 CHAPTER I The room was dreary, very dreary. Outside it was November, and a drizzly rain was falling, which the wind occasionally took hold of and swept in angry gusts straight into people's faces. The streets were dark, for in this portion of the town street lamps were few and far between. But the street was brightness and cheer and the season's springtime compared with the gloom of that fourth-story back room. To begin with, the carpet. And, by the way, it is the carpet with which one has always to begin of evenings. In the daytime one notices the windows and the possibility of sunshine. The carpet could be described by that one word, stuffy. No, it isn't a nice word, but then it is expressive. The carpet was dark and large-figured, and showed the mark of every footfall, and much of the dust of years gone by seemed to have settled in its warp and pushed away the filling. Oh, the carpet was ugly! So was the furniture. There was a folding bed, for the room was so small that had the bed not folded it would have asserted itself so completely as to leave no space for its occupant. But there are folding beds and folding beds. This one was of the sort which made itself into a nondescript thing across between wardrobe and mantelpiece, and looking drearily unlike either. Besides, the curtain which hung limp and discouraged before it was an ugly imitation of tapestry and was cotton. As for the springs and mattress and blankets hiding behind this curtain, perhaps entire silence is the best which can be done for them. There were toilet appointments which matched the bed. There was a small, neat, cozy-looking sewing chair, the only pleasant touch in the room unless one accepts something which was in the room but not of it, a framed photograph of a sweet face and tender mother eyes that looked down upon the occupant of the sewing chair. Did they have in them a wistful yearning gaze? Rebecca Meredith often looked up at them and asked herself the question. This stuffy room on the fourth floor of a fourth-rate downtown boarding-house was Rebecca Meredith's home. Oh, the home I have! she sometimes told herself bitterly and looked up at the pictured face and felt the sharp contrast between it and the home she used to know. That was a way off in a large town which combined many of the advantages of a city with most of the comforts of the country. It was a large house, as old-fashioned country houses go, and her room had been a second-story front with an eastern and southern exposure and with four large windows. In the summer there was India matting on the floor, and in the winter a soft, creamy brown carpet that caught the sunlight and had checkerberries sprinkled over it. There were muslin curtains at the windows both winter and summer, for Rebecca hated stiff things. Ah, the old home! she had not known half how sweet and clean and dear it was until after she spent winter and summer in this fourth-floor room. No, the old house had not burned or been sold or mortgaged or anything of the kind. Father still lived there, and went in and out as he had for thirty years or more. And Mrs. Meredith lived there also. But Rebecca Meredith did not any more. Yes, there is a sense in which it is the old story of which we hear so much, at least in books. A happy home, a bright childhood, then sickness, then death, then desolation, then a new wife, and the children scattered. History, even in fiction, is constantly repeating itself, always harping on the old strings, because those somehow are the heart strings, and it is hard to break from them. But Rebecca Meredith's story was not like that of the average weekly newspaper or dime novel. There had been no disgraceful scenes in their old home. Her stepmother had neither starved nor beaten her, nor lashed her with her tongue. She had always been a lady, and had meant to be always kind to Rebecca, as well as just to her. Then was the fault Rebecca's? Why, I hardly know. Rebecca is my friend. I admire her. In fact, I love her. How am I to lay bare her faults before you? Yet, unless I do, how are you to know her? For we of flesh and blood are so largely made up of faults, that unless they are mentioned it is of no use to fancy we are acquainted with one another. Rebecca meant to do right. She had affixed, I almost said stern, sense of right, and she intended to live up to it. She began wrong as most people do who get at odds with life, and she began by calling wrong right. Perhaps most people at some time in their lives have done that also. She had a feeling that her experiences were peculiar, which was natural certainly. We have the word of inspiration for it that the human heart is prone to cry out. There is no sorrow like unto my sorrow. Perhaps, though, she had been more to her mother than many girls are. The father was a busy physician, who had hardly time to make the acquaintance of his own family, yet contrived to lavish so many kindnesses on them that they thought they knew him and loved and honoured him. There were two boys who inherited their father's studious tastes and lived much among books. One was older than Rebecca and had gone early from home to college to seminary and then to India as a missionary physician. One was two years younger, but had kept pace with his brother until they were ready for the seminary and then had far outstripped him and gone to heaven to live. By reason of all these things, Rebecca and her mother were much alone together and grew to know each other with that peculiar knowledge which is given to but few. They read each other's books and thought each other's thoughts. The busy physician's purse was not a full one. He lived in a factory town and there were many poor and there was much sickness among the poor and Dr. Meredith was a benevolent man and the boy's educations were expensive. Rebecca quietly gave up the idea of going away from home to complete her education. She was a fair, not a brilliant scholar. She would have liked to go on, but the cry for an advanced education was not imperative in her heart and she had ambitions for the boys and she did not think father could bear the added expense and she did not see how her mother could get along without her, so she stayed at home. The year after Hervey Meredith went to India, there came into the home a treasure, the sweetest, fairest flower of a baby girl that ever stepped foot the side of heaven. So at least Rebecca thought and indeed the Meredith household not only, but the neighborhood agreed with her. Such lustrous eyes as Ily had, such a sweet rosebud mouth, such winning ways which showed themselves at an unheard of age. Perhaps it was because they were so busy worshiping her that they did not notice the mother's fading. At least Rebecca did not. She, who had been part of her mother's life for so many years, up braided herself afterwards with the thought that she had been busy over the child and let the mother slip away. Ily was not quite eight months old when Rebecca bent over her and murmured through blinding tears, I must be mother as well as sister to you now, she said so. It had been a very solemn parting, of course, and yet a very tender one. Rebecca, with her heart torn as it was with grief, all but crushed at times with the thought of her loss, yet felt soothed and strengthened as often as she looked at Ily. Her mother had trusted her so utterly. You are just the age that I was, daughter, she had said, when I first held your brother Hervey in my arms. It was my birthday I remember and I was twenty-two. I am so glad you are not younger now that you are called to be mother as well as sister to Ily. It is God's call to you, dearest, and I feel so safe leaving her in your arms. And feeling the touch of the little arms about her neck, Rebecca could not but be comforted after her mother had gone away, could not but feel that she had a wonderful life-work before her. She must bring up Ily as her mother would have done. She had other work which all but bewildered her. Sometimes she looked on in dismay and felt that she had not known her father. He had always been so grave and so busy, preoccupied indeed. She had not realised that he would mourn so for her mother. There were days when he was like one insane with sorrow, and she began to know what her mother meant when she said, I look to you, daughter, to give your father the help he will sorely need when I am away. She had asked no questions then. She could not, for the tears which choked her. But in her heart had been a strange feeling of surprise that anyone could suppose her father needed help. It was his life to help others. It almost startled her to discover how human he was. After a little it helped her to feel that he actually leaned on her. You certainly have a full life marked out before you, her brother wrote from India. There will be no need for you ever to sit down and fold your hands and mourn that you are not wanted. Mack has just been reading to me a letter from his sister. He wanted my advice professionally as to the possibility of having her come out to him here. He does not know how plainly I can read between the lines of the letter. The girl is one of those helpless, hopeless, discontented creatures who imagines that she is not wanted here or there or anywhere. Indeed, from the tone of her letter it may be truth and not imagination. Some people contrive to be so full of themselves and their rungs and aches that it is hard to want them. What if our little Ailey and our precious father had to look to such as she for care and comfort? I am so glad, Rebecca, that you are what you are. I know you will be to father all that you can be, and I know that is saying a great deal. I am not surprised that he has broken down as you say he has. Characters like his, nearly always I think, have someone person on whom they lean, and our mother was a strong-hearted woman. It was good to lean upon her. I am sure he needs your help even more than you realize. This letter helped Rebecca to be brave for her father as well as for Ailey, and thoughtful for him, and to try in all possible ways to comfort him. Perhaps it was this which made the next blow fall so keenly. She thought she had succeeded. He learned to come to her for all his small needs, such as a woman's hand can supply. He learned to speak to her of his perplexities. He even told her occasionally, as she discovered he had been in the habit of telling her mother, about grave cases which caused him professional anxiety. She strove earnestly to be interested in sympathetic, and believed that she had succeeded. After a little he ceased to talk with her in this way, and she told herself that he was getting used to the changed life and was busier than ever, for a sickly season came upon them. Her thoughts, she remembered, were largely of Ailey that winter, and her father had less of her attention. It was at the close of the winter, when Ailey had just passed her second birthday, that the blow fell which for a time seemed to stun her. Her father was going to be married, going to bring a stranger home to take her mother's place, sit at the head of the table where mother sat all those years, where she had sat since, bravely trying to do her work. A stranger to be a mother to Ailey, her Ailey. It was too terrible. She could not bear it. She lived through the storm of grief and injured pride and rebellion in the secrecy of her own room. She made no scenes outside. She did not even let her father know that she disapproved. At least, she thought she did not, though his lip had quivered for a moment when he said, I am afraid it is a disappointment to you, Rebecca, and I wanted it to be a comfort. She made no answer to that appeal. She felt that she could not. A comfort to her to put a stranger in her mother's place. How could he? Oh, how could he? Had she forgotten that dear face and form even for an hour? How was it possible for her father to put another face there instead of it? But all this, as I said, was in secret. Outsiders said to one another, how well Rebecca Meredith takes the news. I suppose it is really a relief to her to think of having someone to share her care and responsibility. And one replied, I presume it is. Rebecca is a very self-poised young woman anyway. I don't think she feels things as deeply as some. I could not help noticing how quietly she took her mother's death. Thus much they knew about the almost breaking heart of the quiet girl. The new Mrs. Meredith came. A dignified, lady-like woman, as unlike Rebecca's mother, as two women who were refined and cultured could well be. One who knew what was due to her, and meant to maintain her dignity. At least that was what Rebecca saw in her. There was, I have said, no outward disturbance of any kind. Rebecca was present at the homecoming of her father with his new wife. She received them with all the quiet grace that was natural to her and administered to their comfort in all thoughtful ways. She did more than that. She stepped promptly out of the place of manager of the home which she had held so long and so well. There was found to be no need of hints or reminders. She ate her breakfast quietly and made no sign on the morning when Mrs. Meredith first took her mother's seat at the table. She answered cheerfully and fully all necessary questions in regard to household matters, and volunteered much information that was valuable. In short, no one could have found any fault with Rebecca's words or manner during those trying days, and all the while her heart felt like lead. Only one place she kept to herself. She did not by so much as a glance intimate that she supposed the newcomer had any right or title in I. Lee. Her careful, painstaking, and remarkably judicious management of the child, all things considered, went on steadily, and as I. Lee was a frail, peculiarly sensitive, and with all very timid little child, no one disturbed their relations. At first the new mother tried to win her, but I. Lee clung with as silent and positive persistence to Rebecca as Rebecca did to her, and as she needed special care, and her sister evidently knew how to give it, and wanted nothing so much as the opportunity, the wise new mother led them alone. And more and more, as the days passed, these two, child and woman, drew away from both father and mother, and drew closer to each other. They ate and slept in their father's house, and received all that was needed for their comfort at his careful hands. Beyond that they saw almost nothing of him. He, on his part, was as busy as ever, perhaps busier than ever, for the overcrowded tenements of the factory hands did not grow more sanitary as the days went on, and sickness increased. He was rarely at home during I. Lee's waking hours, and when she was sleeping quietly, Rebecca remembered that if her father was in the house, Mrs. Meredith was with him, so she shaded the light from I. Lee's eyes, and wrote long letters to Hervey in India. I hope you want me, she wrote to him one night. If you do not, I have nowhere to go, for I. Lee is asleep, and father and Mrs. Meredith are sufficient to themselves. There is no room for me. Then she thought of Max's sister, the hopeless, discontented creature who imagined that she was not wanted here or there or anywhere, and took a fresh sheet, leaving all that out. Hervey should not class her in any such list. She would bear her loneliness alone. Life settled down into a routine with Rebecca. She saw less and less of father and stepmother. Indeed, she saw little of anybody. She deliberately gave herself up to I. Lee. As the years went by, and the little girl was nearing her fifth birthday, Rebecca found herself wondering, with a sharp pain at her heart, what she should do when the time came that I. Lee must go to school. How would she get through the days without her? Then she held her close and mentally resolved that school days should not begin for her very early. What better teacher did she need than her sister? But Rebecca did not understand. A better teacher was needed, and provision was being made. Suddenly the child sickened, a sharp illness from the very first. Rebecca knew this by the sudden pailing of her father's face when he came in answer to her summons. A few terrible days followed, during which the father hung over his little daughter in an agony of effort to save her, and the wife hovered about, anxious to do something, and not knowing what to do, for I. Lee clung with all the passion of delirium to her sister, would not, indeed, suffer her out of her sight. Then, like a great pall bearing down upon poor Rebecca, and shutting out light and hope together, the end came. I. Lee lay quiet at last, with her clinging arms dropped lifeless, and a rarely sweet look of mingled wonderment and rapture on her face, as if in that supreme moment when she exchanged earth for heaven, her eyes might have caught a glimpse of mother. CHAPTER II What life was to Rebecca during the weeks and months that followed, I shrink from trying to tell you. At first she seemed stunned. People said of her again, how very quietly she takes everything. It must be comfortable to be so self-poised that nothing overcomes her, but I had no idea when she was a girl that she was so cold-hearted. Yes, she had passed her twenty-seventh birthday, and people were already saying of her. She did thus and so when she was a girl. It was true enough that nobody understood her. Mrs. Meredith wanted to be very kind and helpful. Come into the library, my dear, she said to her one evening, when Rebecca was slipping away to her room. Your father will be at home this evening, and we can have a comfortable time together. Poor girl, that very word comfortable, well nigh cost her her self-control. No doubt they could be, with I. Lee gone, for they had seen very little of her in life. But how could she, with empty arms and heart, sit in the library and be comfortable? This thought passed swiftly through her mind, a bitter thought, for Rebecca, without knowing it, was growing bitter. She made no answer in words beyond a cold, thank you, I would rather not, and hurried away. Mrs. Meredith sighed, I cannot reach her, I am afraid, in any way, she said to her husband. She seems to shrink from me more and more as the months pass, instead of becoming used to it. I cannot understand her, the father said, and he spoke impatiently. Rebecca used to be a reasonable girl, and was never given to brooding, so far as I could see. She has had a crushing sorrow, said the stepmother, and her tone was kind, with an excusing element in it. Of course, the father said, I feel for her, but haven't we too been bereaved? People ought not to be selfish in their grief. He said we, because the new Mrs. Meredith was really a part of himself, and he felt that she suffered in his suffering, and he missed his little daughter in a way that Rebecca did not imagine. If she had half understood, it would have made her own burden less hard. Rebecca did try to be good. In the solitude of her own room that night, she took herself to task for being unreasonable. Of course, Ily was almost nothing to her stepmother. Of course, she could be comfortable without her. Why need the quiet truth stab herself? Not even to her father was Ily in any sense what she was to her. Another time she would not be so foolish. Acting upon this decision, she went, on the next evening, when she knew her father to be at home, to the library, resolved to make one of the family party. Mrs. Meredith was in the midst of a sentence when she turned the knob of the door and quietly glided in. The sentence stopped midway and was never finished, and the drop light, shaded though it was, revealed on the stepmother's face a sudden look of, perhaps consternation, or at least dismay. She had interrupted a confidence. She had surprised them both. And though her father made a place for her at the table, and pushed an easy chair forward for her use, she could not get away from the feeling that she was not wanted, that they were comfortable without her, and the stepmother at least uncomfortable in her presence. She made her stay quite short, and it was weeks before she could bring herself to try the experiment again. After a time it became apparent to Rebecca Meredith herself that she could not live on in this way. Her days were purposeless, and her nights full of heartbreaking dreams, from which she awoke to miss her darling and cry herself to sleep. She was growing morbid. Some change she must have, in that speedily, or she felt that her very reason might be imperiled. If she could only go away for a time, but there seemed no avenue open to her. She was singularly alone in the world. Her mother had been an only child, and her father's one brother was an officer in the navy, and made his headquarters abroad. She was not even acquainted with his family. She thought of India, and smiled bitterly to herself over the thought that there was another creature like Max's sister. No, of course she would not go to India. But the unrest, once admitted, grew upon her, strengthened until she felt sure that the limit of her endurance had been reached. She tried to talk it over with her father, and found it the hardest thing she had ever done. He was utterly unsympathetic. I cannot understand, he said, and his voice was as cold as ice. Why a young woman in a comfortable home should feel such an intense desire to get away from it? What is it you need that you cannot have here? It is not that, father, she said eagerly. I have everything I need, of course. It is not a question of comfort at all, but of—why, of life almost? She had not made it any plainer. Indeed, he said, I am as far from understanding the situation as ever. If you were seventeen, or given to heroics, I would know how to treat you. But as it is, I really don't know what to think. This is not a wonderfully interesting part of the town I am aware, but your mother and I contrived to get along in it, and have reasonably comfortable time. I do not know why you cannot do the same. Her face flamed at the word mother. She had never used it, saved to the mother in heaven. To outsiders, she said Mrs. Meredith. In the home, she had most of the time contrived to avoid any direct address. Also, she hated the word comfortable. What constant use was made of it in these days when it did not fit? But she tried to make her meaning plain. She thought she needed a change. If she could go away for a few months, or even weeks, she was sure it would help her. If he only understood what it was to her to be without I. Lee. But he drew along sigh and said, We have to do without her. If he had said I instead of we, it would have helped her more, or hurt her less, as it was she winced. Well, he said after another pause, and he spoke in a slow, sad tone, I do not in the least know what to do for you. It is only to a parent that you are unhappy at home, but I do not know where to send you. If we had family, friends, it would be different. But you know how alone we are in the world, and I am by no means able to send you away to a place of resort. I am a poor man, Rebecca. Another sigh, and the lines on his face seemed to deepen. A much poorer man than you probably suppose. Your brother's education and fitting out were expensive, and sickness is always, of course, a heavy drain on the purse, even in a physician's family. He did not say death was expensive, but Rebecca knew that it was, and it seemed to her there had been so many deaths in her family. He went on to say that there had also been losses of which she knew nothing. He had not thought it worthwhile to trouble her with them, not heavy losses, of course, because he had not a great deal to lose. He had never been able to save much in his profession. Some men did. He hardly knew how. There were so many ways to spend money, and so many sick people were also poor people. Rebecca sat before this idea appalled for a moment. It was actually new to her. Of course, they were not what people called wealthy. She had always known that, but there had been here too far enough with which to do what they would. She had hardly given a thought to the money part of the question. She looked again at her father, and he seemed older than she had thought him. Perhaps he was wearing himself out to support his new wife and her. It crossed her mind that marriage too was expensive, as well as death. There had to be so many new things in the home before the stranger came. But she would not for the world have given utterance to the thought. Instead, she said, Never mind, Father, if you cannot afford me a few months of change, I can get along without it. I had not realized that it would take more money than it would to have me at home. In fact, I did not think anything about money. Then she went away, telling herself that she had given it all up. But before that day was done, she knew she had not. In fact, she assured herself that she could not breathe in that house any more. Her plans, however, took a different form. Why should she not earn her own living? Since her father was comparatively a poor man, it seemed eminently proper that she should. This idea finally took possession of her and was urged persistently. Her father utterly disapproved, but his very manner of showing this strengthened her determination. What in the world could you do? He asked, and he did not mean that a hint of almost a sneer should accompany the question. But that was the way it sounded to Rebecca. She flushed under it, yet admitted to herself that the question was but natural. She had not a finished education, although a very fair one. She had not been trained to teach, and the modern methods of imparting instruction were unfamiliar to her. This she fully realized, and she had, after careful consideration, abandoned the idea of teaching. But she did not like to have her father speak as though this very natural way of earning a living were close to her. There must be some work in the world which I am capable of doing. She said, and she knew that she spoke coldly. Oh, I do not doubt it. There is work in your own home which you are entirely capable of doing without going out in the world at all. I have often thought that your mother was overtaxed with the cares of housekeeping and the family mending and so forth. It seems to me there is quite enough, especially in the family of a physician, to keep two women as busily employed as is good for them. Rebecca had absolutely no reply to make to this. Her father took two or three turns up and down the room, then stopped before her and spoke more gently. Rebecca, if what I said to you not long ago about my circumstances has led you to think that you ought to take such a step as this, I hope you will reconsider. I am by no means a rich man, as I said, and to send you away from home for any length of time to a place where you would like to stay would embarrass me somewhat, but I am entirely able to support my family at home, and I am glad to assure you that any scheme for earning your own living is quite unnecessary. Can you not be content to stay with us, daughter? If he had only said, stay with me. Yet certainly she did not want him to ignore his wife now that he had a wife. She felt the tears gathering in her eyes. She felt her heart beating rapidly. She felt, oh, so sorely tempted to say to him, you were not content to stay with me, you sought out someone else and left me outside. But she held herself from saying it. She did not want to hurt her father. The only words she gave to him were, I am not needed at home, father. She made a marked pause before the word needed. She had almost said, wanted. Then her father turned from her again, impatiently this time. Well, Rebecca, you are your own mistress, of course. I have no legal control over you, and I certainly should not force you to stay if I could. You must do what you think is right. It was sore work. It had been harder to plan for herself than she had supposed, but she persisted. By dint of persevering effort, she secured a position as trimmer in a fashionable dressmaking establishment in a distant city. The wages offered barely paid her board, but she had had difficulty enough in obtaining even this opening to help her realize how crowded the world was. But it might help be a stepping stone to something better. At least I can sew, she had told her father half-proudly. I have made my own dresses since I was fifteen, and I know people in this town who would like to employ me to make theirs. Her father was hurt and indignant. He could not help saying some things which hurt his daughter. It was the stepmother who at last made the way smoother for her. I really think, doctor, it would be wiser in you to yield to Rebecca's wishes in this matter. I can see that her heart is quite set upon it, and it will be so much better for her to feel that she goes from home with your approval. After all, it is quite natural that she should want to see a little of the world. She has been sheltered longer than girls generally are, you know. Besides, it will not last long. She will find the world a very different place from what she imagines, and will be glad enough to get home again. Dr. Meredith had moved himself impatiently in his chair, and even given the household cat a slight kick with his slippered foot, to show his intense irritation, as he replied. If she were going about any work fitted to her position or tastes, it would be less unreasonable. But I must say I do not relish the thought of my daughter being a dressmaker. I know, but there is really nothing disgraceful in the attempt. There is not the slightest danger that she will succeed. A few months of steady labour in a city workroom will be sure to cure the disease. Meantime, she will be gaining skill which will help her in her own dressmaking, and that is not a bad idea. I used to say that if I ever had a daughter, she should go to one of the best dressmakers to be found and learn to sew. It gives one such a sense of independence to be able to do for oneself in such matters. So the doctor was silenced, if not convinced, and the daughter went out from her home without further words of disapproval, but with the knowledge in her heart that her father strongly disapproved. She knew also that Mrs. Meredith believed she would soon grow weary of her fit of independence and return. She had said so with a superior smile to some of her friends. This made the girl resolved to endure tortures rather than do so. But it was hard work, much harder than she had supposed. Madame, the dressmaker, with a French name and a shrewd New England origin, was so intensely and persistently selfish and keen and cold that Rebecca shrank daily from contact with her. Her companions in the large work rooms were by no means from the class of girls to which she had been accustomed. They talked and laughed about things whose mere mention made her blush. Constantly they were coarse, often shockingly irreverent, and sometimes positively low. Nor were they any better pleased with her company than she was with theirs. There were times when they seemed to exert themselves to say and do what they knew would shock her for the mere pleasure of making her wince. At other times they whispered over their work with evident determination to shut her out from possible fellowship. They called her the old girl, and meant it. To them she seemed very old, for they, poor things, were quite young and not to have been under the sheltering care of home and mother. Rebecca overheard the name one morning as they meant she should. She gave no sign at the time, but she studied her twenty-inch mirror very carefully that evening, and wondered if she really were old. Without her brooding she had not thought of that before. Well, the winter passed, and Rebecca lived through it and the spring which followed, and stayed in town during the brief vacation, partly because she could not afford the expense of going home, and partly because she shrank from going. She had endured the miseries of that stuffy room during all the stifling summer nights, and shivered in it through the dreary autumn ones, being glad that it held her only during the nights, for the workroom was at least pleasanter than it. But now for two weeks it had held her by daylight as well, at least when she was not plotting wearily through the streets in search of work. For Rebecca Meredith had been discharged. She said that word over to herself the first day, and laughed. It seemed so strange to apply it to her. She thought it was because she had quietly but firmly persisted in correcting the madame when she made a mistake in a bill. That may have been the immediate occasion, for madame did not like to be corrected, especially in her bills. But the actual fact was that one of her old hands had returned after long illness recovered, and ready for service. One who was more accommodating than Rebecca, who was willing to sew later on occasion, never being afraid to go home after dark, which Rebecca was, and when they were hard-pressed she could even sew for an hour or two early on Sunday morning without looking appalled over the mere idea of it. More than that, the girls liked her, and as there was place in the sewing-room for about one of them, she was chosen as the one. On this dreary November evening, therefore, Rebecca sat alone in her dreary room, face to face with the grim facts that she had paid out her last money for the last weeks' board, that there was a hole in her walking shoes, and that she had no work in prospect. Now what was to be done? Should she go home and admit herself vanquished and face Mrs. Meredith's superior smile? The thought was not to be born, for other reasons, however, than this week one. Her father had perhaps not grown reconciled to the idea of her earning her own living, but he chafed less under it than he used. In his last letter to her, he wrote but rarely, being a very busy man not given to letter-writing, but in response to one of her fortnightly epistles which she regularly sent, he had written, In these precarious times, when each morning's paper chronicles a fresh bank failure, and this morning it is one which has a few hundreds of my hard-earned money, I find I chafed less at the thought of your learning a business which might perhaps support you if worse should come to worst with us. At the same time I have not grown accustomed to your absence, and still believe that your best place is at home. This was all the father said to her about losses. But in a letter from India, received very soon thereafter, Herve wrote, Rebecca, I begin to realize how truly noble you have been in your flight into independence. I am afraid father is greatly burdened. He wrote me of quite a heavy loss for him early in the spring, and now this later one, and a fear of others following, I can see is a weight upon him. Poor father, he has worked hard enough for this ungrateful world to be better paid than he is. I have been troubled over the thought of your absence from the home nest. I can never think of you as old enough and wise enough to take care of yourself. You seem always my little sister. But I begin to understand how the matter looked to you. You wanted to relieve our father of the thought that he might leave you without resources of your own for earning a living. And though I trust that your brother could do for you all that was needful, at the same time I realize what you meant to do for father by the step you took, and I honor you. Not every girl would have done it. Considering herself unfitted for a teacher, the average girl would have folded her hands and sighed, and wished she could do something in keeping with her position in society. I honor you, dear, let me say it again, for being above such petty ideas. This praise had been very sweet to Rebecca, albeit she knew that she only half deserved it. It made her feel quite sure that she would not go home and own herself defeated. Not at least until she had made vigorous effort to secure work. But, at the end of two weeks of effort, she sat in weariness and discouragement, admitting to herself that perhaps she would have to give up. It was surprising, with so many dressmaking establishments in the great city, and such a rush of work as nearly all of them complained of, that there should be found no opening for her. She seemed to have come upon the scene just after every want in this department had been supplied. The morning paper lay in her lap with a list of wants carefully marked. This she had done the evening before, and all day and patiently trudged from number to number, only to find herself either too late or unable to do the particular sort of work which was needed. Her stay at Madame's had not been exceedingly helpful to her in the way of independent dressmaking. She had been held closely to one branch of the work, and that, an unimportant one, so far as acquiring general skill was concerned. As she sat drearily considering what was to be done next, her eyes rested on an advertisement. Wanted a young woman who has had experience with children to take the entire care of a child three years of age. Call between the hours of four and six at number twelve hundred Carroll Avenue. What if she should apply? The blood rolled in waves over her face at the mere thought. Dr. Meredith's daughter, a nurse girl. Well, why not? There were times when she so sorely missed the clinging arms of Eilid that she felt she would hail it as a relief to have a child to care for and caress. Why should such work be considered lower in the social scale than dressmaking, for instance? She knew there was a recognized difference. There was Miss Simmons, the dressmaker who sewed around. She had been for weeks together at her father's table, served as one of them, and Mrs. Meredith introduced her to those who chanced to come in contact with her as Miss Simmons. While Katie, Mrs. Porter's nurse girl, never thought of sitting at the table with the family when Mrs. Porter was spending the day or of being addressed as Miss Carter. Then she remembered that customs differed in large cities. The girls at Madame's had no such standing anywhere as had her old friend, Miss Simmons, and had not Madame once addressed her as Meredith without any prefix? To be sure she had done it but once. Rebecca felt certain that her face must have expressed something of the effect which it had upon her, but it revealed the condition of things socially. In truth, Rebecca had suffered a keener revelation than that. The Doran's girls had been in the workroom one morning, giving some special directions about their ruffles, and the older one had turned and stared at her in a most offensive way without a sign of recognition. This experience had made the sewing girl's face burn all the morning. How well she remembered the last time she had seen the Doran's girls. She had been introduced to them when she called it Dr. Perry's, and had met them the next afternoon, hurrying breathlessly along the slippery pavements, their delicate dresses and new spring hats caught in an April shower, and she had turned the heads of her father's horses, which she was driving from the station for him, and taken them in and set them down at Dr. Perry's door, they profuse in their thanks. Now, because she was a sewing girl in the Madame's employ, they would not even recognize her by a passing bow. Rebecca was mistaken. If the Doran's girls had remembered her, they would have gone forward with smiles and bows, and asked after her health and where she was staying in town. They belonged to that type of girls. What Miss Doran's said as soon as she was out of the room was, where have I seen that girl? Didn't you notice her, nanny? We have certainly met her somewhere. And nanny had answered carelessly. I did not notice her, perhaps she has brought work home for us. It may be that this little episode, not understood by Rebecca, helped her to a decision. Since she had lost her place in the world, what did it matter whether she was a seamstress or nurse girl? She read the notice again, her eyes filling with tears as she did so. That means, she told herself, that the mother is dead and there is probably a step-mother, no child would be left to the sole care of a nurse except under those circumstances. You will observe by this that she had large knowledge of the world. Her own conception of the case so worked upon her, together with a line which she received by the morning's mail from Mrs. Meredith, that precisely at four o'clock she rang the bell at 1200 Carroll Avenue. Mrs. Meredith had written, Your father wishes me to answer your note, giving you the enclosed recipe and sending his love. He is so harassed during these trying days that you must not expect many letters. Doran and Halsey have failed, their doors were closed yesterday. Your father had bought a couple of hundred dollars against them, but he felt sure of them, and every little helps you know. After that, Rebecca was sure she would not go home. But she wondered bitterly whether Mrs. Meredith kept a careful outlook for all failures and caused a herald of some sort to be sent to her. It was quite time for Rebecca Meredith to have another change. She was growing very bitter. It was nearly five o'clock when Mr. Dean McKenzie applied his latch key and let himself into the handsome house at 1200 Carroll Avenue. Rogers, who was never far away when Mr. McKenzie was in the house, came forward with noiseless step to meet him. Well, Rogers, he said, as that individual received at his hands the overcoat which the surly November day made necessary, has all gone as usual today? About as usual, sir. There is a person waiting to see you on business. I had her wait in the dining room because I was not sure whether you would wish to see her tonight. Not an applicant, Rogers? Yes, sir. She had only yesterday's paper and did not know the change of hours. But she had come some distance, from quite downtown, and seemed anxious, and I thought, perhaps, and here Rogers paused as though uncertain whether it would be well to tell all he thought. Very well, said his master, I may as well see her, I suppose, though she does not appear to be very business-like coming at the wrong hour. You may show her into the library, Rogers, as soon as I have glanced over my mail. There are several telegrams, sir. Are there? Then I must attend to them first. And the great man strode on into his elegant library, and sank wearily among the leather cushions of his easy chair. He dropped his face into both hands for an instant, and yawned, like one who was exhausted, then sat upright, and drew the yellow-enveloped messengers before him, tearing them open, one after another, not with the air of one who was nervous as to the news they might bring, but rather as a man used to dispatching business of all kinds with great rapidity. While he read the third one, he touched his bell. Rogers was at his side almost before its tinkle had sounded. Send Dick to me, Rogers. Tell him to be ready to take a message to the office, and have the carriage ready for me directly after dinner. I find I must go back downtown. You may as well let the young woman come in now. I shall have no other time to see her. The letters, I think, can wait. He glanced at their superscriptions as he spoke. Then, seizing a dispatch blank, he wrote rapidly, tore open one of the letters, took in its contents at a single glance, and was writing on another blank when Rogers returned, followed by Rebecca Meredith. One moment, he said to Rogers, without looking up. Here is another message for Dick, and it must go to the downtown office. Tell him to make all speed, and cook may hurry the dinner a little. I have less time than I thought. Now, my good, I beg your pardon. And Mr. Mackenzie rose to his feet with a surprised and courteous bow. His orders had been issued to Rogers while he wrote, and he had wheeled about in his chair with a, now my good, girl he had meant to say before he glanced in Rebecca's direction. She was dressed in the plainest of street costumes, but there was something about it and herself which was so utterly unlike what the businessman had expected to meet, that he acknowledged it as I have said. I beg your pardon. There is some mistake. I thought there was a person waiting for me who had answered my advertisement for help. I am that person, said Rebecca, and Mrs. Meredith would have seen that she had lost no wit of her dignity. I am Rebecca Meredith, and I come in response to your advertisement for a child's nurse. I would be glad to secure the place if I could. Mr. Mackenzie was a businessman. It took him but a moment to discover that this was business. However, unlike it in exterior it might appear. He resumed his seat with a courteous, very well beseeded. Have you had experience with children? Rebecca, with rigid self-control, held her lips from quivering while she explained what her experience had been. He did not spare her in the least. He was courteous, as much so as he could have been to any person, but he was businesslike. He asked numberless questions about her health, her habits of life, her theories with regard to children. I may seem over-particular, he said at last, with a faint smile, but I have to be. It is a position of grave responsibility. I must have a nurse who can in all respects be trusted. My Lillian is peculiarly situated. Her mother is an invalid. He made so long and marked a pause before he completed this simple statement that Rebecca was fairly startled. Surely children had had invalid mothers before, such a state of things was not so unusual, yet his manner was certainly peculiar. He did not seem to be noting the effect of his words upon her, but rather considering what he should say next, or, as it seemed to Rebecca, how much he should leave unsaid. I had to send away her other nurse, he remarked, fixing his keen eyes on his collar. Because I could not trust her, and it was a great grief to Lillian. She was attached to her. She is a hard child to manage. She has inherited, diseased nerves. I am a very busy man, compelled by the necessities of my business to be away from home most of the time. I cannot, in the nature of things, do for my child as I would, and therefore the responsibility involved in securing a nurse. There have been, I should think, fifty applicants since I advertised, but there was not one of whom I thought for a moment. If you had had more experience I should be tempted to, but a home experience is sometimes better than any other, and sometimes not. I beg your pardon for speaking so plainly, with another grave attempt at a smile, or rather for thinking aloud before you, but I must do my best for my child. I do not think, began Rebecca, and she arose as she did so. Her sentence was to have been, I do not think I could suit you. I have had no experience, save with my one little sister, and I should not like to assume so great a responsibility as you suggest. But she did not finish the sentence. The door was pushed open very softly, and a vision of loveliness peeped in. A fair little girl, all in soft, fleecy white, with a face like an angel's, and framed in gold. For the short curls which clustered about her head were the color of the sunlight on an Indian summer day. Papa! said the sweetest of baby voices, and his reply was prompt. Ah, my darling, come here! She sprang forward into his arms, and then were exchanged some of the most extravagantly loving kisses Rebecca had seen in months. She could scarcely see now for the tears which would come. How often had I, Lee, after ever so brief an absence, bounded into her arms, and clung as this child was clinging now? She felt an almost irresistible longing to snatch her from the father's arms, and cry, Give me some of them, or my heart will break. She held herself silent and motionless until the father, still with his child in his arms, turned toward her. I must beg your pardon again. This is very unbusinesslike. It has all been a somewhat unbusinesslike interview. You do not seem to me like the usual professional applicants. And, excuse me, I hardly feel that you are suited to the position. I mean, you look an act above it. But you should know best. I will do my best to prove my fitness for the place if you care to try me. Was Rebecca's humble answer? In that little moment of time she had decided that she could not live longer without this child's love. Lillian, said her father, bending over the little girl whose great, beautiful eyes were fixed upon Rebecca. Should you like to have this woman come here and take care of you? He evidently hesitated for a word, but finally chose woman. Lillian looked and looked, all her soul in her eyes. Suddenly she gave a bound forward and landed in Rebecca's outstretched arms. I love you! she said, and the sweet lips were pressed close to the woman's trembling ones. That settles it, the father said, and there was a decided smile on his face. UNDER ORDERS It was New Year's evening, bitterly cold, and with a fierce northeast storm raging outside. Within the luxurious room where Rebecca Meredith sat, one would not have imagined that there could be discomfort of any sort. A very treasure of a room was this, the private apartment of the Lady of the House, Mrs. McKenzie. Somebody, certainly, had not only luxurious but exquisite tastes, and had given full play to their indulgence. Paper and carpet and upholstery and hangings blended charmingly, and were all of that indescribable mingling of colors which suggests summer and sunshine, however wintry or dark the day. The central figure in the room matched the surroundings wonderfully well. Mrs. McKenzie, lying back among the cushions of a great billowy armchair, her daintily-slippered feet resting on a hassic which set off their daintiness. Her slight, almost girlish form, a raid in a pale blue teagun trimmed with soft white fur. Her hair, which was nearly the color of her little daughters, clustering in curls about her temples, looked this evening almost younger than Rebecca Meredith, who occupied the reading-chair near at hand, yet there were a dozen years between them. A very busy and in some respects unique life had Rebecca Meredith led since that November evening some weeks ago, in which she engaged to enter Mr. McKenzie's family as nurse. So far as comfort and outward surroundings was concerned, she had been greatly the gainer. Mr. McKenzie had named a sum to be paid her monthly, which would have made Madame stare, and as for her room the stuffy little fourth floor back would have been appalled by her present surroundings. She shared the large, bright, elegantly appointed room here with Lillian, but there was ample space for two, and a sweeter, brighter room mate one could not have desired. As to board, the girl had endured tortures in the aforesaid boarding-house, not altogether on account of the quality and quantity of food, but also because of the manner of serving it. She had been dainty in her tastes in these directions from a child, and her father's well-appointed table had fostered such tastes. In Mr. McKenzie's house the most expensive luxuries of the season were freely served, and all the appointments of the dining-room were on a luxurious scale. Silver and China and Napery, such as the good doctor's house had never known, were now her daily portion. It is true that she and the housekeeper, and Mrs. McKenzie's nurse, took their meals together after the master of the house had been served, but they were served as freely and with as much care as he was himself. In short, Rebecca had learned what American girls seem so slow in learning, that the comforts of home and fair living wages can be had in a private house, with work to give in return, less wearing to brain and body than that which is often paid for in the starvation wages which must yet furnish attic rooms and fourth-rate board. But then, while I write the sentence, I feel that it is useless to wage war upon these ideas. The difficulty was voiced by a keen-brained girl to whom I talked of this thing not long ago. My dear Madame, she said, don't you know that the average girl will continue to stand behind a counter, ten or even twelve hours in a day, and endure rudeness from customer and cash-boy, and sleep in an attic, and eat sour bread and stale vegetables year in and year out, rather than live in comparative luxury and eat at that second table? They belong to the first table in their boarding-house, if it is fourth-rate, and that means a great deal. I suppose it does, but I am glad that there are a few girls like Rebecca Meredith who are superior even to this. As for the Meredith family, she had spared their feelings by being meager in her details. She had changed her boarding-house, that was sufficient surely for them to know. Her father was not acquainted with the city and remained in ignorance of what a change it was from No. 76 8th Street to No. 1200 Carroll Avenue. There was no need to say anything about her occupation. It was respectable, and she was better paid, and was saving money—a thing which could never have happened at madams. Nobody knew her, so the Meredith pride need not feel itself hurt. But there were unpleasantnesses connected with her present life. In the first place, the chambermaid seemed to resent the idea of Rebecca sitting at the housekeeper's table, and lost no opportunity to toss her head and curl her lip at the offender. She even muttered occasionally something about—stuck-ups who thought themselves better than common people. To be sure, this was a very small matter indeed to Rebecca. She gave the girl almost as little thought as she would have given to an offending fly, but even a fly can annoy. There was a graver unpleasantness than this, and one which grew upon her. She had conceived a decided, almost an intense dislike for the master of this great, handsome house, and there was something about Rebecca which made her shrink from receiving her daily bread at the hands of one whom she disliked. It is true she rarely saw him, an occasional passing of each other on the stairs, at which time he recognized her existence by the gravest of bows, an occasional glimpse of him seated in his library chair when she went to open the door for Lillian to make her daily visit. This was almost the extent of their intercourse. For the rest he contented himself generally with brief notes, in which he gave explicit and evidently carefully planned directions concerning Lillian, and not a word else. Yet, as I said, her dislike for him was deepening. Perhaps it had its start on the day of that first interview with him, after it had been decided that she would try the situation. He had toyed for a single instant with his paper knife, as a nervous man might have done. He had said to Rogers, who reminded him that dinner was served, yes, I will be out in a moment. Then he had dropped the knife and wheeled around again to Rebecca. Did I understand that you could come in the morning? My mornings are very much crowded with business. I must therefore take a few moments of your time at once to make some statements. As a rule I try to give this hour of the day to my daughter. I shall wish you to have her ready to join me here about five o'clock. I desire you to come with her to the door, then you may retire until I ring for the child to be taken away. If for any reason I am detained, or must be otherwise engaged, I shall wish you to keep the child with you. And at all other hours of the day I shall expect you to have her in your immediate presence. When she goes in to spend a little time with her mother, it is my desire that you should go also. Up to this point Rebecca had listened in silence. The directions were absurdly explicit, she thought, and presupposed that she knew nothing about the work which she had engaged to do. But perhaps men did not know any better than to talk in that way to women. Why did he not let his wife give the necessary orders? This train of thought, which she carried on as she listened, was suddenly broken in upon by that last surprising direction. So the mother was not to be permitted to see her child except in the presence of a third person. She interrupted the rapid utterances. Excuse me, what if the mother desires me to retire and leave her child with her? In that case you are to state that you have orders from the child's father not to have her out of your sight. Rebecca listened, dumbfounded. This was responsibility indeed. A sudden explanation flashed over her mind. It must be that the mother was insane, and that he feared to leave the little one alone with her. But if such were the case, why did he not say so? How absurd, as well as cruel, to try to keep her in ignorance of such a condition of things, when of course she must find it out for herself as soon as she came in contact with the mother. For a moment she felt that she must ask to be released from the engagement she had made. She shrank unutterably from having anything to do with an insane person. But the thought of Lillian and the kisses she had bestowed made her hesitate and gave Mr. McKenzie time to continue. We need not borrow trouble, Miss. By the way, what is your name? Rebecca had nearly said, Miss Meredith, but remembered the customs of her present position in time, and with an added flush on her face answered, Rebecca Meredith. Thank you. I was about to say, Rebecca, that we need not borrow trouble. We shall find enough of it, unsought, along the way. Probably the child's mother will not ask you to leave her charge. She understands my wishes in the matter quite well. But if she does, I shall expect you to obey my orders. I told you I was obliged to discharge your predecessor because I could not trust her. I expect to be able to trust you. This might have been intended as a compliment, but Rebecca felt almost as though she had been insulted. She began then to dislike the grave, self-sustained man, who could talk about his wife as though she were merely another person in his employ. She assured herself that he would have shown more heart, as well as more common sense, by confiding to her a great sorrow, if the woman were really not in her right mind, and trusting her to do the best she could to help them bear such a burden. His next sentence added to her indignation and dismay. Moreover, Rebecca, I shall have to ask you to be kind enough not to execute any commissions which any members of my family may wish to entrust to you. Mrs. McKenzie, for instance, has a woman whose sole duty it is to attend her, and who understands all her needs. But she is sometimes thoughtless in regard to the duties of others, and may ask a service of you which you ought not to have to perform. Can you not excuse Rebecca for feeling indignant? Here was certainly a very strange condition of things. If Mr. McKenzie felt it necessary to confide in a stranger to this extent, why did not courtesy and common sense suggest to him that he ought to go further? He gave her no opportunity to frame a reply, and evidently expected none. He had risen while speaking the last sentence. I find myself very much cramped for time, and expect to be even unusually hurried to-morrow. Therefore I felt it necessary to give these directions to-night. As to your duties, the housekeeper is entirely reliable, and will give you all the information you need for the present. Now I shall have to bid you good evening. Rebecca, too, had risen, and he had himself bowed her to the door, even while she was trying to frame a sentence which should tell him that she could not enter so mysterious a household, and take such disagreeable duties upon her. How utterly unnecessary, too, were his precautions! What harm could it do to humor the fancies of a poor, diseased brain, and let any one she happened to choose, execute, or seem to execute, her commissions for her? The newly-engaged nurse went back to her boarding-house in a fume, and spent half the night wondering, planning, and regretting. But the next morning she bade goodbye to the fourth-story back and went to 1200 Carroll Avenue. She had lunched in state with the housekeeper and a dignified-looking middle-aged woman who was addressed as nurse, and was trying to find her way through the intricacies of Lillian's wardrobe, which had been properly entrusted to her, when there came a summons which made her heart beat faster. Mrs. Mackenzie would like to see you, ma'am, and you are to bring Miss Lillian with you, if you please. It was Dick, the errand boy, who brought this word, and he waited for no reply, else Rebecca would have begged him to show her the way to Mrs. Mackenzie's room. Truth to tell, she was in a nervous tremor, and was almost tempted to call after the boy and ask his protection. However, she scolded herself roundly for allowing her foolish fears to get control of her common sense. Of course there was no danger, else they would not allow her, and utter stranger, to take the child and go unattended into its presence. Lillian was absorbed at that moment with a fresh dolly which had been found by her side when she awakened in the morning, and which the housekeeper said had been left for her with Papa's dear love. But she came at once in response to Rebecca's call and expressed great delight over the thought of a visit to Mama. A clear, sweet voice had responded to Rebecca's knock, inviting them to enter, and no sooner was the door opened than the child spring into the arms of her mother with quite as extravagant expressions of delight as she had shown to her father the evening before. As for the mother, she almost devoured the baby with kisses, then turned to Rebecca with a bright face. How do you do, my dear? Lillian has almost made me forget to welcome you, but indeed I am glad to see you and interested in you above measure. The one who cares especially for my little girl has always a warm place in my heart, and Mr. Mackenzie prepared me to like you. He is pleased with your appearance, my dear. I hope he will remain so, for he is very fastidious, and especially hard to please, where Lillian is concerned, and people who do not please him do not stay very long. She shrugged her shapely shoulders as she spoke, and laughed a sweet, silvery laugh, then invited Rebecca to be seated, and while she fondled Lillian, asked questions in a much more intelligent manner, Rebecca thought, than her husband had done, and with all was considerate and kind, even to tenderness. Poor child, she said. Say, you are motherless. It is very hard to lose a mother. One never grows accustomed to it. I lost mine twenty years ago, and I miss her yet. Too bitterly sometimes. There is nobody quite like a mother, especially to an invalid. I suppose they have told you I am that? I don't look at, do I? But I am a great sufferer sometimes, and never to be depended upon, because the attacks may seize me at any moment. That is why I have to entrust my little darling here so constantly to the care of others. But you will be good to her, I know you will. My heart warms to you, dear. As for Rebecca, her heart was utterly lost. This sweet-faced, sweet-voiced, beautiful woman, who smiled upon her so graciously, was the most winsome creature she had ever seen. There was not a trace of insanity, or even of nervousness, in face or manner. Her eyes were full of a kindly light, and every movement was graceful and reposeful. What could Mr. McKenzie have meant? The indignation which Rebecca had felt the evening before returned in full force. How insulting in a man to speak to an entire stranger in the way he did of his wife! What possible objection could there be to leaving Lily into her caresses for as long a time as she desired? But worse than that had been the injunction not to perform any service for this lovely lady. I suppose, said Rebecca to herself, it was his way of showing, or professing to show, consideration for his hired help, or else he is considering himself. Perhaps his wife shot into her Roma great deal by suffering. Sometimes in thoughtlessness asks services which inconvenience his majesty. So he proposes to guard himself at the very commencement from any annoyances of that kind coming through me. That must be the explanation. How horribly selfish and intolerable! I hope she does not know how he speaks of her. I despise that man. As I have said, this feeling deepened rather than lessened with Rebecca as the weeks went by and she came more and more under the influence of Mrs. McKenzie. That lady was so uniformly sweet and thoughtful and motherly, and Lillian was so unquestionably fond of her, that Rebecca, studying the problem, sometimes decided that it was very plain what the answer was. Mr. McKenzie was a majestic bundle of selfishness, who had but one love in all this great world, and that was his little daughter. For the rest his heart was wedded to his everlasting business. If he had ever loved his wife, that time was evidently long past. Probably he had grown impatient of her infrequent periods of invalidism, when she could neither attend to household duties, nor devote herself to his comfort, and had steadily drawn away from her. He looks and acts like a man who would have no sympathy with suffering of any sort, said Rebecca to herself, half fiercely. Yet that very evening, when she felt in honor bound to report Lillian as slightly hoarse, he left two men waiting for him in the library, and came himself to the nursery, bending over Lillian with all the solicitude and tenderness of a mother, even waiting to see the cold compress applied to her throat and arranging the flannel covering. He came again when the doctor, for whom he had promptly telephoned, responded, and administered with his own hand the medicine ordered. Even after the doctor had made light of fears and gone his way, the father sat with his finger on Lillian's small wrist, and counted the beats skillfully and anxiously. Oh, he had evidently hard enough where Lillian was concerned, and infinite sympathy for any touch of suffering which affected her. It is a case of idle worship, Rebecca told herself, but how strange and sad that he has bestowed it all on the baby, and has none left for the lovely mother! Mr. McKenzie had not been mistaken in his estimate of Rebecca. He could trust her. However she might disapprove of his orders, she obeyed them. Feeling ashamed of herself for doing so, feeling the blood sometimes mount to her forehead as she presented herself always at the door of Mrs. McKenzie's room when Lillian was sent for, she yet never thought of doing otherwise. The lady referred to it one day playfully. My dear, you are faithful, are you not? It was just after she had said with apparent carelessness, you can leave Lillian with me if you choose while you go down to supervise the making of her toast. And Rebecca had answered, flushing, Thank you, it will not be necessary. I have only to tell Cook how I want it done, and she will attend to it. Then Mrs. McKenzie had laughed, and made that playful response, My dear, you are faithful, are you not? Seeing Rebecca's evident embarrassment, she had made haste to add, Oh, you need not feel badly about it, I am glad that you are. I like you very much, and fully recognize the importance of your pleasing Mr. McKenzie. There have been several before you who failed in this respect. My poor little Lillian has had a number of faithful nurses whom she loved, who yet could not seem to remember certain very peculiar directions. I have been sorry for her. She and I do not like changes when they separate us from those we love. You see, I understand my husband's little peculiarities, Rebecca. Do not let them prejudice you against him. He is a good man, despite his whims. All men have them of one sort or another, I fancy. He is doubtless, half right. I have been ill so much, and am so absurdly fond of Lillian, that I dare say I should spoil her utterly if she were left to my care. I am very much afraid that if she wanted the traditional mirror and hammer, which they always refer to with overindulged children, I should want to get it for her, rather than see tears in her beautiful eyes. I am really not to be trusted, you see. Nothing more tenderly pathetic can be imagined than the half-humorous way in which the sweet voiced woman spoke these words, all the while with a suspicious tremor of the almost childlike mouth which told volumes to the sympathetic listener. How truly noble she was to try to make light of her husband's selfishness and to shield him from censure. He good indeed. Rebecca repeated the word in indignation, and believed that she did well not to actually hate him. There had been another time when she was overwhelmed with embarrassment. Mrs. McKenzie had sent for her just as she and Lillian were dressed for the afternoon drive, which was one of the commands for the day. The mother had a new and expensive wrap, which was to enfold Lillian, and which bore all about it the mark of the lady's exquisite taste. As she bent to kiss the child for good-bye, she said to Rebecca, By the way, dear, are you going anywhere in particular? No, ma'am, said Rebecca heedlessly, we are going wherever Thomas chooses to take us, just for a drive. Then suppose you suggest to him to drive down Park Avenue, and you be kind enough to leave a note for me at number 976. Then the girl's cheeks, not only, but her very forehead flushed, and she stood shame-faced and silent. Mrs. McKenzie regarded her for a moment with apparent curiosity, then laughed lightly. Never mind, dear child, she said, and her tone was that of one who wished to soothe. I see how it is, you are under orders. Do not be distressed, it is only one of the idiosyncrasies of a good man. Remember always that he is that, however strange his ways may seem to you. I understand him as few do. He is morbid over our little girl here. We have buried three, and his whole soul is centered upon her. He is so afraid of her being left for a single moment without oversight that he is even nervous about an errand being done when she is present. For fear, in some unaccountable way, she will be exposed to danger. I ought not to have suggested the errand. Thomas can do it as well at another time, but I thought perhaps it had not been considered necessary to put you in leading strings, since you are so much older than our former nurses. Rebecca had gone away in a whirl of bewilderment and pain, strongly intermingled with indignation. If Mr. McKenzie did not trust her any more than that, he would better discharge her and assume the care of the child himself. What a shame it was that she must rudely decline to do a simple errand for the lady of the house, Lillian's mother. The bewilderment was, why did the wife and mother permit herself to be treated in this way, almost like a naughty child who could not be allowed a mind of her own? The theory that she was not in her right mind had been put aside after the first day or two as quite untenable. Was she not at all times a sweet, self-controlled woman, with entirely sensible ideas as regarded Lillian, and entirely patient and charitable words for her husband? Moreover, it was plain to be seen what the family friends thought of her. There were a few ladies who had the entree of the nursery, and who kissed and caressed Lillian while they talked condescendingly to her nurse. Isn't Mrs. McKenzie a lovely woman? Do you not find her charming? So patient, poor dear, though she is a great sufferer at times, and so patient with some other things in her life which call for unusual forbearance. Oh, we think she is just wonderful! These last sentences were apt to be accentuated by impressive shakes of the head and impressive intonations. Mr. McKenzie's name was never mentioned. But, Rebecca grew to understanding, she hardly knew how, that the forbearance mentioned referred to him. All things considered, her new life, though it had its embarrassments and drawbacks, was fascinating. The very element of mystery which she could not help feeling surrounded it added to the interest. As a physician's daughter she had heard family histories before now which had to do with the mysterious, sometimes with the tragic. It was what had made her mind spring so promptly to insanity as an explanation. And because this did not fit, she was often at work over the problem, why was Mr. McKenzie so peculiar in his treatment of his wife? The interest which surrounded this question helped her to forget, or at least to ignore, some of the annoyances of her position. It was certainly a new experience for Dr. Meredith's daughter to remember always to say yes'em and no mam, and very little more unless directly questioned, to respond to bells and calls at all hours of the day, whether it was for her convenience or otherwise. Yet she was not a little interested to see how readily she could accommodate herself to the new order of things, albeit she realized how different it would have been if she had come in contact with any who knew that she was Miss Meredith, the only daughter of the leading physician in a flourishing town not two hundred miles distant. Occasionally she wondered how she should act, supposing Mrs. Brice, or Miss Evans and her sister Miss Edna, who were her father's patrons and her friends, should happen to be friends of Mrs. McKenzie, and should be brought in to see Lillian. Sometimes she wondered if the chambermaid, who was pretty, and who could, on occasion, look and dress like a society girl, had her social position also, and felt herself dropped below it, and was masquerading in a sort of disguise, as she could not help feeling that she was herself, despite the fact that she had given her own full name, and answered truthfully all questions which had been put to her. The ease with which she maintained her present relations grew in part out of the fact that nobody was enough interested in her to ask many questions. As a rule, however, she put herself into the background, and gave her mind to the study of the lives spread out before her. So far as Lillian was concerned, this was an excellent thing to do. Never did child have more faithful nurse. Never was child loved more tenderly, or watched over more conscientiously. Mr. McKenzie, looking on with a much keener and more intelligent eye than Rebecca gave him credit for, daily blessed his good fortune in securing such a treasure, as to whether her constant study of the other members of the family would be productive of good, was a thing that remained to be decided. This New Year's evening, on which she sat in luxury in Mrs. McKenzie's room, marked a progression in her career. She had been invited by the lady of the house to spend the evening with her. When I am well enough to realize it, I am often lonely, she said. Mr. McKenzie has so many duties to society that he has compelled to be absent a great deal. It is a trial to a man, you know, dear, to have an invalid wife, but he has to make the best of it. It is years since I have been able to go out with him much. He is more accustomed to it now, I think, than I am, though at first it was a thing which he thought he could not endure. But men grow used to such discipline sooner than women, I think. Do not you? There was a pathetic little smile on her face as she spoke, which provoked Rebecca to indignant pity. This matter of invalidism was one of the things which she did not understand. There was no mistaking the fact that Mrs. McKenzie had days and nights of suffering when her room was closed to all but the physician and the patient nurse who stood guard over her. Mr. McKenzie, at those times, made brief visits at rare intervals, and the others stayed away altogether. After such experiences, which came often enough, Rebecca thought, to have alarmed a less self-centered man than Mr. McKenzie, the sufferer would emerge with deep rings under her eyes and a general state of exhaustion, which told volumes. But she would resume her place at the head of the elegant table where her husband and she dined in state, and receive her friends as usual without other reference to her severe attack than to speak of it occasionally as something which was a matter of course. Why vigorous measures were not resorted to to save her from such periods of pain Rebecca could not imagine. Why did they not have a council of physicians, eminent as specialists, if the disease were obscure? Why did not her husband take her abroad in search of skill if he had exhausted the resources of this country? Turn which way she would, she felt bewildered and incensed. The utmost that the husband seemed to consider necessary was to guard the movements of his wife almost as if she had been in imbecile. Even when she went to pay the few visits which her invalidism allowed itself, she was always in the close carriage, and that inevitable nurse was forever on guard. True, she sat in the carriage and waited for her mistress, and was deference itself, but she had alighted and accompanied her to the very door, and was at the door again to receive her. Mr. McKenzie has a horror of my being seized with one of my attacks, I suppose. The lady had explained to Rebecca's questioning eyes. He does not like to have me out of nurse's sight. It is hard on her poor thing. I am quite sorry for her at times. And Rebecca felt sure that the invalid was sorry for herself, and chafed under such constant care. If he would bestow a little of it in person, she muttered to herself. Instead of delegating it all to the nurse, one would have more faith in him. This thought came to her in full force on the evening in question. She had never been in Mrs. McKenzie's room before when the master of the house was present, and she stopped irresolutely in the doorway when she caught sight of him, although she was coming in response to a summons. Mrs. McKenzie turned her head in the direction of the door, and smiled a welcome. Come in, my dear. Mr. McKenzie is just starting. I think a gentleman who has been paying ceremonious calls all day ought to be released on New Year's evening, and allowed to spend the time with his family. Do not you? Before Rebecca could imagine what reply to make, Mr. McKenzie had turned to his wife, his face grave, his voice cold. It is not a ceremonious call which I am to make this evening, you will remember, Mrs. McKenzie. Oh no! A wedding reception, and in honor of an old friend of mine. She used to be in our employee Rebecca, and Mr. McKenzie feels the need of showing her all-kindness on that account. Oh, Dean, do not imagine I am finding fault with you. Only it is a little lonely on New Year's Day, you know. Rebecca will bear you company, he said, and Mrs. Payne is, of course, within call. Good evening. His bow seemed to be as much for Rebecca as for his wife. Whatever sensations the wife may have had, the girl saw him depart with feelings near akin to scorn. A wedding reception indeed. What right had a man who left an invalid wife at home to mingle in receptions or social gatherings of any sort when she pleaded loneliness and all but entreated him to stay with her? For the sweet face and the pathetic voice were in treaties. And he could remind her that her child's nurse and Mrs. Payne, her ever-present guard, were at hand to take his place. Chapter 6 Looking backward It was very quiet in the pretty room for the first few minutes after Mr. McKenzie's departure. Rebecca, who supposed she had been summoned to read aloud, waited, book in hand for directions. It had recently been discovered that this was one of her accomplishments, and Mrs. McKenzie had seized upon it eagerly. She grew so tired of reading to herself she liked somebody to share the thought with. Mrs. Payne read words very well, she said, with a marked emphasis on words, but asked for ideas. And then she shrugged her shoulders expressively. It was fiction of a kind which was comparatively new to the reader that her listeners' tastes demanded. Not an especially objectionable kind, perhaps, but of a sort which to Rebecca seemed too improbable to be reasonable or interesting. She waited in vain on this particular evening to be directed to commence. Mrs. McKenzie's nurse had be taken herself to her own room, adjoining this, and dropped the heavy curtains which separated them. They were, therefore, to all intents and purposes alone, especially as the good, tired woman, seeming to feel herself free for the time, promptly dropped asleep, as her gentle snoring indicated. But Mrs. McKenzie sat with her eyes bent on the glowing coals in the grate and evidently thinking. Men are strange beings, she volunteered at length. All men are, I presume. If people could know beforehand what sort of a life is mapped out for them, what a difference it would make in biography. Don't you think so? Does it never seem to you that it might have been a wise way to have shown us visions, shadow pictures perhaps of the years, and have said to us, that is you at thirty-five, or these are your surroundings as they will be at forty, provided you do thus and so? And if one did not do thus and so? answered Rebecca, amused and a trifle startled by the suggestion. What then? Why, then, more shadow pictures with possibilities and a chance to choose. Wouldn't it make a difference with lives? I do not know, said Rebecca, with great gravity. I think I should be afraid to make the choice. I would rather have infinite wisdom choose for me. Ah, but we do choose in the dark. We elect in our youth and folly what we shall be, in a sense, not knowing what we shall become because of our choice. Don't you see what I mean? Don't you think we are guided in our choice, held from making mistakes, if we will be and led in the best paths on the whole? Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head and drew a long, weary sigh. I can never feel it, do you? Rebecca opened her mouth to answer, then closed it suddenly, the ready color flushing her cheeks. Such was her theory, her profession, but did she really feel it? Was it her belief, for instance, that mother and I. Lee being in heaven was the best thing to-night, not only for them but for her? Nay. Was her father's second marriage on the whole for her best good? Mrs. Mackenzie had turned from the firelight and was regarding her closely. She smiled significantly as Rebecca's eyes met hers. You'd need not answer, dear, she said. I know the difference between theory and feeling. Then suddenly she turned the girl's thoughts into a new channel. I am hungry sometimes for Carol. For Carol? Rebecca repeated, startled. Who would this be for whom the wife frankly avowed hunger? Yes, haven't you heard of him? My boy, Carol. I have not seen him now in nearly a year. I thought his father would surely have him home for the holidays, but he was inexorable. Mrs. Mackenzie, of course you do not mean your own son. Indeed I do, my own beautiful boy, Carol. He is in his eighteenth year and as beautiful as a dream. I do not believe a more lovely face and form were ever given to Mordell. Lillian looks like him, except that he is large and robust. If you will reach that letter case at your left, I will show you his photograph. He sent it to me only last week, and I think it the best one yet. I have one representing each year of his life. Rebecca gazed with keen interest at the handsome, boyish face held out to her. It was a rare face. The striking features of both father and mother were plainly marked and combined. They made a somewhat remarkable whole. Do you wonder that my heart aches often with the longing to see him and feel his kisses and caresses? He is very fond of his mother. Is he so far away that he cannot come home for the holidays? Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head and her soft eyes filled with tears. Oh no, he is only a few hours right away. His father rushes there in a night and takes breakfast with him whenever the desire to see him overmasters him. But I cannot do that. I wish I could. I have often wondered what would happen if I should run away. What would poor Mrs. Payne do then, do you suppose? There was the most curious mixture of child and woman about this fair, frail creature. Often a sentence begun in Pethos would end like the naughty fancy of a willful child. But Rebecca was not thinking of her. Here was a new factor in the problem she was trying to solve, a beautiful young son for whom his invalid mother's heart hungered, so near that the father could go to him of a night, and he not at home even for the holidays. She did not know how many questions she was expected to ask, so remained silent except for her eyes. Mrs. McKenzie answered their look. You wonder why he is not beside me this New Year's Day. My dear, that is another of his father's peculiarities. I was injudicious with the dear boy. I gave my consent to a hundred fancies which his father did not approve. I can really feel that it is for Carol's best good he was sent away to school, but to keep him away even at this holiday season is hard. I should think so! burst forth Rebecca. She was ashamed of herself on the instant. What right had she to be criticizing to a wife the actions of her husband? Yet she could not hold back her words. I beg your pardon, Mrs. McKenzie, but has not a mother some rights as well as a father? Now, my child, don't be naughty. I will not have you imagining that Mr. McKenzie is other than kind and wise. He is doing it for our best good, don't you see? Carol's and mine. He says I indulge the boy unwisely, which is true, and he says the boy indulges me, which is also true. Neither of us can seem to help it. Oh, he will come home before long, in the summer, I believe, but there are times when it seems long to wait. He writes to me every week, beautiful letters. He is a grand, noble boy. I did not spoil him by my indulgence. I only tried to, and I might have succeeded in time. He has been much away from us. School life began with him earlier than it does with most. His father was held at home until after he was twenty. Perhaps that is why he thinks Carol should begin to be a man so early. Hasn't he a lovely name? You think perhaps he was named for the street we live on, but the entire square was named for Carol's great-grandfather, Judge Carol, who was a power in this city even before it was a city. We were brought up to think that it was a great thing to be born into this world as Carol's. What a curious thing Pride of Family is, is it not? My poor mother had a great deal of it. I do not think I ever quite satisfied my family, but once in my life, and that was when I became a Mackenzie. By the way, dear, I wonder that you have never married. Mrs. Mackenzie darted from subject to subject in a way which fairly bewildered her listener. She was audacious, too. Surely she had no right to wonder in that questioning way about the private history of one who were almost a stranger to her, even though she was in her employ. But there was nothing disagreeable in her manner, after all, and Rebecca was persuaded that only kindly interest was meant. The question, or hint of a question, did not quicken her pulses in the least. She only smiled gravely and said in the most indifferent tone, Do you? Yet her thoughts had been turned backward, and while Mrs. Mackenzie responded promptly that she did, and went on to say that despite all the mistakes and misunderstandings and disappointments that there undoubtedly were in the married life, on the whole she believed it to be the true sphere of woman. Her supposed listener did not listen at all, but took a journey into her own past. Mrs. Mackenzie's question, or rather wonderment, had never before been spoken in her presence, but she realized that it had probably often been felt. Suppose there were somebody who had a right to question, and to whom she would feel in honor bound to tell the whole truth, what would she tell? The query brought the friend of her girlhood vividly before her. When she was eighteen, and she thought, with a start of surprise, of how many years ago that was, Fred Pearson had been her almost constant companion. They had been friends much further back than that. Why, she was only fifteen when the Pearson family moved to the adjoining town, and Fred entered high school, and speedily became, first her rival, and then so intimate a friend that she quite liked to have him show himself the better scholar in some things. It was such a delight to look up to and be proud of him. Moreover, he was very generous in his treatment of her. Never did he conquer a problem in algebra over which she had struggled in vain, but he said, Wait until it comes to grammar, Rebecca, and I sit with my chin in my hand looking anxiously for a prompting word from you. Or just think how I shall get tripped up in history tomorrow to pay for this. It was true she was his superior in both these studies. Perhaps that made his superiority in other things more pleasant. But he was never vain of his scholarship, at least before her. Why, he was everything that was good and noble in those days. She had been sure of it. In later years, when both had left school, and Fred was studying law in Judge Bartlett's office in their own town, the intimacy continued. It grew a matter of course to see the two in company upon all possible occasions. Are you and Fred going to the sociable, her mother would ask, or her father would say, I am sorry we cannot attend the reception at the Webster's, but I suppose Rebecca and Fred will be there to represent us. This habit of taking things as a matter of course had also been adopted by the young people themselves. Looking back critically, as she had done long ago, Rebecca could find no hour in which Fred Pearson had said to her, Will you be my wife? But oh, the numberless times in which he had said words like these. You and I will have a different state of things from this when we get to living, won't we? This in criticism of a young married couple who were their intimate acquaintances. Or, oh Rebecca, the weeks sometimes seem very slow in passing when one is getting ready for life. I long for the time when I shall be established in business and we can afford to indulge some of our tastes together. Or, after a brief absence, Rebecca, I don't believe you missed me as I did you. I am always looking forward to the time when I shall not have to miss you any more. She could have filled pages with such expressions as these. What more did a young innocent girl need? She never felt a need, not even when she was asked direct questions. Are you and Mr. Pearson engaged? Carrie Stewart had asked her in plain English. Carrie was a summer acquaintance who was spending a few weeks at Judge Bartlett's, where Mr. Pearson boarded. She had grown suddenly intimate with Rebecca after the fashion of some girls. Rebecca remembered vividly that she blushed and laughed and answered slowly, Why, yes, I suppose we are. And when are you to be married? The girl belonged to the class who can ask such questions even of their passing friends. Her response had been prompt. Oh, not for years and years yet. We have never even thought of setting a day. Fred is still a student, you know. Yes, but he expects to be admitted in the spring. I should think you would be planning for the wedding. There is time enough for that, Rebecca had answered serenely, and so it had proved. The young man had been admitted the following spring and was promptly offered a flattering position in Mr. Stewart's law office in a neighboring city. It is a very unusual opening for a fellow as young as I, Fred had said to Rebecca, and I know who I have to thank for it. Judge Bartlett says that Mr. Stewart's daughter has great influence with him, even in business matters, and it does not take a profit to tell who influenced her in my favor. His tone was significant, and Rebecca, although she disclaimed any attempt at influence, liked to think that her friend, Carrie Stewart, had helped to open this flattering business prospect because she was fond of her. She told herself that she should always remember this of Carrie. It will seem strange to be living in another town, Fred had said the evening before he departed to his honors. Do you suppose you will know how to write to me? I shall be very exacting in my demands. Nothing less than a letter each week will anything like satisfy me. In fact, I don't expect to be satisfied. Even your letters will be poor substitutes for you. But I suppose I couldn't, in conscience, expect such a busy little woman as you to write oftener, he added playfully. Rebecca had gaily assured her friend that she would try to think of something to say as often as once per week, and had been true to her word. Letters had passed between the two with the regularity of sunrise, the young man wrote excellent letters. My dear Rebecca, they began, or perhaps, my best friend. But they were not fulsome in tone nor lavish in adjectives. He gave very interesting descriptions of the city, of the trips which he occasionally took in the interests of the firm, of the various objects of interest which he saw, of the lectures he was privileged to attend, of the legal cases which specially excited or amused him. Each letter was sure to have some reference to Christmas. Remember, Rebecca, I shall be home for the holidays. I shall tolerate no engagements then which do not include me. You can guess possibly some things which I shall have to say to you about Christmas time. I have been a very patient fellow not to say them before. These, and kindred sentences, Rebecca smiled over and rejoiced to think how thoroughly they understood each other. Suddenly the young man's letters ceased. Two, three weeks passed, and not a word came from him. Rebecca was greatly alarmed, but her mother tried to comfort her. He may have had to go away on business, dear, to some little town where the males are irregular, where there is even not a male every day, there are such places, or he may be coming a few days earlier and is waiting to surprise you. Men are thoughtless about such things. A few days of tardiness about a letter never means as much to them as it does to us. I wouldn't worry, dear, nothing very serious can have happened, or he would have telegraphed. He did not telegraph, but two days before Christmas came the longed-for letter, not the usual style of envelope. It had a curious, almost an official look, but the superscription was Fred's own. Rebecca tore the thing open in nervous haste, and thereby spoiled one of the cards, a reception card. Mr. and Mrs. Alvin K. Stewart requested the pleasure of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, Caroline, to Mr. Frederick J. Pearson, on Thursday, January the 1st. End of Chapter 6