Alden's Silence
"Dear," he said, "did you think that, after last night, I could urge you to violate your solemn oath or even to break your word?"
"I hoped not, but I didn't know."
"I see it all clearly now. If more was meant for us to have, more would be right for us to take. Back in the beginning this was meant for you and me—just this, and nothing more."
"How could there be more? Isn't love enough?"
"Surely, but the separation hurts. Never even to see your face or touch your hand again!"
"I know," she said, softly. "I'll want you, too."
A thousand things struggled for utterance, but, true to his word, he remained silent. His whole nature was merged into an imperious demand for her, the cry of the man's soul for the woman who belonged to him by divine right.
"If love were all," she breathed, as though in answer to it, "I'd come."
"If love were all," he repeated. "I wonder why it isn't? What is there on earth aside from this? What more can heaven be than love—without the fear of parting?"
"No more," she replied. "We've lost each other in this life, but there's another life to come."
Whirling Atoms
"'Helen's lips are drifting dust,'" he quoted.
"Perhaps not. That which once was Helen may be alive to-day in a thousand different forms. A violet upon a mossy bank, a bough of apple blossoms mirrored in a pool, the blood upon some rust-stained sword, a woman waiting, somewhere, for a lover who does not come."
"And her soul?"
"Drawn back into the Universal soul, to be born anew, in part or all."
"What a pagan you are!"
"Yes," she responded, smiling a little, "I am pagan and heathen and Christian martyr and much else. I am everything that I can understand and nothing that I cannot. Don't you see?"
"Yes, I see, but what are we after all? Only two whirling atoms, blown on winds of Fate. What difference does it make whether we cling together, or are hopelessly sundered, as far apart as the poles?"
"The same difference that it makes to a human body whether its atoms behave or not. You don't want to upset the Universe, do you?"
He laughed, a trifle bitterly. "I don't flatter myself that I could."
"Not you alone, nor I, nor even both together, but we mustn't set a bad example toother atoms. As long as there's a preponderance of right in the world, things are clear, but, shift the balance, and then——"
What Is Right?
"What is right?" he demanded, roughly. "Always to do the thing you don't want to do?"
"That depends," she returned, shrugging her shoulders. "It is to do what you think is right, and trust that it may be so."
Alden stopped rowing. He was interested in these vague abstractions. "And," he said, "if a woman thinks it is her duty to murder her husband, and does it, is she doing right?"
"Possibly. I've seen lots of husbands who would make the world better by leaving it, even so—well, abruptly, as you indicate. And the lady you speak of, who, as it were, assists, may merely have drawn a generous part of Lucretia Borgia for her soul-substance, and this portion chanced to assert itself while her husband was in the house and out of temper."
"Don't be flippant, darling. This is our last day together. Let's not play a waltz at an open grave."
The long light lay upon the tranquil waters, and, as a mirror might, the river gave it back a hundred-fold, sending stray gleams into the rushes at the bend in the stream, long arrows of impalpable silver into the farshadows upon the shore, and a transfiguring radiance to Edith's face.
A Rainbow
Where the marsh swerved aside to wait until the river passed, the sunlight took a tall, purple-plumed iris, the reflection of the turquoise sky in a shallow pool, a bit of iridescence from a dragon-fly's wing, the shimmering green of blown grasses and a gleam of rising mist to make a fairy-like rainbow that, upon the instant, disappeared.
"Oh!" said Edith. "Did you see?"
"See what, dearest?"
"The rainbow—just for a moment, over the marsh?"
"No, I didn't. Do you expect me to hunt for rainbows while I may look into your face?"
The faint colour came to her cheeks, then receded. "Better go on," she suggested, "if we're to get where we're going before dark."
The oars murmured in the water, then rain dripped from the shining blades. The strong muscles of his body moved in perfect unison as the boat swept out into the sunset glow. Deeper and more exquisite with every passing moment, the light lay lovingly upon the stream, bearing fairy freight of colour and gold to the living waters that sang and crooned and dreamed from hills to sea.
"It doesn't seem," she said, "as though itwere the last time. With earth so beautiful, how can people be miserable?"
A Perfect Spring Day
"Very easily," he responded. The expression of his face changed ever so little, and lines appeared around his mouth.
"I remember," Edith went on, "the day my mother died. It was a perfect day late in the Spring, when everything on earth seemed to exult in the joy of living. Outside, it was life incarnate, with violets and robins and apple blossoms and that ineffable sweetness that comes only then. Inside, she lay asleep, as pale and cold as marble. At first, I couldn't believe it. I went outside, then in again. One robin came to the tree outside her window and sang until my heart almost broke with the pain of it. And every time I've heard a robin since, it all comes back to me."
"Yes," said Alden, quietly, "but all the life outside was made from death, and the death within had only gone on to life again. You cannot have one without the other, any more than you can have a light without a shadow somewhere."
"Nor a shadow," Edith continued, "without knowing that somewhere there must be light."
They stopped at the cleft between the hills, where they had been the other day, but this time no one waited, with breaking heart, behind the rustling screen of leaves. Againstthe rock, with some simple woodcraft of stones and dry twigs, Alden made a fire, while Edith spread the white cloth that covered Madame's basket and set forth the dainty fare.
At Sunset
They ate in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because there was so much that words seemed empty and vain. Afterward, when the flaming tapestry in the West had faded to a pale web of rose and purple, faintly starred with exquisite lamps of gleaming pearl, he came to her, and, without speaking, took her into his arms.
For a long time they stood there, heart to heart, in that rapturous communion wholly transcending sense. To him it was not because she was a woman; it was because she was Edith, the mate of his heart and soul. And, to her, it was a subtle completion of herself, the best of her answering eagerly to the best in him.
At last, with a sigh, he pushed her gently away from him, and looked down into her eyes with a great sadness.
"Never any more, beloved. Have you thought of that?"
"Yes, I know," she whispered. "Never any more."
"I'll want you always."
"And I you."
"Sometimes my heart will almost break with longing for you, craving the dear touchof you, though it might be only to lay my hand upon your face."
The Day's Duty
"Yes, I know."
"And at night, when I dream that we're somewhere together, and I reach out my arms to hold you close, I'll wake with a start, to find my arms empty and my heart full."
"The whole world lies between us, dear."
"And heaven also, I think."
"No, not heaven, for there we shall find each other again, with no barriers to keep us apart."
"I shall live only to make myself worthy of finding you, dearest. I have nothing else to do."
"Ah, but you have."
"What?"
"The day's duty, always; the thing that lies nearest your hand. You know, I've begun to see that it isn't so much our business to be happy as it is to do the things we are meant to do. And I think, too, that happiness comes most surely to those who do not go out in search of it, but do their work patiently, and wait for it to come."
"That may be true for others, but not for us. What happiness is there in the world for me, apart from you?"
"Memory," she reminded him gently. "We've had this much and nobody can take it away from us."
Memories
"But even this will hurt, heart's dearest, when we see each other no more."
"Not always." As she spoke, she sat down on the ground and leaned back against a tree. He dropped down beside her, slipped his arm around her, and drew her head to his shoulder, softly kissing her hair.
"I remember everything," she went on, "from the time you met me at the station. I can see you now as you came toward me, and that memory is all by itself, for nobody at the very first meeting looks the same as afterward. There is always some subtle change—I don't know why. Do I look the same to you now as I did then?"
"You've always been the most beautiful thing in the world to me, since the first moment I saw you."
"No, not the first moment."
"When was it, then, darling?"
"The first night, when I came down to dinner, in that pale green satin gown. Don't you remember?"
"As if I could ever forget!"
"And you thought I looked like a tiger-lily."
"Did I?"
"Yes, but you didn't say it and I was glad, for so many other men had said it before."
"Perhaps it was because, past all your splendour, I saw you—the one perfect andpeerless woman God made for me and sent to me too late."
Kisses
"Not too late for the best of it, dear."
"What else do you remember?"
"Everything. I haven't forgotten a word nor a look nor a single kiss. The strange sweet fires in your eyes, the clasp of your arms around me, your lips on mine, the nights we've lain awake with love surging from heart to heart and back again—it's all strung for me into a rosary of memories that nothing can ever take away."
"That first kiss, beloved. Do you remember?"
"Yes. It was here." She stretched out her arm and with a rosy finger-tip indicated the bare, sweet hollow of her elbow, just below the sleeve.
Lover-like, he kissed it again. "Do you love me?"
"Yes, Boy—for always."
"How much?"
"Better than everything else in the world. Do you love me?"
"Yes, with all my heart and soul and strength and will. There isn't a fibre of me that doesn't love you."
"For always?"
"Yes, for always."
And so they chanted the lover's litany until even the afterglow had died out of the sky.Edith released herself from his clinging arms. "We must go," she sighed. "It's getting late."
If
He assisted her to her feet, and led her to the boat, moored in shallows that made a murmurous singing all around it and upon the shore. He took her hand to help her in, then paused.
"If love were all," he asked, "what would you do?"
"If love were all," she answered, "I'd put my arms around you, like this, never to be unclasped again. I'd go with you to-night, to the end of the world, and ask for nothing but that we might be together. I'd face the heat of the desert uncomplainingly, the cold of perpetual snows. I'd bear anything, suffer anything, do anything. I'd so merge my life with yours that one heart-beat would serve us both, and when we died, we'd go together—if love were all."
"God bless you, dear!" he murmured, with his lips against hers.
"And you. Come."
The boat swung out over the shallows into the middle of the stream, where the current took them slowly and steadily toward home. For the most part they drifted, though Alden took care to keep the boat well out from shore, and now and then, with the stroke of an oar dipped up a myriad of mirrored stars.
Seeking for a Message
Edith laughed. "Give me one, won't you, please?"
"You shall have them all."
"But I asked only for one."
"Then choose."
She leaned forward, in the scented shadow, serious now, with a quick and characteristic change of mood. "The love star," she breathed. "Keep it burning for me, will you, in spite of clouds and darkness—for always?"
"Yes, my queen—for always."
When they reached the house, Madame was nowhere in sight. Divining their wish to be alone on this last evening together, she had long since gone to her own room. The candles on the mantel had been lighted and the reading lamp burned low. Near it was the little red book that Edith had found at the top of the Hill of the Muses.
Sighing, she took it up. "How long ago it seems," she said, "and yet it wasn't. Life began for me that night."
"And for me. I read to you, do you remember, just before I kissed you for the first time?"
"Yes. Read to me again just before you kiss me for the last time, then give me the book to keep."
"Which one? The same?"
"No," cried Edith. "Anything but that!"
"Then choose. Close your eyes, and choose."
"It's like seeking for a message, or a sign,"she said, as she swiftly turned the pages. Then, with her eyes still closed, she offered him the book. "Here—read this. Is it a blank page?"
Severed Selves
There was a pause, then Edith opened her eyes. "It isn't the first one you read to me, is it? Don't tell me that it is!"
"No," said Alden, "it isn't, but it's a message. Listen."
She sat down, in her old place, but he stood at the table, bending toward the light. His boyish mouth trembled a little, his hands were unsteady, and there was a world of love and pain in his eyes. With his voice breaking upon the words, he read:
"Two separate divided silences,Which, brought together, would find loving voice;Two glances which together would rejoiceIn love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease;Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:—Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecastIndeed one hour again, when on this streamOf darkened love once more the light shall gleam?—An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,—Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream."
"Two separate divided silences,Which, brought together, would find loving voice;Two glances which together would rejoiceIn love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease;Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:—
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecastIndeed one hour again, when on this streamOf darkened love once more the light shall gleam?—An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,—Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream."
For a moment the silence was tense. Then the hall clock struck the hour of midnight.It beat upon their senses like a funeral knell. Then Edith, white-faced, and struggling valiantly for self-control, reached out her hand for the book.
Good-bye
"Good-night, Boy," she said, "for the last time."
"Good-night," he answered, gathering her into his arms.
"And good-bye, Boy, forever!"
"Forever," he echoed, "good-bye!"
He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risen above it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red book against her heart, ran quickly up-stairs.
He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her door had closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a long time in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room.
Grandmother's Loss
"They ain't on the bureau and they ain't on the washstand, and I disremember takin' 'em out last night when I went to bed, so I must have swallered 'em." Grandmother's speech was somewhat blurred but her meaning was distinct.
"Well," returned Matilda, with aggravating calmness, "if you have swallowed 'em, you have, so what of it?"
"Matilda Starr! I should think you'd have some human feelin's about you somewheres. Here your mother's gone and swallered her false teeth and you set there, not tryin' to do anything for her."
"What can I do? I can't stand on a chair and swing you by your feet, same as Mis' Bates did when her little Henry choked on a marble, can I? Besides, you couldn't have swallowed 'em. You'll find 'em somewheres."
"Maybe I couldn't have swallered 'em, but I have," Grandmother mumbled. "What's more, I feel 'em workin' now inside me.They're chewing on the linin' of my stomach, and it hurts."
What's the Matter?
"I didn't know there was any linin' in your stomach."
"There is. It said so in the paper."
"Did it say anything about hooks and eyes and whalebones? What kind of a linin' is it—cambric, or drillin'?"
"I don't see how you can set there, Matilda, and make fun of your poor old mother, when she's bein' eaten alive by her own teeth. I wouldn't treat a dog like that, much less my own flesh and blood."
"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth," commented Matilda, missing the point.
Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and lay down with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal, and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested her attention.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I'm dyin', Rosemary," Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered my teeth, and I am dyin' in agony."
"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"
"That's what I told her," said Miss Matilda, triumphantly.
"But I have," Grandmother retorted,feebly. "I can feel 'em—here." She placed her hand upon her ill-defined waist line, and groaned again.
Rosemary to the Rescue
Rosemary ran up-stairs, inspired to unusual speed by the heartrending sounds that came from below. When she returned, Grandmother seemed to be in a final spasm, and even Matilda was frightened, though she would not have admitted it.
"Here," said Rosemary. "Now come to breakfast."
Grandmother rolled her eyes helplessly toward Rosemary, then suddenly sat up. "Where'd you get 'em?" she demanded, in a different tone.
"They were on the floor under the washstand. Please come before everything gets cold."
"I told you you hadn't swallowed 'em," remarked Matilda, caustically.
"Maybe I didn't, but I might have," rejoined Grandmother. "Anyhow, I've seen how you'd all act in case I had swallered 'em, and I know who to leave my money to when I die." She beamed kindly upon Rosemary, in whom the mention of money had produced mingled emotions of anger and resentment.
"If you had swallowed 'em, Rosemary couldn't have got 'em," Matilda objected.
"She'd have tried," said the old lady,sharply, "and that's more than can be said of some folks. Not mentionin' any names."
A Bit of Gossip
Breakfast bade fair to be a lively sparring match when Rosemary interposed, pacifically: "Never mind what might have been. Let's be glad she didn't swallow them." As the others accepted this compromise, the remainder of the meal proceeded in comparative peace.
"I heard from the milkman this morning," said Matilda, "that Marshs' company has gone."
"Gone!" repeated Grandmother. "What for? I thought she had come to stay a spell."
"Gone!" echoed Rosemary, in astonishment.
"Did she go sudden?" queried Grandmother.
"Well, in a way it was sudden, and in a way 'twasn't. She was more'n a whole day puttin' her clothes into her trunks—the respectable trunk, and the big trunk, and the dog-house, and the one what had bulges on all sides but one."
"What train did she go on?"
"The eight o'clock accommodation, yesterday morning. Young Marsh went down to see her off, and the station agent told the milkman that he stood lookin' after the train until you couldn't even see the smoke from the engine. The agent was restin' after havin' helped hist the trunks on the train, and young Marsh up and handed him out a dollar, without even sayin' what it was for. He reckoned itwas pay for stoppin' the train and helpin' to put on the trunks, but the railroad pays him for doin' that, so the milkman thinks it was kind of a thank-offerin', on account of her havin' stayed so long that they was glad to get rid of her."
A Tip
"'Twasn't no thank-offerin'," replied Grandmother, shaking her head sagely. "That's what they call a tip."
"The agent was some upset by it," Matilda agreed. "He's been keepin' station here for more'n ten years now and nobody ever did the likes of that before."
"I didn't say it was an upsetment—I said it was a tip."
"What's the difference?"
"A tip is money that you give somebody who thinks he's done something for you, whether you think he has or not."
"I don't understand," Matilda muttered.
"I didn't either, at first," Grandmother admitted, "but I was readin' a piece in the paper about women travellin' alone and it said that 'in order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slight service.' Them's the very words."
"It means bowin', then," returned Matilda. "Bowin' and sayin', 'Thank you.'"
"It's no such thing. Wait till I get the paper."
After a prolonged search through the hoardedtreasures of the past three or four months, Grandmother came back to her chair by the window, adjusted her spectacles, and began to read "The Lady Traveller by Land."
A Lady's Baggage
"'When it becomes necessary, for the sake of either business or pleasure, for a lady to start out upon a trip alone, no matter how short, she should make all her preparations well in advance, so that she need not be hurried just before starting, and may embark upon her journey with that peaceful and contented mind which is so essential to the true enjoyment of travelling.
"'She will, of course, travel with the smallest amount of baggage compatible with comfort, but a few small articles that should not be overlooked will more than repay the slight trouble caused by their transportation. Among these may be mentioned the medicine chest, in which are a few standard household remedies for illness or accident, a bottle of smelling-salts, another of cologne, and a roll of old linen for bandages. While accident is not at all likely, it is just as well to be prepared for all emergencies.
"'The lady traveller will naturally carry her own soap and towels, and also a silk or cotton bag for her hat. She——'"
"A what for her hat?" asked Matilda, with unmistakable interest.
"'A silk or cotton bag for her hat,'"Grandmother repeated. "'To keep the dust out.'"
The Hat-Bag
"What's the good of wearin' a hat if she's got to set with a bag over it?"
"It doesn't say she's to wear the bag."
"Well, she's wearin' the hat, ain't she? How's she to put the bag over the hat while she's wearin' the hat without wearin' the bag too? That's what I'd like to know."
"Maybe it's to put her hat into when she takes it off for the night," Grandmother suggested, hopefully, though she was not at all sure. "A person ain't likely to get much sleep in a hat."
"No, nor in a bag neither."
"'She should also carry her luncheon, as the meals supplied to travellers are either poor or expensive, or both. With a small spirit lamp she can very easily make coffee or tea for herself, or heat a cupful of milk should she be restless in the night. Care should be taken, however, not to set fire to the curtains surrounding the berth in this latter emergency.'
"'The curtains surrounding the berth,'" Grandmother repeated, in a wavering voice. "It's printed wrong. They've got it b-e-r-t-h."
"Seems to me," murmured Matilda, "that a woman who——"
"Matilda!" interrupted Grandmother, imperiously. For a moment the silence was awkward. "Unmarried women ain't got anycall to be thinkin' about such things, let alone speakin' of 'em. This piece is written to cover all possible emergencies of the lady traveller, but it ain't for such as you to be askin' questions about what don't concern you."
In the Morning
"Go ahead," said Matilda, submissively.
"Where was I? Oh, yes. 'The ladies' dressing-room will always be found at one of the two ends of the car. Care should be taken early in the journey to ascertain which end. If there are many ladies in the car, one should rise early, to take advantage of the unoccupied room for a cooling and refreshing sponge bath. It will be necessary to carry a sponge for this, and a small bag of rubber or oiled silk should be made for it to prevent moistening the contents of the suit-case after using.'"
"Supposin' they all subscribed for this paper," Matilda objected, "and all should rise early for the cooling and refreshing sponge bath?"
"'Tain't likely," Grandmother answered. "'After the bath one should take plenty of time to dress, as nothing is less conducive to comfort in travelling than the feeling that one has been too hastily attired. By this time, the porter will have the berth in order, if he has been tipped the night before.'"
Matilda murmured inarticulately, but was too wise to speak.
The Porter
"'The usual tip,'" Grandmother continued, hastily, with her cheeks burning, "'is twenty-five cents for each person every twenty-four hours. In order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slight service, but nothing smaller than five cents should ever be given at any one time.
"'It has been said that a porter is a dark gentleman who has been employed to keep air out of the car, but the lady traveller will find it easy to induce him to open a ventilator or two if he has been properly tipped. Fresh air is very essential for the true enjoyment of travelling.
"'He can throw many little comforts in one's way—a pillow during the daytime or an extra blanket at night, or——'"
"I don't know," Matilda interrupted, "as I'd care to have comforts or pillows or blankets thrown at me, night or day, especially by a man, no matter what colour he is."
"'Mindful always of the possibility of accident,'" Grandmother resumed, "'it is well to keep one's self as presentable as possible, especially during the night, when according to statistics the majority of wrecks occur. Consequently the experienced lady traveller will not undress entirely, but merely removing a few of her outer garments, and keeping her shoes within easy reach, she will don a comfortable dressing-gown, and compose herselffor sleep. Some people prefer to have the berth made up feet first, but it is always better to have the head toward the engine, as experience has proved that the slight motion of the train assists the circulation, which should run toward the feet if sleep is to be enjoyed during the night.
Where to Eat
"'If, owing to circumstances, it is impossible to carry a luncheon and one must either leave the train for one's meals or go into the dining-car, there are a few very simple rules to remember. In case the meal is to be taken at a wayside station, and, as often happens, there is more than one eating-house which offers refreshment, the lady traveller should wait quietly by her own car until she sees into which place the train officials go. Remember that they have been over the road before and know where the most comfortable and reasonable meal is to be had.
"'Upon the other hand, if one goes into the dining-car, the same rules apply as at any well-regulated hotel. From the list of dishes which will be offered her upon a printed card, the lady traveller may select such as seem attractive, and, in case of doubt, she may with perfect propriety ask the waiter to make a selection for her, as he has been placed there by the company for that purpose.
"'Having eaten to her satisfaction, she will carefully compare the check which is broughther with the list of prices given upon the printed card, add them up mentally without seeming to do so, and if all is right, pay the bill, giving to the waiter ten per cent of the total amount for a tip. That is, if the check calls for one dollar, the waiter will receive a dollar and ten cents.'"
Ten Per Cent
"What for?" queried Matilda.
"That's his tip," explained the old lady. "That's what I've been tellin' you all along."
"Does it cost ten dollars to go to the city?"
"Not as I know of. The fare used to be four dollars and somethin'. Why?"
"Then why did young Marsh give the station agent a dollar? That's what I want to know."
"You can't find out from me," Grandmother answered, with all evidence of having told the literal truth. "Shall I go on with this piece I'm tryin' to read, or don't you want your mind improved none?"
"I'm willing to have my mind improved, but I'd like the privilege of askin' a question occasionally while it's being done."
"Last week's paper said there was no way of improvin' the mind that was to be compared with readin'. Shall I go on?"
"Yes—go on."
"'If the check calls for a dollar and a half, the waiter will receive an extra fifteen cents for his tip, and so on. In case of any disagreement, always refer to the train officials, whoare usually courteous and well-mannered. Should they not be so, however, a threat to write to the President of the railroad will usually be found all sufficient to produce a change of demeanour.
Avoid Making Acquaintances
"'The lady traveller should bear in mind the fact that it is impossible to confine the pleasures and privileges of travel to entirely reputable persons, and should hence keep upon the safe side by making no chance acquaintances, whatever the provocation may be.
"'By wearing dark clothes, preferably her old ones, an unassuming hat, and no jewelry, the lady traveller may render herself inconspicuous and not likely to attract masculine attention. In case of accident it is allowable to accept assistance from anyone, though the train officials are at all times to be preferred. If one desires to know what time it is, how late the train is, how long the train will stop at the next meal station, or when one is due at one's destination, the train officials are the ones to ask.
"'Upon a long and tedious journey, however, or in case of many prolonged delays, it is quite permissible to exchange a few words upon the weather or some other topic of mutual interest with a fellow-passenger of the same sex, whether she be travelling alone, or accompanied by her husband.
"'Pleasant acquaintances are sometimesformed in this way, and it may be entirely safe and proper, under certain circumstances, to accept small courtesies from a gentleman who is travelling with his wife, such as the brief loan of a newspaper or magazine, or information regarding the scenery through which the train is passing when none of the train officials are at hand.
At the End of the Journey
"'It is best, however, to be very careful, for it is much easier not to begin friendly relations with one's fellow passengers than it is to discontinue such relations after they have been once begun.
"'It is seldom necessary, or even advisable, to give one's name to anyone except the officials of the train, but there can be no objection to showing a fellow-passenger of the same sex one's name upon one's ticket if polite relations have been established. This is better than speaking the name aloud, which might cause embarrassment if it were overheard, and carries with it no such social obligation as the exchange of cards would do.
"'Arriving at her destination, the lady traveller should proceed at once to her hotel or lodging-house, if no friend is to meet her, regardless of the plans of her fellow passengers. If one should chance to meet any of them afterward, a courteous inclination of the head, accompanied by a bright smile, is sufficient recognition, or, if for any reason one prefersnot to recognise those with whom one has travelled, all that is necessary is to appear not to see them.
Appeal to the Conductor
"'In case a gentleman should attempt to converse with the lady traveller while the train is in motion or at rest, this same conduct meets the exigencies of the situation admirably: simply do not appear to see him. If, however, he continues to converse, turn to him, and say in a low, well-controlled voice: "Sir, if you persist further in forcing your unwelcome attentions upon me, I shall summon the conductor at once."
"'In most cases, the objectionable party will at once leave and the interference of the conductor will not be required.
"'The next article in this series will deal with "The Lady Traveller by Water," where conditions are entirely different and require a different line of conduct.'"
"There," said Grandmother, clearing her throat and folding up the paper. "I hope you understand now what a tip is."
"It seems to be one tenth of all you've got," observed Matilda, staring out of the window, "like those religious sects that believes in givin' a tenth of everything to the church."
"Travellin' must be terribly exciting," remarked Grandmother, pensively.
"So 'tis," Matilda agreed after a pause. "I reckon it's better to stay at home."
A Bunch of Grapes
Alden threw himself into his work with feverish energy, instinctively relieving his mind by wearying his body. All day he toiled in the vineyard, returning at night white-faced and exhausted, but content.
One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate a single bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill of the night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never, within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh vineyards.
She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing. Pride and thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only their one source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laid out the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her son was to succeed or fail.
Night after Night
The tribal sense was strong in Madame, last though she was of a long and noble line. Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed through generation after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage, of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. And now—Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith.
Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edged sword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden. Nor had he even mentioned Edith's name since she went away, though his face, to the loving eyes of his mother, bore its own message.
Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, no word would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say "Good-night," and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when he chose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not even hear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may, Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step upon the stairs.
While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixed unalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent, neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lie upon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed stillto bear the remembered splendour of her beautiful head.
Balm for Alden
After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stood upon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving the bench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room, he would go back to his own far corner, where he used to sit while Edith played.
Conjuring her gracious image out of the dreamy shadows, he found balm for his sore heart in the white gown that fell softly around her, the small white foot that now and then pressed the pedal, the long, graceful line that swept from her shoulder to her finger-tips, the faint hollow where her gown, with the softness of a caress, melted into the ivory whiteness of her neck, the thick, creamy skin, in some way suggesting white rose-leaves, the scarlet, wistful mouth, the deep brown eyes reflecting golden lights, and the crown of wonderful hair that shimmered and shone and gleamed like burnished gold.
The subtle sweetness of her filled the room. She had left behind her not only a memory but the enduring impress of personality. The house was full of Ediths. There was one at the table, another at the piano, one leaning against the mantel with hands clasped behind her, another in a high-backed rocker, leaning back against a dull green cushion, and one uponthe stairway, ascending with light steps that died away with the closing of a door, or descending with a quick rustle of silken skirts that presently merged into perfume, then into her.