 CHAPTER XV. A FLOWER OF THE DUSK. by Myrtle Reed. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE SONG OF THE PINES. Upon the couch in the sitting-room, though it was not yet noon, Miss Maddie slept peacefully. She had the repose not merely of one dead, but of one who had been dead long and was very weary at the time of dying. As Dr. Conrad had expected her back was entirely well the morning following his visit, and when she awoke, free from pain, she had dinned his praises into Roger's ears until that long-suffering young man was well-nigh fatigued. The subject was not exhausted, however, even though Roger was. I'll tell you what it is, Roger," Miss Maddie had said, drawing a long breath and taking a fresh start. A young man that can cure a pain like mine with pills that size has a great future ahead of him as well as a brilliant past behind. He's a wonder-worker. That's what he is. Not to mention being a mind-reader as well. She had taken but half a dozen of the capsules the first day, having fallen asleep after taking the third dose. When Roger went to the office, very weary of Dr. Conrad's amazing skill, Miss Maddie had resumed her capsules and, shortly thereafter, fallen asleep. She had slept for the better part of three days, carrying little for food and not in the least for domestic tasks. At the fourth day, Roger became alarmed, but Dr. Conrad had gone back to the city, and there was no one within his reach in whom he had confidence. At last it seemed that it was time for him to act, and he shook the sleeping woman vigorously. What's the matter, Roger? she asked drowsily. Is it time for my medicine? No, it isn't time for medicine, but it's time to get up. Your back doesn't hurt you, does it? No, murmured Miss Maddie. My back is as good as it ever was. What time is it? Almost four o'clock. And you've been asleep ever since ten this morning. Wake up. Eight, ten, twelve, two, four, breathed Miss Maddie, counting on her fingers. Then, to his astonishment, she sat up straight and rubbed her eyes. If it's four, it's time for my medicine. She went over to the cupboard in which the precious box of capsules was kept, took two more, and returned to the couch. She still had the box in her hand. Mother! gasped Roger, horrified. What are you taking that medicine for? For my back, she responded sleepily. I thought your back was well. So it is. Then what in thunder do you keep on taking dope for? Miss Maddie set up. She was very weary and greatly desired her sleep. But it was evident that Roger must be soothed at first. You don't seem to understand me, she sighed with a yawn. After paying a dollar and twenty cents for that medicine, do you reckon I'm going to let it go to waste? I'm going to keep right on taking it every four hours, as he said, until it's used up. Mother! Don't you worry, nun Roger, said Miss Maddie kindly with a drowsy smile. Your mother is being took care of by a wonderful doctor. He makes the lame walk and the blind see and cures large pains with small pills. I am going to stick to my medicine. He didn't say to stop taking it. But mother, you mustn't take it when there is no need for it. He never meant for you to take it after you were cured. Besides, you might have the same trouble again when we couldn't get a hold of him. How am I to have it again? demanded Miss Maddie, pricking up her ears. When I'm cured, if I take all the medicine, I'll stay cured, won't I? You ain't got no logic, Roger. No more in your paw-head. I wish you wouldn't, mother, pleaded the boy, genuinely distressed. It's the medicine that makes you sleep so. I reckon, responded Miss Maddie, settling herself comfortably back among the pillows, that he wanted me to have some sleep. In all my life I ain't never had such sleep as I'm having now. You go away, Roger, and study law. You ain't cut out for medicine. The last words died away in an incoherent whisper. Miss Maddie slept again, with the box tightly clutched in her hand. As her fingers gradually loosened their hold, Roger managed to gain possession of it without waking her. He did not dare dispose of it, for he well knew that the maternal resentment would make the remainder of his life a burden. Besides, she might have another attack when the ministering mind reader was not accessible. If it were possible to give her some harmless substitute and at the same time keep the search in medicine for a time of need. A bright idea came to Roger, which he hastened to put into execution. He went to the drugst, and secured a number of empty capsules of the same size. At home he laboriously filled them with flour, and replaced those in the box with an equal number of them. He put the searching medicine safely away in his desk at the office, and went to work, his heart warmed by the pleasant consciousness that he had done a good deed. When he went home at night, Miss Maddie was partially awake and inclined to be fretful. The strength has gone out of my medicine, she grumbled, and it ate time to take more. I've got to sit here and be deprived of my sleep until eight o'clock. Roger prepared his own supper and induced his mother to eat a little. When the clock began to strike eight, she took two of the flour-filled capsules confidently climbed upstairs, and such is the power of suggestion was shortly asleep. Having an unusually favorable opportunity, Roger went over to see Barbara. He had not seen her since the night before the operation, but Dr. Conrad had told him that in a few days he might be allowed to talk to her or read to her for a little while at a time. Miriam opened the door for him, and he thought looked at him with unusual sharpness. I guess you can see her, she said shortly. I'll ask her. In the pathetically dingy room out of which Barbara had tried so hard to make a home, he waited until Miriam returned. They said to come up, she said, and disappeared. Roger climbed the creaking stairs and made his way through the dark, narrow hall, to the open door, from whence a faint light came. Come in, called Barbara, as he paused. Ambrose North sat by her bedside, holding her hand, but she laughingly offered the other to Roger. Bad boy, she said, why haven't you come before? I've lain here in the window and watched you go back and forth for days. I didn't dare, returned Roger. I was afraid I might do you harm by coming, and so I stayed away. Everybody has been so kind, Barbara went on. People I never saw nor heard of have come to inquire and give me things. You're absolutely the last one to come. Last and least? Not quite, she said with a smile. But I haven't been lonely. Father has been right beside me all the time except when I've been asleep, haven't you, Daddy? I've wanted to be, smiled the old man, but sometimes they made me go away. Tell me about the judge's liver, suggested Barbara, and Fido. I've been thinking a good deal about Fido. Did his legal document hurt him? Not in the least. On the contrary, he thrived on it. He liked it so well that he's eaten others as opportunity offered. The judge is used to it now and doesn't mind. I've been thinking that it might save time and trouble if, when I copied the papers, I took an extra carbon copy for Fido. That pup literally eats everything. He's cut some of his teeth on a pair of rubbers that a client left in the office, and this noon he ate nearly half a box of matches. I suppose, remarked Barbara, that he was hungry and wanted a light lunch. That'll be all from you just now, laughed Roger. You're going to get well all right. I can see that. Of course I'm going to get well. Who dared to say I wasn't? Nobody that I know of do you want me to bring Fido to see you? Someday, said Barbara thoughtfully, I would like to have you lead Fido up and down in front of the house, but I do not believe I would care to have him come inside. So they talked for half an hour or more. The blind man sat silently, holding Barbara's hand, too happy to feel neglected or in any way slighted. From time to time her fingers tightened upon his in a reassuring clasp that took the place of words. Acutely self-conscious, Roger's memory barked back continually to the last evening he and Barbara had spent together. In a way he was grateful for North's presence. It measurably lessened his constraint, and the subtle antagonism that he had hitherto felt in the house seemed wholly to have vanished. At last the blind man rose, still holding Barbara's hand. It is late for old folks to be sitting up, he said. Don't go, Daddy. Make a song first, won't you? A little song for Roger and me. He sat down again, smiling. What about? he asked. About the pines, suggested Barbara, the tallest pines on the hills. There was a long pause. Then, clearing his throat, the old man began. Even the tall and stately pines, he said, were once the tiniest of seeds, like everything else, for everything in the world. Either good or evil has a very small beginning. They grow slowly, and in summer when you look at the dark, bending boughs, you can see the year's growth in paler green at the tips. No one pays much attention to them, for they are very dark and quiet, compared with the other trees. But the air is balmy around them, they scatter a thick fragrant carpet underneath. And there is no music in the world, I think, like a sea wind blowing through the pines. When the brown cones fall, the seeds drop out from between at the smooth, satin-like scales. And so, in the year's gum, a dreaming mother pine broods over a whole forest of smaller trees. A pine is lonely and desolate, if there are no smaller trees around it. A single one, towering against the sky, always means loneliness. But where you see a little clump of evergreens huddled together, braving the sleet and snow, it warms your heart. In summer they give fragrant shade, and in winter a shelter from the coldest blast. The birds sleep among the thick branches, finding seeds for food in the cones, and on some trees blew waxen berries. Before the darkness came to me, I saw a love-story in a forest of pines. One tree was very straight and tall, and close beside it was another, not quite so high. The taller tree leaned protectingly over the other, as if listening to the music the wind made on its way from the hills to the sea. As time went on, their branches became so thickly interlaced that you could scarcely tell one from the other. Around them sprang up half a dozen or more smaller trees, sheltered, brooded over, and faithfully watched by these two with the interlaced branches. The young trees grew straight and tall, but when they were not quite half grown a man came and cut them all down for Christmas trees. When he took them away the forest was strangely desolate to these two, who now stood alone. When the daughters of dawn opened wide the gates of darkness and the lord of light fared forth upon the sea, they saw it not. When it was high noon, and there were no shadows, even upon the hill, it seemed that they might lift up their heads, but they only twined their branches more closely together. When all the flaming tapestry of heaven was spread in the west, they leaned near to each other and sighed. When the night wind stirred their bows to faint music, it was like the moan of a heart that refuses to be comforted. When spring danced through the forest, leaving flowers upon her way, while all the silences were filled with life and joy, these two knew it not, for they were bereft. Mating calls echoed through the woods, and silver sounds dripped like rain from the maples, but there was no love song in the boughs of the pines. The birds went by on hushed wings and built their nests far away. When maples put on the splendid robes of autumn, the pines more gaunt and desolate than ever covered the ground with a dense fabric of needles lacking in fragrance. When the winds grew cool and the little people of the forest pattered swiftly through the dead and scurrying leaves, there was no sound from the pines, they only waited for the end. When storm swept through the forest and the other trees bowed their heads in fear, these two straightened themselves to meet it, for they were not afraid. Frightened birds took refuge there and the little people, with wild beating hearts, crept under the spreading bows to be sheltered. Vast, reverberating thunders sounded from hill to hill, and the sea answered, with crashing surges that leaped high upon the shore. Suddenly, from the utter darkness, a javelin of lightning flashed through the pines, but they only trembled and leaned closer still. One by one, with the softness of falling snow, the leaves dropped upon the brown carpet beneath, but there was no more fragrance since the sap had ceased to move through the secret channels and breathe balm into the forest. Snow lay heavily upon the lower boughs, and they broke instead of bending. When spring danced through the world again, piping her plaintive music upon the farthest hills, the pines were almost bare. All through the sweet summer the needles kept dropping. Every frolicsome breeze of June carried some of them a little farther down the road. Every full moon shone more clearly through the barrier of the pines. And at last, when the chill winds of autumn chanted a requiem through the forest, it was seen that the pines had long been dead, but they so leaned together and their branches were so interlaced that, even in death, they stood as one. They had passed their lives together, they had borne the same burdens, faced the same storms, and rejoiced in the same warmth of summer sun. One was not left, stricken, long after the other was dead. Their last grief was borne together and was lessened because it was shared. I stand there sometimes now where the two dead trees are leaning close together, and as the wind sighs through the bare bows a chance no dirge to me but only a hymn of farewell. There is nothing in all the world, Barbara, that means so much as the one word together. And when you add love to it, you have heaven. For God himself can give no more joy than to bring together two who love, never to part again. Thank you, said Barbara, gently after a pause. I thank you too, said Roger. Ambrose North rose and offered his hand to Roger. Good night, he said. I am glad you came. Your father was my friend. Then he bent to kiss Barbara. Good night, my dear. Friend, repeated Roger to himself, as the old man went out. Yes, friend who never betrayed you or yours. The boy thrilled with passionate pride at the thought. Before the memory of his father, his young soul stood at salute. Barbara's eyes followed her father fondly as he went out and down the hall, to his own room. When his door closed, Roger came to the other chair, sat down, and took her hand. It's not really necessary, explained Barbara, with a faint pink upon her cheeks. I shall probably recover even if my hand isn't held all the time. But I want to, returned Roger, and she did not take her hand away. Her cheeks took on a deeper color and she smiled. But there was something in her deep eyes that Roger had never seen there before. I've missed you so, he went on. And I have missed you. She did not dare to say how much. How long must you be here? Not much longer, I hope. Somebody is coming down next week to take off the plaster. Then, after I've stayed in bed a little longer, they'll see whether I can walk or not. She sighed wistfully, and a strange expression settled on her face as she looked at the crutches, which still leaned against the foot of her bed. Why do you have those there? asked Roger quickly. To remind me always that I mustn't hope too much. It's just a chance, you know. If you don't need them again, may I have them. Why? she asked startled. Because they are yours. They've seemed a part of you ever since I've known you. I couldn't bear to have thrown away anything that was part of you, even if you've outgrown it. Certainly, answered Barbara, in a high, uncertain voice. You're very welcome and I hope you can have them. Barbara! Roger knelt beside the bed, still keeping her hand in his. What did I say that was wrong? Nothing! she answered with difficulty. But after bearing all this, it seems hard to think that you don't want me to be separated from my crutches. Because they have belonged to me always, you think they always must. Barbara, when you've always understood me, must I begin explaining to you now? I've never had anything that belonged to you, and I thought you wouldn't mind. If it was something you didn't need any more, I wouldn't care. What it was, if... I see. She interrupted, a blinding flash of insight had indeed made many things wonderfully clear. Here, wouldn't you rather have this? She slipped a knot of pale blue ribbon from the end of one of her long golden braids, and gave it to him. Yes, he said. Then he added anxiously. Are you sure you don't need it? If you do, if I do, she answered smiling, I'll either get another or tie my braid with a string. Outwardly, they were back upon the old terms again. But for the first time since the mud pie days, Barbara was self-conscious. Her heart beat strangely, heavy with the presence of new knowledge. When Roger rose from his chair, with a bit of blue ribbon protruding from his coat pocket, she laughed hysterically. But Roger did not laugh. He bent over with all his boyish soul in his eyes. She crimsoned as she turned away from him. Please, he asked very tenderly. You did once. No, she cried shrilly. Roger straightened himself instantly. Then I won't, he said softly. I won't do anything you don't want me to, ever. The red-haired young man who had previously assisted Dr. Conrad came down with one of the nurses and removed the heavy plaster cast. The nurse taught Miriam how to massage Barbara with oils and exercise the muscles that had never been used. Dr. Conrad told me, said the red-haired young man, to take your father back with me tomorrow—if you were ready to have him go, the sooner the better, he thought. Barbara turned away, with love and terror clutching coldly at her heart. Perhaps, she said finally, I'll talk with father tonight. Her own forgotten agony surged back into her remembrance, magnified a hundredfold, fears she had never had for herself strongly asserted itself now, for him. If it should come out wrong, she thought, I could never forgive myself, never in the wide world. When the doctor and nurse had gone to the hotel, and Miriam was busy getting supper, Ambrose North came quietly into Barbara's room. How are you, dear? he asked anxiously. I'm all right, daddy, except that I feel very queer. It's all different some way, like the old woman in Mother Goose. I wonder if this can be I? There was a long pause. Are they going back tomorrow? he asked, the doctor and nurse who came down to-day. Yes, answered Barbara in a voice that was little more than a whisper. The old man took her hand in his and leaned over her. Dear, he pleaded, may I go, too. Barbara was startled. Have they said anything to you? No. I was just thinking that I could go with them as well, as with Dr. Conrad. It is so long to wait, he sighed. I cannot bear to have you hurt, answered Barbara with a choking sob. I know, he said, but I bore it for you. Have you forgotten? There was no response in words, but she breathed hard. Every shrill respiration fraught with dread. Flower of the dusk, he pleaded. May I go? Yes, she sobbed. I have no right to say no. Dear, don't cry. The old man's voice was as tender as though she had been the nearest child. The dream is coming true at last. That you can walk and I can see. Think what it will mean to us both. And oh, Barbara, think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to you, to know from her own hand that she died loving me. Barbara suddenly turned cold. The hand that seemingly had clutched her heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. He would read her mother's letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love with another, that she took her own life because she could bear it no more. He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. He would know inevitably that Barbara's needle had earned their living for many years. He would see in the dining room the pitiful subterfuge of the bit of Damascus, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and cup. Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematically lied to him ever since she could talk at all, and he had a horror of a lie. Don't, she cried wiggly. Don't go. You promised Barbara, he said gently. Then he added proudly, the Norths never go back on their spoken or written word. It is in the blood to be true, and you have promised. I shall go to-morrow. Barbara cringed and shrank from him. Don't, dear, he said. Your hands are cold. Let me warm them in mine. I fear that today has been too much for you. I think it has, she answered. The words were almost whisper. Then don't try to talk, Barbara. I will talk to you. I know how you feel about my going. But it is not necessary, for I do not fear in the least for myself. I am sure that the dream is coming true. But if it should not, why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borne everything. The ways of the everlasting are not our ways. But my faith is very strong. If the dream comes true, as I hope and believe it will, you and I will go away, dear. And see the world. We shall go to Europe and Egypt and Japan and India, and to the southern islands, to Greece and Constantinople. I have planned it all. Aunt Miriam can stay here, or we will take her with us, just as you choose. When you can walk, Barbara, and I can see, I shall draw a large check, and we will start at the first possible moment. The greatest blessing of money, I think, is the opportunity it gives for travel. I have been glad, too, so many times that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses. Think of the poor people who must suffer always because they cannot command services which are necessarily high priced. Barbara's senses reeled, and the cold steel fingers clutched more closely at the aching fiber of her heart. Until this moment, she had not thought of the financial aspects of her situation. It had not occurred to her that Dr. Conrad, and the blue and white nurses and even the red-haired young man would expect to be paid. And when her father went to the hospital, I shall have to sew night and day all the rest of my life, she thought, and even then die in debt. But over and above and beyond it all stood the lie that had lived in her house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out if Barbara's heart stood still in horror because, for the most fraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father might never see again. I could not have gone alone, the old man was saying, and even if I could, I should never have left you, but now I think the time is coming. I have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond the sea and long to go. Your dear mother and I were going, in a little while, but his lips quivered and he stopped abruptly. What would you see, daddy, if you had your choice? Tell me the three things in the world that you most want to see. With supreme effort Barbara put herself aside an endeavor to lead him back to happier things. Three things, he repeated, let me think. If God should give me back my sight for the space of half an hour before I died, I should choose to see, first, your dear mother's letter in which she says that she died loving me. Next, your mother herself, as she was just before she died, and then, dear, my flower of the dust, my baby whom I never have seen, perhaps, he added thoughtfully, Perhaps I should rather see you than Constance for, in a very little while, I should meet her past the sunset where she has waited so long for me. But the letter would come first, Barbara. Can you understand? Yes, she breathed. I understand. The hope in her heart died. She could not ask for the letter. He took it from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. Put my finger on the words that say, I love him still. Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line. That, at least, was true. The old man raised it to his lips as a monk might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer. I keep it always near me, he said softly. I shall keep it until I can see. Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling. The problem that had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible solution. If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing their poverty. One swift glance would show him all and destroy his faith in her. That was unavoidable. But need he know that the dead had deceived him too. The innate sex loyalty, which is strong in all women, who are really fine, asserted itself in full power now. It was not only the desire to save her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the betraying letter from him. It was also the secret loyalty not of a child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman of sex to sex. The house was very still. Outside a belated cricket kept up his cheery fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell and rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock ticked monotonously, second by second and minute by minute, to-morrow advanced upon Barbara, that to-morrow, which must be made surely right by the deeds of today. If I could go, murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster, and she could move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leaned against the father wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as though they were in the next room. Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on the floor. With great effort she stood up, sustained by a boundless hope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed. She could not walk a step. Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all that the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to say that she was not to walk after all. He was leaving it for Dr. Conrad, or Eloise. Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches were veiled by a mist. Those friendly crutches which had served her so well and were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity. The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her. With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam came in, attired in a flannel dressing gown which was hopelessly unbecoming. Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips. "'Aunt Miriam?' she said, trying to keep her voice even. Father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again tonight. Will you bring me his coat, please?' Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable. "'Don't wake him,' called Barbara in a shrill whisper. If he has not asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have the coat tonight.' From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her quickness. Perhaps the letter was not in his coat. It might be somewhere else. At any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara. Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle. Yes, the letter was there. Two sheets, one in ink, in Constance's hand, the other in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to one who was blind? With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking. The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it. Thank you, auntie. Breathe, Barbara. I am sorry to—to disturb you, but there was no other way. Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and leaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone, Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Her father should never see them, whatever he might think of her. Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heard him stir. It did not matter. There was plenty of time before morning to return the coat. She took it back into her own room and sat down to think. Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. The candlelight, however, was kind. It touched gently upon the gray in her hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her face. It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously in her lap. After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say to Barbara, that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to know it, and that she did not quite trust Miriam. Also that Miriam had loved Ambrose North and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking him away from her. Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam's secret stared her in the face. She had not dreamed until she read the letter that Constance knew. Barbara knew now, too. Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, for she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it. The elaborate structure of deceit, which they had so carefully reared around the blind man was crumbling even now, if he recovered his sight, it must inevitably fall. He would know, in an instant of revelation, that Miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly led him to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her. She looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and read, through untiring slavery for him and his. She and Barbara would be sacrificed. No, for he would forgive Barbara anything. She was the only one who would lose through his restored vision, unless Constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as she was. I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father, and I took him away from her. The cruel sentences moved crazily before her, as in letters of fire. The letter was gone. Ambrose North would never see the evidence of Constance's distrust of her, nor come, without warning upon Miriam's pitiful secret, which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him at all costs. Nonetheless, Constance had stabbed her again. A ghostly hand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and the thrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure. For twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind man the letter Constance had written to Lawrence Austin just before she died. For that length of time, her desire to blacken Constance, in the hope of that grief-stricken heart, might once more turn to her, and ward with her love, and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved. Tonight, even in the face of the letter to Barbara, she knew that she should never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to him with her own hands. In case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would find it. She was glad now that the envelope was torn, for he would not be apt to open a letter addressed to another, even though Constance had penned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead. His fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. But if the letter were in a plain envelope sealed, and she should leave it on his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lying there. And then Miriam smiled. Constance would be paid at last for her theft of another woman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. There was a heavy score against Constance, who had so belied the meaning of her name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. North might not, probably would not, turn again to Miriam after all these years. She saw that plainly tonight, for the first time, but he would, at any rate, see that he had given up the gold for the dross. Miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat-lining. She had not known that it was torn. She wondered how he would feel when he discovered that the precious letter was lost. Would he blame Barbara or her? It would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets of paper had given him. Miriam had seen him, as he sat alone for hours in his own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages, as though they were alive and answered him with love for love. She knew it was Constance's letter to Barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to its contents until tonight. The letter to Lawrence Austin was written on paper of the same size. There was still some of it in Constance's desk, in the living-room downstairs. Suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and, if he ever read it, let him have it all out with Barbara, who was trying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago. The coat slipped to the floor as Miriam considered the plan. Perhaps one of them would ask her what it was. In that case, she would say carelessly, oh, a letter Constance left for Lawrence Austin. I did not think it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a great deal of harm. She would have the courage for that, surely, but, if she failed at the critical moment, she could say, simply, I do not know. She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance's note-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North's check-book, which had been useless for so many years. As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded the two together with the letter to Lawrence Austin inside. North would not be disappointed now when he reached into his pocket and found no font letter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could not change this by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love. Miriam's haul being glowed with satisfaction, she thrilled with the pleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid now for writing as she had. I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father, and I took him away from her. She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Let the fates do their worst now, for when he should read it. Someway Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him. She perceived now the irony of his caressing the letter Constance had written to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him with that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page Constance had written to Lawrence Austin just before she died. Miriam well knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance's last word had been to the man she loved. The hours passed on, slowly, the mist that hung over the sea was faintly touched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back to Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still. She entered quietly and laid the coat on a chair. She started back to the door, but before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his sleep. Constance, he said drowsily, is that you? Have you come back, beloved? It has seemed so long. Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that welled up within her. She went out hastily and noiselessly closed the door. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Never again. Barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast was gone, and she could move about with comparative freedom. Every day Aunt Miriam massaged her fragrant oils, and she faithfully took the slight exercises she was bitten to take, even though she knew it was of no use. She was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, for they had steadily reminded her not to hope too much. Still she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had not allowed herself to hope, that she had done it only because Eloise wanted her to. Perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not. She was not so sure, now, that she had refrained from telling her through motives of kindness. But Dr. Conrad would know instantly, and he and Eloise would be very sorry. Barbara wiped away her tears and compressed her lips tightly together. I won't cry, she said to herself. I won't. I won't. I won't. Her father had gone to the city with the red-haired young man and the nurse. He had been gone more than a week, and Barbara had received no news of him. Save a brief note from Dr. Conrad. He said that her father had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and that an operation had been decided upon. He would tell her all about it, he added, when he saw her. Day by day Barbara lived over the last evening she and her father had spent together, all the fear and foreboding. She did not for a moment regret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it. She would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but he should not be hurt in that manner. She had taken the one sure way to spare him that. When he came back and realized the full how steadily she had deceived him, he could love her no more. When he said good-bye to her the morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. It was a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him to her, an eternal separation in spirit from the child he had loved. The tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. Aunt Miriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alone together for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surely the last time as regarded the old sweet relation so soon to be severed, unless he came back blind as he had gone. The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. Flower of the dusk he had said with surpassing tenderness. When I come back the dusk will change to dawn. If the darkness lifts I shall see you first, and so for a little while good-bye. He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go, when she last saw him he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal. It was almost two weeks before Dr. Conrad came down. He had been obliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise. When Aunt Miriam came and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. He had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed, even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him. But when he came, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. He was so magnificently, young and strong, so full of splendid vitality. Barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him, and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand. Well, little girl, said Dr. Allen, sitting down on the bed beside her. How goes it? Tell me about Father, begged Barbara, ignoring the question. Father is doing very well, Allen assured her. He has recovered nicely from the operation, and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye, if not for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it isn't possible to tell definitely until later. His heart is very weak. That seems to be the main trouble now. Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed. Aren't you glad, asked Dr. Allen, in surprise? Yes, answered Barbara with difficulty. Indeed, yes. I was just thinking. A penny for your thoughts, he smiled. Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital? Why, yes, of course. They mustn't, cried Barbara, sitting up in bed. Or if they have to, I must go there. Dr. Conrad, I must see Father before he regains his sight. Why? asked Allen. Don't cry, little girl. Tell me. His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands. The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring. Because I've lied to him, sobbed Barbara. I've made him think we were rich instead of poor. He doesn't know that I've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to sell everything that anybody would buy. The pearls, the laces, and everything. He hates a lie, and he'll despise me. It will break his heart. I tell him myself then to have him find it out. Little girl, said Allen, in his deep tender voice. Little girl, nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your father. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the more for doing it. Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes frimming with tears. Do you think, she asked, jokingly, that he ever can forgive me? Allen laughed. In a minute, he assured her. Of course he'll forgive you, but I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as that is concerned, I can take the bandages off myself after he comes home. Can you really? And will you? Surely. Now don't fret about it any more. Let's see how you're getting on. In an instant the man was pushed into the background, and the great surgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and power of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his inestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turned the joint in its socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set in a frown, and his eyes were keen. But the rest of his face was impassive. Sit up, he said. Now turn this way. That's right. Now stand up. Barbara obeyed him, trembling. In a minute more, he would know. Stand on this side only. Now can you walk? No, answered Barbara in a sad little whisper. I can't. She reached for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed. But Dr. Allen snatched them away from her. No, he said, with his face illumined. Never again. Barbara gasped. What do you mean? She asked terror and joy strangely mingled in her voice. Never again, Dr. Allen repeated. You're never to have your crutches again. Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her little white nightgown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet, with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her waist. Her blue eyes were very wide and dark. Am I going to walk? She asked in a queer little whisper. Certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep. I can't believe it, she answered, with quivering lips. Then she threw her arms around Dr. Allen's neck and kissed him with the sweet impulsiveness of a child. Thank you, he said softly. Now we'll walk. He put his arm around her and Barbara took a few stumbling steps. Aunt Miriam opened the door and came in. Look! cried Barbara. I'm walking. So I see, replied Miriam. I heard the noise and came up to see what was the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something. She retreated as swiftly as she had come. Allen stared after her and seemed to be on the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately held his peace. You'll have to learn, he said to Barbara, with a new gentleness in his voice. Your balance is entirely different, and these muscles and joints will have to learn to work. Keep up the exercise and the massage. You can have a cane if you like, but no crutches. Is there someone who would help you for an hour or so every day? Roger would, she said, or Aunt Miriam. Better get Roger. He'll be stronger and also more willing, he thought, but he did not say so. Don't tire yourself, but walk a little every day as you feel like it. When he went he took the crutches with him. You might be tempted, he explained. If they were here and your father's cane is all you really need, you might be tempted, he explained, if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really need. Be a good girl and I'll come up again soon. Louise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and when he came in sight she went up the road to meet him. Oh, Allen! she cried breathlessly as she saw the crutches. Is she? She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever done in that line, even if I do say it as shouldn't. Of course, smiled Louise looking up at him fondly. I know that. They walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open interest of the rocking chair brigade, marshaled twenty strong on the hotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken back to school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about and be spoken of only in reverent whispers. The tide was going out. Allen hurled one of the crutches far out to see. They've worked faithfully and long, he said, and they deserve a little jaunt to Europe. Here goes! He was about to throw the other, but Louise took it from him. Let me, she suggested. I'd love to throw a crutch over to Europe. She tried it with the customary feminine awkwardness. It did not go beyond the shallow water and speared itself sharpen downward in the soft sand. Allen laughed uproariously and Louise colored with shame. Nevermind, she said, with affected carelessness. You couldn't have made it stick up in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soon as yours does. So there. They sat down on the beach sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that struck it. Think what it means, said Louise, and think what it might mean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who had it might have died after a long suffering. Or, continued Allen, someone might have outgrown the need of it and thrown it away as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells. Louise turned to him with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. I haven't thanked you, she said, for all you have done for my little girl. She lifted her sweet face to his. If you're going to thank me like that, said Allen huskily, I'll cut up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces. You needn't, laughed Louise, but it was dear of you. You've never done anything half so lovely in all your life. It was you who did it, dear. I was but the humble instrument in your hands. Was Barbara glad? I think so. She kissed me, too, but not like that. Did she really, the sweet, shy little thing, bless her heart? I infer, Miss Wim, remarked Allen, in a judicial tone, that you are not jealous. Jealous? I should say not. Anybody who can get you away from me, she added, as an afterthought, can have you with my blessing, and a few hints, as to your management. Safe offer, he commented. Are you really glad I've done what I have for Barbara? Oh, my dear, so glad! Then suggested Allen, hopefully. Don't you think I should be thanked again? I forgot to ask you about that dear old man, said Louise after a little. Is he going to be all right, too? Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little. He will not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses. But there will be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Any sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal. Of course he won't have that. We'll hope not. But life itself is more or less exciting, and you can never tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased to be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't get used to that. You will, though, said Louise a little sadly. You'll get so used to it that you won't even look up when I come into the room. You'll keep right on reading your paper. Impossible! That's what they all say, but it's so. Have all your precious husbands changed so quickly that you are afraid to try me? I've seen it so much, sighed Louise. A great light broke in upon Alan. Is that why he demanded, putting his arm around her? No, you didn't try to get away, for you can't. Is that why I'm in sentence to all this infernal waiting? Louise bit her lips and did not answer. Is it? he asked authoritatively. A little, she whispered. This is so sweet, and sometimes I'm afraid. Darling, darling, he said, drawing her closer. You make me ashamed of my fellow men when you say that. But do you want the year to stand still always at June? No, she answered. I'm willing to grow with love from all the promise of spring into the harvest, and even into winter as long as the sweetness is there. Don't you understand, Alan? Who would wish for June when Indian summer fills all the silences with shimmering, amethstine haze? And who would give up a keen, crisp winter day when the air sets the blood to dingling for apple blossoms or even roses? It's not that. I only want the sweetness to stay. Please, God, it shall. Returned Alan solemnly, he was profoundly moved. It shouldn't be so hard to keep it, went on Eloise thoughtfully. I've been thinking about it a good deal lately. Life will give us back whatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy into the world, and it will come back to you with compound interest. But you can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits. Very true, he responded, and never thought of it in just that way before. If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter and perfect faith, I think they'll all come back some day. A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bow, where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea. Sweetheart, said Alan, Do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall, and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to keep me waiting? For wife and home. I don't know. Dear, can't you trust me? Yes, always, she answered quickly. You know that. Then when? When all the color is gone, she said after a pause. When the forest is desolate, and the wind sighs through bare branches, when winter chills our hearts, then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the spring. Truly, sweetheart, truly, you'll never be sorry, dear. He took her into his arms, and sealed her promise upon her lips. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18. A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed. This sleeper-vux recording is in the public domain. The passing of Fido. Fido had been in the office alone for almost three hours. The old man, who he knew was his master, and the young man, who was inclined to be impatient with him, when he felt playful, had both gone out. The door was locked, and there was nobody on the other side of it to answer a vigorous scratch, or even a pleading whine. When people knocked, they went away again, almost immediately. The window-sills were too high for a little dog to reach, and there was no chair near. He walked restlessly around the office, stopping at intervals to sit down and thoughtfully contemplate his feet, which were much too large for the rest of him. He chased a fly that tickled his ear, but it eluded him, and now buzzed temptingly on a window-pane out of his reach. It seemed that something serious must have happened, for Fido had never been left alone so long before. If he had known that the old man was conversing pleasantly with some fellow citizens at the grocery-store, and that the young one had his arm around a laughing girl in white, trying to teach her to walk, he would have been very indignant indeed. Several times lately Fido had noticed the young man had gone out shortly after the old one went to the boast-office. It would be, usually, half a day later, when his master returned with a letter or two, or often with none. The young man took pains to get back before the old one did, which was well, for there should always be someone in a lawyer's office to receive clients and keep dogs from being lonely. The pangs of a devastating hunger assailed Fido, which was not strange, for it was long past the hour when the old man usually took a bulky parcel out of his desk, spread a newspaper upon the floor, and bade Fido eat of cold potatoes, meat, and bread. There was, nearly always, a nice juicy bone to beguile the tedium of the afternoon. Fido and the old man seldom went home to supper before half past five, and Fido would have been famished were it not for the comfort of the bone. He sniffed around the larger of the two desks, attempting odor came from a drawer far above. He stood on his hind legs and reached up as far as he could, but the drawer was closed. So was every other drawer in the office, except one, and that was in the young man's desk. Probably there was nothing in it for a hungry dog. There never had been. Still, it might be well to investigate. Fido laboriously climbed up on the chair and put his paws upon the edge of the open drawer. There was nothing in it but papers in a small square red box with a rubber band around it. Fido took the box in his mouth and jumped down. He pushed it with paws and nose over to his own particular corner, sniffing appreciatively meanwhile. It took much vigorous chewing to get the rubber band off and to make a hole in one corner of the box, at which rolled a great number of small, cylindrical objects. They were not like anything Fido had ever eaten before, but hungry little dogs must take what they can find, so he gulped them all down but one. This one refused to be swallowed and Fido quickly repented his rashness, for it was distinctly not good. He ate the rubber band and all, but a little piece of the red box before the taste was quite gone out of his mouth. Even then, a drink of fresh, cool water would have been very acceptable, but there was nobody to care whether a little dog died of thirst or not. The blue bottle fly buzzed loudly upon the window pane, but Fido no longer aspired to him. A vast weariness took the place of his former restlessness. He sat and blinked at his ill assorted feet for some time, then dragged himself lazily toward his cushion in the corner. Before he reached it, he was so very sleepy that he lay down upon the floor. In less than five minutes he was off to the canine dreamland, one paw still carelessly laid over the fragments of the little red box. When the judge came in, an hour later, he was much surprised to find the office locked and the cards of three valued clients on the floor under the door. There had been four, but Fido had eaten the first one. Two of them were marked with the hour of the call. It indicated plainly, to a logical mind, that Roger had left the office soon after he did and had not returned. It was very strange. Fido slumbered on, though hitherto the sound of his master's step would awaken him to noisy and affectionate demonstrations. The judge turned Fido over with a friendly foot, but there was no answer save a wide yawn. He brought the parcel of bread and meat and opened it, leaving it on the floor close by. He took a chicken bone and held it to the sleeper's nose, but Fido turned away as though from an annoying fly. As the dog had never before failed to take immediate interest in a chicken bone, the judge was alarmed. He picked up the fragments of the little red box and wondered if anyone could have poisoned his pet. He brought fresh water, but Fido hitherto, possessed of an unquenchable thirst, failed to respond. When Roger came in, belated and breathless, he found his explanations coldly received. Whether or not Barb or North ever walked was evidently a matter of no particular concern to the judge. It was also of no immediate importance that clients had come and found the office empty, even though one of them, presumably, had intended to settle an account of long-standing. The vital question was simply this. What was the matter with Fido? Roger did not know. Though Fido's disdain of food and drink might be abnormal, his position on the floor and his deep breathing were quite natural. Then the fragments of the little red box were presented to Roger and inquiry made as to the contents. Also, had Roger tried to poison the judge's pet? Roger had not. The box had contained a prescription for Lumbago which Dr. Conrad had given his mother. It was in the drawer of his desk. He might possibly have left the drawer open, probably had, as the box was gone. The judge was deeply desirous of knowing why Mrs. Austin's Lumbago cure should be kept in the office within reach of unwary pets. After considerable hesitation, Roger explained. The owner of Fido was highly incensed. First he condemned the entire procedure as criminal carelessness, setting forth his argument in unparliamentary language. Then remembering that Roger had not really loved Fido, he brought forth an unworthy motive and accused the hapless young man of murderous intent. Roger would kindly borrow the miniature express wagon, which was the prized possession of the Postmaster's small son, place the cushion in it with its precious burden and convey Fido with all possible tenderness to his other and larger cushion in the judge's own bedroom. He would take the cold chicken, too, please, for if Fido ever wanted anything again in this world it would probably be chicken. The judge would follow as soon as he had written to his clients and expressed his regret that his clerk's numerous social duties did not permit of his giving much time to his business, and the judge added, as an afterthought, if Fido should die it would not be necessary for Roger to return to the office. He wanted someone who could be trusted not to poison his dog while he was out. Roger was too much disturbed to be conscious of the ludicrous aspect he presented to the public eye as he went down the main thoroughfare of Riverdale dragging the small cart, which contained the slumbering Fido and his cushion. He did not even hear the pointed comments made by the young of both sexes whom he encountered on his interminable walk, and forgot to thank the Postmaster for the loan of the cart when he returned it. Empty save for a fragment of cold chicken and a faint doggy smell. For obvious reasons he could not go to the office and he did not like to take his disturbing mood to Barbara. Besides, his mother, who now had long wakeful periods in the daytime, might see him and ask unpleasant questions. He went down to the beach yearning for solitude and settled himself in the shelter of a sand dune to meditate upon the unhappy events of the day. He did not realize that the sand dune belonged to Eloise and that she was want to sit there with Dr. Conrad out of the wind and safely screened from the argous-eyed rocking chairs on the verandas. He was so preoccupied that he did not even hear the sound of their voices as they approached. Turning the corner quickly, they almost stumbled over him. Upon my word, cried Eloise, Sir Knight of the Dolores countenance, what has gone wrong? Nothing, answered Roger miserably. Anybody dead? queried Allen, lazily stretching himself upon the sand. Not yet, but somebody is dying. Who? demanded Eloise. Barbara or your mother? Who is it? Fido, said Roger hopelessly, staring out to sea. Allen laughed, but Eloise returned kindly. I didn't know you had a dog, I'm sorry. He isn't mine, explained Roger. I only wish he were. If he had been, he added viciously, he'd have died of violent death long ago. Little by little the whole story came out. Allen kept his face straight with difficulty, but Eloise was genuinely distressed. Don't worry, she said sympathetically. If Fido dies and the judge won't take you back, I can probably find an opening for you in town. Your office work will pay your expenses, so you can go to law school in the evenings and be ready for your examinations in the spring. Oh, Miss Wynn, cried Roger, how good you are! I don't wonder Barbara calls you her fairy godmother. Barbara is coming to town to spend the winter with me, Eloise went on happily. She never had a good time, and I'm going to give her one, as soon as she's strong enough, and can walk well. I'm going to take her bag and baggage. It's all I'm waiting here for. In a twinkling Roger's despair was changed to something entirely different. Oh, he cried, I do hope Fido will die. Do you think there is any chance? he asked eagerly of Allen. I should think from what you tell me, remarked Allen judicially, that Fido was nearly through with his earthly troubles. A dose of that size might easily keep any of us from worrying any longer about the price of meat, and next month's rent. Mother won't like it, said Roger soberly. She may not be willing for me to go. She should be, returned Allen, as you've saved her life at the expense of Fido's. When I go up to see Barbara this afternoon, I'll stop in and tell her. Miss Maddie was awake, but yawning when he knocked at her door. There wasn't no call for you to come, she said inhospitably. The medicine ain't used up yet. Let me see the box, please. She shuffled off to the kitchen cupboard and brought it to him. There were half a dozen flour-filled capsules in it. Allen observed that the druggist in writing the directions on the cover had failed to add the last two words. Idiot, he said under his breath. I wrote, take two every four hours until relieved. I was relieved, explained Miss Maddie, and I've had fine sleep ever since. It's wore off considerable in the last three days, though. Allen then told her, in vivid and powerful language, how the druggist's error might have had very serious results, had it not been for Roger's presence of mine in substituting the flour-filled capsules for the searching medicine. He was surprised fine that Miss Maddie was ungrateful, and that she violently resented the imposition. Roger's just like his paw, she said, with the dull red rising in her cheeks. He never had no notion of economy. When I'm taking a dollar and twenty cents worth of medicine, to keep it from being wasted, Roger goes and puts flour into the covers of it, and feeds the expensive medicine to Judge Baskham's Fido. He thinks more of that dog than he does of his sick mother. My dear Mrs. Alston, said Allen solemnly, have you not heard the news? What news, she demanded bristling. Little Fido is dying. He took all the medicine and has been asleep ever since. By morning he will be dead. Miss Maddie's jaw dropped. Would you mind telling me, she asked suspiciously, why you took it on yourself to give me medicine that would poison a dog? I might have took it all at once to save it, once I was minded to. Roger saved your life, said Allen, endeavouring to make his tone serious. And because of it, he is about to lose his position. The judge is so disturbed over Fido's approaching disillusion that he has told Roger never to come back any more. Unless we can find him a place in town he has sacrificed his whole future to save his mother's life. Where is Roger? I left him down on the beach with Miss Winn. I suppose he is still there. When you see him, commanded Miss Maddie, with some asperity, will you kindly send him home? It's no time for him to be gallivant and around with girls, when his mother's been so near death. I will, Allen assured her, reaching for his hat. I hope you appreciate what he has done for you. When he went down the road his shoulders were shaking suspiciously. Miss Maddie was watching him through the lace curtains that glorified the parlor windows. Seems as if he had St. Vitus's dance, she mused, wonder why he doesn't mix up some dog-pison and hear himself. When he was sure that he was out of sight, Allen sat down on a convenient boulder at the side of the road and gave himself up to unrestrained mirth. The medicine which was about to prove fatal to Fido would have caused only prolonged sleep if taken in small doses at proper intervals by an adult. It's a wonder she didn't take him all at once, he thought. And if she had, he speculated idly upon the probable effect. His conscience pricked him slightly on account of the exaggeration in which he had mischievously indulged. But he told himself that Roger would be far better off in the city and his mother's consent would make his going much less difficult. He also realized that if Roger were there to amuse Barbara, Eloise might have more spare time than she would otherwise. He stopped long enough to give the drugist a bad quarter of an hour and then went back to the beach. Eloise and Roger were where he had left him, and the boy's gloom was entirely gone. Your mother wants you, he said, as he sat down on the other side of Eloise. All right, I'll go right up. How did she take it? Very well. Just remember that you've saved her life and you'll have no trouble. When Roger went up the street he was whistling, from sheer light-heartedness. Eloise had made so many plans for his future that he saw fame and fortune already within his reach. When he knocked, never having been allowed the freedom of a latchkey, he noted that all the blinds in the house were closed and wondered whether his mother had gone to sleep again. After a suitable interval she opened the door, clad in her best black silk, and portentously saw him. Why, mother, what's the matter? Come in, she whispered. Dr. Conrad has just been telling me how near I come to death. Oh, my son! she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. You have saved my life! It seemed to Roger like a paragraph torn from the metropolitan weekly, but he patted her back soothingly as she clung to him. Maternal outbursts of this sort were extremely rare. He remembered only one other greeting like this, the day he had been swimming in the river with three other small boys, and had been brought home in a blanket half-drowned. I suppose I shouldn't regret taking poison, if it cured my back and gave me some sleep I needed, but it was a dreadful narrow escape, and you're taking the medicine away from me, and feeding it to Fida was certainly clever, Roger. Every day you remind me more and more of your paw. Thank you, answered Roger. He was struggling with various emotions and found speech almost impossible. It's no more than right, she resumed, that after having pizzened Fido and lost you your place, that Dr. Conrad should stir himself around and get you a better place in the city. But I do hate to have you go, Roger. It'll be dreadful lonesome for me. Cheer up, mother. I haven't gone yet. The dog may get well. Miss Maddie shook her head sadly. No, he won't, she sighed. I took enough of that medicine to know how powerful it is, and Fido ain't got no chance. Tomorrow I'll look over your things. An atmosphere of solemnity pervaded the house, and the evening was spent very quietly. Miss Maddie read her Bible, as on Sunday evenings when she did not go to church, and sternly refused to open the housewife's companion, which lay temptingly near her. She went to bed early, and Roger soon followed her, having strangely lost his desire to read, and not daring to go to see Barbara more than once a day. His night was made hideous by visions of himself drawing the cart containing the slumbering Fido into the church, where Eloise and Dr. Conrad were being married, while Judge Baskham at the house was conducting Miss Maddie's funeral. In the morning, after breakfast, Roger seriously debated whether or not he should go down to the office. At last he tossed up a coin and muttered a faint imprecation as he picked it up. With his hat firmly on, and his hands in his pockets, Roger fared forth, whistling determinately. He did not want to go to the office, and he dreaded, exceedingly, his next meeting with the irascible Judge. As it happened, it was not necessary for him to go. For, at the corner of the street which led to the Judge's house, he met the postmaster's small son, laboriously dragging the fateful cart of yesterday. In it were all of Roger's books and other belongings, including an umbrella which he had loaned to the Judge on a rainy night and expected never to see again. The message was brief, and very much to the point. Fido had died painlessly at four o'clock that morning. CHAPTER XIX A Flower of the Dusk by Myrtle Reed. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE DREAMS COME TRUE The hours Roger had taken from his work in the office had brought nothing but good to Barbara. She gained strength rapidly after she began to walk, and was soon able to dispense with the cane, though she could not walk easily, not far. She tired quickly, and was forced to rest often, but she went about the house slowly, and even up and down the stairs. Aunt Miriam made no comment of any sort. She did not say she was glad Barbara was well after twenty-two years of helplessness, even though she had taken an entire care of her, and must have felt greatly relieved when the burden was lifted. She went about her work as quietly as ever, and fulfilled all her household duties with mechanical precision. Spicy odours were wafted through the rooms, for Eloise had ordered enough jelly, sweet pickles, and preserves to supply a large family for two or three years. She had also bought quilts and rag rugs for all of her old lady friends, and taken the entire stock of candied orange peel for the afternoon teas which she expected to give during the winter. Barbara was hard at work upon the dainty lingerie Eloise had planned, and found, by a curious anomaly, that when she did not work so hard she was able to accomplish more. The needle flew more swiftly when her fingers did not ache, and the stitches blur indistinguishably with the fibre of the fabric. When Roger was not there to help her, she divided her day by the clock into hours of work and quarter hours of exercise and rest. She had been out of the gate twice with Roger, and had walked up and down the road in front of the house, but, as yet, she had not gone beyond the little garden alone. Upon the fair horizon of the future was one dark cloud of dread which even Dr. Conrad's positive assurance had mitigated only for a little time. Barbara knew her father and his stern, uncompromising righteousness. When the bandages were taken off, and he saw the faded walls and dingy furniture, the worn rugs and the pitiful remnant of Damasque at his place at the table, when he realized that his daughter had deceived him ever since she could talk at all, he must inevitably despise her, even though he tried to hide it. Dimly Barbara began to perceive the intangible price that is attached to the things of the spirit as well as to the material necessities of daily life. She was forced to surrender his love for her as the compensation for his sight, yet she was firmly resolved to keep for him the love that refused to reckon with the barrier of a grave, but triumphantly went past it to clasp the dead beloved closer still. Of late she had been thinking much of her mother until Roger had found his father's letter, and she had received her own upon her 22nd birthday, she had felt no sense of loss. Constance had been a vague dream to her and little more, in spite of her father's grieving and her instinctive sympathy. With the letters, however, had come a change. Barbara felt a certain shadowy relationship and an indefinite bereavement. She wondered how her mother had looked, what she had worn, and even how she had dressed her hair. Since her father had gone to the hospital, she had wondered more than ever, but got no satisfaction when she had once asked Aunt Miriam. She finished the garment upon which she was working, threaded the narrow white ribbon into it, folded it in tissue paper, and put it into the chest. It was the last of the second set, and Eloise had ordered six. Four more to go, thought Barbara. I wonder whether she wants them all alike. The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen, and it was Saturday. It was hardly worthwhile to begin a new piece of work before Monday morning, especially since she wanted to ask Eloise about a new pattern. Dr. Conrad was coming down for the weekend, and probably both of them would be there late in the afternoon or on Sunday. How glad he'll be, said Barbara to herself. He'll be surprised when he sees how well I can walk. And father—oh, if father could only come to—she was eager in spite of her dread. Simply for the sake of exercise Barbara climbed the attic stairs and came down again after she had rested. She tried it once more, but she was so faint when she reached the top that she went into the attic and sat down in an old broken rocker. It was the only place in the house where she had not been since she could walk, and she rather enjoyed the novelty of it. A decrepit sofa, with the springs hanging from under it, was against the wall at one side, far back under the eaves. It was of solid mahogany, and had not been bought by the searchers for antiques because its rehabilitation would be so expensive. That and the rocker in which Barbara sat were the only pieces of furniture remaining. There were several trunks, old-fashioned, but little worn. One was Aunt Miriam's, one was her father's, and the other must have belonged to her dead mother. For the first time in her life Barbara was curious about the trunks. When she was quite rested she went over to a small one which stood near the window and opened it. A faint, musty odor greeted her, but there was no disconcerting flight of moths. Every woollen garment in the house had long ago been used by Aunt Miriam for rugs and braided mats. She had taken Constance's underwear for her own use when misfortune overtook them and there was little else left. Barbara lifted from the trunk a gown of heavy white brocade, figured with violence and lavender and palest green. It was yellow and faded, and the silver thread that ran through the pattern was tarnished so that it was almost black. The skirt had a long train, and around the low-cut bodice was a deep fall of heavy duchess lace, yellowed to the exquisite tint of old ivory. The short sleeves were trimmed with lace of the same pattern, but only half as wide. Oh! said Barbara aloud. How lovely! There was a petticoat of rustling silk and a pair of dainty white slippers, yellowed to, by the slow passage of the years. Their silver buckles were tarnished, but their high heels were as coquettish as ever. What a little foot! thought Barbara. I believe it was smaller than mine. She took off her low shoe and, like Cinderella, tried on the slipper. She was much surprised to find that it fitted, though the high heels felt queer. Her own shoe was more comfortable, and so she changed again, though she had quite made up her mind to wear the slippers some time. In the trunk, too, she found a white bonnet that she tried on, but without satisfaction. As there was no mirror in the attic, this one trunk evidently contained the finery for which Miriam had not been able to find use. One by one Barbara took out the garments, which were all of silk or linen. There was nothing there for the mods. The long bridal veil of rose-point that Barbara had sternly refused to sell was yellow, too, but nonetheless lovely. There was a gold-scented bottle set with discolored pearls and amethyst brooch which no one would buy, because it had three small gold tassels hanging from it, and a lace fan with tortoise shell-sticks, inlaid with mother of pearl. A thrifty woman at the hotel had once offered two dollars for the fan, but Barbara had kept it. As she was sure it was worth more. Down in the bottom of the trunk was an inlaid box that she did not remember having seen before. She slid the back cover and found a lace handkerchief, a broken cuff button, a gold blocket enameled with black, a long fan chain of gold set with amethysts, a small gold-framed mirror evidently meant to be carried in a purse or handbag, a high-shell comb inlaid with gold and set with amethysts, and ten of the dozen large heavy gold hairpins which Ambrose North, in an extravagant mood, had ordered made for the shining golden braids of his girl-wife. On the bottom of the box, face down, was a photograph. Barbara took it out, wondering, and started in amazement at her own face, looked back at her. On the back was written, in the same clear hand as the letter, for my son or daughter, Constance North. Below was the date just a month before Barbara was born. The heavy hair in the picture was braided and wound around the shapely head. The high comb, the same that Barbara had just taken out of the box, added a finishing touch. Around the slender neck and fair smooth shoulders fell the duchess lace that trimmed the brocade gown. The amethyst brooch, with two of the three tassels plainly showing, was pinned into the lace on the left side, halfway to the shoulder. But it was the face that interested Barbara most, as it was the counterpart of her own. There was the same broad low forehead, the large deep eyes with long lashes, the street little nose, and the tender, girlish mouth with its short upper lip, and the same firm round dimpled chin. Even the expression was almost the same, but in Constance's deep eyes was a certain wistfulness that the faint smile of her mouth could not wholly deny. The woman who looked back at her daughter seemed strangely youthful. Barbara felt in a way as though she were the mother and Constance the child, for she was older now than her mother had been when she died. The years of helplessness and struggle had aged Barbara too. The slanting sunbeams of late afternoon came into the attic, but Barbara still studied the sweet face of the picture. Constance was made for love, and love had come when it was too late. What tenderness she was capable of, what toilsome journeys she would undertake without fear, if her heart bade her go. What courage must have unnerved her dimpled hands when she opened the gray mysterious door of the unknown. There was no hint of weakness in the face, but Constance had died rather than to take the chance of betraying the man who held her pledge. Barbara's young soul answered in passionate loyalty to the wistfulness, the hunger, and the unspoken appeal. He shall never know, mother, dear, she said aloud. I promise you that he shall never know. The shadows grew longer, and at length Barbara put the picture down. If she had on the gown and twisted her braids around her head, she would look like her mother even more than now. She had a fancy to try it, to go downstairs and see what Aunt Maryam would say when she came in. Her eyes sparkled with delight when she drew on the long white stockings of finest silk and put on the white slippers with the tarnished silver buckles. The gown was too long and a little too loose, but Barbara rejoiced in the faded brocade and in the rustle of the silk petticoat that cracked in several places when she put it on. The fabric was so frail. The ivory-tinted lace set off her shoulders beautifully, but she could only guess at the effect from the brief glimpses the tiny mirror gave her. She put on the amethyst brooch, hung the fan upon its chain, and put it around her neck. She wound her braids around her head and fastened them securely with the gold hairpins. With the aid of the small gold mirror she put the comb in place and loosened the soft hair on either side so that it covered the tops of her ears. She walked back and forth a few times, the full length of the attic, looking back to admire the sweep of her train. Then she sat down upon the decrepit sofa, trying to fancy herself a stately lady of long ago. The room was very still, and, without knowing it, Barbara had wearied herself with the unaccustomed exertion. Her white woolen gown and soft, low shoes lay in a little heap on the floor near the window. She must not forget to take them when she went down to look in the mirror. Presently she stretched herself out upon the sofa, wondering, drowsily, whether her mother would have lain down to rest in that splendid brocade. She did not intend to sleep, but only to rest a little before going downstairs to surprise Aunt Maryam. Nevertheless, in a few minutes she was fast asleep and dreaming. Eloise went down to the three o'clock train to beat Allen and was much surprised when Ambrose North came too. His eyes were bandaged, but otherwise he seemed as well as ever. They offered to go home with him, but he refused, saying that he could go alone as well as he ever had. They strolled after him, however, keeping at a respectful distance, until they saw him enter the grey weather-worn gate. Then they turned back. Is he all right, Allen? asked Eloise anxiously. I hope so indeed. I'm very sure he is. The operation turned out to be an extremely simple one, though it wasn't even dreamed of twenty years ago. Barbara's case was simple, too. It's all in the knowing-how. She had made one of the quickest recoveries on record, owing to the fact that her body is almost that of a child. When you come down to the root of the matter, surgery is merely the job of skilled mechanic. But you'd be angry if anyone else said that? Of course. When did the bandages come off? I'm going up to-morrow. They'd have been off over a week ago, but Barbara insisted that she must see him first and ask him to forgive her for deceiving him. She thinks she's a criminal. Dear little saint, said Eloise softly, I wish none of us ever did anything more wicked than that. So do I, but there is an active remnant of a New England conscious somewhere in Barbara. I'm not sure that the old man hasn't it too. Do you suppose for a moment that he won't forgive her? If he doesn't—returned Allen concisely—I'll break his ungrateful neck. I hope she won't stir him up very much, though. He's got a bad heart. Still, the old man showed no sign of weakness as he went briskly up the walk and knocked at his own door. When Miriam opened it, astonishment made her welcome almost inarticulate, for she had not expected him home so soon. He gave her the small back satchel that he carried, his coat and hat. How is Barbara? He asked eagerly. How is my little girl? Well enough, answered Miriam. Is she asleep? Miriam went to the stairs and called out. Barbara! Oh, Barbara! There was no answer. She started upstairs, but he called her back. Don't wake her, he said. Perhaps I can take her supper up to her. Suit yourself, responded Miriam shortly. She did not see fit to tell him that Barbara was up and could walk. Dr. Conrad could have told him, if he had wanted to, at any rate, it was not Miriam's affair. She bitterly resented the fact that he had not even shaken hands with her when he came home after his long absence. She hung up his coat and hat, lighted the fire, as the room was cool, went out into the kitchen, and closed the door. The familiar atmosphere and the comfortable chair in which he sat brought him that peculiar piece of home which is one of the greatest gifts travel can bestow. Even the ticking of the clock came to his senses gratefully, home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nights and days of acute loneliness, and only one more day to wait, perhaps. To see again, he thought. I am glad I came home first. Tomorrow, if God is good to me, I shall see my baby, and the letter. I have dreamed so often that she could walk, and I could see. He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out upon his knee. He moved his hands lovingly across the pages, the one written upon, the other blank. She died loving me, he said to himself. Tomorrow I shall see it in her own hand. Sunset flamed behind the hills and brought into the little room faint threads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with the dusk. The clock tick steadily, and with every cheery tick brought nearer that dear to-morrow of which he had dreamed so long. He speculated upon the difference made by the slow passage of a few hours. Tomorrow, at this time, his bandages would be off. Then why not today? The letter fell to the floor, and he picked it up, one sheet at a time, fretfully. The bandage around the temples and the gauze and cotton held firmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable. It was the last few miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between the lover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn. He had been very patient, but at last had come to the end. If only the bandages were off! If they were, he thought, I need not open my eyes. I could keep them closed until tomorrow. He raised his hands and worked carefully at the surgical mounts until the outer strip was loosened. He wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layers of cotton and gauze. He breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes closed determined to keep faith with the physicians, and, above all, with Dr. Conrad, who had been so very kind. There was no pain at all, only weakness. If the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might open his eyes for a moment or two. Why should tomorrow be so different from today? The letter was in his hands, that dear letter which said, I have loved him, I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do today. The temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his blood. Perhaps, after all, he could not see. The doctors had not given him a positive promise. The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged into perfect belief and trust. Unable to endure the strain of waiting longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again. I can see, he whispered shrilly. Oh, I can see! The blood beat hard in his pulses. He waited wisely until he was calm, then opened his eyes once more. The room was not dark, but was filled with the soft golden glow of sunset, a light that illumined, and, strangely, brought no pain. Objects long and familiar, saved by touch, loomed large and dark before him. Remembered colors came back, mellowed by the half-light. Distances readjusted themselves and perspectives appeared in the transparent mist that seemed to veil everything. He closed his eyes and said aloud, I can see. Oh, I can see! Little by little the mist disappeared and objects became clear. The velvety softness of the last light lay kindly upon the dingy room. When he tried to read the letter the words danced on the page, trembling he rose and took it over to the window where the light was stronger. As he stood there, with his back to the door, Miriam, unheard, came into the room. The bandages on the floor, the eagerness in every line of his body, as he stood at the window and the letter in his hand, gave her, in a single instant, all the information she needed. Her heart beat high with the wild hope the hour of her vengeance had come at last. She feared he would not be able to read it. Then she remembered the yellowed page on which the writing stood out as clearly as though it had been large print. If he could see it all, he could see that. Little by little, sustained and supported by his immeasurable longing, the band at the window spelled out the words in an eager whisper. You who have loved me since the beginning of time will understand and forgive me for what I do today. I do it because I am not strong enough to go on and do my duty by those who need me. Miriam knotted with satisfaction. At last he knew why Constance had taken her own life. If there should be meeting past the grave some day, you and I shall come together again with no barrier between us. He put his hand to his forehead as though he did not quite understand, but hurryed to the next sentence for his eyes were failing under the strain. I take with me the knowledge of your love which has strengthened and sustained me since the day we first met and must make even a grave warm and sweet. The light in the room seemed to Miriam to be not holy of the golden sunset. Some radiance of soul must have made that clear soft light which failed but did not hide. It was sunset, and yet the light was that of a summer afternoon. And remember this, dead though I am, I love you still, you and my little lame baby, who needs me so, and whom I must leave because I am not strong enough to stay, through life and in death and eternally yours, Constance. There was a tense unbearable silence. Miriam moistened her parched lips and chafed her cold hands. At last, she thought, at last. She died loving me, said Ambrose North, in a shrill whisper. His eyes were closed again, for the strain had hurt terribly. Dimly he remembered the other letter. This was not the same, but the other had been to Barbara and not to him. He did not stop to wonder how it came to be in his pocket. It suffice that some angel of God, working through devious ways in long years, had given him at last, face to face, the assurance he had hungered for, since the day Constance died. In a blinding instant Miriam remembered that no names had been mentioned in the letter. He had made a mistake, but she could set him right. Constance should not triumph again, even in an hour like this. Ambrose North turned back into the shadow, fearing to face the window. The woman, cowering in the corner, advanced steadily to meet him. He saw her, vaguely, when his eyes became accustomed to the change of lights. Miriam! he cried, transfigured by joy. She died loving me. I have it here. It was only because she was not strong. She was ill, and she never let us know. He held forth the letter with a shaking hand. She began Miriam. She died loving me. He cried, Oh Miriam! can you not see? I have it here. His voice rang through the house like some far silver bugle, chanting triumph over a field of the slain. She died loving me. Barbara had already wakened, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. The attic was almost dark. She went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowed finery and tell her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had to be loosened. When she reached her own door, she started toward her mirror, anxious to see how she looked. But that triumphant cry from the room below made her heart stand still. White is death and strangely fearful. She went down and into the loving room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovingly upon her father's illumined face. Barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched and welcome. Miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking as though she had seen a ghost. There was an instant tense silence. All the forces of life and love seemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a single heartbeat. Then the old man spoke. Constance, he said unsteadily. Have you come back, beloved? It has been so long. Radiant, with beauty no woman had ever worn before, Barbara went to him, still smiling, and the old man's arms closed hungrily about her. I dreamed you were dead, he sobbed, but I knew you died loving me. Where is our baby Constance? Where is my flower of the dusk? Even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden of joy. He staggered and would have fallen, had not Miriam caught him in her strong arms. Together they helped him to the couch, where he lay down, breathing with great difficulty. Constance, darling, he gasped feebly. Where is our baby? I want Barbara. For the sake of the dead and the living, Barbara supremely put self aside. I do not know, she whispered, just where Barbara is. Am I not enough? Enough for earth, he breathed in answer, and for heaven to kiss me, Constance, just once, dear, before. Barbara bent down. He lifted his shaking hands caressingly to the splendid crown of golden hair, the smooth, fair cheeks, the perfect neck and shoulders, and died, and raptured, with her kiss, upon his lips. End of Chapter 19 CHAPTER XX A FLOWER OF THE DUSK by Myrtle Reed. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. PARDON Crushed and almost broken-hearted, Barbara sat in the dining-room. The air was heavy with the overpowering scent of tuberosis. From the room beyond came the solemn words of the burial service. I am the resurrection and the life, he that believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. The words beat unbearably upon her ears. The walls of the room moved as though they were a fabric stirred by winds of hell. The floor undulated beneath her feet and black mists blinded her. Her hands were so cold that she scarcely felt the friendly human touch on either side of her chair. Roger held one of her cold little hands in both of his own, yearning to share her grief, to divide it in some way, even to bear it for her. On the other side was Dr. Conrad, profoundly moved. His science had not yet obliterated his human instincts, and he was neither ashamed of the mist in his eyes, nor of the painful throbbing of his heart. His fingers were upon Barbara's pulse, where the life-tide moved so slowly that he could barely feel it. On the other side of the room, alien and apart, as always, sat Miriam. She wore her best black gown, but her face was inscrutable. Perhaps the lions were more sharply cut, perhaps the rough red hands moved more nervously than usual, and perhaps the deep-set black eyes burned more fiercely, but no one noticed or cared. The deep voice in the room beyond was vibrant with tenderness, the man who stood near Ambrose North as he lay in his last sleep had been summoned from town by Eloise. He did not make the occasion an excuse for presenting his own particular doctrine, bolstered up by argument, nor did he bid his hearers rejoice and be glad. He admitted at the beginning that sorrow lay heavily upon the hearts of those who loved Ambrose North, and did not say that God was chastening them for their own good. He spoke of life as the rainbow that brilliantly spans two mysterious silences, one of which is dawn and the other sunset. The flaming arc must end as it begins in pain, but pass the silence, and perhaps in even greater mystery the circle must somewhere become complete and round back to a new birth. Could not the God who ordained the beginning be safely trusted with the end? Forgetting the gray mists of dawn in which the rainbow began, should we deny the inevitable night when the arc bends down at the other end of the world? Having seen so much of the perfect curve, could we not believe in the circle? And should we not remember that the rainbow itself was a signal and a promise that there should be no more sea? Even so was not this mortal life of ours, tempered as it is by sorrow and tears, a further promise that when the circle was completed there should be no more death? The deep voice went on, even more tenderly to speak of God, not of his power, but of his purpose, not of his justice, but his forgiveness, not of his vengeance, but of his love. A love so vast and far reaching that there is no place where it is not, it enfolds not only our little world, poised in infinite space, like a moat in a sunbeam, but all the shining, rolling worlds beyond, every star that rises within our sight and all the millions stars beyond, in misty distances so great as to be incomprehensible, are guided and surrounded by this same love. It is impossible to conceive of a place where it is not, even in the midst of pain, poverty, suffering, and death. God's love is there also. The minister pleaded with those who listened to him, to lean wholly upon this all-sustaining, all forgiving love, to believe that it sheltered both the living and the dead, and to trust simply as little child. In the stillness that followed, Eloise went to the piano. The worn rings answered softly as her fingers touched the keys in her full, low contralto, she sang, to an exquisite melody. When I am dead, my dearest, sing no sad songs for me, plant, though, no roses at my head, nor shady cypress tree, be the green grass above me, with showers and dewdrops wet, and if thou wilt remember, and if thou wilt forget, I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain, I shall not hear the nightingale, sing on, as if in pain, and dreaming through the twilight, that doth not rise nor set, haply I may remember, and haply may forget. The deep manly voice followed with a benediction, then the little group of neighbors and friends went out with hushed and reverent step into the golden autumn afternoon. Miriam came in, to all outward appearance, wholly unmoved. She stood by him for a moment, then turned away. Eloise closed the door, and Roger and Alan brought Barbara in. She bent down to her father, who lay so quietly with a smile of heavenly peace upon his lips. And her tears rained upon his face. Good-bye, dear daddy. She sobbed. It is Barbara. Who kisses you now? When Ambrose North went out of his door for the last time, on his way to rest beside his beloved Constance until God should summon them both, Roger stayed behind with Barbara. Dr. Conrad had said positively that she must not go, and, as always, she obeyed. The boy's heart was too full for words. He still kept her cold little hand in his. There isn't anything I can say or do, is there, Barbara dear? No, she sobbed. That is the pity of it. There is never anything to be said or done. I wish I could take it from you and bear it for you, he said simply, some way we seem to belong together, you and I. They sat in silence until the others came back. Eloise came straight to Barbara and put her strong young arms around the frail, bent little figure. Will you come with me, dear? She asked. We can get a carriage easily and I'd love to have you with me. Will you come? For a moment Barbara hesitated. No, she said. I must stay here. I've got to live right on here, and I might as well begin tonight. Alan took from his pocket several small round white tablets and gave them to Barbara. To just before going to bed, he said, and if you're the same brave girl that you've been ever since I've known you, you'll have your bearings again in a short time. Roger stayed to supper, but none of them made more than a pretense of eating. The odor of tuberoses still pervaded the house and brought inevitably the thought of death. Afterward Barbara sat by the open fire with one hand lying listlessly in Roger's warm, understanding clasp. In the kitchen Miriam vigorously washed the few dishes she had put away the fine china, the solid silver knife and fork, the remnant of table de masque, and the satsutma cup. Shall I read to you, Barbara? asked Roger. No, she answered wearily. I couldn't listen to night. The hours dragged on. Miriam sat in the dining room alone by the light of one candle remorsefully, after many years, face to face with herself. She wondered what Constance would do to her now when she went to bed and fearfully closed her eyes. She determined to cheat Constance by sitting up all night, and then realized that by doing so she would only postpone the inevitable reckoning. Miriam felt that a reckoning was due somewhere on earth or in heaven or in hell. Mysterious balances must be made before things were right and her endeavors to get what she had conceived to be her own just do had all failed. She wondered why Constance had wronged her, and she was entitled to pay Constance back in her own coin, but the opportunity had been taken out of her hands every time. Even at the last her subtle revenge had been transmitted into further glory for Constance. Why? The answer flashed upon her like words of fire. Vengeance is mine. I will repay. Then suddenly, from some unknown source, the need of confession came pitilessly upon her soul. Her lined face blanched in the candlelight, and her worn, nervous hands clutched fearfully at the arm of her chair. Confess, she repeated to herself scornfully as though an answer to some imperative summons. To whom? There was no answer, but in her heart Miriam knew. Only one of the blood was left and to that one, if possible, payment must be made. And if anything was due her, either from the dead or the living, it must come to her through Barbara. Miriam laughed shrilly and then bit her lips, thinking the others might hear. Roger heard and wondered, but said nothing. After he went home Barbara still sat by the fire in that Cirquise which comes when one is unable to sustain grief longer and it steps aside to wait a little before taking a fresh hold. She could wonder now about the letter, in her mother's writing, that she had picked up from the floor and which her father had found and very possibly read. She hesitated to ask Miriam anything concerning either her father or her mother. But while she sat there, Miriam came into the room, urged by goading impulses without number and one insupportable need. She stood near Barbara for several minutes without speaking, then she began, huskily, Barbara. The girl turned wearily. Yes. I've got something to say and I don't know but what, to-night, is as good a time as any. Neither of us are likely to sleep much. Barbara did not answer. I hated your mother, said Miriam passionately. I always hated her. I guessed that, answered Barbara with a sigh. Your father was in love with me when she came from school, with her doll face and pretty ways. She took him away from me. He never looked at me after he saw her. I had to stand by and see it, help her with her pretty clothes, and even be made of honor at the wedding. It was hard. But I did it. She loved him, in a way, but it wasn't much of a way. She liked the fine clothes and the trinkets he gave her, but after he went blind she could hardly tolerate him. Lots of times she would have been downright cruel to him if I hadn't made her do differently. The first time they came here for the summer she met Lawrence Austin, Roger's father, and it was love at first sight on both sides. They used to see each other every day either here or out somewhere. After you were born the first place she went was down to the shore to meet him. I know, for I followed. When your father asked where she was I lied to him, not only then, but many times. I wasn't screening her. I was shielding him. It went on for over a year. Then she took the lotinum. She left four notes, one to me, one to your father, one to you, and one to Lawrence Austin. I never delivered that, even though she haunted me almost every night for five years. After he died she still haunted me. But it was left often and different. When you sent me into your father's room after that letter he had in his pocket I took time to read it. She said there that she didn't trust me and that I had always loved your father. It was true enough, but I didn't know she knew it. After you took the letter out I put in the one to Lawrence Austin. I'd opened it and read it some little time back. I thought it was time he knew her as she was. And I never thought about no name being mentioned in it. When he tore off the bandages he read that letter and never knew that it wasn't meant for him. Then when you came in, in that old dress of your mother's, he thought it was her come back to him and never knew any different. There was a long pause. Well, said Barbara Whirly, it did not seem as if anything mattered. I just want you to know that I've hated your mother all my life ever since she came home from school. I've hated you because you look like her. I've hated your father because he talked so of her all the time and hated myself for loving him. I've hated everybody, but I've done my duty as far as I know. I've scrubbed and slaved and taken care of you and your father and done the best I could. When I put that letter into his pocket I intended for him to know that Constance was in love with another man. I'd have read it to him long ago if I'd had any idea he'd believed me. When he thought it was for him, I was just on the verge of telling him different when you came in and stopped me. You looked so much like your mother I thought Constance had taken to walking down here day times instead of back and forth in my room at night. I suppose, Miriam went on, in a strange tone, that I've killed him, that there's murder on my hands as well as hate in my heart. I suppose you'll want to make some different arrangements now. You won't want to go on living with me after I've killed your father. Aunt Miriam, said Barbara calmly, I've known for a long time, almost everything you've told me. But I didn't know how father got the letter. I thought he must have found it somewhere in the desk or in his own room or even in the attic. You didn't kill him any more than I did by coming into the room in Mother's Count. What he really died of was a great wonderful joy that suddenly broke a heart too weak to hold it. And even though I've wanted my father to see me all my life long, I'd rather have had it as it was. And he would too, I'm sure of that. He told me once the three things he most wanted to see in the world were Mother's letter, saying that she loved him, then Mother herself, and, last of all, me. And for a long time his dearest dream had been that I could walk and he could see. So when, in the space of five or ten minutes, all the dreams came true, his heart had failed. But, Miriam persisted, I meant to do him harm. Her burning eyes were keenly fixed upon Barbara's face. Sometimes, answered the girl gently, I think that right must come from trying to do wrong. To make up for the countless times wrong comes from trying to do right. Father could not have had greater joy even in heaven than you and I gave him at the last. Neither of us meaning to do it. The stern barrier that had reared itself between Miriam and her kind suddenly crumbled and fell. Warm tides of human sympathy and love came into her numb heart and eyesbound soul. The lines in her face relaxed, her hands ceased to tremble, and her burning eyes softened with the mists of tears. Her mouth quivered as she said words she had not even dreamed of saying for more than a quarter of a century. Will you? Can you forgive me? All that she needed from the dead and all they could have given her came generously from Barbara. She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around Miriam's neck. Oh, auntie, auntie! she cried. Indeed, I do, not only for myself, but for father and mother too. We don't forgive enough. We don't love enough. We're not kind enough and that's all that's wrong with the world. There isn't time enough for bitterness. The end comes too soon. Miriam went upstairs, strangely uplifted, strangely at peace. She was no longer alien than a part, but one with the world. She had a sense of universal kinship almost of brotherhood. That night she slept, for the first time in more than twenty years, without the fear of Constance. And Constance, who was more sinned against than sinning, and whose faithful old husband had that day laying down in joy and triumph to rest beside her in the churchyard, came no more.