nShe lifted her face, all white and quivering in the moonlight, but\ninstead of explanations, she broke out: \"Oh, if you take him away from\nme, I shall die! I don't care very much about living anyhow. But I\ncan't live without David. Please, Dr. King; oh, please; I will be good!\nI will be good,\" she repeated like a child, and stood there crying, and\nclinging to his arm. All her reasons and excuses and pleadings had\ndropped out of her mind. \"Don't take him away from me; I will be good!\"\nshe said.\n\nWilliam King, with those trembling hands on his arm, looked down at her\nand trembled too. Then roughly, he pushed her hands away. \"Come on. We\nmustn't stand here. Don't you suppose I feel this as much as you do? I\nlove children, and I know what it means to you to let David go. But\nmore than that, I--have a regard for you, and it pains me inexpressibly\nto do anything that pains you. You can't understand how terrible this\nis to me, and I can't tell you. I mustn't tell you. But never mind,\nit's true. It isn't right, no, it isn't right! that a woman who--you\nknow what I mean. And even if, after all, you should marry him, what\nsort of a man is he to have charge of a little boy like David? He has\ndeceived us, and lied to us; he is a loose liver, a--\"\n\n\"Wait,\" she panted; \"I am not going to marry him. I thought you\nunderstood that.\"\n\nHe drew away from her with a horrified gesture. \"And you would keep an\ninnocent child--\"\n\n\"No! No! I've broken with him--on account of David!\"\n\n\"Broken with him!\" said William King; he caught her by the wrist, and\nstared at her. Then with a breathless word that she could not hear, he\ndropped her hand and turned his face away.\n\nAgain, in their preoccupation, they stood still; this time in a great\nbank of shadow by the wall of the graveyard half-way up the hill.\n\n\"So you won't take him from me?\" she said; \"I will leave Old Chester.\nYou need never see me again.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" said William King, \"do you think that is what I want?\"\n\nShe tried to see his face, but he had turned his back on her so that\nshe stood behind him. Her hands were clasping and unclasping and her\nvoice fluttering in her throat. \"You won't take him?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie,\" he said harshly, \"do you love that man still?\"\n\nBut before she could answer, he put the question aside. \"No! Don't tell\nme. I've no right to ask. I--don't want to know. I've no right to know.\nIt's--it's nothing to me, of course.\" He moved as he spoke out into the\nmoonlight, and began to climb the pebbly road; she was a step or two\nbehind him. When he spoke again his voice was indifferent to the point\nof contempt. \"This side is smoother; come over here. I am glad you are\nnot going to marry Mr. Pryor. He is not fit for you to marry.\"\n\n\"Not fit for--_me!_\" she breathed.\n\n\"And I am glad you have broken with him. But that has no bearing upon\nyour keeping David. A child is the most precious thing in the world; he\nmust be trained, and--and all that. Whether you marry this man or not\nmakes no difference about David. If you have lived--as you have\nlived--you ought not to have him. But I started the whole thing. I made\nDr. Lavendar give him to you. He didn't want to, somehow; I don't know\nwhy. So don't you see? I _can't_ leave him in your care. Surely you see\nthat? I am responsible. Responsible not only to David, but to Dr.\nLavendar.\"\n\n\"If Dr. Lavendar is willing to let me have him, I don't see why you\nneed to feel so about it. What harm could I do him? Oh, how cruel you\nare--how cruel you are!\"\n\n\"Would Dr. Lavendar let you have him, if--he knew?\"\n\n\"But that's over; that's finished,\" she insisted. \"Oh, I tell you, it's\nover!\"\n\nThe doctor's silence was like a whip.\n\n\"Oh, I know; you think that he was here last week. But there has to be\na beginning of everything--that was the beginning. I told him I would\nnot give David up to marry him; and we quarrelled. And--it's over.\"\n\n\"I can't go into that,\" the doctor said. \"That's not my business. David\nis my business. Mrs. Richie, I want you quietly, without any\nexplanation, to give the boy back to Dr. Lavendar. If you don't, I\nshall have no choice. I shall have to tell him.\"\n\n\"But you said you wouldn't tell him! Oh, you break your word--\"\n\n\"I won't tell him your affairs,\" said William King. \"I will never do\nthat. But I'll tell him my own--some of them. I'll say I made a mistake\nwhen I advised him to let you have David, and that I don't think you\nought to be trusted to bring up a little boy. But I won't say why.\"\n\n\"Dr. King, if I tell him just what you've said; that you think you made\na mistake, and you think I am not to be trusted;--if I tell him myself,\nand he consents to let me keep him, will you interfere?\"\n\nWilliam reflected heavily. \"He won't consent,\" he said; \"he'll know I\nwouldn't say a thing like that without reason. But if he does, I shall\nbe silent.\"\n\nThere was a despairing finality in his words. They were at her own gate\nnow; she leaned her head down on it, and he heard a pitiful sound.\nWilliam King's lips were dry, and when he spoke the effort made his\nthroat ache. What he said was only the repetition of his duty as he saw\nit. \"I'd rather lose my right hand than make you suffer. But I've no\nchoice. I've no choice!\" And when she did not answer, he added his\nultimatum. \"I'll have to tell Dr. Lavendar on Sunday, unless you will\njust let me settle it all for you by saying that you don't want David\nany long--\"\n\n_\"Not want David!\"_\n\n\"I mean, that you've decided you won't keep him any longer. I'll find a\ngood home for him, Mrs. Richie,\" he ended in a shaking voice.\n\nShe gave him one look of terror; then opened the gate and shut it\nquickly in his face, drawing the bolt with trembling fingers. As she\nflew up the path, he saw her for an instant as she crossed a patch of\nmoonlight; then the darkness hid her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\n\nIt was incredible to David as he thought it over afterwards, but he\nactually slept away that wonderful night on the railroad! When he\nclimbed on to the shutting-up shelf behind red and green striped\ncurtains, nothing had been further from his mind than sleep. It was his\nintention to sit bolt upright and watch the lamps swinging in the\naisle, to crane his neck over the top of the curtains and look out of\nthe small hinged window at the smoke all thick with sparks from the\nlocomotive engine, and at the mountains with the stars hanging over\nthem, and--at the Horseshoe Curve! But instead of seeing all these\nwonders that he and Dr. Lavendar had talked about for the last few\nweeks, no sooner had he been lifted into his berth than, in a flash,\nthe darkness changed to bright daylight. Yes; the dull, common,\nevery-night affair of sleep, had interfered with all his plans. He did\nnot speak of his disappointment the next morning, as he\ndressed--somehow--in the jostling, swaying little enclosure where the\nwashstands were; but he thought about it, resentfully. Sleep! \"When I'm\na man, I'll never sleep,\" he assured himself; then cheered up as he\nrealized that absence from Sarah had brought at least one opportunity\nof manhood--he would not have to wash behind his ears! But he brooded\nover his helplessness to make up for that other loss. He was so silent\nat breakfast in the station that Dr. Lavendar thought he did not like\nhis food.\n\n\"You can have something else, David. What do you want?\"\n\n\"Ice-cream,\" David said, instantly alert.\n\n\"At breakfast!\" David nodded, and the ice-cream appeared. He ate it in\nsilence, and when he had scraped the saucer, he said,\n\n\"Can you ever get back behind, sir?\"\n\n\"Behind what?\" Dr. Lavendar asked. He was looking at David and\nwondering what was different about the child; he did not have quite his\nusual aspect. \"I must have left off some of his clothes,\" Dr. Lavendar\nthought anxiously, and that question about getting back behind\nsuggested buttons. \"Are your braces fastened?\" he asked.\n\n\"And do it over again,\" David said. \"Is there any way you can get back\nbehind, and do it over again?\"\n\n\"Do what over again?\" Dr. Lavendar said. \"If they've come unfastened--\"\n\n\"I don't like sleeping,\" said David. \"If I could get behind again, I\nwouldn't.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar gave it up, but he fumbled under David's little coat and\ndiscovered that the buttons were all right. \"There seems to be\nsomething different about you, David,\" he said, as they pushed their\nchairs from the table. David had no explanation to offer, so Dr.\nLavendar consulted the waitress: \"Is there anything wrong about this\nlittle boy's clothing? He doesn't look just right--\"\n\n\"I guess he hasn't had his hair brushed, sir,\" said the smiling young\nwoman, and carried the child off to some lair of her own, whence he\nemerged in his usual order.\n\n\"Thank you, my dear,\" said Dr. Lavendar. He took David's hand, and out\nthey stepped into the world! For a moment they stood still on the\nsidewalk to get their breaths in the rush and jostle of the crowd that\nsurged along the street; a simple, happy pair--an old man in a blue\nmuffler and broad-brimmed felt hat, a child in a little surtout and\nvisored cap. David gripped Dr. Lavendar's hand tight, and looked up\ninto his face; its smile beaming upon all these hurrying people,\nreassured the child, and he paced along beside the old gentleman in\ngrave content. They stopped at the first shop-window, and gazed at a\nrow of fish bedded in ice--beautiful iridescent mackerel, fat red\npompoms, and in the middle, in a nest of seaweed, green-black\ncreatures, with great claws that ended in pincers and eyes that looked\nlike pegs stuck into their heads. David stared, open-mouthed; then he\nput a hand into his pocket.\n\n\"How much would one cost, sir?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"I think I will buy one, and take it home and keep it in a cage.\"\n\nAt which Dr. Lavendar said gravely, that he feared the creatures would\nnot be happy in a cage--\"And besides, people eat them, David.\"\n\nDavid was silent; then, in a suppressed voice, he said, \"Are they happy\nwhen people eat them? I think they'd rather be in a cage; I would hang\nit in my window.\"\n\nBut Dr. Lavendar only said, \"Dear me! What have we here?\" and drew him\nto the next shop, at the door of which stood a wooden Indian, a\ntomahawk in one hand, and a cigar-box in the other. Dr. Lavendar bade\nDavid wait outside while he went into this shop, which the little boy\nwas perfectly willing to do, for it isn't every day you get the chance\nto examine a wooden Indian, even to climbing up on his pedestal and\nfeeling his tomahawk with respectful fingers. When Dr. Lavendar came\nout, David took his kind old hand, and burst into confidences.\n\n\"When I'm big I'm going to fight Indians. Or else I'll drive fast\nhorses. I don't know which. It's hard to decide, ain't it, sir?\"\n\n\"Very hard. If you choose the horses, I'll give you Goliath.\"\n\nDavid was silent; then he sighed: \"I guess I'll fight Indians, sir,\" he\nsaid.\n\nBut a moment later he was cheerfully confidential; he had thirty cents\nto spend! \"Dear, dear,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"we mustn't do anything\nrash. Here, let's look in this window.\"\n\nOh, how many windows there were, and all of them full of beautiful\nthings! Dr. Lavendar was willing to stop at every one; and he joined in\nDavid's game of \"mine,\" with the seriousness that all thoughtful\npersons give to this diversion.\n\n\"That's _mine!_\" David would cry, pointing to a green china toad behind\nthe plate glass; and Dr. Lavendar would say gravely,\n\n\"You may have it, David; you may have it.\"\n\n\"Now it's your turn!\" David would instruct him.\n\n\"Must I take something in this window?\" Dr. Lavendar would plead. And\nDavid always said firmly that he must. \"Well, then, that's mine,\" Dr.\nLavendar would say.\n\n\"Why, that's only a teacup! We have thousands of them at our house!\"\nDavid boasted. \"I should think you would rather have the toad.\nI'll--I'll give you the toad, sir?\"\n\n\"Oh, dear me, no,\" Dr. Lavendar protested; \"I wouldn't rob you for the\nworld.\" And so they sauntered on, hand in hand. When they came to a\nbook-store, Dr. Lavendar apologized for breaking in upon their \"game.\"\n\"I'm going to play _mine_, in here,\" he said.\n\nDavid was quite content to wait at the door and watch the people, and\nthe yellow boxes full of windows, drawn by mules with bells jingling on\ntheir harness. Sometimes he looked fearfully back into the shop; but\nDr. Lavendar was still playing \"mine,\" so all was well. At last,\nhowever, he finished his game and came to the door.\n\n\"Come along, David; this is the most dangerous place in town!\"\n\nDavid looked at him with interest. \"Why did you skip with your eye when\nyou said that, sir?\" he demanded.\n\nAt which the clerk who walked beside them laughed loudly, and David\ngrew very red and angry.\n\nBut when Dr. Lavendar said, \"David, I've got a bone in my arm; won't\nyou carry a book for me?\" he was consoled, and immediately began to ask\nquestions. It seemed to Dr. Lavendar that he inquired about everything\nin heaven and earth and the waters under the earth, and at last the old\ngentleman was obliged, in self-defence, to resort to the formula which,\naccording to the code of etiquette understood by these two friends,\nsignified \"stop talking.\"\n\n\"What is--\" David began, and his companion replied glibly:\n\n\"Layovers for meddlers and crutches for lame ducks.\"\n\nAnd David subsided into giggles, for it was understood that this remark\nwas extremely humorous.\n\nAfter that they went to dinner with a gentleman who wore a long black\ncoat and no shirt; at least, David could not see any shirt. Dr.\nLavendar called him Bishop, and they talked a great deal about\nuninteresting things. David only spoke twice: His host took occasion to\nremark that he did not finish all his mashed potato--\"Some poor child\nwould be glad of what you waste,\" said the Bishop. To which David\nreplied, \"If I ate it, what then, for the poor child?\" And the\ngentleman with no shirt said in a grave aside to Dr. Lavendar that the\npresent generation was inclined to pertness. His second remark was made\nwhen the clergymen pushed their chairs back from the table. But David\nsat still. \"We haven't had the ice-cream yet,\" he objected, gently.\n\"Hush! Hush!\" said Dr. Lavendar. And the gentleman laughed very hard,\nand said that he had to send all his ice-cream to the heathen. David,\nreddening, looked at him in stolid silence. In the afternoon there was\na pause; they went to church, and listened to another gentleman, who\ntalked a long, long time. Sometimes David sighed, but he kept pretty\nquiet, considering. After the talk was over, Dr. Lavendar did not seem\nanxious to get away. David twitched his sleeve once or twice to\nindicate his own readiness, but it appeared that Dr. Lavendar preferred\nto speak to the talking gentleman. And the talking gentleman patted\nDavid's head and said:\n\n\"And what do you think of foreign missions, my little boy?\"\n\nDavid did not answer, but he moved his head from under the large white\nhand.\n\n\"You were very good and quiet,\" said the talking gentleman. \"I saw you,\ndown in the pew with Dr. Lavendar. And I was very much complimented;\nyou never went to sleep.\" \"I couldn't,\" said David, briefly; \"the seats\nare too hard.\" The talking gentleman laughed a little, and you might\nhave thought Dr. Lavendar skipped with his eye;--at any rate, he\nlaughed.\n\n\"They don't always tell us why they keep awake,\" he said. And the\ntalking gentleman didn't laugh any more.\n\nAt last, however, they stopped wasting time, and took up their round of\ndissipation again. They went to see Liberty Bell; then they had supper\nat a marble-topped table, in a room as big as a church! \"Ice-cream,\nsuh?\" suggested a waiter, and David said \"Yes!\" Dr. Lavendar looked\ndoubtful, but David had no doubts. Yet, half-way through that pink and\nwhite and brown mound on his saucer, he sighed, and opened and shut his\neyes as if greatly fatigued.\n\n\"Finished?\" Dr. Lavendar asked.\n\n\"No, sir,\" David said sadly, and started in with a spurt; but the mound\ndid not seem to diminish, and suddenly his chin quivered. \"If you have\nto pay for what I don't eat, I'll try,\" he said; \"but my breast is\ncold.\" Reassured on this point, and furtively rubbing his little chilly\nstomach, David put down his spoon and slipped out of his chair, ready\nto make a night of it. For, supper over, they went to see a magician!\n\n\"I don't know what Mrs. Richie will say to me,\" said Dr. Lavendar. \"You\nwon't get to bed before ten o'clock!\"\n\n\"She'll say 'all right,'\" said David. Then he added, \"The gentleman at\ndinner tells lies, or else he's foolish. It would melt before the\nheathen got it.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar, singing to himself--\n\n  Hither ye faithful, haste with songs of triumph,--\n\ndid not hear the morals of his bishop aspersed. He took David's hand,\nand by and by they were sitting staring open-mouthed at a man who put\neggs in a pan, and held it over a fire, and took out live pigeons! Oh,\nyes, and many other wonders! David never spoke once on his way back to\nthe hotel, and Dr. Lavendar began to be worried for fear the child was\novertired. He hustled him to bed as quickly as possible, and then sat\ndown under the far-off chandelier of the hotel bedroom, to glance at a\nnewspaper and wait until David was asleep before he got into his own\nbed. He did not have to wait long for the soft breathing of childish\nsleep. It had been poor David's intention to go over in his mind every\nsingle thing he saw the magician do, so that he wouldn't leave out\nanything at recess on Monday. Alas, before he could begin to think, the\nsun was shining again!\n\nIt was Dr. Lavendar who did the thinking before the sunlight came.\nTwice, in his placid, wakeful night, he rose to make sure the child was\nall right, to pull up an extra blanket about the small shoulders or to\narrange the pillow, punched by David's fist to the edge of the bed. In\nthe morning he let the little boy look out of the window while he\npacked up their various belongings; and when it was time to start,\nDavid could hardly tear himself away from that outlook, which makes\nsuch a mystical appeal to most of us--huddling roofs and chimneys under\na morning sky. But when he did turn to look at Dr. Lavendar, tucking\nthings into his valise and singing to himself, it was to realize again\nthe immutable past. \"No,\" he said slowly, \"you can't get back behind,\nand begin again.\" Dr. Lavendar, understanding, chuckled.\n\n\"Can God?\" said David.\n\nAt that Dr. Lavendar's face suddenly shone. \"David,\" he said, \"the\ngreatest thing in the world is to know that God is always beginning\nagain!\"\n\nBut David had turned to the window to watch a prowling cat upon a roof;\nand then, alas, it was time to start.\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, as, hand in hand, they walked to the big,\nroaring place where the cars were, \"Well, David, to-morrow we shall be\nat home again! You sit down here and take care of my bag while I go and\nget the tickets.\"\n\nDavid slid sidewise on to the slippery wooden settee. He had nothing to\nsay; again he felt that bleak sinking right under his little\nbreast-bone; but it stopped in the excitement of seeing Mrs. Richie's\nbrother coming into the waiting-room! There was a young lady at his\nside, and he piloted her across the big, bare room, to the very settee\nupon which David was swinging his small legs.\n\n\"I must see about the checks, dear,\" he said, and hurried off without a\nglance at the little boy who was guarding Dr. Lavendar's valise.\n\nThe sun pouring through the high, dusty window, shone into David's\neyes. He wrinkled his nose and squinted up at the young lady from under\nthe visor of his blue cap. She smiled down at him, pleasantly, and then\nopened a book; upon which David said bravely, \"You're nineteen. I'm\nseven, going on eight.\"\n\n\"What!\" said the young lady; she put her book down, and laughed. \"How\ndo you know I am nineteen, little boy?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Richie's brother said so.\"\n\nShe looked at him with amused perplexity. \"And who is Mrs. Richie's\nbrother?\"\n\nDavid pointed shyly at the vanishing figure at the end of the\nwaiting-room.\n\n\"Why, no, dear, that's my father.\"\n\n\"_I_ know,\" said David; \"he's Mr. Pryor, Mrs. Richie's brother. He\ncomes and stays at our house.\"\n\n\"Stays at your house? What on earth are you talking about, you funny\nlittle boy! Where is your house?\"\n\n\"O' Chester,\" said David.\n\nThe young lady laughed and gave him a kind glance. \"You've made a\nmistake, I think. My father doesn't know Mrs. Richie.\"\n\nDavid had nothing to say, and she opened her book. When Mr. Pryor\nreturned, hurrying to collect the bags and umbrellas, David had turned\nhis back and was looking out of the window.\n\nIt was not until they were in the train that Alice remembered to speak\nof the incident. \"Who in the world is Mrs. Richie?\" she demanded gayly,\n\"and where is Old Chester?\"\n\nThe suddenness of it was like a blow. Lloyd Pryor actually gasped; his\npresence of mind so entirely deserted him, that before he knew it, he\nhad lied--and no one knew better than Lloyd Pryor that it is a mistake\nto lie hurriedly.\n\n\"I--I don't know! Never heard of either of them.\"\n\nHis confusion was so obvious that his daughter gave him a surprised\nlook. \"But I'm told you stay at Mrs. Richie's house, in Old Chester,\"\nshe said laughing.\n\n\"What are you talking about!\"\n\n\"Why, father,\" she said blankly; his irritation was very disconcerting.\n\n\"I tell you I never heard of such a person!\" he repeated sharply; and\nthen realized what he had done. \"Damn it, what did I lie for?\" he said\nto himself, angrily; and he began to try to get out of it: \"Old\nChester? Oh, yes; I do remember. It's somewhere near Mercer, I believe.\nBut I never went there in my life.\" Then he added in his own mind,\n\"Confound it, I've done it again! What the devil has happened? Who has\ntold her?\" Aloud, he asked where she had heard of Old Chester.\n\nShe began to tell him about a little boy, who said--\"it was too funny!\"\nshe interrupted herself, smiling--\"who said that _you_ were 'Mrs.\nRichie's brother,' and you stayed at her house in Old Chester, and--\"\n\n\"Perfect nonsense!\" he broke in. \"He mistook me for some one else, I\nsuppose.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course,\" she agreed, laughing; upon which Mr. Pryor changed the\nsubject by saying that he must look over some papers. \"Don't talk now,\ndear,\" he said.\n\nAlice subsided into her novel; but after a while she put the book down.\nNo; the little boy had not mistaken him for somebody else; \"he's Mr.\nPryor,\" the child had said. But, of course, the rest was all a funny\nmistake. She took the book up again, but as she read, she began to\nfrown. Old Chester: Where had she heard of Old Chester? Then she\nremembered. A gentleman who came to call,--King? Yes; that was his\nname; Dr. King. He said he had come from Old Chester. And he had spoken\nof somebody--now, who was it? Oh, yes, Richie; Mrs. Richie. And once\nlast spring when her father went to Mercer he said he was going to Old\nChester; yet now he said he had never heard of the place.--Why! it\nalmost seemed as if she had blundered upon a secret! Her uneasy smile\nfaded involuntarily into delicate disgust; not because the nature of\nthe secret occurred to her, but because secrecy in itself was repugnant\nto her, as it is to all nobler minds. She said to herself, quickly,\nthat her father had forgotten Old Chester, that was all. Of course, he\nhad forgotten it!--or else--She did not allow herself to reach the\nalternative which his confusion so inevitably suggested:--secrecy,\nprotected by a lie. In the recoil from it she was plunged into remorse\nfor a suspicion which she had not even entertained. Truth was so much\nto this young creature, that even the shadow of an untruth gave her a\nsense of uneasiness which she could not banish. She looked furtively at\nher father, sorting out some papers, his lips compressed, his eyebrows\ndrawn into a heavy frown, and assured herself that she was a wicked\ngirl to have wondered, even for a minute, whether he was perfectly\nfrank. He! Her ideal of every virtue! And besides, why should he not be\nfrank? It was absurd as well as wicked to have that uneasy feeling. \"I\nam ashamed of myself!\" she declared hotly, and took up her novel....\n\nBut David had thrown the smooth stone from the brook!\n\nIt was a very little stone; the giant did not know for many a day where\nhe had been hit; yet it had struck him in the one vulnerable point in\nhis armor--his daughter's trust in him. How the wound widened does not\nbelong to this story.\n\nWhen Dr. Lavendar came bustling back with his tickets, David was\nabsorbed in thought. He had very little to say on the long day's\njourney over the mountains. When they reached Mercer where they were to\nspend the night, he had nothing whatever to say: his eyes were closing\nwith fatigue, and he was asleep almost before his little yellow head\ntouched the pillow. In the morning he asked a question:\n\n\"Is it a Aunt if you don't know it?\" \"What?\" said Dr. Lavendar, winding\nhis clean stock carefully around his neck.\n\nBut David relapsed into silence. He asked so few questions that day\nthat crutches for lame ducks were referred to only once.\n\nThey took the afternoon stage for Old Chester. It was a blue, delicious\nOctober day, David sat on the front seat between Dr. Lavendar and\nJonas, and as Jonas told them all that had happened during their long\nabsence, the child felt a reviving interest in life. Dr. Lavendar's\nhumming broke out into singing; he sang scraps of songs and hymns, and\nteased David about being sleepy. \"I believe he's lost his tongue,\nJonas; he hasn't said boo! since we left Mercer. I suppose he won't\nhave a thing to tell Mrs. Richie, not a thing!\"\n\n\"Well, now, there!\" said Jonas, \"her George gimme a letter for you, and\nI'll be kicked if I ain't forgot it!\" He thrust his left leg out, so\nthat his cow-hide boot hung over the dashboard, and fumbled in his\npocket; then thrust out the right leg and fumbled in another pocket;\nthen dived into two or three coat pockets; finally a very crumpled\nnote, smelling of the stable, came up from the depths and was handed to\nDr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Slow down these two-forties on a plank road, Jonas, till I get my\nglasses on.\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nAfter he read the letter he did not sing any more; his face fell into\ndeeply puzzled lines. \"I must ask Willy what it's all about,\" he said\nto himself. Certainly the note did not explain itself:\n\n\"DEAR DR. LAVENDAR: If it will not inconvenience you, will you let\nDavid stay at the rectory tonight?--and perhaps for a few days longer.\nI am not sure whether I shall be able to keep him. I may have to give\nhim back to you. Will you let him stay with you until I can decide what\nto do?\n\n\"HELENA R.\"\n\n\"I wonder if that brother has interfered?\" thought Dr. Lavendar.\n\"Something has happened; that's evident. Keep him? Well, I guess I\nwill!\" He looked down at David, his old eyes beaming with pleasure.\n\"Mrs. Richie wants you to stay with me tonight; what do you think of\nthat?\"\n\n\"I wanted to see the rabbits,\" said David; \"but I don't mind\nstaying--very much.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\n\n\"Perhaps she feels that it would be better for David to be-in different\nsurroundings.\"\n\n\"But Willy! Wednesday night she told me that I must be sure and bring\nhim back to her on Saturday. What has happened between Wednesday and\nSaturday?\"\n\n\"Very likely nothing has happened between Wednesday and Saturday. But\nperhaps she has just made up her mind.\"\n\n\"Ho!\" said Dr. Lavendar; and after a while he added, \"'Um.\"\n\nMonday morning he went up to the Stuffed Animal House. But Mrs. Richie\nsent word down-stairs that she wasn't well; would he be so kind as to\nexcuse her and to keep David a little longer. Sarah, when she gave the\nmessage, looked as mystified as Dr. Lavendar felt. \"I always thought\nshe was just wrapped up in that there boy,\" she told Maggie; \"and yet\nshe lets him stay away two days after he gets home!\" Dr. Lavendar,\npoking on with Goliath up the hill to Benjamin Wright's, had very much\nthe same feeling: \"Queer! I wish Willy wasn't bottled up; of course he\nknows what it means. Well; if I wait, she'll explain it herself.\"\n\nBut many days were to pass before Helena made any effort to explain.\nAnd meantime Dr. Lavendar's mind was full of something else: old\nBenjamin Wright was running down-hill very rapidly.\n\nIn certain ways he seemed better; he could talk--and swear--quite\nfluently. \"He sayed to me, this mawnin',\" Simmons told Dr. Lavendar,\n\"'Simmons, you freckled nigger,' he sayed, 'in the name of Lot's wife,\nwho salted my porridge?' He spoke out just as plain!\" Simmons detailed\nthis achievement of the poor dulled tongue, with the pride of a mother\nrepeating her baby's first word. Then he simpered with a little vanity\nof his own: \"He was always one to notice my freckles,\" he said.\n\nBenjamin Wright, lying in his bed with his hat on noticed other things\nthan Simmons's freckles, and spoke of them, too, quite distinctly. \"My\nboy, S-Sam, is a good boy. He comes up every day. Well, Lav-Lavendar,\nsometimes I think I was--at fault?\"\n\n\"I know you were, Benjamin. Have you told him so?\"\n\n\"Gad-a-mercy! N-no!\" snarled the other. \"He would be too puffed up.\nWon't do to make young people v-vain.\"\n\nHe \"took notice,\" too, Simmons said, of the canaries; and he even\nrolled out, stammeringly, some of his favorite verses. But, in spite of\nall this, he was running down-hill; he knew it himself, and once he\ntold Dr. Lavendar that this business of dying made a man narrow. \"I\nth-think about it all the time,\" he complained. \"Can't put my mind on\nanything else. It's damned narrowing.\"\n\nYet William King said to Dr. Lavendar that he thought that if the old\nman could be induced to talk of his grandson, he might rally. \"He never\nspeaks of him,\" the doctor said, \"but I am sure he is brooding over him\nall the time. Once or twice I have referred to the boy, but he pretends\nnot to hear me. He's using up all his strength to bear the idea that he\nis to blame, I wish I could tell him that he isn't,\" the doctor ended,\nsighing.\n\nThey had met in the hall as William was coming down-stairs and Dr.\nLavendar going up. Simmons, who had been shuffling about with a\ndecanter and hospitable suggestions, had disappeared into the\ndining-room.\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"why don't you tell him? Though in fact,\nperhaps he is to blame in some way that we don't know? You remember, he\nsaid he had 'angered the boy'?\"\n\n\"No; that wasn't it,\" said William.\n\nDr. Lavendar looked at him with sudden attention. \"Then what--\" he\nbegan, but a lean, freckled shadow in the dining-room doorway, spoke up:\n\n\"Maybe he might 'a' made Marster Sam's Sam mad, suh, that night; maybe\nhe might 'a'. But that weren't no reason,\" said Simmons, in a quivering\nvoice, \"for a boy to hit out and give his own grandfather a lick. No,\nsuh; it warn't. An' call him a liar!\" Dr. Lavendar and William King\nstared at each other and at the old man, in shocked dismay. \"His\ngrandfather used words, maybe, onc't in a while,\" Simmons mumbled on,\n\"but they didn't mean no mo'n skim-milk. Don't I know? He's damned me\nfor forty years, but he'll go to heaven all the same. The Lawd wouldn't\nhold it up agin' him. if a pore nigger wouldn't. If He would, I'd as\nlief go to hell with Mr. Benjamin as any man I know. Yes, suh, as I\nwould with you yo'self, Dr. Lavendar. He was cream kind; yes, he was!\nOne o' them pore white-trash boys at Morison's shanty Town, called me\n'Ashcat' onc't; Mr. Wright he cotched him, and licked him with his own\nhands, suh! An' he was as kind to Marster Sam as if he was a baby. But\nMarster Sam hit him a lick. No, suh; it weren't right--\" Simmons rubbed\nthe cuff of his sleeve over his eyes, and the contents of the tilting\ndecanter dribbled down the front of his spotted old coat.\n\n\"Simmons,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"what had they been quarrelling about?\"\n\nBut Simmons said glibly, that 'fore the Lawd, he didn't know.\n\n\"He does know,\" said Dr. Lavendar, as the man again retired to his\npantry. \"But, after all, the subject of the quarrel doesn't make any\ndifference. To think that the boy struck him! That must be a\nsatisfaction to Benjamin.\"\n\n\"A satisfaction?\" William repeated, bewildered.\n\nBut Dr. Lavendar did not explain. He went on up-stairs, and sat beside\nthe very old man, listening to his muffled talk, and saying what he\ncould of commonplace things. Once Benjamin Wright asked about Mrs.\nRichie:\n\n\"That female at the S-Stuffed Animal House-how is she? Poor cr-creeter;\npretty creeter! Tell her--\"\n\n\"What, Benjamin?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\" And then abruptly, \"It was my fault. I made him angry. Tell\nher.\"\n\nHe did not refer to her again; nor did he speak of the boy, except at\nthe very end. The end came the week that David was staying at the\nRectory; and perhaps Dr. Lavendar's pitying absorption in that dreary\ndying, made him give less thought to the pleasure as well as the\nperplexity of the child's presence; though certainly, when he got back\nfrom his daily visit at The Top, he found David a great comfort. Dr.\nLavendar stopped twice that week to see Mrs. Richie, but each time she\nsent word that she was engaged, would he excuse her? \"Engaged,\" in the\nsense of not wishing to see a neighbor, was a new word in Old Chester.\nDr. Lavendar did not insist. He went on up the hill to that other\nhouse, where, also, there was a deep preoccupation which Benjamin\nWright had called \"narrowing\"; but here he was not shut out. He always\nstopped to say a friendly word to Simmons, sniffling wretchedly about\namong the cages in the dining-room, and then went on up-stairs.\n\nOn this October afternoon the old servant sneaked up at his heels; and\nsliding into the room behind him as noiselessly as a shadow, settled\ndown on his hunkers close to the bedside. Once he put up a lean yellow\nhand, and patted the bedclothes; but he made no more claim to attention\nthan a dog might have done. Dr. Lavendar found his senior warden in the\nsick-room. Of late Samuel had been there every day; he had very little\nto say to his father, not from any lingering bitterness, but because,\nto poor Samuel, all seemed said--the boy was dead. When Dr. Lavendar\ncame in he glanced at the bed, and then, with a start, at the heavy\nmiddle-aged figure sitting listlessly at the bedside. Samuel nodded\nsolemnly.\n\n\"A matter of hours, William says. I shall not go home until it's over.\"\n\n\"Does he hear you?\" said Dr. Lavendar, in a low voice, leaning over to\nlook into the gray face.\n\n\"Oh, no;\" said Samuel.\n\nThe dying man opened one eye and looked at his son. \"How much you\nknow!\" he said, then closed it again.\n\n\"Are you comfortable, Benjamin?\" Dr. Lavendar asked him. There was no\nreply.\n\nSamuel's face reddened. \"You can't tell when he hears,\" he said. It was\nthen that Simmons put out his hand and patted the bedclothes over the\nold feet.\n\nThey sat there beside him for an hour before Benjamin Wright spoke\nagain; then William King came in, and stood looking down at him.\n\n\"He'll just sleep away,\" he told the son.\n\n\"I hope he is prepared,\" said Samuel, and sighed. He turned his back on\nthe big bed with the small figure sliding down and down towards the\nfoot-board, and looked out of the window. The boy had not been prepared!\n\nSuddenly, without opening his eyes, Benjamin Wright began:\n\n  \"'Animula vagula blandula,\n  Hospes comesque corporis,\n  Qua nunc abibis in loca?'\n\n\"What do you think, Lavendar?\"\n\n\"It will return to God, who gave it,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nThere was another silence; until he wakened to say, brightly, \"Simmons,\nyou freckled nigger, you'd better wring their necks, now, I guess.\"\n\n\"No, suh,\" came a murmur from the shadow on the floor, \"I'm a-goin to\ntake care of 'em fine. Yes, suh, I'll chop their eggs small; I sho'ly\nwill.\"\n\nThe dying hand began to wander over the coverlet; his son took it, but\nwas fretfully repulsed; then Dr. Lavendar made a sign, and Simmons laid\nhis thin old hand on it, and Benjamin Wright gave a contented sigh.\nAfter a while he opened that one eye again, and looked at Dr. Lavendar;\n\"Isn't it cus-customary on such occasions, to--admonish?\" he said,\npeevishly; \"you ain't doing your duty by me, Lavendar.\"\n\n\"You don't need admonition, Benjamin. You know what to do.\"\n\nSilence again, and after a while a broken murmur: \"'I here forget...\ncancel all grudge, repeal thee...'\" Then distinctly and quietly he\nsaid: \"Sam, will you forgive me?\"\n\nSamuel Wright nodded; he could not speak at first, and Simmons lifting\nhis head, looked at him, fiercely; then he swallowed several times, and\nsaid, with ponderous dignity: \"Certainly, father. Certainly.\" And\nSimmons fell back into the shadows.\n\n\"Of course,\" murmured Benjamin Wright, \"if I g-get well, it needn't\nhold, you know.\"\n\nAfter that he seemed to sleep a little, until, his eyes still closed,\nhe said, \"The boy slapped my face. So it's all right.\"\n\nSamuel started up from his chair at the bedside, shocked and protesting.\n\n\"Gad-a-mercy!\" said Benjamin Wright, fretfully, opening his eye and\nlooking at him--\"that makes us square! Don't you see?\"\n\nThere was a long silence. Once Dr. Lavendar spoke to him, and once\nWilliam King touched his wrist, but he seemed to sleep. Then abruptly,\nand quite clearly, he spoke:\n\n\"'Crito, I owe a cock to Aesculapius'.... Lavendar?\"\n\n\"Yes, Benjamin?\"\n\n\"The debt is paid. Hey? I got the receipt.\"\n\n\"He is wandering,\" said Samuel. \"Father, what do you want?\"\n\nBut he did not speak again.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\n\nHelena had asked Dr. Lavendar to keep David, out of abject fear of\nWilliam King. The doctor had granted her until Sunday to give him up\nwithout explanations; if she had not done so then, he must, he said\ndoggedly, \"tell.\" In sending the child to the Rectory she had not given\nhim up; she had only declared a truce. She had tied Dr. King's hands\nand gained a breathing-space in which to decide what she must do; but\nshe used to watch the hill road every morning, with scared eyes, lest\nhe should stop on his way up to Benjamin Wright's to say that the truce\nwas over. David came running joyously home two or three times, for more\nclothes, or to see the rabbits, or to hang about her neck and tell her\nof his journey. Upon one of these occasions, he mentioned casually that\n\"Alice had gone travelling.\" Helena's heart stood still; then beat\nsuffocatingly in her throat while she drew the story piecemeal from the\nchild's lips.\n\n\"She said,\" David babbled, \"that he didn't know you. An' she said--\"\n\n\"And where was he--Mr. Pryor, all this time?\" she demanded,\nbreathlessly. She opened and shut her hands, and drew in her breath,\nwincing as if in physical pain; across all the days since that meeting\nof the Innocents, she felt his anger flaying her for the contretemps.\nIt brought home to her, with an aching sense of finality the\ncompleteness of the break between them. But it did more than that. Even\nwhile she cringed with personal dismay, she was groping blindly towards\na deeper and diviner despair: Those two young creatures were the\ncherubims at the east of the garden, bearing the sword that turned\nevery way! By the unsparing light of that flashing blade the two\nsinners, standing outside, saw each other; but the one, at least, began\nto see something else: the glory of the garden upon which, thirteen\nyears ago, she had turned her back! ...\n\nHelena did not ask any more questions. David, lounging against her\nknee, chattered on, ending with a candid and uncomplimentary reference\nto Mr. Pryor; but she did not reprove him. When, having, as it were,\ndisplayed his sling and his bag of pebbles, he was ready to run\njoyously back to the other home, she kissed him silently and with a\nstrange new consciousness of the everlasting difference between them.\nBut that did not lessen her passionate determination that William King\nshould never steal him from her! Yet how could she defeat her enemy?\n\nA week passed, and still undecided, she wrote to Dr. Lavendar asking\nfurther hospitality for David: \"I want to have him with me always, but\njust now I am a little uncertain whether I can do so, because I am\ngoing to leave Old Chester. I will come and ask you about it in a few\ndays.\"\n\nShe took the note out to the stable to George and bade him carry it to\nthe Rectory; as she went back to the empty house, she had a glimpse of\nMr. and Mrs. Smith's jewel-like eyes gleaming redly upon her from the\ngloom of the rabbit-hutch, and a desolate longing for David made her\nhurry indoors. But there the silence, unbroken by the child's voice,\nwas unendurable; it seemed to turn the confusion of her thoughts into\nactual noise. So she went out again to pace up and down the little\nbrick paths between the box borders of the garden. The morning was\nstill and warm; the frost of a sharp night had melted into threads of\nmist that beaded the edges of blackened leaves and glittered on the\nbrown stems of withered annuals. Once she stopped to pull up some weed\nthat showed itself still green and arrogant, spilling its seeds from\nyellowing pods among the frosted flowers; and once she picked, and put\ninto the bosom of her dress, a little belated monthly rose, warm and\npink at the heart, but with blighted outer petals. She found it\nimpossible to pursue any one line of thought to its logical outcome;\nher mind flew like a shuttlecock between a dozen plans for William\nKing's defeat. \"Oh, I must decide on something!\" she thought,\ndesperately. But the futile morning passed without decision. After\ndinner she went resolutely into the parlor, and sitting down on her\nlittle low chair, pressed her fingers over her eyes to shut out any\npossible distractions. \"Now,\" she said, \"I will make up my mind.\"\n\nA bluebottle fly buzzing up and down the window dropped on the sill,\nthen began to buzz again. Through the Venetian blinds the sunshine fell\nin bars across the carpet; she opened her eyes and watched its silent\nmovement,--so intangible, so irresistible; the nearest line touched her\nfoot; her skirt; climbed to her listless hands; out in the hall the\nclock slowly struck three; her thoughts blurred and ran together; her\nvery fears seemed to sink into space and time and silence. The sunshine\npassed over her lap, resting warm upon her bosom; up and up, until,\nsuddenly, like a hot finger, it touched her face. That roused her; she\ngot up, sighing, and rubbing her eyes as if she had been asleep. No\ndecision! ...\n\nSuppose she should go down into the orchard? Away from the house, she\nmight be better able to put her mind on it. She knew a spot where,\nhidden from curious eyes, she could lie at full length in the grass,\nwarm on a western slope. David might have found her, but no one else\nwould think of looking for her there.... When she sank down on the\nground and clasped her hands under her head, her eyes were level with\nthe late-blossoming grass that stirred a little in an unfelt breath of\nair; two frosted stalks of goldenrod, nodded and swung back and nodded\nagain, between her and the sky. With absent intentness, she watched an\nant creeping carefully to the top of a head of timothy, then jolting\noff at some jar she could not feel. The sun poured full upon her face;\nthere was not a cloud anywhere in the unfathomable blue stillness.\nThought seemed to drown in seas of light, and personality dwindled\nuntil her pain and fright did not seem to belong to her. She had to\nclose her eyes to shut herself into her own dark consciousness:\n\nHow should she keep her child?\n\nThe simplicity of immediate flight she had, of course, long ago\nabandoned; it would only postpone the struggle with William King. That\ninflexible face of duty would hunt her down wherever she was, and take\nthe child from her. No; there was but one thing to do: parry his threat\nof confessing to Dr. Lavendar that he had \"made a mistake\" in advising\nthat David should be given to her, by a confession of her own, a\nconfession which should admit the doctor's change of mind without\nmentioning its cause, and at the same time hold such promises for the\nfuture that the old minister would say that she might have David. Then\nshe could turn upon her enemy with the triumphant declaration that she\nhad forestalled him; that she had said exactly what he had threatened\nto say,--no more, no less. And yet the child was hers! But as she tried\nto plan how she should put it, the idea eluded her. She would tell Dr.\nLavendar thus and so: but even as she marshalled her words, that scene\nin the waiting-room of the railroad station ached in her imagination.\nAlice's ignorance of her existence became an insult; what she was going\nto say to Dr. Lavendar turned into a denunciation of Lloyd Pryor; he\nwas vile, and cruel, and contemptible! But these words stumbled, too.\nBack in her mind, common sense agreed to Lloyd's silence to his\ndaughter; and, suddenly, to her amazement, she knew that she agreed,\nnot only to the silence, but to his objection to marrying her. It would\nbe an offence for her to live with Alice! Marriage, which would have\nquitted this new tormenting sense of responsibility and made her like\nother people, would not have lessened that offence. It came over her\nwith still more acute surprise, that she had never felt this before. It\nwas as if that fire of shame which had consumed her vanity the night\nshe had confessed to William King, had brought illumination as well as\nburning. By its glare she saw that such a secret as she and Lloyd held\nbetween them would be intolerable in the presence of that young girl.\nLloyd had felt it--here she tingled all over:--Lloyd was more sensitive\nthan she! Ah, well; Alice was his own daughter, and he knew how almost\nfanatical she was about truth; so he was especially sensitive. But Dr.\nKing? He had felt it about David: \"whether you married this man or not\nwould make no difference about David.\" She thought about this for\nawhile in heavy perplexity.\n\nThen with a start she came back again to what she must say to Dr.\nLavendar: \"I will promise to bring David up just as he wishes; and I\nwill tell him about my money; he doesn't know how rich I am; he will\nfeel that he has no right to rob David of such a chance. And I will say\nthat nobody could love him as I can.\" Love him! Had she not given up\neverything for him, sacrificed everything to keep him? For his sake she\nhad not married! In this rush of self-approval she sat up, and looked\nblindly off over the orchard below her at the distant hills, blue and\nslumberous in the sunshine. Then she leaned her head in her hands and\nstared fixedly at a clump of clover, green still in the yellowing\nstubble.... She had chosen her child instead of a convention which,\nless than a month ago, she had so passionately desired; a month ago it\nseemed to her that, once married, she could do no more harm, have no\nmore shame. Yet she had given all this up for David! ... Suddenly she\nspurred her mind back to that talk with Dr. Lavendar: she would\npromise--anything! And planning her promises, she sat there, gazing\nwith intent, unseeing eyes at the clover, until the chilly twilight\ndrove her into the house.\n\nIt was not until Saturday that she dared to go to the Rectory. It was\nearly in the afternoon, just as the Collect Class was gathering in the\ndining-room. She had forgotten it, she told Mary, as she closed her\numbrella on the door-step. \"Can I wait in the study?\" she asked,\nuncertainly;--there was time to go back! The task of telling part of\nthe truth to this mild old man, whose eye was like a sword, suddenly\ndaunted her. She would wait a few days.--she began to open her\numbrella, her fingers blundering with haste,--but retreat was cut off:\nDr. Lavendar, on his way to the dining-room, with Danny at his heels,\nsaw her; she could not escape!\n\n\"Why, Mrs. Richie!\" he said, smiling at her over his spectacles. \"Hi,\nDavid, who do you suppose is here? Mrs. Richie!\"\n\nDavid came running out of the dining-room; \"Did you bring my slag?\" he\ndemanded.\n\nAnd she had to confess that she had not thought of it; \"You didn't tell\nme you wanted it, dear,\" she defended herself, nervously.\n\n\"Oh, well,\" said David, \"I'm coming home to-morrow, and I'll get it.\"\n\n\"Would you like to come home?\" she could not help saying.\n\n\"I'd just as lieves,\" said David.\n\n\"Run back,\" Dr. Lavendar commanded, \"and tell the children I'm coming\nin a minute. Tell Theophilus Bell not to play Indian under the table.\nNow, Mrs. Richie, what shall we do? Do you mind coming in and hearing\nthem say their Collect? Or would you rather wait in the study? We shall\nbe through in three-quarters of an hour. David shall bring you some\njumbles and apples. I suppose you are going to carry him off?\" Dr.\nLavendar said, ruefully.\n\n\"Oh,\" she faltered in a sudden panic, \"I will come some other time,\"\nbut somehow or other, before she knew it, she was in the dining-room;\nvery likely it was because she would not loosen the clasp of David's\nlittle warm careless hand, and so her reluctant feet followed him in\nhis hurry to admonish Theophilus. When she entered, instant silence\nfell upon the children. Lydia Wright, stumbling through the catechism\nto Ellen Dale [Illustration: \"Dr. Lavendar,\" said Helena, \"in regard to\nDavid.\"] who held the prayer-book and prompted, let her voice trail off\nand her mouth remain open at the sight of a visitor; Theophilus Bell\nrubbed his sleeve over some chalk-marks on the blackboard;--\"I am\ndrawing a woman with an umbrella,\" he had announced, condescendingly;\n\"I saw her coming up the path,\"--but when he saw her sitting down by\nDr. Lavendar, Theophilus skulked to his seat, and read his Collect ever\nwith unheeding attention.\n\nThen the business of the afternoon began, and Helena sat and listened\nto it. It was a scene which had repeated itself for two generations in\nOld Chester; the fathers and mothers of these little people had sat on\nthese same narrow benches without backs, and looked at the blackboard\nwhere Dr. Lavendar wrote out the divisions of the Collect, and then\nlooked at the sideboard, where stood a dish of apples and another of\njumbles. They, too, had said their catechism, announcing, in singsong\nchorus that they heartily thanked their Heavenly Father that He had\ncalled them to this state of salvation; and Dr. Lavendar had asked one\nor another of them, as he now asked their children, \"What meanest thou\nby this word Sacrament?\" \"What is the inward and spiritual grace?\" That\nafternoon, when he swooped down on David, Helen squeezed her hands\ntogether with anxiety; did he know what was the inward and spiritual\ngrace? Could he say it? She held her breath until he had sailed\ntriumphantly through:\n\n_\"A death unto sin, and a new birth unto righteousness,\"_ and so on.\nWhen he had finished, she looked proudly at Dr. Lavendar, who, to her\nastonishment, did not bestow a single word of praise!\n\n\"And yet,\" said Helena to herself, \"he said it better than any of them,\nand he is the youngest!--David said it very well, didn't he?\" she\nventured, in a whisper.\n\nDr. Lavendar made no answer, but opened a book; on which there was a\ncheerful shuffling as the children jostled each other in their efforts\nto kneel down in the space between the benches; when all was still, Dr.\nLavendar repeated the Collect. Helena dropped her face in her hands,\nand listened:\n\n_\"Grant, we beseech Thee, merciful Lord, to Thy faithful people pardon\nand peace, that they may be cleansed from all their sins, and serve\nThee with a quiet mind; through Jesus Christ our Lord.\"_\n\n_\"Amen!\"_ said the children, joyfully; and, scrambling to their feet,\nlooked politely at the sideboard. David, who played host on these\noccasions, made haste to poke the apples at Mrs. Richie, who could not\nhelp whispering to him to pull his collar straight; and she even pushed\nhis hair back a little from his forehead. The sense of possession came\nover her like a wave, and with it a pang of terror that made her lips\ndry; at that moment she knew the taste of fear in her mouth. When Dr.\nLavendar spoke to her, she was unable to reply.\n\n\"Well, now, Mrs. Richie,\" he said, \"I expect these little people can\neat their apples without us; can't you, chickabiddies?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir!\" said the children, in eager chorus, eying the apples.\n\n\"You and I will go into the study for a while,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nShe followed him speechlessly...the time had come.\n\nDr. Lavendar, hospitable and fussy, drew up a horsehair-covered chair\nwith ears on each side of the back, and bade her sit down; then he\npoked the fire, and put on a big lump of coal, and asked her if she was\nsure she was warm enough? \"It's pretty chilly; we didn't have weather\nas cold as this in October when I was your age.\"\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar,\" said Helena;--and at the tremor in her voice he looked\nat her quickly, and then looked away;--\"in regard to David--\"\n\n\"Yes; I understand that you are not sure that you want to keep him?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I am sure. Entirely sure!\" She paused, uncertain what to say\nnext. Dr. Lavendar gave her no assistance. Her breath caught in an\nunsteady laugh. \"You are not smoking, Dr. Lavendar! Do light your pipe.\nI am quite used to tobacco smoke, I assure you.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Dr. Lavendar, quietly; \"I will not smoke now.\"\n\n\"In regard to David,\" she began; and gripped her hands tight together,\nfor she saw with dismay that they were shaking. She had an instant of\nangry surprise at her own body. It was betraying her to the silent,\nwatching old man on the other side of the fire. \"I want him; but I mean\nto leave Old Chester. Would you be willing to let me take him away?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"we shall be very sorry to have you leave us;\nand, of course, I shall be sorry to lose David. Very sorry! I shall\nfeel,\" said Dr. Lavendar, with a rueful chuckle, \"as if I had lost a\ntooth! That is about as omnipresent sense of loss as a human critter\ncan have. But I can't see that that is any reason for not letting you\ntake him.\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Where are you going, and when do you go?\" he asked, easily; but he\nglanced at those shaking hands.\n\n\"I want to go next week. I--oh, Dr. Lavendar! I want David; I am sure\nnobody can do more for him than I can. Nobody can love him as I do! And\nI think he would be pretty homesick for me, too, if I did not take him.\nBut--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\nShe tried to smile; then spread her handkerchief on her knee, and\nfolded it over and over with elaborate self-control. \"Dr. King\nthinks--I ought not to have him. He says,\" she stopped; the effort to\nrepeat William King's exact words drove the color out of her face. \"He\nsays he made a mistake in advising you to give David to me. He thinks--\"\n\nshe caught her breath with a gasp;--\"I am not to be trusted to--to\nbring him up.\" She trembled with relief; the worst was over. She had\nkept her promise, to the letter. Now she would begin to fight for her\nchild: \"You will let me have him? You will!--Please say you will, Dr.\nLavendar!\"\n\n\"Why does Dr. King think you are not to be trusted?\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Because,\" she said, gathering up all her courage, \"he thinks that\nI--that David ought to be brought up by some one more--more religious,\nI suppose, than I am. I know I'm not very religious. Not as good as\neverybody in Old Chester; but I will bring him up just as you want me\nto! Any way at all you want me to. I will go to church regularly; truly\nI will, Dr. Lavendar; truly!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar was silent. The lump of coal in the grate suddenly split\nand fell apart; there was a crackling leap of flames, and from between\nthe bars a spurt of bubbling gas sent a whiff of acrid smoke puffing\nout into the room.\n\n\"You will let me have him, won't you? You said you would! If you take\nhim away from me--\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nShe looked at him dumbly; her chin shook.\n\n\"The care of a child is sometimes a great burden; have you considered\nthat?\"\n\n\"Nothing would be a burden if I did it for David!\"\n\n\"It might involve much sacrifice.\"\n\n\"I have sacrificed everything for him!\" she burst out.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"There was something,\" she said evasively, \"that I wanted to do very\nmuch; something that would have made me--happier. But I couldn't if I\nkept David; so I gave it up.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar ruminated. \"You wanted David the most?\"\n\n\"Yes?\" she said passionately.\n\n\"Then it was a choice, not a sacrifice, wasn't it, my dear? No doubt\nyou would make sacrifices for him, only in this matter you chose what\nyou wanted most, And your choice was for your own happiness I take\nit,--not his?\"\n\nShe nodded doubtfully, baffled for a minute, and not quite\nunderstanding. Then she said, \"But I would choose his happiness; I have\ndone some things for him, truly I have. Oh, little things, I suppose\nyou would call them; but I wasn't used to them and they seemed great to\nme. But I would choose his happiness, Dr. Lavendar. So you will let me\nkeep him?\"\n\n\"If you think you ought to have him, you may.\"\n\n\"No matter what Dr. King says?\"\n\n\"No matter what Dr. King says. If you are sure that it is best for him\nto be with you, I, at least, shall not interfere.\"\n\nHer relief was so great that the tears ran down her face. \"It is best!\"\n\n\"Best to be with you,\" Dr. Lavendar repeated thoughtfully; \"Why, Mrs.\nRichie?\"\n\n\"Why? Why because I want him so much, I have nothing in the whole\nworld, Dr. Lavendar, but David. Nothing.\"\n\n\"Other folks might want him.\"\n\n\"But nobody can do as much for him as I can! I have a good deal of\nmoney.\"\n\n\"You mean you can feed him, and clothe him, and educate him? Well; I\ncould do that myself. What else can you do?\"\n\n\"What else?\"\n\n\"Yes. One person can give him material care about as well as another.\nWhat else can you do?\"\n\n\"Why--\" she began, helplessly; \"I don't think I know just what you\nmean?\"\n\n\"My friend,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"are you a good woman?\"\n\nThe shock of the question left her speechless. She tried to meet his\neye; quailed, half rose: \"I don't know what you mean! What right have\nyou to ask me such a question--\"\n\nDr. Lavendar waited.\n\n\"Perhaps I don't think about things, quite as you do. I am not\nreligious; I told you that. I don't do things because of religion; I\nbelieve in--in reason, not in religion. I try to be good in--my way. I\ndon't know that I've been what you would call 'good.'\"\n\n\"What do I call 'good'?\"\n\nAt which she burst out that people in Old Chester thought that people\nwho did not live according to convention were not good. For her part,\nconvention was the last thing she thought of. Indeed, she believed\nthere was more wickedness in convention than out of it! \"If I have done\nanything you would call wrong, it was because I couldn't help it; I\nnever wanted to do wrong. I just wanted to be happy. I've tried to be\ncharitable. And I've tried to be good--in my way; but not because I\nwanted to go to heaven, and all that. I--I don't believe in heaven,\"\nshe ended with terrified flippancy.\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" said Dr. Lavendar sadly; \"but, oh, my child, how you do\nbelieve in hell!\"\n\nShe stared at him for one broken moment; then flung her arms out on the\ntable beside her, and dropped her head upon them. Dr. Lavendar did not\nspeak, There was a long silence, suddenly she turned upon him, her face\nquivering; \"Yes! I do believe in hell. Because that is what life is!\nI've never had any happiness at all. Oh, it seemed so little a thing to\nask--just to be happy Yes, I believe in hell.\"\n\nDr. Lavendar waited.\n\n\"If I've done what people say isn't right, it was only because I wanted\nto be happy; not because I wanted to do wrong. It was because of Love.\nYou can't understand what that means! But Christ said that because a\nwoman loved much, much was to be forgiven! Do you remember that?\" she\ndemanded hotly.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"but do you remember Who it was that she\nloved much? She loved Goodness, Mrs. Richie. Have you loved Goodness?\"\n\n\"Oh, what is the use of talking about it?\" she said passionately; \"we\nwon't agree. If it was all to do over again, perhaps I--But life was so\ndreadful! If you judge me, remember--\"\n\n\"I do not judge you.\"\n\n\"--remember that everything has been against me. Everything! From the\nvery beginning, I never had anything I wanted, I thought I was going to\nbe happy, but each time I wasn't. Until I had David. And now you will\ntake him. Oh, what a miserable failure life has been! I wish I could\ndie. But it seems you can't even die when you want to!\"\n\nFor a moment she covered her face with her hands. Then she said: \"I\nsuppose I might as well tell you. Mr. Pryor is not--.... After my baby\ndied, I left my husband. Lloyd loved me, and I went to live with him.\"\n\n\"You went to live with your brother?\" Dr. Lavendar repeated perplexed.\n\n\"He is not my brother.\"\n\nThere was silence for a full minute. Then Dr. Lavendar said quietly,\n\"Go on.\"\n\nShe looked at him with hunted eyes. \"Now, you will take David away. Why\ndid you make me tell you?\"\n\n\"It is better to tell me.\" He laid his old hand on hers, clenched upon\nthe table at her side. The room was very still; once a coal fell from\nthe grate, and once there was the soft brush of rain against the window.\n\n\"It's my whole life. I can't tell you my whole life, I didn't even want\nto be wicked; all I wanted was to be happy, And so I went to Lloyd. It\ndidn't seem so very wrong. We didn't hurt anybody. His wife was\ndead.--As for Frederick, I have no regrets!\" she ended fiercely.\n\nThe room had darkened in the rainy October twilight, and the fire was\nlow; Dr. Lavendar could hardly see her quivering face.\n\n\"But now it's all over between Lloyd and me. I sha'n't see him ever any\nmore. He would have married me, if I had been willing to give up David.\nBut I was not willing.\"\n\n\"You thought it would make everything right if you married this man?\"\n\n\"Right?\" she repeated, surprised; \"why, of course. At least I suppose\nthat is what good people call right,\" she added dully.\n\n\"And you gave up doing right, to have David?\"\n\nShe felt that she was trapped, and yet she could not understand why; \"I\nsacrificed myself,\" she said confusedly.\n\n \"No,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"you sacrificed a conviction. A poor, false\nconviction, but such as it was, you threw it over to keep David.\"\n\nShe looked at him in terror; \"It was just selfishness, you think?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Perhaps it was,\" she admitted. \"Oh, how frightful life is! To try to\nbe happy, is to be bad.\"\n\n\"No, to try to be happy at the expense of other people, is to be bad.\"\n\n\"But I never did that! Lloyd's wife was dead;--Of course, if she had\nbeen alive\"--Helena lifted her head with the curious pride of caste in\nsin which is so strongly felt by the woman who is a sinner;--\"if she\nhad been alive, I wouldn't have thought of such a thing. But nobody\nknew, so I never did any harm,\"--then she quailed; \"at least, I never\nmeant to do any harm. So you can't say it was at anybody's expense.\"\n\n\"It was at everybody's expense. Marriage is what makes us civilized. If\nanybody injures marriage we all pay.\"\n\nShe was silent.\n\n\"If every dissatisfied wife should do what you did, could decent life\ngo on? Wouldn't we all drop down a little nearer the animals?\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" she said vaguely. But she was not following him. She had\nentered into this experience of sin, not by the door of reason, but of\nemotion; she could leave it only by the same door. The high appeal to\nindividual renunciation for the good of the many, was entirely beyond\nher. Dr. Lavendar did not press it any further.\n\n\"Well, anyhow,\" she said dully, \"I didn't get any happiness--whether it\nwas at other people's expense or not. When David came, I thought, 'now\nI am going to be happy!' That was all I wanted: happiness. And now you\nwill take him away.\"\n\n\"I have not said I would take him away.\"\n\nShe trembled so at that, that for an instant she could not speak. \"Not\ntake him?\"\n\n\"Not if you think it is best for him to stay with you.\"\n\nShe began to pant with fear, \"You mean something by that, I know you do\nI Oh, what do you mean? I cannot do him any harm!\"\n\n\"Woman,\" said Dr. Lavendar solemnly, \"_can you do him any good_?\"\n\nShe cowered silently away from him.\n\n\"Can you teach him to tell the truth, you, who have lived a lie? Can\nyou make him brave, you, who could not endure? Can you make him\nhonorable, you, who have deceived us all? Can you make him unselfish,\nyou, who have thought only of self? Can you teach him purity, you,\nwho--\"\n\n\"Stop! I cannot bear it.\"\n\n\"Tell me the truth: can you do him any good?\"\n\nThat last solemn word fell into profound silence. There was not a sound\nin the still darkness of the study; and suddenly her soul was still,\ntoo ... the whirlwind of anger had died out; the shock of\nresponsibility had subsided; the hiss of those flames of shame had\nceased. She was in the centre of all the tumults, where lies the quiet\nmind of God. For a long time she did not speak. Then, by and by, her\nface hidden in her arms on the table, she said, in a whisper:\n\n\"No.\"\n\n_And after the fire, the still small Voice._\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\n\nDr. Lavendar looked at the bowed head; but he offered no comfort. When\nshe said brokenly, \"No; I can't have him. I can't have him,\" he\nassented; and there was silence again. It was broken by a small,\ncheerful voice:\n\n\"Mary says supper's ready. There's milk toast, an'--\"\n\nDr. Lavendar went as quickly as he could to the door; when he opened it\nhe stood between the little boy and Helena. \"Tell Mary not to wait for\nme; but ask her to give you your supper.\"\n\n\"An' Mary says that in Ireland they call clover 'shamrocks'; an'--\"\n\nDr. Lavendar gently closed the door. When he went back to his seat on\nthe other side of the table, she said faintly, \"That was--?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Oh,\" she whispered. \"I knew I would have to give him up. I knew I had\nno right to him.\"\n\n\"No; you had no right to him.\"\n\n\"But I loved him so! Oh, I thought, maybe, I would be--like other\npeople, if I had him.\"\n\nAfter a while, with long pauses between the sentences, she began to\ntell him. ...\n\n\"I never thought about goodness; or badness either. Only about Lloyd,\nand happiness. I thought I had a right to happiness. But I was angry at\nall the complacent married people; they were so satisfied with\nthemselves! And yet all the time I wished Frederick would die so that I\ncould be married. Oh, the time was _so_ long!\" She threw her arms up\nwith a gesture of shuddering weariness; then clasped her hands between\nher knees, and staring at the floor, began to speak. Her words poured\nout, incoherent, contradictory, full of bewilderment and pain. \"Yes; I\nwasn't very happy, except just at first. After a while I got so tired\nof Lloyd's selfishness. Oh--he was so selfish! I used to look at him\nsometimes, and almost hate him. He always took the most comfortable\nchair, and he cared so much about things to eat. And he got fat. And he\ndidn't mind Frederick's living. I could see that. And I prayed that\nFrederick would die.--I suppose you think it was wicked to pray that?\"\n\n\"Go on.\"\n\n\"It was only because I loved Lloyd so much. But he didn't die. And I\nbegan not to be happy. And then I thought Lloyd didn't want to talk to\nme about Alice. Alice is his daughter. It was three years ago I first\nnoticed that. But I wasn't really sure until this summer. He didn't\neven like to show me her picture. That nearly killed me, Dr. Lavendar.\nAnd once, just lately, he told me her 'greatest charm was her\ninnocence.' Oh, it was cruel in him to say that! How could he be so\ncruel!\" she looked at him for sympathy; but he was silent. \"But\nunderneath, somehow, I understood; and that made me angry,--to\nunderstand. It was this summer that I began to be angry. And then I got\nso jealous: not of Alice, exactly; but of what she stood for. It was a\nkind of fright, because I couldn't go back and begin again. Do you know\nwhat I mean?\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"Oh, Dr. Lavendar, it is so horrible! When I began to understand, it\nseemed like something broken--broken--broken! It could never be mended.\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n...Sometimes, as she went on he asked a question, and sometimes made a\ncomment. The comment was always the same: when she spoke of marrying\nFrederick to get away from her bleak life with her grandmother, she\nsaid, \"Oh, it was a mistake, a mistake!\"\n\nAnd he said, \"It was a sin.\"\n\nAnd again: \"I thought Lloyd would make me happy; I just went to be\nhappy; that was my second mistake.\"\n\n\"It was your second sin.\"\n\n\"You think I am a sinner,\" she said; \"oh, Dr. Lavendar, I am not as bad\nas you think! I always expected to marry Lloyd. I am not like a--fallen\nwoman.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nShe shrank back with a gesture of dismay. \"I always expected to marry\nhim!\"\n\n\"It would have been just the same if you had married him.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you,\" she said faintly.\n\n\"From the beginning,\" he said, \"you have thought only of self. You\nwould not have been redeemed from self by gaining what would have made\nyou more satisfied with yourself.\"\n\nShe thought about this for a few minutes in a heavy silence. \"You mean,\ngetting married would not have changed things, really?\"\n\n\"It would have made the life you were living less harmful to your\nfellow creatures, perhaps; but it would have made no difference between\nyou two.\"\n\n\"I thought I would be happier,\" she said.\n\n\"Happier!\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"what sort of happiness could there be in\na marriage where the man could never respect the woman, and the woman\ncould never trust the man!\"\n\n\"I hadn't thought of it that way,\" she said slowly. And then she began\nagain. ... Once Dr. Lavendar interrupted her to light the lamp, for the\nstudy was dark except for the wink of red coals in the grate; and once\nhe checked her, and went into the dining-room to bring her a glass of\nwine and some food. She protested, but he had his way, and she ate and\ndrank before going on with her story. When she told him, brokenly, of\nSam Wright, Dr. Lavendar got up and walked the length of the study. But\nhe made no comment--none was needed. When she ended, there was a long\npause. Suddenly she clasped her hands on the top of her head, and bowed\nher forehead almost to her knees. She seemed to speak as if to herself:\n\n\"Not worthy; not worthy.\"... Then aloud; _\"I give him up,\"_ she said.\nAnd stretched out empty arms.\n\nShe rose, and began to feel about for her cloak that had fallen across\nthe arm of her chair. But she was half blind with weeping, and Dr.\nLavendar found it for her and gently put it over her shoulders.\n\n\"I will go away,\" she said, \"but I may see him again, mayn't I? Just\nonce more, to say good-by to him.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\n\"I'll send his little things down to you to-morrow, Dr. Lavendar.\nOh,--his dear little things!\"\n\n\"Very well.\"\n\nHe lighted a lantern for her, but made no offer to see her home, or to\nsend his Mary along as an escort. Yet when he let her go away into the\nrainy darkness, he stood in the doorway a long while, looking after\nher. Then he went back to the study, to pace up and down, up and down.\nTwice he stopped and looked out of the window, and then at the clock.\nBut each time he put the impulse aside. He must not interfere.\n\nIt was almost midnight before he took his lamp and went up-stairs; at\nDavid's door he hesitated, and then went in. The little boy was lying\ncurled up like a puppy, his face almost hidden in his pillow, but his\ncheek glowing red under the soft thatch of hair. Dr. Lavendar, shading\nhis lamp with one hand, looked down at him a long time. On the wall\nbehind him and half-way across the ceiling, the old man's shadow loomed\nwavering and gigantic, and the light, flickering up on his face,\ndeepened the lines of age and of other people's troubles. By and by he\nstooped down, and gently laid his old palm upon the little head.\n\nWhen he lifted himself up his face was full of peace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\n\n\"William,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"you may tell me anything I ought to know\nabout Mrs. Richie.\"\n\nThe doctor looked at him with a start, and a half-spoken question.\n\n\"Yes; she told me. But I want to ask you about the man. She didn't say\nmuch about him.\"\n\nThis was Sunday evening; David had gone to bed, and Danny had climbed\nup into Dr. Lavendar's chair, and been gently deposited on the\nhearth-rug. \"No, Daniel; not to-night, sir. I've got to have my chair\njust this once.\" William had come in for his usual smoke, but he had\nbeen more than usually silent. When Dr. Lavendar gave his calm\npermission, the doctor's wretched perplexity of the past month could\nhardly find words. He said, first of all,\n\n\"David? Of course you will take him away. It will break her heart!\"\n\n\"A broken heart is not such a bad thing, Willy. Our Heavenly Father\ndoes not despise it.\"\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar, why can't she keep him? She'll never see that scoundrel\nagain!\"\n\n\"Do you think a woman with such a story is fit to bring up a child,\nWilliam?\"\n\nThe doctor was silent.\n\n\"She thinks not, herself,\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\n\"Does she?\" William King said; and a minute afterwards fumbled in his\ncoat tails for his pocket-handkerchief. \"What is she going to do?\" he\nasked huskily.\n\n\"She feels that she had better leave Old Chester.\"\n\n\"Do you think so, sir?\"\n\nDr. Lavendar sighed. \"I would like to have her here; I would like to\ntake care of her, for a while. But I don't think she could stand it; on\nyour account.\"\n\n\"My account!\" William King pushed his chair back, and got on his feet;\n\"Dr. Lavendar, I--I--\"\n\n\"She would feel the embarrassment of your knowledge,\" said the old man.\n\nDr. King sat down. Then he said, \"I am the last man to judge her.\"\n\n\"'Beginning at the eldest, even unto the last,'\" murmured Dr. Lavendar.\n\"Shame is a curious thing, William. It's like some of your medicines.\nThe right amount cures. Too much kills. I've seen that with hard\ndrinkers. Where a drunkard is a poor, uneducated fellow, shame gives\nhim a good boost towards decency. But a man of education, William, a\nman of opportunity--if he wakes up to what he has been doing, shame\ngives him such a shove he is apt to go all round the circle, and come\nup just where he started! Shame is a blessed thing,--when you don't get\ntoo much of it. She would get too much of it here. But--\" he stopped\nand smiled; \"sin has done its divine work, I think.\"\n\n\"Sin?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Lavendar, cheerfully; \"have you ever noticed that every\nsingle human experience--except, perhaps, the stagnation of conceit; I\nhaven't found anything hopeful in that yet; but maybe I shall some\nday!--but, except for conceit, I have never known any human experience\nof pain or sin that could not be the gate of heaven. Mind! I don't say\nthat it always is; but it can be. Has that ever occurred to you?\"\n\n\"Well, no,\" the doctor confessed; \"I can't say that it has.\"\n\n\"Oh, you're young yet,\" Dr. Lavendar said encouragingly, \"My boy, let\nme tell you that there are some good folks who don't begin to know\ntheir Heavenly Father, as the sinner does who climbed up to Him out of\nthe gutter.\"\n\n\"A dangerous doctrine,\" William ruminated.\n\n\"Oh, I don't preach it,\" Dr. Lavendar said placidly \"but I don't preach\neverything I know.\"\n\nWilliam was not following him. He said abruptly, \"What are you going to\ndo with David?\"\n\n\"David is going to stay with me.\"\n\nAnd William said again, \"It will break her heart!\"\n\n\"I hope so,\" said Dr. Lavendar solemnly, How he watched that poor\nheart, in the next few days! Every afternoon his shabby old buggy went\ntugging up the hill. Sometimes he found her walking restlessly about in\nthe frosted garden; sometimes standing mutely at the long window in the\nparlor, looking for him; sometimes prostrate on her bed. When he took\nher hand--listless one day, fiercely despairing the next,--he would\nglance at her with a swift scrutiny that questioned, and then waited.\nThe pity in his old eyes never dimmed their relentless keenness; they\nseemed to raid her face, sounding all the shallows in search of depths.\nFor with his exultant faith in human nature, he believed that somewhere\nin the depths he should find God, It is only the pure in heart who can\nfind Him in impurity, who can see, behind the murky veil of stained\nflesh, the very face of Christ declaring the possibilities of the\nflesh!--but this old man sought and knew that he should find Him. He\nwaited and watched for many days, looking for that recognition of\nwrong-doing which breaks the heart by its revelation of goodness that\nmight have been; for there is no true knowledge of sin, without a\ndivine and redeeming knowledge of righteousness! So, as this old saint\nlooked into the breaking heart, pity for the sinner who was base\ndeepened into reverence for the child of God who might be noble. It is\nan easy matter to believe in the confident soul; but Dr. Lavendar\nbelieved in a soul that did not believe in itself!\n\nIt seemed to Helena that she had nothing to live for; that there was\nnothing to do except shiver back out of sight, and wait to die. For the\ntime was not yet when she should know that her consciousness of sin\nmight be the chased and fretted Cup from which she might drink the\nsacrament of life; when she should come to understand, with\nthanksgiving, that unless she had sinned, the holy wine might never\nhave touched her lips!\n\nIn these almost daily talks with Dr. Lavendar, the question of the\nfuture was beaten out: it was a bleak enough prospect; it didn't\nmatter, she said, where she went, or what became of her, she had\nspoiled her life, she said. \"Yes,\" Dr. Lavendar agreed, \"you've spoiled\nwhat you've had of it. But your Heavenly Father has the rest, in His\nhands, and He'll give it to you clean and sound. All you've got to do,\nis to keep it so, and forget the spoiled part.\" That was the only thing\nhe insisted upon: no dwelling on the past!\n\n\"I wish I was one of the people who want to do things,\" she told him\nwith a sort of wistful cynicism. \"But I don't. I have no story-book\ndesires. I don't want to go and nurse lepers!--but I will, if you want\nme to,\" she added with quick and touching simplicity.\n\n Dr Lavendar smiled, and said that nursing lepers was too easy. He had\nsuggested that she should live in a distant city;--he had agreed at\nonce to her assertion that she could not stay in Old Chester. \"I know\nsome nice people there,\" he said; \"Ellen Bailey lives there, she's\nEllen Spangler now. You've heard me speak of her? Spangler is a parson;\nhe's a good fellow, but the Lord denied him brains to any great extent.\nBut Ellen is the salt of the earth. And she can laugh. You'll like her.\"\n\n\"But what will I do when I get there?\"\n\n\"I think Ellen may find something to keep you busy,\" he said\ncheerfully; \"and, meantime, I'll make a suggestion myself: study\nHebrew.\"\n\n\"Hebrew!\"\n\n\"Or Arabic; or Russian; it doesn't matter which, your mind needs\nexercise.\"\n\n\"When you said Hebrew, I thought you meant so I could read the Bible.\"\n\n\"Ho!\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"I think King James's version is good enough\nfor you; or anybody else. And I wouldn't want you to wait until you can\nread backwards, to read your Bible. No; I only meant that you need\nsomething to break your mind on. Hebrew is as good as anything else.\"\n\nShe meditated on this for a while, \"I begin to understand,\" she said\nwith her hesitating smile; and Dr. Lavendar was mightily pleased, for\nhe had not seen that smile of late.\n\nSometimes they talked about David, Mrs. Richie asking questions in a\nsmothered voice; but she never begged for him. That part of her life\nwas over. Dr. Lavendar sometimes brought the child with him when he and\nGoliath climbed the hill for that daily visit: but he always took him\nback again. Indeed, the Rectory was now definitely the little boy's\nhome. Of course Old Chester knew that the Stuffed Animal House was to\nlose its tenant, and that David had gone to live with Dr. Lavendar. \"I\nwonder why she doesn't take him with her?\" said Old Chester; and called\nto say good-by and hint that Mrs. Richie must be sorry to leave the\nlittle boy behind her? Helena said briefly, yes, she was \"sorry.\" And\nOld Chester went away no wiser than it came. William King, wise and\nmiserable, did not call. His wife said that she would say good-by for\nhim, if he was too busy to go up the hill.\n\n\"It seems to me you've been very busy lately,\" she told him; \"I've\nhardly had a glimpse of you. I only hope it will show on your bills. It\nis very foolish, William, to take patients so far back in the country;\nI don't believe it pays, considering how much time it takes. But I'll\ntell Mrs. Richie you send your respects, and say good-by for you.\"\n\n\"You needn't mind,\" said the doctor.\n\nMrs. King went to make her adieux the very next day. Her manner was so\ncordial that Helena was faintly surprised; but, as Martha told Dr.\nLavendar, cordiality did not mean the sacrifice of truth to any false\nidea of politeness.\n\n\"I didn't tell her I was sorry she was going,\" Martha said, standing by\nthe roadside in the chill November wind, talking into the buggy,\n\"because, to speak flatly and frankly, I am not. I don't consider that\nher example is very good for Old Chester, She is not a good\nhousekeeper. I could tell you certain things--however, I won't, I never\ngossip. I just said, very kindly,' Good-by, Mrs. Richie. I hope you'll\nhave a pleasant journey.' That was all. No insincere regrets. That's\none thing about me, Dr. Lavendar, I may not be perfect, but I never say\nanything, just to be pleasant!\"\n\n\"I've noticed that,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"G'on, Goliath.\"\n\nAnd Martha, in great spirits, told her William at tea, that, though Dr.\nLavendar was failing, she had to admit he could still see people's good\nqualities. \"I told him I hadn't put on any airs of regret about Mrs.\nRichie, and he said he had always noticed my frankness.\"\n\nWilliam helped himself to gooseberry jam in silence.\n\n\"You do leave things so catacornered!\" Martha observed, laying the thin\nsilver spoon straight in the dish. \"William, I never knew anybody so\nincapable as that woman. I asked her how she had packed her preserves\nfor moving. She said she hadn't made any! Think of that, for a\nhousekeeper. Oh, and I found out about that perfumery, I just asked\nher. It's nothing but ground orris!\"\n\nWilliam said he would like a cup of tea.\n\n\"I can't make her out,\" Martha said, touching the teapot to make sure\nit was hot; \"I've always said she wasn't her brother's equal, mentally.\nBut you do expect a woman to have certain feminine qualities, now the\nidea of adopting a child, and then deserting him!\"\n\n\"She hadn't adopted him,\" William said.\n\n\"It's the same thing; she took him, and now she gets tired of him, and\nwon't keep him. She begins a thing, but she doesn't go on with it.\"\n\n\"I suppose it's better not to begin it?\" William said. And there was an\nedge in his voice that caused Mrs. King to hold her tongue. \"Martha,\"\nthe doctor said, after a while and with evident effort, \"can you give\nme an early breakfast to-morrow morning? I've got to go back into the\ncountry, and I want to make an early start.\"\n\nHelena Richie, too, meant to make an early start the next morning; it\nwas the day that she was to leave Old Chester. The plan of going to the\nwestern city had gradually shaped itself, and while Dr. Lavendar was\nwriting to those friends of his, and Helena corresponding with a\nreal-estate agent, the packing-up at the Stuffed Animal House had\nproceeded. Now it was all done; Maggie and Sarah had had their wages,\nand several presents besides; the pony had been shipped from Mercer;\nthe rabbits boxed and sent down to the Rectory; all was done;--except\nthe saying good-by to David. But Helena told herself that she would not\nsay good-by to him. She could not, she said. She would see him, but he\nshould not know it was good-by. And so she asked Dr. Lavendar to send\nthe child up to her the day before she was to go away;--by himself.\n\"You'll trust him with me for an hour?\" she said.\n\nShe meant to cuddle the child, and give him the \"forty kisses\" which,\nat last, he was ready to accept, and let him chatter of all his\nmultitudinous interests. Then she would send him away, and begin her\nempty life. The page which had held a promise of joy, would be turned\nover; a new, dreary chapter, with no promise in it, would begin....\n\nDavid came in the afternoon. He was a little late, and explained his\ntardiness by saying that he had found a toad, and tying a string around\nits waist, had tried to play horse with it, up the hill. \"But he\nwouldn't drive,\" David said disgustedly; \"maybe he was a lady toad; I\ndon't know.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the poor toad didn't like to be driven,\" Helena suggested.\nDavid looked thoughtful. \"David,\" she said, \"I am going away. Will you\nwrite a little letter to me sometimes?\"\n\n\"Maybe,\" said David. And slapped his pocket, in a great flurry; \"Dr.\nLavendar ga' me a letter for you!\"\n\nShe glanced at it to see if it needed an answer, but it was only to ask\nher to stop at the Rectory before she left town the next morning.\n\n\"Tell Dr. Lavendar I will, darling,\" she said, and David nodded.\n\nShe was sitting before the parlor fire; the little boy was leaning\nagainst her knee braiding three blades of grass; he was deeply\nabsorbed. Helena took his face between her hands, and looked at it;\nthen, to hide the trembling of her lips, she hid them in his neck.\n\n\"You tickle!\" said David, and wriggled out of her arms with chuckles of\nfun. \"I'm making you a ring,\" he said.\n\nShe let him push the little grass circlet over her finger, and then\nclosed her hand on it lest it should slip off. \"You won't forget me,\nDavid, will you?\"\n\n\"No,\" he said surprised; \"I never forget anything. I remember\neverything the magician did. An' I remember when I was born.\"\n\n\"Oh, David!\"\n\n\"I do. I remember my brother's candy horse. My brother--was--was, oh,\nseven or eight weeks older 'an me. Yes; I'll not forget you; not till\nI'm old. Not till I'm twenty, maybe. I guess I'll go now. We are going\nto have Jim Crow for dessert. Mary told me. You're prettier than Mary.\nOr Dr. Lavendar.\" This was a very long speech for David, and to make up\nfor it he was silent for several minutes. He took her hand, and twisted\nthe little grass ring round and round on her finger; and then,\nsuddenly, his chin quivered. \"I don't like you. You're going away,\" he\nsaid; he stamped his foot and threw himself against her knee in a\nparoxysm of tears. \"I hate you!\"\n\nIt was so unexpected, and so entirely unlike David, that Helena forgot\nher own pain in soothing him. And, indeed, when she had said she would\nsend him some candy--\"and a false-face?\" David blubbered;--\"yes, dear\nprecious!\" she promised;--he quite cheered up, and dragging at her\nhand, he went skipping along beside her out to the green gate in the\nhedge.\n\n\"I'll stop at the Rectory in the morning,\" she said, when she kissed\nhim, bravely, in the twilight; \"so I'll see you again, dear.\"\n\n\"'By!\" said David. And he had gone.\n\nShe stood staring after him, fiercely brushing the tears away, because\nthey dimmed the little joyous figure, trotting into the November dusk.\n\nThe morning broke, gray and cloudy. William King had had his early\nbreakfast; of course he had! Rather than fail in a housekeeper's duty,\nMartha would have sat up all night. When the doctor started for that\ncall out into the country, Helena was just getting into the stage at\nthe Stuffed Animal House. Once, as the coach went jolting down the\nhill, she lowered the misted window and looked back--then sank into her\nseat and put her hands over her eyes. Just for a while, there had been\na little happiness in that house.\n\nThey were half-way down the hill when Jonas drew in his horses so\nsharply that she made a quick effort to control herself; another\npassenger, she thought, shrinking into her corner.\n\n\"I'll only detain you a minute or two, Jonas.\" William King said from\nthe roadside. Jinny was hitched to the fence, and at the doctor's\nsignalling hand, the stage drew up, with rattling whiffletrees. Then he\nopened the door and got in; he sat down on the opposite seat.\n\n\"I wanted to say good-by to you,\" he said; \"but, most of all, I wanted\nto tell you that I--I have the deepest regard for you. I want you to\nknow that. I wanted to ask you if you would allow me to call myself\nyour friend? I have seemed unkind, but--\" he took her hand in both of\nhis, and looked at her; his face twitched. \"I implore you to believe\nme! I must not ask anything, or say anything, more than that. But I\ncould not let you go away without asking your forgiveness--\"\n\n\"_My_ forgiveness!\"\n\n\"--Without asking you to pardon me, and to believe that I--have nothing\nbut--esteem; the most--the most--friendly esteem; you will believe\nthat, won't you?\"\n\n\"You are very good to me,\" she said brokenly.\n\nHe was holding her hand so hard in his, that she winced with pain;\ninstantly his harsh grasp relaxed, and he looked down at the white hand\nlying in his, soft, and fragrant, and useless as a flower; he said\nsomething under his breath; then bent down and kissed it. When he\nlifted his head, his face was very pale. \"God bless you. God always\nbless you. Good-by!\" And he was on the road again, shutting the coach\ndoor sharply. \"Go on, Jonas!\" he said. And Jonas gathered up the reins.\n\nAlone, she put her hands over her eyes again; the tumult of the moment\nleft her breathless and broken. She had hated him because he would have\nrobbed her of David; and then, when she robbed herself of David, she\nhad almost forgotten him; but now, when the chill of the future was\nsettling down upon her, to have him say he was her friend brought a\nsudden warmth about her heart. There seemed to be some value to life,\nafter all.\n\nShe had told Jonas to stop at the Rectory, and Dr. Lavendar met her at\nthe front door. He explained that he wanted to have a last look at her\nand make sure she was taking wraps enough for the long cold ride to\nMercer. He reminded her that she was to write to him the minute she\narrived, and tell him all about her journey, and Ellen Bailey,--\"and\nSpangler, of course,\" Dr. Lavendar added hurriedly. Then he asked her\nif she would take a package with her?\n\n\"Yes, with pleasure,\" she said, looking vaguely out into the hall. But\nthere was no sign of David. \"Where is the package, Dr. Lavendar?\"\n\n\"I told Mary to give it to Jonas,\" he said. There was a moment's pause,\nand she looked at him dumbly.\n\n_\"David?\"_\n\n\"He isn't here,\" Dr. Lavendar said gently.\n\n\"Oh, Dr. Lavendar, tell him I love him! Will you tell him? Don't let\nhim forget me! Oh, don't let him quite forget me.\"\n\n\"He won't forget you,\" Dr. Lavendar said. He took both her hands, and\nlooked into her face. It was a long and solemn look, but it was no\nlonger questioning; the joy that there is in the presence of the\nangels, is done with questioning.\n\n\"Helena,\" he said, \"your Master came into the world as a little child.\nReceive Him in thy heart by faith, with thanksgiving.\"\n\nShe looked up at him, trembling, and without words; but he understood.\nA moment later he gave her his blessing; then he said cheerfully, \"I\nmust not keep you any longer; come!\" With Danny at his heels, he walked\nbeside her down the garden path to the coach. It had begun to rain and\nthe leather curtains flapped sharply in the cold wind. Jonas had\nbuttoned the big apron up in front of him, and it was already shining\nwet; the steaming horses were pounding restlessly in the mud.\n\nShe did not look about her. With unsteady hands she pulled her veil\ndown; then she said faintly, \"Good-by--\" She hardly returned the\nfriendly pressure of Dr. Lavendar's hand. She was so blinded by tears\nthat she had stumbled into the stage before she saw the child, buttoned\nup to his ears in his first greatcoat, and bubbling over with\nexcitement. Even when she did see him, she did not at first understand.\nShe looked at him, and then at Dr. Lavendar, and then back at David, to\nwhom it was all a delightful game which, the night before, Dr. Lavendar\nand he had got up between them. It served its purpose, for the child\nhad no suspicion of anything unusual in the occasion.\n\n\"_I'm_ the package!\" said David joyously.\n\nThe stage went sagging and rumbling down the road. For a long minute\nDr. Lavendar stood in the rain, looking after it. Then it turned the\ncorner and was out of sight. He drew a long breath. David had gone!\n\nA minute later he and Danny went back to the empty house.\n\nTHE END"