 CHAPTER VI. ARCHERTON. A blur of flying trees and houses, bright in the late sunlight. Potsville, with children wading and shouting, under the bridge, hunts crossing. Then the next would be Weston, and home. Margaret, beginning to gather wraps and small possessions together, sighed. She sighed partly because her head ached, partly because the hot trip had mustered usual fresh trimness, largely because she was going home. This was August. Her last trip home had been between Christmas and the New Year. She had sent a box from Germany at Easter, ties for the boys, silk scarves for Rebecca, books for Dad, and she had written mother for her birthday in June and enclosed an exquisite bit of lace in the letter, but although Victoria's illness had brought her to America nearly three months ago and had somehow been impossible, she wrote them, to come home until now. Margaret had paid a great deal for the lace as a sort of saff for her conscience, not that mother would ever wear it. Here was Weston, Weston looking its very ugliest and the level pitiless rays of the afternoon sun. The town, like most of its inhabitants, was wilted and grind after the burden and heat of the long summer day. Margaret carried her heavy suitcase slowly up Main Street. Shop windows were spotted in Dusty, and shopkeepers, standing idle in their doorways, looked spotted in Dusty, too. A cloud of flies fought and surged about the closely guarded door of the butcher's shop. A delivery cart was at the curb, the discouraged horse switching an ineffectual tail. As Margaret passed this cart, a tall boy of fourteen came out of the shop with a bang of the wire-netting door and slid a basket into the back of the cart. "'Teddy!' said Margaret, irritation evident in her voice, in spite of herself. "'Hello, Mark!' said her brother delightedly. "'Say, great to see you! Get in on the four-ten.' "'Ted!' said Margaret, kissing him, as the pageants always quite simply kissed each other when they met. "'What are you driving Costello's cart for?' "'Like to,' said Theodore simply. "'Mother doesn't care. "'Say, you look swell, Mark.' "'What makes you want to drive this horrid cart, Ted?' protested Margaret. "'What does Costello pay you?' "'Pay me?' scowled her brother, gazing up the reins. "'Oh, come out of it, Margaret. He doesn't pay me anything. Don't you make Mother stop me, either, will you?' He ended anxiously. "'Of course I won't,' Margaret said impatiently. "'Giddy up, Ruth,' said Theodore, but departing he pulled up to add cheerfully. "'Say, Dad didn't get his raise!' "'Did?' said Margaret, brightening. "'Didn't!' He grinned affectionately upon her, as with a dislocating jerk the cart started a ricocheting career down the street, without a band had known only to Butcher's carts. Margaret, changing her heavy suitcase to the rest in arm, was still vexedly watching it, when two girls, laughing in the open doorway of the Express Company's office across the street, caught sight of her. One of them, a little vision of pink hat and ruffles, and dark eyes and hair came running to join her. Rebecca was now sixteen, and of all the handsome paddates the best to look upon. She was dressed according to her youthful lights, every separate article of her apparel today, from her rowdyish little hat to her openwork hose, represented a battle with Mrs. Paddots' preconceived ideas as to propriety and dress, with the honors largely for Rebecca. Rebecca had grown up in eight months, her sister thought confusedly. She was no longer the adorable, unselfconscious tomboy who fought and skated into Boggund with the boys. "'Hello, darling, dear,' said Rebecca. "'Too bad no one met you. We all thought you were coming down the six. Crazy about your suit. Here's Maudi Pratt. You know Maudi, don't you, Mark?' Margaret knew Maudi. Rebecca's infatuation for plain, heavy-featured complacent Miss Pratt was a standing mystery in the Padgett family. Margaret smiled, bowed. "'I think we stumbled upon a pretty little secret of yours today, Miss Margaret,' said Maudi, with her best company manner as they walked along. Margaret raised her eyes. "'Rebel and I,' Maudi went on. Rebecca was at the age that seeks a peon substitute for an unpolitical family name. "'Rebel and I are wondering if we may ask you who Mr. John Tennyson is?' "'John Tennyson!' Margaret's heart stood still with a shock almost sickening, then beat furiously. "'What? How—' "'Who on earth had told him anything of John Tennyson?' "'Coloring high, she looked sharply at Rebecca.' "'Cheer up, Angel,' said Rebecca. "'He's not dead. He's sent a telegram today, and Mother opened it.' "'Naturally,' said Margaret, concealing an agony of impatience, as Rebecca paused apologetically. "'He's with his aunt at Dayton up the road here,' continued Rebecca, and answered a wire him. "'A few minutes come down and spend tomorrow here.'" Margaret drew a relieved breath. There was time to turn around, at least. "'Who is he, sis?' asked Rebecca. "'Why? He's an awfully clever professor, honey,' Margaret answered serenely. "'We heard him lecture in Germany this spring, and met him afterwards. I liked him very much. He's tremendously interesting.' She tried to keep out of her voice the thrill that shook her at the mere thought of him. Confused pain and pleasure stirred her to the very heart. He wanted to come see her. He must have telephoned Mrs. Carbolts and asked to call, or he would not have known that she was home this weekend. Surely that was significant. Surely that meant something.' The thought was all pleasure. So great a joy and pride indeed that Margaret was conscious of wanting to lay it aside to think of, dream of, ponder over when she was alone. But on the other hand, there was instantly the miserable conviction that he mustn't be allowed to come to Weston—no, no. She couldn't have him see her home and her people on a crowded hot summer Sunday when the town looked its ugliest, and the children were home from school, and when the scramble to get to church and to safely accomplish the one o'clock dinner exhausted the woman of the family. And how could she keep him from coming? What excuse could she give? "'Don't you want him to come? Is he old and fussy?' asked Rebecca, interestedly. "'I'll see,' Margaret answered vaguely. "'No, he's only thirty-two or four.' "'I'm charming,' said Marty archly. Margaret eyed her with a coolness worthy of Mrs. Carbolt herself, and then turned rather pointedly to Rebecca. "'How's Mother Becky?' "'Oh, she's fine,' Rebecca said, absently in her turn. When Marty left him at the next corner, she said quickly, "'Mark, did you see where we were when I saw you?' "'At the express office?' "'Yes?' Margaret said, surprised. "'Listen,' said Rebecca, reddening. "'Don't say anything to Mother about it, will you? She thinks those boys are fresh in there. She doesn't like me to go in.' "'Oh, back—' "'Then you oughtn't,' Margaret protested. "'Well, I wasn't,' Rebecca said uncomfortably. "'We went to see if Marty's racket had come.' "'You won't, will you, Mark?' "'Tell Mother?' "'No, I won't.' Margaret said with a long sigh. "'She looks sideways at Rebecca, "'the dainty, fast-forming little figure, "'the even ripple and curl of her plaited hair, "'the assured pose of the pretty head. "'Victoria Carboldt, just Rebecca's age, "'was the big schoolgirl still, self-conscious and inarticulate, "'her well-groomed hair in an unbecoming club, "'her well-hung skirts unbecomingly short. "'Marker had half expected to find Rebecca "'at the same stage of development. "'Rebecca was cheerful now, the proms exacted, "'and cheerfully observed. "'Dad didn't get his raise. "'Isn't that the limit?' Margaret sighed again, shrugged wearily. "'They were in their own quiet side street now, "'a street lined with ugly, shabby houses "'and beautified by magnificent old alms and maples. "'The paddards on particular gate was weather-pealed, "'the lawn trampled and bare. "'A bolting wire netting door gave on the shabby old hall, "'Marker knew so well. "'She went on into the familiar rooms, acutely conscious "'as she always was for the first hour or two at home. "'Of the bareness and ugliness everywhere, "'the old sofa that sagged in the seat, "'the scratched rockers, the bookcases overflowing "'with coverless magazines, "'and the old square piano half-buried "'under loose sheets of music. "'Duncan sat on the piano bench, "'glumily silent at a violin cello. "'Robert, nine now, with all his pretty baby roundness gone, "'a lean, little-burned, peeling face, "'and big teeth missing when he smiled, "'stood in the bay window, "'twisting the already-limb net curtains into a tight rope. "'Each boy gave Margaret a kiss that seemed curiously "'to taste of dust, sunburn, and freckles, "'before she followed a noise of hissing and voices "'to the kitchen to find mother. "'The kitchen, at five o'clock on Saturday afternoon, "'was in wild confusion and insufferably hot. "'Margaret had a distinct impression "'that not a movable article therein was in place, "'and not an available inch of tables or chairs unused, "'before her eyes reached the tall figure of the woman "'in a gown of chocolate percale, "'who was frying cutlets at the big littered range. "'Her face was dark with heat and streaked with perspiration. "'She turned as Margaret entered, and gave a delighted cry. "'Well, there's my girl, bless her heart, "'look out for the spoon-lovey,' she added immediately, "'giving the girl a guarded embrace. "'Tears of joy stood frankly in her fine eyes. "'I meant to have all this out of the way, dear,' "'apologized Mrs. Padgett, "'with a gesture that included cakes "'in the process of frosting, "'salad vegetables in the process of cooling, "'soup in the process of getting strained, "'great loaves of bread that set a delicious "'fragments over all the other odors. "'But we didn't look for you until the sixth.' "'Oh, no matter,' said Margaret bravely. "'Rebecca tell you that dad didn't get his raise?' "'Called Mrs. Padgett, "'and a voice that rose above "'the various noises of the kitchen. "'Blanch,' she protested, "'can't that wait?' "'For the old niggers had begun to crack ice "'with deafening smashes. "'But Blanch did not hear, "'so Mrs. Padgett continued loudly. "'Dance all red men himself. "'He'll tell you about it. "'Don't stare in the kitchen in that pretty dress, dear. "'I'm coming right upstairs.'" It was very hot upstairs. The bedroom smelled faintly of matting. The soap in the bathroom was shriveled in its saucer. In Margaret's old room, the week's washing had been piled high on the bed. She took off her hat and linen coat, brushed her hair back from her face, flinging her head back and shutting her eyes the better to fight tears, as she did so, and began to assort the collars and shirts and put them away. For dad's bureau, for Bruce's bureau, for the boy's bureau, tablecloth to go downstairs, towels for the shelves in the bathroom, two little shirtways for Rebecca with little holes torn through them, where collar and belt pins belonged. Her last journey took her to the big third-story room where the three younger boys slept. The three narrow beds were still unmade and the western sunlight poured over tumble blankets in the scattered small possessions that seemed to ooze from the poised little boys. Margaret said her lips distastefully as she brought orator out of chaos. It was all wrong somehow, she thought, gathering handkerchiefs and matches and knit cardeders and the oiled papers that had wrapped carmels from under the pillows that would in a few hours harbor a fresh supply. She went out to the porch in time to put her arms about her father's shabby shoulders when he came in. Mr. Paget was tired and he told his wife and daughters that he thought he was a very sick man. Margaret's mother met this statement with an anxious solicitude that was very soothing to the sufferer. She made Margaret daddy his slippers and loose coat and suggested that Rebecca shake up the dining room couch before she established him there in a rampart of pillows. No outsider would have dreamed that Mrs. Paget had dealt with this exact emergency some hundreds of times in the past 20 years. Mr. Paget reclining, shut his eyes, remarked that he had had an awful, awful day and wondered faintly if it would be too much trouble to have somebody make him just a little milk toast for his dinner. He smiled at Margaret when she sat down beside him. All the children were dear but the oldest daughter knew she came first with her father. Getting to be an old, old man, he said wearily and Margaret hated herself because she had to quell an impatient impulse to tell him he was merrily tired and cross and hungry before she could say in the properly soothing tone. Don't talk that way, dad, darling. She had to listen to a long account of the raise. Winsing every time her father emphasized the difference between her own position and that of her employer. Dad was at least equal to anyone in Western. Why, a man dad's age oughtn't be humbly asking a raise. He ought to be dictated now. It was just dad's way of looking at things and it was all wrong. Well, I'll tell you one thing, said Rebecca who had come in with a brimming soup plate of milk toast. Joe Redmond gave a payment last month and he came here with his mother in the car to ask me and I was a scornflit thing you ever to solve wasn't I, Ted? Not much. Oh, Beck, you oughtn't to make social and business things that way. Margaret said helplessly. Dinner! Screamed the nine-year-old Robert, breaking into the room at this point and dinner, said Mrs. Padgett, wearily, cheerfully from the chair into which she had dropped at the head of the table. Mr. Padgett, revived by sympathy, milk toast, and Rebecca's attentions, took his place at the foot and bruised the chair between Margaret and his mother. Like the younger boys, whose almost-confluent freckles had been brought into unusual prominence by violently-applied soap and water and whose hair dripped on their collars, he had brushed up for dinner but his negligee shirt and corduroy trousers were stained and spotted from machine oil. Margaret, comparing him secretly to the men she knew, as daintily groomed as women and their spotless white, felt a little resentment that Bruce's tired face was so contented and said to herself again that it was all wrong. Dinner was the same old haphazard meal with which she was so familiar, blanched the pline and occasional reproof to the boys, Ted ignoring his vegetables and readying them incredibly short time for a second cutlet and Robert begging for corn syrup immediately after the soup and spilling it from his bread. Mrs. Padgett was flushed, her disappearance kitchen word, frequent. She wanted Margaret to tell her all about Mr. Tennyson. Margaret laughed and said there was nothing to tell. You might get a horse and buggy from Peterson's, suggested Mrs. Padgett, interestingly, and drive about after dinner. Oh, mother, I don't think I'd better let him come, Margaret said. There's so many of us in such confusion on Sunday. Jew and Harry are almost sure to come over. Yes, I guess they will, Mrs. Padgett said, with her sudden radiant smile. Jew was so dear in her little house and Harry's so sweet with her, she went on with a vacity. Daddy and I had dinner with them Tuesday. Bruce said Rebecca was lovely with the boys. We're going to Julie's again sometime. I declare it's been so long since we've been anywhere without the children that we both felt funny. It was a lovely evening. You're too much tied, mother, Margaret said affectionately. Not now, her mother protested radiantly, with all my babies turning into men and women so fast. And they'll have you all together tomorrow. And your friend, I hope too, Mark, she added, hospitably. You'd better let him come, dear. There's a big dinner, and I always freeze more cream than we need anyway, because Daddy likes a plate of it about four o'clock if there's any left. Well, but there's nothing to do, Margaret protested. No, but dinner takes quite a while. Mrs. Padgett suggested a little doubtfully. And we could have a nice talk on the porch, and then you could go driving or walking. I wish there was something cool and pleasant to do, Mark, she finished a little wistfully. You did just as you think best about asking him to come. I think I'll wire him that another time would be better, said Margaret slowly. Sometime will regularly arrange for it. Well, perhaps that would be best, her mother agreed. Some other time we'll send the boys off before dinner and have things all nice and quiet. In October, say, when the trees are so pretty. I don't know, but that's my favorite time of all the year. Margaret lifted her as if she found something new in the tired, bright face. She could not understand why her mother, still too heated to commence eating her dinner, should radiate so definite an atmosphere of content as she sat back a little breathless after the flurry of serving. She felt herself injured and sore. Not at the mere disappointment it caused her to put off John Tennyson's visit, but because she felt more acutely than ever tonight, the difference between his position and her own. Something nice has happened, mother, she hazarded, entering with an effort into the older woman's mood. Nothing special. Her mother's happy eyes ranged about the circle of young faces, but it's so lovely to have you here and to have Jude coming tomorrow, she said. I just wish daddy could build a house for each one of you as you marry and settle down right around our house in a circle, as they say people do sometimes in the old world. I think that I'd have nothing in life to wish for. Oh, mother, in Weston, Margaret said hopelessly, but her mother did not kiss it. Not, Mark, she went on hastily and earnestly, that I'm not more than grateful to God for all his goodness as it is. I look at other woman, I wonder, I wonder what I had done to be so blessed. Mark, her face suddenly glowed, she leaned a little toward her daughter. Dear, I must tell you, she said. It's about Jew, their eyes met in the pause. Mother, really? Margaret said slowly. She told me on Tuesday, Mrs. Padgett said with glistening eyes. Now, not a word to anyone, Mark, but she'll want you to know. And is she glad, Margaret said, unable to rejoice? Glad, Mrs. Padgett echoed, her face glad as itself. Well, Jew's so young, just 21. Margaret submitted a little uncertainly, and she's been so free, and they're just in the new house. And I thought they were going to Europe. Oh, Europe, Mrs. Padgett dismissed it cheerfully. Why, it's the happiest time in a woman's life, Mark. Or I don't know, though, she went unthoughtfully. I don't know, but I was happiest when you were all tiny, tumbling about me and climbing into my lap. Why, you love children, dear. She finished, with a shade of reproach in her voice, as Margaret still looks sober. Yes, I know, mother, Margaret said, but Julie's only got the one made, and I don't suppose they can have another. I hope to goodness Jew won't get herself all run down. Her mother laughed. You remind me of Grandma Padgett, said she cheerfully. She lived 10 miles away when we were married, but she came in when Bruce was born. She was rather a proud, cold woman herself, but she was very sweet to me. Well, then little Charlie came, 14 months later, and she took that very seriously. Mother was dead, you know, and she stayed with me again, and worried me half sick, telling me that it wasn't fair to Bruce and it wasn't fair to Charlie to divide my time between them that way. Well, then when my third baby was coming, I didn't dare tell her. Dad kept telling me to, and I couldn't, because I knew what a calamity a third would seem to her. Finally she went to visit Aunt Rebecca out west, and it was the very day she got back that the baby came. She came upstairs, she'd come right up from the train, and not seen anyone but Dad, and he wasn't very intelligible, I guess. And she sat down and took the baby in her arms, and says she, looking at me sort of patiently, yet as if she was exasperated too. Well, this is a nice way to do the minute my back's turned. What are you gonna call him, Julia? And I said, I'm going to call her Margaret for my dear husband's mother, and she's going to be beautiful and good and grump to marry the president. Mrs. Padgett's merry laugh rang out. I never shall forget your grandmother's face. Just the same, Mrs. Padgett added, with the sudden deep sigh, when little Charlie left us the next year, and Bruce and Dad were both so ill. She and I agreed that you, you were just talking and trying to walk, were the only comfort we had. I could wish my girls no greater happiness than my children have been to me, finished mother contentedly. I know, Margaret began to have angrily. But what about the children? She was going to add. But somehow the argument she had used so plausibly did not utter themselves easily to mother, whose children would carry into their own middle age a wholesome dread of her anger. Margaret faltered and merely scowled. I don't like to see that an expression on your face, Deary, her mother said, as she might have said it to an eight-year-old child. Be my sweet girl. Why marriage isn't marriage without children, Mark. I've been thinking all week of having a baby in my arms again. It's so long since Rob was a baby. Margaret devoted herself with a rather solid face to her dessert. Mother would never feel as she did about these things. And what was the use of arguing? In the silence, she heard her father speak loudly and suddenly. I am not in a position to have my children squandered money on concerts and candy, he said. Margaret forgot her own grievance and looked up. The boys looked resentful and gloomy. Rebecca was flashed, her eyes dropped, her lips trembling with disappointment. I had promised to take them to the Elts concert in dance. Mrs. Padgett interpreted hastily. But now dad says the bakers are coming over to play wist. Is it going to be a good show, Ted? Margaret asked. Oh, Rebecca flashed in the instant going response. It's going to be a dandy. Everyone's going to be there. Ford Patterson is going to do a monologue. He's as good as a professional. And George is going to send up a bunch of carrots and parsnips and the Western male quartet mark and a playlet by the Hunts Crossing Amateur Theatrical Society. Oh, oh. Margaret literally, the eager rush of words. Let me take them dad, she pleaded. If it's going to be as fine as all that, I'll stand treat for the crowd. Oh, Mark, you darling. Brushed from the raptures, Rebecca. Say, gee, we've got to get there early. Theodore warned them, finishing his punting with one mammoth spoonful. If you take them, my dear, Mr. Padgett said graciously, of course, mother and I are quite satisfied. I'll hold Robert by one ear and Rebecca by another, Margaret promised. And if she so much as dares to look at George or Ted or Jimmy Barra Paul, I'll, oh, Jimmy belongs to Louise now, said Rebecca radiantly. There was a joyous shot of laughter from the lighthearted juniors. And Rebecca, seeing her artless admission too late, turned scarlet while she laughed. Dinner broke up in confusion, as dinner at home always did, and everyone straggled upstairs to dress. Margaret, changing her dress in a room that was insufferably hot, because the shades must be down, and the gas lights as high as possible, reflected that another 48 hours would see her speeding back to the world of cool, awning interiors, uniformed maids, the clink of iced glasses, the flash of white sails on blue water. She could surely afford for that time to be patient and sweet. She lifted her back a starch petticoat from the bed to give mother a seat, when mother came rather weirdly in to watch them. Sweet girl to take them, Mark, said mother appreciatively. I was going to ask Brucey, but he's gone to bed, poor fellow. He's worn out tonight. He had a letter from Ned Gunther this morning, said Rebecca cheerfully, pottering the tip of her pretty nose, her eyes almost crossed with concentration, and I think it made him blue all day. Ned Gunther, said Margaret. Chum at college, Rebecca elucidated, and a lot of them are going to Honolulu, just for this month, and of course they want Bruce. Mark, does that show? Margaret's heart ached for the beloved brother's disappointment. There it was again, all wrong. Before she left the house with a rioting youngsters, she ran upstairs to his room. Bruce, surrounded by his scientific magazines, a drop light with a vivid green shade over his shoulder, looked up with a welcoming smile. Sit down and talk, Mark, said he. Margaret explained her hurry. Bruce, this isn't much fun, she said, looking about the room with its shabby dresser and worn carpet. Why aren't you going to the concert? Is there a concert? He asked, surprised. Why, didn't you hear us talking at dinner? The Elks, you know? Well, sure, I meant to go to that. I forgot it was tonight, he said with his lazy smile. I came home all in, forgot everything. Oh, come, Margaret urged, as eagerly as Rebecca ever did. It's early, Bruce, come on. You don't have to shave, we'll hold a seat. Come on. Sure, I will, he said, suddenly roused. The magazines wrapped on the floor, and Margaret had barely shut the door behind her when she heard his bare feet follow them. It was like old times to sit next to him through the hot, merry evening, while Rebecca glowed like a little rose among her friends and the smaller boys tickled her ear with their whispered comments. Margaret had said a telegram to Professor Tennyson and felt relieved that at least that strain was spared her. She even danced with Bruce after the concert and with one or two old friends. Afterwards, they strolled back slowly through the inky summer dark, finding the house hot and close when they came in. Margaret went upstairs, hearing her mother's apologetic, oh, dad, why didn't I give you back a club? As she passed the dining room door. She knew mother hated the wist and wondered rather irritably why she played it. The pageant family was slow to settle down. Robert became tearful and whining before he was finally bumped protesting into bed. Theodore and Duncan prolonged their ablutions until the noise of shouting, splashing, and thumping in the bathroom brought mother to the foot of the stairs. Rebecca was conversational. She lay with her slender arms locked behind her head on the pillow and talked, as Julie had talked on that memorable night five years ago. Margaret, restless in the hot darkness, wondered whether the maddening little shaft of light from the lahal gas was annoying enough to warrant the effort of getting up and extinguishing it. Listened and listened. Rebecca wanted to join the stage club, but mother wouldn't let her unless Bruce did. Rebecca belonged to the Progressive Diners. Did Marcus's mother think she was crazy if she asked the family not to be in evidence when the crowd came to the house for the salad course? And Rebecca wanted to write to Bruce's chum, not regularly, you know, Mark, but just now and then. He was so nice and mother didn't like the idea. Margaret was obviously supposed to lend a hand with these interesting tangles. And I said, certainly not. I won't unmask it all if it comes to that. And imagine that elegant fellow carrying my old books and my skates. So I wrote and Marty and I decided, and Mark, if it wasn't a perfectly gorgeous box of roses, that old, old dimity, but mother pressured and freshened it up. Not that I want to marry him or anyone. Margaret wakened from uneasy drowsing with the start. The hall was dark now, the room cooler. Rebecca was asleep. Hands, hands she knew well, were drawing a light covering over her shoulders. She opened her eyes to see her mother. I've been wondering if you're disappointed about your friend not coming tomorrow, Mark, said the tender voice. Oh, no, said Margaret heartily. Mother, why are you up so late? Just going to bed, said the other soothingly. Blanche forgot to put the oatmeal into the cooker and I went downstairs again. I'll say my prayers in here. Margaret went off to sleep again as she had so many hundred times before with her mother kneeling beside her. End of chapter six. Chapter seven of Mother. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Mother by Kathleen Norris, chapter seven. It seemed but a few moments before the blazing Sunday was precipitated upon them and everybody was late for everything. The kitchen was filled with the smoke from hot griddles blue in the sunshine when Margaret went downstairs and then the dining room, the same merciless light fell upon the sticky syrup pitcher and upon the stains on the tablecloth. Cream had been brought in in the bottle. The bread tray was heaped with orange skins and the rolls piled on the tablecloth. Bruce, who had already been in church with mother and was off for a day's sale was dividing his attention between Robert and his watch. Rebecca, daintily busy with a special cup and plate that were one of her little affectations, was all ready for the day, except us to dress wearing a thin little kimono over her blue ribbons and starched embroideries. Mother was putting up a little lunch for Bruce. Confusion reigned. The younger boys were urged to hurry if they wanted to make the nine. Rebecca was going to wait for the half past 10 because the kid sang at nine and it was fierce. Mr. Padgett and his sons departed together and the girls went upstairs for a hot, tiring tussle with beds and dusting before starting for church. They left their mother busy with the cream freezer in the kitchen. It was very hot even then. But it was still hotter walking home in the burning midday stillness. A group of young people waited lazily for letters under the trees outside the post office door. Otherwise, the main street was deserted. A languid little breeze brought the far echoes of pianos and photographs from this direction and that. Who's that on the porch? Said Rebecca suddenly as they neared home, instantly finding the stranger among her father and the boys. Margaret, glancing up sharply, saw almost with a sensation of sickness the big, ungainly figure, the beaming smile and the shock of dark hair that belonged to nobody else in the world, but John Tennyson. A stony chill settled about her heart as she went up the steps and gave him her hand. Oh, if only he couldn't stay till dinner, she prayed. Oh, if only he could spare them time for no more than a flying visit. With a sinking heart, she smiled her greetings. Dr. Tennyson, this is very nice of you, Margaret said. Have you met my father, my small brothers? We have been having a great talk, said John Tennyson, genuinely. And this young man, he indicated Robert, has been showing me the colored supplement of the paper. I didn't have any word from you, Miss Padgett, he went on. So I took the chance of finding you. And your mother has assured me that I will not put her out by staying to have luncheon with you. Oh, that's nice, Margaret said mechanically, trying to dislodge Robert from the most comfortable chair by a significant touch of her fingers on his small shoulder. Robert perfectly understood that she wanted the chair, but continued an absorbed study of the comic supplement, merely wiggling resentfully at Margaret's touch. Margaret, at the moment, would have been glad to use violence on that stubborn, serene little figure. When he was finally dislodged, she sat down, still flushed from her walk and the nervousness Dr. Tennyson's arrival caused her, and tried to bring the conversation into a normal channel. But an interruption occurred in the arrival of Harry and Julie in the runabout. The little boys swarmed down to examine it. Julie, very pretty, with the perceptible little new air of dignity, went upstairs to freshen her and gown, and Harry, pushing his straw hat back the better to mop his forehead, immediately engaged Dr. Tennyson's attention with the details of what sounded to Margaret like a particularly uninteresting operation which he had witnessed the day before. Utterly discouraged and acutely wretched, Margaret presently slipped away and went into the kitchen to lend a hand with the dinner in preparations if help was needed. The room presented a scene, if possible, a little more confused than that of the day before and was certainly hotter. Her mother, flushed and hurried in a fresh but rather unbecoming gingham, was putting up a cold supper for the younger boys who having duly attended to their religious duties were to take a long afternoon tramp with the possible interval of fishing. She buttered each slice of the great loaf before she cut it and lifted it carefully on the knife before beginning the next slice. An open pot of jam stood at her elbow. A tin cup and the boy's fishing gear lay on a chair. Theodore and Duncan themselves hung over these preparations, never apparently helping themselves to food, yet never with empty mouths. Blanche, moaning the palms with the insistence of one who wished to show her entire familiarity with the melody, was at the range. Rose Vale, instead of the smothered chickens her mother had so often and cooked so deliciously. A mountain of mashed potato, corn on the cob and an enormous heavy salad mantled with mayonnaise, Margaret could have wept over the hopelessly plebian dinner. Mother, may I not get down those finger bowls? She asked, and may we have black coffee in the silver pot afterwards? Mrs. Paget looked absently at her for a dubious second. I don't like to ask Blanche to wash all that extra glass, she said in an undertone, adding briskly to Theodore. No, no Ted, you can't have all that cake, half that. And to Blanche herself, don't leave the door open when you go in Blanche, I just drop all the flies out of the dining room. Then she returned to Margaret with a cordial. Why certainly, dear, anyone who wants coffee after tea can have it. Dad always wants his cup of tea. Nobody but us ever serves tea with dinner, Margaret muttered, but her mother did not hear it. She buckled a strap of the lunchbox, straightened her back with an air of relief and pushed down her rolled up sleeves. Don't lose that napkin, Ted, said she and receiving the boy's grateful kiss haphazard between her hair and forehead, she added affectionately, you're more than welcome, dear. We're all ready, Mark, go and tell them, dear. All right, Blanche. Ruffled and angry, Margaret went to summon the others to dinner. Maddie had joined them on the porch now and had been urged to stay and was already trying her youthful wiles on the professor. Well, he'll have to leave on the five o'clock, Margaret reflected, sealed to bitter endurance until that time. For everything went wrong and dinner was one long nightmare for her. Professor Tennyson's napkin turned out to be a traycloth. Blanche asked for another, disappeared for several minutes and returned without it to whisper in Mrs. Padgett's ear. Mrs. Padgett immediately set her own fresh napkin to the guest. The incident, or something in their murmured conversation, gave Rebecca and Maddie the giggles. There seemed an exhausting amount of passing and repassing of plates. The room was hot, the supply of ice insufficient. Mr. Padgett dwelt on his favorite grievance. The old man isn't needed these days. They're getting all young fellows into the bank. They put young college fellows in there who are getting pretty near the money I am after 25 years. In any pause, Mrs. Padgett could be heard, patiently dissuading little Robert from his fixed intention of accompanying the older boys on their walk, whether invited or uninvited. John Tennyson behaved charmingly, eating his dinner with enjoyment, looking interestedly from one face to the other, sympathetic, alert, and amused. But Margaret rides in spirit at what he must be thinking. Finally, the ice cream and the melting condition and the chocolate cake, very sticky, made their appearance. And although these were regular Sunday treats, the boys felt called upon a cheer. Julie asked her mother in an audible undertone if she ought to eat cake. Dr. Tennyson produced an enormous box of chocolates and Margaret was disgusted with the frantic scramble her brothers made to secure them. "'If you're going for a walk, dear,' her mother said, when the meal was over, you'd better go. It's almost three now.' "'I don't know whether we will. It's so hot,' Margaret said, in an indifferent tone. But she could easily have broken into heart and tears. "'Oh, go,' Julie urged. It's much cooler out.' They were up in Margaret's old room. Mrs. Padgett tied a big apron above Julie's ruffled frock, preparatory to an attack upon the demoralized kitchen. "'We think he's lovely,' the little mansion went on approvingly. "'Don't fall in love with him, Mark.' "'Why not?' Margaret said carelessly, pinning on her hat. "'Well, I don't imagine he's a Marian man,' said the young authority, wisely. Margaret flushed and was angry at herself for flushing. But when Mrs. Padgett had gone downstairs, Julie came very simply and charmingly over to her sister and standing close beside her with embarrassed eyes on her own hand, very youthful in its plain ring. As she played with the bureau furnishing, she said. "'Mother, tell you?' Margaret looked down at the flushed face. "'Are you sorry, Jew?' "'Sorry,' the conscious eyes flashed into view. "'Sorry,' Julie echoed in astonishment. "'Why, Mark,' she said dreamily. There was no affectation of maturity in her manner now, and it was all the more impressive for that. "'Why, Mark,' said she, "'it's the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. "'I think and think,' her voice dropped very low, of holding it in my arms, mine and Harry's, you know, and of its little face.' Margaret, stirred, kissed the wet lashes. "'Jew, but you're so young. You're such a baby yourself,' she said. "'And, Mark,' Julie said, unheeding, "'you know what, Harry and I are going to call her if it's a girl? Not for mother, for it's so confusing to have two Julius, but for you.' "'Because,' her arms went about her sister, "'you've always been such a dialing to me, Mark.' Margaret went downstairs very thoughtfully, and out into the silent Sunday streets. Where they walked or what they talked of, she did not know. She knew that her head ached, and that the village was very commonplace, and that the day was very hot. She found it more painful and sweet to be strolling along beside the big, loose-jointed figure, and to send an occasional side glance to John Tennyson's earnest face, which wore its pleasantest expression now. "'Ah, well, it would be all over at five o'clock,' she said weirdly to herself, and she could go home and lie down with her aching head in the darkened room, and try not to think what today might have been. Try not to think that the dainty little lunch in Anniewood had given them at Mrs. Carbolts, of the luxurious choice of amusements afterward, motoring over the lovely country roads, rowing in the wide-still water, watching the tennis courts, or simply resting in deep chairs on the sweep of velvet lawn above the river. She came out of a reverie to find Dr. Tennyson, glancing calmly up from his watch. "'The train was five o'clock, was it?' he said. "'I've missed it.' "'Mist it,' Margaret echoed blankly. "'Then,' as the horrible possibility dawned upon her, "'Oh, no! "'Oh, yes, as bad as that! "'He said, laughing at her. "'Poor Margaret, fighting despair, "'struggled to recover herself. "'Well, I thought it might have been important to you,' she said, laughing quite naturally. "'There's a seven-six, "'but it stops everywhere in a ten-thirty. "'The ten-thirty is best "'because supper's apt to be a little late.' "'The ten-thirty,' Dr. Tennyson echoed contentedly. "'Margaret's heart sank. "'Five more hours of the struggle. "'But perhaps it's an imposition,' he said. "'Isn't there a tea-room? "'Isn't there an inn here where we could have a bite?' "'We aren't in Berlin,' Margaret reminded him cheerfully. "'There's a hotel, "'but Mother would never forgive me "'for leading anyone there. "'Now, we'll take that little walk I told you of, "'and Mother will give us something to eat later.' "'Perhaps if we're late enough,' she added to herself, "'we can have just tea and bread and jam alone "'after the others.' "'Suddenly, unreasonably, "'she felt philosophical and gay. "'The little episode of missing the train "'had given her the old dear feeling of adventure "'and comradeship again. "'Things couldn't be any worse "'than they had been at noon, anyway. "'The experience had been thoroughly disenchanting. "'What did a few hours more or less matter? "'Let him be disgusted if you wanted to. "'She couldn't help it.' "'It was cooler now. "'The level-late shadows were making even Weston pretty. "'They went up a steep shady lane to the old graveyard "'and wandered, peacefully, contentedly, among the old graves. "'Margaret gathered a thin gown from contact "'with a tangled uncut grass. "'They had to disturb a flock of nibbling sheep "'to cross to the cumberland wall. "'Leaning on the uneven stones that formed it, "'they looked down at the rifts of the village, "'have flossed in treetops, "'and listened to the barking of dogs "'and the shrill voices of children. "'The sun sank lower, lower. "'There was a feeling of dew in the air as they went slowly home. "'When at seven o'clock they opened the gate, "'they found on the side porch only Rebecca, "'enchanting in something pink and dotted, mother and dad. "'Luckily waited,' said Rebecca, arising, "'and signaling some wordless message to Margaret "'that required dimples, widened eyes, "'compressed lips, and an expression of utter secrecy. "'Suppers already,' she added casually. "'Where are the others?' Margaret said, "'experiencing the most pleasant sensation she had had "'in twenty-four hours. "'Jew and Harry went home, robs at George's, boys walking,' said Rebecca briefly, still dimpling mysteriously "'with additional information. "'She gave Margaret an eloquent side glance "'as she led the way into the dining-room. "'At the doorway, Margaret stopped, astounded. "'The room was hardly recognizable now. "'It was cool and delightful, "'with a diminished table daintily set for five. "'The old silver candlesticks and silver teapot "'presided over the blue bowls of berries, "'and the choices of mother's preserved fruits. "'Someone had found time to put fresh parsley "'about the cantum platter of cold meats. "'Someone had made a special trip to Mrs. O'Brien's "'for the cream that filled the Wedgewood pitcher. "'Margaret felt tears pressed suddenly against her eyes. "'Oh, back!' she could only stammer "'when the sisters went into the kitchen "'for hot water and tea-biscuit. "'Mother did it,' said Rebecca, "'returning her hug with fervor. "'She gave us all an awful talking-to after you left. "'She said, here was dear old Marc, "'who always worked herself to death for us, "'trying to make a nice impression "'and to have things go smoothly. "'We were all acting like Indians, "'and everything so confused at dinner, "'and hot and noisy. "'So later, when Paul and I and the others were walking, "'we saw you and Dr. Tennyson "'going up toward the graveyard, "'and I tore home and told Mother "'he'd miss the fives and would be back. "'It was just after five then, "'and we just flew. "'It was all like a pleasant awakening "'after a troubled dream. "'As Margaret took her place at the little feast, "'she felt an exquisite sensation of peace "'and content seeking to her heart. "'Mother was so gracious and charming behind the urn, "'Rebecca irresistible in her admiration "'of the famous professor. "'Her father was his sweetest self, "'delightfully reminiscent of his boyhood, "'and his visit to the White House in Lincoln's day "'with, my uncle, the judge. "'But it was to her mother's face "'that Margaret's eyes returned most often. "'She was vaguely conscious that she wanted "'to get away from the voices of laughter "'and think about Mother. "'How sweet she was, just sweet! "'And after all, how few people were that in this world? "'They were clever and witty and rich, "'plenty of them, but how little sweetness there was. "'How few faces like her mother's "'did not show a line that was not "'all tenderness and goodness.' "'They laughed over their tea-cups like old friends. "'The professor and Rebecca shouting joyously together. "'Mr. Paget, one broad twinkle. "'Mrs. Paget radiantly reflecting, "'as she always did reflect the other's mood. "'It was a memorably happy hour. "'And after tea they sat on the porch "'and the stars came out, "'and presently the moon sent silver shafts "'to the dark foliage of the trees. "'Little Rob came home and climbed silently, "'contentedly, into his father's lap. "'Sing something, Mark,' said Dad then, "'and Margaret, sitting on the steps "'with her head against her mother's knee, "'bound it very simple to begin in the darkness "'one of the old songs he loved. "'Don't you cry my honey, "'don't you weep no more?' "'Rebecca, sitting on the rail, "'one slender arm flung above her head "'about the pillar, joined her own young boys "'to Margaret's sweet and steady one. "'The others hummed a little. "'Don Tennyson, sitting watching them, "'his locked hands hanging between his knees, "'saw on the moonlight, "'a sudden glitter on the mother's cheek. "'Presently Bruce, tired and happy and sunburned, "'came through the splash silver and black "'of the street to sit by Margaret "'and put his arm about her. "'And the younger boys, returning full "'of the day's great deeds, "'spread themselves comfortably over the lower steps. "'Before long all their happy voices rose together "'on, believe me, and working on the railroad "'and seeing Delhi home, "'and a dozen more of the old songs "'that young people have sung for half a century "'in the summer moonlight. "'And then it was time to say good night "'to Professor Tennyson. "'Come again, sir,' said Mr. Padgett heartily. "'The boys slipped their hands, "'still faintly suggested the fish, cordially into his. "'Rebecca promised to mail him a certain "'discussed variety of fur in the very next day. "'Bruce's voice sounded all hearty goodwill "'as he hoped that he wouldn't miss Dr. Tennyson's "'next visit. "'Mrs. Padgett, her hand in his, raised keen, "'almost anxious eyes to his face. "'But surely you'll be down our way again,' said she unsmilingly. "'Oh, surely?' "'The professor was unable to keep his eyes "'for moving toward Margaret and the mother saw it. "'Goodbye for the present, then,' she said, "'still very gravely. "'Goodbye, Mrs. Padgett,' said Dr. Tennyson. "'It's been an estimal privilege to meet you all. "'I have ever had a happier day. "'Margaret, used to the extravagant speeches "'of another world, thought this merely "'very charming politeness. "'But her heart sang as they walked away together. "'He liked them. He had had a nice time. "'Now I know it makes you so different from other women,' said John Tennyson, when he and Margaret were alone. "'It's having that wonderful mother. "'She—she—' "'Well, she's one woman in the million. "'I don't have to tell you that. "'It's something to thank God for, a mother like that. "'It's a privilege to know her. "'I've been watching her all day, "'and I've been wondering when she gets out of it. "'That was what puzzled me. "'But now, just now, I found out. "'This morning, thinking what her life is, "'I couldn't see what repaid her, do you see? "'What made up to her for the unending— "'unending effort and sacrifice, "'the pouring out of love and sympathy and help "'year after year after year?' "'He hesitated, but Margaret did not speak.' "'You know,' he went unmusingly. "'In these days, when women just serenely "'ignore the question of children, "'or at most, as a special concession, bring up one or two, "'just the one or two whose expenses can be comfortably met, "'there's something magnificent in a woman like your mother, "'who begins eight destinies instead of one. "'She doesn't strain and chafe to express herself "'through the medium of poetry or music or the stage, "'but she puts her whole splendid philosophy into her nursery, "'launches sound little bodies and minds "'that have their first growth cleanly and purely "'about her knees. "'Responsibility, that's what these other women "'say they are afraid of. "'But it seems to me, there's no responsibility "'like that of decreeing that young life "'simply shall not be. "'Why, what good is learning? "'Or elegance of manner? "'Or painfully acquired fineness of speech "'and taste and point of view? "'If you're not going to distill it "'into the growing plants, "'the only real hope we have in the world. "'You know, Miss Padgett, "'his smile is very sweet in the half-darkness. "'There's a higher tribunal than the social tribunal "'in this world, after all. "'And it seems to me that a woman who stands there, "'as your mother will, "'with the force of new lives about her "'and a record like hers, well, "'we'll find she has a friend at court,' "'he finished whimsically. "'They were at a lonely corner "'and a garden fence offering Margaret "'a convenient support. "'She laid her arm suddenly upon the rose-vine "'that covered it and her face upon her arms "'and cried as if her heart was broken. "'Why, why, my dear girl?' "'The professor said aghast. "'He laid his hand on the shaken shoulders, "'but Margaret shook it off.' "'I'm not what you think I am,' she sobbed out "'incohorantly. "'I'm not different from other women. "'I'm just as selfish and bad as me "'in the worst of them. "'And I'm not worthy to die my mother's shoes.'" "'Margaret,' John Tennyson said unsteadily. "'And in a flash her dripping bright head "'was close to his lips "'and both his big arms were about her. "'You know I love you, don't you, Margaret?' "'He said hoarsely over and over "'with a sort of fierce intensity. "'You know that, don't you? "'Don't you, Margaret?' "'Margaret could not speak. "'Emotion swept her like a rising tide "'from all her familiar moorings. "'Her heart thundered. "'There was a roaring in her ears. "'She was conscious of a wild desire to answer him, "'to say one hundredth part of all she felt. "'But she could only rest breathless against him. "'Her frightened eyes held by the eyes so near, "'his arms about her. "'You do, don't you, Margaret?' "'He said more gently. "'You love me, don't you? "'Don't you?' "'After a long time. "'Or what seemed a long time? "'While they stood motionless in the summer night, "'with the great branches of the trees "'moving a little overhead, "'and gardens sense creeping out on the damp air, "'Margaret said, with a sort of breathless catch "'in her voice, "'You know I do!' "'And with the words, the fright left her eyes, "'and happy tears filled them, "'and she raised her face to his. "'Coming back from the train half an hour later, "'she walked between a new heaven and a new earth. "'The friendly stars seemed just overhead. "'A thousand delicious odors came from garden beds "'and recently watered lawns. "'She moved through the confusion "'that always attended the settling-downs "'and the pageants for the night, like one in a dream. "'And was glad to find herself at last, "'lying in the darkness beside the sleeping Rebecca again. "'Now, now she could think. "'But it was all too wonderful for reasonable thought. "'Margaret clasped both her hands against her rising heart. "'He loved her. "'She could think of the very words he had used "'in telling her, over and over again. "'She made no longer wonder and dream and despair. "'He had said it. "'He loved her, had left her from the very first. "'His old aunt suspected it, and his chums suspected it, "'and he had thought, Margaret knew it. "'And beside him, in that brilliant career "'that she had followed so wistfully in her dreams, "'Margaret saw herself, his wife, "'young and clever and good to look upon. "'Yes, she was free tonight "'to admit herself all these good things for his sake. "'And his wife, mountainous he mounted beside "'the one man in the world she had elected "'to admire and love. "'Doctor and Mrs. Tennyson, so it would be written. "'Doctor Tennyson's wife, this is Mrs. Tennyson. "'She seemed already to hear the magical sound of it. "'Love, what a wonderful thing it was. "'How good God was to send this best of all gifts to her. "'She thought how it belittled the other good things "'of the world. "'She asked no more of life now. "'She was loved by a good man and a great man, "'and she was to be his wife. "'Ah, the happy years together "'that would date from tonight. "'Margaret was thrilling already to their delights. "'For better or worse, the old words came to her "'with a new meaning. "'There would be no worse,' she said to herself "'with sudden conviction. "'How could there be? "'Poverty, probation, sickness might come. "'But to bear them with John, to comfort and sustain him, "'to be shed away with him from all the world "'but the world of their own four walls, "'why, that would be the greatest happiness of all. "'What road too steep if they stayed at hand and hand?' "'And that,' her confused thoughts ran on. "'That was what had changed all life for Julie. "'She had forgotten Europe, "'forgotten all the idle ambitions of her girlhood "'because she loved her husband. "'And now the new miracle was to come to her, "'the miracle of a child, "'the little perfect promise of the days to come. "'How marvelous, how marvelous it was! "'The little imperative, helpless third person, "'bringing to radiant youth and irresponsibility "'the terrors of danger and anguish "'and the great final joy to share together. "'That was life. "'Julie was living, "'and although Margaret's own heart was not yet a wife's, "'and she could not yet find room for the love beyond that. "'Still she was strangely, deeply stirred now "'by a longing for all the experiences that life held. "'How she loved everything and everybody tonight. "'How she loved just being alive, "'just being Margaret Padgett, "'lying here in the dark, dreaming and thinking. "'There was no one in the world "'with whom she would change places tonight. "'Margaret found herself thinking of one woman "'for acquaintance after another, "'in her own future, "'opening all color of rose before her, "'seemed to her the one enviable path through the world. "'In just one day,' she realized with vague wonder, "'her slowly formed theories had been said at naught, "'her whole philosophy turned upside down. "'Had these years of protest and rebellion "'done no more than lead her in a wide circle, "'past empty gain and joyless mirth, "'and the dead sea fruit of riches and idleness, "'back to her mother's knees again. "'She had met brilliant women, "'rich women, corded women. "'But where among them was one face "'had ever shown as her mother's shown today? "'The overdressed, idle dowagers, "'the mattress with their two gay frocks, "'their two full days, their two rich food, "'the girls, all crudeness, artifice, "'all schemingly open for their own advantage. "'Where among them all was happiness? "'Where among them was one whom Margaret had heard say, "'as she had heard her mother say so many, many times. "'Children, this is a happy day. "'Thank God for another lovely Sunday altogether. "'Isn't it lovely to get up and find the sun shining? "'Isn't it good to come home hungry to such a nice dinner? "'And what a share of happiness her mother had given the world, "'how she had planned and worked for them all?' "'Migrat let her arm fall across the sudden ache in her eyes "'as she thought of the Christmas mornings "'and the stuffed stockings at the fireplace "'that proved every childish wish remembered, "'every little hidden hope guessed. "'Dialing, mother, she hadn't had much money "'for those Christmas stockings. "'They must have been carefully planned "'down to the last candy cane. "'And how her face would beam as she said at the breakfast table "'and joined her belated coffee after the cold walk to church "'and responding warmly to the onslaught of kisses and hugs "'that added fresh color to her cold rosy cheeks? "'What a mother she was!' "'Migrat remembered her making them all help her clear "'out the Christmas disorder of tissue paper and ribbons. "'Then came the inevitable bed-making, "'then tippets and overshoes for a long walk with dad. "'They would come back to find the dining room warm, "'the long table set. "'The house deliciously fragrant from the immense turkey "'that their mother, afresh-apen over her holiday gown, "'was basting at the oven. "'Then came the feast, and then games until twilight "'and more table-setting, "'and the baby, whoever he was, "'was tucked away upstairs before tea. "'And the evening ended with singing, "'gathered about mother at the piano. "'How happy we all were,' Margaret said, "'and how she worked for us. "'And suddenly theories and speculation ended, "'and she knew. "'She knew that faithful, self-forgetting service "'and the love that spends itself over and over, "'only to be renewed again and again "'are the secret of happiness. "'For another world, perhaps, "'leisure and beauty and luxury. "'But in this one, who loses his life, shall gain it.' "'Margaret knew now that her mother was not only the truest, "'the finest, and most generous woman she had ever known, "'but the happiest as well. "'She thought of other women like her mother. "'She suddenly saw what made their lives beautiful. "'She couldn't understand now why Emily Porter, "'her old brave little associate of school teaching days, "'was always bright, "'while Mary Page, plotting home from the long day "'at the library desk, "'to her little cottage and crippled sister at night, "'always made one feel better and happier for meeting her. "'Mrs. Carbolt's days were crowded to the last instant. "'It was true. "'But what a farce it was, after all,' Margaret said "'to herself in all honesty, "'to humor her and her little favorite belief "'that she was a busy woman. "'Milliner, manicure, butler, chef, club, card table, "'tea table, these and a thousand things "'like them filled her day, "'and they might all be swept away in an hour "'and leave no one the worse. "'Suppose her own summons came. "'There would be a little flurry "'throughout the great establishment, "'legal matters to settle, "'notes of thanks to be written for flowers.' "'Margaret could imagine Victoria and Harriet, "'odd, but otherwise unaffected, "'home from school in midweek, "'and to be sent back before the next Monday. "'Their lives would go on unchanged. "'Their mother had never buttered bread for them, "'never schemed for their boots and hats, "'never watched their work and play, "'and called them to her knees for praise and blame. "'Mr. Carbolt would have his club, his business, "'his yacht, his motor-cars. "'He was well accustomed to living "'in a cheerful independence of family claims. "'But life without mother!' "'In a sick moment of revelation, Margaret saw it. "'She saw them gathering in the horrible emptiness "'in silence of the house. "'Mother had kept so warm and bright. "'She saw her father's stooped shoulders "'in trembling hands. "'She saw Julian Beck, red-eyed, white-cheeked, "'in fresh black. "'She seemed to hear the low-toned voices "'that would break over and over again, "'so cruelly into sobs. "'What could they do? "'Who could take of the work she laid down? "'Who would watch and plan and work for them all now?' "'Margaret thought of the empty place at the table, "'of the room that, after all these years, "'was no longer mother's room. "'Oh, no, no, no!' "'She began to cry bitterly in the dark. "'No, please, God, they would hold her safe "'with them for many years. "'Mother should live to see some of the fruits "'of the long labor of love. "'She should know that with every fresh step in life, "'with every deepening experience, "'her children grew to love her better, "'turn to her more and more. "'There would be Christmases as sweet as the old ones, "'if not so gay. "'There'd come a day,' Margaret told being, "'thrilled to the thought, "'when little forms would run ahead "'of John and herself up the warm path, "'and when their children would be gathered "'in mother's experienced arms. "'Did life hold a more exquisite moment?' she wondered. "'Then that in which she would hear her mother praise them. "'All her old castles in the air seemed cheap "'and tinseled to-night, "'beside these tender dreams "'that had their roots in the real truths of life. "'Travel and position, gowns and motor-cars, "'yachts and country houses. "'These things are to be bought "'in all their perfection by the highest bidder, "'and always would be. "'But love and character and service, "'home and the wonderful chariots of little lives, "'the pure religion, breathing household laws, "'that guided and perfected the whole. "'These were not to be bought. "'They were only to be prayed for, worked for. "'Bravely won. "'God has been very good to me,' Margaret said to herself "'very seriously, "'and in her old childish fashion she made some new resolves. "'From now on,' she thought, "'with a fervor that made it seem half-accomplished, "'she would be a very different woman. "'If joy came, she would share it as far as she could. "'If sorrow, she would show her mother "'that her daughter was not all-unworthy of her. "'Tomorrow,' she thought, "'she would go and see Julie. "'Dear old Jew, whose heart was so full "'of the little Margaret.' "'Margaret had a sudden tender memory "'of the days when Theodore and Duncan and Rob "'were all babies in turn. "'Her mother would gather the little daily supply "'of fresh clothes from bureau and chest every morning "'and carry the little bathtub into the sunny nursery window "'and sit there with only a bobbing downy head "'and waving pink fingers visible "'from the great warm bundle of bath apron. "'Jew would be doing that now.' "'And she had sometimes wished, or half-formed the wish, "'that she and Bruce had been the only ones.' "'Yes,' came the sudden thought. "'But it wouldn't have been Bruce and Margaret after all. "'It would have been Bruce and Charlie.' "'Good God! "'That was what women did then, "'when they denied the right of life to the distant, "'unwanted possible little person. "'Calmly, constantly, and all-placid philosophy "'and self-justification, they kept from the world, "'not only the troublesome new baby, "'with his tears and his illnesses, "'his merciless exactions, "'his endless claim on mind and body and spirit, "'but perhaps the glowing beauty of a Rebecca, "'the buoyant indomitable spirit of a Ted, "'the sturdy charm of a small Robert, "'whose grip on life, "'whose energy and ambition were as strong as Margaret's own.' "'Margaret stirred uneasily, frowned in the dark. "'It seemed perfectly incredible. "'It seemed perfectly impossible "'if mother had only had the two, "'and how many thousands of women didn't have that. "'She, Margaret, a pronounced and separate entity, "'traveled, ambitious, "'and to be the wife of one of the world's great men, "'might not have been lying here in the summer night, "'mitching love and youth and beauty and her dreams. "'It was all puzzling, all too big for her to understand. "'But she could do what mother did, "'just take the nearest duty and fulfill it, "'and sleep well, and rise joyfully to fresh effort. "'Margaret felt as if she would never sleep again. "'The summer night was cool, she was cramped and chilly, "'but still her thoughts raced on, "'and she could not shut her eyes. "'She turned and pressed her face "'resolutely into the pillow, "'and with a great sigh renounced the joys and sorrows, "'the lessons in the awakening "'of the long day had held. "'A second later there was a gentle rustle at the door. "'Mark,' a voice whispered, "'can't you sleep? "'Margaret locked her arms tight about her mother "'as the older woman knelt beside her. "'Why, how cold you are, sweet heart?' "'Her mother protested, tucking covers about her. "'I thought I heard you sigh. "'I caught up to lock the stairway door. "'Baby's got a trick of walking in and sleep "'when he's overtired. "'It's nearly one o'clock, Mark. "'What have you been doing?' "'Thinking.' "'Margaret put her lips close to her mother's ear. "'Mother,' she stammered and stopped. "'Mrs. Padgett kissed her. "'Daddy and I thought so,' she said simply, "'and further announcement was not needed. "'My darling little girl,' she added tenderly, "'and then after a silence. "'He is very fine, Mark, so unaffected, "'so gentle and nice with the boys. "'I think I'm glad, Mark. "'I lose my girl, but there's no happiness "'like a happy marriage, dear.' "'No, you won't lose me, mother,' "'Margaret sighed, clinging very close. "'We had it much time to talk, "'but this match we did decide. "'You see, John goes to Germany for a year next July. "'So we thought, in June or July, mother, "'just as Julius was, just a little wedding like Jews. "'You see, that's better than interrupting the term "'or trying to settle down "'when you'd have to move in July. "'And, mother, I'm going to write, Mrs. Carbolt. "'She can get a thousand girls to take my place. "'Her niece is dying to do it. "'And I'm going to take my old school here for the term. "'Mr. Ford spoke to me about it after church this morning. "'They want me back. "'I want this year at home. "'I want to see more of Bruce and Jew "'and sort of stand by, darling little Beck. "'But it's for you, most of all, mother,' said Margaret, with difficulty. "'I've always loved you, mother, "'but you don't know how wonderful I think you are.' "'She broke off pettifly. "'Oh, mother!' "'For her mother's eyes had tightened convulsively about her, "'and the face against her own was wet. "'Are you talking?' said Rebecca, rearing herself up suddenly, with the web of bright hair falling over her shoulder. "'You said your prayers unmarked last night,' said she reproachfully. "'Come over and say them on me, tonight, mother.' End of chapter 7, also End of Mother, by Kathleen Norris.