R. H.—A PORTRAIT

R. H.—A PORTRAITNot credulous, yet active in beliefThat good is better than the worst is bad;A generous courage mirrored in the gladChallenging eyes, that gentle oft with griefFor honest woe—while lurking like a thief,Peering around the corners, humor creeps,Into the gravest matters pries and peeps,Till grimmest face relaxes with relief;A heart belovèd of the wiser godsGrown weary of solemnity prolonged—That snatches scraps of gladness while Fate nods,Varying life’s prose with stories many-songed:One who has faced the dark and naught denied—Yet lives persistent on the brightest side.Allan Munier.

Not credulous, yet active in beliefThat good is better than the worst is bad;A generous courage mirrored in the gladChallenging eyes, that gentle oft with griefFor honest woe—while lurking like a thief,Peering around the corners, humor creeps,Into the gravest matters pries and peeps,Till grimmest face relaxes with relief;A heart belovèd of the wiser godsGrown weary of solemnity prolonged—That snatches scraps of gladness while Fate nods,Varying life’s prose with stories many-songed:One who has faced the dark and naught denied—Yet lives persistent on the brightest side.

Not credulous, yet active in belief

That good is better than the worst is bad;

A generous courage mirrored in the glad

Challenging eyes, that gentle oft with grief

For honest woe—while lurking like a thief,

Peering around the corners, humor creeps,

Into the gravest matters pries and peeps,

Till grimmest face relaxes with relief;A heart belovèd of the wiser godsGrown weary of solemnity prolonged—That snatches scraps of gladness while Fate nods,Varying life’s prose with stories many-songed:One who has faced the dark and naught denied—Yet lives persistent on the brightest side.

Till grimmest face relaxes with relief;

A heart belovèd of the wiser gods

Grown weary of solemnity prolonged—

That snatches scraps of gladness while Fate nods,

Varying life’s prose with stories many-songed:

One who has faced the dark and naught denied—

Yet lives persistent on the brightest side.

Allan Munier.

THE FUTURE MRS. THORNTONBy Sarah Guernsey BradleyFFroma worldly point of view there could be no question as to the wisdom and desirability of the match, and Miss Warren’s family was worldly to the core.It had been a crushing blow to Mrs. Warren’s pride, and, incidentally, a blow in a vastly more material direction, that her two older daughters had made something of a mess of matrimony, pecuniarily speaking.She was confessedly ambitious for Nancy—Nancy, the youngest, the cleverest, the fairest of the three. Position she alwayswouldhave, being a Warren, but she wanted the girl to have all theothergood things of this life, that for so many years had been unsatisfied desires. Not,of course, that she would want Nancy to marry for money, she assured herself virtuously; that, in addition to being an indirect violation of an article of the Decalogue, was so distinctly plebeian. But it would be so comfortable if Nancy’s affections could only be engaged in a direction where the coffers were not exactly empty. In other words, money would be noobstacleto perfect connubial bliss.And think of the future which awaited Nancy if she would but say the word! Even the fondly cherished memory of the Warrens’ past glory dwindled into nothingness in comparison.To be sure, Mr. James Thornton was not so young as hehadbeen ten years ago—“What’s a man’s age? He must hurry more, that’s all,” Mrs. Warren was fond of quoting—nor, in point of girth, did he assumelessaldermanic proportions as time rolled on, but there was such a golden lining to these small clouds of affliction, that he was very generally looked upon as an altogether desirableparti.It must be admitted that, among other minor idiosyncrasies, Mr. James Thornton would now and then slip into the vernacular. Under great stress of feeling, in the heat of argument and the like, he had been known to break the Sixth Commandment in so far as the English of the king was concerned.“You was,” “those kind,” “between you and I,” would slip out, but these variations from the strictly conventional were looked upon as little eccentricities in which a man whose fortune went far above the million mark could well afford to indulge.“James is so droll,” the aristocratic Mrs. Warren would say comfortably, resolutely closing her eyes to the fact that James’ early environment, and not his sense of humor, was responsible for his occasional lapses. For James’ father, old Sid Thornton, as he was always called, could not have boasted even a bowing acquaintance with the very people who were now not only falling over each other in their mad anxiety to entertain his son, but were even more than willing to find that same son a suitable wife among their own fair daughters. Old Sid Thornton’s homely boy, Jim, running away to sea, and Mr. James Thornton, back to the old town with a fortune at his disposal, and living in a mansion that was the admiration and envy of the whole county, were two totally different entities.Temptingly did the mothers with marriageable daughters display their wares. But of all the number, and many of them were passing fair, Mr. James Thornton cast longing eyes on only one, and that was Nancy Warren. Frankly, he wanted to get married, settle down, perhaps go into politics when he had time; he wanted a mistress for that beautiful house on the hill, some one who would know how to preside at his table and dispense his hospitality; some one, in short, who would know, instinctively, all the little niceties which were as a sealed book to him, and the tall, fair, thoroughbred Miss Warren seemed ideally fitted for the post.Encouraged thereto by the tactful Mrs. Warren, James had poured into her eager ears the secrets of his honest soul, and Mrs. Warren had listened with a sweet and ready sympathy that had caused James quite to forget a certain stinging snubbing he had received from the selfsame lady, because once, back in the dark ages—before Nancy had opened her blue eyes on this naughty world—when he was a gawky, freckle-faced boy of sixteen, he had dared to walk home from church with Mildred, the eldest daughter of the house of Warren.That was long before Mrs. Warren had felt poverty’s vicious pinch, and before her life had become one continual struggle to make both ends meet. Somehow, her point of view had changed since then—points of viewwillchange when the howl of the wolf is heard in the near distance, and yet one must smile and smile before one’s little world—and, all other things being equal, Mr. James Thornton’s home, garish with gold and onyx, and fairly shrieking with bad tapestries and faulty paintings and ponderous furniture, seemed as promising and fair a haven as she could possibly find for the youngest and only remaining daughter of the house of Warren. As for any little jarring notes in the decorative scheme of the Thornton abode, Mrs. Warren knew that she could trust Nancy to change all that, if she were once established there as the bride of Mr. James Thornton.Now, Nancy had her share of the contrary spirit, and although she did not look altogether unfavorably upon the wooing of the affluent James, she took very good care that her mother should not suspect her state of mind. Perhaps that one unforgettable summer, of which her mother only dimly dreamed, made her despise herself for her tacit acquiescence, and she salved her accusing conscience with some outward show of opposition.“Mr. Thornton is most kind, but his hands are positively beefy, mother,” complained Nancy, one day, her short upper lip curling a bit scornfully. Mrs. Warren had just finished a long dissertation on the virtues of Mr. James Thornton, and, merely incidentally, of course, had touched on the great advantages that would accrue to the girl who should become his wife.“Yououghtto know, my dear,” Mrs. Warren replied, blandly, “that the sun of South Africa has arather”—Mrs. Warren’s broadahad a supercilious cadence—“toughening effect on the skin. Hands or no hands, he has more to recommend him than any man ofyouracquaintance.” Mrs. Warren refrained from adding in what respect. “He is very much taken with you. Let him slip through your fingers and he’ll be snapped up by some one else before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ Effie Paul”—Mrs. Warren began counting the pining ones on her fingers—“would give her old boots and shoes if she could annex him—she’s a calculating creature; I never liked her. Alice Wood needs only half a chance to throw herself at his feet just as she already has done at his head.Herconduct has been disgraceful.” Mrs. Warren sniffed the sniff of the virtuous and blameless. “There’s not a girl of your acquaintance who would not jump at the chance of becoming Mrs. James Thornton.”“Did you ever read that story of Kipling’s where he says, ‘Regiments are like women—they will do anything for trinketry’?” inquired Nancy, calmly.“Kipling may know a great deal about regiments, but he knowsnothingabout women,” said Mrs. Warren, severely. “I am surprised to hear a girl of your age advocating any such idea! I have a higher opinion of my sex, thank Heaven!” She assumed the air of an early Christian martyr.“Well, I think they’re a pretty mercenary lot,” said Nancy, stolidly.“Not at all. People sometimes have a proper sense of the eternal fitness of things,” her mother returned, with withering inconsistency. “Not, of course,” she added, hastily, “that I wouldconsentto your marrying Mr. Thornton if you didn’tcarefor him.”Nancy’s face was a study.“I think too much ofhimfor that.” Mrs. Warren threw her head back proudly.“He’s a trifle unideal, mother; a bit different, you must admit,” Nancy laughed. “To begin with, he has a regular bay window.”“Don’t be vulgar, Anne,” her mother said, sharply. “He inherits flesh.”“Yes, I remember once hearing dad say that old Sid Thornton looked exactly like an inflated bullfrog,” Nancy laughed, wickedly.“Your dear father had an unfortunate way of expressing himself.” Mrs. Warren drew herself up stiffly. “And I must say, my dear, that you are much more like poor, dear Charles than you are like me.” Mrs. Warren wiped away a tear, and Nancy wondered vaguely whether the tear was for her late and not too loudly lamented father or for the absence ofherlikeness to his relict.The next moment Nancy, swiftly penitent, was at her mother’s side, and, taking the still wonderfully young face between her hands, said softly: “Kiss me, Marmee. I’m a brute, I know I am. I know what an awful struggle it has been to keep up appearances. I—I’m sick of it all, too. Only—only, I must think, that’s all. I must be perfectly sure—that I reallycare—for Mr. Thornton. Don’t say anything more now, dearie,” she pleaded, as her mother started to make some reply. “I’m going off to think.” And, kissing her mother tenderly, this strange little creature of varying moods and tenses went up to her own room to have it out with herself. It was the one place where Nancy Warren felt that she could be perfectly honest with her own soul, where all shams and insincerities could safely be laid aside without fear of that arch-tyrant of a small town, Mrs. Grundy.She opened her window, and, sitting down on the floor in front of it, her head on the broad sill, gazed, with curiously mingled emotions, at the imposing pile of gray stone on the hill, where Mr. James Thornton lived and moved and had his being.Down deep in her heart of hearts, Nancy Warren knew that she was far more like her mother than that very lovely and very conventional woman dreamed.She was a luxury-loving soul—things that were mere accidents to other women were absolute necessities to her. With a longing that almost amounted to a passion, she craved jewels, good gowns, laces and all the other dear, delightful pomps and vanities of this world, which only a plethoric purse can procure.She reveled in the violets and orchids which, so sure as the day dawned, came down from the Thornton conservatories for the greater adornment of the house of Warren.The rides in the fastest machines in the county, the cross-country runs on Mr. James Thornton’s thoroughbred hunters, all these were as meat and drink to her.Yes, Mr. James Thornton’s offer was certainly tempting. It meant that everything in the world for which she most cared would be hers except—but that was singularly out-of-date. Nobody really married for that any more. To be sure, her sisters had, but she could not see that they were glaringly happy. And Mr. James Thornton was a good soul—everybody admitted that. And yet—for an instant the gray stone building in the distance, bathed in the golden radiance of the setting sun,grew misty and blurred. She saw another sunset, all pink and green and soft, indefinite violet, and above the deep, sweet, ceaseless sound of a wondrously opalescent sea she heard a man’s voice ring clear and true with a love as eternal as that same changeless sea. She felt again that strange, sweet, unearthly happiness that comes to a woman once and once only. She buried her face in her hands to shut out the sight of that gray stone house on the hill, bathed in the significant, mocking, golden radiance of the setting sun. She heard again that man’s voice, crushed and broken with a dull, hopeless despair. She saw his face grow pale as death as he heard her words of cruel, worldly wisdom. She felt again that same bitter ache at the heart, that horrible, gnawing sense of irreparable loss, as she had voluntarily put out of her life “the only good in the world.”“But we were too poor,” she cried, passionately, jumping to her feet and throwing her head back defiantly. “It would have been madness—for me.” She looked out of the window again at the gray stone house on the hill, and laughed mirthlessly.Then she walked slowly away from the window, and stood irresolute for a moment, in the center of the room.“This horrid, beastly poverty!” she burst out vehemently. “I’m sick of it all—of our wretched, miserable makeshifts. I’m tired, so tired, of everything. It will be such a rest.” She rushed excitedly to the door, and ran, with the air of one who knows delay is fraught with danger, downstairs to her mother’s room.“Mother”—Mrs. Warren looked up fearfully, as she heard her daughter’s voice—“I have thought it all over.”“Yes?” said Mrs. Warren, weakly. The reaction was almost too much for her after the half hour of sickening suspense.“You must see Mr. Thornton when he comes to-night, for I have a splitting headache and I’m going to bed.” Her mother stared at her blankly. Was this the end of all her hopes? “To-day is Tuesday—tell him that I will give him my answer Friday night. And, mother”—her voice dropped in a half-ashamed way—“the answer will be yes.”“My darling child”—Mrs. Warren took her daughter in her arms—“this is the very proudest and happiest moment of my life.”“Yes, mother, I know,” Nancy freed herself from the clinging embrace. “I’m happy, awfully happy, too”—she said it as one would speak of the weather or some other deadly commonplace. “I think Mr. Thornton will make a model husband. And—and it’s an end to all our nasty little economies!”“Anne, don’t be so material,” Mrs. Warren interrupted, in a shocked voice.“I’m not, mother; only think”—Nancy’s eyes glistened—“no more velveteen masquerading as velvet, no more bargain-counter shoes and gloves, no more percaline petticoats with silk flounces, no moreplaindresses because shirring and tucking take a few more yards; no more summers spent in close, cooped-up hall bedrooms in twelve-dollar-a-week hotels; grape-fruit every morning, and cream always!” She laughed half hysterically. “And Mr. Thornton issogood! It’s wonderful to be so happy, isn’t it, Marmee?”Mrs. Warren looked at her apprehensively for a moment. “You’re sure,” she faltered—“you’re sure you’re doing it all without a regret for—for anybody, Nancy?”Nancy’s nails went deep into the palms of her hands. “Without a regret, Marmee,” she smiled, brightly.“And that you think you will be perfectly happy with James?”“Perfectly,” said Nancy, evenly.Mrs. Warren, reassured, was radiant. “My darling child,” she breathed, softly, “this means everything to me.”“You’ll explain about the headache, won’t you, Marmee?” Nancy asked, moving hurriedly toward the door. She knew that she should scream if she stayed a moment longer in her mother’s presence.“Yes, indeed, and I’m so sorry aboutthe pain.” Her mother followed her to the door. “Take some——”“I have everything upstairs, thank you, mother. Good-night.”“Good-night, my darling child.” Those kisses were the fondest her mother had ever given her. “How I wish that your poor dear father could know of our perfect happiness!”Nancy passed out into the hall, closed the door behind her, and leaned for a moment against the wall. Mrs. Warren’s idea of perfect happiness would have received a severe shock, could she have heard Nancy murmur, brokenly: “Dear old dad! Pray Heaven youdon’tknow that your little Nance is a miserable, mercenary coward!”There is a certain sense of relief that follows the consummation of a long-delayed decision, no matter how inherently distasteful that decision may be, and Nancy’s first feeling when she awoke on the following morning was one of thankfulness that the preliminary step had been taken.All burdens seem lighter, everything takes a different hue, in the morning when the sun is shining and the birds are singing, and after the months of sickening indecision Nancy experienced such a delightful sense of rest, such a freedom from suspense, that she actually laughed aloud as she said to herself: “Oh, I guess perhaps it’s not going to be so bad, after all!”By the time that Mr. James Thornton’s daily offering of violets and orchids had arrived, she had about decided that she was a rather levelheaded young woman, and when, an hour after that, she found herself seated beside the devoted James, in his glaringly resplendent automobile, skimming along at an exhilarating pace over a fine stretch of country road, she had come to the conclusion that that arch-type of female foolishness, the Virgin with the Unfilled Lamp, was wisdom incarnate compared to the woman who deliberately throws aside the goods the gods provide her. Oh, yes, Nancy was fast becoming the more worthy daughter of a worthy mother!James Thornton, reassured by what Mrs. Warren had delicately hinted to him the evening before, exulted in Nancy’s buoyant spirits. He had never seen her so attractive. She chattered away merrily, laughed at his weighty jokes and his more or less pointless stories, and even forgot to be angry when for one brief, fleeting instant his massive hand closed over her slim, aristocratic one. It seemed too good to be true that this fascinating bit of femininity was soon to be his.When they finally returned to the Warrens’ modest house, the wily chauffeur, looking after them as they walked along the nasturtium-bordered path that led to the porch, winked the wink of one on the inside, and smiled broadly as he murmured: “She’s a crackajack! And if there ain’t somethin’ doin’thistime, I’ll eat my goggles!”“Don’t you think, mother,” said Nancy, an hour or so later—they were sitting in Nancy’s room, Mrs. Warren, with unusual condescension, having come up for a little chat—“that it would have been rather nicer to have had dinner here Friday night, the eventful Friday night”—a queer little tremor ran over her—“instead of at Mr. Thornton’s?”“Why, no,” said Mrs. Warren, complacently; “I think it will make everything easier for James if we are up there. You know he is inclined to be diffident, Nancy. A man always appears to better advantage in his own house.”“And of course that is the only thing to be considered.” Nancy smiled half bitterly. She had lost a little of the buoyancy of a few hours before.“Why, of course, my dear,” Mrs. Warren began, hastily, “if you prefer to——?”“Oh, no, let it go at that,” returned Nancy, carelessly. “It will be all the same at the end of a lifetime.” She shrugged her shoulders as she spoke. “What shall I wear, mother?” she asked the next moment, with an entire change of manner. “My white, virginal simplicity and all that sort of rot;my shabby little yellow, or the scarlet? Those are my ‘devilish all,’ you know.”“The white, byallmeans, Nancy.” Mrs. Warren’s tone was impressive; and for reasons of her own she chose to ignore the slang.“Pink rose in the hair, I suppose, aJanice Meredithcurl, bobbing on my neck and nearly scratching the life out of me, a fewvisibly invisiblelittle pink ribbons, and any other ‘parlor tricks’ I happen to know——”“Anne!” Her mother frowned angrily.“Then be led into the conservatory”—Nancy paid no attention to the interruption—“have the moonlight turned on. Horrors, think of that artificial moonlight!” Nancy shuddered. “And then say yes! Heavens! I hope I shan’t say yes until it’s time. It would be awful to miscue at that stage of the game!”Mrs. Warren rose abruptly from her chair, and without a word started for the door, quivering with indignation.“There! I’ve been a brute again,” cried Nancy, penitently, dashing after her mother.“Yes, I think you have,” blazed Mrs. Warren.“I was only fooling, dearie; it’s all going to be lovely, and I’m going into that conservatory just as valiantly as the Rough Riders charged up old San Juan! Only, Marmee, don’t ask me to wear white—that would betooabsurd! Frankly, I’m susceptible to color. You’ve heard about the little boy who whistled in the dark to keep his courage up?” Mrs. Warren smiled through her tears. “Well, I’m going to wear my red—red is cheerful, and nottooinnocent, and—and courageous—I mean,” Nancy explained, hastily, as she caught her mother’s look of wonder. “It always requiressomecourage for a girl to say she will marry a man, even when the circumstances are as—as happy as they are in this case. Didn’t you feel just a little bit queer when you told dad you’d marry him?”“Why, yes, I suppose I did,” said Mrs. Warren, half doubtfully.“Well, then,” said Nancy, logically, “you can understand just what I mean. I’ve a scrap of lace”—reverting to the burning question—“that I’m going to hunt up, that will freshen the red a lot, and some day, Marmee”—she took her mother’s face between her cool, slim hands, and laughed with a fine assumption of gayety—“we’ll have such closetfuls of dainty, bewitching ‘creations’ that we’ll quite forget we ever envied Mother Eve because she didn’t have to rack her brains about what to wear.”Mrs. Warren laughed. Her indignation had vanished. Nancy had a winsome way with her when she chose that was irresistible to the older woman.“Now you go take a nice little nap, Marmee”—she kissed her mother lightly on the forehead—“while the future Mrs. James Thornton ferrets out the scrap of lace which is to be thepièce de résistanceofJuliet’scostume when she goes to meet her portlyRomeo!” She laughed merrily, and with a sweeping courtesy ushered her mother out of the room.As soon as the door had closed behind Mrs. Warren, Nancy, singing lustily, yet with a certain nervousness, as if to drown all power of thought, bustled about the room, peering into topsy-turvy bureau drawers and ransacking inconsequent-looking boxes, with a half-feverish energy, as though upon the unearthing of that particular piece of lace depended her hopes of heaven.It seemed to be an elusive commodity, that scrap of rose-point; for twenty minutes’ patient search failed utterly to bring it to the light of day.Suddenly, Nancy espied a big, important-looking black walnut box on the floor of her closet, half hidden by a well-worn party coat which depended from the hook just above it. It was a mysterious-looking box, delightfully suggestive of old love letters and tender fooleries of that sort, orwouldhave been, had it not been the property of an up-to-date, worldly-wise young woman who knew better than to save from the flames such sources of delicious torment,such instruments of exquisite torture.In an instant Nancy had dragged the box to the door of the closet, and was down on her knees in front of it, going through its contents with ferret-like eagerness.Yes! Her search was at last rewarded! For there, down under a pair of white satin dancing slippers, in provokingly easy view, lay the much desired finery.She put her hand under the slippers to draw it from its resting place, and as she felt the lace slip easily as though across some smooth surface, looked with idle curiosity down into the box. Instantly a sharp little cry rang through the room, and she withdrew her hand as swiftly as though she had unearthed a nest of rattlers. Her face was ashen, her breath came quick and short.“Oh, I didn’t know it was there!” she gasped. “I had forgotten all about it. I thought it had been destroyed with all the rest. Why is it left to torment me now, now,now?” she cried, angrily. Then, with a swift revulsion of feeling, she murmured, brokenly: “Oh, Boy, Boy, is there no escaping you? No forgetting you just when I am trying to so hard?”She sat very still for a moment. Then she put her hand into the box again and drew out, not the precious scrap of rose-point—that, to her, was as though it had never been—not a blurred, tear-stained love letter, not a bunch of faded violets, but a little, fat, bright blue pitcher, with great, flaming vermilion roses on either side, the most grotesquely and uncompromisingly ugly bit of crockery that one would find from Dan to Beersheba.Have you never noticed that it is often the most whimsically inconsequent, the most utterly ordinary, the most intrinsically prosaic of inanimate things that, with a sudden and overwhelming rush, will call into being memories the tenderest, the deepest, the saddest? It may be a worthless little book, a withered flower ghastly in its brown grave clothes, a cheap, tawdry trinket; it may be something as intangible as a few bars of a hackneyed song ground out on a wheezy, asthmatic hand organ. But just so surely as one has lived—and therefore loved—one knows the inherent power to sting and wound in things the most pitiably commonplace. De Musset speaks of the “little pebble”:/* But when upon your fated way you meet Some dumb memorial of a passion dead, That little pebble stops you, and you dread To bruise your tender feet. */So to Nancy, coming suddenly and at the psychological moment upon that absurd bit of blue clay cajoled from a friendly waiter at a little, out-of-the-way Bohemian restaurant, one never-to-be-forgotten night, the bottom seemed to have dropped out of the universe. The things of this world seemed suddenly to lose their value, and to grow poor and mean and worthless. And she only knew that she was miserable, and heart-hungry, and soul-sick for one who never came, for one who never againwouldcome, forever and forever.With the little blue pitcher held tightly in her hand, she walked over to the window and looked up at the big gray stone house that was soon to know her as its mistress. And for the very first time the perfect realization of what it all would mean was borne in upon her. She stood there for several minutes motionless, then with a violent, angry shake of the head she cried out in a high, defiant voice: “No, no, no, not until—not yet, not yet!”She walked rapidly away from the window, and put the little blue pitcher in a post of honor on the mantelpiece. Then, crossing over to the dressing table, she picked up her purse and carefully counted the money. The result must have been satisfactory, for a half-triumphant smile flitted across her face. After that, from the mysterious depths of that same purse, she unearthed a time-table and studied it earnestly.Then, sitting at her tiny desk, she nervously scrawled these words:Dear Mother: I have gone to New York to spend the night with Lilla Browning—madeup my mind suddenly, and as I knew you were asleep, didn’t want to bother you. Knew you couldn’t possibly have any objection, because you are so fond of Lil. Want to do some shopping in the morning, and thought this would be the best way to get an early start. Expect me home to-morrow afternoon on the 5:45. Best regards to Mr. Thornton. Have Maggie press my red dress; tell her to be careful not to scorch it. I found the lace. By-by.Nancy.“All’s fair in love and war,” she murmured, softly, rising from her chair, and taking off stock and belt preparatory to a change of costume. She smiled happily as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were starlike, her whole expression was perfectly radiant.“And you’re responsible for it all, you little imp!” She shook her finger at the fat, bright blue pitcher with flaming vermilion roses on either side, as it stood on the mantelpiece in blissful unconsciousness of its total depravity.In less than twenty minutes Nancy was dressed for the street and on her way to the railroad station. Ten minutes later two telegrams flashed over the wires. One ran:Mrs. Jonathan Browning, West Seventy-second Street, New York City: Will spend to-night with you. Arrive about ten. Don’t meet me.Nancy.The second one was more brief:Mr. Philip Peirce.Princeton Club, New York City: Dine with me to-night at Scarlatti’s at seven.Anne Warren.Not until Nancy, after dismissing the hansom, found herself solitary and alone on the sidewalk in front of the gayly lighted little Bohemian restaurant, did she realize the foolishness, the craziness, of her undertaking. In fact, she had no very clear idea of what that undertaking was.She looked after the retreating hansom, and a wretched, half-frightened homesickness swept over her.Suppose Phil had not received the telegram! Suppose, receiving it, he had refused to come! She couldn’t blame him, although he had once said that, no matter what——And then—in speaking of it afterward, Nancy always declared that it was a positive physiological fact that at that moment her heart was located somewhere in the roof of her mouth—some one caught both her hands in his, some one’s glad voice cried “Nance!” and in the twinkling of an eye the homesickness and the memory of the weeks of wretchedness had vanished, and all the misery of the past and all the uncertainty of the future were swallowed up in the joy of the present.“I’m so sorry to be late.” Phil’s voice was as remorseful as though he had committedallof the seven deadly sins. “I received your telegram just as I was leaving the club to keep an engagement. Took me ten minutes at the ’phone to break the engagement decently. Jove! but I am glad to see you,” he went on, enthusiastically.“I hoped you would be, but of course I didn’t know.” It was not at all what Nancy had intended to say, but her heart thumped so furiously that she could scarcely think. She was mortally afraid that Phil would hear it pounding away.“You know I told you that I shouldalwaysbe glad to see you, Nance.” Then, abruptly: “I hope you haven’t caught cold standing here waiting. It’s not warm to-night. Shall we go inside now?” Nancy nodded, and Phil led the way into Scarlatti’s.She took the whole room in at a glance, and breathed a sigh of contentment so long, so deep, that it must have come from the tips of her toes.There was the same absurd little orchestra in their same absurd “monkey clothes,” the same motley crowd of half foreign, wholly happy men and women, the same indescribable odor of un-American cooking—she even rejoiced inthat—and, best of all, on the long shelf that ran around the four sides of the room were the same little, fat, bright blue pitchers with great naming vermilion roses on either side. To be sure, she knew that one was missing, but that was mere detail.“Phil,” Nancy whispered, eagerly, pulling his coat sleeve violently as thewaiter, with much bowing and scraping, started to lead the way in another direction, “ourtable is empty. Right over there—the tenth from the door. We always had that one, you know, under the picture of ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes.’ I always remembered that it was the tenth.”“Surely, we’ll have the tenth, by all means.” Phil tapped the waiter on the back, and motioned in the direction of the empty table.“I thought perhaps you’d rather not,” he whispered to Nancy, as they slipped into the old, familiar places. Evidently Phil had a memory for numbers, too. So often it is only the woman who cancount ten.“Now,” began Phil, as soon as the dinner had been ordered and other preliminaries attended to, “tell me how on earth you and I happen to be here together? Did you drop straight from the clouds? Or aren’t you here at all? Are you just a bit from a wildly improbable dream?”“No,” said Nancy, glibly, her equilibrium restored; “I’m spending the night with Lilla Browning, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be fun for us to have dinner together.” She paused a moment. “Once more,” she added, watching Phil’s face closely. “And isn’t it just like that other time—the last time we were here together?” Phil looked at her curiously. “The people, and the soft lights, and the funny little musicians, and my meeting you——”“Oh-h!” said Phil, quietly.“And—-and everything,” finished Nancy, lamely.“Don’t you remember?” she went on. “The paper had sent you off on some pesky assignment, and you were just a wee bit late. And we had a sort of a tiff about it until I happened to look up at the picture over the table, and ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes’ was looking straight down at us? And then, somehow, I had to laugh, too, and we made up. Don’t you remember?”Phil nodded. Did he not remember everything? Had he notbeenremembering ever since? That was the pity of it all!“We were pretty happy that night, weren’t we, Phil?”“Don’t, Nance.” Phil’s bright eyes had a curious, unusual brightness at that moment.“And I made you—simplymadeyou, you didn’t want to—get me one of those foolish little pitchers.” She pursued her theme relentlessly. “The waiter was so funny!” Nancy laughed merrily as at some droll recollection, “Phil, that was a whole year ago.”“Nonsense!” said Phil, indignantly. “It’s ten years ago, if it’s a day! Before you grew to be a worldly-wise old lady, and before I had become a cynical old man.”“You don’t look very old, Phil.”“Well, I am; I’m as old as the hills. Do you know it has all been an awful pity, Nance?”“What?” she asked, very softly, smiling adorably.“Oh, everything——” He stopped short, the smile had escaped him. “Come,” he said, abruptly, “let’s talk about the weather, the—the—what a terrible winter it has been, hasn’t it? Did you have lots of skating up in the country?”“Yes, lots—about two months too much of it, and it has been the worst winter I ever hope to live through; but really, Phil, I didn’t come to New York to talk about the weather.” The laughter died out of Nancy’s blue eyes. “I—I think I came to New York to ask your advice about something.”“My advice?” echoed Phil, wonderingly.“Yes, Ithinkso. Phil, suppose there, was a girl whose father had lost all his money and then had gone to work and died, and had left her and her mother just this side of the poorhouse. And suppose she and her mother had had to pinch and scrimp to keep their heads above the water, until they were sick of the whole business. And suppose a man with shoals of money—a fat, sort of elderly man, who wore diamond rings, and said ‘you was,’ and did lots of other things you and I don’t like,yet was very kind and good—suppose this man wanted to marry this girl. Now, what would you advise her to do, if her mother were secretly crazy to have her marry him?”“And she didn’t care for anyone else?” Philip’s tone was coldly judicial.“And she didn’t care for anyone else.” His coldness frightened the lie through her unwilling lips, but she went white as she uttered it.Philip eyed her narrowly.“I can’t see why you wantmyadvice,” he said, dully.Then, very suddenly: “Nancy, suppose there was a man who was rather poor, as things go nowadays, and who had once been very fond of a girl who had treated him pretty badly. And suppose there was a woman”—with swift jealousy Nancy remembered the engagement Philip had broken in order to dine with her that evening—“not a very young woman, who had shoals of money, as you say, who rouged a little, and helped nature along a little in several ways, and did a number of other things that you and I don’t exactly like, but who at heart was a very good sort—would you advise this man to marry her?”“And he didn’t care for anyone else?” Nancy whispered.“And he didn’t care for anyone else,” said Phil, steadily.Nancy bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Oh, the mortification, the humiliation, of it all! She would have given a week out of her life to have been back home.“Why, if he cared for no one else, I——” The words came with an effort. “Who is she, Phil?”“I’ll tell you in a moment. Who ishe, Nancy?” he asked, sternly.“James Thornton—you’ve heard of him. Oh, what a pair of worldlings we are!” She pulled herself together with a supreme effort, and, raising her glass of red Hungarian wine to her lips, said lightly: “Here’s to my successor! May she forgive me for this one last evening!” Her hand trembled, and some of the wine splashed on her white waist.“It looks like a drop of blood.” She shivered slightly. “Champagne doesn’t stain.” Her mouth laughed, but her eyes were full of a dull despair. “When we are married we shall both be drinking that! Do you remember that foolish little song I used to sing, ‘When we are married’?” She tried to hum it, but failed miserably. “We shall sing our songs with a difference, now. Oh, Boy, Boy, it has all been my fault, hasn’t it?”“What do you mean?” he asked, tensely.“Oh, everything,” she said, wearily. “The worldliness and the wretchedness, and now it is too late! ‘Couldst thou not watch with me?’ Boy, I’m afraid I’m going to cry.” Her lip quivered pitifully.“Nance, do youcare?”“Care? Of course I care!” She threw her head back defiantly, and her eyes filled with angry tears. “If I hadn’t, I shouldn’t be here to-night. I—I’d have been married two months ago. God knows I wish I had, before—before all this happened!”“Then listen to me, Nance.” Philip spoke very quietly, but his eyes burned into her soul. “There isn’t any other woman, there never has been, there never could be. I love you, and love you only, with my whole soul, my whole strength——”“But you said——” began Nancy, in a weak little voice.“Never mind what Isaid,” he answered, almost roughly. “I’d sworn I’d never trouble you again without some sign from you. Yet the instant I saw you, out there on the sidewalk, it was all I could do to keep from kneeling down and kissing your blessed little shoes. But I wouldn’t have done it for fifteen thousand different worlds. Suddenly, when you were talking about that damnable man”—Phil ground his teeth savagely—“and his ‘shoals of money,’ that other idea occurred to me—a last resort, a final, forlorn hope that if you had a spark of feeling left for me you might show it then, and I made it all up out of whole cloth.”“Philip, you’re a brute!” The tearswere falling now, but the wraith of a smile hovered about the corners of Nancy’s mouth.“I know I am. I’m despicable, mean, cowardly, unmanly——”“Hateful, paltry, contemptible.” Nancy helped out his collection of adjectives, but, strange to relate, her smile deepened.“And—happy!” finished Phil, triumphantly. “Nance”—-the tone was masterful—“you’vegotto marry me now, right off, to-night. I’m never going to let you get away from me again. I don’t care for all the James Thorntons and all the filthy money in the world. Will you, Little Girl?” The masterful tone gave place to one of pleading tenderness. “Will you give it all up for the man who has never stopped loving you and worshiping you for one single instant since the blessed day when you first came into his life?”“Oh, Phil, Phil, you wicked, contemptible old darling, if you hadn’t asked me to pretty soon, I—I’d have asked you. I’ve tried to get along without you, and I just simplycan’t!”“Nance, you’re an angel!” cried Phil, rapturously. He leaned across the table, with a fine disregard of appearances, and kissed Nancy’s hands. But nobody noticed it at all—except the waiter at a respectful distance, secretly jubilant in the expectation of an unusually large tip, and he didn’t count. That is the beauty of those out-of-the-way Bohemian restaurants—people are so absorbed in their own love-making that they never have time to watch anyone else’s.“You’re a perfect angel!” Phil declared again, fervently.“I know I am; and I’m so happy”—Nancy’s swift transition from grave to gay was always one of her greatest charms—“that I’m afraid if I don’t get out of here pretty soon, they’ll have to call in the police, for there’s no telling what I may do! I feel like dancing a jig on top of this table!”“I dare you,” laughed Phil, happily.“Well, it’s only on your account that I don’t,” she said, airily. “Even though you are a liar, you look so respectable! And, oh, Phil,” she went on, irrelevantly, “I have so much to tell you. I’ll tell you all about everything—a certain fat blue pitcher I found the other day and that really brought me here to New York, about Mr. James Thornton and his artificial moonlight, and everything else—on our way to the minister’s. But I say, Phil”—here the Charles Warren, matter-of-fact strain asserted itself—“if we are going to be married to-night, we must hurry, for it’s after nine now, and I’ve got to be at Lilla’s by ten o’clock. I wouldn’t be late for anything. How surprised she’ll be when Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce sail in!” She looked up suddenly at the picture over the table. “Boy,” she said, very tenderly, “don’t you think ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes’ looks as though she approved?”But Phil had no eyes save for the shining eyes across the table, so his answer cannot be described.“Phil,” said Nancy, about a week later—they had just finished installing Phil’s few Lares and Penates in their new quarters—“isn’t this just the coziest little nook you’ve ever seen?”“Absolutely,” said Phil, with conviction.“I wish mother could see how——” The smile was a bit wistful. “Phil, I really think we ought to go up to see mother. Of course she’s furious—her not answering our telegram is proof positive of that. I’m scared to death at the thought of seeing her. She can look you through and through so, when she disapproves! Idothink she might have written. We haven’t done anything so perfectly dreadful. You don’t suppose she is sick, do you?” she asked, anxiously.“Why, no, Little Girl,” said Phil, soothingly; “we’d have heard in some way if there had been anything of that sort.”“I think I’m getting nervous about her. Will you go up with me to-day, dear?”“Why, certainly, Nance; whenever you want to go, just say the word. I’mhaving a holiday now!” Phil laughed like a happy schoolboy.“All right, then, we’ll go to-day. And please be on your very bestest behavior, Philly-Boy.”“Don’t worry. I’ll be the dutiful son to the queen’s taste.”“And be sure,” adjured Nancy, solemnly, “to tell mother you’re really making quite a lot of money now, that we’re not starving, and that I’m going to have some new clothes the first of next month.”Late that afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce reached the Warren house. Three pulls at the bell brought no response, and all rattlings and shakings of the doorknob were without result. The door was as tightly closed as though it never expected to be opened again till the crack o’ doom.At the back of the house the same conditions existed. Not a door, not a window, would yield.Nancy was plainly vexed. “The Prodigal Son had a much better time than this whenhecame home,” she complained, ruefully.She and Phil walked around to the front of the house again, and down the nasturtium-bordered path that led from the porch to the street. There was absolutely no sign of life anywhere.Suddenly, Nancy heard the “touf-touf” of an automobile, and down the road at a rapid pace came Mr. James Thornton’s gorgeous machine, the chauffeur its sole occupant.“Henry,” she said, walking to the edge of the sidewalk, “can you tell me where Mrs. Warren is?”“No, miss, I cannot.” He drew himself up stiffly. Mrs. Warren’s daughter was evidently in his bad books.“Is Mr. Thornton at home?” she asked, timidly.“No, miss, he is not.” His lips clicked. Then, with sudden condescension, and head held very high, eyes looking straight ahead, he added: “Mr. Thornton is away on his wedding trip.”“Hiswhat?” gasped Nancy, weakly.“Him and Mrs. Warren was married yesterday,” he said, proudly. “She’s a fine, fine lady!” And, touching the visor of his cap, he started the machine down the street.Nancy leaned against a tree, too stunned for words. Then, as the humor of the whole situation flashed over her, she began to laugh, and laughed until, for lack of breath, she couldn’t laugh any longer.“Why, it’s—the funniest thing—I’ve ever heard of, Phil!” she gasped.“Well, it keeps the ‘shoals of money’ in the family!” said Phil, philosophically, and then he howled.“Yes,” Nancy mused, still panting for breath, “mother once said that if I let him slip through my fingers some one else would snap him up before you could say ‘Jack Robinson.” Her eyes danced. “I wonder if anyone said ‘Jack Robinson’?”“No, darling, there wasn’t time. But, at any rate, we’ve made our wedding call on our parents,” said Phil, gayly, “and I think we might as well go back to ‘little old New York’!”Then, hand in hand, like two gladsome children, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce retraced their steps toward the station.

THE FUTURE MRS. THORNTONBy Sarah Guernsey Bradley

By Sarah Guernsey Bradley

Froma worldly point of view there could be no question as to the wisdom and desirability of the match, and Miss Warren’s family was worldly to the core.

It had been a crushing blow to Mrs. Warren’s pride, and, incidentally, a blow in a vastly more material direction, that her two older daughters had made something of a mess of matrimony, pecuniarily speaking.

She was confessedly ambitious for Nancy—Nancy, the youngest, the cleverest, the fairest of the three. Position she alwayswouldhave, being a Warren, but she wanted the girl to have all theothergood things of this life, that for so many years had been unsatisfied desires. Not,of course, that she would want Nancy to marry for money, she assured herself virtuously; that, in addition to being an indirect violation of an article of the Decalogue, was so distinctly plebeian. But it would be so comfortable if Nancy’s affections could only be engaged in a direction where the coffers were not exactly empty. In other words, money would be noobstacleto perfect connubial bliss.

And think of the future which awaited Nancy if she would but say the word! Even the fondly cherished memory of the Warrens’ past glory dwindled into nothingness in comparison.

To be sure, Mr. James Thornton was not so young as hehadbeen ten years ago—“What’s a man’s age? He must hurry more, that’s all,” Mrs. Warren was fond of quoting—nor, in point of girth, did he assumelessaldermanic proportions as time rolled on, but there was such a golden lining to these small clouds of affliction, that he was very generally looked upon as an altogether desirableparti.

It must be admitted that, among other minor idiosyncrasies, Mr. James Thornton would now and then slip into the vernacular. Under great stress of feeling, in the heat of argument and the like, he had been known to break the Sixth Commandment in so far as the English of the king was concerned.

“You was,” “those kind,” “between you and I,” would slip out, but these variations from the strictly conventional were looked upon as little eccentricities in which a man whose fortune went far above the million mark could well afford to indulge.

“James is so droll,” the aristocratic Mrs. Warren would say comfortably, resolutely closing her eyes to the fact that James’ early environment, and not his sense of humor, was responsible for his occasional lapses. For James’ father, old Sid Thornton, as he was always called, could not have boasted even a bowing acquaintance with the very people who were now not only falling over each other in their mad anxiety to entertain his son, but were even more than willing to find that same son a suitable wife among their own fair daughters. Old Sid Thornton’s homely boy, Jim, running away to sea, and Mr. James Thornton, back to the old town with a fortune at his disposal, and living in a mansion that was the admiration and envy of the whole county, were two totally different entities.

Temptingly did the mothers with marriageable daughters display their wares. But of all the number, and many of them were passing fair, Mr. James Thornton cast longing eyes on only one, and that was Nancy Warren. Frankly, he wanted to get married, settle down, perhaps go into politics when he had time; he wanted a mistress for that beautiful house on the hill, some one who would know how to preside at his table and dispense his hospitality; some one, in short, who would know, instinctively, all the little niceties which were as a sealed book to him, and the tall, fair, thoroughbred Miss Warren seemed ideally fitted for the post.

Encouraged thereto by the tactful Mrs. Warren, James had poured into her eager ears the secrets of his honest soul, and Mrs. Warren had listened with a sweet and ready sympathy that had caused James quite to forget a certain stinging snubbing he had received from the selfsame lady, because once, back in the dark ages—before Nancy had opened her blue eyes on this naughty world—when he was a gawky, freckle-faced boy of sixteen, he had dared to walk home from church with Mildred, the eldest daughter of the house of Warren.

That was long before Mrs. Warren had felt poverty’s vicious pinch, and before her life had become one continual struggle to make both ends meet. Somehow, her point of view had changed since then—points of viewwillchange when the howl of the wolf is heard in the near distance, and yet one must smile and smile before one’s little world—and, all other things being equal, Mr. James Thornton’s home, garish with gold and onyx, and fairly shrieking with bad tapestries and faulty paintings and ponderous furniture, seemed as promising and fair a haven as she could possibly find for the youngest and only remaining daughter of the house of Warren. As for any little jarring notes in the decorative scheme of the Thornton abode, Mrs. Warren knew that she could trust Nancy to change all that, if she were once established there as the bride of Mr. James Thornton.

Now, Nancy had her share of the contrary spirit, and although she did not look altogether unfavorably upon the wooing of the affluent James, she took very good care that her mother should not suspect her state of mind. Perhaps that one unforgettable summer, of which her mother only dimly dreamed, made her despise herself for her tacit acquiescence, and she salved her accusing conscience with some outward show of opposition.

“Mr. Thornton is most kind, but his hands are positively beefy, mother,” complained Nancy, one day, her short upper lip curling a bit scornfully. Mrs. Warren had just finished a long dissertation on the virtues of Mr. James Thornton, and, merely incidentally, of course, had touched on the great advantages that would accrue to the girl who should become his wife.

“Yououghtto know, my dear,” Mrs. Warren replied, blandly, “that the sun of South Africa has arather”—Mrs. Warren’s broadahad a supercilious cadence—“toughening effect on the skin. Hands or no hands, he has more to recommend him than any man ofyouracquaintance.” Mrs. Warren refrained from adding in what respect. “He is very much taken with you. Let him slip through your fingers and he’ll be snapped up by some one else before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ Effie Paul”—Mrs. Warren began counting the pining ones on her fingers—“would give her old boots and shoes if she could annex him—she’s a calculating creature; I never liked her. Alice Wood needs only half a chance to throw herself at his feet just as she already has done at his head.Herconduct has been disgraceful.” Mrs. Warren sniffed the sniff of the virtuous and blameless. “There’s not a girl of your acquaintance who would not jump at the chance of becoming Mrs. James Thornton.”

“Did you ever read that story of Kipling’s where he says, ‘Regiments are like women—they will do anything for trinketry’?” inquired Nancy, calmly.

“Kipling may know a great deal about regiments, but he knowsnothingabout women,” said Mrs. Warren, severely. “I am surprised to hear a girl of your age advocating any such idea! I have a higher opinion of my sex, thank Heaven!” She assumed the air of an early Christian martyr.

“Well, I think they’re a pretty mercenary lot,” said Nancy, stolidly.

“Not at all. People sometimes have a proper sense of the eternal fitness of things,” her mother returned, with withering inconsistency. “Not, of course,” she added, hastily, “that I wouldconsentto your marrying Mr. Thornton if you didn’tcarefor him.”

Nancy’s face was a study.

“I think too much ofhimfor that.” Mrs. Warren threw her head back proudly.

“He’s a trifle unideal, mother; a bit different, you must admit,” Nancy laughed. “To begin with, he has a regular bay window.”

“Don’t be vulgar, Anne,” her mother said, sharply. “He inherits flesh.”

“Yes, I remember once hearing dad say that old Sid Thornton looked exactly like an inflated bullfrog,” Nancy laughed, wickedly.

“Your dear father had an unfortunate way of expressing himself.” Mrs. Warren drew herself up stiffly. “And I must say, my dear, that you are much more like poor, dear Charles than you are like me.” Mrs. Warren wiped away a tear, and Nancy wondered vaguely whether the tear was for her late and not too loudly lamented father or for the absence ofherlikeness to his relict.

The next moment Nancy, swiftly penitent, was at her mother’s side, and, taking the still wonderfully young face between her hands, said softly: “Kiss me, Marmee. I’m a brute, I know I am. I know what an awful struggle it has been to keep up appearances. I—I’m sick of it all, too. Only—only, I must think, that’s all. I must be perfectly sure—that I reallycare—for Mr. Thornton. Don’t say anything more now, dearie,” she pleaded, as her mother started to make some reply. “I’m going off to think.” And, kissing her mother tenderly, this strange little creature of varying moods and tenses went up to her own room to have it out with herself. It was the one place where Nancy Warren felt that she could be perfectly honest with her own soul, where all shams and insincerities could safely be laid aside without fear of that arch-tyrant of a small town, Mrs. Grundy.

She opened her window, and, sitting down on the floor in front of it, her head on the broad sill, gazed, with curiously mingled emotions, at the imposing pile of gray stone on the hill, where Mr. James Thornton lived and moved and had his being.

Down deep in her heart of hearts, Nancy Warren knew that she was far more like her mother than that very lovely and very conventional woman dreamed.

She was a luxury-loving soul—things that were mere accidents to other women were absolute necessities to her. With a longing that almost amounted to a passion, she craved jewels, good gowns, laces and all the other dear, delightful pomps and vanities of this world, which only a plethoric purse can procure.

She reveled in the violets and orchids which, so sure as the day dawned, came down from the Thornton conservatories for the greater adornment of the house of Warren.

The rides in the fastest machines in the county, the cross-country runs on Mr. James Thornton’s thoroughbred hunters, all these were as meat and drink to her.

Yes, Mr. James Thornton’s offer was certainly tempting. It meant that everything in the world for which she most cared would be hers except—but that was singularly out-of-date. Nobody really married for that any more. To be sure, her sisters had, but she could not see that they were glaringly happy. And Mr. James Thornton was a good soul—everybody admitted that. And yet—for an instant the gray stone building in the distance, bathed in the golden radiance of the setting sun,grew misty and blurred. She saw another sunset, all pink and green and soft, indefinite violet, and above the deep, sweet, ceaseless sound of a wondrously opalescent sea she heard a man’s voice ring clear and true with a love as eternal as that same changeless sea. She felt again that strange, sweet, unearthly happiness that comes to a woman once and once only. She buried her face in her hands to shut out the sight of that gray stone house on the hill, bathed in the significant, mocking, golden radiance of the setting sun. She heard again that man’s voice, crushed and broken with a dull, hopeless despair. She saw his face grow pale as death as he heard her words of cruel, worldly wisdom. She felt again that same bitter ache at the heart, that horrible, gnawing sense of irreparable loss, as she had voluntarily put out of her life “the only good in the world.”

“But we were too poor,” she cried, passionately, jumping to her feet and throwing her head back defiantly. “It would have been madness—for me.” She looked out of the window again at the gray stone house on the hill, and laughed mirthlessly.

Then she walked slowly away from the window, and stood irresolute for a moment, in the center of the room.

“This horrid, beastly poverty!” she burst out vehemently. “I’m sick of it all—of our wretched, miserable makeshifts. I’m tired, so tired, of everything. It will be such a rest.” She rushed excitedly to the door, and ran, with the air of one who knows delay is fraught with danger, downstairs to her mother’s room.

“Mother”—Mrs. Warren looked up fearfully, as she heard her daughter’s voice—“I have thought it all over.”

“Yes?” said Mrs. Warren, weakly. The reaction was almost too much for her after the half hour of sickening suspense.

“You must see Mr. Thornton when he comes to-night, for I have a splitting headache and I’m going to bed.” Her mother stared at her blankly. Was this the end of all her hopes? “To-day is Tuesday—tell him that I will give him my answer Friday night. And, mother”—her voice dropped in a half-ashamed way—“the answer will be yes.”

“My darling child”—Mrs. Warren took her daughter in her arms—“this is the very proudest and happiest moment of my life.”

“Yes, mother, I know,” Nancy freed herself from the clinging embrace. “I’m happy, awfully happy, too”—she said it as one would speak of the weather or some other deadly commonplace. “I think Mr. Thornton will make a model husband. And—and it’s an end to all our nasty little economies!”

“Anne, don’t be so material,” Mrs. Warren interrupted, in a shocked voice.

“I’m not, mother; only think”—Nancy’s eyes glistened—“no more velveteen masquerading as velvet, no more bargain-counter shoes and gloves, no more percaline petticoats with silk flounces, no moreplaindresses because shirring and tucking take a few more yards; no more summers spent in close, cooped-up hall bedrooms in twelve-dollar-a-week hotels; grape-fruit every morning, and cream always!” She laughed half hysterically. “And Mr. Thornton issogood! It’s wonderful to be so happy, isn’t it, Marmee?”

Mrs. Warren looked at her apprehensively for a moment. “You’re sure,” she faltered—“you’re sure you’re doing it all without a regret for—for anybody, Nancy?”

Nancy’s nails went deep into the palms of her hands. “Without a regret, Marmee,” she smiled, brightly.

“And that you think you will be perfectly happy with James?”

“Perfectly,” said Nancy, evenly.

Mrs. Warren, reassured, was radiant. “My darling child,” she breathed, softly, “this means everything to me.”

“You’ll explain about the headache, won’t you, Marmee?” Nancy asked, moving hurriedly toward the door. She knew that she should scream if she stayed a moment longer in her mother’s presence.

“Yes, indeed, and I’m so sorry aboutthe pain.” Her mother followed her to the door. “Take some——”

“I have everything upstairs, thank you, mother. Good-night.”

“Good-night, my darling child.” Those kisses were the fondest her mother had ever given her. “How I wish that your poor dear father could know of our perfect happiness!”

Nancy passed out into the hall, closed the door behind her, and leaned for a moment against the wall. Mrs. Warren’s idea of perfect happiness would have received a severe shock, could she have heard Nancy murmur, brokenly: “Dear old dad! Pray Heaven youdon’tknow that your little Nance is a miserable, mercenary coward!”

There is a certain sense of relief that follows the consummation of a long-delayed decision, no matter how inherently distasteful that decision may be, and Nancy’s first feeling when she awoke on the following morning was one of thankfulness that the preliminary step had been taken.

All burdens seem lighter, everything takes a different hue, in the morning when the sun is shining and the birds are singing, and after the months of sickening indecision Nancy experienced such a delightful sense of rest, such a freedom from suspense, that she actually laughed aloud as she said to herself: “Oh, I guess perhaps it’s not going to be so bad, after all!”

By the time that Mr. James Thornton’s daily offering of violets and orchids had arrived, she had about decided that she was a rather levelheaded young woman, and when, an hour after that, she found herself seated beside the devoted James, in his glaringly resplendent automobile, skimming along at an exhilarating pace over a fine stretch of country road, she had come to the conclusion that that arch-type of female foolishness, the Virgin with the Unfilled Lamp, was wisdom incarnate compared to the woman who deliberately throws aside the goods the gods provide her. Oh, yes, Nancy was fast becoming the more worthy daughter of a worthy mother!

James Thornton, reassured by what Mrs. Warren had delicately hinted to him the evening before, exulted in Nancy’s buoyant spirits. He had never seen her so attractive. She chattered away merrily, laughed at his weighty jokes and his more or less pointless stories, and even forgot to be angry when for one brief, fleeting instant his massive hand closed over her slim, aristocratic one. It seemed too good to be true that this fascinating bit of femininity was soon to be his.

When they finally returned to the Warrens’ modest house, the wily chauffeur, looking after them as they walked along the nasturtium-bordered path that led to the porch, winked the wink of one on the inside, and smiled broadly as he murmured: “She’s a crackajack! And if there ain’t somethin’ doin’thistime, I’ll eat my goggles!”

“Don’t you think, mother,” said Nancy, an hour or so later—they were sitting in Nancy’s room, Mrs. Warren, with unusual condescension, having come up for a little chat—“that it would have been rather nicer to have had dinner here Friday night, the eventful Friday night”—a queer little tremor ran over her—“instead of at Mr. Thornton’s?”

“Why, no,” said Mrs. Warren, complacently; “I think it will make everything easier for James if we are up there. You know he is inclined to be diffident, Nancy. A man always appears to better advantage in his own house.”

“And of course that is the only thing to be considered.” Nancy smiled half bitterly. She had lost a little of the buoyancy of a few hours before.

“Why, of course, my dear,” Mrs. Warren began, hastily, “if you prefer to——?”

“Oh, no, let it go at that,” returned Nancy, carelessly. “It will be all the same at the end of a lifetime.” She shrugged her shoulders as she spoke. “What shall I wear, mother?” she asked the next moment, with an entire change of manner. “My white, virginal simplicity and all that sort of rot;my shabby little yellow, or the scarlet? Those are my ‘devilish all,’ you know.”

“The white, byallmeans, Nancy.” Mrs. Warren’s tone was impressive; and for reasons of her own she chose to ignore the slang.

“Pink rose in the hair, I suppose, aJanice Meredithcurl, bobbing on my neck and nearly scratching the life out of me, a fewvisibly invisiblelittle pink ribbons, and any other ‘parlor tricks’ I happen to know——”

“Anne!” Her mother frowned angrily.

“Then be led into the conservatory”—Nancy paid no attention to the interruption—“have the moonlight turned on. Horrors, think of that artificial moonlight!” Nancy shuddered. “And then say yes! Heavens! I hope I shan’t say yes until it’s time. It would be awful to miscue at that stage of the game!”

Mrs. Warren rose abruptly from her chair, and without a word started for the door, quivering with indignation.

“There! I’ve been a brute again,” cried Nancy, penitently, dashing after her mother.

“Yes, I think you have,” blazed Mrs. Warren.

“I was only fooling, dearie; it’s all going to be lovely, and I’m going into that conservatory just as valiantly as the Rough Riders charged up old San Juan! Only, Marmee, don’t ask me to wear white—that would betooabsurd! Frankly, I’m susceptible to color. You’ve heard about the little boy who whistled in the dark to keep his courage up?” Mrs. Warren smiled through her tears. “Well, I’m going to wear my red—red is cheerful, and nottooinnocent, and—and courageous—I mean,” Nancy explained, hastily, as she caught her mother’s look of wonder. “It always requiressomecourage for a girl to say she will marry a man, even when the circumstances are as—as happy as they are in this case. Didn’t you feel just a little bit queer when you told dad you’d marry him?”

“Why, yes, I suppose I did,” said Mrs. Warren, half doubtfully.

“Well, then,” said Nancy, logically, “you can understand just what I mean. I’ve a scrap of lace”—reverting to the burning question—“that I’m going to hunt up, that will freshen the red a lot, and some day, Marmee”—she took her mother’s face between her cool, slim hands, and laughed with a fine assumption of gayety—“we’ll have such closetfuls of dainty, bewitching ‘creations’ that we’ll quite forget we ever envied Mother Eve because she didn’t have to rack her brains about what to wear.”

Mrs. Warren laughed. Her indignation had vanished. Nancy had a winsome way with her when she chose that was irresistible to the older woman.

“Now you go take a nice little nap, Marmee”—she kissed her mother lightly on the forehead—“while the future Mrs. James Thornton ferrets out the scrap of lace which is to be thepièce de résistanceofJuliet’scostume when she goes to meet her portlyRomeo!” She laughed merrily, and with a sweeping courtesy ushered her mother out of the room.

As soon as the door had closed behind Mrs. Warren, Nancy, singing lustily, yet with a certain nervousness, as if to drown all power of thought, bustled about the room, peering into topsy-turvy bureau drawers and ransacking inconsequent-looking boxes, with a half-feverish energy, as though upon the unearthing of that particular piece of lace depended her hopes of heaven.

It seemed to be an elusive commodity, that scrap of rose-point; for twenty minutes’ patient search failed utterly to bring it to the light of day.

Suddenly, Nancy espied a big, important-looking black walnut box on the floor of her closet, half hidden by a well-worn party coat which depended from the hook just above it. It was a mysterious-looking box, delightfully suggestive of old love letters and tender fooleries of that sort, orwouldhave been, had it not been the property of an up-to-date, worldly-wise young woman who knew better than to save from the flames such sources of delicious torment,such instruments of exquisite torture.

In an instant Nancy had dragged the box to the door of the closet, and was down on her knees in front of it, going through its contents with ferret-like eagerness.

Yes! Her search was at last rewarded! For there, down under a pair of white satin dancing slippers, in provokingly easy view, lay the much desired finery.

She put her hand under the slippers to draw it from its resting place, and as she felt the lace slip easily as though across some smooth surface, looked with idle curiosity down into the box. Instantly a sharp little cry rang through the room, and she withdrew her hand as swiftly as though she had unearthed a nest of rattlers. Her face was ashen, her breath came quick and short.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was there!” she gasped. “I had forgotten all about it. I thought it had been destroyed with all the rest. Why is it left to torment me now, now,now?” she cried, angrily. Then, with a swift revulsion of feeling, she murmured, brokenly: “Oh, Boy, Boy, is there no escaping you? No forgetting you just when I am trying to so hard?”

She sat very still for a moment. Then she put her hand into the box again and drew out, not the precious scrap of rose-point—that, to her, was as though it had never been—not a blurred, tear-stained love letter, not a bunch of faded violets, but a little, fat, bright blue pitcher, with great, flaming vermilion roses on either side, the most grotesquely and uncompromisingly ugly bit of crockery that one would find from Dan to Beersheba.

Have you never noticed that it is often the most whimsically inconsequent, the most utterly ordinary, the most intrinsically prosaic of inanimate things that, with a sudden and overwhelming rush, will call into being memories the tenderest, the deepest, the saddest? It may be a worthless little book, a withered flower ghastly in its brown grave clothes, a cheap, tawdry trinket; it may be something as intangible as a few bars of a hackneyed song ground out on a wheezy, asthmatic hand organ. But just so surely as one has lived—and therefore loved—one knows the inherent power to sting and wound in things the most pitiably commonplace. De Musset speaks of the “little pebble”:

/* But when upon your fated way you meet Some dumb memorial of a passion dead, That little pebble stops you, and you dread To bruise your tender feet. */

So to Nancy, coming suddenly and at the psychological moment upon that absurd bit of blue clay cajoled from a friendly waiter at a little, out-of-the-way Bohemian restaurant, one never-to-be-forgotten night, the bottom seemed to have dropped out of the universe. The things of this world seemed suddenly to lose their value, and to grow poor and mean and worthless. And she only knew that she was miserable, and heart-hungry, and soul-sick for one who never came, for one who never againwouldcome, forever and forever.

With the little blue pitcher held tightly in her hand, she walked over to the window and looked up at the big gray stone house that was soon to know her as its mistress. And for the very first time the perfect realization of what it all would mean was borne in upon her. She stood there for several minutes motionless, then with a violent, angry shake of the head she cried out in a high, defiant voice: “No, no, no, not until—not yet, not yet!”

She walked rapidly away from the window, and put the little blue pitcher in a post of honor on the mantelpiece. Then, crossing over to the dressing table, she picked up her purse and carefully counted the money. The result must have been satisfactory, for a half-triumphant smile flitted across her face. After that, from the mysterious depths of that same purse, she unearthed a time-table and studied it earnestly.

Then, sitting at her tiny desk, she nervously scrawled these words:

Dear Mother: I have gone to New York to spend the night with Lilla Browning—madeup my mind suddenly, and as I knew you were asleep, didn’t want to bother you. Knew you couldn’t possibly have any objection, because you are so fond of Lil. Want to do some shopping in the morning, and thought this would be the best way to get an early start. Expect me home to-morrow afternoon on the 5:45. Best regards to Mr. Thornton. Have Maggie press my red dress; tell her to be careful not to scorch it. I found the lace. By-by.Nancy.

“All’s fair in love and war,” she murmured, softly, rising from her chair, and taking off stock and belt preparatory to a change of costume. She smiled happily as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were starlike, her whole expression was perfectly radiant.

“And you’re responsible for it all, you little imp!” She shook her finger at the fat, bright blue pitcher with flaming vermilion roses on either side, as it stood on the mantelpiece in blissful unconsciousness of its total depravity.

In less than twenty minutes Nancy was dressed for the street and on her way to the railroad station. Ten minutes later two telegrams flashed over the wires. One ran:

Mrs. Jonathan Browning, West Seventy-second Street, New York City: Will spend to-night with you. Arrive about ten. Don’t meet me.Nancy.

The second one was more brief:

Mr. Philip Peirce.Princeton Club, New York City: Dine with me to-night at Scarlatti’s at seven.Anne Warren.

Not until Nancy, after dismissing the hansom, found herself solitary and alone on the sidewalk in front of the gayly lighted little Bohemian restaurant, did she realize the foolishness, the craziness, of her undertaking. In fact, she had no very clear idea of what that undertaking was.

She looked after the retreating hansom, and a wretched, half-frightened homesickness swept over her.

Suppose Phil had not received the telegram! Suppose, receiving it, he had refused to come! She couldn’t blame him, although he had once said that, no matter what——

And then—in speaking of it afterward, Nancy always declared that it was a positive physiological fact that at that moment her heart was located somewhere in the roof of her mouth—some one caught both her hands in his, some one’s glad voice cried “Nance!” and in the twinkling of an eye the homesickness and the memory of the weeks of wretchedness had vanished, and all the misery of the past and all the uncertainty of the future were swallowed up in the joy of the present.

“I’m so sorry to be late.” Phil’s voice was as remorseful as though he had committedallof the seven deadly sins. “I received your telegram just as I was leaving the club to keep an engagement. Took me ten minutes at the ’phone to break the engagement decently. Jove! but I am glad to see you,” he went on, enthusiastically.

“I hoped you would be, but of course I didn’t know.” It was not at all what Nancy had intended to say, but her heart thumped so furiously that she could scarcely think. She was mortally afraid that Phil would hear it pounding away.

“You know I told you that I shouldalwaysbe glad to see you, Nance.” Then, abruptly: “I hope you haven’t caught cold standing here waiting. It’s not warm to-night. Shall we go inside now?” Nancy nodded, and Phil led the way into Scarlatti’s.

She took the whole room in at a glance, and breathed a sigh of contentment so long, so deep, that it must have come from the tips of her toes.

There was the same absurd little orchestra in their same absurd “monkey clothes,” the same motley crowd of half foreign, wholly happy men and women, the same indescribable odor of un-American cooking—she even rejoiced inthat—and, best of all, on the long shelf that ran around the four sides of the room were the same little, fat, bright blue pitchers with great naming vermilion roses on either side. To be sure, she knew that one was missing, but that was mere detail.

“Phil,” Nancy whispered, eagerly, pulling his coat sleeve violently as thewaiter, with much bowing and scraping, started to lead the way in another direction, “ourtable is empty. Right over there—the tenth from the door. We always had that one, you know, under the picture of ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes.’ I always remembered that it was the tenth.”

“Surely, we’ll have the tenth, by all means.” Phil tapped the waiter on the back, and motioned in the direction of the empty table.

“I thought perhaps you’d rather not,” he whispered to Nancy, as they slipped into the old, familiar places. Evidently Phil had a memory for numbers, too. So often it is only the woman who cancount ten.

“Now,” began Phil, as soon as the dinner had been ordered and other preliminaries attended to, “tell me how on earth you and I happen to be here together? Did you drop straight from the clouds? Or aren’t you here at all? Are you just a bit from a wildly improbable dream?”

“No,” said Nancy, glibly, her equilibrium restored; “I’m spending the night with Lilla Browning, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be fun for us to have dinner together.” She paused a moment. “Once more,” she added, watching Phil’s face closely. “And isn’t it just like that other time—the last time we were here together?” Phil looked at her curiously. “The people, and the soft lights, and the funny little musicians, and my meeting you——”

“Oh-h!” said Phil, quietly.

“And—-and everything,” finished Nancy, lamely.

“Don’t you remember?” she went on. “The paper had sent you off on some pesky assignment, and you were just a wee bit late. And we had a sort of a tiff about it until I happened to look up at the picture over the table, and ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes’ was looking straight down at us? And then, somehow, I had to laugh, too, and we made up. Don’t you remember?”

Phil nodded. Did he not remember everything? Had he notbeenremembering ever since? That was the pity of it all!

“We were pretty happy that night, weren’t we, Phil?”

“Don’t, Nance.” Phil’s bright eyes had a curious, unusual brightness at that moment.

“And I made you—simplymadeyou, you didn’t want to—get me one of those foolish little pitchers.” She pursued her theme relentlessly. “The waiter was so funny!” Nancy laughed merrily as at some droll recollection, “Phil, that was a whole year ago.”

“Nonsense!” said Phil, indignantly. “It’s ten years ago, if it’s a day! Before you grew to be a worldly-wise old lady, and before I had become a cynical old man.”

“You don’t look very old, Phil.”

“Well, I am; I’m as old as the hills. Do you know it has all been an awful pity, Nance?”

“What?” she asked, very softly, smiling adorably.

“Oh, everything——” He stopped short, the smile had escaped him. “Come,” he said, abruptly, “let’s talk about the weather, the—the—what a terrible winter it has been, hasn’t it? Did you have lots of skating up in the country?”

“Yes, lots—about two months too much of it, and it has been the worst winter I ever hope to live through; but really, Phil, I didn’t come to New York to talk about the weather.” The laughter died out of Nancy’s blue eyes. “I—I think I came to New York to ask your advice about something.”

“My advice?” echoed Phil, wonderingly.

“Yes, Ithinkso. Phil, suppose there, was a girl whose father had lost all his money and then had gone to work and died, and had left her and her mother just this side of the poorhouse. And suppose she and her mother had had to pinch and scrimp to keep their heads above the water, until they were sick of the whole business. And suppose a man with shoals of money—a fat, sort of elderly man, who wore diamond rings, and said ‘you was,’ and did lots of other things you and I don’t like,yet was very kind and good—suppose this man wanted to marry this girl. Now, what would you advise her to do, if her mother were secretly crazy to have her marry him?”

“And she didn’t care for anyone else?” Philip’s tone was coldly judicial.

“And she didn’t care for anyone else.” His coldness frightened the lie through her unwilling lips, but she went white as she uttered it.

Philip eyed her narrowly.

“I can’t see why you wantmyadvice,” he said, dully.

Then, very suddenly: “Nancy, suppose there was a man who was rather poor, as things go nowadays, and who had once been very fond of a girl who had treated him pretty badly. And suppose there was a woman”—with swift jealousy Nancy remembered the engagement Philip had broken in order to dine with her that evening—“not a very young woman, who had shoals of money, as you say, who rouged a little, and helped nature along a little in several ways, and did a number of other things that you and I don’t exactly like, but who at heart was a very good sort—would you advise this man to marry her?”

“And he didn’t care for anyone else?” Nancy whispered.

“And he didn’t care for anyone else,” said Phil, steadily.

Nancy bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Oh, the mortification, the humiliation, of it all! She would have given a week out of her life to have been back home.

“Why, if he cared for no one else, I——” The words came with an effort. “Who is she, Phil?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. Who ishe, Nancy?” he asked, sternly.

“James Thornton—you’ve heard of him. Oh, what a pair of worldlings we are!” She pulled herself together with a supreme effort, and, raising her glass of red Hungarian wine to her lips, said lightly: “Here’s to my successor! May she forgive me for this one last evening!” Her hand trembled, and some of the wine splashed on her white waist.

“It looks like a drop of blood.” She shivered slightly. “Champagne doesn’t stain.” Her mouth laughed, but her eyes were full of a dull despair. “When we are married we shall both be drinking that! Do you remember that foolish little song I used to sing, ‘When we are married’?” She tried to hum it, but failed miserably. “We shall sing our songs with a difference, now. Oh, Boy, Boy, it has all been my fault, hasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, tensely.

“Oh, everything,” she said, wearily. “The worldliness and the wretchedness, and now it is too late! ‘Couldst thou not watch with me?’ Boy, I’m afraid I’m going to cry.” Her lip quivered pitifully.

“Nance, do youcare?”

“Care? Of course I care!” She threw her head back defiantly, and her eyes filled with angry tears. “If I hadn’t, I shouldn’t be here to-night. I—I’d have been married two months ago. God knows I wish I had, before—before all this happened!”

“Then listen to me, Nance.” Philip spoke very quietly, but his eyes burned into her soul. “There isn’t any other woman, there never has been, there never could be. I love you, and love you only, with my whole soul, my whole strength——”

“But you said——” began Nancy, in a weak little voice.

“Never mind what Isaid,” he answered, almost roughly. “I’d sworn I’d never trouble you again without some sign from you. Yet the instant I saw you, out there on the sidewalk, it was all I could do to keep from kneeling down and kissing your blessed little shoes. But I wouldn’t have done it for fifteen thousand different worlds. Suddenly, when you were talking about that damnable man”—Phil ground his teeth savagely—“and his ‘shoals of money,’ that other idea occurred to me—a last resort, a final, forlorn hope that if you had a spark of feeling left for me you might show it then, and I made it all up out of whole cloth.”

“Philip, you’re a brute!” The tearswere falling now, but the wraith of a smile hovered about the corners of Nancy’s mouth.

“I know I am. I’m despicable, mean, cowardly, unmanly——”

“Hateful, paltry, contemptible.” Nancy helped out his collection of adjectives, but, strange to relate, her smile deepened.

“And—happy!” finished Phil, triumphantly. “Nance”—-the tone was masterful—“you’vegotto marry me now, right off, to-night. I’m never going to let you get away from me again. I don’t care for all the James Thorntons and all the filthy money in the world. Will you, Little Girl?” The masterful tone gave place to one of pleading tenderness. “Will you give it all up for the man who has never stopped loving you and worshiping you for one single instant since the blessed day when you first came into his life?”

“Oh, Phil, Phil, you wicked, contemptible old darling, if you hadn’t asked me to pretty soon, I—I’d have asked you. I’ve tried to get along without you, and I just simplycan’t!”

“Nance, you’re an angel!” cried Phil, rapturously. He leaned across the table, with a fine disregard of appearances, and kissed Nancy’s hands. But nobody noticed it at all—except the waiter at a respectful distance, secretly jubilant in the expectation of an unusually large tip, and he didn’t count. That is the beauty of those out-of-the-way Bohemian restaurants—people are so absorbed in their own love-making that they never have time to watch anyone else’s.

“You’re a perfect angel!” Phil declared again, fervently.

“I know I am; and I’m so happy”—Nancy’s swift transition from grave to gay was always one of her greatest charms—“that I’m afraid if I don’t get out of here pretty soon, they’ll have to call in the police, for there’s no telling what I may do! I feel like dancing a jig on top of this table!”

“I dare you,” laughed Phil, happily.

“Well, it’s only on your account that I don’t,” she said, airily. “Even though you are a liar, you look so respectable! And, oh, Phil,” she went on, irrelevantly, “I have so much to tell you. I’ll tell you all about everything—a certain fat blue pitcher I found the other day and that really brought me here to New York, about Mr. James Thornton and his artificial moonlight, and everything else—on our way to the minister’s. But I say, Phil”—here the Charles Warren, matter-of-fact strain asserted itself—“if we are going to be married to-night, we must hurry, for it’s after nine now, and I’ve got to be at Lilla’s by ten o’clock. I wouldn’t be late for anything. How surprised she’ll be when Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce sail in!” She looked up suddenly at the picture over the table. “Boy,” she said, very tenderly, “don’t you think ‘The Girl with the Laughing Eyes’ looks as though she approved?”

But Phil had no eyes save for the shining eyes across the table, so his answer cannot be described.

“Phil,” said Nancy, about a week later—they had just finished installing Phil’s few Lares and Penates in their new quarters—“isn’t this just the coziest little nook you’ve ever seen?”

“Absolutely,” said Phil, with conviction.

“I wish mother could see how——” The smile was a bit wistful. “Phil, I really think we ought to go up to see mother. Of course she’s furious—her not answering our telegram is proof positive of that. I’m scared to death at the thought of seeing her. She can look you through and through so, when she disapproves! Idothink she might have written. We haven’t done anything so perfectly dreadful. You don’t suppose she is sick, do you?” she asked, anxiously.

“Why, no, Little Girl,” said Phil, soothingly; “we’d have heard in some way if there had been anything of that sort.”

“I think I’m getting nervous about her. Will you go up with me to-day, dear?”

“Why, certainly, Nance; whenever you want to go, just say the word. I’mhaving a holiday now!” Phil laughed like a happy schoolboy.

“All right, then, we’ll go to-day. And please be on your very bestest behavior, Philly-Boy.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be the dutiful son to the queen’s taste.”

“And be sure,” adjured Nancy, solemnly, “to tell mother you’re really making quite a lot of money now, that we’re not starving, and that I’m going to have some new clothes the first of next month.”

Late that afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce reached the Warren house. Three pulls at the bell brought no response, and all rattlings and shakings of the doorknob were without result. The door was as tightly closed as though it never expected to be opened again till the crack o’ doom.

At the back of the house the same conditions existed. Not a door, not a window, would yield.

Nancy was plainly vexed. “The Prodigal Son had a much better time than this whenhecame home,” she complained, ruefully.

She and Phil walked around to the front of the house again, and down the nasturtium-bordered path that led from the porch to the street. There was absolutely no sign of life anywhere.

Suddenly, Nancy heard the “touf-touf” of an automobile, and down the road at a rapid pace came Mr. James Thornton’s gorgeous machine, the chauffeur its sole occupant.

“Henry,” she said, walking to the edge of the sidewalk, “can you tell me where Mrs. Warren is?”

“No, miss, I cannot.” He drew himself up stiffly. Mrs. Warren’s daughter was evidently in his bad books.

“Is Mr. Thornton at home?” she asked, timidly.

“No, miss, he is not.” His lips clicked. Then, with sudden condescension, and head held very high, eyes looking straight ahead, he added: “Mr. Thornton is away on his wedding trip.”

“Hiswhat?” gasped Nancy, weakly.

“Him and Mrs. Warren was married yesterday,” he said, proudly. “She’s a fine, fine lady!” And, touching the visor of his cap, he started the machine down the street.

Nancy leaned against a tree, too stunned for words. Then, as the humor of the whole situation flashed over her, she began to laugh, and laughed until, for lack of breath, she couldn’t laugh any longer.

“Why, it’s—the funniest thing—I’ve ever heard of, Phil!” she gasped.

“Well, it keeps the ‘shoals of money’ in the family!” said Phil, philosophically, and then he howled.

“Yes,” Nancy mused, still panting for breath, “mother once said that if I let him slip through my fingers some one else would snap him up before you could say ‘Jack Robinson.” Her eyes danced. “I wonder if anyone said ‘Jack Robinson’?”

“No, darling, there wasn’t time. But, at any rate, we’ve made our wedding call on our parents,” said Phil, gayly, “and I think we might as well go back to ‘little old New York’!”

Then, hand in hand, like two gladsome children, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Peirce retraced their steps toward the station.

THE LADY & THE CARBy Churchill WilliamsAAnd, if you don’t mind, old fellow, will you bring over the guns yourself?”That had been Tony Rennert’s parting charge as he bolted from the breakfast table at the Agawan Club for the dogcart which was scheduled to make connections with the eight-forty-five for the city. Two days before, after eighteen months of leisurely travel abroad, I had been met on landing with Tony’s urgent message to join him in bachelor quarters at the Agawan, and with an alacrity born of the wish to get close again to one of the “old crowd,” I had straightway come down to the club in the twenty-horse-power car which had carried me faithfully for six weeks over the French roads. Come down to find myself among a lot of men I did not know and for whom, to be entirely frank, I did not care.Agawan had changed since last I was there. Then it was a big, comfortable shooting box, with a good cook, an old-fashioned barn, and, behind it, kennels for half a dozen clever dogs. Now it was triple its former size, rebuilt and modernized, with many bedrooms, a double-deck piazza and a dancing floor. The barn was gone, a fine stable had taken its place, and tennis courts and golf links occupied a large part of its one-time brush-grown pasturage and sloping meadows. In short, it was a country club, glaring in its fresh paint and with all the abominations which the name of that institution suggests to a man to whom knickerbockers and loose coats, a gun, a dog, a pipe and never the flutter of a petticoat the whole day long give selfish but complete satisfaction.Tony had fallen into evil ways. I suspected as much as soon as I saw the manner of his living; I was sure of it when he informed me, with detestable glee, that there was to be a big house-warming dance the following evening, at which—well, Morleton, three miles away, had undergone a boom in my absence, and from the houses there and from the city, too, were to come—girls. Privately I made up my mind that the dance was a thing I would miss, and Tony must have read disapproval on my face, for he said no more about the festivities, and a little later proposed the shooting. There were woodcock left in the marshes; he had seen them—by accident, I guessed. He would send to the city for the guns, and we would put in a good day together. That sounded better, and I acquiesced promptly.But before we had arisen from the table a waiter brought a telegram, and Tony’s face fell into glum lines. It was an important business message and called him to the city over the next night. There was no help for it, he explained; but, as I had my car, he hoped I would worry it out alone till he got back. He would send down the guns by express against a further delay, and—there a lingering spark of his former affection for the twelve-bores glowed into life—would I personally see that they came over from the railroad station safely?So it was that, a little after nine o’clock the following evening, in accordance with a wire from Tony, I drew up at the station platform just as the last train pulled in. A vibratorspring on the car was badly out of tune; I was bent over, testing it, when a voice exclaimed, joyfully, almost at my elbow: “Oh, there you are! What a scare I have had!”I started and looked up. The impression I got was of a modish and very much up-tilted hat and of a veil which hid everything beneath its brim and the collar of a long, loose coat. These and nothing much besides; for the single post-lamp left the platform in semi-darkness. But I realized that this was a lady who addressed me, and that there was a mistake which I could not too speedily correct.“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but you see——”“Of course I do,” the voice interrupted. “If I had not, I dare say I would have sat on the station platform until—until you had finished fussing with that old machine of yours. Oh! I have heard all about your pet weakness. It was by the car I identified you. But I forgive you. You have waited a whole train for me. Go on with your tinkering. Only let me have a seat in the car, and tell the agent to bring over my trunk.”“Trunk!” I echoed.“Yes, trunk! But not a very large one—you see, it is only for a few days. It will go nicely in the—now, what do you call the back part of your car?”“The tonneau? But, really——”The hat tilted just a shade more, and I was silenced by the command: “Not another word! Positively, you would keep me standing here forever. I had no idea you were so—contentious.Pleasehelp me in, andpleasehave my trunk brought over. Here is my check. Then, if you insist, we can discuss the propriety of trunks on our way to the clubhouse.”I hesitated; but I gave her my arm, and, when she had settled herself in the seat beside the driver’s, I walked over to where the agent stood beside the guns and a steamer trunk of modest size. I picked up the guns and told him to bring over the trunk. Together we put it into the tonneau, the while I debated with myself what to do and what to say. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be small choice. The lady was plainly determined to listen to no explanations. Moreover, to attempt to make her mistake clear to her just now was to place her in an embarrassing predicament; for whoever was to have met her had failed to appear, and already the station master had began to extinguish the lights. I caught at her words “the clubhouse.” That could be none other than the Agawan. Well, I would take her there; the trip should be quickly made, and I would do my best to keep her in ignorance of my identity, at least until she was among friends.“Now, this is very nice,” she said, as I threw in the high gear and we shot into the darkness. “I’ve never been in an automobile before; we have very few of them in”—she named a little town in the South. “You must explain everything to me.”I welcomed the invitation, and promised myself to keep the topic alive as long as there was need for conversation. But I had hardly begun an enthusiastic exposition of the principles of a four-cylinder, gear-driven, twenty-horse-power, French touring car, when she checked me. “I forgot,” she said. “We have never met before. We must start fair. You are to call me ‘Margery’; I hate ‘Miss Gans’ from one who is really an old friend. And I shall call you—let me see?—yes, for the present, I shall call you ‘Mr. Page.’”I started. Who would not have started? “Page” is my Christian name. And I was to call her “Margery”? For just the briefest moment I wondered if my first impression of my companion could have been amiss. But I rallied my self-command and such shreds of gallantry as my life and my convictions had left. Undeniably she was a pretty girl, despite the disguising veil.“It is a bargain,” I said. “I shall hold you to it. But why the ‘MisterPage’?”“Toll to convention,” she answered. “Besides, what would Edith say?”That was a poser. Who in thunder was Edith? But I felt that I was onthe right track. “As for Edith,” I returned, “I don’t believe she would object.”She shook her head wisely. “Well,per-haps not. But even ten years’ friendship has its breaking point. And a wife——” She stopped there. She seemed to be considering the question.“Doesn’t it depend upon who is the wife?” I interpolated. Now I should learn if it was really I who was married.“Yes,” she admitted. “Butyours!Oh, I know Edith! Better even than you do. I knew her long before you had even heard of her, and I could have told you things which would have been—useful to you—if only you had come to me first.”The thought was alluring. “I wish I had,” I said, with more fervor than discretion.She turned upon me quickly, and her face was very close to my own for an instant. Through the veil I managed to get a glimpse of her eyes. They pleased me immensely. “Why? Why? What do you mean?” she asked. There was a soft little lift to her voice which affected me queerly. I made sure that some part of me had made a short circuit with one of the battery wires. Then she lifted her chin. “But—nonsense!” she said. “How could you? I was in a convent school when you met and married Edith.”“And you haven’t seen her since?”“Since she was married? You know I haven’t, you goose! Why, it is tonight I make myentréeinto the world of fashion?”“At Agawan,” I hazarded.She nodded. “Where else? Andyouare to dance with me many times. Remember, I know none of the men there.”For the first time in my life I ceased to feel scorn for an accomplishment which I did not possess. But dancing, I reflected, was of the future, and the future must provide against itself. “Margery” was very much of the present. Then abruptly it occurred to me that the present would soon be of the past if we continued to travel as we were now moving; and I promptly cut down our speed by one-half. I explained that the rest of the road to the club was dangerous at night.She gave a little shiver. “And there is no other road?”I remembered that there was—a longer road—and at the first turn to the right I took to it. In a way it was a safer road, and if there was an accident—what would “Edith” say?We slipped along in silence for a while. Then I asked her if she was warm enough. It was a balmy evening, with the faintest of air stirring. She laughed.Her amusement stung me, but I had just identified a landmark, and knew the clubhouse to be less than a mile away. So I made another brilliant sally. “I am coming to that dance!” I announced.She regarded me with an amazement which was obvious, though I could not see her face. And then, “Will you please to tell me,” she inquired, “just when you made up your mind to that heroic act?”After-reflection convinced me that nothing less than a criminal mistake in the mixing of my Rhine wine and seltzer was responsible for my reply. “Since I saw you,” I answered, solemnly.“Since you saw me?” Then something in the statement, of which I was not immediately aware, appeared to impress her with its humor. She laughed.I gave the steering wheel a vicious jerk. We sheered dangerously. She uttered a little, frightened cry, and her gloved fingers closed upon my wrist. I was absolutely certain I had short-circuited a battery wire when, her hand still resting on my arm, she pleaded: “Forgive me for laughing. I remember now that Edith said you did not dance. You are coming this evening just for me, aren’t you?”What reply was there but the one I made?“You poor fellow,” she went on, and it seemed as if there were a soft pressure from her fingers. “You poor fellow. But—I tell you what we will do.We will watch the dancing together—as often as I can steal away. And we will have a long talk by ourselves, if-if——”“If what?” I asked.“If Edith doesn’t mind!”“Damn Edith!” was on my tongue, but politeness, rather than common sense, transmuted the sentence. “Oh, Edith won’t mind,” I declared, with conviction. And thereat we both laughed—though why, I am not sure. But all at once we seemed to know each other much better. And then the lights of the clubhouse came into view across the lawn, and we turned into the big gates.During the passage of the driveway I devised an explanation. It was intended to salve my conscience for not plumping out the truth. The Lord alone knows what I intended should ensue. One thing only was clear to me—-we would have that “long talk to ourselves,” if it could be contrived. So it was agreed between us that I was to come up to the dancing floor as soon as I had stabled the automobile and put on evening clothes. Our exact meeting place was a vague locality described by her as “wherever Edith is.”With that understanding we parted at the door of the clubhouse. I heard an attendant direct her to the ladies’ dressing room, and him I commissioned to have her trunk conveyed where she might wish. As she disappeared within the doorway her hat brim gave me a saucy little nod of farewell.When I was in my room the enormity of my offense and the absurdity of my position were forced upon me. Here I was impersonating another man and under promise to meet my victim in the very presence of the wife of the man I impersonated, perhaps face to face with the man himself. There could be no explanation, no palliation of the trick I had played, which would allow me to retire with a resemblance of countenance. Who would credit my statement of innocence, even was I willing to throw the burden of the mistake on the shoulders of—Margery?Margery!I pronounced the name aloud, but in a whisper, and liked the sound of it so well that I said it again.Then I realized that I was standing in front of my shaving mirror, one hand clasping a collar, the other a tie, and that the glass reflected an expression positively disgusting in its rapture. I chucked the collar into a corner and sat down on the edge of the bed to think it out. At the end of twenty minutes I was where I had started in. But my mind was made up. At least she should not find me a coward. I would do exactly as I had promised.I shaved and dressed. Half an hour later I was standing in the doorway of the dancing floor trying to discover where “Edith” was.But “my wife,” if present, inconsiderately was concealing her identity in the faces and figures of half a hundred or more women, not one of whom I knew. Margery apparently had not yet come upon the floor, or—the horrid thought obtruded itself—she had discovered who I was, or, rather, who I was not. And what more likely? I had been an ass not to think of this before. And as to the consequences? Each possibility was a shade more humiliating than the one before.Then, just as I was about to turn away to hide myself, to forget myself, anywhere, anyhow, I saw Margery; and, to save my soul, I could not have left without a lingering look by which to remember all the sweet lines of her face and figure. Bereft of that long coat and close veil, for the first time I saw what I had only guessed at before. She had stepped from the shelter of a palm to lay a detaining hand upon the arm of an older woman; and as she stood there, with bright eyes regarding the dancers, her head tilted back, the thought of flight fled from me.The woman she stood beside was not “Edith,” but Mrs. “Ted” Mason—the wife of one of the best fellows I ever knew, and a stanch friend of mine. Instantly my resolve was made. Mrs. “Ted’s” loyalty should be put to the supreme test. She should be my confessor, and, unless I was mistaken,the counsel for my defense. I started on my way around the hem of promenaders.Twice I was delayed by the incursions of dancers, and when I reached the side of my prospective ally she was alone. Out on the floor a slender figure in lavender was smiling in the face of her partner—a man I knew I was to dislike exceedingly when I should meet him.Mrs. “Ted’s” eyes grew big when I stood before her. And when she spoke it was with the air of a tragedy queen. “Do I see aright? Is it you? Or is it your wraith? Is this Page Winslow? And is this scene of revelry—a dancing floor? Oh, Page, Page! In my old age to give me this shock is cruel—unlike you—utterly cruel, I say!”My face burned for the shame I could not conceal, but I was beyond the point where any attack was to divert me. I explained—lies came so readily now. I was present to-night by promise to Tony Rennert, I said. Only by engaging to show myself at the dance had I been able to persuade him to give me his company for a day’s shooting. And Tony was detained in the city, and I was here alone, unprotected, liable at any moment to be seized with stage fright and to swoon. Such a thing would be disgraceful and embarrassing as well to all my friends—in other words, to herself. No, I corrected myself, that was not quite true. There wasoneother person present who might remember me—a Miss Gans——“Margery Gans!” Mrs. Ted’s amazement left her speechless for a moment. Then, while the first words of my confession stuck in my throat, she burst out: “And you of all men! Why, she is just out of a convent school! Tonight is her first! How on earth——?”It was harder than ever now to say what I was trying to say, and she gave me small opportunity. “Why? Why?” she resumed, and suddenly her voice took on a gravity which her mischievous eyes belied. “My dear Page, do you believe in the instrumentality of coincidence?”My confusion was patent, and she went on. “Because, whatever you have believed, you must believe in it from this night. Do you know what has happened to Margery Gans?”“What?” I gasped.Mrs. “Ted” studied me from beneath lowered lids. “Oh!” she said, and “Oh!” again. Then she linked her arm in mine. “There are chairs behind this palm,” she suggested.We sat down. “Page,” she said, “I would not have believed it of you if you had not told me yourself.”“What?” I asked, but her gaze was disconcerting; and when she smiled wisely, I did not repeat the question.She laid her fan across my hand. “I wonder,” she remarked, reflectively, “I wonder how and when you and Margery met. But, no, that is unfair. Don’t tell me. I am very glad you did meet—that is all. And I was nearer to the truth than I thought when I asked you about coincidences. This is what I was going to tell you. Margery is the guest to-night of Edith Page—Mrs. Stoughton Page. At the last moment Edith’s baby was taken ill with the croup, and she sent word she could not leave home. She asked me to act as chaperon. Soon afterward Stoughton Page arrived in his car with Margery, and must have hurried home at once when he heard the baby was sick, for I haven’t been able to find him. I have told Margery that Mrs. Page was detained at home, but I have not told her the details, and I don’t wish you to. She would think it more serious than it is, and it would spoil her evening.”I nodded.“And now,” she went on, “the affair is up to you and me. I am chaperon, and you are one of the few men she appears to know. What are you going to do about it?”A minute before I would have replied: “Tell her the whole truth.” But now a way out of the immediate complications seemed to present itself—a way beset with difficulties, but still a way. I made the one reply which seemed to be safe. “Do?” I said. “Do all I can to give Miss Gans a good time. I don’t dance, you know, but——”“But what?”“But I’ll hang around and talk to her and take her into supper—if she’ll let me—and—all that sort of thing.”“You dear!” cried Mrs. “Ted.” “You dear, self-sacrificing thing!” With this last she cocked a supercilious eye.“But not if you’re going to bait me, or make fun of me afterward,” I qualified.“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Mrs. “Ted.”“And you promise not to mention my name to her, not even to allude to me? This sort of thing is altogether out of my line.”“You surprise me,” she said, but she promised.So it happened that, a little later, in one of those nooks which the genius of decorators devises, and the man of discernment discovers, Margery and I were having that talk—“all to ourselves.” It developed that we had an affinity of tastes. It was her ambition to travel—she had never traveled. She delighted in long tramps—heretofore she had found no one to be her companion. She was sure that automobiling was “just the best sort of fun,” judging from the one ride she had had. And so time slipped by, and I had utterly forgotten “Edith” and the other “Mr. Page,” and everything else except one thing, when Mrs. “Ted’s” voice, just outside the barrier of foliage which hid us, complained that Miss Gans could not be found anywhere.Margery heard, and flushed. “Come on,” she said. “This is disgraceful.” She rose.“But——” I objected.“No buts,” she insisted. “Have you forgotten Edith?”“For the time being,” I admitted.She brushed past me. Her bearing was one of indignant scorn. But, over her shoulder, she remarked, as she looked back: “What a nice place this would be to eat supper.”I replied judiciously that whoever selected it for that purpose should anticipate the supper hour by early occupation. I added that it was my intention to pass the intervening time in the smoking room—alone.She declared that I smoked too much. In Edith’s absence, she supposed, it was her duty, etc. Supper was at twelve o’clock; eleven-thirty seemed to be about the right hour to resume occupation of the bower.Mrs. “Ted” saw us coming to her, and waited. Margery presented me. Mrs. “Ted” was properly grave. She remarked that she had had the honor of knowing the gentleman so long that sometimes she forgot to put the “Mister” before his name. It was a contagious habit, she had observed.I withdrew. Mrs. “Ted’s” variety is infinite, and I was afraid she would forget—promises.In the smoking room I got a corner to myself. But, not for long. Three men came and sat down near by; and, in company with long glasses filled with ice and other things, told stories. Most of these were of people of whom I knew nothing. But the mention of one name caught my attention. It was “Stoughton Page.” It appeared that he had met with an accident early in the evening. His automobile had broken down on the way to meet the seven-fifty train, and he had footed it to the railroad station, only to find that whoever he was to meet there had not come down. He had crawled back to the club, and somebody called “Bobbie” had towed him to his home.As I flung away my cigar and left the smoking room, I was more than’ ever of the opinion that Mrs. “Ted’s” conclusions upon the instrumentality of coincidence had excellent premises. But I was wary of another meeting with that lady, and so it wanted only a few minutes of twelve when my maneuvers brought me, unnoticed, I hoped, to the bower of my seeking. Only to find it empty. Nor was my search of the floor rewarded by a glimpse of the lavender gown. It was at this point that I began to call myself names, and it must have been that I spoke one of them aloud. If not, then mental telepathy had a remarkable demonstration.“I would hardly call you a ‘fool,’ Mr.Page,” said a laughing voice just behind me. “But, really, youarejust a little shortsighted, aren’t you?”“I am sure I have been looking everywhere,” I answered, reproachfully.“For how long, and for whom?” she inquired.“Let us discuss it in the bower,” I suggested.“How very improper!” she remarked. But she led the way in, and, for the hour that followed, the world began and ended for me just where a little semicircle of palms drew its friendly screen about Margery and me. I believe I ate something; I know I made two forays upon the supper table and hurried back just in time to come upon Mrs. “Ted,” who made a most exasperating face at me, but said nothing. And I remember recording a mental note of Margery’s fondness for sweetbreadsen coquille. But of the rest my recollection retains only the picture of a slender girl in the depths of a big, cane chair, a slipper impertinently cocked upon the rung of another chair, the soft light which filtered through the leaves throwing into tantalizing shadow the curves of a mouth and the hide-and-seek play of blue eyes which were successfully employed in supplying me with an entirely new set of sensations.This experience, absorbing to myself, apparently was not without its diversion to the other party, for there was just enough left of “Home, Sweet Home” to identify the air when Margery suddenly slipped from the chair, and I, perforce, followed her. “I will be ready in ten minutes,” she told me. “Meet me downstairs.” Then she turned—to run into the arms of Mrs. “Ted.”I waited by. There was no alternative; Mrs. “Ted” held me with a glance that definitely said: “Flight is at your peril.”She asked Margery a question. I did not catch the words, but Margery’s reply was unmistakable. “Why, of course, Mr. Page will take me home. Edith expects me, you know.” And with that she passed into the dressing room.Mrs. “Ted’s” perplexity would have been comic from another point of view than mine. To me it was like unto the frown of Jove. There was a little pause before she spoke. “Was there ever such another man?” she said. “If it was anyone but you, Page, I would tell that girl the truth at once. Mr. Stoughton Page has not come for her, and has sent no word. I see why, now, though I don’t understand it all, by any means. But—well, I am going to trust the rest to you, only—remember!”I never liked Mrs. “Ted” as I did at that moment, and my liking was not altogether selfish, either. As for her “Remember,” it was—significant.But when she had followed Margery, and I was walking slowly down the stairway, an appreciation of my own position began to obscure every other feeling. A trickle of something cold seemed to pass down my spine, and I am not accounted timid. In a haze I blundered over to the table. There I had the sense to sit down and try to fit together the few facts which must guide me.The proposition shaped itself something like this: Given an automobile and a young woman who believes you to be the husband of her dearest friend—which you are not—how are you, without chaperon or voucher, to deliver her, safely and without destruction of her faith in you or of the good opinion of others for herself, into the keeping of this other man’s wife—residence unknown—at three o’clock in the morning?I took up the premises separatively. First, the automobile. I lighted the lamps and cranked the engine. The motor started sweetly, and mentally I checked off the first item. Second, the young woman. I recalled my experience of the evening, and decided that, as Mrs. “Ted” trusted me, Margery would have no reason to distrust me. So far so good. Third, “the safe delivery.” That depended upon knowledge of the place we were to reach, and of the roads thereto.I hunted up a stableman, and asked him for the shortest and best route toMr. Stoughton Page’s place. He gave me directions. I made him repeat them. As the repetition was a little more confusing than the original information, I thanked him and decided to stake my chances on the apparent facts that the traveling was excellent and the distance only eight miles. The devil of it was there were four turnouts. I suspected that, before I was through, Mr. Stoughton Page’s reputation as an automobile driver would not be undamaged in the estimation of at least one person. But for that and for what must be when the crisis arrived—well, it was inevitable. I threw in the clutch and drew out of the stable. At any rate, there were the hours back of me, and Margery was—Margery. There was sweetness in this thought, and infinite anguish, too.She met me at the steps, hooded and veiled, and, with a pretty air of possession which made my heart leap, instructed the doorman to have “the trunk put into the tonneau, please.” A minute later we were off, Mrs. “Ted” watching our departure and calling out: “Remember!I consider myself responsible for Miss Gans until she is with Mrs. Page!”“Miss Gans” and “Mrs. Page”! Even to my dull comprehension those formalities conveyed their warning. A quickened sense of how I stood toward the slender girl, nestled so comfortably in the seat beside me, stimulated my determination to do nothing, to say nothing, which she could recall to my shame when—when the time came.I must have administered my intentions with strictness; for, presently, she said, suppressing the suspicion of a yawn: “Are you soverytired? Am I suchdreadfullyslow company?”“Neither,” I said, with emphasis, and stopped there.She laughed. “You meant to say both. But the automobiledoesmake one silent, doesn’t it? And contented, too. I shall look back on this evening for a long time to come.”“Thank you.”“For what?”“For the pleasure of your company.”She became very grave over my statement. “If you really mean that, I am very glad,” she said. “For I like you, Mr. Page, ’deed I do. And I will confess you are very different from the picture I had made of you—for myself.”“For yourself?” I began, quickly, but caught myself and added, with unimpeachable politeness: “I am flattered that I should improve on acquaintance.”“You surely do,” she replied. “Yet it is not so much that you do not look exactly as I had imagined. It is not that. But, you see, all I had heard of you came from Edith, and she—she nearly made me loathe you in advance by her continual singing of your praises. I had—yes, I had about decided to stay away to-night, when I thought it would be better to come and see for myself.”“And you aren’t sorry?”“Of course not. Haven’t I told you?”“Margery!” I cried. Duty and discretion slipped my mind. Anyhow, I reflected, a woman who would make a fool of a man as “Edith” had done deserved no consideration. “Margery!” I repeated, very earnestly, and something in my voice must have warned her.She uttered a little “Oh!” and drew away from me. But I leaned toward her, and spoke her name again.And just then we struck a hummock on the side of the road, and the jolt threw me violently against the steering wheel. Margery clutched at me and held on. We came to a dead stop, and she sank back into the seat.For an instant afterward I wavered between saying what it was in my heart to say and silence. But my pose was not heroic, and, to speak the entire truth, I was having some difficulty in regaining my breath. So I got out of the car slowly and explained. Something was wrong with the machinery, probably a ground wire, broken by the shock. It was nothing at which to be alarmed. Was she hurt?She assured me she was not andthat alarm was furtherest from her. I began my investigation, but the broken ground wire was not the only trouble. It I promptly repaired, and still the engine would not respond to my cranking. There were spasmodic explosions, but they came to naught. Nor was the trouble due to any one of the half dozen primary accidents for which, in turn, I made tests. There was a fine, fat spark at the plugs, the vibrator buzzed properly, the gasoline feed appeared to be adequate, the carburettor was performing its duty, and the engine did not seem to be overheated. The manifest fact was that the motor would not run. A few irregular beats, I say, I got out of it by almost winding my arm out of its socket with the crank, only to have the thing die away before I could regain my seat in the car. In my desperation I advanced the spark to a point which resulted in a “back kick” so tremendous that I was nearly thrown into the air.Margery was patient and sympathetic through it all. She sat very still and watched me. When at last I came upon the real trouble and she understood from my pause and silence that I was puzzled by it, she asked: “Will you do something for me?”“Anything,” I answered.“Then, take all the time you need. It doesn’t matter in the least about me. I am very comfortable, and only sorry I can’t help you.”“But youdohelp me,” I said; “you help me a great deal. If you only knew how much, you——”“Tell me about it,” she put in quickly—“what it is that has made us stop.”I obeyed reluctantly. “It is this little spring.” I held it up. “You see, it closes the valve, and the end of it is broken, and the valve does not act as it should. The worst of the thing is that I have no substitute with me.”“And you can’t mend the spring?”“I’m going to try. But I must keep you waiting—perhaps quite a while.”“And that is all that is worrying you? Won’t you forget I am here?”“The one thing I cannot do,” I answered. I dropped the spring and stepped to the side of the car. “Margery!” I said. “Margery, don’t you understand? I can’t forget.”“But you have forgotten!” she interposed instantly. “You have forgotten Edith.”“Edith!” I ejaculated, in exasperation. “Edith may go to the devil for all I care!”“Mr. Page!” she cried. There was no trace of raillery in her voice. I had hurt her, and I knew, even in that moment, that for this she would never forgive me, unless—unless——I told her the truth. “I am not Mr. Page,” I said, bluntly.She leaned forward and gazed at me in blank amazement. But what she was able to see of my face must have convinced her that I spoke the truth. “Not Mr. Page?” she echoed, faintly, and shrank from me.“No,” I said; “my name is Winslow. And I am not married to Edith, or to anyone else. Mr. Stoughton Page, so far as I know, is at home and has been all evening.”I waited for her to speak, but she sat very still, her hands dropped in her lap, her head turned from me, and I thought that I knew a little of what she was thinking, and every second, which passed made it harder for me to have her think this.“Let me tell you something,” I said at last. “It was a mistake, and it was all my fault. I did not know who you were when I first saw you. I only thought of taking you quickly to the club and leaving you there before you should find out that I was not the person I let you think I was. But on the way to the club I—I—it seemed to me as if I must have known you all my life. And then—I saw Mrs. Mason, and she has been my friend for so long, and—everything helped me. So, when no one came to take you home, I could not bear to give you up that way and maybe never see you again. And I did—what I did. And—that is all.”She had not moved while I spoke and her face was denied me. But now she looked up. The veil hid her eyes; Icould only guess at what was in her mind.“You let me call you ‘Mr. Page’?” she said, after a moment.“Page is my first name,” I answered.She gave a little gasp. Somehow, I felt that my case was not so nearly hopeless. “And Mrs. Mason—did she—was she also helping to deceive me?” she asked.“She thought it was Mr. Stoughton Page who brought you to the club. She never knew, until we were leaving, that you did not know who I was. Oh, it was all my fault, all my fault, I tell you!” I finished, as she regarded me in silence. “I let you think everything you did—I never tried to help you out, after the first, because I couldn’t. I loved you, Margery.”“You took a strange way to prove it,” she returned.Her head was thrown back, her gloved hands pressed together. “Oh! oh! I hate you! It was contemptible! To take advantage of my trust! To lie to me! How could you do it?”I turned away miserable, bitter with myself. And all the while I worked on the valve, stretching the spring so it would do its work and replacing the part, she said nothing. Even when I had started the engine and found it to work smoothly and climbed back in the car, she was silent. But she drew away from me with a movement which was unmistakable.The east had begun to lighten long since, and there was a white streak along the horizon, streaked with the clearest of amber and rose, as we came to a crossroad, a mile on, and I got a glimpse of a signpost. If its information was correct, I had made the turns in the road aright, and we were within half a mile of our destination. A minute later we topped a slope, and I marked down a large, stone house which answered the description I had from the club stableman. It was approached by a driveway bordered with trees and shrubbery.I brought the car to a stop at the gates. “I believe this is Mr. Page’s place,” I said.“Yes,” she said. It was the first word she had spoken since she knew who I was.“And before we go in,” I went on, “I thought you might wish to tell me who I am to be.”“I have nothing to do with that,” she answered. “Please take me to the house.”“But,” I insisted, “they will probably ask questions. If they do not, they will wonder. And I can hardly be a stranger to you—under the circumstances.”“You will please take me to the house,” she repeated.I started up the driveway, and once or twice it seemed to me she was about to speak. But she did not, and at the steps I got down and rang the bell. It was a matter of five minutes before there was response. Then there came the faint sound of footsteps from within, and the door was opened. A tall man, in dressing gown, candle in hand, sleep in his eyes, replied to my inquiry. Yes, this was Mr. Stoughton Page’s house, and he was Mr. Page. What did I want?Before I could explain, a voice spoke at my elbow, and Margery stepped into the flickering circle of light. “Only to ask you for shelter,” she said.The man in the dressing gown stared at her, then recognition sprang into his face, and he put down the candle hastily. “Margery Gans!” he cried.“None other,” she answered. “Margery Gans, at your service, or, rather, at your door, and, with her, Mr. Page Winslow, to whom she owes her presence here and an evening of experiences besides. We are just from the dance at the club, at which, sir, you failed me. Is it a welcome, or must we go further?”He held the door open and began to explain. Presently he realized that I was standing by, and urged me to come in. But I said no, I must return to the club, and all the while I looked at Margery, hoping for some little sign.But she kept her face resolutely upon her host, and said nothing. Then, as I turned to go, she laid a hand uponhis arm. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I had almost forgotten my trunk! It is in the car. Could you find some one to bring it in?”“Of course,” he said, and turned back into the house. She threw a swift look over her shoulder, raised her veil, and stepped to the doorway. She held out both her hands.I took them in mine. What I did concerned only us two. “Good-by, Margery,” I said at last.“No, no, not really good-by,” she answered. “Just good-by for a little while——” She faltered.“Page,” I prompted.“My ‘Mr. Page,’” she repeated, softly, and, at the sound of returning footsteps, slipped from me into the dimness of the hall, and was gone.

THE LADY & THE CARBy Churchill Williams

By Churchill Williams

And, if you don’t mind, old fellow, will you bring over the guns yourself?”

That had been Tony Rennert’s parting charge as he bolted from the breakfast table at the Agawan Club for the dogcart which was scheduled to make connections with the eight-forty-five for the city. Two days before, after eighteen months of leisurely travel abroad, I had been met on landing with Tony’s urgent message to join him in bachelor quarters at the Agawan, and with an alacrity born of the wish to get close again to one of the “old crowd,” I had straightway come down to the club in the twenty-horse-power car which had carried me faithfully for six weeks over the French roads. Come down to find myself among a lot of men I did not know and for whom, to be entirely frank, I did not care.

Agawan had changed since last I was there. Then it was a big, comfortable shooting box, with a good cook, an old-fashioned barn, and, behind it, kennels for half a dozen clever dogs. Now it was triple its former size, rebuilt and modernized, with many bedrooms, a double-deck piazza and a dancing floor. The barn was gone, a fine stable had taken its place, and tennis courts and golf links occupied a large part of its one-time brush-grown pasturage and sloping meadows. In short, it was a country club, glaring in its fresh paint and with all the abominations which the name of that institution suggests to a man to whom knickerbockers and loose coats, a gun, a dog, a pipe and never the flutter of a petticoat the whole day long give selfish but complete satisfaction.

Tony had fallen into evil ways. I suspected as much as soon as I saw the manner of his living; I was sure of it when he informed me, with detestable glee, that there was to be a big house-warming dance the following evening, at which—well, Morleton, three miles away, had undergone a boom in my absence, and from the houses there and from the city, too, were to come—girls. Privately I made up my mind that the dance was a thing I would miss, and Tony must have read disapproval on my face, for he said no more about the festivities, and a little later proposed the shooting. There were woodcock left in the marshes; he had seen them—by accident, I guessed. He would send to the city for the guns, and we would put in a good day together. That sounded better, and I acquiesced promptly.

But before we had arisen from the table a waiter brought a telegram, and Tony’s face fell into glum lines. It was an important business message and called him to the city over the next night. There was no help for it, he explained; but, as I had my car, he hoped I would worry it out alone till he got back. He would send down the guns by express against a further delay, and—there a lingering spark of his former affection for the twelve-bores glowed into life—would I personally see that they came over from the railroad station safely?

So it was that, a little after nine o’clock the following evening, in accordance with a wire from Tony, I drew up at the station platform just as the last train pulled in. A vibratorspring on the car was badly out of tune; I was bent over, testing it, when a voice exclaimed, joyfully, almost at my elbow: “Oh, there you are! What a scare I have had!”

I started and looked up. The impression I got was of a modish and very much up-tilted hat and of a veil which hid everything beneath its brim and the collar of a long, loose coat. These and nothing much besides; for the single post-lamp left the platform in semi-darkness. But I realized that this was a lady who addressed me, and that there was a mistake which I could not too speedily correct.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “but you see——”

“Of course I do,” the voice interrupted. “If I had not, I dare say I would have sat on the station platform until—until you had finished fussing with that old machine of yours. Oh! I have heard all about your pet weakness. It was by the car I identified you. But I forgive you. You have waited a whole train for me. Go on with your tinkering. Only let me have a seat in the car, and tell the agent to bring over my trunk.”

“Trunk!” I echoed.

“Yes, trunk! But not a very large one—you see, it is only for a few days. It will go nicely in the—now, what do you call the back part of your car?”

“The tonneau? But, really——”

The hat tilted just a shade more, and I was silenced by the command: “Not another word! Positively, you would keep me standing here forever. I had no idea you were so—contentious.Pleasehelp me in, andpleasehave my trunk brought over. Here is my check. Then, if you insist, we can discuss the propriety of trunks on our way to the clubhouse.”

I hesitated; but I gave her my arm, and, when she had settled herself in the seat beside the driver’s, I walked over to where the agent stood beside the guns and a steamer trunk of modest size. I picked up the guns and told him to bring over the trunk. Together we put it into the tonneau, the while I debated with myself what to do and what to say. As a matter of fact, there seemed to be small choice. The lady was plainly determined to listen to no explanations. Moreover, to attempt to make her mistake clear to her just now was to place her in an embarrassing predicament; for whoever was to have met her had failed to appear, and already the station master had began to extinguish the lights. I caught at her words “the clubhouse.” That could be none other than the Agawan. Well, I would take her there; the trip should be quickly made, and I would do my best to keep her in ignorance of my identity, at least until she was among friends.

“Now, this is very nice,” she said, as I threw in the high gear and we shot into the darkness. “I’ve never been in an automobile before; we have very few of them in”—she named a little town in the South. “You must explain everything to me.”

I welcomed the invitation, and promised myself to keep the topic alive as long as there was need for conversation. But I had hardly begun an enthusiastic exposition of the principles of a four-cylinder, gear-driven, twenty-horse-power, French touring car, when she checked me. “I forgot,” she said. “We have never met before. We must start fair. You are to call me ‘Margery’; I hate ‘Miss Gans’ from one who is really an old friend. And I shall call you—let me see?—yes, for the present, I shall call you ‘Mr. Page.’”

I started. Who would not have started? “Page” is my Christian name. And I was to call her “Margery”? For just the briefest moment I wondered if my first impression of my companion could have been amiss. But I rallied my self-command and such shreds of gallantry as my life and my convictions had left. Undeniably she was a pretty girl, despite the disguising veil.

“It is a bargain,” I said. “I shall hold you to it. But why the ‘MisterPage’?”

“Toll to convention,” she answered. “Besides, what would Edith say?”

That was a poser. Who in thunder was Edith? But I felt that I was onthe right track. “As for Edith,” I returned, “I don’t believe she would object.”

She shook her head wisely. “Well,per-haps not. But even ten years’ friendship has its breaking point. And a wife——” She stopped there. She seemed to be considering the question.

“Doesn’t it depend upon who is the wife?” I interpolated. Now I should learn if it was really I who was married.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Butyours!Oh, I know Edith! Better even than you do. I knew her long before you had even heard of her, and I could have told you things which would have been—useful to you—if only you had come to me first.”

The thought was alluring. “I wish I had,” I said, with more fervor than discretion.

She turned upon me quickly, and her face was very close to my own for an instant. Through the veil I managed to get a glimpse of her eyes. They pleased me immensely. “Why? Why? What do you mean?” she asked. There was a soft little lift to her voice which affected me queerly. I made sure that some part of me had made a short circuit with one of the battery wires. Then she lifted her chin. “But—nonsense!” she said. “How could you? I was in a convent school when you met and married Edith.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

“Since she was married? You know I haven’t, you goose! Why, it is tonight I make myentréeinto the world of fashion?”

“At Agawan,” I hazarded.

She nodded. “Where else? Andyouare to dance with me many times. Remember, I know none of the men there.”

For the first time in my life I ceased to feel scorn for an accomplishment which I did not possess. But dancing, I reflected, was of the future, and the future must provide against itself. “Margery” was very much of the present. Then abruptly it occurred to me that the present would soon be of the past if we continued to travel as we were now moving; and I promptly cut down our speed by one-half. I explained that the rest of the road to the club was dangerous at night.

She gave a little shiver. “And there is no other road?”

I remembered that there was—a longer road—and at the first turn to the right I took to it. In a way it was a safer road, and if there was an accident—what would “Edith” say?

We slipped along in silence for a while. Then I asked her if she was warm enough. It was a balmy evening, with the faintest of air stirring. She laughed.

Her amusement stung me, but I had just identified a landmark, and knew the clubhouse to be less than a mile away. So I made another brilliant sally. “I am coming to that dance!” I announced.

She regarded me with an amazement which was obvious, though I could not see her face. And then, “Will you please to tell me,” she inquired, “just when you made up your mind to that heroic act?”

After-reflection convinced me that nothing less than a criminal mistake in the mixing of my Rhine wine and seltzer was responsible for my reply. “Since I saw you,” I answered, solemnly.

“Since you saw me?” Then something in the statement, of which I was not immediately aware, appeared to impress her with its humor. She laughed.

I gave the steering wheel a vicious jerk. We sheered dangerously. She uttered a little, frightened cry, and her gloved fingers closed upon my wrist. I was absolutely certain I had short-circuited a battery wire when, her hand still resting on my arm, she pleaded: “Forgive me for laughing. I remember now that Edith said you did not dance. You are coming this evening just for me, aren’t you?”

What reply was there but the one I made?

“You poor fellow,” she went on, and it seemed as if there were a soft pressure from her fingers. “You poor fellow. But—I tell you what we will do.We will watch the dancing together—as often as I can steal away. And we will have a long talk by ourselves, if-if——”

“If what?” I asked.

“If Edith doesn’t mind!”

“Damn Edith!” was on my tongue, but politeness, rather than common sense, transmuted the sentence. “Oh, Edith won’t mind,” I declared, with conviction. And thereat we both laughed—though why, I am not sure. But all at once we seemed to know each other much better. And then the lights of the clubhouse came into view across the lawn, and we turned into the big gates.

During the passage of the driveway I devised an explanation. It was intended to salve my conscience for not plumping out the truth. The Lord alone knows what I intended should ensue. One thing only was clear to me—-we would have that “long talk to ourselves,” if it could be contrived. So it was agreed between us that I was to come up to the dancing floor as soon as I had stabled the automobile and put on evening clothes. Our exact meeting place was a vague locality described by her as “wherever Edith is.”

With that understanding we parted at the door of the clubhouse. I heard an attendant direct her to the ladies’ dressing room, and him I commissioned to have her trunk conveyed where she might wish. As she disappeared within the doorway her hat brim gave me a saucy little nod of farewell.

When I was in my room the enormity of my offense and the absurdity of my position were forced upon me. Here I was impersonating another man and under promise to meet my victim in the very presence of the wife of the man I impersonated, perhaps face to face with the man himself. There could be no explanation, no palliation of the trick I had played, which would allow me to retire with a resemblance of countenance. Who would credit my statement of innocence, even was I willing to throw the burden of the mistake on the shoulders of—Margery?Margery!I pronounced the name aloud, but in a whisper, and liked the sound of it so well that I said it again.

Then I realized that I was standing in front of my shaving mirror, one hand clasping a collar, the other a tie, and that the glass reflected an expression positively disgusting in its rapture. I chucked the collar into a corner and sat down on the edge of the bed to think it out. At the end of twenty minutes I was where I had started in. But my mind was made up. At least she should not find me a coward. I would do exactly as I had promised.

I shaved and dressed. Half an hour later I was standing in the doorway of the dancing floor trying to discover where “Edith” was.

But “my wife,” if present, inconsiderately was concealing her identity in the faces and figures of half a hundred or more women, not one of whom I knew. Margery apparently had not yet come upon the floor, or—the horrid thought obtruded itself—she had discovered who I was, or, rather, who I was not. And what more likely? I had been an ass not to think of this before. And as to the consequences? Each possibility was a shade more humiliating than the one before.

Then, just as I was about to turn away to hide myself, to forget myself, anywhere, anyhow, I saw Margery; and, to save my soul, I could not have left without a lingering look by which to remember all the sweet lines of her face and figure. Bereft of that long coat and close veil, for the first time I saw what I had only guessed at before. She had stepped from the shelter of a palm to lay a detaining hand upon the arm of an older woman; and as she stood there, with bright eyes regarding the dancers, her head tilted back, the thought of flight fled from me.

The woman she stood beside was not “Edith,” but Mrs. “Ted” Mason—the wife of one of the best fellows I ever knew, and a stanch friend of mine. Instantly my resolve was made. Mrs. “Ted’s” loyalty should be put to the supreme test. She should be my confessor, and, unless I was mistaken,the counsel for my defense. I started on my way around the hem of promenaders.

Twice I was delayed by the incursions of dancers, and when I reached the side of my prospective ally she was alone. Out on the floor a slender figure in lavender was smiling in the face of her partner—a man I knew I was to dislike exceedingly when I should meet him.

Mrs. “Ted’s” eyes grew big when I stood before her. And when she spoke it was with the air of a tragedy queen. “Do I see aright? Is it you? Or is it your wraith? Is this Page Winslow? And is this scene of revelry—a dancing floor? Oh, Page, Page! In my old age to give me this shock is cruel—unlike you—utterly cruel, I say!”

My face burned for the shame I could not conceal, but I was beyond the point where any attack was to divert me. I explained—lies came so readily now. I was present to-night by promise to Tony Rennert, I said. Only by engaging to show myself at the dance had I been able to persuade him to give me his company for a day’s shooting. And Tony was detained in the city, and I was here alone, unprotected, liable at any moment to be seized with stage fright and to swoon. Such a thing would be disgraceful and embarrassing as well to all my friends—in other words, to herself. No, I corrected myself, that was not quite true. There wasoneother person present who might remember me—a Miss Gans——

“Margery Gans!” Mrs. Ted’s amazement left her speechless for a moment. Then, while the first words of my confession stuck in my throat, she burst out: “And you of all men! Why, she is just out of a convent school! Tonight is her first! How on earth——?”

It was harder than ever now to say what I was trying to say, and she gave me small opportunity. “Why? Why?” she resumed, and suddenly her voice took on a gravity which her mischievous eyes belied. “My dear Page, do you believe in the instrumentality of coincidence?”

My confusion was patent, and she went on. “Because, whatever you have believed, you must believe in it from this night. Do you know what has happened to Margery Gans?”

“What?” I gasped.

Mrs. “Ted” studied me from beneath lowered lids. “Oh!” she said, and “Oh!” again. Then she linked her arm in mine. “There are chairs behind this palm,” she suggested.

We sat down. “Page,” she said, “I would not have believed it of you if you had not told me yourself.”

“What?” I asked, but her gaze was disconcerting; and when she smiled wisely, I did not repeat the question.

She laid her fan across my hand. “I wonder,” she remarked, reflectively, “I wonder how and when you and Margery met. But, no, that is unfair. Don’t tell me. I am very glad you did meet—that is all. And I was nearer to the truth than I thought when I asked you about coincidences. This is what I was going to tell you. Margery is the guest to-night of Edith Page—Mrs. Stoughton Page. At the last moment Edith’s baby was taken ill with the croup, and she sent word she could not leave home. She asked me to act as chaperon. Soon afterward Stoughton Page arrived in his car with Margery, and must have hurried home at once when he heard the baby was sick, for I haven’t been able to find him. I have told Margery that Mrs. Page was detained at home, but I have not told her the details, and I don’t wish you to. She would think it more serious than it is, and it would spoil her evening.”

I nodded.

“And now,” she went on, “the affair is up to you and me. I am chaperon, and you are one of the few men she appears to know. What are you going to do about it?”

A minute before I would have replied: “Tell her the whole truth.” But now a way out of the immediate complications seemed to present itself—a way beset with difficulties, but still a way. I made the one reply which seemed to be safe. “Do?” I said. “Do all I can to give Miss Gans a good time. I don’t dance, you know, but——”

“But what?”

“But I’ll hang around and talk to her and take her into supper—if she’ll let me—and—all that sort of thing.”

“You dear!” cried Mrs. “Ted.” “You dear, self-sacrificing thing!” With this last she cocked a supercilious eye.

“But not if you’re going to bait me, or make fun of me afterward,” I qualified.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” declared Mrs. “Ted.”

“And you promise not to mention my name to her, not even to allude to me? This sort of thing is altogether out of my line.”

“You surprise me,” she said, but she promised.

So it happened that, a little later, in one of those nooks which the genius of decorators devises, and the man of discernment discovers, Margery and I were having that talk—“all to ourselves.” It developed that we had an affinity of tastes. It was her ambition to travel—she had never traveled. She delighted in long tramps—heretofore she had found no one to be her companion. She was sure that automobiling was “just the best sort of fun,” judging from the one ride she had had. And so time slipped by, and I had utterly forgotten “Edith” and the other “Mr. Page,” and everything else except one thing, when Mrs. “Ted’s” voice, just outside the barrier of foliage which hid us, complained that Miss Gans could not be found anywhere.

Margery heard, and flushed. “Come on,” she said. “This is disgraceful.” She rose.

“But——” I objected.

“No buts,” she insisted. “Have you forgotten Edith?”

“For the time being,” I admitted.

She brushed past me. Her bearing was one of indignant scorn. But, over her shoulder, she remarked, as she looked back: “What a nice place this would be to eat supper.”

I replied judiciously that whoever selected it for that purpose should anticipate the supper hour by early occupation. I added that it was my intention to pass the intervening time in the smoking room—alone.

She declared that I smoked too much. In Edith’s absence, she supposed, it was her duty, etc. Supper was at twelve o’clock; eleven-thirty seemed to be about the right hour to resume occupation of the bower.

Mrs. “Ted” saw us coming to her, and waited. Margery presented me. Mrs. “Ted” was properly grave. She remarked that she had had the honor of knowing the gentleman so long that sometimes she forgot to put the “Mister” before his name. It was a contagious habit, she had observed.

I withdrew. Mrs. “Ted’s” variety is infinite, and I was afraid she would forget—promises.

In the smoking room I got a corner to myself. But, not for long. Three men came and sat down near by; and, in company with long glasses filled with ice and other things, told stories. Most of these were of people of whom I knew nothing. But the mention of one name caught my attention. It was “Stoughton Page.” It appeared that he had met with an accident early in the evening. His automobile had broken down on the way to meet the seven-fifty train, and he had footed it to the railroad station, only to find that whoever he was to meet there had not come down. He had crawled back to the club, and somebody called “Bobbie” had towed him to his home.

As I flung away my cigar and left the smoking room, I was more than’ ever of the opinion that Mrs. “Ted’s” conclusions upon the instrumentality of coincidence had excellent premises. But I was wary of another meeting with that lady, and so it wanted only a few minutes of twelve when my maneuvers brought me, unnoticed, I hoped, to the bower of my seeking. Only to find it empty. Nor was my search of the floor rewarded by a glimpse of the lavender gown. It was at this point that I began to call myself names, and it must have been that I spoke one of them aloud. If not, then mental telepathy had a remarkable demonstration.

“I would hardly call you a ‘fool,’ Mr.Page,” said a laughing voice just behind me. “But, really, youarejust a little shortsighted, aren’t you?”

“I am sure I have been looking everywhere,” I answered, reproachfully.

“For how long, and for whom?” she inquired.

“Let us discuss it in the bower,” I suggested.

“How very improper!” she remarked. But she led the way in, and, for the hour that followed, the world began and ended for me just where a little semicircle of palms drew its friendly screen about Margery and me. I believe I ate something; I know I made two forays upon the supper table and hurried back just in time to come upon Mrs. “Ted,” who made a most exasperating face at me, but said nothing. And I remember recording a mental note of Margery’s fondness for sweetbreadsen coquille. But of the rest my recollection retains only the picture of a slender girl in the depths of a big, cane chair, a slipper impertinently cocked upon the rung of another chair, the soft light which filtered through the leaves throwing into tantalizing shadow the curves of a mouth and the hide-and-seek play of blue eyes which were successfully employed in supplying me with an entirely new set of sensations.

This experience, absorbing to myself, apparently was not without its diversion to the other party, for there was just enough left of “Home, Sweet Home” to identify the air when Margery suddenly slipped from the chair, and I, perforce, followed her. “I will be ready in ten minutes,” she told me. “Meet me downstairs.” Then she turned—to run into the arms of Mrs. “Ted.”

I waited by. There was no alternative; Mrs. “Ted” held me with a glance that definitely said: “Flight is at your peril.”

She asked Margery a question. I did not catch the words, but Margery’s reply was unmistakable. “Why, of course, Mr. Page will take me home. Edith expects me, you know.” And with that she passed into the dressing room.

Mrs. “Ted’s” perplexity would have been comic from another point of view than mine. To me it was like unto the frown of Jove. There was a little pause before she spoke. “Was there ever such another man?” she said. “If it was anyone but you, Page, I would tell that girl the truth at once. Mr. Stoughton Page has not come for her, and has sent no word. I see why, now, though I don’t understand it all, by any means. But—well, I am going to trust the rest to you, only—remember!”

I never liked Mrs. “Ted” as I did at that moment, and my liking was not altogether selfish, either. As for her “Remember,” it was—significant.

But when she had followed Margery, and I was walking slowly down the stairway, an appreciation of my own position began to obscure every other feeling. A trickle of something cold seemed to pass down my spine, and I am not accounted timid. In a haze I blundered over to the table. There I had the sense to sit down and try to fit together the few facts which must guide me.

The proposition shaped itself something like this: Given an automobile and a young woman who believes you to be the husband of her dearest friend—which you are not—how are you, without chaperon or voucher, to deliver her, safely and without destruction of her faith in you or of the good opinion of others for herself, into the keeping of this other man’s wife—residence unknown—at three o’clock in the morning?

I took up the premises separatively. First, the automobile. I lighted the lamps and cranked the engine. The motor started sweetly, and mentally I checked off the first item. Second, the young woman. I recalled my experience of the evening, and decided that, as Mrs. “Ted” trusted me, Margery would have no reason to distrust me. So far so good. Third, “the safe delivery.” That depended upon knowledge of the place we were to reach, and of the roads thereto.

I hunted up a stableman, and asked him for the shortest and best route toMr. Stoughton Page’s place. He gave me directions. I made him repeat them. As the repetition was a little more confusing than the original information, I thanked him and decided to stake my chances on the apparent facts that the traveling was excellent and the distance only eight miles. The devil of it was there were four turnouts. I suspected that, before I was through, Mr. Stoughton Page’s reputation as an automobile driver would not be undamaged in the estimation of at least one person. But for that and for what must be when the crisis arrived—well, it was inevitable. I threw in the clutch and drew out of the stable. At any rate, there were the hours back of me, and Margery was—Margery. There was sweetness in this thought, and infinite anguish, too.

She met me at the steps, hooded and veiled, and, with a pretty air of possession which made my heart leap, instructed the doorman to have “the trunk put into the tonneau, please.” A minute later we were off, Mrs. “Ted” watching our departure and calling out: “Remember!I consider myself responsible for Miss Gans until she is with Mrs. Page!”

“Miss Gans” and “Mrs. Page”! Even to my dull comprehension those formalities conveyed their warning. A quickened sense of how I stood toward the slender girl, nestled so comfortably in the seat beside me, stimulated my determination to do nothing, to say nothing, which she could recall to my shame when—when the time came.

I must have administered my intentions with strictness; for, presently, she said, suppressing the suspicion of a yawn: “Are you soverytired? Am I suchdreadfullyslow company?”

“Neither,” I said, with emphasis, and stopped there.

She laughed. “You meant to say both. But the automobiledoesmake one silent, doesn’t it? And contented, too. I shall look back on this evening for a long time to come.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For the pleasure of your company.”

She became very grave over my statement. “If you really mean that, I am very glad,” she said. “For I like you, Mr. Page, ’deed I do. And I will confess you are very different from the picture I had made of you—for myself.”

“For yourself?” I began, quickly, but caught myself and added, with unimpeachable politeness: “I am flattered that I should improve on acquaintance.”

“You surely do,” she replied. “Yet it is not so much that you do not look exactly as I had imagined. It is not that. But, you see, all I had heard of you came from Edith, and she—she nearly made me loathe you in advance by her continual singing of your praises. I had—yes, I had about decided to stay away to-night, when I thought it would be better to come and see for myself.”

“And you aren’t sorry?”

“Of course not. Haven’t I told you?”

“Margery!” I cried. Duty and discretion slipped my mind. Anyhow, I reflected, a woman who would make a fool of a man as “Edith” had done deserved no consideration. “Margery!” I repeated, very earnestly, and something in my voice must have warned her.

She uttered a little “Oh!” and drew away from me. But I leaned toward her, and spoke her name again.

And just then we struck a hummock on the side of the road, and the jolt threw me violently against the steering wheel. Margery clutched at me and held on. We came to a dead stop, and she sank back into the seat.

For an instant afterward I wavered between saying what it was in my heart to say and silence. But my pose was not heroic, and, to speak the entire truth, I was having some difficulty in regaining my breath. So I got out of the car slowly and explained. Something was wrong with the machinery, probably a ground wire, broken by the shock. It was nothing at which to be alarmed. Was she hurt?

She assured me she was not andthat alarm was furtherest from her. I began my investigation, but the broken ground wire was not the only trouble. It I promptly repaired, and still the engine would not respond to my cranking. There were spasmodic explosions, but they came to naught. Nor was the trouble due to any one of the half dozen primary accidents for which, in turn, I made tests. There was a fine, fat spark at the plugs, the vibrator buzzed properly, the gasoline feed appeared to be adequate, the carburettor was performing its duty, and the engine did not seem to be overheated. The manifest fact was that the motor would not run. A few irregular beats, I say, I got out of it by almost winding my arm out of its socket with the crank, only to have the thing die away before I could regain my seat in the car. In my desperation I advanced the spark to a point which resulted in a “back kick” so tremendous that I was nearly thrown into the air.

Margery was patient and sympathetic through it all. She sat very still and watched me. When at last I came upon the real trouble and she understood from my pause and silence that I was puzzled by it, she asked: “Will you do something for me?”

“Anything,” I answered.

“Then, take all the time you need. It doesn’t matter in the least about me. I am very comfortable, and only sorry I can’t help you.”

“But youdohelp me,” I said; “you help me a great deal. If you only knew how much, you——”

“Tell me about it,” she put in quickly—“what it is that has made us stop.”

I obeyed reluctantly. “It is this little spring.” I held it up. “You see, it closes the valve, and the end of it is broken, and the valve does not act as it should. The worst of the thing is that I have no substitute with me.”

“And you can’t mend the spring?”

“I’m going to try. But I must keep you waiting—perhaps quite a while.”

“And that is all that is worrying you? Won’t you forget I am here?”

“The one thing I cannot do,” I answered. I dropped the spring and stepped to the side of the car. “Margery!” I said. “Margery, don’t you understand? I can’t forget.”

“But you have forgotten!” she interposed instantly. “You have forgotten Edith.”

“Edith!” I ejaculated, in exasperation. “Edith may go to the devil for all I care!”

“Mr. Page!” she cried. There was no trace of raillery in her voice. I had hurt her, and I knew, even in that moment, that for this she would never forgive me, unless—unless——

I told her the truth. “I am not Mr. Page,” I said, bluntly.

She leaned forward and gazed at me in blank amazement. But what she was able to see of my face must have convinced her that I spoke the truth. “Not Mr. Page?” she echoed, faintly, and shrank from me.

“No,” I said; “my name is Winslow. And I am not married to Edith, or to anyone else. Mr. Stoughton Page, so far as I know, is at home and has been all evening.”

I waited for her to speak, but she sat very still, her hands dropped in her lap, her head turned from me, and I thought that I knew a little of what she was thinking, and every second, which passed made it harder for me to have her think this.

“Let me tell you something,” I said at last. “It was a mistake, and it was all my fault. I did not know who you were when I first saw you. I only thought of taking you quickly to the club and leaving you there before you should find out that I was not the person I let you think I was. But on the way to the club I—I—it seemed to me as if I must have known you all my life. And then—I saw Mrs. Mason, and she has been my friend for so long, and—everything helped me. So, when no one came to take you home, I could not bear to give you up that way and maybe never see you again. And I did—what I did. And—that is all.”

She had not moved while I spoke and her face was denied me. But now she looked up. The veil hid her eyes; Icould only guess at what was in her mind.

“You let me call you ‘Mr. Page’?” she said, after a moment.

“Page is my first name,” I answered.

She gave a little gasp. Somehow, I felt that my case was not so nearly hopeless. “And Mrs. Mason—did she—was she also helping to deceive me?” she asked.

“She thought it was Mr. Stoughton Page who brought you to the club. She never knew, until we were leaving, that you did not know who I was. Oh, it was all my fault, all my fault, I tell you!” I finished, as she regarded me in silence. “I let you think everything you did—I never tried to help you out, after the first, because I couldn’t. I loved you, Margery.”

“You took a strange way to prove it,” she returned.

Her head was thrown back, her gloved hands pressed together. “Oh! oh! I hate you! It was contemptible! To take advantage of my trust! To lie to me! How could you do it?”

I turned away miserable, bitter with myself. And all the while I worked on the valve, stretching the spring so it would do its work and replacing the part, she said nothing. Even when I had started the engine and found it to work smoothly and climbed back in the car, she was silent. But she drew away from me with a movement which was unmistakable.

The east had begun to lighten long since, and there was a white streak along the horizon, streaked with the clearest of amber and rose, as we came to a crossroad, a mile on, and I got a glimpse of a signpost. If its information was correct, I had made the turns in the road aright, and we were within half a mile of our destination. A minute later we topped a slope, and I marked down a large, stone house which answered the description I had from the club stableman. It was approached by a driveway bordered with trees and shrubbery.

I brought the car to a stop at the gates. “I believe this is Mr. Page’s place,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. It was the first word she had spoken since she knew who I was.

“And before we go in,” I went on, “I thought you might wish to tell me who I am to be.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” she answered. “Please take me to the house.”

“But,” I insisted, “they will probably ask questions. If they do not, they will wonder. And I can hardly be a stranger to you—under the circumstances.”

“You will please take me to the house,” she repeated.

I started up the driveway, and once or twice it seemed to me she was about to speak. But she did not, and at the steps I got down and rang the bell. It was a matter of five minutes before there was response. Then there came the faint sound of footsteps from within, and the door was opened. A tall man, in dressing gown, candle in hand, sleep in his eyes, replied to my inquiry. Yes, this was Mr. Stoughton Page’s house, and he was Mr. Page. What did I want?

Before I could explain, a voice spoke at my elbow, and Margery stepped into the flickering circle of light. “Only to ask you for shelter,” she said.

The man in the dressing gown stared at her, then recognition sprang into his face, and he put down the candle hastily. “Margery Gans!” he cried.

“None other,” she answered. “Margery Gans, at your service, or, rather, at your door, and, with her, Mr. Page Winslow, to whom she owes her presence here and an evening of experiences besides. We are just from the dance at the club, at which, sir, you failed me. Is it a welcome, or must we go further?”

He held the door open and began to explain. Presently he realized that I was standing by, and urged me to come in. But I said no, I must return to the club, and all the while I looked at Margery, hoping for some little sign.

But she kept her face resolutely upon her host, and said nothing. Then, as I turned to go, she laid a hand uponhis arm. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “I had almost forgotten my trunk! It is in the car. Could you find some one to bring it in?”

“Of course,” he said, and turned back into the house. She threw a swift look over her shoulder, raised her veil, and stepped to the doorway. She held out both her hands.

I took them in mine. What I did concerned only us two. “Good-by, Margery,” I said at last.

“No, no, not really good-by,” she answered. “Just good-by for a little while——” She faltered.

“Page,” I prompted.

“My ‘Mr. Page,’” she repeated, softly, and, at the sound of returning footsteps, slipped from me into the dimness of the hall, and was gone.

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