 CHAPTER 1 Mrs. Edmonds had tried every chair in the room, from the straight-backed uncompromising one nearest to the dining-room, to the wide-armed sleepy hollow in the alcove, but none of them fitted her restless mood. Twice she had resolutely settled herself on the wide, old-fashioned, pillowy lounge, arranged the pillows at head and back with infinite pains, drawn the bright-colored afghan over her, and resolved to rest, only to spring up again in five minutes and renew her walk up and down the room, broken only by a pause to peer out first at the western and then at the southern window. It was a pleasant enough prospect outside. The rain had been falling in torrents, and the little river which it had made still gurgled down the gutters, glistening in the brilliant moonlight. The street was quite still. During the hours which Mrs. Edmonds had waited there had been the sound of many feet, and the sound had been listened to by this woman as though her hope of life depended on her finding the footstep she waited for. Occasionally there had been one so like what she sought that she held her breath for it to draw near and pass. All the while her swift beating heart telling her that if it had been the footstep she would have known it, oh, as far away as the sound could reach her. Yet still she waited for each new one in the same breathless, hopeful way. As the hours waned the passers-by grew less and less frequent, until now the most belated traveller seemed to have reached home, and she was still waiting. She turned from the window once more, and the odor of coffee reached her. It seemed to be hateful to her. She went swiftly and closed the door which led from the dining room into the little kitchen, leaving the tiny coffee-pot to its fate. They were pretty rooms, sitting in dining room with folding doors between. The doors were rolled back out of sight, and the portiers so looped as to give a view of the dining table daintily laid for two people, who must both have had very refined tastes. The napery was fine and fresh, the china delicate, and the silver sterling. The Edmunds family had lived nearly always in a larger house than this, their table had been drawn out, often full length, and was won't to be surrounded by merry, happy people. Time and change had left only two, and the table had to be closed to its smallest. But there seemed no reason why the family heirlooms in silver and china should be laid away, so the table was pretty as of old. Mrs. Edmunds surveyed its prettiness almost with a groan. She had allowed herself to become so nervous over possibilities that all her dainty preparations for a late supper looked like so many mockeries. Still she went once more and sat down in the sleepy hollow, drawing a wrap about her and resolving to be reasonable. What could have happened? she asked herself for the hundredth time. Not an accident, surely, because there were so many of them that we should have heard of it before this time. As for their not starting for home tonight, that is nonsense. Don't I know that I would never be left here alone? More than that, she promised. Her mental argument was interrupted by the sound of footsteps overhead, and her thoughts were turned into a new channel. Mr. Maxwell was at home then. She had not heard a sound from his room before. He must have let himself in when she went to the coal-closet for that lump of coal. It was strange he was up so late, or rather so early, for the little clock on the dining-room mantel at that moment murmured in soft, silvery tones. One, two. They struck terror to the watcher's heart. It was actually two o'clock, and Marjorie, for the first time in all her nineteen years, was away from her. The mother started abruptly, and giving herself no more time for thought, made her way with all speed up the long flight of stairs, and knocked at her lodger's door. What if he was a comparative stranger, having been settled in her best front room less than a month? He was a man, and would know what should be done in an emergency. And she really could not endure this suspense longer. Visions of what Marjorie might say concerning this appeal to the lodger in her behalf crossed the troubled mother's brain as she sped, but she resolutely put them aside, and knocked at the closed door. It was opened on the instant, and Mr. Maxwell, fully dressed and looking as though he had not thought of sleep that night, stood before her. I beg your pardon, she said, speaking hurriedly, but I am so worried about my daughter that I don't know what to do. I heard your step just now and determined to come and advise with you. The door was opened wider, and Mr. Maxwell reached forth, and took the little night lamp from a hand which trembled. At the same time he motioned toward an easy chair. Come in, Mrs. Edmonds, and have a seat while you tell me how I can serve you. Your daughter is not ill, I hope? Oh, no! Why, I don't know what she is. I have thought that perhaps she had been taken suddenly ill, but there were eight of them. They cannot all be ill, and surely they would have come for her mother, all of which did not enlighten Mr. Maxwell. She is not at home, then, he ventured. Thus helped Mrs. Edmonds gathered her wits and explained. A party of eight, including her daughter, had started that morning on a nutting expedition. At the Schuyler farm, seven miles out, they were to be joined by the young people there, and go on to the extreme southern part of the Schuyler Woods some five or six miles farther. The plan had been to return to the Schuylers for an early tea, after which the guests were to drive home by moonlight. But they were to have been at home by ten at the latest. Indeed Marjorie had exclaimed over that hour, and said that she must be home by nine. And now, Mrs. Edmonds finished hurriedly, her face pailing over the thought, it is after two o'clock, and I know something has happened to them. What can I do?" Mr. Maxwell is said to comfort her. "'You have forgotten the storm,' he said cheerily. It doubtless came up just at the time they were to start, and it rained very hard, you remember. Moreover, the storm lasted a remarkably long time." No, she had forgotten nothing. She knew just when that first flash of lightning came, and just how long the rain continued, and just how brilliant the moonlight had been since the storm was over. Ample time for them to have reached home two hours ago, even though they had not started until the sky was entirely clear again. "'You forget,' she said piddily, that it will soon be three o'clock in the morning. Do you know the road to the Skylar Farm, Mr. Maxwell? There is a bridge to cross, about five miles out, over a very ugly stream of water. The embankments there are very high, and the sides of the bridge are not protected. More than that, I think I have heard somebody say that the bridge is unsafe. It is possible that they may have driven over the side, or the bridge may have fallen, and they may all be in peril together.' He made haste to reassure her. Oh, no indeed, he knew the bridge well, was over it indeed not twelve hours ago. It was perfectly safe, and no driver in his senses would be in danger of driving off the embankment. Had the party not a reliable driver? Mrs. Edmunds admitted that Mr. Ralph Bramlett was the driver, that he drove his father's horses, and was perfectly accustomed to them. But then they were spirited animals, and were doubtless afraid of lightning. Many horses were. And if nothing had happened to them, why had they not reached home long ago? Then Mr. Maxwell had another idea. Was not the Skylar Farm, the hospitable mansion, where so many young people were entertained? He had heard that it was the custom for large parties from town to spend several days there. Undoubtedly this nutting party detained by the storm had accepted the invitation of the Skylers to spend the night and take an early morning ride. It would have been a perfectly reasonable thing to do, because they probably feared another storm, and besides they would naturally dislike to disturb several families by coming home at a late hour. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that there was no occasion for anxiety. Her daughter was undoubtedly sleeping quietly. Then Mrs. Edmunds rose up and reached for her lamp, and her voice had a dignified tinge. I beg your pardon, Mr. Maxwell. I ought not to have disturbed you. Of course you cannot be expected to understand. I am sure you mean to comfort me, but my daughter would not for one moment have consented to spending the night away from home, and leaving me in suspense and anxiety concerning her. Even if she had not promised, she would not have done such a thing. But her last words to me were that she should be at home before ten. I knew the storm must detain them, however, and rested quietly until near midnight. But the sky has been entirely clear since a little before ten. There is no conceivable reason except by accident which could have kept my daughter from me. But of course you do not understand. He intercepted her hand and took charge of the little lamp again. Let me carry it down for you, he said cheerily. I still think you have no cause for anxiety. The company was too large not to be able to be heard from in some way before this time in case of accident. Still, I really can understand something of a mother's feelings. I have a dear mother of my own. I'll tell you what we will do, Mrs. Edmonds. If you will lie down in rest, I'll mount my horse and take a trip toward the Skyler Farm and learn the facts. I was making ready for a very early start in another direction, and Salim will be saddled and bridled waiting for me. But I can easily make the trip later, or wait until another day for that matter. Up to that moment Mrs. Edmonds had not shed a tear, but at the sound of the sympathetic voice planning a scheme that would at least relieve her of this terrible suspense, she lost for the moment her carefully trained self-control and broke into a fit of weeping. Mr. Maxwell made no attempt to restrain the tears. He gently seated the trembling lady in the chair from which she had risen, then went briskly about his room making final preparations for departure, talking cheerily the while. It will be a very short ride out to the farm, Mrs. Edmonds, for Salim and me, and by the time you have had one nap we shall be back here with good news from the truants. Young people cannot always be depended upon for excellent judgment, and your daughter, remember, may have had difficulty in making so large a party see with her eyes. I beg your pardon, said Mrs. Edmonds, rising again, and resolutely pushing back the tears. I must seem very weak to you, but indeed I am not in the habit of being without my daughter. I ought not to allow you to put aside your plans for the sake of relieving my anxiety. My daughter would be shocked at such a thought. I presume it may be as you think, and yet she did not finish her sentence aloud. In her heart she said that Marjorie would have no difficulty in controlling the movement of Ralph Bramlett, that he was only too willing to do as she wished, and that he controlled the horses. But, of course, this could not be said aloud. Mr. Maxwell finished the sentence for her. And yet certainty is better than surmise, he said brightly. I know it. We will very soon relieve your mind. Do not be troubled about disarranging my plans, Mrs. Edmonds. I assure you it is of no consequence. I have no business which cannot as well be done another day if that were necessary. Now I am ready, and you will, I am sure, remember your part of the contract and try to rest. May I help to rest you by a reminder that your daughter is in the care of one who cannot be overcome by accidents of any sort? Oh, I know it! she said gratefully. You will think me very foolish, but there have been times tonight when I believe I should have lost my reason if I could not have stayed my fears with that. I am so unused to being without my child. We have been all in all to each other for thirteen years. And yet what is my trust worth? There came a time when, as you see, I could wait no longer. Yes, he said smiling. That is the way we trust him. Yet he bears with us. I read with great satisfaction only yesterday the story of Gideon. Do you remember how many times the Lord strengthened his wavering faith by a sign? We all like props of this kind. I think I can bring you word in an hour at the latest, Mrs. Edmonds. She stood in the hall noting the sound of his retreating footsteps. She listened to their brisk ring until they were lost in the distance. She was alone again. But her throat felt less dry. The tears had relieved it. Her heart did not seem to beat in such oppressive thuds. Yes, undoubtedly she liked human props. How kind he had been! and how quick! The swiftness of his movements had had a soothing effect upon her. At least the sickening suspense, with its opportunity to conjecture all sorts of horrible possibilities, would soon be over. He would bring her word. And he was good too. How strong that reminder was about the one who had her daughter in charge! Oh, the mother trusted him! What would her years of widowhood have been without his mighty arm to lean upon? If only he were her daughter's trust well! And if? No, she would not finish that as thought. Loyalty to her daughter should make her put it away. What was Mr. Maxwell but a stranger, come for a few weeks to pay a good price for their vacant room? And Ralph Bramlett had grown up with Marjorie and had always been her friend. Why should she for a moment allow herself to wish that he were like Mr. Maxwell? She sat down in her reading chair and drew the shaded lamp towards her. She had not promised to try to sleep. She knew better than to try. She did not remember the story of Gideon very well. She wanted to read it. She had some difficulty in finding the story and in picking it out from various chapters. She stopped many times during its reading to listen to imaginary sounds on the street. She decided that if she could have had Gideon's signs she surely could have trusted. Meantime Mr. Maxwell and Salim were on their way to the Skyler Farm. CHAPTER II It was a very merry company which gathered in the Skyler Farmhouse, detained, as they fondly believed, by the unusually severe and long-continued thunderstorm. It had been a genuine detention at first. While the lightning flashed continually and the earth seemed fairly to tremble under the roar of thunder, they had been grave enough, more than one of the group silently wishing herself safely at home. The bountiful supper which had been spread in the hospitable dining-room was neglected while the storm raged. Oh, dear! one of the guests had said. We cannot eat while it is thundering so. And though Bob Skyler remarked philosophically that thunder didn't hurt anybody, and was ready for his supper, it was, by common consent, remanded to the kitchen to be kept hot and cold while the nutting-party regrouped themselves in the center of the large parlor as far away from windows as possible, and talked in somewhat subdued tones and waited. As for Marjorie Edmonds, she did not talk at all. She could not help remembering that her mother was inclined to be nervous during a thunderstorm. One of her earliest recollections was of hearing her father say, We must go downstairs, little girl, and help Mama be cheerful while this storm lasts. Of late years she had taken up that father's work or tried to and was generally at hand to help Mama be cheerful during a storm. Now she was perhaps quite alone, and when an unusually brilliant flash of lightning flooded the room followed instantly by the deafening peel of thunder, Marjorie wished earnestly that she had not left her. But when the thunder ceased and the rain which had been falling in torrents came only in gentle drops, the spirits of the company began to rise. They were ready now for pleasantries and merry little thrusts at the expense of the more nervous. By the time the belated supper was again ready the rain had ceased altogether and the guests were hilarious. That is, most of them were. It was impossible for Marjorie Edmonds, being the girl she was, to forget that they were still seven miles from home and the hour was nearing in which she had told her mother they would be sure to return. But then, of course, mother would take the storm into consideration and not expect them so early. It was surprising how long they lingered at that supper table. The clock struck ten while they were still eating nuts and guessing conundrums. And they lingered still, in spite of the fact that it would now be nearly midnight before they could hope to reach home. Marjorie, who had a vivid imagination and was well acquainted with her mother, could hardly restrain her impatience. She had finished her meal long before and sat back waiting. Had she been seated near enough to Ralph Bramlett to have given him a word in undertone, she felt that matters might be hastened, for Ralph Bramlett was a power among the young people. But fate had placed her the length of the table from him and on the same side as himself so that she could not even send him a meaning glance. There was nothing for it but to wait until those thoughtless creatures had finished their nuts and their stories. There were the Douglas sisters hindering as much as any, although their father was an invalid and would be sure to get no sleep until they were safe at home. It was while they still surrounded the table that Mrs. Schuyler, hospitably inclined, said, I think it would be a good plan for you to remain all night. It is getting late and we may have another shower. I don't suppose the weather is settled. We have plenty of room and shall be delighted to have you stay. A chorus of voices greeted the sentence, the Schuyler girls in eager seconding of their mother's invitation, some of the guests in earnest protest, others of them declaring that it would be great fun, and one or two explaining that they must be at home very early in the morning. Well, said Mrs. Schuyler, that might be managed. If you really cannot stay to breakfast, you might plan for a very early morning ride. It is light enough for driving soon after four o'clock, and a much pleasanter hour for it than late at night in a storm. There was much eager talking, and marjorie who had not at first given much heed, not deeming it possible that so absurd a plan should carry weight, began to be seriously alarmed. Oh, for a word with Ralph! What if he should commit himself to some of those silly girls who actually wanted to stay and keep their families in anxiety? Ralph was very tenacious of his word. If he promised them he would not go, it might require more persuasion than she was willing to make to carry her point. Yet her point must be carried at all hazards. Just that which she feared was happening at that moment. Oh, you won't stay! Estelle Douglas was saying to Ralph, I think it would be a real lark to do so, but I have not the slightest expectation of it. Marjorie Edmonds will look at you with those great brown eyes of hers and murmur something about being in haste to start, and you will go out and harness the horses, though one of them should be struck with lightning while you are doing it, and though a cyclone should carry away the wagon, somehow you will manage to get her home and make the rest of us go in your train, of course. Now Ralph Bramlett, being a weak young man, easily swayed by impulse, was of course painfully susceptible to such talk as this. Really, he said, his face flushing under her merry gaze, I do not know why you should suppose me to be a person so utterly devoid of common sense. Of course I will stay if the majority of my party wished to do so, though I had not supposed that you would, on account of making the people at home anxious. His tormentor laughed merrily. That is too funny, she said gaily. Don't you know we are all aware that you respond to Marjorie's slightest nod? You have even caught her phraseology. The rest of us give our parents credit for some common sense, but Marjorie knows that her mother proceeds to worrying about her as soon as she is out of sight and has to be humored accordingly. I don't blame you, Ralph. Marjorie is a prize worth winning, and she isn't to be won by people who do not know enough to bow when she does and shake their heads in accordance with her negatives. But she is a dear girl and worthy of all manner of concessions. After that it was unfortunate that Marjorie's first words when she met him at last in the parlor were, Oh Ralph, won't you see about the horses at once? It is growing so late, and I cannot think what mother will do if we are not there soon. Your mother will be reasonable, of course. He answered coldly, more coldly than he was in the habit of speaking to Marjorie. I do not know that we shall go at all. I must consider the wishes of the entire party Marjorie, and if the majority wish to stay. She interrupted him, her eyes wide with anxiety. Oh, but Ralph, you promised! Don't you know when I appealed to you this morning, you said? Why, of course, Mrs. Edmonds, we shall be back before ten. We cannot see to pick nuts as late as that. I beg your pardon, he said. That was in no sense a promise. It was a mere statement of the probable. That we were to have a thunderstorm of unprecedented severity to hinder us, I certainly did not take into those calculations. I know you could not help our being so late. But Ralph, it does not rain now. See how bright the moonlight is. If we start at once we may be at home by midnight. Oh Ralph, won't you hurry? If Estelle's merry eyes had not been on him he would not have answered as coldly as he did. I do not see Marjorie, why you cannot be reasonable like the rest of the party. They all have mothers as well as you. I think the majority of them wish to stay all night. It is so late now that we cannot any of us get home without disturbing the entire household, while the most of us at least are to be trusted to take care not only of ourselves but of those entrusted to us. At any rate I am bound to think of the entire party and not single out one to control it. If the most of them wish to stay that must settle it. Marjorie dropped the hand which she had rested lightly on his arm. She was hurt to the heart. No, she did not want to be selfish. She had not supposed that she was so. She believed that he of all persons would be the last one to think so. What had happened to make him so cruelly indifferent to her wishes? Yet she must get home. Despite her pride and her hurt feelings she must make one more effort. Ralph, even at the risk of your good opinion I must make another effort. It is so important that I get home. You do not understand how a mother feels who is all alone in the world, a mother who was left to my care. We have never been away from each other overnight since my father died. If the others want to stay all night, could not you take me home? I know it is very hard to ask you to take such extra trouble for me, but I feel as though I must go. Her lip quivered as she spoke, and the young man's heart seemed to leap up into his throat. The thought of a ride with Marjorie at any time was enough to set all his pulses to quivering. She was more to him ten thousand times than all the others combined. But those hateful dancing eyes of that girl estelle. He could not resist looking over at her at the moment. She was watching them. She comprehended the whole scene. She nodded her mischievous head in the direction of the stables, and made a slight dexterous motion to indicate himself driving out his horses. There would be no end to her ridicule if he should yield, and Marjorie would have to suffer it with him. No, he must shield her as well as himself. He steeled himself to look coldly at the quivering lip. I can't do it, Marjorie. Think how ridiculously conspicuous it would make us both. From all the talk about me, I am sure they have made up their minds to remain. The night would be half over before we could reach home, and we will go as early in the morning as you please, before daylight if you say so. They are afraid of another storm, I suppose. The weather is unsettled, probably. I wonder, Marjorie, since you are so unwilling to trust to my judgment, that you trusted yourself to my care to come. This last sentence was added almost in impatience, because he saw that his logic had not moved her a hair's breadth from her desire. She turned from him, drawing a long breath as she did so, and he remembered afterwards just how her half-suppressed voice sounded as she said slowly, I am sorry I did. He could have choked himself the next moment for half the words he had spoken. He began to make the most vigorous efforts to induce his party to vote for home. But the spirit of the frolic had by this time gotten hold of them. They were intimate friends at the Skylers. They had been often entertained there. They knew they were more than welcome. Everything was more common than for large parties to come out, by invitation, to spend not only the night, but several days and nights. Oh, their people would understand well enough what had become of them. They had done it before. Everybody knew that they were going to take supper at the Skylers. Besides, there was going to be another storm. They were sure of it. The moonlight looked too bright to last. Two of the girls said that they were awfully afraid of driving during a thunderstorm. Didn't he know it was considered dangerous to be out under the trees? Besides, horses were almost always afraid of lightning. In short, Ralph Bramlett failed, and went about gloomily conscious of it. He had given that mischievous spirit Estelle Douglas his word that he would abide by the majority, and abide he must. She congratulated him now on his success. I did not think you could accomplish it, she said. When I saw her mournful eyes looking up at you, I thought our fun was all over, and began to plan how I should protect myself from the possible rain. You are braver than I thought. He hated her for saying it. He assured her that it was, in his opinion, a very foolish thing to stay all night, that there was no more sign of storm outside than there was in the parlor, that the drive-by moonlight would have been charming, and that he was simply a victim of circumstances. In the course of the next hour he contrived to be near enough to Marjorie to speak low. I'm awfully sorry, Marjorie, I tried my best to get them to vote to go home. I never saw such idiots. She answered him never a word, and moved away from his side of the room as promptly as she could. Mary-Mint ran high in that large old-fashioned parlor, but Ralph Bramlett, who was generally the center of the merriest group, certainly did not have a happy time. He was moody and absent-minded. His eyes followed Marjorie whenever they could do so without being too closely observed. He had all the horror of a weak nature of being observed where observation would have done no harm. As for Marjorie it was easy enough for some time to keep her in sight. She was very quiet, speaking only when directly appealed to, and she kept her station near one of the wide, low windows which commanded a view of the road. Just why she wished to watch it she would have found it difficult to explain, a wild idea that somebody might pass who in the brilliant moonlight she should recognize, and to whom she could fly down and beg a passage home, floated through her excited brain, but of course found no judgment to rest upon. It was too late for ordinary passers-by, and she was too far from the road either to recognize or appeal. But she sat and thought it and a dozen other schemes over. Not as things which she would attempt, but as plans which might be carried out, suppose the situation were desperate enough. If, for instance, she were a prisoner here, held by desperados, and in danger of her life, how would she plan? She tried to keep her thoughts on some such absurdity so as not to think too steadily of her mother. That frail, nervous, loving mother. What kind of a night of suffering was this to her? Among the groups around her, Mary meant grew apace. Nobody was tired or sleepy. Somebody suggested going to bed, and somebody else left at the idea. Why should they go tamely to bed at a reasonable hour, as though this were like any other night, instead of a time for them to be together and have a frolic? By and by Ralph's watchful eyes noticed that Marjorie Edmonds summoned little Effie Skyler to her and carried on a whispered conversation with her. Effie was the youngest of the company and had been twice advised by her elder sisters to retire, but had begged for another hour of the fun. Now she carried messages back and forth from Marjorie to her eldest sister, and presently Marjorie slipped away from the room. She was gone so long that Ralph's anxieties became torture, and he ventured to make inquiries of Miss Skyler, by which he learned that Marjorie had pleaded headache and weariness, and asked to be allowed to slip quietly away to her room without making any break. She had also begged for the little hall room where there was a single bed, so she would disturb no one by her restlessness. Miss Skyler had intended to send Effie there and give her a more comfortable bed, but she had begged for that. She, Miss Skyler, had been up once, but everything was so quiet that she had not liked to disturb her. Poor Marjorie, she was really sorry for her. She was unlike those other dear thoughtless girls. She could not help feeling anxious about her mother. If Brother Rich had been here, said Miss Skyler, I should have asked him to take Marjorie home. CHAPTER III. An Opportunity Other households than that of Mrs. Edmonds were more or less affected by the non-appearance of the nutting party. One of these belonged to Mr. Douglas, who was just enough of an invalid to have sleepless nights on very slight provocation. This night was no exception, though truth to tell the Douglas girls were careless enough to have taught their father long before this, the folly of waiting for them. He was not exactly anxious over their delay, but he was wakeful and listened to every sound which might be wheels, and awoke Mrs. Douglas to say that it had grown colder since the rain, and to ask if Estelle and Fanny had wraps with them. She good woman, as she answered in the affirmative, forbore to ask the question which she could not keep from her thoughts. Namely, what earthly good would it do the girls to inquire about that now? However, being fairly awake, she kept him company, and they talked over matters and things in general, and listened for wheels until the clock struck twelve, then Mrs. Douglas said decidedly, Now, Father, you may as well give the children up and go to sleep. It's midnight, and they have had more than time to get here since the rain if they were coming. The whole crowd have decided to stay at Skyler's till morning. I know them, they would like nothing better than an excuse to stay all night. They can frolic all the evening, half the night for that matter, and have an early morning ride together in the bargain. They aren't going to lose so good an excuse as this for lengthening out their good time, I can tell you. The nervous father sighed and said, When I was young we had to be in the house by ten o'clock, you wouldn't have caught my father and mother going to bed if I had been out roving around somewhere until after midnight, and to think of girls doing it doesn't seem just the thing. Mrs. Douglas opened her lips to say that times were changed since he was young, and that the girls were in good company, and it wasn't likely any harm could come to them, but she was interrupted by a vigorous knocking at the front door. There, said the father, something has happened, I knew there would, and he sprang out of bed quickly enough to set his enfeebled heart to throbbing for the remainder of the night. Nothing very serious had happened, the mother, who was tremblingly struggling into her clothes, being in no way so free from anxiety as she had tried to represent, felt a great surge of relief and thanksgiving as she heard the cheery voice of her youngest brother. Routed you up, have I, out of a sound sleep? That's too bad, but it couldn't be helped this time. I've only a couple of hours to stop, must go on by the express at two twenty. Only two hours to stop, and they had not seen him in more than a year. The clothes went on rapidly after that, and by the time the youngest daughter, Glide, having been roused by the sound of voices, had slipped into her pretty red wrapper, and with her hair in rich yellow brown waves down her back, appeared on the scene, they were all in full tide of talk. Little Anthony was a favorite guest at this house, and the mother thought with a sigh how much her two older daughters were missing. Evidently the uncle missed someone whom he was anxious to see. He kept an eye on the door as he talked, and seemed to be listening for approaching footsteps. Presently he asked, Where is Estelle, and Fanny? This latter name added apparently as an afterthought. He listened to the explanations of their absence with evident disappointment. I am very sorry, he said, more sorry than I can put into words. The fact is, I had a plan. It won't do any good to tell it now, but I wanted to smuggle Estelle off with me. I am on my way to New York, a hurried business trip. That is, I'm in a desperate hurry to get there, but we'll have some time for sightseeing after one business item of importance is disposed of. And I thought it would be a good opportunity to show Estelle a little of the city. I'm obliged to take the two twenty train, because it is important that I reach New York before business hours are over tomorrow. You don't think there is any hope that they will get home before that time, I suppose? The mother shook her head anxiously and expressed her deep regret. It would have been an outing that Estelle would have remembered all her life, and the child just longed to see New York. She went to the window and rolled up the shade and peered down the road as though her anxious glance might bring the nutting party into view, while the father explained that the girls were not often out like this and it was not at all according to his ideas, but their mother thought he was overanxious. Uncle Anthony interrupted him to ask a question of glide. Why are you not away with the others? Oh, I never am. The girls say that two from a family is enough, that they can't make things into a douglas party. They say I must wait and take my turn, and my turn never comes. Her uncle regarded her with an amused smile and continued to study her as though she were a revelation. Her red wrapper became her well, and the braids of yellow-brown hair which hung down her back seemed to match the dress. She had unusual eyes, too, large and remarkably expressive. They seemed to glow with wonder and suppressed delight over the thought of Estelle's opportunity, and to shade with sadness at the same moment over the thought that it was lost. There was a sense in which she was a revelation to her uncle. He was a busy man whose visits to his sister's home were rare and brief, and he had heretofore lavished all his attentions and most of his gifts on Estelle, the second daughter. None of the family had been surprised over this. They knew instinctively that it grew out of the fact that she bore the same name as uncle Anthony's wife of a month, the young and beautiful aunt Estelle, whom they had never seen, but of whom they had heard so much, to whom uncle Anthony had been engaged ever since he was a boy, and for whom he waited during the years when there was a frail little mother who would not be happy if her daughter was out of her sight, and to whom the daughter would not give a divided attention. And then the mother had gone to heaven, leaving her daughter to uncle Anthony's care, for the delayed marriage had been solemnized at last beside the mother's dying bed. And then aunt Estelle had followed her mother in one short month. No wonder that the niece, Estelle, was the only one who had seemed to interest uncle Anthony. He even fancied that she looked like the wife he had buried seven years before. But tonight he looked at glide. So your turn never comes, he said, and laughed. And then he told himself that she was growing into a very pretty girl, that he believed after all she looked more like his Estelle than the namesake did. Never realizing poor man that he had grown into the habit of seeing resemblances to his lost treasure in every person or thing which struck his fancy. I am so sorry, said the mother, returning from her fruitless search down the road. It will just about break Estelle's heart. She would go as well as not, too. Her new suit is finished, and it would be just the thing to wear. I don't see for my part why they need have stayed. And then uncle Anthony interrupted again. Suppose I take you glide in Estelle's place. He laughed over the flash of light which the expressive brown eyes gave, and said to himself that there were possibilities about that girl that he had never seen before. This, while she was saying in tones that trembled with excitement, I, oh, uncle Anthony, you can't possibly mean it? Yes, he said decidedly, I mean it. You see, it isn't possible for me to wait for Estelle, and I have set my heart on having some young company along with me this time. What do you say, Esther? Can't you and she put some ribbons and things into a bag for her and let me have her in an hour's time? Never were the resources of the Douglas family more fully taxed. To get anyone ready for a journey of some length on an hour's notice is not easy work, and to get ready a young girl who had never been away from home and had had no expectation of going, at least not for years to come, and to do it with the limited resources of the house was an experience to remember. Glide brushed her yellow-brown hair in nervous haste and drove the hairpins into her head as she talked. Mother, do you suppose Estelle would let me take her sack? I shan't be away but a few days, and what can I have to wear around me if she won't? Why, she will, of course, child. I'll put it in your satchel. And you take that waste of fannies. It just fits you, and she will be willing for you to have it, I know. You needn't wear it much unless you have to, but it will make you feel kind of comfortable to have it along. Oh, mother, I can't take fannies' waste. You don't know how much she thinks of it. Oh, dear, I don't believe I ought to go. I shall have to borrow so many things from the girls that they have got ready for winter, and to borrow them when they are not here, too. It feels awfully selfish. I don't believe Uncle Anthony would want me if he knew. I know he hates selfish people because he is so nice and generous. Mother, isn't it dreadful that Estelle isn't here? I declare I could cry for her if I had time. It will almost break her heart, won't it? She will think she has been dreadfully used, said the mother, pushing her own new black stockings which fitted glide into the bag she was packing. But it isn't our fault, and I don't know but I am glad you are going. It doesn't seem right for Estelle and Fanny to get all the good times, and you always left out. Sometimes I have thought it was making the girls, especially Estelle, selfish. Glide, where is your best white skirt? I wonder if you let Estelle wear it to go nutting. Why, child, it will be ruined. She will get it all draggled in this rain. It is too long for her anyway. I don't see what you will do without it. How came you to let her take it? I didn't let her, laughed Glide. It hung there and she took it. Oh, I can get along without anything, mother. I believe I would be willing to wear this old red wrapper all the time for the sake of going. When I think of it all, I feel as though I should fly. Oh, do you suppose I can get ready in time? What if Estelle should be driving up this minute? Then I should have to stay at home. Is it awfully wicked to almost hope that she won't come now until after I am gone? No, you wouldn't. I'll be bound if you shall stay at home this time, for Estelle or any of the rest of them. It was Uncle Anthony who said this, but he muttered it to himself, and only the walls of the room where he was washing his hands heard the words. He had overheard every word to which Glide and her mother had been saying. Esther, he had said to his sister, Give me a chance to wash my hands, will you? I've got some of that miserable colored ink on them from a leaky pen. I shall have to throw that pen away, I believe. So his sister had shown him in haste into the room which Estelle and Fanny occupied together, and Glide, unmindful of the transom between that room and the tiny one which belonged to her, had talked on in loud, eager tones, and her uncle had listened and laughed and learned some things. Selfish, is she? He had murmured, in response to his sister's confession about Estelle. I shouldn't wonder. I have suspected as much myself, and I've helped her along in it, no doubt, and forgotten all about this little Cinderella left at home. I wish she would wear her red wrapper than she would do for red riding-hood, but I don't want her to meet the bear. Then he raised his voice. Come, Cinderella, it is about time you were ready for the ball. We have to get started before the clock strikes, you know, or the charm will be broken. Then Glide's voice sank suddenly to a frightened whisper, as she said. Oh, mother! I forgot he was there! What have I been saying about him? Do you remember? Nothing bad, I guess, said Mrs. Douglas, regarding her youngest daughter with kindly eyes. You never say mean things about people behind their backs. I'm sure I don't know what we'll do without you, Glide. We are so used to having you at home. They worked swiftly while they talked, and in a very brief space of time the bustle was over, and Glide was on her way to the station, going to take her first journey of any moment. A very quiet, sheltered life had she lived during her nineteen years. The fact that she was the third daughter had held her back from the most of the gatherings in which her sisters were centres. Her sisters had been so sure that two out of a family was sufficient, and had been so emphatic in their statements to that effect, that there had been nothing for Glide but submission. Therefore it was almost beyond her belief that she was actually on her way to New York. Her uncle Anthony would have been even more pleased than he was with what he had done, had he realized the pretty flutter that the little girl who tripped at his side was in. A little undertone of almost regret added sweetness to her voice as she talked. Her father's kiss on both cheeks, as she bade him good-bye, had been lingering and tender, and there had been almost a wistful look in his eyes. Truth to tell, he was a man who of late years had not been able to bid his children good night without a feeling that perhaps it was good-bye, that he might not be there in the morning. Nothing of this feeling did Glide realize, or a thousand New Yorks could not have taken her away. She only knew that his kiss was lingering, and his voice low and tender when he bade her good-bye. And her mother had said, Dear me, child, I am not used to having my youngest chicken go out from the nest. It seems very queer. I almost wish your uncle hadn't made us do it. And yet I am real glad to have you go and have a frolic. Neither mother nor father were given to showing their feelings so plainly, and Glide, as she tripped away, was conscious of a happy little thrill over the thought that she was of a good deal of consequence in the world after all, and that her mother and father would miss her. Then she went immediately to planning about a certain two-dollar bill which had been in her pocket-book ever since Aunt Caroline, who was ill and could not go out to purchase gifts, had sent it to her with directions to purchase a birthday present for herself. It had come too late for the birthday, and had been spent, in imagination, on a thousand different things, and was in her pocket yet. Glide thought of it with little quivers of delight. Of course, father and mother and the girls must have some token in remembrance of her trip. She would bring them each a present from New York. She would divide the money equally among them. Fifty cents must be able to buy quite a present in that great city where people shopped so much, and where there were such immense stores as she had heard of. No, she would divide it equally between father and mother. The girls must do without. No, that would not do. She was sure she would like a present from New York. She would spend seventy-five cents on each for father and mother, and have a quarter left for each of the girls. Oh, she did not know how she would manage it, but in some way that two-dollar bill should conduce to the family joy. CHAPTER IV One other home represented in the nutting party had an experience that evening which should be recorded. This was at the Bramlett farm, which was out about two miles from town. Mother and daughter were in the sitting-room, plying their needles vigorously, and wishing occasionally that Ralph would come. They lived on an unfrequented road, and the father, who had been expected home from a neighbouring city by the evening train, had not come. The doorbell interrupted their quiet, and made them look nervously at each other and wonder who that could be. To hear the sound of their doorbell at that hour of the evening was unusual. Perhaps it is a tramp! said Hannah Bramlett, who lived on her nerves, and had been on the lookout for thieves and robbers for the past twenty years. However, there seemed no alternative but to go to the door. Hannah led the way, her mother following with the lamp. On her passage through the hall she seized an umbrella, with a vague idea of defending themselves. As for Hannah, she contented herself with saying in nervous tones as she unlocked the door, Ralph ought to be at home before this. It is just like him to stay away half the night and leave us alone. Then the mother, after the fashion of mothers, began to make excuses. Well, but Hannah, you know he expected father to get home on the evening train. And then Hannah opened the door and received a yellow-covered envelope. A dispatch! gassed the women at once, turning pale with apprehension. Mrs. Bramlett set the lamp on a chair and herself on the lowest stair, while Hannah, glancing around to say, Don't be frightened, mother, it's likely from father to tell that he missed the train. Tore open the envelope in red. Call upon us, if possible, before twelve o'clock tomorrow morning. Then she interrupted. It's for Ralph, from those folks in New York, where he is trying to get a chance in their office, you know. He can't get to them before twelve o'clock tomorrow unless he comes in time for tonight's train. And I don't believe he will. It will be just like him to stay out at Skyler's all night. That silly crowd he has with him would rather stay than not. It will serve him right if he does. Here he has been waiting for a year nearly for a chance to get in at this office. There wasn't any sense in his getting up a nutting frolic when father was away, and there were so many things to see too. I don't understand why a man twenty-two years old has to act like a boy of nineteen. Ralph hasn't any more sense than he had four years ago. The two women went back to the sitting-room where they alternately sewed and read the telegram, studying each word carefully as though it could offer some suggestions concerning the possibility, or rather the impossibility, of getting word to Ralph before it should be too late for the train. If he doesn't come inside of the next hour, said Hannah at last, as the clock struck eleven, why he'll just lose his chance, all, and he'll blame us for not getting him word somehow, I suppose. He always does lay the blame on other folks, but I don't see what we could do. There is nothing we can do, said the mother sorrowfully. If you were only a boy, Hannah, you could get on old Ben's back and gallop out there, but as it is. If I were a boy, interrupted Hannah, as she flung scissors and thimble into her work-box with a zeal which made them ring, I would do a thousand things which I can't do now, and if I wasn't different in a good many respects from some boys I know it would be queer. But I'm nothing but a girl, and there's no use in talking. I don't expect Ralph to-night, and we might as well go to bed first as last. Great use in father being so careful of the horses as to tell Ralph that he'd needn't come to meet him. He could ride out with the carters, and then Ralph goes off with the horses all day, nobody knows how many miles. I never did see such works. Hannah, said her mother with a gentle sigh, you are twenty-six years old, and you think Ralph is almost as old as you are, but a boy of twenty-two is a good deal younger, remember, than a girl of even the same age, and four years make a great difference. I hope they will make a difference in Ralph, said Hannah significantly. Then mother and daughter went to bed, both of them to lie awake and inwardly groan, because, being women, there was nothing they could do to preserve to the son and brother the chance which this telegram might contain. Even the guests at the Skyler farmhouse we read at last, and permitted themselves to be shown to their various rooms, but sleep did not come to all of them even at that late hour. Notably was this the case with Ralph Bramlett. When he found himself in darkness and comparative solitude, with time to think, he discovered that his thoughts were anything but agreeable companions. Why had he been such a bear to margery? Why had he allowed the teasing words of Estelle Douglas to have such an influence over him? What in the world did he care what she thought about him? There were his own father and mother, who would, to say the least, think it very strange in him to stay out all night with no better excuse for so doing than he had to offer. He tossed from side to side to the infinite discomforture of his bed-fellow, and went over all the details of the evening with exasperating minuteness. He tried to decide whether margery would be really vexed with him, or at least whether it was a vexation which would last longer than the night. He resolved that, with the very first streak of dawn, he would arouse his party and make all haste to get started homeward. No breakfast for him at the Skyler Farm that morning, and no one knew better than he that he could control the movements of the entire party when he set about it. As soon as ever he had margery beside him out of hearing of others, he would explain to her certain reasons, which he had evolved out of his night thoughts, why he could not do as she wished. He would tell her how very much he would have preferred carrying out her wishes had it been prudent to have done so. Also he would apologize for the rude way in which he had spoken, and assure her that it all grew out of his anxiety to please her, and the chagrin he felt that he must disappoint her. Having gone over every word that he would utter, and planned answers to her probable replies, and then rearranged the entire conversation for perhaps the dozenth time, he turned over his pillow once more, resolved to get one nap, if possible, when he was roused into immediate action by a low tap on his door. A moment more, and he stood beside it, listening to Miss Skyler's anxious voice. Oh Ralph, we don't know what to think, and Mother said I would better tell you at once. Margery isn't in her room. Mother said perhaps you would know what ought to be done. Not in her room! repeated Ralph in utter bewilderment and consternation. Why, where on earth is she then? That is what we don't know. She hasn't been there to-night. I mean, she hasn't been to bed. The bed is just as I left it, not a thing disturbed, and there were no traces in the room of Margery having been there. You see, the way we found it out, continued Miss Skyler, as Ralph having thrown on his outer garments with all speed, opened wide the door. Sister Effie is ill, and Mother needed a bottle of medicine, which was in the corner closet in the hall room. She called to me and told me to go in very quietly and get it. I went on tiptoe, so as not to disturb Margery. And you can imagine the start it gave me to discover that she was not there at all. Ralph, what do you think can have become of her? I've been in every girl's room since, thinking that she might have felt lonely and have gone to stay with some of them. But none of them have seen her since she left the parlour last evening. Do you suppose it possible that she may have started for home, on foot, and all alone? She was so anxious to go, you know. She told me that she had never left her mother alone before, and that she had as good as promised her dead father that she never would. I felt very sorry for her, but I did not imagine that she would do any desperate thing. Ralph Bramlett had no answering word to speak. He strode back into his room, added the finishing touches to his toilet with a speed that would have amazed his sister Hannah, and in a very few minutes more was following Jim, the half-asleep and much-agreaved Skyler coachman, to the stables. Never were horses harnessed in more frantic haste. Never was Ralph Bramwell less considerate of the ladies who gathered about him like bees. The entire nutting party was out, eager to give advice or ask questions. You should have thought of that before. He said grimly to Estelle Douglas, when she suggested that she and her sister ride with him, adding that she was afraid father would be kept awake all night, worrying about them. The time to have thought of him was at ten o'clock last night. He said severely. It was a very foolish proceeding to stay here all night. There hasn't been a pleasanter night for riding this fall. I am not going to take anyone with me. You can all wait here until I come back. I can get on faster alone. During which he sprang into the large empty wagon, rattled over the paved driveway down the street, and was lost in the darkness. The girls looked after him in shivering silence. The moon had set, and it was that gloomy, shivery, indescribably dreary hour before the dawn of a new day. Ralph is cross. Ventured Estelle Douglas at last. He spoke to us as though we were a company of naughty children in need of a whipping. There is no use in his being so excited. Nothing can have happened to Marjorie, except an extra streak of obstinacy. The road is safe enough between here and town, and the walking is good. Oh, how cold it is! One could imagine it was January instead of November. I think we would all better go back to bed, and pray that Ralph may come for us in a better humor than he was when he left. I must say I pity Marjorie. Ralph Bramlett is a perfect bear when he chooses to be. Meantime the cause of all this excitement was unconscious enough concerning it. It had been no part of her intention to create a sensation. In fact she had planned little or nothing concerning the people she left behind. She had petitioned for and secured the use of the little hall bedroom because she had felt that it would be utterly impossible for that evening to laugh and talk with those silly girls who had suddenly become distasteful to her. When she slipped away to it, she was conscious that she was in a perfect tumult of pain and indignation. Anxiety for her mother was undoubtedly uppermost, but there was a wholesome undertone of astonishment and indignation at Ralph Bramlett. Was she then of so little consequence to him that the chattering of half a dozen other girls could turn his mind completely away from her wishes? Two hours before, had anyone told her that she would petition Ralph Bramlett for a favour within his power to grant and be denied, she would have smiled incredulously and wondered what there could be that she, having common sense, would ask that he would refuse. As far back as her childish recollection reached, she had been able to sway Ralph Bramlett to her moods. It was not that he was not positive enough by nature, obstinate many people called him. She had known others to coax for hours and failed to secure what she could obtain by a word and a smile. It had therefore been a revelation to her, and by no means a pleasant one, to find that on this night, when she was not only in serious earnest but very anxious, she had suddenly failed. She leaned her forehead against the window-pane and looked out on the moon-lighted world and grew more angry every moment. How easily Ralph could have driven home with her if those chattering idiots really persisted in staying, and have had plenty of time to rest his horses and take some rest himself, before returning for them in the early morning. How sure she had felt that he would hail such a proposition with delight! Was it possible that he actually thought she had gone too far in making it? He had reminded her how conspicuous such a proceeding would make them. She remembered this with a blush of shame. She had occasionally objected to plans of his on that very ground, but never before had Ralph Bramlett been other than delighted at the thought of being made most conspicuously her friend and attendant. The more she went over in detail his words and looks, the more angry she grew, until at last the idea of submitting to his dictation and remaining at the farmhouse all night, and riding meekly home by his side in the morning, like a naughty child who had tried to have her own way and had failed, became utterly hateful to her. Also, the more she thought of her mother spending the long weary hours of that night, perhaps quite alone in the house, for and now that she thought of it, possibly not even Mr. Maxwell would be there. There had been some talk in the morning about his being absent that night. The more impossible it seemed that she could permit such a state of things. Father would never have done it. She said aloud and pitifully. He was so tender of mother, and he trusted me. Oh, if I could only fly! It was at that moment that she remembered that although she could not fly, she could walk. She was well and strong, and thought nothing of a walk of several miles for pleasure. What was to hinder her starting at once, and making the seven miles which lay between her and home, before those selfish people downstairs discovered her absence? It was as light as day out of doors, and she knew every foot of the way perfectly. There was really nothing to be afraid of. As she considered it, the idea grew fascinating. What a relief it would be to escape that hateful ride home in the morning, beside Ralph Bramlett. And above all things else, how many hours of anxiety could she thus save that precious mother? She had no faith whatever in the plans for an early start. She had heard of plans of this character before. She knew how fond at least some of the party were of breakfasts at the Skyler Farmhouse. It would be ten o'clock, perhaps even later, before they could reach home. She would go at once. Having settled this momentous question, she gave herself no time for reconsideration. But slipping quietly into the upper hall, selected with nervous fingers, her wraps from the heterogeneous mass which had been landed on the sofa in the alcove. Then, having arrayed herself without regard to the mirror, she went softly down the heavily carpeted stairs, and gliding like an unseen ghost past the parlor doors while the merriment there was still at its height, took the precaution to make her way through the deserted dining-room to a side entrance. She then crossed the lawn and the meadow next to it, and so gained the road by the corner farthest from the parlor windows, and began her walk. CHAPTER V. SHADOWS AND CHARMS It is doubtful if Marjorie Edmonds, though she lived to be an old woman, will ever forget the experiences of that night, though by no means a timid person, her life had been a carefully guarded one in some respects, and she was now having her first experience of being on a deserted street alone at night. She had no conception of how the loneliness would affect her, or assuredly she would have reconsidered even then. She ran a few steps, in her foolish fear that she might be seen and captured by her friends, but soon discovered that she must not waste strength in that way. In her excited state of mind she lost her breath so quickly as to alarm her. She tried to reason her fears away. Why should she be afraid? The night was so still, so very still, that even the common ordinary sounds of nature seemed to be lacking, and the very silence alarmed her. Then the trees had long, naked arms which they waved at her. A ghastly stump in the near distance took human shape and silently beckoned to her in the moonlight. A great dog barked fiercely in the far distance, but seemed to her overwrought nerves to be bounding toward her. She could almost feel his hot breath on her burning face. Those awful, silent shadows among the trees waved their arms and mocked at her. Were they silent? She thought she heard them laughing. In short, common sense seemed for the time being to utterly desert this young woman and leave her appray to all sorts of imaginations which had heretofore been unknown to her. Before she had accomplished a third of the distance, if she had not by that time become equally afraid of all directions she would have turned back. Once she made a full stop and considered the advisability of doing so. Then a curious feeling came over her that it would be impossible to meet again the horrors through which she had already passed. Better unknown terrors than these. So she sped on. Yet that is hardly the word to use. There was not much speed. She found herself compelled to walk comparatively slowly, her heart beat so hard that it seemed to take her strength. At times there came to her a terrible fear that she would faint dead away by the roadside. Then what might not happen to her before the morning dawned? Once she looked up appealingly at the moon and was beset with a new fear. It was traveling fast and might be near its setting. What if it should leave her in the darkness? Better all those mocking shadows than this. At last she neared the Houston farm, not quite half the distance accomplished. Could she possibly endure another hour like the last one? Should she stop at the Houston farm, tell her pitiful story, and ask shelter until morning? How humiliating such a course would be. How the Douglas girls would laugh at her and possibly even Ralph Bramlett would sneer. Still it may be that her fears would have gotten the better of her pride had they not been at that moment turned into a new channel. Distinctly on the silent air came the baying of dogs. She remembered to have heard that the Houston's kept watch dogs, fierce ones. They might tear her in pieces before she could make herself heard. She could not venture to seek help there. There was nothing for it but to go on. Since she had lived through half of the way, it was possible that she might reach home alive after all. She tried to think that she was becoming less terror stricken, growing accustomed to those horrid skeletons who continually waved and grinned at her in the distance, and developed into commonplace leafless branches as she neared them. She went on faster for some minutes or hours it seemed to her. Then a new terror defined itself. The unmistakable approach of horses feet in the distance. No sound of wheels, a horseman riding fast. What should she do? She, a woman alone in the dead of night on the public street. Suppose the rider should speak to her, should stop. Oh, for some friendly tree behind which to hide! The skeletons now had lost their terror for her, with the first approach of real terrible danger they became friends. But it so happened that she had reached a stretch of road where no trees were, and the horseman was coming very swiftly. Curiously enough, for the first time that night the girl realized how unfair she had been to her mother by putting herself in such a position of possible danger as this. She knew instinctively that her mother would rather spend a hundred nights alone than have her daughter voluntarily place herself where insult was possible. In the few minutes which intervened while those rapid feet were nearing her, it seemed to Marjorie that every horrible story she had ever heard or read, connected with night and darkness and sin, came rushing to memory. Oh, what should she do? If the rider should speak to her she would scream so loud that they must hear her in town or at some farmhouse surely. A sense of faintness was coming over her, but she battled with it and put it sternly away. This was no time for fainting. She must have all her senses in order and use them well. It was possible, of course, that the belated traveler was a respectable person who would pass her in swift silence, but he did not. He reigned in his horse as he drew near. Miss Edmonds, is it not? Said a voice which she recognized on the instant, and at the sound of which all inclination to scream departed from her. Before she could gather breath to make reply, he added, You recognize me, do you not? I am Mr. Maxwell. As he spoke he dismounted, and throwing Salim's bridle over his arm came toward her. Oh, I am afraid I have frightened you! he said, for Marjorie had dropped a limp heap on the ground. Do not be alarmed, because I am here. Nothing is wrong with your mother, but she was anxious over your detention, and I volunteered to bring her word from you. Are you faint, Miss Edmonds? I am afraid I have frightened you very much. I thought you would perhaps recognize my voice and so not be alarmed. I did, said Marjorie. I am not frightened, not now. And she struggled to her feet, trembling in every limb. I was awfully frightened, Mr. Maxwell. She said, speaking between nervous shutters, not at you, but at every thing. When I heard the sound of horses' feet and knew a man must be coming, it was terrible, but now that he is here I am not at all afraid. The remarkable seeming contradiction in this sentence struck her ludicrously as she said it, and she was nervous enough to laugh outright. Mr. Maxwell joined in the laugh. It was the quickest and easiest way to quiet nerves. Marjorie sobered on the instant, and was ready with anxious questionings and explanations. Is my mother very much frightened, Mr. Maxwell? Oh, I am afraid it will make her ill. I tried so hard to get home earlier. Indeed, it was not my fault. You can know how anxious I was by my being willing to start away alone. I can understand that better than I can your being permitted to do it," said Mr. Maxwell, speaking some thoughts which he meant to have kept to himself. He made haste to add, Naturally, your mother is anxious, but we shall be at home so soon now that I cannot think any harm will result. Are you a good walker on occasion, Miss Edmonds? Selim would be delighted to carry you, but I believe you do not ride. They made quick time after that. Marjorie's feet had regained their courage, and she found no difficulty in keeping step with her companion. Also her fears had departed. The skeletons had retired affrighted. In their places were only prosaic-looking trees whose bare branches might wave as they would, she cared not. There passed a horseman who looked curiously at the two, making quick steps over the road with a horse pacing hotly along by their side. There came a wagon loaded with revelers who sang and shouted as they passed, but Marjorie only noticed them to think how frightened she would have been under other circumstances. She tried to give Mr. Maxwell a history of her experiences. She tried to make light of her fears, but the memory of them was too vivid, and it became apparent to her escort that she was still very much excited. I wonder if you are not acquainted with my talisman, he said cheerily. When I was a little fellow it was my fortune to be much alone. One of my duties involved a long walk daily, or rather nightly, for it was after the sun had set, through a piece of woods where the shadows were dense. I appreciate your statement about the trees waving their arms at you. Mine went farther than that. They shrieked and howled on occasion and sometimes called after me, at least so I had seasons of almost believing. I do not suppose there was any very real danger, though occasionally a bear did prowl about those woods, but my fears were as real as though the danger had been imminent, and I suffered from them in a way that unimaginative people cannot understand. One night I found a talisman. It worked grandly, and has served me a good turn many a time since when I was in real peril. It is associated in my mind with my dear old grandmother. Have you a grandmother, Miss Edmonds? I consider a life defrauded of a large portion of its joys that cannot look back to grandmother's room as a place for comfort and grandmother's prayers as a stronghold. Curiously enough mine was the only one to whom I was willing to confide my fears. I think I desired to pose as a hero before my dear mother. Father was absent from home much of the time, and I was her caretaker. Not for the world would I have hinted to her that that half-mile walk was one of terror at times. But my grandmother was little and old, and could not walk at all, and seemed to be young enough to understand all my feelings. One night, as I said, she gave me a charm. I have heard of charms, said Marjorie, trying to be merry. Do you wear it about with you, Mr. Maxwell? And could you lend it, do you think? Because if I were ever to be caught in this way again, I am sure I should need it. Indeed, I feel as though I could never go through such an experience as this again. The voice which had begun with a merry note turned to gravity, and Marjorie shivered sensibly. Evidently she had not yet gained the healthy poise of her usual condition. Her companion made haste to speak cheerily. I would not think of it, Miss Edmonds. It is highly improbable that you will be called upon to take night walks through the country alone. But about the charm I wear it constantly, engraved where it can never be erased. Yet it is a very simple little thing, and you can at will be furnished with it. These are the words which compose it. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee. I do not know that I can make you understand what a revelation it was to me when my grandmother first succeeded in getting it into my heart that God actually cared for me every minute, watched over my goings and comings, and was near at hand for me to speak to whenever I would, so that in reality it was impossible for me to take walks alone. If you ought to be going that way, said the dear old lady, and I seem at this moment to hear her impressive voice and see her small withered forefinger upheld for emphasis, if you ought to be going that way then be sure he is going along with you, and you need not even whisper to get his attention. He hears your heartbeat and knows all about it. But it is a great comfort to speak to him, my boy. I found so, Miss Edmonds, and as I said, the blessed fact has gone with me through the years. Marjorie Edmonds was absolutely silent. She had no words with which to meet such an experience as this. Truth to tell, she knew nothing about God as a living, present reality. Many of her friends, young people like herself, were professors of religion, and it will have to be confessed that Marjorie, perhaps without realizing it, had prided herself on the fact that she was not. Why should I join the church? she had asked lightly of a girl friend, who, during the time of special interest following the week of prayer, had urged her to this step. I do not see the slightest difference in you since you joined, save that you go to the communion service when you feel like it. As for me, I have obligations enough now which I do not meet to undertake any new ones, at least until I see occasion for doing so. It was not altogether sincere. No one knew better than Marjorie Edmonds that there was such a thing as vital religion. Mother and father had lived it before her through all the years of her recollection. It is true, her mother's training, and possibly her temperament, made her more reserved upon this subject than any other. Still the controlling motive power of her life was Jesus Christ, and Marjorie knew it. But aside from her mother, Marjorie's experience among professed Christians was perhaps unfortunate. She had a high ideal, and often said to herself, and occasionally allowed, that if she ever did become a Christian, she would be a different one from any with whom she was acquainted. She always made a mental reservation of her parents, her pastor, and possibly two or three others, but all of these were old, or at least they were much older than she, and she had allowed herself to more than half believe that religion, or at least consistent living, was for the old. Therefore she would wait until there would be some hope of her being consistent before she would make the attempt. But Mr. Maxwell was young. He could not be very much older than Ralph Bramlett himself, and his manner of speaking of these things was new to her. He had a sort of quiet assurance, a matter, of course, way of talking of religion as he would of any other subject. Moreover, he spoke of God as though he were a real, ever-present friend, instead of a faraway solemnity to be spoken of and thought about as little as possible. This, she confessed to herself, was the way in which she habitually thought of him. I do not think I know how to use your talisman, she said timidly, and wished that he would talk of something else. By way of helping him to do so, she began an eager account of the day's pleasuring, entering into a detailed description of the beauty of the glen where their lunch was spread, and the lovely fire they had built to roast their corn, and the picturesqueness of the whole scene, with their coffee-pale hung on an improvised crane made of pointed sticks interlaced. A regular gypsy camp, Mr. Maxwell, she said, the great pale in which we had our coffee swayed back and forth over the coals just as I have seemed to see it do in pictures of gypsy encampments. All we lacked was the old fortune teller. I thought at one time of impersonating her, you should have been with us if you like strange and almost uncanny views in nature. You have heard of the place, have you not? It has a good deal of local fame. There is a hill ever so high just back of the glen, almost a mountain it might be called, and rocks with great jagged fissures in them. There are some fine specimens to be found in that region, the wise ones say. Aren't you a geologist, Mr. Maxwell? Oh, no, I know nothing about geology except at second hand. I ask questions occasionally and pick up disconnected bits of information in that way, but I love to look at those great solid rocks that have stood there for ages and imagine things about them. Our day was all lovely until that storm came on. What a terrific storm it was! I was so worried not to be at home on Mother's account. She is inclined to be nervous during a thunderstorm. Were you at home during the rain, and did you see my mother? With these and kindred subjects she kept up a steady flow of words, and as she had by this time regained her wanted strength, they walked rapidly, and very soon turning a corner the lights from the home windows streamed out upon them. End of chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Making Fate by Pansy This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Homecomings When her foot touched the lower step Marjorie heard the click of the lock, and in another moment her mother's arms were around her. And, oh mother, and, oh my daughter, came simultaneously from their lips. You see, said Mr. Maxwell, I have kept my word and brought her back to you in safety. His voice recalled them to the knowledge of his presence, and Mrs. Edmonds broke off in the midst of the questions she was eagerly asking to give attention to her benefactor. Was Mr. Maxwell still planning to take that long ride across the country? No, he had decided to wait until another day. There were reasons why it would be pleasanter to make a very early start. He was anxious to get a view of the sunrise at a certain famous point, and the sun would be in too much haste for him this morning. Then there was no reason why he should not take a very early breakfast with them as soon as he had cared for his horse. Mrs. Edmonds, having finished with Gideon, had further employed herself in resurrecting the kitchen fire and rearranging her culinary arrangements, making a breakfast instead of a supper, and laying the table for three instead of the usual two. Surely Mr. Maxwell would be persuaded to join them. It would be several hours yet before his regular breakfast time, and he must be quite faint with his long walk. He was not in the least faint, he assured her, and was used to long walks at almost any hour of the day or night. But the table set in the back parlor made a very inviting picture, and the odor of something savoury was already in the air. There was no reason why he should not enjoy an unusual breakfast at this unusual hour, and he promptly accepted the invitation. Then went to explain matters to Salim, leaving mother and daughter to themselves. Oh mother! said Marjorie, with her arms about her mother's neck again as soon as the door closed after Mr. Maxwell. I have had such a time. You cannot think how hard I tried to get here at a reasonable hour and in a reasonable way. I was so troubled about you and so indignant. I never imagined that people—with a perceptible pause before she decided upon the noun to use—could be so silly and disagreeable. I can't think what was the matter with them. Said Mrs. Edmonds, they will be frightened, dear, will they not, when they find that you are gone? I hope so! was the savage answer. They deserved to be frightened after doing such an utterly absurd thing as to stay there all night. Then, apparently summoning her resolution, she added, Mother, Ralph was hateful beyond anything I could have believed possible. At which information Mrs. Edmonds preserved a discreet silence. Within a very short time thereafter three people were seated at the coziest breakfast table which could have been found, at least at that hour of the morning. It was when Mr. Maxwell was taking his second cup of coffee and remarking that there were possibilities evidently in coffee of which people who boarded did not dream, that there came a sharp peel of the doorbell which caused Mother and Daughter to give little nervous starts and look at each other. It is an early hour for a call, said Mr. Maxwell, noticing the glances and rising as he spoke, I think you would better let me answer that bell. A moment afterwards, from the wide open door, Ralph Bramlett had a view which photographed itself upon his memory, a cozy dining-room whose breakfast table he had often pictured to himself and wondered how it would seem to be enough at home there to be a breakfast table guessed. Mother and Daughters seated there at, and opposite the Daughter, a place which had evidently just been vacated. And Mr. Maxwell, napkin in hand, standing at his ease before him, saying in quiet, matter of course tones, oh yes, Miss Edmonds is at home and quite safe. Nothing serious happened to her, I believe, though naturally the necessity for taking a walk alone at that time of night was not agreeable to a lady. Will you walk in, Mr. Bramlett, and see the ladies? No, said Ralph, currently. There seems to be no occasion for my presence. The poor fellow noted as he spoke that Marjorie did not even turn her head at the sound of his voice. It made his next sentence more savage. She has given us a precious scare, but since she is all right, of course that is of no consequence. And then Ralph Bramlett turned and strode out into the gray dawn, and climbed into his lonesome wagon, more thoroughly out of sorts with himself and with Marjorie, and above all with Mr. Maxwell, then can be described. In excuse for him let it be remembered that he had had a trying night and a very nerve-disturbing ride. As he rattled at reckless speed over the road, visions of all the uncanny things he had ever heard about the night and the darkness seemed to come hurrying before him. What if Marjorie had fallen in with a company of drunken revelers on their way home from the races? What if she had fallen and hurt herself and lay unconscious under some of these gloomy trees? Still, this latter fancy did not disturb him long. He was entirely familiar with the road, and rapidly as he was driving, no clump of trees or hiding-place of any sort escaped him. Marjorie was not invisible shape anywhere along his way, of this he was certain. But what then had become of her? It did not seem to him possible that she could have managed all the distance alone and in the darkness and have actually reached home. So as he neared the town and still saw no trace of the missing one, his nerves became almost as much out of order as Marjorie's own. Therefore, to find her seated comfortably at a cozy breakfast table was both a relief and a shock to him. Never was gloomier ride taken than he took that morning back to the Skyler Farm. In the first place he had an absolute horror of going back to meet those chattering girls and silly boys. He considered the feasibility of driving home and sending Ben, their man of all, work in his place. But the explanations which would necessarily result, not only to his father and mother, but to Hannah, and also the merciless fire of ridicule which he would have to receive eventually from the tongue of Estelle Douglas, held him from this course. He might as well go back at once and meet the idiots and have it over with. He muttered to himself. And as he drove wearily over the road, he added that it would be many a day before he would lend himself to an escapade of theirs again. Have some pity for Ralph Bramlett, for he was in sore need of it. Only too vividly did he realize his mistake of the night before. Who would have imagined that Marjorie was so anxious to get home? He had supposed that she would fret about it for a few minutes like other girls, but that when she found that her way was hedged, and she, in no eyes to blame, would cast it aside and have a merry evening with the rest. And how he had looked forward to that morning ride with Marjorie sitting beside him watching the sunrise. Now the first streaks of red were gilding the eastern sky, but he did not so much as turn his head to give the monarch of the day a glance. What did he care for sunrises? He had seen too many of them alone. This sunrise was to have been gilded with Marjorie's presence, and he had deliberately put her from him. This was his mood for a few minutes at a time. At others he blamed her severely. One moment he sternly assured himself that she would have to apologize for this night's work if she wished to retain his friendship. The next he felt a cold shiver creeping over him at the thought that possibly she was really and permanently offended. What if she should break with him? But that was folly. It could not be that she cared so little for him. If she should, he told himself bitterly, I should know the reason. It will be because that meddling stranger to whom they rented rooms has been paying her attention and turned her head. What do they know about him? What right has he at their table at this hour of the morning? And to come mincing out to me to tell me that she was entirely safe and comfortable. What business was it of his? What right have they to let an entire stranger into their family circle in this way? I have known Marjorie Edmunds ever since she was a baby, and I have never been at their breakfast table. On the whole the ride-back was fully as uncomfortable, though in a different way, as the hurried rush to town had been. Very little satisfaction did the eager group which was seated at the Skyler breakfast table when he returned get from him. Beyond the bare fact that Marjorie was at home and quite safe, they could get no information cross-question as they would. In point of fact Ralph Bramlett had no information to give. His own indignation had prevented him from hearing particulars. He is a perfect savage, said Estelle Douglas, gathering her wraps in great indignation, as the girls informed her that Ralph said whoever was not ready to go in five minutes would be left behind. He is a perfect savage this morning. I never knew before that he could be so un-gentlemanly. I believe he and Marjorie have had a quarrel. Nothing else will account for such a bearish state of mind. I don't see why he should want to visit her sins on us. We are not to blame. In point of fact none of the excursionists enjoyed the homeward ride as they had planned the night before that they would do. The glamour of night and moonlight were gone. It was prosaic daylight, and for some of them the day's cares were waiting and would be heavier because of this late beginning. The Douglas girls, now that the excitement was over, had an uncomfortable feeling that they had deprived their father of a good night's rest, and each confessed secretly that it was a shame to take their pleasure at the expense of an invalid's sleep. Of course it was ridiculous for father to be so nervous over them. They had said so dozens of times, and had done what they could to educate him to a knowledge of the uncertainty of their comings. Still the fact of his nervousness remained, and they knew it. To add to Estelle Douglas's discomfort, there was an unpleasant consciousness on her part that she was to blame for the night's detention and the embarrassments which had resulted. It was of no use to her to assure herself that Ralph need not have stayed if he had not chosen, no matter what she said. No one was more conscious than she of the power that ridicule had over Ralph, or was more eager to show her influence over him. There was a source of disappointment also known only to herself. In the depths of her heart had been an intention to soothe and comfort Ralph this morning, to speak just the words which she felt he needed in order to reinstate him in his good opinion of himself, and in short to show herself so marked a contrast to Marjorie that he could not fail to note the difference between them. During her period of waiting she had even planned some of the words she would say to him, and presuming upon his probable replies, had carried on quite an extended conversation with such satisfactory results that by the time they, in imagination, reached home, she and Ralph had become better friends than ever before, even confidential friends. Of course this plan involved her occupying the seat which Marjorie's flight had left vacant, but the facts in the case were that she had a seat as far away from Ralph as could well be managed. She was the last one to come downstairs, as indeed she always was, and Ralph had without ceremony and with much speed seated his company before she appeared, dumping that dull little Belle Finley into the vacant seat beside himself. As Belle Finley was entirely satisfied to ride for miles, if necessary, without speaking, and looked upon Ralph much as she did upon her brother, that young man was able to continue his gloomy thoughts during much of the homeward journey. Not one of the party felt merry. The reaction from late hours and undue excitement was upon them. To add to their discomfort the sun, which although unnoticed, had risen in glory, soon retired behind dull gray clouds, and before they were halfway to town a dreary rain began to fall. Not a majestic shower with splendid spectacular accompaniments compelling their attention as on the night before, but a slow, fine November drizzle chilling them to the bone. I never was so glad to get home in my life, was Estelle Douglas's exclamation as she shook the raindrops from her and shivered. Wasn't it a horrid drive? I believe Ralph came as slow as he could so as to add to our discomfort as much as possible. Hasn't he behaved like a South Sea islander or some other uncivilized being ever since Marjorie disappeared? Disappeared, said Mrs. Douglas, catching the last word as she came to the assistance of her daughters. What has happened to Marjorie? Why, child, you are wet to the skin. You must have held the umbrella so that it dripped right down your back instead of protecting you. And I am afraid your dress is spoiled. The lining from your sack has discolored it. What a pity that you wore that dress. Fanny, your sack is streaked too. Dear me, what a condition to get home in. Why didn't you come last night? We couldn't, said Estelle briefly. After a moment during which she was engaged in discovering how severely the skirt she had borrowed without leave was mud-stained, she added. Didn't you see and hear it rain last night? Of course you didn't expect us after that. I never saw it rain harder. Why, we did not so early, of course. But by ten o'clock the rain was over. Your father lay awake watching for every sound. His head is very bad this morning, and he had a poor turn with his heart just about daylight. That's no wonder, though, after such a night. It was after midnight when you're— Then Fanny interrupted her. Mother, do help me get off this horrid sack. It is so wet it sticks to my dress as though it were glued. Is father worse, did you say? I don't see why he has to lie awake and fret about us. We shall get, so by and by, we will have to play Marjorie Edmund's role when we are out in the evening. What did you say happened to Marjorie? No accident, I hope? Nothing happened to her except to act like an idiot and create a sensation which will last I don't know how long in its effects. She was determined to get home, it seems, although Ralph was afraid of another thunderstorm and did not like to take the horses out, so she came home on foot in the middle of the night. On foot! said Mrs. Douglas in amazement and dismay. Why, the poor child! Not alone! Dear me, what a state she must have been in! I don't think much of the gentleman you had with you to let her do it. Why, they didn't know about it! explained Fanny. We none of us knew anything about it. We didn't think of such a thing. She attempted to make the facts plain to the mother, but Estelle, who was hunting through drawers and boxes for certain articles of clothing, interrupted. Do, Fanny, let us have a rest from that subject for a little while. I am tired of it, aren't you? Mother, can you imagine where my brown skirt is? Where is Glide? I wonder if she has had it. Glide! said Mrs. Douglas, brought suddenly face to face with her tremendous news. Why, she has gone to New York! And now the feelings of Estelle Douglas must be imagined. They cannot be described.