 Section 13 of the Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies. This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Rose-Colored World and Other Fantasies by Ethel-Mary Brody. Dr. Scholar Crutch of Allspharnia. Many strange stories circulated through the old town of Allspharnia concerning one Dr. Scholar Crutch, a quaint and eccentric ancient. But of all the weird tales, only one was founded on fact. His medical genius, his passion for horses, his love story, all provoked the gossips and the old women of the town. For his genius was wonderful, his passion extraordinary, his love affair certainly odd. And the gossips sat over their cups of tea and wove miraculous tales. Each gossip made a suggestion or offered a suspicion, and each suggestion and suspicion soon became an accepted fact. No one questioned or doubted after that. The gossips made the tale, the tale must of course be true. So the tales grew, and waxed complex, and a mystery enshrouded them. But long after the old doctor's death the truth crept out, as it will when it is left alone. Death had wiped away the falsities, and gradually the real tale remained simple, strange indeed but the truth. The habits of Dr. Scholar Crutch were odd, and his manners unprepossessing, and many indeed were the persons whom he offended by his radical independence. From these singular habits and manners originated the innumerable queer stories which vibrated through the gossips' quarters of Alphspharnia. In his latter days his favorite pastime was watering the grass. People scorned when they heard of it. Till they witnessed the doctor at work, then they laughed with tears in their eyes. For there was something pathetic in seeing this quaint old man completely engrossed in so simple a thing as watering his lawns. The onlooker who knew could scarce help comparing the doctor's youth, prime, and old age. It might rain for a week, or perchance too, or even longer. The lawns might be radiantly green and still over-damp, but the first dry day that appeared, Scholar Crutch would be out on his lawns saturating the grass. Less the collar, tie, and waistcoat with his trousers turned up, and a purple muffler tight around his throat the doctor would stand with his hose, or move slowly from one soppy spot to another, or even let it lie comfortably near the garden walk where it would soak into the ground. And there the hose would flow. Not for an hour. That was too little. But for twelve hours, sometimes for twenty-four, till Lonleymoor was surrounded by a mild form of moat. This was in the days when Lonleymoor was turned into a boarding-house. His neighbors said he was crazy. Neighbors are always minute students of human nature, so from their standpoint he probably was. They wondered if the paying guests of Lonleymoor brought top boots when they came to board. They thought that Mrs. Perkins ought to request that of her boarders, or else keep a pair for general use, whereby the guests could reach the sidewalk without sinking knee-deep in marsh to annihilation and desolation of their clothes, for the hose went on forever. Dr. Scholar Crutch only spoke to people when he felt so disposed. This was a rare and useful habit of his. A habit some of us would like to acquire. When a fine morning came, sometimes a guest would descend with a cheery, optimistic smile, feeling exuberant with fresh joy of the day, and seeking to be friendly with the old man. Good morning, Dr. Crutch, he would exclaim, hopefully. Isn't the weather glorious, and how are you today? But Dr. Crutch was oblivious, purposely so. Just as likely as not, he gave the broad side of his shoulders to the chirpy guest, and continued watering the grass without comment. Indeed, without the faintest glimmering sign that he heard any voice, except the robin's chirrup in the treetop, or the cricket's monotonous plant in the grass. Every new guest suffered excessive spells of embarrassment as a result, and finally gave up all efforts of friendliness and despair. If Dr. Crutch did speak, it was so sudden and disconcerting that the boarders who chose to keep their equilibrium usually gave him a wide berth. The doctor had dug up and planted a precious bed on the front lawn, wherein turnips and radishes throve to a portly extent. Next door lived a mischievous boy, and a mischievous penknife when Dr. Crutch was out of sight the boy darted to the bed, freely helping himself to the coveted treat of raw turnip or radish. But there were times when the old doctor was behind the pallor curtains of only more, and then the thunderous voice which yelled so suddenly and so harshly, get out of that, thoroughly unnerved young turnip thief, for a week afterward. Dr. Crutch had powerful lungs. The main peculiarity of his habit of not speaking to persons, except when he felt so disposed, was on occasions of introduction. Accidentally, Mrs. Perkins several times committed the offence of introducing strangers to the worthy old doctor. Alack how deeply they were offended when cordially offering him a hand and a kindly how do you do? He turned his back, calmly walked away. Eccentric, cried his neighbors. Yes, from their standpoint he was, but if he did not wish to know the persons he was at least sincere, and how many have courage for such sincerity. And thus it came about that so many strange stories were whispered through the gossip's quarters of all spharnia. But the doctor's oddities were largely responsible. And if we add this story it is for the reason that it is mostly founded on truth. A story more or less about this quaint old man will not affect the fact of his well-known kindness to the poor, and for those far inferior to him, an intellect. All spharnia is a town with an age in history. A history which links itself with centuries. It spreads itself carelessly on two banks of a restless whirling river. Its streets and avenues run anywhere, in devious ways, and if you walk far enough without ending where you began, eventually you find yourself in the midst of flat meadows and fields. The river, farnia, throws its long, nervous arm halfway around the town, and then sweeps away through steep wooded banks to a vast blue lake. Ceaselessly, the al-spharnia mill grinds its wheels at the west end of the town. Day and night whirl the wheels of the mill, on and on in a dull, wearisome roar. To soothing to the miller, but sometimes sadly tiring to all others. Weekday and Sunday, mills never at rest. It is grind, grind, grind, forever in the little town of al-spharnia. Many years ago a black-haired, hopeful youth entered the restless town. No one knew where he came from or why he had come there. He came, and that was all the townsfolk knew, or cared about knowing his past. The young man's eyes sparkled with a fire of enthusiasm. He looked as if he were bent on conquering the world, conquering it in his own way, and with his own special weapon, and his weapon was to heal and cure. Dr. Scholar Crutch had great faith in his potions and mixtures, a tried faith. He knew them as only the most persistent student and anxious scholar knows, who has given brain, heart, and nerve to his own special work, and never considered his time at the bedside of a sick patient. From town to town, and village to village, this brilliant and vagabond youth had wandered, soothing tired nerves, healing sicknesses, renewing youth and health to all whom he treated. He had learned the deepest and darkest secrets of his art, and it was whispered that he used daring remedies which only men of medical genius had courage to employ. Indeed some of the old wives of Alspharnia declared that he had met witches who had endowed him with miraculous knowledge. His cures seemed to them so wonderful, and yet with all his brilliant intellect and his splendid knowledge Dr. Scholar Crutch succumbed to love, like any other human being. Indeed he was more helpless in its power than a man of average intelligence. His wanderings ended for a while with Alspharnia. There he settled down after a year's hard work. With almost fanatical zeal he pursued his road, thoughtfully, eagerly, wholly engrossed. No one ever regretted a visit to Dr. Scholar Crutch, and Alspharnia soon learned to love and trust the black-eyed, nervous physician. It was a sunny, flower-sweet day in the summertime. As the doctor sat in his office, his shaggy black curls tumbling flawlessly over his forehead as he bent over some deep treatise on medical science. On every hand were books, shelves of books, mounted to the ceiling, mostly medical. Books lay carelessly scattered on his reading-table, and some had fallen on the floor. It was a small room, overlooking the seething, fearless river. The windows were open, and the insistent roar of the mill could be heard. Nothing brightened the room but the sunlight, and it stole in and out softly. Dr. Crutch, being scarce aware that it came and went, so lost to all else but his work, was he at the age of thirty-four years. On this sunny day a slender hand pushed open the door, and a fair, lilly-like face peered in. It was a delicate lilly face, surrounded by an oriole of golden hair, and deep set with two large blue eyes, fluid the sapphires. Celeste was a maiden of eighteen years, and had grown up in the town of Alspharnia. Timidly the girl opened the door and slowly entered. As the doctor lifted his head in surprise, she smiled, rediently. How beautiful Celeste had suddenly grown, so thought scholar Crutch. Well, Celeste, what can I do for you today? he asked, wondering why he had never noticed her beauty before. Mother is poorly, returned the girl, in a low, shy voice. What is the matter? pursued the doctor absently, drinking in the loveliness of the sapphire eyes and sunlit hair. Oh, I don't know. Could you come and see her today? Perhaps this afternoon? With a little intonation of pleading, wonderfully fresh and sweet to the doctor's ears. I think I could, he answered, smiling, encouragement to the rather timid Celeste. Will now do? Yes, I would be so glad if you would come. She responded eagerly. Mother looked so white and so tired. Poor soul murmured to the doctor kindly. I have been doing all the work this last week to save her, continued Celeste, but I am not a giant in strength, and I'm afraid I don't get it all done quite well. And she looked troubled. I am certain it is all right, readily encouraged the doctor, thinking to himself that anything done by Celeste would be near perfection. And then he added, irrelevantly, how gaily the sun shines today. It always does, murmured the girl softly. Somehow I don't seem to have noticed it shining so brightly before, rejoined he, glancing at Celeste's beautiful head as he gazed out of the window. I love the sunlight, don't you? she asked, dreamily, watching it dancing on the foaming crests of the turbid river. I do indeed, came his almost ardent answer, as he leaned back in his chair, thoroughly lost in the golden ringlets of Celeste's pretty head. Some folks get up every day and never seem to think of it. Went on Celeste, isn't that odd? Very, replied Dr. Crutch, still lost. Perhaps they needed someone to point it out to them. Celeste laughed. How funny that would be, she cried. I don't know that it would be so funny. You see, I never seem to have noticed it till... He stopped, a trifle embarrassed, as the girl turned her great innocent eyes on him. Till what? came her childlike question. Till you showed it to me today, he finished. I laughed the girl. He nodded. I think that is funnier than ever, she laughed. You know you have lived so much longer than I have, looking at him solemnly. Yes, I have and I haven't, he remarked, standing beside her near the window. Oh, but you have, she declared earnestly. Yes, yesterday I was older than you. Today, he hesitated. Today what? she asked gravely. Today, I am no older than you. And as Celeste laughed outright, he laughed too. Such a happy laugh. Then let us play at children, she cried merrily. When I was little, I used to like playing out grown-ups. Now that I am grown-up, I would like to play at being a child again, wouldn't you? Indeed I would, he exclaimed gaily. We must go to mother now, she said, suddenly remembering why she had come. All right, returned the doctor, with an odd but delightful sense of obeying a little princess. Wonderful! whispered Dr. Crutch to himself, closing his book and his desk. And then he and Celeste set out for her home, there first walked together. And to the doctor it was a revelation. Celeste's home was a trim little cottage, nestling amid rose bushes. For years she and her widowed mother had lived here alone, on the poor little fortune her father had left. He had worked at the mill and had lost his life beneath the mill wheels years ago. So the sound of the mill had a pathetic appeal for the mother. And she had chosen a cottage at the east end of the town to be away from its mournful roar. Celeste's mother, never over strong, had failed much of late. It was a frail little woman who Dr. Crutch came to see. She was sitting in the porch, her hands idly toying with her darning needles, the roses and wisteria drooping above her. The day was warm, and the wind just lightly caressed the silvery hair of the little old lady. Many years ago she had left her native land and the old French courtesies and graces still lingered in her manners. She tried to rise as the doctor approached, but he gently touched her arm and, saying kindly, never mind getting up from me, it is the privilege of age to rest. And you were so young and active, she said, smiling, half-twistfully, and glancing up with a stalwart, sinewy man with his broad, strong shoulders. And so as Celeste, he returned cheerfully, observing the mother's anxious glance at her daughter. Ah, but Celeste is a woman, and she will have to work hard some day, for I shall not be long here to look after. Don't talk like that, Cherie, interrupted Celeste, tenderly. But it is true nevertheless, Minone, and the little we have will not always support you, she sighed wearily. Never mind about Celeste, broken the doctor quickly, she has youth and health, and I would that they could last rejoin the mother, sadly. What a pity that we have to grow old. But some of us grow old gracefully and sweetly, remarked the doctor, and you are one of these. Thank you, she smiled. As a girl I always hoped I would, to grow hard and critical as age creeps on is dreadful, even if it is hidden by charm of manner or intellect. I always had a horror of that. Such persons end their lives in a lonely, loveless way, and I always wish to end mine in love and peace. And you will have your way, Cherie, said Celeste, caressing the silvery hair of the little old lady. I think so, the mother said gently, as she drew the girl's face down to her own and kissed it. Minone. Again the doctor observed the strange look she gave Celeste. As for Celeste, said he lightly, I shall take care of her, and be a good guardian, too. How he wished in his heart that it might be so. Do you mean that? Ask the mother earnestly. The doctor made a rapid mental decision. Yes, certainly, he answered. And you will take care of her after I am gone? She queried. You can rely upon me for that, he returned. Celeste blushed, but said nothing. Then the doctor addressed her. How would you like to look after my office, Celeste? The girl's eyes danced with pleasure, but she ventured shyly. I'll do my best. Indeed she well, added the mother. And I am satisfied of that, said he, dreams flitting through his head of the sweet girl's presence so near him in the days to come. And I shall bring some of my roses and wisteria, said Celeste, with a gay smile, to brighten your room and the books. And you will bring sunshine, too, finished the doctor, thinking of her recent visit to his office. Here's a rose for you now, she exclaimed happily, picking one off the vine, which clambered over the porch, and some wisteria, too. With deft fingers Celeste tied the boat in air and handed it to him. You will pin it on, he begged, looking down into her childlike blue eyes. Celeste pinned it on. That seals the bargain, mother. She cried mischievously, and they all laughed. And now what can I do for you today? asked the doctor, turning seriously to the mother, and then proceeded a consultation about the patient. Her heart was very weak. Dr. Crutch said little, but he quickly realized that she had not long to live, and at any moment might be found dead. Then the days and weeks rapidly rolled away, rapidly for Dr. Crutch, for he had awakened to love, love such as he had never known, love of Celeste's blue eyes and sunny hair. Here in Alsfarnia had this lovely flower been budding and blossoming, and he only now opened his eyes to its beauty. Why had he never awakened before? Ah, he had been so lost in his work. How little a thing it seemed now. Dr. Scholar Crutch was changing, and Celeste knew it was love. Among the roses and risteria in the porch some months later, Celeste's mother was found dead. After the lonely period of mourning, Celeste began her daily trips to the doctor's office, and she did what she could to help him in his work. What a strange new joy it all was. How peacefully and happily the days passed for the lovers. When the day's work was done, what quietly joyous walks they had out in the meadows under the stars with the air of flowers sweet around them. And how tenderly Celeste felt his sympathy when they visited the church yard with the mother lay sleeping beneath the cedar tree, and they laid a wreath of roses and risteria at her feet. They were blissful days indeed. At eventide they would wander by the river Alsfarnia, or seated on its wooded banks listening to the mill wheels grinding, grinding, or the river's song as it eddied in gushes of foam to the lake. Sweetly sounded the notes of tired birds as they hurried to their cozy nests, and the lovers watched the lights of the town, like a hundred eyes, opening one by one. Happy indeed were they. And then late one autumn, when the leaves were dying, the tragedy came. Celeste was standing by the river's edge, listening to the mournful monotonous music of the mill wheels, when the little constant heart seized its beating forever. Dr. Crutch had never suspected the heart's weakness, and the blue eyes closed beneath the mill wheels, and the golden hair floated on the foam of the restless river and was born away to the vast blue lake. Dr. Scholar Crutch silently left Alsfarnia. For thirty years or more the doctor roved no one knew where, and came again to Alsfarnia no one knew whence. Scholar Crutch had aged. The black eyes sunk deep beneath shaggy black brows. The snows of age had whitened his unruly curls, and deep were the furrows of silent suffering which lined his face. His broad shoulders seems to have shrunk and hunched up, and he walked as if forever in an unreal world. He was a rich man now. Money had flowed generously into his careless coffers since the death of Celeste. Success had followed him everywhere, though he cared little for it. Scholar Crutch was a saddened man, and no amount of money or success could wipe out the memory of Celeste. In the town of Alsfarnia he built a grand mansion, with great rooms and halls. Lonely more he called it. He filled it with all that could inspire and satisfy an artist and a scholar. Rare books and curios from all over the world filled his shelves and decorated his tables. And beneath its Ionic pillars Dr. Scholar Crutch opened its doors wide in hospitality and gaiety. But the gaiety did not last. He wearied of it all. Neither the maze of the dance nor the mystery of the theatre could make him forget Celeste. As for love again that was impossible. Women had no power over him. Neither brilliance of intellectual attainments nor beauty of face and form attracted him. And no sparkling glass, however cheering, however stupefying, tossed away the sweet memories of the long ago. For a little while he might forget, but that was all. As time went on, his chiefest pleasure was his stable of horses. He had horses of rare beauty and grace, and with rare and long pedigrees. This soon became his one interest in life. Indeed his love of horses developed into a kind of passion, and he would spend hours and hours till midnight and longer pouring over his books on horses. Soon his friends began to notice this strange absorption. Then his patience began to feel its effects. Day by day his office had been filled with weary and eager patients, earnest for his sympathy and services, but the famous physician was absorbed in horse-flush. And hour by hour his patience waited in vain while he sat in his study, pouring over a volume on horses. Serious cases arose, and still Scholar Crutch was lost in his beloved books, oblivious of every one and every thing. He had been known to calmly walk out to his stables and spend a whole afternoon among his horses while a crowd of patients waited in his rooms, only partly aware of his extraordinary passion. At first the neglected patients excused him on the ground of forgetfulness and eccentricity, but gradually resentment awakened, and though his friends interceded for him their rancor remained unappeased. These townsfolk had their sense of justice and their measure of pride, and slowly they ceased to visit the great doctor. Morning, noon, and night it was horses, horses. His meals were late, his patients, what few were left, were absurdly neglected, and his friends gave up in despair. And no one guessed the truth back of it all. The effort and the absorption of this strange passion buried Celeste in the past. Pachter Scholar Crutch forgot. One wintery day when the snow lay deep and the frost bit into the trees, a loud knock sounded on his study door. Scholar Crutch was as usual lost in his favorite books, unconscious of all comers. But the knock was followed by the determined knocker opening the door, and sturdily walking over to the doctor's desk. He was one of Dr. Scholar Crutch's late resentful patients. It was a splendid room. The walls were lined with fine old mahogany bookcases bulging with volumes. Five great windows opened on to a wide lawn, shadowed by ancient oaks and elms and pines now encased in snow. Long green velvet curtains were drawn aside to let in the sunlight, and it fell on rare paintings, and on marble busts of famous medical men, and on brightly polished brasses from the Orient. On a carved ebony table, inlaid with pearl, stood a vase filled with roses and wisteria, the only sweet human touch in the solemn room. The flowers blended their fragrance with the odors of ancient vellum and modern leather. Atmospherically, the stranger felt the room cold, unapproachable, had he not come with a very grave purpose willingly he would have retired. Deep in his volume on Horace's Dr. Scholar Crutch was quite indifferent to the fact that several patients were awaiting him. How do you do? called the man loudly and sharply. The doctor did not lift his head, but answered coolly. Well, that mine of yours, sir, I have come to speak about it. The man said. Oh, barely articulated the doctor, turning a page and proceeding deliberately with his perusal. The man watched him a moment, and then said in a hard voice. The mine has been burned out, men killed, the machinery wrecked. The doctor did not move a muscle, and continued reading to the end of the page. You have lost about five hundred thousand, continued the man, icily. The doctor calmly slipped the paper cutter between the leaves and turning his head glanced at the man. Cheerful news, he remarked, very sarcastically from the man. Anything more? inquired the doctor indifferently. Guess you'll have to sell all this, said the man, rather insolently waving his hand around the room. The doctor looked carelessly at his bookshelves and responded coolly. Well, what of that? The man stared in amazement at the reply, and your horses, he added slowly. Dr. Crutch gave an almost imperceptible start. My horses, my horses, he said painfully, as if speaking to himself. Yes, your horses, concluded the man. They had been good friends to me. Friends in my loneliness, went on the doctor softly, as if he had not heard the man. No one knows how good. They have helped forgetfulness, and I must give them up? The man stood half-cynically, studying the great doctor. And why not? he asked, almost woodyly. Ah, that's it. And why not? Why not? And the doctor gently fingered the pages of his volume. What are your orders? inquired the man, scrupulously hard. Sell everything, murmured the doctor absently. And the horses pursued the man, persistently cruel. And the horses with a sigh the doctor bent again over his reading and became oblivious. And so the man left him. Some years later, old Dr. Crutch, bereft of everything in life, wandered listlessly the streets of Alsfarnia, giving the poor his services freely and kindly. Lonley Moore was sold, its stables, its books, its pictures, all he had possessed. Lonley Moore was now a boarding-house. And Dr. Crutch occupied the garret, a little bed, the ebony table, and the dearest to him of all, a picture of Celeste, where all that he had left of his once rich and artistic home. And the little ebony table still held its vase of flowers. Fresh whenever the old man could get them. And here the great doctor faded, faded with his wealth and his success. In an ancient black suit, shiny and rusty with wear, and a black tie as aged, Dr. Scholar Crutch lived and dreamed among his roses, gathering them while the flower-sweet season lasted, forever watering the lawns, forever tending his rose-bushes. He had seized to hunt forgetfulness, and the memory of Celeste lay peacefully upon him. So the old man drifted into eternity, vanished with the roses, and the watering seized. And the sun came and went, as in the days of Celeste. And the mill-wheel rolled on, unmindful, the monotonous lament ceaselessly vibrating through alzfarnia. And as the light of another kinder world filled the eyes of the dying man, the sunshine streamed over the ebony table and over the roses and with Styria. And he murmured softly, tenderly, as if to some dear presence. I lived, and I died for you years ago. My dream, Celeste. I tried forgetfulness, but I love you still. Celeste, Celeste. End of Section 13 Recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dmitris The Rose-Coloured World and Other Phantases by Ethel Mary Brody The Bend of the Hill We had often watched the trains passing to and fro over the Tathme Railroad, but the suggestive blank after their disappearing around the bend of the hill ever fascinated us, because of the mystery of the river and the bridge beyond. We never could know that the train crossed the Tathme Bridge and reached the other shore in safety. Watching the train was like going on an unknown voyage. We never knew what was its end. In my early married life, I lived a couple of miles from the Tathme Railroad station. My house was on the bank of the Tathme River. It was a wide river, which swept out to sea in a wider mouth, spreading between muddy clads and level lands. From the dining room window, we could see the railroad and could follow it from the station. But as it neared the river, we lost sight of it around the bend of the hill. Then we knew that the train, if we were following it with our eyes, had reached the Tathme Bridge and probably was crossing it. My wife and I had come there in the early spring. We soon learned to love the railroad line. The enigma of the hill and bridge never ceased to interest us. All through the summer time, we daily saw the trains running over the road with such faith and surety, and we would watch their twinkling lights as they spun along in the moonlight nights. It all seemed so certain then, with the smell of hay and the scent of flowers in the air, the clucking of chickens, the naing of horses, and the sweet world of summer surrounding us. Nevertheless, a strange fear of the bend of the hill often haunted us. In the rains and mists and on cloudy days, it breathed a spirit forlorn and mysterious. We sometimes shuddered as we looked out across the fields to the bend, so dark in the dreary light. And we would wonder at the bravery of the engineer in taking his train across the black, surly river. Then autumn approached, and as the days grew shorter and the nights so long, the railroad began to have a horror for us. It still held us with a strange fascination, but fear gathered in our hearts, and we dreaded it. The hill was crowned with a coronal of the brown and gold of autumn. But when the leaves fell, and the lack of foliage laid bare the bows and twigs, the coronal faded into a crown of thorns. The days grew colder and very dreary, their grey skies banked with heavy clouds. And when the sun set, it blazed on the bend, and we supposed on the bridge with a fury which might have burned both and laid them in ashes before morning. Would it have been so? Winter came. Its chill winds, the snow, the ice and the frost. Such icy blasts blew off the Tathmay river and over fields of snow. The hill stood like a ghostly thing, robed in white, and froze the neighborhood with its chilly aloofness. The river froze till it was a sheet of immovable ice, sphinx-like in its cruelty of cold and silence. The winds howled across it with a menacing fury. They roared up and down the river and around the bend, and we felt they must have frozen the very heart of the steel in the Tathmay bridge. Sometimes its horror was too much for us, and we would pull down the blinds to shut it out. And throw more wood on the fire to make it burn up in a warm comfortable blaze. Hurricanes of wind and snow drove madly over the Tathmay river. In a whirlwind of snow, they circled the hill. Large drifts they threw over the fences and into the hollows. They shrouded the trees and the hedges in white, and made culled monks at their prayers of the bushes and haystacks. Every roof and barn was sheathed in snow, and it drove thick and fast till the air became opaque. Sometimes we wondered how the trains ever struggled through such blinding storms of snow and ice. The track was kept clear in winter, as the Tathmay route was an important one. Day after day, in the cyclonic storms of winter, we would hear the whistle of the train as it neared the bend, and we would hurry to the windows and watch it. The long black thing, it seemed alive to us, would strive and drive through the drifts and banks of snow, blowing white steam into the air with its painting. It would squirre its way along, slowly, top heavy. It seemed like a huge tortoise, and ever tending towards the cold and ghostly hill. Then it would vanish from sight, and we were awed by the mystery of the bend. One stormy winter evening, about the middle of January, my wife and I were cosily sitting by our fireside. Our baby boy had not seemed very well that day, and I was glad to see my wife resting while the boy slept. Our fireside was an old-fashioned open grate, and a kettle hung at one side, steaming and puffing and singing cheerily. I was sprawling on a rug before the fire, smoking a pipe, while my wife was ensconced in a big, cozy chair. We could hear the wind howling around the house and screaming down the chinners. The veranda creaked, and the twigs of the bushes snapped with the bitter frost. What a terrible night, said my wife, giving the fire a friendly poke. Terrible indeed, I answered lazily. How glad I am that you are not an engineer, dear, she said, with a sigh of thankfulness. On a night like this it would not be very pleasant. Rather more uncomfortable than this, I returned puffing contentedly at my pipe. Fancy what the bridge and the river must look like on a stormy night like this, and she shouted. Dreadful, I answered sleepily. When I think of all those crowded, lighted cars with their fright of trusting humanity, it makes me shiver when I think of the bridge. I don't envy the engineer. What a responsibility, continued my wife, as if picturing it to herself. Don't think about it, I suggested, snuggling close to the fire, for the engineer's life did not seem an easy one on that night. But somehow I can't help thinking about it tonight, she went on quietly, and thinking of all those people when the train crosses, but her remark was cut short. In the midst of our homely enjoyment, a knock sounded on the front door. I went out and opened it. A man stood on the threshold, covered with snow. As I opened the door, he handed me a telegram, and asked if there was an answer. I read it. My father was dangerously ill. Would I come at once? It was from my mother. I knew the night train passed our station at ten o'clock. It was nearly half past nine now, allowing me a scarce more than a half hour's grace to pack and get there. And it was a dreadful night. I hurried into the room where we had been sitting. My wife paled, as I told her. Such a night, dear, she exclaimed anxiously. And that awful bridge. But if your father is so ill, you must go. So I hastened to pack a few things, and soon I was ready. Indeed, I was saying goodbye when we heard a scream from our boy. I flew upstairs as if my feet were winged, my wife following. I burst into the room, and there was the poor little fellow on the floor, struggling with infantile energy to free himself from the melee of bedclothes. A crying spell followed, and we had our hands full, and our brains busy, trying to soothe and alleviate the little man's distress. In the midst of this unexpected excitement, I forgot the time. Any answer, sir? came the man's voice up the stairs. No, I'm coming. I shouted back, heading for the stairs in haste. Coming for what? Inquired the man. As with lightning speed, I arrived at the foot of the steps. Ten o'clock train. I answered sharply, indignant with the man's apparent stupidity. Ten o'clock train. He cried, surprised. Of course. I replied. The man gasped. Why, you're too late. Too late, man. It's a matter of life and death. I must go. Just about ten minutes to ten, sir. He said quietly, taking out his watch. Can't do it a night like this. It must be done. We can cross to the track from here and signal the train. I grew more determined, as he more doubtful. That is all very well in the summertime, remarked the man. But the train will have reached the bend by the time we cross the fields. Lord, sir, on a night like this, and at this hour, your signal will go unseen. It can't be done. And he slowly shook his head. Our chances are slim and out with all this waste talk. I returned angrily. Life and death, fellow. Come, let's try for it. The man deliberately pointed to the door and said, Look outside, sir. I did so, and gazed out on the wildest night I had ever seen. I had witnessed many storms in that neighborhood. But such a blizzard as swept the world that night I have never seen since and never wished to see again. As I looked toward the railroad, a feeling of terror came over me. But the man's voice broke in upon my fear. Well, sir, what do you think of it? I turned silently. Our eyes met, and I felt that the man shared my strange, foreboding terror. However, it passed, and I bade the man warm himself, and my wife made him a cup of tea. It was five minutes to ten by the dining room clock. The logs on the fire crackled cheerfully as they spat long tons of flame and showers of sparks into the chimney. The clock ticked steadily on. My thoughts flew to my sick parent. I was filled with anxiety as I thought of my mother's telegram, and I was blue at having missed the train. In the midst of these distressing reflections, my wife laid her gentle hand on my arm. Baby is asleep. She murmured softly. Maybe, I answered rather irritably, but I wish she had had his fall after I had gone instead of before. I am so thankful you are not out in that storm. She continued, ignoring my irritation, and then she added with a strange, faraway expression in her eyes. God has a wonderful way of accomplishing things, despite everyone and everything, and experiences that look very black to us often hide some deliverance from worse trouble, or cloud the sun that it may shine all the more brilliantly later on. I am sorry, dear, that you have missed the train, but perhaps God had a reason for it. I was surprised at her earnestness, for my mind was with my father. Now that baby slept, his fall appeared a light matter compared with the telegram. But as she stood there smiling up at me, I felt reassured. Having missed the train, I was interested in seeing it pass. It would only increase my misery to see I had lost it, and for so small a matter as babies fall. But I stood there, my wife beside me. I suppose it was human nature, so we all continue to think of the things we have dearly lost. It was a terrible night. The wind rose fiercer as the night advanced. It moaned and shrieked among the rafters. It groaned around the eaves. It shook the house in its mighty grasp. Hither and thither, the snow was scurrying, piling up and blowing down, sweeping in grand circles, and whirling in little eddies, darkening the night in clouds of flakes. Here and there appeared a cottage light, flickering hopelessly in the tempest. Far away near the bend of the hill, we could see the green light. It seemed to say, take care. And we knew that the white light was shining along the tracks, signaling to the approaching express a clear road and safe passage across the Tathamene bridge. As we watched, we heard the whistle of the train, long and clear. And we knew that it had reached the station. Then the clock on the mantles struck the hour. Tenet chimed. The man by the fire finished his cup of tea and arose, rubbing his hands vigorously in anticipation of his icy drive. He beddised a hardy good night and was gone. Monotonously, the clock ticked on. I glanced at it. The minute seemed ours. Unless the ten o'clock express was signaled to stop, it passed right through the Tathamene station. In another minute, it ought to be at the bend of the hill. And soon it would speed out on the Tathamene bridge. My wife pressed my arm. There it was, winding and crawling through the whirlwind of snow and the high banks. The ruddy glare from its funnel gleaming on the night like the eye of a black devil. The lights of the passenger cars glimmered and twinkled through the edding snow, and shone luridly in the mist, like so many baby devils, merry and ready for a night's frolic with the blinding flakes. On came the train. Now it seemed like a demon, with its lurking gloomy flame and smoke smearing the atmosphere. A game, a great dark monster fighting for life and in its last death throes amidst the snow. Horrible it was, but it held us by the window with a weird inexplicable power. Nearer and nearer the express approached the bend. How we wished the hill would vanish and let us see it across the bridge. Then the tree whistled as it ever did near the bend. Whistled a full ringing sound as if to reassure us that it had fared well so far on its journey. It was five minutes past ten, slowly the glaring fire of the engine disappeared, the baggage cars followed, then the passenger cars, the lights dancing brightly and hopefully as they vanished behind the bend. Finally the last car receded with its red tail light danger, and the hill gloomed darker than ever. My wife sank into a chair with almost a groan of relief as if she had experienced a heavy strain and was completely exhausted. It is on the Tothmay Bridge now, she sighed deeply. Yes, and I might have been there too and partway on my journey. I broke off. Good God! I cried. What was that? In a moment we were at the window, with all struck faces we gazed out. The train whistled and whistled again, wild shrieks which fell weirdly on the night. The last mad scream died in a tremendous crash and a strange gurgling sound. We stared at the bend as if our eyes were chained to the spot. A great dazzling red light shot into the heavens, shone a moment faded to a glimmering brightness and then died. It left the night blacker than before and the hill more sullen. The wind wailed and cried over the fields and around the house. It whistled shriely through the keyholes and rattled loose windows. A harsh sound from the veranda told that the frost was biting into the soul of the wood. The snow twirled and whipped into edding gusts over the roofs, the meadows, the orchards and away on the dark bleak river where the ice creaked against the shores. The stillness of death spread over its glassy surface. For hours we stood at the window. The clock ticked the minutes as they fled away. It chimed the hours as they swiftly passed. We did not speak. We knew how time sped on. The fire sank to ashes. The kettle ceased its sound. The lamp burned ever lower. Days seemed to have slipped away when dawn started in the east. As day drew on, the lamp paled and died. Still we stood there, our eyes riveted on the bend with deadly fascination. As the light brightened with sunrise, the air grew chill. The storm had passed. In its sea of wintry blue, the sky was fresh and clear. Everywhere, the snow gleamed dally in the early morning. The wind had fallen and hardly a breath stirred. In the distance, the Tathmay river lay still and quiet, tomb-like in its sheet of icy armor. Gazing on the peaceful landscape, we could scarce believe such a blizzard had whirled around us the night before. The hill throwned dark, cold, ghostly, and the mystery enshrouded it. We dreaded it. No train had passed over the Tathmay Railroad since the 10 o'clock express had vanished last night around the bend of the hill, out of our sight and out of the world. End of Section 14 Section 15 of The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa Green. The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel Mary Brody Pruse Gardner Chapter 1 A gardener does not seem a very important person in a household, but Pruse Gardner was an unusual one. He certainly kept her rose-bushes in good order and probably did much toward making the garden of her life a sweet, sunny spot. Twas a glowing summer day, roses poured their souls into the sunny air, making the world sweet with their goodness. The meadows rippled away in the golden haze to the far blue hills. Knolls of woodland marked here and there a cool oasis of shade. The songs of bird and stream bubbled and trilled by the hedges and the long chirrup and hum of a thousand insects droned lazily in the tall grasses, where daisies and butter-cups, wild roses and violets offered their sweet lips filled with honey. A life full and free, a sailor for me. The billows to guard over my sleep. The foam in the spray, my bridal array, and my love in my home, the blue deep. Over the meadows came a ringing voice, singing with a fullness of gayety and life the words of her song to the air of, Drink to me only with thine eyes. Prue had once told Maria McCutcheon that she loved the air, but that the words were excessively sentimental, and such nonsense did not appeal to her ideas of love. Oh, I know the world thinks it beautiful, but because the world thinks so is no reason why Prudence Chesterfield should think so. Wherewith she made a low and graceful curtsy to the chronically astonished Dan and his practical spouse Maria McCutcheon and danced away. As the voice came nearer and nearer there was a great clattering of hooves and a great scattering of pebbles, and Prue came flying into the kitchen garden on the back of her favorite horse, Wildfire. Maria McCutcheon was bending over the wash tub, her red arms seething soapsuds and her broad, good-natured face with its shrewd blue eyes rubacund with the vigorous rubbing of various white articles. Shippahoi! Miss Prue, what a wild thing you be! Come, Mary, go gay! My heart'll be easier if the latter your future proves a man of sense and soundness. And Maria squeezed and wrung out a towel with a flourish of decision as if the man's neck would suffer if he were otherwise disposed. Pasha, my old Maria, gaily answered Prue, make your troubles and mend them. Whether he has sense to smile or sense to scold, does all one to me so long as I love him. But if I don't love him, he may have a million cents, no price will buy the heart of Prudence Chesterfield. And she laughed merrily as she leaped onto the ground. Poor mine at braid! sighed Maria deprecatingly. Prudence heard but tossed her head defiantly. We don't care, do we? she whispered to Wildfire, if nobody else loves me you will. And I'd rather your love you faithful old soul than the caprice of a man I've never seen. Dan solemnly removed his pipe from his mouth and stared at Maria, who took no notice of him. Then he replaced his pipe, closed one eye, and stared at the bowl as if the smoke rolling up there from could solve the problem of Miss Prue's future. Mr. Mine at braid's not that bad, I'm sure, Miss Prue. Ventured Maria, sowsing a pillow slip with great vigor. Prue stamped her foot impatiently. The idea of my father promising me to any man, and without my consent, to be parceled up some day and sent by express cash on delivery, with a tag fastened on somewhere, glass, with care. To would serve my big daddy right if this precious mine at braid just sent me back to him again, returned with thanks, not wanted. Maria looked up hopelessly and then burst into a peel of noisy laughter. Again, Dan winked solemnly and said nothing. Miss Prue, Miss Prue exclaimed Maria on recovering her breath. You beat all. I had the bringing of you up, and I did try to make you a proper sensible person. But at times I'm wondering I've been a miss somewhere. Now there's Miss Mada, your small sister, and she sound as a ripe apple and just as proper. You see, I could always manage her. But as for yourself, Miss Prue, there be no law for you, neither mine nor your daddy's. You was ever a law unto yourself. And with a prolonged sigh Maria again sowsed her arms in the wash tub. Never mind, Maria, said Prue, gently rubbing Wildfire's nose. You have done your best, and I haven't made the best of your care and wisdom, perchance it's my fault, or maybe Wildfire's. And Prue laughed softly. Wildfire sniffed Maria McCutcheon to herself with a pang of jealousy. Well, Maria, to change the subject, has Dan been able to get a new gardener? Maria glanced at her idle spouse. I've heard nothing. Ask Dan. Themses sits loiter in about the most part of a day, gathers all the news. Maria's glance was a scornful one as it shot in the direction of her amiable, better half, who was sitting outside the door, his chair tipped back against the wall and contentedly smoking his pipe. Eh? What's that, Missy? Inquired Dan as if only partially awake, turning to Prue. I did hear the master say as how Adonald Jackson was a common day after tomorrow, just to help Old Dan keep the garden spick and span. But I wouldn't say as how I'm right, no, I wouldn't say that. Prue smiled. She knew that Dan's position as gardener meant almost nothing, but owing to her father's kindness, Old Dan, who had served in the family twenty years or more, was kept on the farm. He dabbled a little in the garden, drew his small pay, and puffed at his pipe a very great deal from one week's end to another. Do you know anything about him, Dan? Quaid Prue. Nothing special, Missy, except he's a big fellow, a nice spoken sort of. Howsoever, I wouldn't say that if I hadn't heard your father so talking. No, I wouldn't say that unless I had. It's a wonder you ain't given up saying at all. You're so took up with your pipe, you never see anything beyond its bowl, and your brains as nigh as clear as the smoke. And Maria vented her wifely wrath in the wash tub. Dan, with great dignity, ignored his spouse's flattering remarks. I dare say, Donald Jackson, he'll be able to help me all right, Miss Prue, I dare say. If he don't do no better than you, he'll do, sure, interrupted Maria scornfully, stretching a towel with a jerk as if Donald failing, he would be subject to like treatment on his departure. He can't do no worse, that's one thing, sure. Dan just closed one eye and twisted his pipe to the other side of his mouth and said nothing. Well, I hope Donald Jackson will take good care of my rosebushes. To me they are the most important part of the garden. The vegetables are superfluous, and such a bother, said Prue. We couldn't get on without a Miss Prue, interjected practical Maria McCutcheon. I could, laughed Prue. But my roses, oh they are so beautiful, so sweet, the only weakness I have that is at all sentimental Maria. But we couldn't think of living on roses, Miss Prue, protested Maria. The world couldn't Maria, but I could, and I don't care a row of pins what the world thinks about anything, even vegetables, what I think rules my life. And Prue proudly leaped onto wildfires back and pranced around the garden. You were ever alone to yourself, murmured Maria, shaking her head solemnly as she watched the haughty independent air of her pet child. Daddy could manage the vegetables, said Prue, returning with wildfire to Maria and Dan. But Donald Jackson will have to do as I direct about my favourites and if my roses suffer, Prue stopped short and frowned. Maria looked up from the tub and Dan held his breath and did not wink. Beware, Donald Jackson, finished Prue, beware my roses. Poor Donald Jackson. It'll be worse for him than it was for the last gardener if he disobeys Miss Prue, said Maria McCutcheon to herself. The last gardener had a falling out with Mr. Chesterfield. They disagreed over some arrangements in the vegetable garden and the gardener had disobeyed him. Prue alone had the privilege of disobeying Mr. Chesterfield. He never could resist the high spirit of his pretty and willful daughter. Thus it came about that the farm had no gardener. Despite Dan's cheerful efforts, the flower beds in the kitchen garden grew more weedy and untidy every day. Mr. Chesterfield had advertised for a gardener in the nearest town. Having no satisfactory answer, he had tried a large daily in Chicago. The latter effort had proved successful. So Prue went off in search of her father to hear the results. And the new gardener, Donald Jackson, was coming. Thomas Chesterfield had been a dashing young officer in his early days, chivalrous to ladies and steadfast to friends. He was a proud spirited man and too independent to win success in this world. Success, as it is, recognized in wealth, position and power. He was quick with a blow, but it was an even match when Thomas Chesterfield had a battle to win for his sense of truth and honor was as straight as his blows and as strong an alert. He was born and brought up in Boston, educated for the ministry by his father's wish. But on the death of the latter, he gave up his college career and went into the army where his spirit had longed to be. While at college in Boston, he had made many friends, chief among whom was one Jonathan Braid. They were opposites in temperament, but their friendship was a firm one. Jonathan Braid was gentle, quiet, and rather retiring. But he had possessed a ready wit which had won the heart of Mary Thomas and had made him a favorite with all their college friends. Jonathan Braid was never very strong, and only by the constant care of his affectionate and wealthy parents had he grown to manhood. After his career at college, he married. His marriage proved a very unhappy one, and a little son was born of it before he and his wife parted. Shortly after his separation from his wife, his father died, and the double grief was too much for his never-overstrong constitution. His heart was affected, and after a short illness, he passed away from all his trials. The little son, Minot, was left to the care of a maiden aunt, having no near relative left with an ample provision for his needs during boyhood, and a very large fortune when he came of age. On his deathbed, Jonathan Braid asked to see his old college companion, Thomas Chesterfield, and the dying man begged him to keep a kindly interest in his little son. He also asked a half promise of his old friend, that if ever Thomas had a daughter, he would make a match between her and Minot. His own married life, having been such a failure, he felt anxious for his son's future. Knowing the splendid traits of his friend Thomas, he felt that his daughter might probably inherit the same strong free bold spirit of his beloved college chum. Thomas Chesterfield gave his promise, thinking it foolished the while as the thought of marriage had not yet entered his head. Thomas Chesterfield returned to his beloved army work, but not till two years after his friend's death did he marry. His married life was exceedingly happy and unclouded, as his two daughters, Prudence and Mater, grew up. He retired from the army living on a small income, mostly a legacy left by his father. He settled in the western states and bought some land, cultivating it carefully and adding to it each year, and he had a fair-sized farm, not a large one surely, but one that was well-tilled and cared for. The house was a rambling, picturesque building with peaks and gables on every side, fashioned as it was by various additions as necessity required and as the years rolled on. A quaint green-lattice porch opened at the front door, over which a medley of rose vines, the golden jessamine and the purple-robed climatis, scrambled and interwoven their blossoms. At the western side of the house a large piazza overlooked the neatly kept lawns and the myriad-colored old-fashioned flowerbeds, and from a knoll across the lawn, where a grove of oaks and furs kept it cool and shady in the summertime, the stream-silver-dike could be seen meandering through the orchard. Beyond that the meadows and fields rolled away to the purple hills. Prudence Chesterfield was now seventeen. Her mother had passed away two years before and Prue was sole mistress of the establishment. The consciousness of responsibility had somewhat tamed her wild spirits, and it certainly had developed rare housewifely knowledge and management and a certain quiet dignity and firmness of will that all obeyed without questioning when Prudence chose to command. Prue had grown up with the knowledge of her father's promise to Jonathan Braid, but had never thought much about it nor seriously. When she was a very tiny girl and mined at a boy of ten or twelve years they had played together. Indeed, they had been very happy. Though sometimes Prue's proud high spirit had broken loose, then Minot had spent lowly depressed hours till Prue had returned to her sweetness again. Sometimes it was Minot's fault, sometimes Prue's, but the latter had usually made the first friendly advances. Perhaps Minot had possessed a proud spirit of his own, but he hid it away, whereas Prue, when aroused, was like a conflagration. However, these days seemed so long ago that she had quite forgotten what Minot looked like and really did not care. Minot was at college now or nearly through, she did not know which. They would probably not be married for a few years anyway, and pray what might not happen in that time, so thought Prudence Chesterfield. He was studying to be a doctor, she knew that much, but as she had always been strong and well she despised the profession and declared sweepingly that doctors made people ill, and the world would get along much better if there were fewer doctors and more common sense. Prue hit straight from the shoulder just like her father, but she did it with her tongue. So little Prue grew in stature and decision and dignity of character, and she also grew in grace of body and beauty of face, and all the world, her small world surrounding her, loved and obeyed her. It was a luminous sunny day the day the new gardener arrived. The gardens were brilliant with flowers myriad-hued like a sunburst of opals. A dash of crimson hollyhocks almost hid the parlor windows. Violets and pansies dotted the lawns, and in the orchards was the first bright gleam of the ripening fruit. The foliage of the maples and elms seemed particularly fresh and green. The rhododendron bushes had burst into a late shower of red and pink blossoms, and the blackening berries of the bramble shone like little dark eyes out of the hedges, where the elderberry and milkweed tangled their blossoms with the medley of scrambling vines and prickly raspberry bushes. The yellowing grain in the distant fields bent and rippled before a brisk breeze. Silver dike pattered and whirled over its pebbly bed making music beneath the apple trees, winding in and out of shadow and sunlight, and the air hummed with bees and insects and trilled with the sweet notes of the cheery feathered family. Summertime indeed, the air was full of it. Rich, strong, sweet and electric it was good to be alive. At least so thought Prue and Mata as they watched expectantly for the new gardener. Every event interested them, however small. It was some excitement in their quiet monotonous life, and Mr. Chesterfield thought this gardener was a particularly taking fellow, whereupon Prue had made up her mind to be hyper-critical on the subject. Prue looked her sweetest this day in a simple frock of pale blue muslin. Her chestnut curls escaped in wild profusion from under a blue poke bonnet and framed a face refined in feature and sweet in expression. Her chief beauty lay in her eyes, large liquid dark blue eyes with long dark lashes which lent them a softness quite irresistible. There was a womanly firmness in the chin and a bewitching dimple at the corner of her mouth where mischief and a smile readily played. But the little aquiline nose was haughty and aristocratic, and when its small owner was offended the sensitive nostrils had a way of playing which betrayed an impatient and furious spirit, fond of dominating but slow to yield to another's dominion. Mada and Prue were so engrossed in planting some seeds in Mada's own flowerbed that neither of them noticed a man coming up the winding path from the roadway, and the latter had stood for some minutes in admiring silence before Prue became conscious of someone near. She turned quickly and blushed over face and neck when her eyes met the man's gaze and then asked in a half defiant tone, Is there anyone you wish to see? The man lifted his hat politely and asked, Does Mr. Chesterfield live here? Yes, answered Prue, evading the man's eyes and tilting her head proudly. Then I haven't come to the wrong farm, said the man, much satisfied. No, this is Mr. Chesterfield's estate. Prue wanted to laugh at her own proud assertion. She had never called the farm an estate, but she intended putting this man in his place. Ah, pardon me. I should have said the wrong estate. And the least glimmer of a smile played about the man's inscrutable eyes. Prue bit her lip. This man was making fun of her, and she would not have it. Do you wish to see Mr. Chesterfield? She inquired, ignoring his remark. Yes, Miss. Miss Chesterfield? With the least lifting of his eyebrows. Such impudence thought Prue. It is none of his business who I am. But she said aloud the desire to dominate stirring her little nostrils, as battle affects the nostrils of a warhorse. Who are you? I'm the new gardener, Miss. And your name? Impatiently. Donald Jackson at your service, Miss. He said it in such a way that it sounded like mockery to Prue's proud soul. Go around to the back door, return Prue haughtily. Maria McCutcheon will make you a cup of tea. Maria McCutcheon inquired the young man. I came to see Mr. Chesterfield, and there was the least twinkle of amusement in his small, hazel eyes. Mr. Chesterfield is across the fields at present, said Prue, again ignoring what she considered his impudence. Shall I go and find him? suggested the man. But Prue was not going to yield an inch of her dominion. No, she snapped imperiously. I would like to see him now, said he politely. If you really came to see him you will have to wait, replied Prue, and she turned a very defiant back on the man, equivalent to a dismissal, and Donald Jackson, after lifting his hat to Meta, who stood gazing in wonder, departed to Maria McCutcheon's domains. Nice sort of a man for daddy to engage. Quote Prue, and then petulantly. I hate him. I know I shall never get on with that gardener, never. Meta looked up in astonishment. Why, Prue, dear? He never said anything to hurt you, did he? I like him already. I shall soon make friends with him. Oh, you can do as you please. You're only a little girl. But I am grown up and mistress here, and I won't have that man about if I don't want him. Then, seeing that the first part of her remarks had hurt Meta, she flung her arms impulsively around her sister's neck. I love you, Meta. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm not hurt, Prue, but I think Donald has such kind eyes. I don't. I think they're horrid from Prue. Well, he smiles in such a nice friendly way. Friendly? Nice, left Prue curling her lip. Very. And isn't he a fine big man, Prue? So are elephants, and sometimes they trample on persons they don't like. But he didn't trample on you, Prue. Oh, no. He didn't do anything. He just tried to make fun of. Prue stopped short and dug the trowel into the earth with unnecessary vigor. Fun of what? asked Meta. Nothing, dear. Don't let us talk any more about him. I don't like him, and there's the end of it. Try and like Donald if Father likes him, Prue. And because I know I shall like him. Prue laughed outright at this fine reasoning. Her sweet temper returned, and with a merry smile she ran away in search of her father. End of Section 15, Recording by Melissa Green Section 16 of The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa Green The Rose-Coloured World and Other Fantasies by Ethel-Mary Brody Prue's Gardener, Chapter 2 Some weeks had passed. Life at the Chesterfields had gone on as usual, quietly and peacefully. Meta and the new Gardener had become fast friends. In a thousand ingenious ways, Donald had won Meta's childlike admiration. He made a swing for her among the furs and oak trees on the knoll. He had planted some candy-teft and agoradum in her little bed, which spelled out her name, Meta, greatly to her delight. He had also arranged a tiny hedge-row to protect it from the chickens, which sometimes escaped from their enclosure and made depredations in the gardens. In one corner, he had even built a tiny rookery, planting it with ferns, with Columbine, whose red and purple bells rang for the fairies, and the trailing Arbutus, Portulica, and another of Four O'Clock Lulies, whose daily opening at a regular hour was a continuous marvel to Meta. And he had made a tiny, rustic house for her dolls. This had taken time. Donald worked all day, and only in spare hours could he plan for Meta's pleasure, and carry it out. This was not the only way Donald had won Meta. To her, his knowledge was wonderful. Of the flowers and birds, the ferns and mosses she found in the woods and brought to him, and he had stories for everything. Fairies and gnomes peopled the woods and dwelt among the flowers. The streamed silver dike had its romances of mermaidens and mermen. Sylphs lingered in every shady nook. Nymphs sped on the wings of the wind. Indeed, Meta's world was now alive with tiny, dainty, gossamer beings. Donald had a wonderful fund of tales. Historical incidents, legends, and stories of land and sea. A world of romance which readily appealed to Meta's childish imagination. All this time, Prue had been studiously avoiding the new gardener, and Donald quietly kept out of her way. Purposely or not, it mattered little to Prue. She had taken a violent dislike to him. She did not wonder at his interest in Meta. Her sister was a pretty child, with her sunny hair and bright face. Any labourer might well be pleased to interest himself in such a little fairy. And Prue would smile with great condescension when Meta told her the kind things Donald did, and of the wonders and stories he related. You are a grateful little soul, she said one day to Meta. It is the goodness of your own heart that you see in Donald, and your own bright imagination which pictures such wonders in the stories he relates. Oh no, it is not I. Donald is a very wonderful gardener, exclaimed Meta warmly. Wonderful indeed, yes, he is to little folks like you, Meta. Don't you think he's wonderful, Prue? I don't think anything about him at all, returned her elder sister coldly. I don't believe you like him even yet, said Meta, casting a woeful glance at Prudence. Perhaps I don't, but probably it is my own fault, answered Prue not wishing to hurt Meta's feelings. Oh no, it's not your fault, it is no one's fault, Prue. Or course not, assented the proud girl, curling her lip. But if you came and sat beside him on the grass when he is gardening, as I do, and listened to his tales, I know you would like him. Prue laughed outright at the suggestion, picturing it in reality. Possibly I would, she exclaimed. There is one rose bush he has more stories about than any of the other flowers, continued Meta. Which rose bush is that? asked her sister, listening indifferently. That went over there, and Meta pointed to a solitary rose bush near a rustic seat on the knoll in the shade of a clump of fir trees. This seat was Prue's favorite resort when she wanted to be alone or to rest and dream. Oh, cried Prue. Is that so? Yes, and he told him that bush was particularly yours, that you had it planted there. Did you? Airely from Prue. Indeed, I told him that I thought you had planted it yourself, Prue. You did, didn't you? Yes, and what said Sir Gardner? He said it looked lonely, and Meta looked troubled. Did he indeed? How clever of him to make that discovery. Prue's lip curled again. And he said it would be better for it if it had another rose bush beside it, a bigger and stronger rose bush. How smart of the Gardner, interjected Prue with a touch of sarcasm. I didn't see just why, went on the little girl. But Donald knows everything about flowers, and of course he was right. Oh, of course, Prue bit her lip and turned her face away. Poor lonely rose bush, murmured Meta with a puzzled expression. I think Donald is right. Anyway, he knows best. Certainly. Donald's knowledge is admirable, exclaimed Prue satirically. I'm so glad you think so. Joyously cried the little girl, not comprehending the tone of her sister's last remark. Perhaps you will grow as fond of him as I am someday, and then you won't think it's my goodness that makes Donald so clever and so kind. Prudence dug her heel impatiently into the gravel walk. Come, Meta. There's father, let us race for it. Prudence was glad to change the subject, for it was only adding fuel to the fire of her dislike for the new Gardner. Away flew the girls down the path to meet Mr. Chesterfield. He had just returned from his daily survey of the farm. Well, children, cried Mr. Chesterfield, stooping to kiss them. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, and Prudence was small beside him to say nothing of Meta. Meta won the race, said Prue, smiling and apparently breathless. Yes, because Prue never will let herself win when running with me. Returned the little sister reproachfully. That's right, Prue, said her father. The race is not always to the swift nor the battle to the strong. By the way, children, there are parcels at the express office. I want them today. All the men are busy. You might drive into Osburn and get them for me. Poor old Rosnante stumbled on a stone this morning and injured her leg, so you will have to take Wildfire in the faton. Can I trust my Prue to manage that meddlesome horse in the faton? Prue looked playfully indignant. Manage him, daddy. I should think I could. Wildfire is spirited, but answers quickly to a gentle rain. Indeed, she runs steadier than Rosnante, and I would rather have her. Wildfire's only fear is an auto-car, but they so rarely pass this way we can risk her all right. Even if we did meet one, I could control her. Prudence Chesterfield never lacked in self-confidence. Well, children, after lunch ask Donald to harness Wildfire. If I had any doubt of your being able to manage Wildfire in the faton, I would send Donald with you, said Mr. Chesterfield doubtfully. Certainly not, came the quick decisive answer from Prue. Mr. Chesterfield knew his daughter too well to contradict or argue when she made a decision, and they walked on to the house chatting gaily. Mada was delighted at the thought of spending an afternoon in Aspern, and Prue promised her an ice cream at Rainix, the real big candy shop. Then they would do some shopping and meet some friends. It would be so exciting, Mada's eyes danced with joy. After lunch, Maria McCutcheon went to Prue's room and wrapped at the door. Come in, answered Prue's sweet voice. It's only me, said Maria. Well, Maria, I suppose you want me to do some purchasing in Aspern for you. A red rose for your new bonnet? Or a red ribbon for your neck? Or do you— No, no, miss, interrupted Maria. I want for nothing. Not me. And if I did, I wouldn't have ye going by him for me, behind that twice-crossed bed tempered Wildfire. No, not for all the Christian-selling red roses or anything in the world. With this outburst, Maria's face blazed as red as her arms had ever been in the wash tub. Prue was tempted to laugh, but affection for her old nurse conquered her sense of humor. Dear Maria, your heart rules your head. It ever did, and your fears were always founded on your love for me, and I always swept them over as Wave washes a sandhouse away. I am like the leopard, Maria. I cannot change my spots big or little. May be, miss Prue. But I'll talk about this somehow as I'm feared for you. Wildfire has never been in the Phaeton before. I know it, answered her mistress calmly. And Dan, says is how one of the boys' works across the fields, says a great green auto-business past early this morning, and he knows sure it's an Aspern. He says Wildfire won't stand for it. Never mind, Dan. You never did. Isn't it something new for you to take Dan's word and to use it for me? Prue looked solemn. Maria's face was already the lobster's shade, or it might have deepened in color. But her pent-up feelings had exhausted the blushing power, and she was reduced to her last shade of vermilion. You've downed me at that point, miss Prue. But I still don't think it's safe for my two babies to run off alone into Aspern with that spitfire quadruped critter on the harness. Dan would fall asleep over the dashboard if he went. Why not take Donald? Prue's brow clouded. Maria. Miss Prudence knows her own mind. And Miss Prue's mind was always to have her own way. Thought Maria as she went away. And some day. Poor man up-braid. Alack, maybe I'm grown as half-witted as Dan. It was late in the afternoon when Prudence turned Wildfire's head, homeward from Aspern. Such a day of enjoyment they had spent. When they left home, the sun gleamed cheerily in the splendor of an unclouded day, a sky of shimmering azure. The air was rich with fragrance of grainfield and clover meadow and melodious with the twittering of Birdland. The golden rod and everlasting knotted by the roadside, and every now and then Prudence must need stop Wildfire while Mata descended to gather them. Then Mata would run after a squirrel and the little frightened creature would race up a tree and scamper out on a bow to scold the petty disturber of his peace. Or a butterfly would scintillate into the sunshine and Mata would laugh with glee as she chased its irregular flutterings down the road. Even Prudence felt that she must give in to the day when they drove past the woods. How tempting they were in their green shade and tangled aisles! So Wildfire was tethered to a stump while they went in search of the fairies who drank from the bluebells, who made platters of the daisies and turned the leaves of butter-cups into spoons, as Donald had told Mata so often, and Mata found the big toadstools which the fairies used for tables and under which the gnomes slept, and what soft beds of moss for the fairies to dream on. Grey and green spattered with the polished red berries of the winter green and the purple cups of violets. Violets filled with dew the nectar of the dainty Gossamer people. Wonderful. It was also like a storybook, and Mata had much to tell Prudence which Donald had told her. Indeed their stay in the woods seemed all too short, and Prue listened because she loved Mata, so she said to herself. But fresh delights were in store for the little girl. Everyone in Asper knew them. Nods and smiles and greetings met them at every turn. Mata came in for a large share of the town's folks' attention which brought a flesh of pleasure into her cheeks. They gave themselves up to the delights of their small shopping expedition, ending their happy afternoon at the real big candy shop, and Mata had the promised ice cream. The sun was well on its downward path when the girls set out for home. Mata was tired, Prudence also, but she would not acknowledge it. Shadows were falling dark in the woods and Mata peered sleepily into their density to find the fairies ring. The squirrels had ceased their chatter. The birds had gone to bed. Only the night-hawk and whipper-will broke the silence with their lonely cries. All nature seemed to know that the day was closing. The breeze had died down to a dreamy lull fluttering among the branches and over-the-grain fields. As they were driving along both tired and sleepy, neither noticed an auto-car approaching from a cross-road. It was whirling at a good speed. An observer would have supposed the chauffeur was aiming to cross the road in front of the Phaeton before the latter reached its path. On it came to the utter oblivion of the two tired girls. But they were near home now and Wildfire was trotting there at her own gate, instinct guiding her more than Pruseless rain. On trotted Wildfire, oblivious too. Then the sound of soft, whoring wheels caused her to cock her ears and listen. Nearer and nearer came the sound. Wildfire tossed her head, sniffed the air, and looked about. On came the sound, and then suddenly the loud blast of a horn broke on the ears of the sleepy girls and off bolted Wildfire. Prudence caught the rains, made a scream, and clung to the Phaeton. And away went Wildfire, full speed down the road, striking fire with her flying heels and pulling at the bit with all her might. With all her tired strength, Prudence tugged at the rains. But away raced Wildfire, and the chauffeur stopped the auto-car as the Phaeton, swaying from side to side, rattled past its bows and disappeared round the curve of the road. Prudence kept her presence of mind. It was well for Mata watched her and did as she did. On sped Wildfire, Prudence knew that every moment might mean death, and yet knowing that her tired arms could scarce hold the terrified steed any longer. Another curve of the road they would be inside of home. Would anyone hear the clattering hooves? Could they help her? Would they see them? And would they realize that it was a runaway, and no high-rate speed such as Prue liked when Wildfire obeyed the rains, and with which she enjoyed startling everyone when she drove up the avenue? Prue's pride and willfulness rose before her as her thoughts flew with the horse's heels. She felt it would be her fault if Mata was killed, and with that thought her spirit broke. Her arms trembled, her hands weakened, she heard Mata scream. A dark figure rushed through the whirling world, and Prudence knew no more. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. It was a month after Donald Jackson had stopped Wildfire in her giddy flight. The sudden checking of the horse had tipped the faton and thrown out both girls. Mata had fallen on a grassy mound, except for the fright and a few bruises. She was all right. But Prue's head had struck a stone and caused a slight concussion. She had been ill for days afterwards, so ill that the home was quieter than ever and its members went about on tiptoe. For a while they almost disbared of Prue's life. During that time Donald looked nearly as white as the Invalid. He moved among the flowers like a sick man. Day by day he inquired after Prudence and picked out the choicest and sweetest of the flowers to send to her room. Mata had noticed some American beauties among them. She was certain that they were not out of Daddy's garden. Donald must have got them in aspirin though she had never seen American beauties there, and of course Chicago was too far away, and of course that was ridiculous anyway. Donald was only a poor gardener. Mata laughed at herself, wouldn't Prue think she was silly, but she wouldn't tell her. Prudence was too ill to notice flowers and so the days wore on. But convalescence did come. Maria McCutcheon's careful nursing, aided not a little by Mata's cheerfulness and her readiness to do all she could, soon had their effect on Prue, and as the Invalid grew stronger Mata would sit by her bedside reading or chatting or relating Donald's wonderful tales. Sometimes she would make some little dainty with her own hands which Maria had taught her, or she would bring in some fruit, and nothing pleased her better than to bring Prudence one of Donald's bouquets, the American beauties mixed with the white roses from the bush on the knoll. One day Prudence noticed them. Where did those American beauties come from Mata? I don't know where they came from, said Mata, fearing to let her sister know as she remembered Prue's dislike of Donald in the past. Who gave them to me? asked Prudence, turning suddenly on Mata. Donald, breathed the child ever so softly, her eyes filling with tears. Donald, exclaimed Prudence coldly, he has little need to spend his small wages on me, he has more need to spend them on himself. Are you offended with him, Prue? No, dear, I'm not. But Donald is only a gardener, a very ordinary man, and a proud look crossed Prue's face. Mata walked over to the window and there was silence between them. It lasted for several minutes and then Prue heard a low sob and another. Mata was crying. Come here, dearie, said the elder sister gently. I did not mean to be unkind. I am very grateful to Donald for saving our lives, and you may thank him from me for the American beauties. It was very kind of him to buy them for me and kind of him to inquire after me. But don't expect too much of sister Prue. I wish you would tell him all that yourself, Prue. He looks so white and tired. He works so hard, you know, and I think it would do him good if you were kind to him. Would it please you, Mata? Yes, indeed, answered the little girl brightening, very much. Then I shall do so when I am up again, said Prudence, and she lay back on the lounge with a deep sigh and slept. Some days later Prudence Chesterfield was able to come downstairs. One sunny afternoon in August she wandered into the flower gardens. It was one of the quiet dreamy days which come in the month of the harvest moon. Except for a light zephyr, which gently stirred the foliage of the oaks and furs on the knoll and the nodding heads of the flowers, the air was still. Only the occasional chirrup of a sleepy songster and the soft purling of silver-dike disturbed the drowsy silence. The tall hollyhocks near the porch bent their crimson heads to whisper together. Yellow asters, velvety dollias, the blue and purple cornflowers, the variegated poppies and nasturtiums, the simple pink, the proud cannellillies, and a host of other flowers fluttered at the zephyr's kiss in an old-fashioned bed which surrounded the piazza in a rainbow flash of brilliant colouring. Even the leaves of the stiff and stoic geranium, in its conventional borderline encircling a bed of citified propriety, drooped lazily in the August heat. In the orchard the apples fell with a soft thud. Beyond the orchards, where the ruddy apple and purple plum held sway, the grasses of field and meadow bowed before the breeze in a glowing checkerboard of golden brown. Further still were the green hills, patches of their woodlands already yellowing with the closing season. Prudence crossed the lawn to her favourite rustic seat on the knoll. She stood there a moment, plucked one of the white roses off her bush and pinned it to her dress. Then she wandered to a clump of furs nearby. She wanted to be alone, so she spread a rug and cushions on the grass in the centre of a triangle of fir trees and lay down to dose and dream. It was a day for dreaming, and Prudence closed her eyes. The figure of Donald rose before her as he looked the first day they met—a tall, strong man with the hazel eyes that seemed to read her through and through. Prudence opened her eyes to rid herself of the vision, and her eyes lit on the white rose pinned to her dress. She threw it impatiently on the grass and closed her eyes again. But Donald would come and sleep would not. Donald had been coming ever since that day when his eyes first gazed into hers. But Prudence Chesterfield was a proud girl, the idea of an ordinary gardener. She had been angry for months. No one knew it, and Donald only saw a freezing exterior, which he might contemplate as he pleased. Why could not her thoughts be free of that gardener he provoked her? And then Prudence thought of the way he had saved Meida and herself, and her heart melted. She was a brave girl, and admired courage and strength in others. She had to acknowledge that Donald had done a fine thing when he stopped frightened wildfire. She could not say that any ordinary man might have done that, because any ordinary man would not have stopped so mad a creature. And then Prudence sighed. Since the day he came she had frozen him, patronized him, condescended to him, and avoided him. And now that he had saved her life and Meida's, Prudence felt that she could not continue treating him as she had done. What was she to do? And what about her promised Meida? She thought she had been keeping out of his way lately, and yet when she came to think about it she had not seen him once. Perchance it was he who was so studiously avoiding her, and Prus' cheeks flushed with unreasonable indignation. The anger was short-lived, for another thought entered her mind, and she bit her lip, as her habit was, when anything annoyed and at the same time dominated her. The thought said to Prudence, you have been avoiding him because you are afraid of him, or is it that you are afraid of yourself? You have been seeking him in this garden for days, and he is not here. Why? And because he is not here you are angry. Why? Prudence tossed her head petulently and said to herself, well, Sir Gardner, this may or may not be, but it matters not a wit, for I am the affianced bride of minute braid whom I don't know, and have not seen for years. And then Prudence laughed outright. Then she grew serious again. Donald was a brave, strong man, and his hazel eyes were really very fine even if they were small, and if all Maida told her was true Donald must know a great deal. Her father found him pleasant and useful, Maida found him interesting and kind, and she found him brave. She began to feel that she knew Donald, indeed had known him a long, long time. What was she to say and what would she do when they met again? Prudence picked up the white rose and studied it a while dreamily. It was a lovely rose, so sweet and fragrant, and such a beautiful, pure white. Prudence laid her soft cheek against its dainty petals and closed her eyes sighing contentedly. Then pride crept in and whispered, what would your proud father think of you? Donald is only an ordinary man, a Gardner. He has gentle manners, but a Gardner. Prudence opened her eyes quickly and threw the white rose angrily into the furs where it caught on the sharp green needles and hung head downward. I am to be Minna Braed's wife, said she proudly, but pride like her late anger and laughter soon subsided. Prudence buried her face in her hands and the tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. So far her life had been smooth, clear and bright. She could not face this new life. She did not want to fight the battle nor to solve the problem. The present was fight the future of my story. Silently weeping Prudence was oblivious to the fact that Donald and Mata had come to the gnoll. Mata was sitting on the rustic bench, Donald on the grass. Oh, Donald, how funny! It was Mata's voice and appeal of laughter from Donald followed. Prudence sat up and peered through the furs. Evidently they had not seen her. The fir trees were thick and they sat with their backs toward her. Tell me your new story of Pruse Rose Bush, Donald. What story, Miss Mata? Why, Donald, you haven't forgotten it, have you? You said yesterday when you were trimming it that you remembered a story about it, which you had intended telling me some weeks ago, but Wildfire's runaway had put it out of your head. Did I? Yes, you did, Donald. Oh, of course, I remember. Now you'll tell it to me, won't you? Said Mata pleadingly. Certainly if you would care to hear it. I have some time to spare, so if you are patient I shall tell it. I'm patient, left Mata adding in a childlike tone of command. Begin. Once upon a time began Donald. There was a great princess. She had large blue eyes and curly brown hair. Everyone loved her in her kingdom for she was as good as she was pretty. Lovely, exclaimed Mata softly, just like my pru. When she came of age she was to be married to a prince and made queen over his realm at the same time. Splendid, interjected Mata. She had only seen the prince when she was a little girl, continued Donald. Just my age, interrupted Mata. Yes, but her mother had promised her to him years ago. Like my pru and mine-up braid, inquired Mata. Perhaps, said Donald smiling, but this princess was proud and said nothing, though I think she felt angry at her mother's promise. One day in the autumn her page died and the princess had to find a new one, for there was no one to take charge of the little ceremonies the page had to perform. It was a lovely afternoon when the new page arrived, such a glorious summer day. Why, Donald, you said it was autumn. Did I? Well, I meant May. Of course, you know better than I do, Donald, but I thought May was a part of Spring. Well, said Donald apologetically, May was summertime where this princess lived. Indeed, where she lived it was summertime all the time. How odd, exclaimed Mata. There now, Miss Mata, you must not interrupt again or I shall forget everything. All right, go on, Donald. The sun was shining so brightly, all the flowers were out and the birds were singing their sweetest, and the orchards were emblazoned, orchards like ours. From Mata. Exactly, said Donald. The page came into the princess's garden and he thought her very pretty when he saw her, but being a poor page he was very humble and the princess ordered him off to his duties. Why was he humble? asked Mata. Because, because he couldn't very well help it, he was only a page and she was a princess. But I don't understand it, if he was a good man. protested Mata. The princess knew nothing about him and she was very wise, said Donald. She sent him to his work, he made a good page, at least everyone thought so, but the princess. How funny of the princess, Donald. The page fell in love with the princess, went on the gardener, ignoring Mata's interruption, and the princess had a white rose bush just like this one, so he gathered a rose every day for her. He did his work well because he loved her, and the princess kept the page, although she showed him that she did not like him at all. Everyone else liked him, but her. One day the princess went out for a drive and the horses got frightened at a train and ran away very fast. The page was gathering a rose from the bush that day, when he heard the horse's hose clattering along the road toward the castle. Just like wildfire, cried Mata excitedly. He rushed out and caught the horses and stopped them. How brave of him, exclaimed Mata. No, it wasn't very wonderful. The page was very strong and fond of horses. He knew what to do and how to manage them. Indeed, he had ridden on horses. The princess did not seem grateful for this, naturally, it was nothing, but the page did hope that she would like him a little bit after that. He fell more in love with her than ever now that he had saved her. She had always been so cold to him he could not endure the thought of her being that way again after the runaway. So he decided to leave her. Donald paused. Oh, is that all? How horrid. Why don't they love each other and marry? I'm sure if she had been an American girl she would have. We are all equal here. Wait, said Donald. I haven't finished. The page left her, but the day drew near for the princess's marriage and wonderful preparations were made. The castle was decorated with flowers and flags, the gentlemen and ladies were gorgeously dressed in satins and silks, and the princess watched and watched, but she could not see him coming. What kept him so long? asked Mata. He wasn't sure if the princess loved him any more than the page was, returned Donald. Oh dear, what did she do? How awful! Donald sat quiet for a few moments and prudence buried her face in her hands among the fir trees. Finish it, Donald, do. Make the princess love him, do. Donald paused as if to add something and then he went on. Well, the princess had another rose bush planted beside hers. A bigger, stronger one, but not a prettier or daintier rose bush. The princess's rose bush was the loveliest of all rose bushes, and every day, as long as they lived, they picked a rose from each bush. Their lives, their love, their white roses, lived and died together. And so ends the story. That princess makes me think of my pru. Only I don't think his being a prince would have made her love him when she did not love a page. Neither do I, said Donald. And that's just it. You see, I ended it that way to please you. Do you think a princess would marry a page? Yes. If he were a brave man and a kind man like you, Donald, that oughtn't to make any difference. Donald laughed heartily at the child's reasoning. From her corner among the firs, prudence had heard Donald's story. She had listened willingly what a musical baritone voice he had. Her interest had grown with the story. It seemed so real. She wished it had been true, only that the prince had been a gardener. But why didn't the princess love the page in the first place and not wait till he was a prince? Then came the thought of Minot Braed to trouble her mind. She did not know him, and she did not love him. Yet she was taking it for granted that they were to be married. How could he love her whom he had never known? Merry Minot Braed, such nonsense. Prudence peeped through the branches at Donald. I will not marry Minot Braed, no indeed. He may be as rich as Crocius and as wise as Solomon, but I will not marry him. I will marry whom I please. That is, if I can, I mean if he loves me, at least. And prudence stopped thinking. Prudence stopped for two reasons. One, because she could not think any longer, the other. Her father was standing across the lawn, calling Donald to bring some tools lying near the fir trees. The girl gasped. Then rose slowly to her feet. Donald was coming toward the trees and there was no escape for her. He did not know she was there and she hoped he would not see her. She watched him coming. She saw him start. He had seen her. But Donald picked up the tools and returned to Mr. Chesterfield. Behind the firs prudence flushed for their eyes had met. Shiley, she reached out and lifted the white rose she had flung away and this proud girl pinned it on again. I just can't understand what's come over Miss Prue lately. She's not a bit like herself, said Maria McCutcheon, turning over a pancake as she stood by the fire some months later. Don't see it, said Dan, taking his pipe out of his mouth to contemplate his admirable spouse. Oh, you never see anything. No one's back to you, returned Maria. But if she ain't herself, she ain't nobody else. However, I won't say as I'm right. I won't say that, Maria. Dan puffed slowly after giving forth this wise remark. Stupid. Can't you see how she blushes every time the gardener goes near her? Meanin' myself, asked Dan with a grin. Idiot. You know I mean Donald. Poof. Donald eh? exclaimed Dan in astonishment. Yes, sleephead. Donald. He's a decent fellow, but his airs is too fine for gardening. I like him fine, but he's either offended Miss Prue or he's presumptuous. Eh? What's presumptuous mean, Maria? It means that you had the impertinence to ask me to marry you when you aren't good enough for me. You needn't have said yes, Maria. But I did. You did. Ascented Dan with a wink. Wishin' I hadn't, remarked Maria stormily. Can't say as I see how that affects Miss Prue unless, and here Dan laid down his pipe, a thing he rarely did, and stared in amazement at Maria. Unless you're jealous. Maria turned away and disgust. Donald's a fine gardener, continued Dan, near as good as myself. Hmm. From his cheerful spouse. I just like Donald fine. Finished Dan picking up his pipe again. If you do, called Donald, putting his head in at the kitchen door, you will do him a favor. Please give Mr. Chesterfield this note when he comes in. Goodbye, Maria. You're not a going, Donald, exclaimed Maria in amazement. I am, Maria. Why are you going? I have to go. Donald said this in a tone of such dignity and reserve that Maria asked no more questions. Goodbye, Dan, he said, and was gone. Maria McCutcheon looked at Dan. I told you so. But Dan nodded his head sagely and said, I knew it was a coming. How'd you know? snapped Maria. I heard him saying goodbye to Miss Maida yesterday and saying as how the page was going away because the princess, whoever she be, didn't love him. She was colder and ever and of course a page was only a page, but he might be a prince. But I won't say as how I'm right. I won't say that. I'm afraid he's a bit too fine for gardening with them stories, Dan. Dan winked and said nothing. Then a wonderful illumination took place in Maria's mind and she burst out. For all it we knows, Dan, he's a somebody. A rich somebody, Dan. And Dan McCutcheon did a thing he never did before in his life. He turned his back on his astonished spouse and marched out of the kitchen, chuckling till his body shook, chuckling till he had to remove his pipe and stop smoking. Maria McCutcheon folded her arms and looked stormily after him. I won't ask no questions, Mr. Dan, not I. But you've downed me this time, somehow or other.