PART TWO - CHAPTER VII

by Kathleen Norris

　　The kitchen in the old Cox house formed a sort of one-story annex behindthe building, and had windows on three sides, so that on a certainexquisite morning in March, four years later, sunlight flooded the twoeastern windows and fell in clear squares of brightness on the checkeredblue-and-white linoleum on the floor. There were thin muslin sashcurtains at these windows, and white shades had been drawn down to meetthem. Some trailing English ivy made a delicate tracery in dark greenbeside one window, and two or three potted begonias on the sill liftedtransparent trembling blooms to the sun. The rest of the large room wasin keeping with this cheerful bit of detail. There was a shining gasstove beside the shining coal range, and a picturesque bit of colour inthe blue kettles and copper casseroles that stood in a row on theshelves above the range. A pine cupboard had been painted white, andheld orderly rows of blue plates and cups; there were severalwhite-painted chairs, and two tables. One of these was pushed againstthe west wall, and was of pine wood white from scrubbing; the otherstood on a blue rag rug by the eastern windows, and was covered by afringed tablecloth in white and blue. Near the outer door, with a windowabove it, was a white-enamelled sink in a bright frame of hanging smallutensils.

　　The sunlight twinkled here and there on a polished surface, and flung atrembling bright reflection on the ceiling from the brass faucets of thesink. A clock on the wall struck seven.

　　As the last stroke sounded, Julia Studdiford quietly opened the halldoor and stepped into the kitchen. She softly closed the door behindher, and went to another door, at which she paused for a few secondswith her head bent as if listening. Evidently satisfied that no onestirred in the bedroom beyond the door, she set briskly if noiselesslyabout her preparations for breakfast.

　　These involved the tying on of a crisp checked apron, and variousnegotiations with a large enamelled coffee pot, an egg, and the darkgrounds that sent a heartening odour of coffee through the room. Breadwas sliced and trimmed for toast with delightful evenness and swiftness,a double boiler of oatmeal was lifted from the fireless cooker, and theice box made to furnish more eggs and a jar of damp, firm butter.

　　It was while making a little journey to the back porch for milk andcream that the housekeeper first wavered in her swift routine. Below theback steps lay a little city garden, so lovely in the strengtheningMarch sunlight that she must set her bottles down on the step, and rundown for a whiff of the fragrance of climbing roses, just beginning tobloom, of bridal-wreath and white lilac. Cobwebs, caught from bush towet bush, sparkled with jewels; a band of brown sparrows flew away froma dripping faucet, and a black cat, crouching on the crosspieces of thelow fence, rose, yawned, and vanished silently. The wall was almostentirely hidden by vines, principally rose vines, which flung long armsin the air. Presently a woman in the next yard parted these vines, tolook over and say pleasantly:

　　"Good-mornin', Mis' Studdiford! I's just looking over an' dee-spairin'of ever gettin' my backyard to look like yours! It does smell like onebig bo'quet mornin's like this!"

　　"Oh, well, there are so many of us to fuss with it," said the youngwoman addressed, cheerfully. "My aunt and my cousins are nearly as crazyabout flowers as I am, and the other day—that warm day, you know, whenwe had my mother out here—she was just as absorbed as the rest of us!"She put a friendly head over the wall. "But I don't see what you've gotto complain of, Mrs. Calhoun," said she, "especially as you're justbeginning! I see your geraniums all took hold!"

　　"Every one but the white Lady Washington," the woman said. "How is yourmother?" she added.

　　"Pretty comfortable, thank you!" said the other. "I imagine she may havehad a restless night, for both she and my aunt seem to be asleep, so I'mgetting breakfast for my cousins and uncle myself! And I'm not supposedto be out here at all!" she added, with a farewell laugh and nod, as sheturned back to the steps. "But I just couldn't resist the garden!"

　　She picked up the milk bottles and reentered the kitchen just as atrimly dressed young woman came into it from the hall. The newcomer wastall, and if not quite pretty was at least a fresh-looking,pleasant-faced girl. She wore a tailor-made skirt and white shirt waist,and a round hat covered with flowers, and laid her jacket over the backof a chair.

　　"Julie, where's Ma?" said she, in surprise. "Have you been doingeverything?"

　　"Not everything!" Julia smiled. "But Aunt May must have oversleptherself; there hasn't been a sound from their room this morning. Yoursuit looks lovely," she added admiringly.

　　"Oh, do you think so?" asked the younger woman eagerly. She interruptedher task of putting plates and cups on the table, to come close and turntoward Julia the back of her head for inspection. "Like it?" asked she.

　　Julia seriously inspected the rhinestone comb that glittered there.

　　"Why, I don't utterly dislike it," she said, in her pleasant voice.

　　"But you don't think it's in good taste, Julie?"

　　"Well no, not exactly. Not for the office, anyway."

　　"All right, then—that settles it!" the young woman assured her. "I'llrun upstairs after breakfast and change. We had a glorious time lastnight!" she went on, putting her head on one side to give the table acritical glance. "I'll tell you about it. This has boiled up, hasn'tit—it can be settled?"

　　"Yes, settle it." said Julia, buttering toast, "and tell me!"

　　But at this moment the hall door opened again, and a little girl of fourand a half appeared in the doorway. She was so lovely a vision, with hertrailing wrapper and white nightgown bunched up to be out of her way,curls tumbled about her face, and eyes big with reproach, that bothwomen laughed with pleasure at the sight of her.

　　"Mother," said she, with that lingering on the last consonant that marksthe hurt pride of a child, "why diddunt you wake me?"

　　"Because you were sleeping so nicely, Pussy!" Julia laughed, on herknees by this time, with both arms about the little figure. "Give me athousand kisses and say 'I love my mother!'"

　　"I love my mother!" said Anna, her eyes roving the room over hermother's shoulder. "I guess you don't know how hard you're squeezing me,Mother!" she added. "Can I come out here in my wrapper, and havebreakfast with Regina?"

　　"Yes, let her, Julia!" Regina urged. "Come on, darling! Bring your bowlup here to my end. Do sit down and eat something yourself, Julia."

　　"This is the way to enjoy breakfast; not twenty feet from the stove!"Julia said, pouring the cream into her coffee. "Was Geraldine stirringwhen you got up, Regina?"

　　"Not a stir!" Regina said cheerfully. "She and Morgan were talking lastnight until two—I looked at the clock when she came upstairs! What theyhave to talk about gets me!"

　　"Oh, my dear, engaged people could talk forever," Julia said leniently."They were househunting yesterday, there's always so much to talkabout!"

　　"It seems to me that the people who don't marry have the most fun,"Regina said. "Look at Muriel and Evvy, the money they make! Evvy goingEast for the firm every year, and Muriel getting her little twenty-fivea week. And then look at Rita, with four children to slave for—"

　　"Ah, well, Rita's husband doesn't work steadily, and she hateshousework—she admits it!" Julia protested swiftly. "Rita could do agood deal, if she would."

　　"Rita gives me a great big pain," said her younger sister absently.

　　"A boy named Willis had a sword, and he hit a little boy with it, andMrs. Calhoun said it was a wonder he wasn't killed!" contributed Annasuddenly, her eyes luminous from some thrilling recollection.

　　"Fancy!" Julia said. "Eat your oatmeal, Baby, and run upstairs and getsome clothes on!" she added briskly. "You'll catch cold!"

　　But there was no severity in the glance she turned upon her daughter.Indeed, it would have been a stern heart that little Anna Studdiford'sfirst friendly glance did not melt. She had been exquisite from herbabyhood, she was so lovely now, as she emerged from irresponsibleinfancy to thoughtful little girlhood, that Julia sometimes wondered howshe could preserve so much charm and beauty unspoiled. Anna had hermother's ash-gold hair, but where Julia's rose firm and winglike fromher forehead, and was held in place by its own smooth, thick braids, thelittle girl's fell in rich, shining waves, sprayed in fine mist acrossher eyes, glittered, a golden mop in the sunlight, and even in the shadethrew out an occasional gleam of gold. Anna's eyes were blue, withcurled thick lashes like her mother's, but in the firm little mouth andthe poise of her head, in the quick smile and quicker frown, Julia sawher father a hundred times a day. Her skin had the transparent porcelainbeauty of babyhood, there was a suggestion of violet shadow about hereyes, and on her cheeks there glowed the warm colour of a ripe apricot.Even the gingham aprons and sturdy little shoes which she customarilywore did not disguise Anna's beauty. Julia trusted more to the child'swise little head than to the faint hope that her own precautions couldward off flattery and adulation. The two had been constant companionsfor more than four years: Anna's little bed close to her mother's atnight, Anna's bright head never out of Julia's sight by day. If Annashowed any interest in what her mother was reading, Julia gave her agrave review of the story; if Julia went to market, Anna trotted besideher, deeply concerned as to cuts of meat and choices among vegetables;and when baking was afoot, Anna had a tiny moulding board on a chair,and cut cookies or scalloped tarts with the deep enjoyment of the borncook.

　　Once or twice the child had asked for her father, accepting quietlyenough the explanation that he was in Germany, and very busy.

　　"Aren't we going to see him some time, Mother?"

　　"Not while Grandma needs Mother so much, dear!" Julia would answereasily.

　　Easily, because the busy months with their pain and joy, their problemsand their successes, had seemed to seal away in a deep crypt hermemories of her husband. Julia had been afraid to think of him at first;she could not make herself think of him now; his image drifted vaguelyaway from her, as unreal as a dream. He was as much a name as if she hadnever seen him, never loved him, never suffered those exquisite agoniesof grief and shame with which the first year of their separation wasfull. Jim's child had taken his place; the purity and sweetness of thechild's love filled Julia's heart; she wanted only Anna, and Anna washer interpreter for all the relationships of life. Anna first made herdraw close to her own mother; Anna was at once her spur and her rewardduring the first hard years at Shotwell Street.

　　Anna had gone upstairs, and Regina was finishing her breakfast whenChester came downstairs, followed by the still sleepy yet shining-eyedGeraldine. Geraldine was to be married in a few weeks now, and had givenup her position in an office, to devote all her time to house-furnishingand sewing.

　　"I'm awfully sorry to be so late," smiled Geraldine, "but we talkeduntil I don't know when last night!" She poured herself a cup of coffee;the meal went cheerfully on. Presently the bedroom door opened, and astout, handsome, middle-aged woman came into the kitchen.

　　Julia was used, by now, to the transformation that had come to house andgarden, that had affected every member of her mother's family in thepast four years. But to the change in her aunt, Mrs. Torney, she neverbecame quite accustomed. It had been slow in coming; it had come all atonce. There had been weeks when Julia felt that nothing would eversilence the whining voice, or make useful the idle hands. There had beena wretched time when the young woman had warned the older that matterscould not continue as they were. There had been agitated decisions onMrs. Torney's part to go away, with Regina, to starve and struggleagain; there had been a scene when Regina coolly refused to leave thenew comforts of Julia's rule.

　　And then, suddenly, there was a new woman in the family, in Aunt May'splace. Julia always dated the change from a certain Thanksgiving Day,when Mrs. Torney, who was an excellent cook, had prepared a really finedinner. Julia and the girls put the dining-room in order, a wood fireroared in the air-tight stove, another in the sitting-room grate. Juliadressed prettily; she put a late rose in her mother's hair, draped theinvalid's prettiest shawl about the thin shoulders, arrayed the toddlingbaby in her daintiest finery. She coaxed her aunt to go upstairs to makeherself fresh and neat just before dinner, and during the whole eveningMrs. Torney's sons and daughters, Julia and Evelyn, Chester and Mrs.Page and little old Mrs. Cox united to praise the dinner and the cook.

　　It was as if poor Aunt May had come into her own, had been given at lastthe role to which she had always been suited. Handsome in her freshshirt waist and black skirt, with her gray hair coiled above a shiningface, she beamed over turkey dressing and cranberry sauce; she laugheduntil she cried, when Elmer, who had come from Oakland for the feast,solemnly prefaced a request for more mince pie with a reckless: "Comeon, Lloyd, let's die together; it's worth it!"

　　From that day hers was the happy part of the bustling housewife. No NewEngland matron ever took more pride in cup cakes or apple pies, nokitchen in the world gave forth more savoury odours of roast meats andnew-baked bread. Mrs. Torney's heavy tread on the kitchen floor wasusually the first thing Julia heard in the morning, and late at nightthe infatuated housekeeper would slip out to the warm, clean, fragrantplace for a last peep at rising dough or simmering soup. Aunt May readthe magazines now only to seek out new combinations of meats andvegetables. Julia would smile, to glance across the dining-room to heraunt's chair beneath the lamp, and see the big, kindly face pucker oversome startling discovery.

　　"Em!" Mrs. Torney would remove her glasses, she would address her sisterin shocked tones. "Here they've got a sour-cream salad dressing. Did youever hear of such a thing!"

　　"For heaven's sake!" Mrs. Page would look up from her absorbed watchingof Chester's solitaire, drop her emaciated little head back against thewaiting pillow.

　　"Try it some time, Aunt May, you could make anything taste good!" Juliamight suggest. But Mrs. Torney would shake a doubtful head and, with amuttered "Sour cream!" resume her glasses and her magazine.

　　Now she was tying a crisp apron over her blue cotton dress, and readywith a smiling explanation for Julia.

　　"I declare, Ju, I don't know what's got into my alarm. I never woke upat all until quarter to eight o'clock! Don't start those dishes, lovey,there's no hurry!"

　　"I was afraid that Mama'd had a bad night," Julia said, smiling agood-morning from the sink. "Sit. down, Aunt May, I'll bring you yourcoffee!"

　　"No, Emeline had a real good night. She was reading a while, aboutthree, but she's sound asleep now."

　　"I lighted a fire in the dining-room," said Chester, "just to take thechill off, if Em wants to go in there!"

　　"Then I'll bring my sewing down, after the beds are made," Geraldinesaid. "You go to market if you want to, Julie; I'll do your room."

　　"Well," Julia agreed, "perhaps I can get back before Mama wakes. I'll goup and see what Anna is doing."

　　Regina and Chester presently went off to their work, Mrs. Torney andGeraldine fell upon the breakfast dishes, and Julia went upstairs. Shefound the little Anna dreaming by a sunny window, one stocking on, oneleg still bare, and her little petticoat hanging unbuttoned.

　　"Come, Infant, this won't do!" Julia's practised hands made quick workof the small girl's dressing. A stiff blue gingham garment went on overAnna's head, the tumbled curls were subjugated by a blue ribbon. When itwas left to Anna merely to lace her shoes, Julia began to go about theroom, humming as she busied herself with bureau and bed. She presentlypaused at the mirror to pin on a wide hat, and her eye fell upon theoval-framed picture of Jim that she had carried away with her from thePacific Avenue house. It had been taken by some clever amateur; hadalways been a favourite with her. She studied it dispassionately for amoment.

　　Jim had been taken in tennis clothes; his racket was still in his hand,his thin shirt opened to show the splendid line of throat and chin. Histhick hair was rumpled, the sunlight struck across his smiling face.Julia's memory could supply the twinkle in his eye; she could hear himcall to Alan Gregory: "For the Lord's sake, cut this short, Greg! It'sroasting out here!"

　　Beside this picture hung another, smaller, and also a snapshot. This wasof a man, too, a tall, thin, ungainly man, sitting on a roadside rock,with a battered old hat in his hand. Behind him rose a sharp spur ofrough mountainside, and so sharply did the ground fall away at his feetthat far below him was a glimpse of the level surface of the Pacific.Julia smiled at this picture, and the picture smiled back.

　　"Come, Mouse!" said she, rousing herself from a reverie a moment later."Get on your hat! You and I have to go to market!"

　　The morning wore on; it was like a thousand other happy mornings. Juliaand Anna loitered in the cool odorous fish stalls at the market,welcomed asparagus back to its place in the pleasant cycle of the year'sevents, inspected glowing oranges and damp crisp heads of lettuce;stopped at the hardware store for Aunt May's new meat chopper, stoppedat the stationer's for Anna's St. Nicholas, stopped at the florist's tobreathe deep breaths of the damp fragrant air, and to get somebuttercups for Grandma.

　　Julia's mother was in the kitchen when she and Anna got home, her darkhair still damp from brushing, her thin wrists no whiter than her snowyruffles. Presently they all moved into the dining-room, whereGeraldine's sewing machine was temporarily established, and where Anna'sblocks had a corner to themselves. The invalid, between intervals ofknitting, watched them all with her luminous and sympathetic smile.

　　"A letter for you, Julie, and four for me," said the bride-elect, comingback from the door after the postman's ring.

　　"Four for you—Gerry! You lucky thing!"

　　"Well—two are from Morgan," admitted Geraldine, smiling, and there wasa laugh as Julia opened her own letter.

　　"It's from Dr. Richard Toland," she announced a moment later. "He saysMill Valley is too beautiful for words just now. How'd you like to goover and see Uncle Richie to-morrow, Anna?"

　　"I'd love it," said Anna unhesitatingly.

　　"We've not been for weeks," Julia said, "I'd love it, too, if my Marmerdoesn't mind?" She turned her bright smile to her mother. "Regina saysshe has an engagement with the O'Briens for Sunday," said she, "and ifGerry goes off with Morgan, will that leave things too quiet?"

　　"Indeed it won't!" said Mrs. Torney, looking up from the tissue-paperpattern over which she had hung in profound bewilderment for almost halfan hour. "Rita may bring some of the children in, or Lloyd and Elmer maycome over. Go along with you!"

　　Richie, much stronger in these days, and without his crutch, thoughstill limping a little, met Julia and the dancing Anna on the followingafternoon, and the three crossed the ferry together. It was a daybursting with summer's promise, the air was pure and warm, and the skycloudless. Getting out of the train at Mill Valley, Julia drew anecstatic breath.

　　"Oh, Richie, what heavenly freshness! Doesn't it just smooth yourforehead down like a cool hand!"

　　There was a poignant sweetness to the mountain air, washed clear by thelate rains, and warmed and invigorated by the sunshine of thelengthening March day. The country roads were dark and muddy and churnedby wheel tracks, but fringed with emerald grass. Even at four o'clockthe little valley was plunged in early shadow, but sunshine lay stillupon the hills that framed it, and long lines of light threw the grimheights of Tamalpais into bold relief. The watching tiers of theredwoods looked refreshed, their spreading dark fans were tipped withthe jade-green sprays of the year's new growth. The first pale smoke ofwild lilac bloom lay over the hills.

　　"It makes you think of delicious words," said Julia, as Richie's rustywhite mare plodded up and up the mountain road. "Ozone—andaromatic—and exhilarating! In town it was a little oppressiveto-day—Anna and I were quite wilted!"

　　"You don't look wilted!" Richie smiled at his goddaughter, who was inher mother's arms. "Look, Ju—there's columbine! Loads of it up near myplace!" "And the wild currant, with that delicious pungent smell!"sighed Julia blissfully. "What's new with you, Richie?" she askedpresently.

　　"Oh, nothing much! Cable from Bab yesterday, but you must have had one,too?"

　　"Yes, I did. A third boy!" Julia laughed. "Poor Bab—when she wanted agirl so badly!"

　　"I suppose she did," grinned Richard.

　　"Oh, of course she did! Who wouldn't?" Julia hugged her own girl. "Andisn't it glorious about Keith?" she added, with sudden enthusiasm.

　　"Is it? I suppose it is," Richie said. "But then those old guys inGermany called him a genius long before New York did, and you girlsdidn't make so much fuss!"

　　"Oh, but Richie, there's so much money in this American tour; threeconcerts in New York alone, think of it!" Julia protested eagerly. "AndSally's letter sounded so gay; they were having a perfectly glorioustime. I hope they come to San Francisco!"

　　"Well, she deserves it," Richie observed, flicking the rusty mare with awhip she superbly ignored. "Sally's had a pretty rotten time of it forseven or eight years—paying his lesson bills when she didn't haveenough to eat or shoes to wear—and losing the baby——"

　　"I don't believe all that meant as much to Sally as you think," Juliasaid sagely. "Her entire heart was set upon Keith's success, and thathas come along pretty steadily. Her letter to me about the baby wasn'tthe sort I should have written; indeed, I couldn't have written at all!And then that was four years ago, Richie, and four years is a longtime!"

　　"It is!" Richie agreed. "Keith's about all the baby she'll ever want;those fellows take an awful lot of spoiling. But I get more pleasurefrom Mother's and Dad's pleasure than for Sally herself," he added."Mother saves up newspaper accounts, and has this translated from theGerman and that from the French—it's sort of pathetic to see! Dad andJaney are in New York now; something was said last night about theirgoing over to see Bab."

　　"Ted and your mother are alone, then? How's Ted?"

　　"Oh, driving Mother crazy, as usual. She'd flirt with the Portuguesemilkman if she had a chance. She can't seem to understand that becauseshe wants to be free she isn't free! Talks about 'if I marry again,' andso on. Of course Carleton's marrying again has made her wild."

　　"But, good heavens, Richie, Ted ought to have some sense!"

　　"Well, she hasn't. She stretched a point to marry him, d'you see?Carleton had been baptized as a child, and his first wife hadn't, andthey were married by a Justice of the Peace, or something of that sort.So Ted claimed that in the eyes of the Church he hadn't been married atall, and she married him. Then——"

　　"But if she loved him, Richie—and Ted was so young!"

　　"All true, of course, only if you're going to push things to the pointof taking advantage of a quibble like that, your chance of happiness ismore or less slim! So three years ago Carleton proved that he hadn'tcared a whoop about the legal or religious aspects of the case, and leftTed. And now Ted can't see herself, at twenty-seven, tied to anotherwoman's husband!"

　　"She has her boy," Julia said severely.

　　"Yep, but that doesn't seem to count."

　　"Well, it's funny, Richie, take us all in all, what a mess we've made ofmarrying!" Julia mused. "Ned gives me the impression, every time I seehim, of being a sulky martyr in his own home; Sally's managed to draghappiness out of a most hopeless situation; Ted, of course, will neverbe happy again, like Jim and me; and Connie, although she made anexemplary marriage, either has to leave her husband or bring her baby upin Manila, which she says positively isn't safe! Bab is the only shiningsuccess among us all!"

　　"Oh, I don't know," Richie said, stopping the horse, and flinging thereins to the Portuguese who came out of a small barn to meet them. "Herewe are, Ju—take your time! I've always considered you rathersuccessful," he resumed.

　　"Oh, me!" Julia laughed as she jumped down like a girl. She followedAnna across a little hollow filled with buttercups and long grasses, andthey mounted the little rise to Richie's tiny cabin. The little househad Mount Tamalpais for a background, and its wide unroofed porch facedacross the valley, and commanded a view of the wooded ridges, and themarshes, and the distant bay, and of San Francisco twelve miles away.Scrub oaks and bay trees grew in a tangle all about it, even a few youngredwoods and an occasional bronze and white madrona tree. Wild roses andfield flowers crowded against its very walls, and under the trees therewere iris and brown lilies, and a dense undergrowth of manzanita andhazelnut bushes, wild currant and wild lilac trees.

　　The big room that Julia entered first was dim with pleasant twilight,and full of the sweet odours of a dying wood fire. It had nothing ofdistinction in it: a few shabby chairs, an old square piano, anunpainted floor crossed here and there by rugs, books in cases and outof them, candlesticks along the brick mantel, a green-shaded student'slamp on a long table, and several wide windows, dim and opaque now inthe fast-gathering darkness, but usually framing each a picture ofmatchless mountain scenery.

　　A door at one side of the fireplace led into a tiny kitchen whosewindows looked out into oak branches; and another door, on the otherside, gave access to a little cement-floored bathroom with a shower, andtwo small bedrooms, each with two beds built in tiers like bunks. Thiswas Richie's whole domain, and whether it was really saturated with thecare-free atmosphere of childhood, and fragrant with the good breath ofthe countryside all about it, or whether Julia only imagined it to beso, she found it perfect, and was never so happy in these days as whenshe and Anna were there. She was always busy, and satisfied in her work,but there were needs of heart and mind that her own people could notmeet, and when these rose strong within her she found no company asbracing and as welcome as Richard's.

　　"No Aunt Sanna?" said she cheerfully, when she had taken off her hat andthe small girl's, and was in her favourite chair by the fire.

　　"No, darn it!" said Richie, struggling with a refractory lamp wick.

　　"Oh, don't be so blue, Rich! She'll be here on the seven."

　　"No, she won't—she said the four—I expected to find her here," Richiesaid, settling the glass chimney into place, as the light crept roundthe wick. A little odour of hot kerosene floated on the air, and waslost in other odours from the kitchen, where a Chinese boy was paddingabout in the poor light of one lamp. He began to come and go, settingthe table, the ecstatic Anna at his heels. Whenever the outer door wasopened, a cool rush of sweet country air came in. Richie began to stampback and forth with great logs for the fireplace.

　　"Wonderful what millions of miles away from every one we seem, Rich!"Julia said contentedly. "Was there ever anything like the quiet of thismountain?"

　　"I'm terribly sorry about Aunt Sanna," Richie said. "I feel like anass—getting you way up here!"

　　"Why, my dear boy, it's not your fault!" Julia said, round eyed.

　　"She said she would positively be here," Richie pursued. "I supposethere's no earthly reason—" he added uncomfortably.

　　"Why you and I shouldn't stay here alone? I should hope not!" Juliareassured him roundly. "And she may come on the seven, anyway!"

　　"These are the times I wish I had a telephone," said Richie.

　　"Aw leddy," contributed the Chinese boy. They took their places at thetable, and dinner was eaten by the light of the lamp. But after dinner,when Julia had tucked Anna into bed, she came back and put out the lamp.She lighted two candles on the mantelpiece that sent a brave flickerover the dull walls and up to the ceiling.

　　"There!" said she, with an energetic stirring of the fire, as she tookher chair again, "that's the way I like this room to look!"

　　Richard disposed of his awkward length in an opposite chair, his bigbony hands interlocked. In the fire and candlelight Julia looked veryyoung, her loosened hair glimmering against the back of her chair, herthin white skirts spreading in a soft circle above her slipper buckles.The man noticed the serene rise and fall of her breast under her thinblouse, the content in her half-shut blue eyes. He let his thoughtsplay for a moment with the perilous dream that she belonged here at hishearth, that her sweetness, her demure happiness, her earnest interestin everything that concerned him, were all his by right.

　　"I don't quite know what to do about this!" he said gruffly.

　　"What—our being here?" Julia looked surprised. "Why, Richie, what canwe do? Do you think it matters, one night? After all, we're brother andsister-in-law!"

　　"Almost," said Richie, with a laugh.

　　"Why, Rich, I would never give it one moment's thought; not if I stayedhere a month!" Julia assured him. "And neither would any one else. Don'tbe so silly!"

　　"It's not me; but it isn't fair to you!" Richard said.

　　Julia had grown a little red. Now she stared into the fire.

　　"This sort of fuss isn't like you, Rich," she said presently, with anuncomfortable laugh. "You—you don't usually talk about such things!"

　　"No, I know I don't," Richard admitted, untouched by her reproach. "Icould go up to Porter's and try to get Aunt Sanna by telephone!" hemuttered.

　　Julia was displeased, and made no answer, and presently he got up andwent out. She sat there listening to the rattle of dishes in thekitchen, until a splash announced the dishpan emptied under the oaktrees, and the Chinese through with his work for the night. After awhile she went to the doorway, and stared out at the starry sky and thedark on darkness that marked masses of trees and long spurs of themountain. The air was sweet and chilly, frogs were peeping, fromsomewhere near came the steady rush of a swollen creek.

　　While Julia stood on the porch a livery hack from the village creakedup, and stopped ten feet away. The horses were blowing on the steepgrade, and a strong odour from the animals and their sweated harnesssmote the pure night air. The carriage lanterns sent a waveringbrightness across the muddy road, the grass looked artificial in theyellow light. Miss Toland, vociferating apology and explanation, emergedfrom the carriage.

　　When Richard came back from his fruitless errand he found both womenenjoying the fire, Miss Toland's skirt folded over her knees, her veilpushed up on her forehead. In his enormous relief, Richie felt that hecould have danced and sung. He busied himself brewing a hot drink forthe older woman.

　　"Richie," said Julia, with a pleasant childish note of triumphantreproach in her voice, "was worried to death because I was here alonewith Anna! Don't you think he's crazy, Aunt Sanna?"

　　"Why, you two have been here alone?" Miss Toland asked, stirring herchocolate.

　　"No, we haven't!" Julia answered cheerfully. "I never thought of itbefore; but this dear old maid either has you here, or Janey, or DoctorBrice's Mary from the village—isn't he queer?"

　　"It isn't as if you weren't practically brother and sister, Richie,"Miss Toland said moderately. "Not too much butter, dear!" sheinterpolated, in reference to the toast her nephew was making, adding amoment later, "Still, I don't know—a pretty woman in your positioncan't be too careful, Julia!"

　　"Oh, Lord, you're an appreciative pair!" Richard said disgustedly, goingout to the kitchen for more bread.

　　Presently Miss Toland complained of fatigue, and left them to the fire.And sitting there, almost silent, Julia thought that she had never foundher host so charming before. His rambling discourse amused her, touchedher; she loved his occasional shy introduction of a line of poetry, hiseager snatching of a book now and then to illuminate some point withhalf a page of prose.

　　"Pleasant, isn't this, Rich?" she asked lazily, in a quiet interval.

　　"Oh, pleasant!" He cleared his throat. "Yes—it's very pleasant!"

　　"And why couldn't you and I have done this just as well without AuntSanna?" Julia asked triumphantly.

　　Richard gave her a look full of all-dignified endurance, a look thatwondered a little that she could like to give him pain.

　　"No reason at all," said he. And a sudden suspicion flamed in Julia'sheart with all the surety of an inspiration.

　　The revelation came in absolute completeness; she had never evensuspected Richie's little tragedy before. For a few moments Julia satstunned, then she said seriously:

　　"I always feel myself so much Jim's wife, Rich; I suppose it's a sort ofprotection to me. It never occurs to me that any one could think me lessbound than I think myself."

　　"Sure you do!" Richard said, struggling with the back log. "But otherpeople might not! And it would be rotten to have him come back and hearanything."

　　"I suppose he'll come back," Julia said, dreamily, almost in a whisper."I don't think of it much, now! I used to think of it a good deal atfirst; I used to cry all night long sometimes, and write him longletters that I never sent. It seemed as if the longing for him wasburning me up, like a fire!"

　　"Damn him!" Richard muttered.

　　"Oh, no, Richie, don't say that!" Julia protested. Richard, still on oneknee, with the poker in his hand, turned to her almost roughly.

　　"For God's sake, Julie, don't defend him! I'll hold my tongue about him,I suppose, as I always have done, but don't pretend he has any excusefor treating you this way! You—the best and sweetest and bravest womanthat ever lived, bringing happiness and decency wherever you go—"

　　"Richie, Richie, stop!" Julia protested, between laughter and tears."Don't talk so! I will defend Jim," she added gravely, "and he did havean excuse. It seems unfair to me that he should have all the blame." Sheheld her hand out, fingers spread to the reviving flame, rosy andtransparent in the glow.

　　"Rich, no one knows this but Jim and me; not Aunt Sanna, not my ownmother," she presently resumed. "But it makes what he did a littleclearer, and I'm going to tell you."

　　"Don't tell me anything," said Richard gruffly, eyes on the fire.

　　"Yes, I want to," Julia answered. But she was silent for a while, a lookof infinite sadness on her musing face. "I made a serious mistake when Iwas a girl, Rich," she went on, after an interval. "I had no reason forit—not great love, or great need. I had no excuse. Or, yes, I did havethis excuse: I had been spoiled; I had been told that I was unusual,independent, responsible to nobody. I knew that this thing existed allabout me, and if I thought of it at all, I suppose I thought that therecould be nothing so very dreadful about what men did as a matter ofcourse! Perhaps that's the best explanation; my mind was like a youngboy's. I didn't particularly seek out this thing, or want this thing;but I was curious, and it came my way—

　　"Don't misunderstand me, Richie. I wasn't 'betrayed.' I'd had, Isuppose, as little good instruction, as little example, and watching andguarding as any girl in the world. But I knew better! Just as every boyknows better, and is taken, sooner or later, unawares. Of course, if I'dbeen a boy—all this would be only a memory now, hardly shameful orregrettable even, dim and far away! Especially as it lasted only a fewweeks, before I was sixteen!

　　"And, of course, people would say that I haven't paid the full penalty,being a girl instead of a boy! Look at poor Tess, and Trilby, and Hettyin 'Adam Bede!' I never let any one know it; even your aunt never wouldhave overlooked that, whatever she might say now. No; even Jim protectedme—and yet," Julia put her head back, shut her eyes, "and yet I've paida thousand times!" said she.

　　There was a long silence, and then Richard said:

　　"I've thought sometimes this might be it, Ju. Being alone so much, andreading and thinking—I've worked it out in my own mind. Aunt Sanna sawJim in Berlin two years ago, you know, and gave him a horrible rakingover the coals, and just from what she quoted, it seemed as if there wassome secret about it, and that it lay with you. Then, of course," Richieeased his lame leg by stretching it at full length before him, sinkingdown in his chair, finger tips meeting, "of course I knew Jim," heresumed. "Jim's pride is his weak point. He's like a boy in that: hewants everything or nothing. He's like all my mother's children," saidRichie, comfortably analytical, "undisciplined. Chill penury neverrepressed our noble rages; we never knew the sweet uses of adversity. Idid, of course, but here I am, a childless getting on in years, not aptto leave a deep impression on the coming generation. It's a funny world,Julie! It's a strange sort of civilization to pose under the name ofChrist. Christ had no double standard of morals; Christ forgave. Law isall very well, society has its uses, I have no doubt, but there arehigher standards than either!" "Well, that has come to me forciblyduring the past few years," Julia said thoughtfully. "I wasn't a prayingsmall girl; how could I be? But after I went to The Alexander, beingphysically clean and respectable made me long to be clean all over, Isuppose, and I began to go to church, and after a while I went toconfession, Rich, and I felt made over, as if all the stain of it hadslipped away! And then Jim came, and I told him all about it—"

　　"Before you were married?"

　　"Oh, Richie, of course!"

　　"Well, then, what—if he knew—"

　　"Oh, Richie, that's the terrible part. For I thought it was all dead andgone, and it was all dead and gone as far as I was concerned! But wecouldn't forget it—it suddenly seemed a live issue all over again; itjust rose and stood between us, and I felt so helpless, and poor Jim, Ithink he was helpless, too!"

　　Richard made no comment, and there was a silence.

　　"You know Jim wasn't a—wasn't exactly a saint, Ju," Richard saidawkwardly after a while.

　　"I know," she answered with a quick nod.

　　"I believe he was an exceptionally decent fellow, as fellows go,"pursued Richie. "But, of course, it is the accepted thing. On Jim'sfirst vacation, after he entered college, he told me he didn't care muchfor that sort of thing—we had a long talk about it. But a year or twolater there was a young woman—he used to call her 'the little girl'—Idon't know exactly—Anyway, Dad went East, there was some sort of afuss, and I know Jim treated her awfully well—there never was anyquestion of that—she never felt anything but gratitude to him, whatevergrievances she had about any one else—"

　　His voice dropped.

　　"But it's not the same thing," Julia said with a sigh.

　　"No, I suppose not," Richard agreed.

　　"Life has been too violent and too swift with me," Julia resumed, aftera while. "If I had the past fifteen years to live over again, I wouldlive them very differently. I made an idol of Jim; he could do no wrong.He wanted more bracing treatment than that; he should have been boldlyfaced down. If I had been wiser, I would have treated all my marriagedifferently. If I had been very wise, I should not have married at all,should have kept my own secret. Perhaps, marrying, I should not havetold him the truth; I don't know. Anyway, I have mixed things uphopelessly, given other people and myself an enormous amount of pain,and wrecked my life and Jim's. And now, when I am thirty, I feel as if Icould begin to see light, begin to live—as if now, when nothing onearth seems really important, I knew how to meet life!"

　　"Well, that's been my attitude for some years," Richie said, shiftinghis lame leg again. "Of course I started in handicapped, which is agreat advantage—"

　　"Advantage? Oh, Richie!" Julia protested.

　　"Yes, it is, from one point of view," he insisted whimsically. "'Wholoses his life,' you know. Most boys and girls start off into life likekites in a high wind without tails. There's a glorious dipping andplunging and sailing for a little while, and then down they come in atangle of string and paper and broken wood. I had a tail to start with,some humiliating deficiency to keep me balanced. No football and tennisfor me, no flirting and dancing and private theatricals. When Bab andNed were in one whirl of good times, I was working out chess problems tomake myself forget my hip, and reading Carlyle and Thoreau and Emerson.Nobody is born content, Ju, and nobody has it thrust upon him; just afew achieve it. I worked over the secret of happiness as if it was themultiplication table. Happiness is the best thing in the world. It'sonly a habit, and I've got it."

　　"Is happiness the best thing in the world, Rich?" Julia asked wistfully.

　　"I think it is; real happiness, which doesn't necessarily mean a box atthe Metropolitan and a touring car," Richie said, smiling. "It seems tome, to have a little house up here on the mountain, and to have peoplehere like me, and let me take care of them—"

　　"For nothing?" interposed Julia.

　　"Don't you believe it! I didn't write a cheque last month! Anyway, itsuits me. I have books, and letters, and a fire, and now and then afriend or two—and now and then Julia and Anna to amuse me!"

　　"I'm happy, too," Julia said thoughtfully. "I realized it some timeago—oh, a year ago! I feel just as you might feel, Rich, if you hadleft some critical operation unfinished, or done in a wrong way, andthen gone back to do it over. I feel as if, in going back to firstprinciples, and doing what I could for my own people, I had 'trued' apart of my life, if you can understand that! I had gone climbing andblundering on, and reached a point where I couldn't help myself, butthey were just where they started, and I could help them!"

　　"It was probably the best thing you could have done for yourself, at thesame time," Richard interpolated, with a swift glance.

　　"Oh, absolutely!" Julia laughed a little sadly. "I was like an animalthat goes out and eats a weed: I had a wild instinct that if I rushedinto my grandmother's house, and bullied everybody there, and simplyshrieked and stamped on the dirt and laziness and complaining, on thewhole wretched system that I grew up under, in short, that it would be aheavenly relief! My dear Richie," and Julia laughed again, and morenaturally, "I wonder they didn't tar and feather me, and throw me out ofthe house! I scoured and burned and scolded and bossed them all like amadwoman. I told them that we had enough money to keep the housedecently, and always had had, but, my dear! I never dreamed the wholecrowd would fall in line so soon!"

　　"But, my Lord, Julie, what else could they do? You were paying all theexpenses, I suppose?"

　　"No, indeed I wasn't! Chester has a pretty fair salary now, and myaunt's boys are awfully good about helping out. And then Muriel has aposition, and Evelyn is in a fair way to be a rich woman. Besides, themere question of where money is coming from never worried my people!They managed as well with almost nothing at all, as with a reallyadequate amount—which is to say that they don't know in the least whatthe word manage means! Jim left me an immense sum, Rich, but I've nevertouched anything but the interest. When we shingled or carpeted orgardened out there, we paid for it by degrees, and it cost, I mustadmit, only about one third of what it would have been on the other sideof town. I look back now at those first months, more than four yearsago," went on Julia, smiling as she leaned forward in her low chair, herhands locked about her knees, her thoughtful eyes on the flickeringlogs, "and I wonder we didn't all rise up in the night and kill eachother. I was like a person with a death wound, struggling madly throughthe little time left me, absolutely indifferent to what any one thought.I simply wanted to die fighting, to register one furious protest againstall the things I'd hated, and suffered, too! I remember reporterscoming, at first, wild with curiosity to know what took DoctorStuddiford abroad, and why Mrs. Studdiford was living in a labourer'shouse in the Mission. What impression they got I haven't the faintestidea. Once or twice women called, just curious of course, Mrs. Hunterand Miss Saunders—but that soon stopped. I was better hidden onShotwell Street than I would have been in the heart of India! MissSaunders came in, and met Mama and Grandma; we were having the kitchencalcimined, the place was pretty well upset, I remember. Dear me, howlittle what they thought or did or said seemed to count, when my wholelife was one blazing, agonizing cry for Jim!"

　　"That got better?" Richard asked huskily, after a pause.

　　"Rich, I think the past two, well, three years, have been the happiestin my life," Julia said soberly. "My feet have been on solid ground. Inot only seem to understand my life better as it is, but all the pastseems clearer, too. I thought Jim was like myself, Richie, but hewasn't; his whole viewpoint was different; perhaps that's why we lovedeach other so!"

　　"And suppose he comes back?" Richard asked.

　　Julia frowned thoughtfully.

　　"Oh, Richie, how do I know! It's all so mixed up. Everybody, even AuntSanna, thinks that he will! Everybody thinks I am a patient,much-enduring wife, waiting for the end of an inexplicable situation.Aunt Sanna thinks it's temporary aberration. Your father thinks there'sanother woman in it. Your mother confided to Aunt Sanna that it is heropinion that Bab refused Jim, and Jim married from pique."

　　"That sounds like Mother!" Richie said with a dry laugh.

　　"Doesn't it?" Julia smiled. "But the truth is," she added, "Jim has nopreconcerted plan. He's made a very close man friend or two in Germany,belongs to a doctors' club. I know him so well! He lets the days, andthe weeks, and the years go by, forgetting me and everything thatconcerns me as much as he can, and getting into a slow, dull ragewhenever he remembers that fate hit him, of all men in the world, such ablow!"

　　"And the baby?" said Richie. "Don't you suppose she counts? Oh, Lord, tohave a kid of one's own," he added slowly, with the half-smiling sighJulia knew so well.

　　"I imagine she would count if he had seen her lately," Julia suggested."But she was such a tiny scrap! And Jim, as men go, isn't a lover ofchildren."

　　"You wouldn't divorce him, Julie?" Richard asked, after a silence.

　　"Oh, never!" she answered quickly. "No, I won't do that." She smiled."Yet, Rich," she added presently, "it's a strange thing to me thatreally my one dread is that he will come back. I think he means nothingto me, yet, if I saw him—I don't know! Sometimes I worry for fear thathe might want Anna, and of course I wouldn't give her up if it meant adozen divorces."

　　Richard sat staring into the fire for a few moments; then he rousedhimself to ask smilingly:

　　"How'd we get started on this little heart to heart, anyway?"

　　"Well, I don't know," Julia said, smiling, too. "I couldn't talk of itfor a long while. I can't now, to any one but you. But it all means lessto me than it did. Jim never could hurt me now as he did then." Shestraightened up in her chair. "It's been a wonderful talk!" she said,with shining eyes. "And you're a friend in a million, Richie, dear! Andnow," very practically, "where are you going to sleep, my dear? AuntSanna has your room."

　　"This couch out here is made up!" Richard said, with a backward jerk ofhis head toward the room behind him.

　　"Ah, then you're all right!" Julia rose, and stopped behind his chairfor a moment, to lay a light kiss on his hair. "Good-night, LittleBrother!" she said affectionately.

　　Instantly one of the bony hands shot out, and Julia felt her wristcaught as in a vise. Richard swiftly twisted about and got on his ownfeet, and for a minute their eyes glittered not many inches apart. Juliatried to laugh, but she was breathing fast.

　　"Richard!" she said in a sharp whisper. "What is it?"

　　"Julia!" he choked, breathing hard.

　　For a long moment they remained motionless, staring at each other. ThenRichard's grip on her wrists relaxed, and he sank into his deep chair,dropped his elbows on his knees, and put his hands over his face. Juliastood watching him for a second.

　　"Good-night, Richie!" she said then, almost inaudibly.

　　"Good-night!" he whispered through his shut fingers. Julia slippedsoftly away, closing the door of her bedroom noiselessly behind her.

　　Anna was asleep in the upper bed, lying flat on her back, with herlovely hair falling loosely about her flushed little face. The littlecabin bedroom was as sweet as the surrounding woodland, wide-openwindows admitted the fragrant coolness of the spring night. There was nomoon, but the sky that arched high above the little valley was thicklyspattered with stars. Richie's cat, a shadow among paler shadows, leapedswiftly over the new grass. Julia got the milky odour of buttercups, thebreath of the little Persian lilac that flanked one end of the porch.

　　Her heart was beating thickly and excitedly, she did not want to thinkwhy. Through her brain swept a confusion of thoughts, thoughtsdisconnected and chaotic. She tried to remember just what words on herpart—on Richard's—had led to that strange mad moment of revelation,but the memory of the moment itself overleaped all those preceding it.Julia knelt, her elbows on the window sill, and felt merely that shenever wanted to move again. She wanted just to kneel here, hugging toher heart the thrilling emotion of the moment, realizing afresh thatlife was not dead in her; youth and love were not dead in her; she couldstill tremble and laugh and cry in the exquisite joy of being beloved.

　　And it was Richie, so weak in body, so powerful in spirit; so humble inlittle things, so bold and sure in the things that are great; not richin money, but rich in wisdom and goodness; Richie, who knew all herpitiful history now, and had long suspected it, who loved her! Juliaknew even now that it was an ill-fated love; she knew that deep underthis first strangely thrilling current of pride and joy ran the coldwaters of renunciation. But cool reason had little to do with this mood;she was as mad as any girl whose senses are suddenly, blindly, set freeby a lover's first kiss.

　　After a while she began mechanically to undress, brushed her hair, movedabout softly in the uncertain candlelight. And as she did so she becamemore and more unable to resist the temptation to say "Good-night" toRichie again. Neither brain nor heart was deeply involved in thisdesire, but some influence, stronger than either, urged her irresistiblytoward its fulfilment.

　　She would not do it, of course! Not that there was harm in it; whatpossible harm could there be in her putting her head into thesitting-room and simply saying "Good-night?" Still, she would not do it.

　　A glance at herself in the dimly lighted mirror set her pulses toleaping again. Surely candlelight had never fallen on a more exquisiteface, framed in so shining and soft an aureole of bright hair. The longloose braid fell over her shoulder, a fine ruffle of thin linen lay atthe round firm base of her throat. She was still young—stillbeautiful—

　　Anna stirred, sighed in her sleep. And instantly Julia had extinguishedthe candle, and was bending tenderly over the child.

　　"It's only Mother, Sweet! Are you warm enough, dear? You feelbeautifully warm! Let Mother turn you over—so!"

　　"Is it morning, Mother?" murmured Anna.

　　"No, my heart! Mother's just going to bed." And ten minutes later Juliawas asleep, her face as serene as the child's own.

　　The morning brought her only a shamed memory of the night before and itsmoods, and as Richie was quite his natural self, Julia determined todismiss the matter as a passing moment of misinterpreted sentiment onboth their parts. To-day was a Sunday, so perfect that they hadbreakfast on the porch, and in the afternoon took a long climb on themountainside, across patches of blossoming manzanita, and throughmeadows sweet with the liquid note of rising larks. They came back inthe twilight: Anna limp and drowsy on Richard's shoulders, Miss Tolandadmitting to fatigue, but all three ready to agree with Julia's estimatethat it had been a wonderful Sunday.

　　But night brought to two of them that new and strange self-consciousnessthat each had been secretly dreading all day. Julia fought it as shemight have fought the oncoming of a physical ill, yet inexorably itarrived. Supper was an ordeal, she found speech difficult, she couldhardly raise her eyes.

　　"Julie, you're as rosy as a little gipsy," said Miss Toland approvingly."Doesn't colour become her, Rich?"

　　"She looks fine," Richard muttered, almost inarticulately. Julia lookedup only long enough to give Miss Toland a pained and fluttering smile.She was glad of an excuse to disappear with Anna, when the little girl'sbedtime arrived, and lingered so long in the bedroom that Miss Tolandcame and rapped on the door.

　　"Julia! What are you doing?" called the older woman impatiently. Juliacame to the door.

　　"Why, I'm so tired, Aunt Sanna," she began smilingly.

　　"Tired, nonsense!" Miss Toland said roundly. "Come sit on the porch withRichie and me. It's like summer out of doors, and there'll be a moon!"

　　So Julia went to take her place on the porch steps, with a great curvedbranch of the white rose arching over her head, and the fragrant stretchof the grassy hilltop sloping away, at her feet, to the valley farbelow. Miss Toland dozed, and the younger people talked a little, andwere silent for long spaces between the little casual sentences thatto-night seemed so full of meaning.

　　The next day Julia went home, to Miss Toland's disgust and to littleAnna's sorrow. Richie drove Julia and the little girl to the train;there was no explanation needed between them; at parting they lookedstraight into each other's eyes.

　　"Ask us to come again some day," Julia said. "Not too soon, but as soonas you can. And don't let us ever feel that we've done anything thatwill hurt or distress you, Richie."

　　"You and Anna are both angels," Richard answered. "Only tell me that youforgive me, Julie; that things after this will be just as they werebefore?"

　　Julia smiled, and bit a thoughtful under lip.

　　"This is March," she said. "We'll come and see you, let me see—in July,and everything shall be just as it was before! Perhaps I am reallygetting old," she said to herself, half laughing and half sad, when shewas in her own kitchen an hour or two later. "But, while home is notexciting, somehow I'd rather be here than philandering on the mountainin the moonlight with Richie!"

　　"What you smiling about, Julie?" her mother asked, from the peacefuleast side of the kitchen where her chair frequently stood while Juliaand Mrs. Torney were busy in that cheerful apartment.

　　"Just thinking it was nice to be home again, Mama!"

　　"I don't hold much with visiting, myself," said Mrs. Torney, who wasbecoming something of a philosopher as she went into old age. "But youcan't get that through a young one's skull!" she added, trimming thedangling pastry from a pie with masterly strokes of her knife. "Eitheryou have such a good time that your own home is spoiled for you, fordear knows how long, or else you set around wondering why on earth youever come. And then you've got to have the folks back to visit you, andwear yourself all out talking like all possessed while you cook for 'emand make their beds. I don't never feel clean when I've washed my faceaway from home anyway, and I like my own bed under me. You couldn't getme to visit anywheres now, if it was the Queen of Spain ast me!"

　　Julia laughed out merrily, and agreed with her aunt, glad to have leftthe episode with Richie behind her. But it haunted her for many days,nevertheless, rising like a disturbing mist between her and her calmself-confidence, and shaking her contented conviction that therenunciations necessary to her peace of mind had all been made. Shefound fresh reason to gird herself in circumspection and silence, andbrooded, a little in discouragement, upon the incessantly recurringproblems of her life.

　　She went to visit the cabin on Tamalpais earlier even than she hadpromised, however, for in June Barbara came home for a visit, bringingtwo splendid little boys, with whom Anna fell instantly in love, and atiny baby in the care of a nurse. Julia spent a good deal of her time inSausalito during the visit, and more than once she and Barbara took thefour children to Mill Valley, and spent a few days with Richie, quite ashappy as the boys and Anna were in the free country life.

　　Five years of marriage had somewhat changed Barbara; she was thinner,and freckled rather than rosy, and she wore her thick dark hair in afashion Julia did not very much admire. Also she seemed to care less fordress than she once had done, even though what she wore was always thehandsomest of its kind. But she was an eagerly admiring and most devotedwife, calmly assuming that the bronzed and silent "Francis" could do nowrong, and Julia thought she had never seen a more charming andconscientious mother. Barbara, whose husband's uncle was a lord, who hadbeen presented at the English court, and whose mail was peppered withcoats-of-arms, nursed her infant proudly and publicly, and was heard tomention to old friends—not always women either—social events that hadoccurred "just before Geordie came" or "when I was expecting Arthur."Her rather thin face would brighten to its old beauty when Geordie andArthur, stamping in, bare kneed and glowing, recounted to her the joysof Sausalito, and in evening dress she was quite magnificent, andsomehow seemed more at ease than American women ever do. Her efficiencyleft even the capable Julia gasping and outdistanced. Barbara was equalto every claim husband, children, family, and friends could make. Shecame down to an eight o'clock breakfast, a chattering little son on eachside of her, announcing briskly that the tiny Malcolm had already hadhis bath. She started the little people on the day's orderly round ofwork and play while opening letters and chatting with her father; earnedthe housemaid's eternal affection by personally dusting the bigdrawing-room and replacing the flowers; answered the telephone in herpleasantly modulated voice; faced her husband during his ten o'clockbreakfast, and discussed the foreign news with him in a manner Juliathought extraordinarily clever; and at eleven came with the baby intoher mother's sunny morning-room for a little feminine gossip overMalcolm's second breakfast. Barbara never left a note unanswered, no oldfriend was neglected; tea hour always found the shady side porch full ofcallers, children strayed from the candy on the centre table to thecakes near the teapot, the doctor's collie lay panting in the doorway.Barbara's rich soft laugh, the new tones that her voice had gained inthe past years, somehow dominated everything. Julia felt a vague newrestlessness and discontent assail her at this contact with Barbara'sfull and happy life. Perhaps Barbara suspected it, for her generousinclusion of Julia, when plans of any sort were afoot, knew no limit.She won Anna's little heart with a thousand affectionate advances; lovedto have the glowing beauty of the little girl as a foil for her owndark-haired boys.

　　"You're so busy—and necessary—and unself-conscious, Barbara," Juliasaid, "you make other women seem such fools!"

　　It was a heavenly July afternoon, and the two were following Richie andthe children down one of the mountain roads above Mill Valley. Barbara,who had acquired an Englishwoman's love of nursery picnics, had luredher husband to join them to-day, and Julia had been pleasantly surprisedto see how fatherly the Captain was with his small boys, how willing togo for water and tie dragging little shoe laces. But presently thesoldier grew restless, stared about him for a few moments, and finallydecided to leave the ladies and children to Richie's escort, and walk tothe summit of the mountain and back, as a means of working off someexcess of energy and gaining an appetite for dinner. He apparently didnot hear Barbara's warning not to be late, and her entreaty to becareful, merely giving her a stolid glance in answer to these eagersuggestions, and remarking to the boys, who begged to accompany him alittle way: "Naow, naow, I tell you you carn't, so don't make littlearsses of yourselves blabbering abaout it!"

　　This, however, was taken in good part by his family; there was muchwaving of hands and many shouted good wishes as he walked rapidly out ofhearing.

　　"Poor Francis, I hope he's going to enjoy his walk," Barbara said, asthey started homeward. "He gets so bored out here in California!"

　　"I wonder why?" Julia said, hiding a Californian's resentment.

　　"Oh, well, it is different, Ju—you can't deny it! One wants to beloyal, and all that," Barbara said, "but in England there's apurpose—there's a recognized order to life! They're not eternallyexperimenting; they don't want to be idle and ignorant like ourwomen—they've got better things to do. There's a finish and apleasantness about life in London; men have more leisure to take aninterest in women's work; why, you've no idea how many interesting,clever, charming men I know in London! How many does one know here? Andas for the women—"

　　It was then Julia said:

　　"Ah, well, you're different from other women. You're so busy—andnecessary—and unself-conscious, Barbara. You make other women seem suchfools!"

　　"Not necessarily," said Barbara, smiling. "And don't think I'm horriblyconceited, Julia, talking this way. It's only to you!" They walked alittle way without speaking, and then Barbara sat down on a low bank,some quarter of a mile above Richie's cabin, and added: "Do sit down,Ju. You and I are never alone, and I want to talk to you. Julie, don'tbe angry—it's about Jim."

　　Julia's eyes immediately widened, her lips met firmly, she grew a littlepale.

　　"Go ahead," she said steadily. "Have you seen him?"

　　Barbara answered the question with another.

　　"You knew he was in London?"

　　"No," said Julia, "I didn't know it."

　　She had remained standing, and now Barbara urged her again to sit down.But Julia would not, pleading that she would rather walk, and in the endBarbara got up, and they began slowly to walk down the road together.

　　"Tell me," Julia commanded then.

　　"Now, dearest girl," Barbara pleaded, "Please don't get excited overnothing. Jim's been in London nearly a year; in fact, he's settledthere. He's associated with one of the biggest consulting surgeons wehave, old Sir Peveril McCann. They met in Berlin. I didn't know it untilthis spring—March it was. We'd just come up from the country to meetFrancis, home on a year's leave; it was just before Malcolm arrived.Somebody spoke of this Doctor Studdiford, and I said at once that itmust be my foster brother. I explained as well as I could that sinceFrancis and I had been travelling so much, Jim and I had fallen out oftouch, and so on."

　　"Who told you about him?" Julia asked.

　　"A Mrs. Chancellor. She's quite a character," Barbara said. "Some peoplelike her; some don't. I don't—much. She's rich, and a widow; shestudies art, and she loves to get hold of interesting people."

　　Julia winced at the vision of a plump, forty-year-old siren sendingcoquettish side glances at an admiring Jim. Anger stirred dully withinher.

　　"Pretty?" she asked, in as nonchalant a voice as she could command.

　　"Ivy Chancellor? No—she's really plain," Barbara said, "a sandy,excitable little chatterbox, that's what she is! She's Lady VioletDray's daughter; Lady Violet's quite lovely. How much Jim admires Ivy Ican't say; she took him about with her everywhere; he was always at thehouse."

　　This was too much. Julia felt the friendly earth sway under her, a drysalty taste was in her mouth, a very hurricane of resentment shook herheart.

　　"Oh, Barbara, do you see how he can?" she asked, in a stricken voice.

　　"No, I don't!" Barbara answered, with a concerned glance at Julia'swhite face. "Well, as I know him, I can't believe it's the same Jim!"

　　"I wish you had seen him," Julia said, after an interval of thought.Barbara said nothing for a few moments, then she confessed suddenly:

　　"I did see him, Julie."

　　"You did? Oh, Bab, and you never told me all this time!"

　　"Well, Mother and Aunt Sanna begged me not to, Ju, and Francis was mostemphatic about it," Barbara pleaded.

　　"Aunt Sanna—and Francis! But—" Julia's keen eyes read Barbara's facelike an open page. "Then there was more to it!" she declared. "For theycouldn't have minded my knowing just this!"

　　"I wish I had never mentioned Jim," Barbara said heartily. "It's none ofmy business, anyway, only—only—it makes me so unhappy I just can'tbear it! I simply can't bear it!" And to Julia's astonishment, Barbara,who rarely showed emotion, fumbled for her handkerchief and began tocry. "I love Jim," pursued Barbara, with that refreshed vehemence thatfollows a brief interval of tears. "And you're just as dear to me as myown sisters—dearer! And I can't bear to have you and that darling babyhere alone, and Jim off in trailing around after a little fool like IvyChancellor! I can't bear it," said Barbara, drying her eyes, whichthreatened to overflow again. "It's monstrous! You're—you're wonderful,of course, Julie, but you can't make me think you're happy! And Jim iswretched. I've known him since I was a baby, and he can't fool me! Hecan bluff about his work and his club and all that as long as hepleases! But he can't fool me; I know he's utterly miserable."

　　"And you saw him?" Julia asked.

　　They were in a little strip of woods just above Richard's cabin now, andJulia seated herself on the low-hanging branch of an oak. Her face, asshe turned to Barbara, was full of resolute command.

　　"Sit down, Bab," she said, indicating a thick fallen log a few feetaway. "Tell me all about it."

　　"Francis would strangle me," Barbara murmured, seating herselfnevertheless. "And there isn't very much to it, anyway," she added, witha bright air of candour. "I wrote Jim a line, and he came to our housein Ludbroke Road, and we had a little talk. He's fatter. He was awfullyinterested in some knee-cap operation—"

　　"Babbie!" Julia reproached her.

　　"And we talked about everything," Barbara hastened to say.

　　"Me?" Julia asked flatly.

　　"A little," Barbara admitted. "I had nurse bring the boys in—"

　　"Oh, Barbara, for God's sake tell me!" Julia said, in an agonized burst.

　　"Oh, Julie—if only I'm doing the right thing!" Barbara answered indistress.

　　"This is the right thing," Julia assured her. "This is my affair."

　　"Francis and Mother—" Barbara began again, hesitatingly. Butimmediately she dismissed the doubts with a shake of her head, andsuddenly assuming a confident air, she began: "I'll tell you exactlywhat happened, Ju. Jim came one afternoon; I was all alone, and we hadtea. He's very much changed, Ju. He's harder, in some way, and—well,changed. Jim never used to be able to conceal his feelings, you know,but now—why, one feels that he's dissembling all the time! He was sofriendly, and cheerful, and interested—and yet—There was somethingall wrong. He didn't exactly evade the subject of you and Anna, but hejust said 'Yes?' or 'No?' when I talked of you—"

　　"I know exactly how," Julia said, wincing at some memory.

　　"I touched him on the quick finally," Barbara pursued; "something I saidabout you made him colour up, that brick-red colour of his—"

　　"I know!" Julia said quickly again.

　　"But, Julia," Barbara added earnestly, "you've no idea how hard it was!I told him how grieved and troubled we all were by this silence betweenyou, and I went and got that snapshot Rich took of Anna, you know, theone with the collies. Well, way in the back of that picture you weresnapped, too, the tiniest little figure, for you were way down by theroad, and Anna close to the porch. But, my dear, he hardly glanced atAnna; he said in a quick, hushed sort of voice, 'What's she in blackfor?' Then I saw your picture for the first time, and said, 'Why, thatmust be Julia!' 'Certainly, it's Julia,' he said. I told him yourgrandmother had died, and he said, 'But she's still needed there, isshe?' That was the first sign of anything like naturalness. And, oh, Ju,if only it had happened that Francis didn't come in then! But he did,starving for his tea, and wondering who on earth the man that I wassitting in the dark with was—it was so unfortunate! You know Francisthinks we've all spoiled Jim, always, and he looked right over him. Isaid, 'Francis, you remember my brother?' and Francis said, with areally insulting accent, 'Perfectly!' Jim said something about likingLondon and hoping to settle there, and Francis said, 'Studdiford, I'mglad you've come to see my wife, and I hope the affection you two havefelt for years won't be hurt by what I say. But I admire your own wifevery deeply, and you've put her in a most equivocal and humiliatingposition. I can't pretend that I hope you'll settle here; you've causedthe people who love you sufficient distress as it is. I don't see thatyour staying here is going to make anything any easier, while things areas they are in California!' My dear," said Barbara with a sigh, "Francisgets that way sometimes; English people do—there seems to be a sort ofmoral obligation upon them to say what's true, no matter howoutrageously rude it sounds!"

　　"I had no idea Captain Fox felt that way," Julia said, touched.

　　"Oh, my dear! He's one of your warmest admirers. Well," Barbara went on,"of course Jim ruffled up like a turkey cock. I didn't dare sayanything, and Francis, having done his worst, was really pretty fair.Luckily, some other people came in, and later I went with Jim to thenursery. Then he said to me, 'Do you think Julia's position isequivocal, Bab?' And I said, 'Jim, I never knew any one to care solittle for public opinion as Julia. But all the rumour and gossip, theunexplained mystery of it, are very, very hard for her.' I said, 'Jim,aren't you going back?' and he said, 'Never.' Then he said, 'I thinkFrancis is right. This way is neither one thing nor the other. It oughtto be settled. Not,' he said, 'that I want to marry again!' I said,'Jim, you couldn't marry again, don't talk that way!' He said somethingabout my clinging to old ideas, and I said, 'Jim, don't tell me you havegiven up your faith?' He said, very airily, 'I'm not telling youanything, my dear girl, but if the law will set me free, perhaps that'sthe best way of silencing Francis's remarks about Julia's equivocalposition!'"

　　Julia was silent for a while, staring beyond Barbara, her eyes likethose of a sick person, her face ashen. Barbara began to feelfrightened.

　　"So that's it," Julia said finally, in a tired, cold voice.

　　"Ju—it's too dreadful to hurt you this way!" Barbara said. "But that'snot all. The only reason I told you all this was because Jim may becoming home; he may come on in October, and want to see you. Francisthinks—But it seems too cruel to let him come on and take you bysurprise!"

　　"Oh, my God!" said Julia, in a low, tense tone, "what utter wreck I havemade of my life! Why is it," she said, springing up and beginning towalk again, "why is it that I am so helpless, why must I sit still andlet the soul be torn out of my body! My child must grow upfatherless—under a cloud—"

　　"Julie! Julie!" Barbara begged, wild with anxiety, as she kept pacebeside Julia on the dry brown grass. "Dearest, don't, or you'll make mefeel terribly for having told you!"

　　"Oh, no—no," Julia said, suddenly calm and weary. "You had to tell me!"The two walked slowly on for a moment, in silence, then Julia addedpassionately: "Oh, what a wretched, miserable business! Oh, Bab, why doI simply have to go from one agony to another? I'm so tired of beingunhappy; I'm so wretched!" Her voice fell, the fire went out of hertone. "I'm tired," she said, in a voice that seemed to Barbara curiouslyin keeping with the flat, toneless summer twilight, the dull brownhills, the darkening sky, the dry slippery grass over which a cool swiftbreeze was beginning to wander. "If Anna and I could only run away fromit all!" said Julia sombrely.

　　"Julie, just one thing." Barbara hesitated. "Shall you see Jim?"

　　Julia paused, and their eyes met in the gloom. Barbara thought she hadnever seen anything more marked than the tragic intensity of the otherwoman's face. Julia might have been a young priestess, the problems ofthe world on her shoulders.

　　"That I can't say, Bab," she answered thoughtfully. And a moment laterthey reached the cabin, and were welcomed by Richie and the children.