The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stubble, by George Looms (2024)

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Title: Stubble

Author: George Looms

Release Date: April 24, 2008 [eBook #25158]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STUBBLE***

E-text prepared by David Garcia, David T. Jones,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net)
from page images generously made available by
Kentuckiana Digital Library
(http://kdl.kyvl.org/)

BY

GEORGE LOOMS

GARDEN CITYNEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

1922

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES
AT
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

First Edition

TO

MIS' KATIE

AND HER COURAGE

PART I

MARY LOUISE

CHAPTER I

Thefront gate screaked, a slow, timid, almost furtive sort of screak, andthen banged suddenly shut as though it despaired of furtherconcealment. Mary Louise gathered her sewing to her, rose to her feet,and looked out. It was raining. Through the glass upper half of thedoor that opened from the sitting room upon the side porch she couldsee the swelling tendrils of the vines that crawled about the trellis,heavy and beady with the gathering moisture. It was one of those cold,drizzly, early April rains that dares you by its seeming futility tocome forth and do weaponless battle and then sends you backdiscomfited and drenched. A woman was coming up the walk bent in ahuddle over a bundle which she carried in her arms. Mary Louise gazedsearchingly for a moment and then, as the figure would have passed thedoor, on around to the rear of the house, stepped out on the porch andcalled:

"Zenie! Zenie! Come in this way. There's nobody around there."

Zenie raised her head in mute surprise and then slowly obeyed. Sheshuffled across the porch, and at the door, which Mary Louise heldopen for her, paused and looked about her in indecision. She was abuxom creature, of the type that the Negroes about the station wouldcall a "High Brown," but without the poise and aplomb that consciousmembership in that class usually brings.

"Mis' Susie in?" she ventured, after a careful survey of the room hadassured her that such was not probable. And her care, relaxed for themoment, allowed the corner of the shawl to fall from the bundle in herarms, which forthwith set up a remote wailing, feeble and muffled,though determined.

Mary Louise raised a skeptic eyebrow at the discredited Zenie.

"Sshh!" dispassionately urged the latter, scorning for once publicregard and continuing to gaze about the low-ceilinged room for theabsent but much-desired Miss Susie.

Such callous indifference baffled Mary Louise, even while it answeredher innermost questionings, and for the moment she was voiceless. "Whatin the world——!" she said at length and hated herself forthe vulgar surprise in her tone.

Zenie turned away from the inspection and, finding herself andappendage the centre of interest, bridled with a timid pleasure, andthen poked a ruminative finger into the swaddle of shawl andcomforter.

"Yas'm," she began in explanation. "Done brung 'im to show t' Mis'Susie. Didn' know you wuz home." Her manner had all the affable easeof a conscious equal.

Mary Louise rubbed her eyes. Time was bringing changes; Zenie had oncebeen humble. Her voice rang with an accusing hardness. "I thoughtyou'd shut the door on that worthless Zeke of yours."

Zenie did not raise her head but continued the aimless poking in thebundle, which strangely responded to the treatment and was quietagain. "No'm. He comes roun'. Eve' now an' then. Zeke's got a cah!" Amomentary gleam from dark eyes lit like coals into a sudden flare, andMary Louise was conscious of a pride that was fierce and strong, evenif new. She felt suddenly strange, foreign, like an intruder.

Their eyes met, and this time it was Mary Louise's that fell. She feltembarrassed at the question that arose in her. Of course Zeke was thefather. Such a question to the emancipated Zenie would be paternallyinsulting. She countered skillfully:

"What's—his name?"

Zenie shifted the bundle in her arms and then reached over with hertoe and thoughtfully pushed the stove door.

"Name Nausea," she replied softly, still regarding the door whichrefused to shut entirely.

"Name's what?"

Zenie raised her eyes and smiled. It was a sudden unmasking of abattery in a peaceful landscape. "Nausea Zekiel Thompson," Zeniecontinued, gazing down into the bundle with the simplicity of a greatemotion.

For a moment silence descended upon the room. Mary Louise could nottrust herself in the customary amenities. She stepped over to Zenieand the younger Thompson and peered into the bundle, conscious as shedid so of a slowly opening door beyond them. A tiny weazened face andtwo beady blinking eyes were all she saw. Zenie was making a curiousclucking noise.

"Yas'm," Zenie went on, encouraged into an unwonted garrulity, "Mist'Joe done give 'im that name. Hit's from de Bible, ain't it?"

"Mister Joe?"

"Yas'm. Mist' Joe Hoopah." There was a cheery ring to Zenie's voicethat had been wont to drag so dispiritedly. "He say hit come sounexpeckedly an' all you kin do is make the bes' of it." Her face wassuddenly wreathed in an expansive smile. "Mist' Joe done hoorahin'us—Zeke an' me. Zeke don' min'. Nossuh. He say de baby look lakhim." She held the bundle up and looked at it in rapt contemplation.

Mary Louise's lips shut in a tight line. She turned away from the pairin distaste. But just then a light step sounded and her feeling wasdiverted. Zenie did not hear the advent of another character upon thescene so absorbed was she in holding the centre of the stage. "Thinkhit's a pritty name, don' you?"

Receiving no answer she raised her eyes and beheld Miss Susie, whosecritical gaze enveloped her sternly. Zenie dropped her eyes again.

"So you've finally decided to show up again, Zenie?" Miss Susieclipped her words off short to everyone. She was a wisp of a womanwith little hands as dry and yellow as parchment. Her voice had aquavering falsetto break in it and her laugh, when there was occasion,was dry and withery and short-lived like a piece of thistle-down.

Mary Louise was watching with interest. Zenie struggled for a momentand then turned and faced the inevitable. There was a growing decisionin her manner.

"H'do, Mis' Susie! Yas'm. I 'cided I'd drop in on you-all. Show him tohis white folks." She looked at Miss Susie and smiled a most uncertainsmile.

And then for the first time was the import of the visit brought fullyto the visitee.

"So," Miss Susie exploded, "that's where you've been. Out of town!Humph! You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Zenie looked as though she would like to defend herself, but it wasuseless.

Miss Susie went on inexorably, "That worthless Zibbie Tuttle has beentearing all my good linen and lace to pieces for the past three weeks.And now I suppose I'll have to put up with her for a few weekslonger."

"Yas'm," Zenie replied weakly.

"However"—Miss Susie pronounced it as though it were onesyllable—"I suppose I can't help it. What is it? Boy or girl?"

"Boy," said Zenie, and with growing decision, "but hit ain' him I cometo see you-all about. No'm. Thank you jes' as much. I jes' aim to tellyou I ain' take in no mo' wash. No'm. Zeke he don' want me to take inno mo' wash. No'm."

"Zeke!" Miss Susie's snort was very ladylike. "Zeke!—and whathas Zeke to do with what you want to do?"

"We'se ma'ied, ain' we, Mis' Susie?"

This was irrefutable, but more so the changing viewpoint. Zenie hadtasted emancipation. Miss Susie shrugged her shoulders and left theroom with short hurried steps.

Zenie turned to Mary Louise. "I'm tiahed of the ol' tub. 'Tain' no usemy weahin' myself out fu nuthin'. 'Sides, this heah boy a heap o'trubbel." She shook her head doubtfully.

Mary Louise disregarded the confidence. "D'you say MisterJoe—Mister Joe Hooper—named your baby? How could he? He'snot even home."

"Yas'm. Yas'm, he is. He come in t' see Zeke this mo'nin'. Mist' Joelookin' mighty fine."

Mary Louise felt a curious sinking feeling of being shoved into adiscard. And then Miss Susie came hurrying back into the room. In herhand she carried a small bundle of red flannel cloth freshly cut fromthe bolt. Zenie eyed her uncertainly.

"Here. Here's something to keep out the cold—next winter. Andyou oughtn't to bring it out in such rainy weather." She went to thedoor and held it open in all finality. And Zenie, with much secret andinner scorning for a ritual so antiquated and a gift so obsolete,could do naught but depart. Miss Susie had somehow managed to keep theadvantage, and the two white women watched the departing figureshuffle down the walk, out through the sagging, screaky gate. Theclouds had broken in the west and a soft golden radiance suffused therow of maples that lined the fence along the street, and the swellingbranches gleamed with promise. Over toward the east a patch of bluesky appeared, and then the tip of a sickle moon thrust itself throughand floated entire for a moment on a tiny azure lake. A little breezecame round the corner of the porch from the sunset. It was as soft andwarm as an unspoken promise, and it flipped back skirt hems andtwisted hair tendrils most inoffensively.

"Come, honey!" Miss Susie said at length, wrenching herself loose fromthe charm. "It's getting late."

Mary Louise stepped slowly off the porch on to the spongy lawn thatstretched out to a summerhouse partly covered with the skeleton oflast summer's vines. "Just a minute, Aunt Susie," she answered,without looking back. "I want to see how the hydrangea is coming on."

Miss Susie turned and closed the door behind her.

Bloomfield had a quality of unchangeableness. Even in the dead ofwinter you could tell with half an eye how it would look bedecked inits summer finery. Down the stretch of years, past many an interveningmilepost, it always stood clearly envisioned to its sons and daughtersboth natural and adopted. There was about four hundred yards ofmacadam street lined with oaks and maples as old as or older than themeeting house of early Post-Revolutionary days which stood at thecross-roads corner diagonally across from the glary white gasolenestation. Half-way down the street, in a cluster of elms, stood theremnants of an ancient tavern, whose front wall, flush with thesidewalk, showed occasional bullet scars on the rough red brownstonesurface. Green outside shutters lay inertly back from dull leadedpanes which reflected metallically the orange glow of the setting sun,and over the door, which was squat and low and level with thepavement, an ancient four-sided lantern, hung from a bracket of rustyblack iron, was gathering cobwebs in disuse. All this lay within MaryLouise's field of vision from the summerhouse and yet she saw it not.She was staring abstractedly at a wary robin that had stopped to reston a fence post, his beak all frowzy with the débris from arecent drilling. The McCallum house—her father's—stood atthe other end of the row of maples on the same side of the street asthe meeting house and a hundred yards or so distant. There was quitean expanse of greening lawn in front and to the south, whereon stoodthe summerhouse, and a tangle of rose bushes hid the decaying boardfence which marked the southern boundary. Along the brick sidewalkstretched a line of ageing wooden pickets and about midway in theirextent hung the wooden gate with the screak. The house was frame, lowand wide-stretching, with an inviting verandah about a cavernous frontdoor that was dark and rarely open. People used the side door into theell sitting room, and the brick walk leading in a curved sweep to thisdoorway was free from grass. A high wooden lattice separated the frontlawn from the backyard and sheds and stables, and about this latticesprawled in luxuriant freedom rose vines and honeysuckle, just nowfaintly budding into life.

Mary Louise stooped and punched a hole in the soft earth with a littlestick, unconsciously uprooting a tender shoot thereby. A black beetlecame scurrying out of the decaying baseboard at this disturbance andwas summarily filliped off into the greening wastes of lawn.Collecting herself, she next inspected the branches of the plant nearby and finding sufficient promise of green, straightened up and flungback an escaping wisp of hair, with a sigh.

There was nothing particularly noticeable about Mary Louise unless itmight possibly be a certain fine-drawnness. Her eyes, which werebrown, had a sort of set focus on the immediate, and there were somefine lines from the corners of her lips to her nose. She was slim andstraight, with small hands and feet, and her arms, which were bare tothe elbow, might have been soft and round, were it not for a sinuoustension that showed itself in little corded creases right where agirl's arms should be softest and roundest. And her hair had a way ofcoming down at all times and in all weathers. It had never beendecided whether she were pretty or not. That was something that hadnever mattered—to her, at least.

As she threw back her head she was conscious of a general escaping ofhairpins and a loosening of hair. With a frown she dropped her stickand turned her attention from horticulture to coiffure. A low whistlesounded from somewhere beyond the rose vines, and as she turned, withher fingers in her hair and elbows protruding, she saw a man comeswinging along the walk past the boundary fence, his eyes sweeping thehouse from upstairs windows to side porch.

Mary Louise calmly proceeded with her toilette, making no sign. Hecaught sight of her, paused a moment, and then vaulted stiffly overthe picket fence into the yard.

"'Lo," he said.

She had a hairpin in her mouth and returned the greeting with a slightlifting of eyebrows. As her head was lowered and her chin tucked in,this was a sufficiently effective reply.

"Musta rained pretty hard here," he ventured, as, noticing the damagethat the damp grass was doing to his trouser hems, he covered theremaining distance between them in a series of violent haphazardleaps.

The hairpin rendered her response unintelligible.

"How d'you find things?" gaining her side, and a bit more calmly.

Mary Louise deliberately tucked in one last recalcitrant wisp andpinned it down, and then turned to him. "Pretty well." Her gaze waslevel and critical.

"Aunt Sue better?"

She nodded. Then she turned and slowly walked within the inclosure ofthe summerhouse and sat down. He followed her and stood framed in thedoorway.

"What's the gloom?" he asked directly, after a moment of silence.

"Nothing," she said, a little too brightly.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?"

Disregarding this: "What are you doing in Bloomfield?"

He laughed. "Aren't sorry I came, are you? This is Saturday. Timeshave changed. Maybe you don't know. Proletariat's riding high."

"They're giving you the whole day now?" in a mildly dubious tone.

He turned away. "No. But Uncle Buzz was in a jam, and—well, Ithought I'd better come." He turned on her suddenly. "Keeping tab onme, aren't you? How'd you know?"

"I reckon I'd better, Joe." And then more softly: "Think it's the bestway to do? Uncle Buzz's been in deep water before." She rose to herfeet and walked slowly to the opposite entrance. "How arethings—at the works?"

He was silent a moment. "Same old place. Take more'n a war to change'em." He came and stood beside her in the doorway. The sun was makinga last desperate attempt to lighten the general gray of the sky withbroad shafts of orange, and as they watched, it settled slowly andthen dipped behind the dim blue of the distant hills. As at a signal,a bird in a thicket somewhere over beyond them began a long throatywarble. Another answered over to the left. Faint, liquidtrip-hammerings, they were, upon brittle anvils.

"It's a good thing some things don't change," she said at length, in alow tone.

"I reckon."

They watched the glow fade from the sky, the broad bands of orangereceding swiftly westward, while the cloud rim above the horizoncooled softly into pink and coral and a sudden soft patter of rainupon the dried vines and leaves above their heads aroused them.Without a word, Mary Louise slipped past him and ran for the house. Hefollowed.

On the side porch she turned and waited for him, and he came and stoodbefore her, hatless, in the rain. "I'd better be getting back beforeit gets any worse—see you in the morning?"

"Let me get you an umbrella." She turned and was about to enter thehouse.

"No. Can't use 'em. Get hung up in the trees. What time you want tostart out? Nine o'clock? See you at nine."

"That's too early. Make it ten. I'm busy. Besides, it's Sunday."

"Comin' at nine," he called over his shoulder and started for thegate.

She watched his retreating figure as he darted along through theshadow, and then she slowly turned and entered the sitting room. A dimyellow light from a single oil lamp on the table over against theright wall was feebly penetrating the deep shadows in far corners. Thelow-ceilinged room seemed huge and cavernous, with deep niches andcrannies and bulky, shadowy objects. Miss Susie sat by the table withher knitting, her face yellower than ever, her hands feverishlyrestive. She raised her head as Mary Louise closed the door, and thetiny lines, accentuated by the lamplight, covered her face likemarkings upon an ancient scroll.

"Why didn't he come in, honey?"

"I don't know, Aunt Susie. He was in a hurry."

"What's he doing in town? Thought he'd gone back to work inLouisville."

"I don't know, Aunt Susie."

Miss McCallum picked up her knitting. She sniffed. "No, I s'pose not."

Mary Louise went over and kissed her aunt lightly upon the forehead,and then disappeared through a shadowy door back into shadowy depths.Directly came a sound of clattering tinware and then the faint echoesof a song, hummed, and slightly nasal. A smile flickered across MissSusie's lips as she watched her fingers—the needles flittingswiftly in and out.

CHAPTER II

Theydrew rein on a hill which sloped gently away to the town a mileor so distant. Over to the right in a cluster of trees gleamed thewhite fences and buildings of the Bloomfield Fair Grounds like a blobof paint squeezed on a dark palette.

Mary Louise turned in the saddle and took a long thirsty look at thewestern sky. "I love these days that are unplanned. They bring so muchmore when there isn't any promise."

Joe took off his hat and wiped his forehead, keeping tight rein in themeantime with his other hand on his roan saddler, who, scenting thehome stretch, was restless to be off. "After which original tribute tomy day, I hesitate to tell you that it has been a hunch of mine forover a year—ever since that first spring in Texas. Made up mymind if ever I struck God's country alive and in one piece, I'd treatmyself to a great bath of this sort of stuff. Unplanned! Humph!"

Mary Louise's tight little mouth relaxed but she did not shift hergaze. "You forget. It was not planned—by me." On rare occasionsMary Louise could slip from her matter-of-fact self into coquetry andback again before one realized. It was like the play of a lightningshuttle, so quick that one rarely caught the flash of the back stroke.Joe had erred before. He was discreetly silent.

"I love it," Mary Louise went on, flinging back her head, "everystick, every stone of it. That half mile of turf down Blue BottleLane! I'd give ten years of my life to gallop the rest of it throughcountry like that." And then, as though startled, she bit her lip andwas still.

Joe smiled as he watched her narrowly. "A woman's a mess o'contradictions. Whoa! You, too," he called sharply to his mare."Thought you wanted to eat grass a little. Whoa!" He reined up thetossing head with difficulty. And then to Mary Louise, "You're a sortof self-inflicted exile, aren't you?"

Mary Louise turned from her musing and gave him a look of mosteffective scorn. "Put your hat on," she said coldly. "You talk betterthrough it." She was backing her mount out from the thicket whence hehad thrust his nose and was wheeling him about to point him towardhome. "I suppose you'd leave your job in Louisville and come back hereto live yourself—just because you loved the scenery!"

"Not such a bad swap at that." But she was off and away. One rearingplunge and he was after her. Down across the grassy sweep of turfthey fled, across a shallow ditch, past a stretch of willow thicket,around a jutting knob of rock, into an arching avenue of trees. It waslike dropping into a cool, shadowy bowl, the first shoots andsproutings of baby leaves from the branches casting a delicate traceryof shadow on the golden-green shimmer of the grass. Through an opengate they shot, he close behind, out upon a hard metallic roadway ofmacadam. Here Mary Louise reined in her horse and Joe instantly drewup alongside.

"It's lucky the street came along to help," he breathed. "Twenty yardsmore——"

Mary Louise reached up a hand to her hair in a futile effort to stemthe havoc there. A moment of furious attempt to quiet the racing inher veins, and then, quite calmly, "It's all as it should be. We'vegot to look out for such things and take advantage of them. There areno ifs and buts about being caught. You didn't—that's all."

Joe opened his mouth to speak, stared at her a moment, and then turnedaway his eyes. They trotted along in silence, the shadows deepeningand lengthening.

Directly: "When does your tea room open?"

"To-morrow. I'll be fine and stiff to start it off." Both question andanswer had taken on a fine flavour of impersonality. Quiet again, withonly the clatter of hoofs on the roadway. Directly they turned a widesweeping curve and before them appeared a wooden gateway set at theend of an avenue of elms, at the other end of which showed, dim andforbidding, a house with columns and a green roof. Joe dismounted and,unlatching the gate, turned and stood grinning at her.

"So you're really goin' to try it out?" His voice had the quality ofself-questioning.

It broke in on her musings and she seemed a bit impatient. "Of courseI'm going to try it out. Only there isn't much 'try' to it. It's boundto make a go."

"Some little difference between a merely commercial proposition and apopular charity like the Red Cross. There's no percentage in justguzzlin' tea for fun unless you're doin' it to keep Americans fromstarvin' or doughboys from itchin'. You know what I believe?" Heturned on her suddenly. "You're just scrapin' up an excuseto—to——" He stammered, hesitated in indecision. "Tea!"

"Don't be maudlin, Joe!" Her tone was very cold. "If you must know, weneed the money and——Well, I guess I learned enough abouttea and tea rooms in the past ten or eleven months to know whetherone will pay or not—if it's properly run. Got awfully hardboiledwhile you were in the army, didn't you? Come, open the gate."

He was silent. Mary Louise usually could put him in his place. Butthus put in his place, Joe could assume all the irritablestick-to-itiveness of a child. "How about Miss Susie?"

He watched the shot. For a moment it had no seeming effect, and thenMary Louise, turning loose all the pent-up outpourings to innerquestionings, in a fury of righteous self-justification: "You needn'tthink I haven't thought about that. You needn't think I'm shirking myduty in any way. If you knew, you wouldn't ask such a question.Before you left we were just on the ragged edge, and now—well,somebody's got to do something to bring the money in. The place don'tmake it." Her voice quieted down a little. "It hasn't been an easyquestion to solve. Come, Joe! Open the gate."

He watched her curiously. "But the servants? You've still got theservants, Matty, and Old Landy, and that half-baked gorilla, Omar. Whynot——"

"Yes, why not?" She turned on him. "Why not shut down the place, too,as well as dismiss all the servants, and live in one of the old stonequarters? Why not? Why not let your heels run down if they want to?It's much easier."

Quietly he pushed the gate open and stood waiting, holding it for her.Something in his manner struck her, and she reached out her hand fromher seat in the saddle and touched him lightly as her horse swervedpast. "There, I'm sorry, Joe. But you just hounded me into it somehow.I didn't mean it's that way with you. You know I didn't. You see whatI mean? One ought to try. Ought to try everything first, not justgive up because everything doesn't seem just right. I have thoughtabout Aunt Susie, and it breaks me all up. But it can't be helped."She waited till he closed the gate and with a quick swing-up into thesaddle drew alongside. Slowly they walked their horses up the avenue.

"I s'pose you're right," he said at length. "Only—only it hasseemed to me that there's a lot of good time wasted doing uselessthings. Would you rather run a tea room than do anything else in theworld?"

She looked at him but they were passing a bend in the road, and thesun, having dipped behind a jutting hill, no longer lighted up thedusky avenue, and Joe's face was in semi-shadow. "I'd rather hold onto what I've got than lose the tiniest portion of it," was all shesaid.

Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. "If they could only seeme now!"

"They? Who, they?"

His face sobered, but there was a momentary twinkle about the eyes."Who? Oh, at the office." And then, as dismissing the thought, "UncleBuzz know you're openin' the tea room?"

"No."

"Then you ought to tell him. Give you a lot of invaluable suggestionsas to how to mix up little 'what-for-you's.' Get 'em comin' and goin'.Also, Uncle Buzz's got a mint bed that has parts."

"There's some patronage we will be forced to do without," Mary Louisereplied primly. They were nearing the house and as they approached,someone in one of the front rooms struck a light and it could be seenmoving, the shadows dancing on the walls.

"Don't overlook Uncle Buzz," said Joe with a chuckle. "Don't overlookany discriminatin' taste. You can't beat those horses of his."

"No," agreed Mary Louise, "nor——" and then checkedherself.

The roadway turned sharply to the left and finished off in a circle,one arc of which touched the steps of an open porch. These steps weresagging and decayed, and the porch was swept by the gentle eddyings ofleaves of past summers that had sought refuge there and had beenundisturbed by the ruthless sweepings of winds or brooms. There was ahaunting odour of pine and something else that was damp and old andweary and forgotten, and a shrivelled wisteria vine that clung withwithered fingers to a trellis at the house corner began to whisper attheir approach. A yellow bar of light shot for a moment across theporch floor to their feet, then disappeared. It was the lamp MaryLouise had seen farther down the driveway, and directly the side dooropened and the mellow glow of it sent shadowy rings of light outtoward them.

"Joe! Joe!" called out an anxious voice. "Don't make noise. Keep 'wayfrom the back." There was a moment's silence and as Joe made noreply: "Come in this way, why don't you? Better way come in."

And then Mary Louise saw a hand shade the uppermost part of the lamp.Then there was a pause, and then a figure came across the porch, ashort figure casting grotesque shadows, a bit stiff, a bit unsteady,like the rings of light that went out in circling waves behind it. Itwas Uncle Buzz. He came and stood on the topmost rotting step. Hebowed. With one hand holding the wavering lamp, the other bravelycupped before his chest, he bowed.

"Pardon," he said. "'N't know there were ladies."

"Miss McCallum, Uncle Buzz," interposed Joe.

"Honoured, 'm sure," Uncle Buzz responded with another bow, lower ifanything than the first, so that the tip of his little goatee camewithin singeing distance of the lamp chimney, and he straightened backwith a start, only to stare about him again, vaguely hurt. Collectinghimself again, "Knew there was reason shouldn't go 'roun' th' back.Le' Zeke take horses. Zeke! Zeke!" he called in a falsetto quaver."Come in this way, madam," he added with grave dignity, but curtailingthe bow.

For a moment Mary Louise was fascinated. Old Mr. Bushrod Mosby she hadknown for years—a veritable rustic macaroni, a piece oftinselled flotsam floating on backwater. He had always called herM'Lou; later occasionally Miss M'Lou. Now the rhythm of some ancientrout was stirring old memories, and the obligations of host satpleasantly heavy upon his befogged consciousness. He bowed again.

"No, thank you," she summoned her resources. "We'll be getting home.But we'll just leave the horses here," she added a bit hurriedly,anxious to be off. Echoes were sounding along a length of hallway andshe was not desirous of the prospect of seeing Mrs. Mosby—AuntLoraine—who was apt to prove a most discordant fly in theointment of harmonious hospitality. So she turned to go, but turnedtoo late. The door opened again and another figure appeared, a briskfigure, at which the dead leaves of the porch bestirred themselves invague, uneasy rustlings. Uncle Buzz stepped meekly aside and Mrs.Mosby—Aunt Loraine—joined the group, giving him amomentary withering glance. She was an inexorable woman, an inchtaller than Uncle Buzz, who stood five feet three, but she matched himwhim for whim in her attire. Her hair looked black in the grayinglight; in reality it was splotched and streaked with a chestnut red,colour not so ill as misapplied. Her dress rustled as she sweptforward and there were numberless faint clickings and clackings ofchains and bangles about her. A high boned collar with white ruchinghelped her hold her head even more proudly straight, and the smile sheshot Mary Louise was heavily fraught with a sickly sweet thoughrigorous propriety.

"You must come in, my dear," she lisped. "Such exhausting exercise!You wouldn't think of going one step further without resting.Here"—she reached out one hand toward Mary Louise, testing themeanwhile the security of the upper step with the tip of a shinyshoe—"the man will attend to the horses."

"Man! Yes," Uncle Buzz recollected with a start. "Zeke! Zeke!" hebegan to shout again. "Come here, suh!"

"Bushrod! Be still!" hissed Mrs. Mosby.

Almost was Mary Louise tempted to accept and stay, he looked sohelpless, in such terrific danger, standing there blinking at them,his eyes vaguely trying to focus, and so mildly blue. His head withthe graying hair so closely cropped gave him an odd appearance ofboyishness, to which the smart little bow tie added not a little. Hewas trim, dapper, in spite of the fact that his standing collar was asize or two too large; in spite, too, of the tiny, well-trimmedgoatee. He looked like a faun in trouble. With a shadow of distresscrossing his face, he gave ground and backed away, the lamp tippingperilously in his grasp. Joe sprang forward and rescued it, setting iton the porch railing.

"We'd better be going, I reckon, Aunt Lorry. Miss Susie's all alone,"he explained.

Mary Louise recovered herself with a start. What could she be thinkingof, letting Joe make her excuses for her? Somehow she felt a sharplittle wave of irritation against him for it. She hastened to add,however, "Oh, no, Mrs. Mosby. Thank you so much. I really must begetting home. Aunt Susie will be worried. It's quite dark."

The little woman murmured something, and then, "And how is your AuntSusie? I must call. Give her my love, be sure," all in one breath.

"I will. You must," agreed Mary Louise, and turned to go. And as shedid so she caught a most lugubrious expression on the face of UncleBuzz, a gradual lengthening of all the muscles on one side of theface, resolving itself finally into a prodigious wink, deliberate andmalign. Fortunately, it passed in the darkness the regard of thepartner of his joys and sorrows and roused no answering spark.

They made their adieus and passed on down the shaded avenue on foot.Mary Louise gave an odd little shiver as they walked out into theshadow, past the circle of the lamp on the railing. UncleBuzz—Mr. Mosby—had seemed always just a piece ofbackground, a harmless bit of scenery, a catalogue of amenities, ahusk, a shell—she wondered how many other things. And now he wascropping out with a personality, had desires, problems, secretplottings, all behind the mask—a Machiavelli.

She was aroused by a chuckle from Joe. The chuckle jarred. She turnedand frowned at him in the darkness. Their shoes crunched in the smallgravel of the roadway and then directly they came to the gate andturned along a wooden walk.

"Uncle Buzz's sure ripe," Joe's voice came out of nowhere. "Been ripefor over two days. Time he was being picked," he continued.

"Joe!"

"Oh, don't get shocked. You aren't, you know. It's nothin' new!" Hepaused a moment as if to consider. "Reckon Aunt Lorry's busy with thepickin' now. She'll hate you," he added as an afterthought.

"What for?" asked Mary Louise.

"For seein' him." Joe chuckled again and relapsed into silence.

They walked the rest of the way without speaking, around one cornerpast the old meeting house, beneath the low-branched maples, up to theMcCallum gate. Mary Louise opened it and held it open, her arm barringthe way.

"Well! To-morrow's another day," said Joe, apparently disregarding it.

"It's just as well," replied Mary Louise. "I'm not quite sure thearmy's helped you much, Joe."

"The army? Helped me?—I don't get you," he tried to see hereyes, puzzled.

"You're flippant—about things that are not trivial."

"Oh!" he laughed. "It doesn't always rain when it clouds. Wait till weget into some real heavy weather. What's the harm, anyway? We shouldbother."

"That's not the only thing. You were making fun of Zenie'sbaby—just like it was a little animal. They might find out someday how you quoted from the Bible. Of course, there's no real harmdone—but I don't like it."

Joe slid his hand softly along the top bar of the wooden gate till ittouched hers. She drew quietly away. "Perhaps!" he said. "The oldworld runs along pretty well whether we bother or whether we don't. Itdoesn't make much difference what we do or what we don't. The oldfellow's heart's all right, I reckon, and as for theniggers!—just as good a name as Loraine. My Lord!"

She stood silent, in thought. A faint reddish glow came to them fromthe curtained glass door of the ell sitting room. "Just a littlesermon to start us out right—back to work. It is a seriousbusiness, you know, Joe—reconstruction! It's a big task. Let'snot fall down on it or be trivial—shirk any of theresponsibilities. Good-night," she added suddenly, giving her hand."It's been a glorious day. I'll see you—in the city."

They parted, and he could hear her scrape her feet at the edge of theporch. The stars were winking through the branches of the maples andsomewhere in the darkness a gutter was keeping up a monotonousdripping. He passed the corner and turned back to the road with theoverlapping elms, walking with his hands thrust deep into his pockets,his eyes watching the road. "Humph!" he said after a while, out loud,and then began to whistle softly to himself, shuffling with his feeton the gravel in time to his whistling as he walked.

CHAPTER III

JoeHooper was not a handsome man. He was of that type so often seen inthe South, tall, gangly, and very dark, with a sallow complexion and ageneral air of inertness that always misleads the stranger to thetype. Insignificant looking, perhaps, but they will be found, on lateracquaintance, to be worming themselves into general regard withouteffort. The law claims many of them and occasionally the raising ofstock and the tilling of soil, though usually as proprietors only, itis true. Sometimes they are swept into strange waters where, if theyfloat about long enough, they manage by some inherent mordant capacityto colour the entire complexion to their own. There are exceptions, ofcourse.

Joe's father had lost his farm through foreclosure. It killed him.This fact and the presence of some alien strain sent Joe to Louisvillewhich had some of the elements of the melting pot and some traditionalelements of opportunity. He was twenty-four when he made this change.For two years he had resisted fusion and escaped opportunity. He hadfallen into a job with the Bromley Plow Company and risen to theexalted status of stock clerk when the war came. The war, or ratherthe idea of the war, had proved a great relief to his imagination andhe had enlisted at once, as a matter of fact, on the second day. Thisnotion of service had been the one thing stronger than the influenceof Mary Louise, which had been, it must be confessed, the main reasonfor his sticking as long as two years. The Plow Works had seemed arather tedious road to a Restoration and the Barebones Parliamentthat sat in the inner office had seemed inexorably determined to makethat road as devious and difficult as possible. He had escaped gladly.But the war had come to an end with him still in service on this sideand he had at length returned with many things unsatisfied. One ofthese had been his idea about Mary Louise. She, too, had been sweptinto the vortex, into a mild eddy of it. The Red Cross had found heruseful in the maintenance of a tea room for the enjoyment of the menat Camp Taylor. It had sounded innocent enough, but upon Joe's returnhe had found that she had in some way been galvanized. She was one ofthe war's changes; he, unfortunately, not so.

He did not know clearly just what he had expected upon his return, butthen he had not expected the kind of return that he had experienced.There had been nothing epochal in it. Even his job was waiting forhim; it seemed to him even the same routine details. One file ofcorrespondence that he had found upon his desk that first morning hadhad a singularly familiar look. It would always stick in his memory.First there had been a moment of high anticipation at the station withthe taxi-men calling out the names of the hotels, and stretched acrossMain Street he remembered seeing a large banner flanked with buntingand with "Welcome Home" inscribed thereon. Then he had watched thefamiliar landmarks as he rolled southward in the street car with anodd little feeling of "Hello, there you are again"; and the Works,looming up in the distance at the end of the line, with its tall brickstack, was a sort of culmination. Not exactly a culmination, either,for he was conscious of a jarring note. Then the oak-panelled lobby,with the time clock, a sombre monitor, took just another grain ofcarefree satisfaction from the sum total of his feelings; andfinally—his desk, and the worn, thumb-edged file! The firstletter therein! "Recent shipments castings EE23, G143, F47, and J29have come to us unannealed. J29 shows fins and sprues; the hole inEE23 is in most cases completely closed; and G143 and F47 are so roughthat they will not fit into their respective sockets withoutmachining. Will return same via local freight to-day." That was all.An Homeric welcome into very deep water! Such had been Joe Hooper'shomecoming.

As for Mary Louise:—well, there had been nothing quite sodefinite. He had met her at the tea room—there had been onefinal week of closing after his arrival—and he had not quitemade up his mind about her before she had left for Bloomfield, beyonda certain stiffening of fibre, an aloofness that was new, and abusiness-like air that seemed to say "Come across," that he did notexactly like. But then a week is not a very long time to get down tobed-rock with a person, especially when that person is busy ten hoursout of the day and thinking the other fourteen about the ten that havejust passed.

Four weeks had rolled around. It was the first of May. Joe sat at hisdesk absently fingering a stack of paper slips. They were reports fromthe various assembling shops advising him of the number of bolts ofcertain styles and sizes used in those respective shops that day. Hewas supposed to post these amounts in a stock ledger against thevarious sizes and styles and note the approaching shortages whereverthey came. There were between fifty and a hundred slips. The windowwas open opposite his desk and a delightful breeze was curling up theedges of some papers which had been thoughtfully weighted down. Joegazed, heavy lidded, through the window. An automobile, a long,slouchy black one, went whirling by with the tonneau full of girls.Their veils were streaming and fluttering out behind, many-hued andflimsy. They were all gazing at the office windows as they passed."One might think it was a reformatory or the county workhouse orsomething," he thought. He turned dully to the stack of reports andbegan to count them. He felt stale—flat.

He heard his name called, and turning, saw Mr. Boner standing at thecorner of the partition looking at him over his spectacles. Mr. Bonerwas a tall, heavy man with nervous twitchings and anxious eyes thatwere eternally shifting about beneath their brows for somethingdisturbing. He was responsible for keeping the warehouse filled, thewarehouse whose books Joe kept, and it was his further duty to keep itfilled as cheaply as possible. The threat of failure in either waswhat caused that eternal shifting. It was a sort of high-tensionvigilance.

Joe rose to his feet, obeying the monosyllabic summons, and followedMr. Boner around the partition. Mr. Boner rated a private office,where he could worm information, trade secrets, and occasionalconcessions from travelling salesmen. There was nothing social aboutthe place. As Joe turned the partition corner and stood in thedoorway, the old man had already seated himself at the desk. His fathips completely filled the chair. He was apparently staring atsomething on the desk before him, but Joe could catch the occasionalshifting glimmer of his eyes at the corners and knew he was lookingat him. Suddenly Mr. Boner turned to the inner corner of the desk,started to speak, strangled, and with difficulty recovered himself.His voice, when finally he did recover it, was so loud that itstartled even himself, and just as suddenly he lowered it toconfidential pitch. Joe had been a witness to this procedure manytimes before but it never failed to interest him. In fact, Mr. Bonerwas himself a study. There was an old-fashioned golf cap perched onthe top of his graying head and his close-clipped moustache wassilvery white, in marked contrast to the pink-and-white mottle of hischeeks, which hung down over his collar in folds, like some dependableold foxhound's. One hand lay fat and puffy on the desk, clutching apencil in a nervous grip. And the middle of him—he seemed tobulk and fill out the entire chair—so incongruous with hislittle feet and mincing gait! It was as though as much as possible ofhis body were seeking to escape that all-devouring tension in relapse.How familiar it all was! Even during those months at camp the picturewould recur and Joe would laugh softly to himself. Poor old duffer! Hewas a product of the plant just as much as ploughs and tillageimplements were. How soon would he begin to show the indelibleimprint?

The voice rose sharply. Joe realized that Mr. Boner was speaking tohim—was speaking with great feeling. He came back to realitieswith a jerk.

"Out of carriage bolts two one half one quarter," he was saying. Itwas probably the second time he had said it. He choked with emotionand had to seek refuge again in the receptacle on the floor at theleft-hand corner of his desk.

Joe seemed unmoved.

"Book shows been out since April nineteenth." The old man turned toobserve the effect of his damnation.

Joe quivered but showed no sign.

"Make out memorandum cut down one thousand five one half by onequarter." He spoke it explosively, keeping a furtive eye on thatleft-hand corner. "Have a surplus eleven thousand of them."

Joe guiltily felt that the old man knew the stock books better than hehimself. A little spot of red appeared in each cheek.

Mr. Boner shoved two sheets of yellow paper across the desk towardhim. "I've reordered replacement one thousand five one half,cancellation one thousand two one half." This with an air ofsatisfaction. There was nothing more to be done, patently. "Wastestock," Mr. Boner muttered.

Joe turned to go.

Mr. Boner exploded again. This was not all, apparently. "Blue annealedsheets," he called, sputtered, gripped the arms of his chairconvulsively, recovered, and sat glaring helplessly.

Joe availed himself of the opportunity. "Have a memo for you on thedesk." In spite of himself his voice sounded nervous. "Just out of twosizes to-day." He waited.

The old man turned and bent his head over his work. That was over.Joe returned to his desk, got the memo, and entered the little officeagain. As he slipped the paper across an intervening table, Mr. Bonerstraightened from a stooping inspection of a lower desk drawer, andJoe saw him furtively wipe a knife blade on the leg of his trousersand then turn upon him a look of mildest blue. There was a bulge inhis left cheek as round as an acorn. Neither spoke. A privacy had beenviolated. Joe felt like a "Peeping Tom."

Noiselessly he slipped around the corner, back to his desk. The breezewas still blowing merrily through the window and two clerks at desksacross the aisle were shoving pencils and rulers and like equipmentinto their proper drawers with a smug sort of satisfaction shining intheir drawn faces. He looked at his watch. It lacked a minute offive-thirty. Then he looked at the stack of reports again, paused, andwith an air of sudden decision dropped them into an open drawer.Opening another drawer he swept all the movable articles on his deskthereinto, careless of the confusion he caused, seized his hat from apeg behind him, and strode across the office, out through the door,into the oak-panelled lobby. For a moment he stood before the clock.Its hands showed five twenty-nine. He paused, then deliberatelypunched his number, descended the steps, and went out through the dooron to the street. The whistle was blowing as he went down the walk.The street was deserted. He felt eyes somewhere on his back but walkedon in apparent unconcern. He was conscious of a peculiar mixture ofemotions, a little guilt, a little shame, a little furtiveness, andmore than any, a lifting sense of relief, freedom. The air was light,cool, and invigorating. There was a pleasant crunch of dry dustycinders beneath his feet. And then he saw a venturesome bluebird comedarting across the open fields to the west and perch for a moment onthe top strand of the barbed-wire fence of the Plow Works, a few yardsahead of him. It sat there swaying and watching him and, as heapproached nearer, it took wing and darted across the Plow Company'sgrounds eastward toward the city. Joe filliped a wire paper clip afterit.

"You had better turn around and go back where you came from," hecalled after it softly.

He proceeded homeward.

As he climbed the boarding-house stairs to his room he felt listless.For four weeks he had climbed those listless stairs. There had beenone brief respite—the two days of Bloomfield with its easyrelaxation. What lay at the end of the road? Whither was he tending?Mr. Boner's shoes? His desk was the step next below the littleprivate office. He laughed shortly to himself as he opened a bureaudrawer and selected a clean white shirt. The touch of the clean linenencouraged him a little. He began to whistle. He had a "date on" withMary Louise. He had asked her to go to the vaudeville. Two or threehours of pleasant forgetfulness, anyway. Mary Louise—the thoughtof her brought a vague feeling of unrest. For over two weeks he hadtried to get her over the 'phone. She had either been out when he hadcalled or had pleaded some other engagement. Finally he had got theengagement for to-night three days ahead. And she had as good aspromised to see him right off, immediately after that week-end inBloomfield. Stranger! Stranger in the city! That did not sound verymuch as if she were a stranger. He wondered what she could have beendoing. She had met a good many people while she was doing Red Cross,probably, people in the army—men—officers, now in civilianlife. Why not? And yet he had felt the least bit irritated and alittle bit lonely. For his friends had scattered, it seemed. Andthen they had not mattered much. And he had rather looked forward tothe coming summer with Mary Louise in town. Now he didn't so much. Itwas foolish, too. There wasn't any reason for it. A man shouldn't pinhis resources down to one spot.

He washed, dressed, and then went to dinner at a dairy lunch aroundthe corner. The boarding place furnished breakfasts only. Then therewas an hour and a half to kill before he could go for her. She had aroom in a down-town apartment, not over three blocks away, and thatwould take but a very short time. He wandered over to the publicsquare. Some old men were sitting on a row of iron benches lining thesidewalk, facing the street. They surveyed him critically as he passedby. He walked up and idly inspected the kiosk where the weather-bureaureports were posted. He noticed it predicted continued fair. Then heturned and walked in the street for about a block, gazing in shopwindows. There was nothing in any of them that he particularly wanted.He stopped at a street corner and looked up and down both streets. Afew desultory pedestrians went walking hither and yon, leisurely, withno apparent purpose. It was the lull of supper hour and there was anorange glow that penetrated even down to the streets which were merecanyons between sombre, artificial cliffs of masonry. To the west asmall patch of open sky glowed sulphurously through a smoke pall. Acity was a poor place to spend time in—really live in, hethought. And Mary Louise—he wondered if she thought so, too, shewho had been raised in the greenest of all green country, in thewidest and cleanest of spaces. Probably not. At least, it didn't looklike it. A city was a good place to work in. One could workanywhere—if the work was all right. She had seemed keen abouther work. She probably had had a lot to do, getting things started.She'd probably not had much time. He might have missed her during herleisure hours. It was possible she was as desirous of some outdoors,of some clean air, some blue sky, as he was.

Almost with the force of a decision he turned and walked back to thesquare and sat down. He looked at the clock. It said five minutesafter seven. There was still an hour.

He sat and deliberately waited.

The time eventually passed, and before he had really gathered togetherhis thoughts into orderly array she was meeting him at the door of herapartment, a little flushed, a little hurried, quite brisk andapparently eager to be at the business at hand. There was also an airof preoccupation as if she were revolving over in her mind someprevious matters of which the threads still remained untangled. Inthis respect there was change. The old Mary Louise had been as open asa wild rose, as freshly and sweetly receptive to whatever wind camealong. She had gathered complexity, was more serious, laughed less,frowned more.

They walked along the street in the gathering darkness soberly, hereturning monosyllabic answers to the perfunctory questions which shefired at him, brightly crisp. Like the questionnaire of a superiorofficer he felt. Then for nearly a block they said nothing. Glancingsidewise at her he caught the straight, almost grim line of her mouthand the little pucker between her brows. As if realizing she was beingobserved she suddenly asked:

"What are you doing out at the Works?"

Joe paused a moment before replying. "When I was in Texas," he began,"out in the sticks, we had a flood, and the road from headquarters wasin danger of being washed away. Culverts too small. Had one niggerstanding on the bank of one stream by the head of a culvert catchingthe sticks and brush and dragging them up on the bank so they wouldn'tclog up the hole." He spoke in a quietly reminiscent tone.

She turned and looked at him curiously. "But I said, 'What are youdoing now at the Works?'"

"I know," he continued, in the same tone. "That's what I'm doing atthe Plow Factory. Keeping the water running."

She smiled, just a flash of a smile. "Doesn't sound so bad, even ifyou are secretive about it. How did the nigger take care of his job?"

Joe looked up quickly. "Oh—he? He fell asleep. And then he fellin the creek."

Mary Louise was watching him, waiting for him to finish. At last heseemed to have got her entire attention. "And then?"

"Then he got pneumonia—and died."

They crossed the street. Up ahead the lights of the theatre gleameddazzling white. The crowd was getting almost too thick to permitconversation.

"You don't like your job then?"

He flared into sudden unexpected defense of it. "Well, I haven't goneto sleep on it yet."

They said no more, for the task of passing the ticket chopper and thenof getting settled in their seats was all absorbing. And then directlythe curtain rose and Joe found himself slipping into a delightfullyrelaxed forgetfulness. He was being amused. His good humour wasreturning. He got an occasional glance at Mary Louise, sometimesduring contagious gales of laughter that would sweep the audience, andsaw her smiling slightly, mostly with her eyes; and was puzzled, forthe humour was not that sort. Had he stopped to think, or had he beenmore experienced, he would not have been thus puzzled, for he wouldhave realized that the sudden putting on of sophistication is always apuzzling thing.

But he banished the question and gave himself up entirely toenjoyment. And when the final curtain fell he rose to his feet with afaint inner sigh of regret. It was with high good humour that he gainedhis companion's side outside the theatre.

"We'll get a bite to eat down in the Rathskeller," he suggested gaily.

"No, Joe, let's not. This is enough for one evening." She turned as ifto start southward, toward home, but he seized her arm, laughing:

"Maybe it's enough for you, but it's not enough for me. Come on. Be asport. You've been dodging me long enough."

"Dodging you?" She was all hurt surprise as he hurried her along.

Joe's method was improving. "Well, come along, then—if you don'twant me to think so."

Mary Louise let it go at that. She came.

A revolving door that swept outward musty and yet alluring odoursswept them inward. They descended a flight of winding steps to asubterranean anteroom of stone. Dim lights winked at them from stoneniches and from a cleft in the rock to one side a prim little maid ina ruched white cap took Joe's hat. There should have been a troglodyteattendant, instead. On the other side of swinging glass doors was muchclatter and laughter and the indistinct voice of a woman above arhythmic strumming and the bleat of a saxophone. The transition tothis other side was sudden and bewildering. The glimmer burst into aglare, the dim echo swelled into a roar as the door opened, and Joestood blinking, asking for a table for two. As he threaded his waybetween tables, past careening waiters swinging aloft perilous trays,a girl in a crimson evening frock came wandering carelessly throughthe aisle toward him, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyessearching the crowd sitting about her. Her figure was short and pudgyand so violently compressed into her crimson gown that she seemed tobe oozing out of a scanty chalice. She was singing a most provocativesong and, catching sight of Joe as he struggled along, face uptilted,and, looking into his eyes most impudently, let him have the fullimport of her words.

Joe gave her a deliberate, knowing wink. With a careless shrug shemoved away in search of more promising and sensitive material.

He passed, the toxine of gaiety mounting to his head, to a small tabletucked into a remote corner, where the waiter was holding out a chairfor him.

"Won't do, George," he said, refusing the proffered chair. "We can'tbe buried way back here. We aren't dead ones, you know."

The waiter raised a deprecating shoulder but Mary Louise broke in,"Oh, don't bother! This is all right, Joe." She had already seatedherself and was drawing off her gloves. Her face looked hot and weary,and long wisps of hair were clinging damply to her temples.

"Wish we could have had a table over there," indicating two or threevacant ones near the orchestra and the base of the jongleur'soperations. "We're out of it here. Well, at any rate, what are yougoing to have?"

She turned from a weary inspection of adjoining tables. "Oh, anything.Some lemonade, I suppose."

"Don't want to celebrate? This is our first party." His eyes and smilewere eager.

"No. Of course not, Joe. You know better than that."

"Two lemonades," he said to the waiter regretfully. Somehow it seemedlike a waste of atmosphere, a waste of fuel, pulling a rowboat with aturbine—to be drinking lemonade in a place like this. Manybitter similes occurred to him, but he banished them.

"The old girl looks like a rash, doesn't she?" he said, indicating thesinger who was wandering about amongst the tables in another part ofthe room.

Mary Louise looked at him suspiciously. "How's that?"

"She's a-breakin' out."

Neither paid any further attention to this atrocity; she, because shewilled otherwise; he, because he was blissfully unaware.

But her apathy was noticeable. He made one or two violent efforts tospur her flagging spirits and then, becoming touched by the contagionof her reserve, lapsed himself into silence. They sat and sipped theirlemonades, thoughtfully inspecting their straws, dolefully ruminative.Their little table was like a blot on a snow-white expanse of joy.

Joe came to the bottom of his glass and made a vicious noise in theresidue of cracked ice. He looked up to see how she might be takingit and saw a gleam of pleasure pass across her face. It quicklysubsided and gave way to a look of preoccupation. He was watching herintently now. And then she smiled and looked beyond him, stretchingher hand out in recognition. Someone touched the back of his chair. Helooked over his shoulder, saw a man's figure standing there, and thenhe rose to his feet.

Dimly he heard Mary Louise's introduction. It was a Mr. Claybrook orsomething like that.

"Won't you pull your chair up?" Joe invited.

Mr. Claybrook decided he would. He was a big man, a grave man, a manof considerable poise, and possessed of whimsical crow's-feet in thecorners of his eyes. Mary Louise's apathy seemed to retire a little athis approach.

"Glad to see you survived last night," he said to her with a faintsmile.

She flushed, and Joe felt a little roughness under his collar.

"How's the tea room coming? Roused out any hard drinkers yet?"

"Oh, we're not looking for that. We hope to make a few steady friends,but we're depending on the ebb and flow." Her colour was mounting, andhad not Joe been so uncomfortable he would have seen how pretty shewas. But he sank deeper and deeper into a sullen and unreasoningdiscomfort. The two had evidently had considerable in common before.He felt awkward—knew of nothing to say. Claybrook, on the otherhand, was enjoying himself.

And apparently sensing the tension in Joe's mind, and seeking tolighten it a bit, she volunteered:

"Captain Claybrook is going to help us put the tea room across. He wasone of our best little patrons in Camp Taylor."

Claybrook looked self-conscious; Joe even more embarrassed. Andsuddenly a strange look crossed her face and she broke off herexplanation. Joe turned and looked in the direction toward which shewas staring wide-eyed.

And across the room, weaving through the labyrinth of tables andbearing straight down upon them, came a strange apparition. Withunsteady gait, his hand stretched out in caution before him and awatery smile upon his lips, came Uncle Buzz. An incongruouslypicturesque figure amidst smartness and glitter. His head was as sleekas ever and he had waxed the tips of his moustaches so that they stuckout jauntily as did the tips of his black bow tie. But his jacket wasshort and rusty and in need of pressing, of which fact he seemedblissfully unaware. For, having sighted them, he was coming onsteadfastly, past pitfalls that yawned, with a smile upon his face.

Joe felt a peculiar exulting glow pass over him, whether at the sightof a familiar, friendly face or for some less creditable reason.Distress was plainly written on the face of Mary Louise. Claybrooktalked on, unconscious of what was coming.

And then Mr. Mosby drew up alongside and favoured them with anelaborate bow from the centre of the aisle. A hurrying waiter, beingthus perilously presented with an unexpected hazard, made a desperateswerve in mid-flight and menaced an adjoining table with the contentsof his tray. A glass crashed, a woman shrieked, and Uncle Buzzserenely proceeded.

"Don't get up. Pray, don't get up," he said to Joe and Claybrook. "Sawyou from the door and merely came to pay my respects. Miss MaryLouise, we miss you in the old town." He turned to her gracefully, andJoe could catch the faint aroma of Bourbon, thus immediatelyaccounting to his own satisfaction for the easy poise and manner. MaryLouise was lost. She watched Claybrook, who seemed amused, and UncleBuzz went on, turning his attention to Joe. "And by the way, Joseph,if you can arrange to, your Aunt Loraine and I would like for you tospend Saturday and Sunday with us."

Joe knew how much his Aunt Loraine would subscribe to this courtesy.It meant work to do, that was all. But he was amused, felt singularlylight-hearted instead of embarrassed. Who can say he was depraved? Hisvoice was kind and cajoling as he replied:

"What are you doing in town, Uncle Buzz? Isn't the store open to-day?Mr. Claybrook! Mr. Mosby!"

Uncle Buzz acknowledged the honour and then he turned on Joe adignified but hurt surprise. "I come to town quite frequently," hesaid, clipping his words. "A Mr. Forbes of Boston wrote me to meet himhere about some saddle horses." This was said quietly but with properemphasis. Joe wondered how far it strayed from the truth. There wereonly two saddlers left, he knew. Uncle Buzz was swaying slightly toand fro and the little table was rapidly becoming the cynosure of alleyes. Mary Louise looked about her desperately. Uncle Buzz, smilingsweetly in the aisle, and threatening at any moment to shatter theillusion by falling prostrate, was entirely ignorant of her distress.The tables were reversed. Claybrook was silent; Joe held the centre ofthe conversational stage.

Suddenly Mary Louise arose. "We must be going," she said. She paused,gave them all an uncertain smile, and then she started rapidly for thedoor. Old Mr. Mosby looked mildly surprised, then accepted thesituation as one too complex for his muddled brain. And Joe, after afirst flare of anger, followed her in silence, leaving Claybrook andUncle Buzz to contest the honours after him.

They parted in the lobby; Mary Louise with a bright spot on eithercheek and her lips set in their tightest line; Claybrook suave andgenial; Uncle Buzz bewildered and in some way wistfully regretful.His watery blue eyes held in them an unanswered question that seemedtoo ponderous for utterance. Joe was silent.

He took her home, along the deserted streets as quickly as possible.For a long time neither spoke. Then it was some trivial amenity thatshe uttered to which he made even shorter reply. Up in the elevatorthey went, silently watching the floor. At the door of her apartmenthe inclined his head. "Good-night," he said, without offering to shakehands.

"What's the matter, Joe?" she asked, suddenly coming to herself andrealizing the oversight.

"Not a thing," he said. "It's perfectly all right with me." He turnedto go.

"Oh!" The exclamation was almost involuntary. She shrank back a littleinto the shadow. "It was a nice party."

He made no reply but acknowledged this with another slight inclinationof the head. And then he started down the hall.

For a moment she stood and listened to the muffled sound of hisfootsteps upon the thick hall carpet, and then she softly closed thedoor.

CHAPTER IV

Joehad been right. There was a difference between an enterprise backed bypopular sentiment and practically the same elements with the backingremoved. In the first place, the patronage of the new tea room was notso brisk and what there was was more skeptically critical. There wasnot that carefree acceptance of things that overlooked deficiencies inthe light of the cause they existed under. In fact, the helpfulpressure that had held it all cemented had loosened. At the end of thefirst week the two cooks suggested a raise in pay amounting to tendollars a month apiece. They did this in accord. And then, contrary towhat might be expected now that the war was over, there was aninsidious rising in the cost of everything, from table napkins tocanned asparagus. Mary Louise began to feel that profits might not beso easy to estimate, after all.

Her coördinate, too, was constitutionally apathetic. She was abovine creature who positively refused to get ruffled over obstacles,criticisms, or fate. Her name was Maida Jones. Two large pans of bunshad burned. Mary Louise, seeking to fix the responsibility, had failedin doing so and was wracked at the prospect of frequently recurringwaste. Responsibility to be effective must be undivided. Maida hadonly laughed. And Mary Louise removed herself from the scene of herdefeat and stood in the doorway of the tea room proper and staredbleakly across a vista of deserted tables at a languid and heat-riddenthoroughfare. It was going to be a "hit-or-miss" proposition, acareless, slipshod affair—this tea room—unless she didsomething to prevent it—and it was too hot. That was what wasthe matter. It was too hot. She brushed back the hair from her faceand slumped. Behind her came the clatter of dishes. And then someonelaughed, a coarse, raucous laugh. Mary Louise shuddered. Thepost-office clock boomed six and she suddenly realized that the daywas over. There would be no belated custom, for the service stopped atsix and the room was empty. Irritation gave way to discouragement. Theday's receipts had been slim indeed. Just then she noticed anautomobile roll up to the curb outside, and a man got out. She saw himstart for the door, and for a moment she pondered whether she wouldaccomodate him or turn him away. He opened the door. It was Claybrook.

"Hullo," he said, catching sight of her. "Afraid I'd be too late. Cometake a ride."

That was exactly what she wanted to do. "I can't," she said. "I haveto wait till they get through back there," indicating with a jerk ofthe head those uncertain regions which had become suddenly quiet.

"Oh, let them take care of themselves. What is help for if you have towatch it every minute? Come on. It's too hot to work any longer,anyway."

She yielded. First she spent a moment or two before a mirror, tidyingherself up, feeling as she did so a little thrill of anticipation. Andthen she stuck her head through the kitchen door and announced thatshe was leaving. "Don't burn the whole place up, Maida," she cautionedwith a laugh as she caught sight of her sitting, humped forward in akitchen chair, fat elbows resting on a table, placidly viewing a vastclutter of dishes that had not yet been put away.

Mary Louise escaped and clambered into the waiting car, into thevacant seat beside the driver.

They whirled away, turned a corner sharply, and soon were leaving thenarrow, restricted streets of the down-town district which had beenpulsing and glowering with heat all day. She caught a look atClaybrook in the seat beside her. He was as fresh and cool as thoughhe had not been exposed to the weather at all. Instinctively shereached a restraining hand to her hair. It was blowing in wilddisarray. A sudden stretch of stately old houses sitting well back oneither side of the street, partly hidden by double rows of trees,caused her fresh doubts as to the fitness of her attire. In hershirtwaist and skirt she felt like an intruder.

A man from the sidewalk bowed to them. So busy was she with her hatthat she could not see who it was.

"There goes Wilkes," said Claybrook. "You remember Wilkes out at Camp?Had charge of the Post Exchange."

She hoped she had escaped recognition. As if for protection sheslipped farther down in the seat and was less troubled by the wind.The neighbourhood through which they were passing was becoming evenmore fashionable, and aristocratic nurse-maids with their aristocraticcharges, alike in white, starchy, frilly things, were dotting thesidewalks on either side of the street, supplying a live motif to aprospect that might otherwise seem too orderly and remote. The lawnswere beautiful, close cropped and freshly green, and frequentfountains sent a delightful mist across the pavement even to thestreet. It was all very cool and refreshing. She began to see wherecertain phases of city life might prove to be quite pleasant. Themodern fleshpots may seem alluring not alone in retrospect.

At length they passed from the asphalt paving on to a roadway ofyellow-red gravel, and up ahead, Mary Louise could see a stretch ofopen country and beyond, a ridge of misty blue hills. There was adouble line of young maples on either side of the boulevard and thefresh young leaves were rustling vigorously in the evening breeze asthey passed. Claybrook settled down in his seat us they gained theboundary between paving and roadway with what seemed almost like asigh of relief. He turned upon his companion a satisfied smile,meanwhile cutting down their speed appreciably.

"This is something like it," he said. "Pretty hot down your wayto-day?"

"Terrible," admitted Mary Louise. "I don't believe those walls willget cool again before Christmas."

He smiled without answering, being occupied at the moment with alittle difficulty in the traffic. Directly he was free.

"Rare old boy—the other night," he said, still watching theroad.

For a moment she did not catch the reference.

"Down in the Rathskeller," he added.

A hot rush of confusion struck her and she made no reply, but he wenton:

"I've often wondered what these people were like fifty yearsago—living on top of the world, best farm land anywhere, fineold homes, lots of servants—nothing to do but enjoy life. Let itslip away from them, didn't they? Must not have known what they had."He had relaxed and was driving comfortably. And as though wrapped in amist of his own musing he continued, his eyes fixed on the road beforehim, "I've often thought that if I ever got to the point where Icould afford it I would get me one of those old places—lot ofland—stock it up well, fix up the house. I'd like to leavesomething like that to my family." He chuckled. "They might notappreciate it as much as I do, however."

"They might," she replied. "They might have just as hard a time tryingto keep it as—as we have. Conditions might change again in thenext fifty years."

He turned and smiled at her. "Hadn't thought of that." The crow's feetwere thick about his eyes. "Who was the boy?—the one you werewith the other night."

Mary Louise flushed in spite of herself. "Joe—Joe Hooper. You'veheard me speak of him."

"Oh, yes. Lives in Bloomfield, doesn't he?"

"He did. Works here in town now—out at Bromley's."

He made no further reply, but somehow she felt an unutteredconviction, on the part of the man there beside her, of Joe's loss ofheritage. And yet a certain compunction prevented her from making anyexplanation—that it was not Joe's fault. There was a sort ofsacred inviolability about it. A hot little wave of feeling swept overher. She had treated Joe miserably. She had yielded to her feelingslike a child. She ought to have been good sport enough to hide whatshe had felt. But she hadn't. She was a snob. She had hoped to concealthat she was not their sort—Joe and Mr. Mosby. In a sense, shehad been going back on her own people. As if she were trying to passthem—trying to keep up with the procession. And yet that wasexactly what she was doing. But to show it!

The straight level path of the boulevard came abruptly to an end andthe road diverged to the left and mounted swiftly, skirting theincline of a white, chalky hill densely covered with a tangle of scruboak, buckeye, cedar, and much underbrush. The slanting rays of the sunwere shut off abruptly as by a shutter and they rolled betweenstretches of shade that were mistily fragrant and cool. Even the upperair currents in the spaces above the road, up toward the sky, seemedshadowy and unharried by the fierceness of the passing sunlight. Themotor settled down to the business of climbing, and once Claybrookturned to her with a look of appreciation.

"Some park, this."

She hardly heard him, so intent was she on watching the road and theoccasional glimpses, through the tangle, of declivitous stretchesstrewn with trunks of fallen trees and rank vegetation, down which thewind went wandering with vague whisperings. They had been suddenlytransported out of the world of people into the world of hopes. Thecity had been left leagues behind.

They made a quick, sharp turn to the right, the road almost doublingback upon itself, and there was a steep grade for a short distance,during which time Mary Louise caught herself leaning forward andholding her breath in an instinctive impulse to help the labouringcar. And then they gained the top. Before them lay a tableland of manyacres thickly covered with trees. The grass, in the open spacesbetween, was sparse, and there was much moss and lichen and drifts ofwithered leaves, dried by the sun of more than one summer; and hereand there in the northern shadow of some gnarled trunk and in dippinghollows the leaves were packed close in a damp and moulding compress.Great streamers of wild grape-vine hung precariously from weary limbsand swayed to and fro gently in the wind that came mounting up theslope from the west and went dipping away to the eastward, leaving asoft, shuddering wake. It was as if a mellower spirit hovered aboutthe old giant knob resting there, watching with its head all venerablygray, though the sunlight ere it faded was elfishly splashing theshadow with golden green, and little flecks of crimson and orange cameflashing through the tangle of branches as they passed, making lightmockery. And then the trees suddenly opened and they came out upon aflat bare knoll, where the road, making a loop, signified that itsjourney was over. Around the outside edge was a wall of loose stonesfrom which the hill sloped steeply in all directions, and before them,stretching away for miles, lay the country through which they hadpassed, till soft and green and gray in the distance. A huge smokepall, its feathery top drifting slowly eastward, hung over acup-shaped depression, and below it stretched a darker line, fromwhich occasionally emerged a solitary stack, or above which a churchspire, caught by an errant ray from the setting sun, would flash amomentary beacon. Slowly the mantle seemed to fade and mingle with thetwilight, and even as they watched, a light flashed out, a singlepin-prick of a light, and then another and another, as night,gathering in its intensity, swept over the valley, until it was met byan ever-increasing challenge. It was like a myriad host of fairyfire-flies, each diamond pointed, flickering, blinking, never still.And there settled on the under side of the smoke pall a lurid glow asof banked fires, waiting for the work of another day.

Mary Louise breathed a soft little sigh.

"It does get next to one, some way, doesn't it?" he said.

Rather to her thoughts she replied aloud: "To think of all thosepeople living there, almost in the grasp of the hand. Think of themmoving, scurrying about among those lights. It makes one feel it wouldbe so easy to do things for them, move them about at one'swill—from here. And yet——" She was silent a moment,thinking. "And yet even to be able to raise one's head above it all,to see—and be seen! Well——"

"That's what I mean to do." He spoke almost as if she were not there,and his voice, which was as though disembodied, and jarring a bit withits resonance, brought her back to the present.

"It's a hard thing to do and I've come to think it takes sometimes alifetime, but—it can be done." He had turned and she could feelhis warm breath in her ear. There was a note of assurance in his wordsand, as she watched, a change came over the scene before her and itall seemed like a huge graying blanket punched full of tiny, brightflat holes. Something had receded, escaped back into the darknessbehind it all.

She made no reply.

"I wanted to tell you and it's about as good a time as any. You may beneeding some help. It's not all so easy down there. And—well, ifyou need any help—make the way any easier for you—why,don't hesitate to call on me."

"That's good of you," she replied, and wondered at the lack of warmthin her own voice. "Perhaps I shall." But she could not help feelingthat in some way she had seen what she had seen—alone.

They sat a little longer in silence, and then Mary Louise straightenedin her seat and called to him briskly:

"We must be going. Why, it must be eight o'clock. What have I beenthinking of?"

"That's what I'd like to know," he laughed.

"Come, take me home, man. Maida will think—all sorts of things."

"You don't have to answer to her, do you?"

"No. But let's go."

He stooped over and switched on the lights and immediately two long,ghostly streamers went searching out across the wall and restedlightly in the tops of some ragged trees on the slopes, bringing themgrotesquely into focus, while myriads of tiny motes danced down thetwin circular paths off into space. Directly there was a roar of theengine, with an occasional sputtering cough—for the night airwas cool—and then Claybrook's voice again:

"There really isn't any great hurry. We can stop at the Gardens at thefoot of the hill and get a bite to eat."

"No, not to-night. Thank you ever so much."

"But why not? We needn't hurry then. It's a pretty good place." Heseemed insistent, waiting, stooped there over the steering wheel.

"No," she said again. "I must get home. Maida will be waiting for meand I've some work to do. And besides, I don't want to go anywherelooking like this. I'm a fright, I know."

He muttered something to himself as he threw the car into gear, andthey went whirling around the circle of the road in reckless disregardfor the menace of the rock wall. It was pitch dark as they made theirway across the level top of the knob, with occasional shadows ofspectral limbs projecting their silhouettes against the sky, and oncethe jagged edge of a trailing creeper swished close to her head asthey whirled along. Above the noise of the motor there was not asound. Claybrook suddenly laughed:

"Some of the niggers down at the mill say this old hill is haunted."

She clung to the hand-grip of her seat, her mind filled with a tangleof impressions, with a shrinking from the sepulchral depths belowthem, and an effort to recall in detail that vision of the city.

"I have to shake it off before I can be any more good. It's like beingmoon-struck." He took another sharp curve at reckless speed, the tiresgrinding on the gravel, the brakes screeching.

Mary Louise held her breath for a moment and waited. And then shetouched him lightly on the elbow. "Oh, please!"

He laughed and for a short time was more careful, slowing down at thecurves which came every hundred yards or so. "Feels like they'recoming after me. Like to get down to the level road again." He made aquick swerve to avoid a pointed rock. "Must have been great, drivingto the top of this with a horse and buggy. Not for me."

And they were off again as swiftly as before. Twice they grazed theprojecting roots of trees on the outside edge of the road by thescantiest of margins and once a board in a culvert snapped ominouslyas they swept across it, and Claybrook laughed aloud. And Mary Louise,wide-eyed, sat in a frenzy of preparedness, her gaze glued to thewinding, ever-dipping road in fascination.

Suddenly a shadow seemed to leap out upon them, out of thedarkness—the shadow of a man. There was a moment's hideousclamour of the brakes, a sickening swerve of the machine, a man'sshout, a sudden instant's flash of gleaming trunks brought sharplyinto focus, and then a slow, gradual letting down of her side of thecar, inch by inch. She grasped the arm beside her to keep fromfalling, and then all was still.

A moment later she could see that they were balanced on the edge of aculvert; to her right was the darkness; up ahead, the lights wereglaring impotently off into space. And then she realized that an armwas encircling her waist in an iron grip and that the motor was stillthrumming and that someone was running around in front of the car andthen peering off down the slope where they tipped so perilously. Thesethings came to her in just that order. And directly she was on theroad, trembling just a little and feeling very helpless, andClaybrook's voice somewhere over in the darkness was givingdirections, sharp, irritated. To her knowledge he had not uttered aword during it all. She could hear them somewhere over there crashingabout in the underbrush, an occasional word, an occasional suppressedshout. Very unreal it was, with the stars shining faintly overhead,the black shadows all around, and those two shafts of light poking outinto nowhere. She walked back to the inside edge of the road and satdown, and bye-and-bye she felt quieter. It had been such a childishlyfoolish thing to do and so useless. The minutes passed and she beganto wonder what time it was getting to be. And then she felt a growingirritation and suddenly she was hungry. All she could hear was thethreshing about of the brush and the sound of heavy dragging. Once shewent around the rear of the car and peered down. She could dimly seethat the rear wheel had passed completely over the brink, and below itlay a pile of sticks and brush. A little more and they might haverolled over, down into the darkness. She returned to her seat by theside of the road.

Just like a little boy he was, she thought—reckless,irresponsible, "full of the fullness of living." And his tone, whenshe had spoken of the dead-level of life in the city below them andthe problem of raising one's head—"That's what I mean todo"—had seemed so like the confident tones of a child on thethreshold of life. Were we all like that, after all—lifted upfor a moment so that we could see; blundering forward the next,blindly, into pitfalls of our own making? His very offer of help,there on the hilltop, had been naïve, and yet she was troubled byit. Why was he thrusting his stick into the still waters of her life?And yet she had felt very much alone and in need of the realization ofanother presence.

And then suddenly she realized why and how it was she liked him. Sheliked to think of him as standing by, liked the realization of hisstrength, his confidence. He was big, he was good-looking, and therewas a tonic freshness about him. He was good as a friend. And heneeded watching over, needed guiding, himself. That made it all thebetter. And then she felt hungry again. But she was no longerirritated.

The roar of the motor roused her from her musings. There was aripping, grinding noise and she could see the outline of the car move,sink back, and then lurch forward again. There was another whirringand grinding and then Claybrook's triumphant shout. She rose to herfeet and walked over to him. They had succeeded. The car was standing,all four wheels on the hard, level surface, the engine racing likemad.

"Hop in," Claybrook called to her a bit shortly.

She complied and he reached forward to throw in the gear, when the manwalked around in front of the car and held up a restraining hand. Shesaw then, for the first time, that he was a park policeman.

"Let's have your name before you go, friend," he said.

"But what for? There's no harm done. I thought I made it all rightwith you?"

"You did—with me. But then you're pretty dangerous on theseroads and I'll have to turn you in so that they can be looking out foryou."

Claybrook sullenly complied. And then, throwing the car into gear,they slipped quickly out of sight. After they had rounded the curve,he turned suddenly to Mary Louise. "That's a new one on me. I tippedhim for helping me get the car out, and then he turns and takes myname. You can't count on anybody these days—ever since the war."

"I think he has a sense of humour," she replied, laughing softly.

As they passed the road-house he suggested once again that they stopfor a bite to eat, but upon her refusal he made no comment. The nightwas no longer clear; gathering clouds on the western horizon weregradually spreading across the sky, and as they crossed the line on tothe asphalt paving again, it began to rain, a few scattering drops. Atwhich she teased him about his altered driving. He laughed but made noanswer.

But the shower did not come and directly they drew up at the curboutside her apartment.

"Don't stop," she said. "Don't bother. You must get in before therain." She felt singularly good humoured.

"I'm sorry I made such a mess of things," he began clumsily,"and—and—you were pretty decent about it." It was aconcession, but she could see he was rankled about something.

"I hope they won't fine you too much," she called after him as hestarted off. And then she walked thoughtfully into the hallway andstepped into the elevator and was carried swiftly upward.

"You've got to make allowances for them all," she decided mentally."Yes," she added force to that decision, half aloud.

"What d'you say, Miss Mac?" inquired the elevator boy.

"I said, 'Seventh,'" she smiled at him.

She was met at the door by Maida with her hair in curl papers and amost prodigious yawning and rubbing of eyes. The ideal night life forMaida was that spent comfortably in bed.

"Thought you'd eloped," she ventured sleepily and then turned andshuffled off to the inner room. At the door she called over hershoulder, "There's a note someone left for you—about two hoursago."

Mary Louise looked on the table and, lying on a pile of magazines andnewspaper supplements, was a plain, thin, white envelope. She pickedit up and looked at it curiously, wondering from whom it could be.There was no address. She tore it open and read, and as she read shereached over one hand and steadied herself against the table. The notewas from Joe, and laconic:

That was all it said. There was no expression of regret. There was nooffer of help. She had a sudden rush of anxiety. But behind theanxious feeling was one of wonder and a tiny one of hurt. She laid theletter down upon the table and slowly and thoughtfully took off herhat.

CHAPTER V

Thingshad changed for Joe. It was as though he had been told that he had notamounted to much, that what he had come from had not amounted to much,and that in all probability he would never amount to much. Just howmuch had actually been suggested to him, and how much he had suppliedout of the whole cloth of his imagination it is doubtful if even hecould have said.

It was not the weather certainly. For the morning of the second day ofMay opened wide with promise. There was a lightness about the air anda clarity as Joe emerged from his lodging house from the ready-madebreakfast which they doled out as though breakfasts were just likelinen and towels and soap. The day would have made countlessinsinuations to a normal man. To some, it said golf; to others, amotor trip out to where a plethora of such bounties as it suggestedmight be available; and to others less fortunate—why, there wasthe "Ferry" just opening to hesitant crowds, with its band stand, itsscenic railway, its forty-five minutes of vaudeville that was anythingbut mentally exhausting. It was an eloquent morning. But Joe turned adeaf ear.

His walk to the factory lay for a short distance along a pretty littlepark where, when the weather was proper, squirrels and babies andnumerous other smaller, crawly things were wont to mingle together indemocratic unconcern. But to him, this morning, it was just so muchpavement.

He punched the time clock viciously as he passed through the officelobby and barely escaped collision with Mr. Boner as he turned thecorner of the partition en route to his desk. Mr. Boner merelygrunted. He bore in his hand a sheaf of orders for the mailing desk.He believed in getting an early start.

Joe sat down before his desk and gazed listlessly out of the window.The day arose before him in prospect, drab, desolate, and dreary. Highup overhead, through the dingy panes, he could see the little fleecyclouds floating about in peaceful unconcern. May was a slack month.And at its end came June—June, with its four weeks' inventoryperiod wherein each stick and stone of the entire plant, eachten-penny nail, each carriage bolt, would have to be listed, valued,and carried into an imposing total. It meant working late into thenight under a pitiless glare with handkerchief tied about one's necklike a washer. It meant cramped fingers, and hot dry eyes, and a backthat ached when it didn't feel crawly with infinitesimal bugs, andbugs that bumped and buzzed and then fell sprawling across one'spaper. Each item had to be entered upon the sheet. Each item had to bevalued. Discounts had to be figured, extensions had to be made,figures had to be checked meticulously, and the whole thing eventuallybound up in six or eight huge volumes which were then allowed tolanguish in the Company safe. He had been through it before. And thethought of it was intolerable. This was June. June and inventory andMr. Boner seemed to him to be cut from the same piece. For neither didMr. Boner escape. Instead, he came earlier, stayed later, and workedwith more furious rapidity than ever. And he was Mr. Boner'ssuccessor—that is, if he hit the ball and worked hard enough todeserve it. The thought of the little boy whose mother gave him anickle every time he took his castor oil manfully came to his mind ashe sat and gazed out the window. When asked what he did with thenickles, the Spartan youth had replied: "Buy more castor oil with it."Joe wearily dragged one of his stock ledgers from the rack and openedit.

All that day, as he made his entries and checked his totals, came thethought, "Why am I doing this? What is it all for?" He was feeling thedouble edge of scorn no less keenly because only implied. Why wasn'the doing a man's work? Why was he humbly taking his turn in a servileand remote succession, where death's was the only hand that moved thepawns? Why had he come back to it? He dared not confess the reason.The best he could do was admit to himself he had been mistaken. Therose tints had vanished from his sky and the path he had chosen wasdisclosed in all its drab ugliness. He had chosen it fatuously. Therose tints had been of his own making. He viciously snapped his mindshut on the thought. For a while he would feverishly clamp hisattention to his work, while outside the sky continued serenely blue,and the breeze that drifted through his window was languorous andsoft. But the work was too light. There was not enough of it, nor wasit of the nature that demanded his absorbed concentration. He thoughtof Mr. Mosby, the unwitting cause of it all. And yet he did not blameUncle Buzz in the least. Rather he sided with him. They were bothinferior animals—not to be mentioned in the same breath withprogress, thrift, success.

Uncle Buzz had his troubles, too. He was bookkeeper of the generalstore in Bloomfield, but he had never got to the point where he wasabsolutely sure of his trial balances. Nor had Aunt Loraine ever gotto the point where she was absolutely sure of him, and he had had onlythe slightest hand in the management of what was left of the farm. Thefarm was Aunt Loraine's. But she always took what was necessary fromwhat Uncle Buzz got from the store to make both ends meet on the farm,and that was, of late, becoming an ever-increasing distance. UncleBuzz felt a proprietor's interest. He liked to speak about it as "hisfarm." Uncle Buzz would have loved to raise horses, thoroughbreds andsaddlers, but for obvious reasons that had been impossible. But hewent his jaunty way, waxing his moustaches, squandering his money onfancy neckties, taking his surreptitious nip with all the gay bravadoof thirty years before, and getting seedier and seedier. He was adandelion withering on the stalk. He had long since given up hope ofbeing anything else but bookkeeper in the "Golden Rule," and indeed itwas only the stock which he held in that institution that insured himthe place such as it was. For Uncle Buzz was with age becoming moreunreliable. His mind would play queer tricks on him. The figures wouldoccasionally assume a demonic elusiveness and he could no longer carryhis liquor with his former assurance. While outwardly he was the samesuave, debonair old beau, he was beginning to have inner doubtings anddespairs. And Joe, who had, as it were, taken up the pen when he hadcast aside the sword, became for him a potential straw adrift on thedownward current.

Uncle Buzz's message in the Rathskeller the night before had beencryptic to the others but plain enough to Joe. Uncle Buzz was introuble again. Trial balance, maybe. There was no telling. As Joefinished footing up a long column of figures he smiled. It meantanother trip to Bloomfield on Saturday. And Saturday was the day afterto-morrow. Thus the day wore on.

On Saturday, which was a day of the same pattern as its predecessors,at eleven o'clock Joe quietly rose from his desk, took his hat, andunostentatiously walked out of the office. He punched the time clockgently so that it would attract the attention of only the mostobservant of clerks, and hurried away, feeling that this repeateddereliction was bound to bring him some notice, even if the firstoffense had not. But for some reason he felt singularly indifferent.

An hour later he had forgotten it all. The dumpy accommodation trainwas bumping itself along at a great rate, puffing stertorously up thelong grade past "Sassafras Hill," and then swinging itself around thecurves that followed the river so desperately that passengers andfreight alike—for it was a combination train as well asaccommodation—were like to be flung from it, hurled into spaceas useless encumbrances to its desperate need of getting there. Itwould rush along madly for a mile or two, then give a wild shriek andstop, and after a great puffing and snorting, start up again.

It was such an enthusiastic train that Joe could not long escape thecontagion of its enthusiasm. Ten miles out they came into a stretch ofrolling meadow where the shadows of trees were like purple splotchesupon the shimmering mist of the grass. A high wind had arisen that setthe countless blades vibrating so that each bit of sun-swept meadowwas naught but a silverish blurr, with the tree tops above it tossingwildly about. A little girl, holding open a gate for an old man in abuggy behind a placid old white horse, was all fluttering ribbon ends,and as they passed, her sunbonnet was torn from her grasp and flungover the fence, far afield. Joe could see her running after it as theyrounded a curve out of sight.

At twelve thirty-five they reached Guests where Joe alighted. He wasthe only passenger of like mind, and aside from the station master whomade a hurried exchange of sundry small express packages and mailthere was no one at the station but a fat little old man in a brownderby and a red sweater, and with a very dirty face. This lattergentleman accosted Joe with a warning gesture, lifting his arm andpointing to the sky, and at the same time giving him a significantlook, and then scuttling over to a disreputable motor car that stoodbeside the station platform. Arriving there he twisted his fat neckhalf around to see if his prey was following him, and being thusassured, clambered in. The car was very aged and trembling from someviolent internal disorder, while the top was bellying off sidewisewith a great flapping of loose straps and curtain ends till it seemeddoubtful if the whole thing might hold together for another minute.

"High wind," suggested the Jehu, in a fat wheezy voice as Joe crawledinto the seat beside him. Joe agreed without qualification. The oldman paused a minute, gave him a sober, reflective look of far-awayintensity, and then suddenly turned and spat precariously into thewind.

"Bloomfield?" he suggested with increased lightness of manner.

"Bloomfield," Joe agreed again. It was a pleasant bit of procedure,invested with the dignity of a formula, for there was no other townwithin a radius of many miles and no other road over which suchtraffic was possible. Still it had to be gone through with.

They started with a rush, being ably seconded by a more severe gust ofwind than usual, and for eight miles it was a stalemate between thewind and the motor as to which could make the most noise. But in spiteof it all Joe was enjoying it. There was a freedom in the uproar, inthe wildly tossing tree tops, in the white clouds that went scuddinghigh overhead. He had an insane desire to fling his hat high up in theair, as they rolled along, and see how far the wind would carry it.

At length they arrived. Out of courtesy, perhaps, the wind abated;perhaps it was because nothing boisterous would be tolerated alongthose silent old streets. But as they passed the tavern, one greenshutter could be seen hanging by one hinge, moving softly to and fro,and against the iron stair railing of the meeting house an old,yellowing newspaper clung for a moment and then dropped to thepavement. A very old man in a linen suit, followed by an old hound,was going through the door as they passed, and he pivoted on his stickand watched them. Here was the very essence of stability.

Reaching the central square, the driver swung his car in a majesticarc around the traffic post in the centre of the street and drew up atthe curb in front of the post-office. There was a liberal sprinklingof small motors of the same general classification as the one in whichthey were arriving, parked with their noses headed toward the curb, atan angle. Uncle Buzz's figure suddenly appeared, hurrying from behindone of these, his face set in an earnest frown. He had evidently seenthem from the "Golden Rule," diagonally opposite, and had come themost direct route, through the traffic.

"Well, Joseph, this is a surprise."

This, thought Joe, might mean anything. Either his Aunt Loraine hadnot been apprised of his expected arrival, or perhaps the old man hadalready extricated himself from his trouble.

"Any bags?"

"No. No bags." Joe was still holding the out-stretched hand ofwelcome.

Uncle Buzz turned to the driver and dropped a coin in that worthygentleman's greasy palm as it lay inertly on the seat, beside him."That will be all," he said with great dignity.

The driver gave him a long look, heavy lidded—a critical look, adeeply thoughtful look—sniffed, and then turned to Joe, "Goin'back?" he asked shortly, as though there were nothing more now for anyone to stay for.

"No," said Joe. "Not to-day."

The driver pondered this in his heart for a moment, came to a suddendecision, sniffed again, and turned his back on them both andproceeded to stretch himself out as far as the narrow confines of theseat would permit. Business was apparently over for the day.

Uncle Buzz led Joe across the street to the busy side. The contrast oftheir figures was striking, for Joe was over a head taller, and loosewhere Uncle Buzz was stiff.

Mr. Mosby turned at the curbing and with a confidential air: "We'lljust get a bite to eat in here," indicating a tiny little lunch roomcrammed in between two ramshackle old frame buildings. "Your AuntLoraine was a bit indisposed this morning."

This established one conclusion. He was at least not expected at home.More than that, he could not decide without further premises.

They occupied stools at a high counter covered with oilcloth. UncleBuzz ordered rolls and coffee. Joe took rolls and coffee. There was aperiod of silence as they waited.

Directly Mr. Mosby began talking in a low tone: "It's a ratherfortunate thing you came up this week-end, Joseph. I was rather afraidyou mightn't." He paused and Joe, while he felt reasonably sure ofjust what would come next, listened with polite interest.

"I've been troubled with frightful headaches this past week," hecontinued, "so severe that I could scarcely see the open page beforeme."

Joe murmured his regret over the cup's brim.

The old man paused and seemed to consider. Then hesitantly continuing:"If you could spare an hour or two this afternoon——?"

"Surely I can, Uncle Buzz. Easiest thing you know."

The old man breathed deep and long and set down his coffee cup. "It isa trifling matter of some forty-six dollars. Would you like to go outto Montgomery's this afternoon? He has a couple of two-year-olds thathe will be shipping down for the Derby now pretty soon."

"I'd be very pleased to, Uncle Buzz."

And thus was the matter broached, and the matter accepted, without anybald reference to necessity, without the slightest violation to thetenets of hospitality. No reference was made to a previousunderstanding. Joe's visit was established on a purely social basis,and as such it would be presented to Mrs. Mosby, whose penchant foralarm might thus escape stimulus.

They finished their lunch hurriedly and made their way across to the"Golden Rule," where Uncle Buzz led his charge with swift, silentsteps back to the little private office in the rear of the store. Onceinside, the door was closed and the books quickly opened upon thetable. "They are always a bit impatient for the balance this time ofthe year," Mr. Mosby offered in explanation.

An hour's work sufficed to find the trouble. It was in the carryingforward of a single account. Once found, the rest was very simple, andat three o'clock Uncle Buzz slammed the ledger shut with an air ofcomplete satisfaction, walked confidently through the door into theadjoining office with his little sheaf of papers, and returningreached for his hat. "Burrus is out," he said crisply. "We won'twait."

Joe likewise reached for his hat.

At the door the old man turned, and with a reminiscent smile and in aconfidential tone, "There is a lot of personal jealousy in this firm."

Joe expressed no surprise.

"He's just been elected deacon in the church." His old eyes began totwinkle. "Great changes can take place in a man's habits once youhitch him up with apron strings. His wife has never thought so much ofLoraine. And now he doesn't think so much of me." He chuckled. "Wewere raised together, and I have a good memory." He opened the doorand walked slowly toward the front of the store. It was empty ofcustomers. A clerk stood leaning idly across a glass counter ofnotions looking into the street. Uncle Buzz proceeded calmly on,giving the clerk a pleasant nod. "She came from a farm back in thecounty. They say she had never seen a railroad until she wastwenty-one years old."

The clerk inspected Joe thoroughly and critically and made no sign ofhaving heard anything. And still Joe felt a bit dubious; indiscretionis like other normal weapons: it kills when one doesn't know it isloaded.

But Mr. Mosby was in rising spirits. They emerged to the street andturned the corner into the less populous thoroughfare, known commonlythroughout Bloomfield as Pearl Street, and there they came upon UncleBuzz's horse and buggy, standing as if carved from one and the sameblock of immutable immobility. Even the flies found little ofexcitement in lighting about the front section of the combination, andonly one or two were buzzing about in the general neighbourhood in adispirited manner.

The horse opened his eyes and lifted one ear as Uncle Buzz climbed inthe buggy and took up the lines. But being complacent and particularlyindisposed to anything as much like effort as resistance, the startingwas quite without ceremony.

Eventually, and not too much so, they left the city streets, and soonwere jogging down a winding little lane of the softest, yellowestearth imaginable. On either side, between the edge of the roadside andthe snake rail fence, was a little bank all a-tangle with blackberrybushes, and here and there, with its roots protruding out into space,a gaunt and bare thorn tree or an occasional walnut thrusting itsbranches over the road. Beyond, the fields lay in cool, serrated rows,deep brown and freshly fragrant. The woodland which hung about in thebackground beyond the fields would occasionally sweep down and crossthe road, and then would come a stretch of checkered shade on theyellow earth, and the lifting, expectant sound of high wind in topbranches. And sometimes, in the heart of such an arm of woodland, theold horse's hoofs would echo hollow on the warped and mellowing boardsof a tiny bridge, and there would be a momentary slip and gurgle ofwater underneath, on down through the ferns. Joe felt steeped in calm.

Mr. Montgomery was not at home. Nor were the horses. They found theywere a week late. An old Negro whom they encountered just within thepaddock gate so informed them: "Yessuh. They done took 'em down t'Louisville, las' Monday."

They left him scratching his kinky gray pate in meditation.

Uncle Buzz was disappointed. The little excursion was thus deprivedof its sparkle. There was a something about going out to seeracehorses——Well, at any rate, Uncle Buzz wasdisappointed. He showed it on the way home. Perhaps the fadingsunlight, the lengthening shadows, had something to do with it. Andthe wind, too, that had come with the morning and kept up its blusterall day, had died to a whisper, so that a cluster of last year'scorn-stalks standing in a fence corner were merely indifferentlywaggling. It may have been just a reflection of mood, but as they wererounding the brow of the hill above Bloomfield and could see the dipof the meadows to the creek and the white fences and outbuildings ofthe Fair Grounds away off to the right, the old horse stopped andgently switched his tail. And Uncle Buzz let him stop.

"Do you know," he said, and his voice was reminiscent and uncertain,"I've been thinking lately we ought to sell the place and move totown."

Joe looked up at him curiously. "Why do you think that, Uncle Buzz?"

Mr. Mosby pondered, as the horse, feeling perhaps the slight pricks ofconscience, resumed his way at an imperceptible walk. "Well," he said,"this country is not what it used to be. All the other towns, Guests,Fillmore—all the rest of them—are on the railroad orinterurban. They have the advantage of us."

Joe was watching him unperceived. The old man's face had lost itsaggressive jauntiness. There was an odd pucker about the brows. Hismouth, above the well-trimmed goatee, seemed small and indecisive. Joecould see the clear blue veins on the back of the hand as itlistlessly held the lines.

"Business has been a bit slack this past year. Seems like it never gotover the war. And prices are high, too. Can't get a nigger to do aday's work for you for less than three dollars now," he addedfiercely. And then lapsing into his former vein again, "Iwonder——"

Joe waited. "Wonder what, Uncle Buzz?"

The sun made one of its perceptible drops, just as though its settingwas a matter of notches. A little cool breeze came up to meet themfrom the creek bottom as they moved slowly downward.

"Why couldn't you get me something to do in Louisville? How about thePlow Company? They must employ a great many men." He laughed a bitshrilly. "I've always thought I would like to live in Louisville."

Joe was aghast. He felt as if it might be some old lady demanding ofhim pink tights and a place in the front row of the ballet. However,he checked the exclamation that rose to his lips. But for a moment hedid not know what to say. Uncle Buzz—wanting to go to work atBromley's!—An ancient and decrepit Whittington!

"But you've been here so long, Uncle Buzz!" he managed at length.

"So I have. All the more reason. I'm getting in a rut. Besides, I'mgetting tired of Burrus. Narrow-minded scoundrel! He throws out hintsabout Zeke bringing me my whiskey over from Fillmore. As if it wereany of his business!" He subsided and silently contemplated the depthsof Burrus' degradation.

Joe laughed softly and at the same time felt the sharp little warningedge of an intuition. Uncle Buzz was slipping, and he knew it.

"I wouldn't be in a hurry," he suggested at length, "Bromley's is fullup. All those men coming back from the army, you know—I'll keepan eye open for you if you want me." It was most incongruous, thepatronizing air that had crept into his voice, the tone thatinvariably greets the unemployed, wherever or whoever he be.

Uncle Buzz brightened. "Do," he said.

They drove through the gate and up to the house. Aunt Loraineprofusely reproached her husband for not advising her of Joseph'sarrival. "It's a shame. Here at the last minute. You might have atleast sent me word, Bushrod."

"We had to go out in the country," Uncle Buzz replied with decision.

And so they supped meagrely on fried chicken and rice and gravy andhot biscuits and coffee. And afterward they sat in the high-ceilingedback parlour, in candlelight, and watched the glow die from thewestern sky. And Aunt Loraine asked him about the "season" inLouisville, and once she asked him about Mary Louise. And bye-and-byeUncle Buzz began to nod just like a sleepy little boy, and with theprospect of a long, well-filled to-morrow, Joe suggested that they goto bed. And then there was a moment's pausing upon the threshold of ayawning black door beyond which things smelled mustily sweet, withdusty shadows that crept across the matting from a shielded lamp; andlater a most delicious yielding of one's self to the cool envelope ofsoft white sheets, and a moment's wide-eyed staring at the ceiling;and then forgetfulness.

Sometime later—it seemed hours—Joe was awakened by theclatter of an automobile somewhere beneath his window. For a moment helay still and wondered and then, the bustle continuing, only in a muchsubdued and muffled manner, he got up and in his bare feet walked overto the window across the matting and looked out. He saw an oil lanternsitting on the edge of the side steps, and he saw the open screendoor. And then from a black shadow a short distance away, behind theold lilac bush he remembered so well, he saw a figure emerge, carryinga glass jug. The figure was Zeke's, stooped over and shuffling, in thesame old peaked cap he had always worn. And in the jug was theapotheosis of Mr. Mosby's contempt for Mr. Burrus, and as it passedthe light it gleamed and sparkled with a deep golden malevolence. Andhearing steps on the porch, and voices, and fearing lest he might beseen spying at the window, Joe crept back to bed. And directly heheard the familiar roaring clatter of a car starting up somewhere downbelow there in the darkness, and after a while—silence. He fellinto a deep and satisfying sleep.

CHAPTER VI

MaryLouise had the power of concentration over her determinations as wellas over her desires. Once having decided on a course she could keepherself driving at it without ceasing. If she made a digression, itwas with eyes set on the goal, and for the reason that to so digresswas to find a more facile path and save time in the end. Her pastattainments had been gained apparently without effort, for in thelittle world she had known at Bloomfield all had been hers to do withas she desired. And then had come the eighteen months in Louisville,with its awakenings, its gradual undermining of her old standards andconceptions, and its whetting of the keen edge of her desire.

She had been made to see her facts in another light. Those things thathad been wont to be considered as axioms and irrefutable postulates inher daily acceptance were suddenly seen as the most ephemeralhypotheses. The desirability of Bloomfield and the lustre about thename "McCallum"—two rocks upon which she had builded the edificeof her confidence—were found of a sudden to be but shiftingsands, hard-packed enough on the surface, but subjected to the mostinsidious and devastating undertow. Many a weaker spirit would havethrown up his arms and dived with desperation overboard in search ofsolid footing. But not so Mary Louise. She had a momentary whirl atnegation and then a firm and ever-increasing determination to buildher own footing. If Bloomfield and the McCallum family were not allthey should be, she would make them so, to her own satisfaction atleast. Money was the one thing needed, she soon found or thought shefound, and money was the thing she was determined to get, enough of itto accomplish her purpose. When she had started the tea room she hadnot had the slightest idea that she could possibly fail to do justexactly what she wanted.

As she read the note that Joe had left for her, the news of MissSusie's illness caused her temporary distress. But her mind did notdwell for long on the distressing part of it, but got busy with theproblem in hand, went into conference with itself over it, analyzedand dissected it to its complete satisfaction, and then put out theresulting dicta on the bulletin board of her consciousness. Theparticular "Thou must" was in this case "Go to Bloomfield." Andinasmuch as Mary Louise never under any circumstances thought ofdisregarding these highly accurate mental dicta, go to Bloomfield shedid. She went the following morning, which was Friday. And it must besaid that in spite of the attention which was focused on theimmediate difficulty before her, which was, "What to do with MissSusie," her mind kept straining at this barrier for continued andreassuring glimpses of the ultimate goal ahead. Still, she loved heraunt, and the realization of her suffering was to her genuine pain.

As she entered the sitting-room door, she found the little old ladypropped in a rocking chair just inside the doorway with a patchworkquilt across her lap, tucking her in. There was no appreciable change.She was as yellow, as parchment like as ever. Her eyes perhaps werebrighter; indeed they seemed almost to have a heat of their own asMary Louise stooped to kiss the cheek held up to her.

"Why didn't you let me know sooner?" she chided.

"There was no reason for you to come at all," Miss Susie respondedbriskly. "Some people haven't enough questions to decide forthemselves. Have to go about hunting for other people's problems."

"But you weren't going to sit up here and not let me know anythingabout it?" Mary Louise took off her hat and came over to the rockingchair, toward which she dragged another, and seated herself. Shereached out and took one of the little blue-veined hands and strokedit gently. "You weren't going to sit up here and let me know nothingabout it? That's not what you promised."

Miss Susie's fixed, inexorable expression did not change. But she waspleased—was feeling softer. Unconsciously she liked Mary Louiseto assume that patronizing, superior air toward her. She said nothingand began to rock softly to and fro, staring through the doorway.

Mary Louise continued the gentle stroking. Bye-and-bye she venturedsoftly, "You're right sure you're feeling all right now? What did thedoctor say?"

Miss Susie turned on her, mouth snapping shut. "Doctor! Who said I hadto have a doctor?" The look in her eyes, as she turned them full uponthe girl, was one in which defiance mingled with alarm and struggledfor mastery. For Miss Susie had waged a long and losing warfare withdisease and she quailed before the emblems of surrender if not fromthe enemy itself.

Mary Louise for the moment let it go at that. After the air hadappreciably cooled she ventured again: "I don't suppose Mrs. Mosbyknew how to reach me?" Miss Susie looked puzzled and she continued inexplanation, "I had a note from Joe Hooper saying you had had a littlespell—I suppose Mrs. Mosby 'phoned him."

Miss Susie gave a little snort. "And what would Loraine Mosby be doingmeddling in my affairs? She hasn't called on me for years. Like as notit was that fool Lavinia Burrus. You would think she owned and wasrunning the town. The salvation of Bloomfield weighs mighty heavy onher shoulders these days—with her 'Dear Miss McCallum,' andher 'Poor dear Mrs. Hamilton!' I've a mind to tell her that charity,even of thought, begins at home—where it's needed."

Mary Louise felt a sudden sort of displeasure. She had adopted thedevious method of getting at the true state of affairs, for that wasthe only way any one could get anything out of Miss Susie. And now shefound herself getting interested on her own account. She had oncesupposed that it had been through Mrs. Mosby's agency that she hadbeen apprised. It now appeared that someone else—an outsider anda parvenu at that—had linked her name with that of Joe Hooper'sto send her word through him. It gave her rank displeasure. To beofficially tagged as "Such and such" by a "one-horse" little town. Yesit was a "one-horse" little town. Her assurance slipped from her andin confusion she sought to investigate no further.

"Where's Mattie? You ought to have something about your shoulders."She rose to her feet and began poking about on the wardrobe shelf.

"Mattie's not here," said Miss Susie.

Mary Louise turned around. "Mattie's not here?—And what's thereason she's not here?"

Miss Susie's voice was acquiring calm. "She decided that this wasn'tgood enough place for her. She couldn't bear to think of all the moneyservants were getting down in Louisville—so she left."

Mary Louise came back and stood before her chair. She looked at heraunt intently. "You mean to say she left you?"

"She did."

It was too much for Mary Louise's comprehension and she contemplatedthe fact bleakly. "Why, her people have been here on the place forfour generations!"

Miss Susie's face was grim. "Ten dollars a week was too much for her."

Slowly the conviction was taking root. "And she has really left?"

Miss Susie nodded.

"And taken Omar with her?"

Miss Susie nodded again.

"And Landy?"

There was a moment's silence. Miss Susie, it seemed, would for thedramatic effect have preferred that the defection had been universal."No," she said half regretfully, "Landy's stayed with me."

"And done the cooking, I suppose?"

"He did—after Wednesday."

"And Wednesday? You tried it until then, I suppose?" Mary Louise'stone was all reproach.

Miss Susie did not deny it.

They sat for a moment in dismal accord. Mary Louise had a suddenfeeling as though the family were breaking up. All during the war thelittle corps of servants had remained intact. She had felt that, thewar over, the danger point had been passed. Also the reason for MissSusie's little spell was now apparent.

Directly she asked more briskly, "D' you try to get any oneelse?—Zibbie Tuttle?"

"Zibbie's gone to town, too."

Another moment's depressed silence.

"And how about Zenie? She used to cook."

Miss Susie sighed. "Zenie's got her head all full of fool notions. Shethinks she has to stay home and look after that worthless Zeke."

"And she won't come? You've tried her?"

Miss Susie shook her head grimly.

Mary Louise suddenly laughed. It was a dry, mirthless sort of laugh."Looks like the Negroes are getting all the latest notions ofprogress, too. I must have put the idea into their heads."

"All except Zenie," amended Miss Susie. "She's old-fashioned."

"Perhaps I'd better be coming back." She stood by the door, musing.

Miss Susie reached over for her spectacles. There was an almostimperceptible flash in her eyes. "And be like Zenie?"

The shot missed. Mary Louise was turning over many things in her mind.Her little plans were being threatened and by circumstances which shehad previously scorned to notice. Irritation and a restless desire tobe up and at her obstacles were prevailing over all other feelings.For several moments she pondered, gazing through the glass half of thesitting-room door, and then with a hurried, "I'll be back," she boltedfrom the room, out toward the kitchen.

When she returned some fifteen minutes later there was a look ofsettled calm on her face, and she busied herself making Miss Susiecomfortable; for she had reached a decision and could think aboutother things. And the things that old Landy had told her had soberedher while they strengthened that decision.

That night she lay on a restless pillow. The sudden change from therattle and bang of the city where all the little noises were swallowedup in a general roar was hard on her ravelled nerves. She missed thenoise. She found herself painfully acute to all the little tickingsand crackings and buzzings that an open country window brings to one'sears. There was an unpleasant smell of damp matting there in the darkroom. And the wind, as it came soughing down from the hill behind,caught a loose end of the roof somewhere over her head and made asthough to roll it back. But it never did. Her bed was lumpy. It hadnever seemed so before. And there was not enough ventilation in theroom. The two windows, placed side by side in the eaves, allowed nocirculation. People in the country did not know how to live. Now shewould knock that partition away. There was no use having a hall atthe head of the stairs, a hall that led nowhere except into one room.She would knock that partition away and make a single big room of thewhole attic. And then the window in the hall would serve foradditional light and air for the one room. Or would it be better tocut another window and run the partition lengthwise, thus making tworooms of it? That might be better. Two rooms were better than onegreat big barn of a room. Later on, perhaps, she would have it done.She fell asleep over the complexity of the problem.

The next morning she set out with dispatch to carry out her plan. Shewent to see Zenie Thompson.

She found that much maligned and misunderstood woman cheerily rockingher leisure away at the front door of her home. The air was warm andZenie had, contrary to the tenets of her race's religion, thrown openall the front of her house, windows and all. The neck of her waist,which was a very old white one of Mary Louise's, was likewise franklyopen, and as there was considerable difference in the respectivesizes, Zenie seemed on the point of bursting from its doubtfulwhiteness into all her full-blown coffee-coloured creamness. Shehastily pinned up the bosom of it a little as Mary Louise turned in ather gate.

"How do, Mis' Ma'y Louise," she beamed, rising to her feet and holdingher offspring clutched at a precarious angle to her shoulder. Shestood with one hand resting on the doorpost and in her eyesexpectancy. "Won' you-all come in?"

"Just for a minute," said Mary Louise, refusing the proffered chairand giving the room a hasty, critical look. Even in that critical lookshe could find naught to criticize. The cabin was a small three-roomaffair, set back from the street, between two vacant old storehouses.Zeke had whitewashed it without and calcimined it within, and with thefree air that circulated the place this treatment was enough to makethe front rooms passable. Over the iron mantel hung Zeke's "Knights ofMacabre" sword in its scabbard. Mary Louise looked for thewhite-plumed hat but it had evidently been put away. On the left wall,in a brilliant gilt frame, hung a coloured portrait of Admiral Dewey.The artist had in some way inspired a look of malign cunning on theface by shifting the position of the left eye a hair's breadth belownormal, but the mouth and smile were benign. On a table to the rightreposed a glass case with a base of felt and a rounded top—themausoleum for an ancient bird creature that looked like a prairiechicken, very droopy and, in spite of its interment, quite dingy withdust. It was vaguely familiar to her somehow.

Zenie was watching the inspection with an eager, expectant look. WhenMary Louise had apparently finished and turned to her again, shesmiled.

"You ain' eveh see ouh house befo', is you?"

Mary Louise admitted she never had. And then to disarm any suspicionthat she might have come for social reasons only, she attacked thematter in hand with characteristic vigour:

"Zeke's not home much, is he?"

"Right smaht he ain', no'm." Zenie's face was all expectant smiles.Not a shadow seemed to linger near it.

Mary Louise allowed her gaze to travel about the room. In the entireatmosphere of the place was no besmirching suggestion of toil. Shereturned again to Zenie. The latter was like some tropical flower infull bloom. She began, selecting carefully her ground: "You haven'tany place to put your baby, no one to watch him while you work, haveyou?" This was spoken with all the force of conviction.

Zenie's face wreathed itself in another smile. "I ain' do no mo'wuk—not ontil Zeke he come home."

Mary Louise paused and drew breath. She began again: "If there wassomewhere you could put him, someone who could look out for him, or ifit was so that you could keep an eye on him yourself—why, youcould go to work again, like you used to."

The brightness of Zenie's smile began to fade. "Yas'm. Yas'm, reckon Icould." She turned her attention to the child in her arms and hervoice, as she continued, was liquid soft. "Zeke's doin' sogood—I ain' aim to wuk out no mo'. Jes' keep house heah fo'him."

Then Mary Louise, sensing defeat, struck; struck unerringly for herobjective which she judged to be the vulnerable spot; struck withcharacteristic vigour and direct: "I'll give you six dollars a week ifyou'll come and do the cooking for Miss Susie, for this summer." Shepaused and observed the effect.

Zenie had suddenly acquired all the coy graces of a maid receiving along-expected proposal. She cast her eyes discreetly down, toyed atthe rocker edge with her shoe, and smiled.

"You won't have to clean up the house. Landy does that. You won't haveto do a single thing but cook." The speech ended with a risinginflection. Mary Louise's eloquent picture inspired even herself withhope.

"Mis' Burrus done offa me seven."

There was a momentary silence, during which time Mary Louisemarshalled her routed forces. Directly she gallantly renewed theattack: "I'll give you seven then. And you can have all the time offyou want, whenever you get through with the dishes." She had come, ina way, prepared for shocks, but the whirlwind manner of herrecklessness was leaving her a bit breathless.

Zenie's face at once assumed a look of concern and lifting her headshe pondered far-off possibilities. "Zeke, he home so little," shebegan, and her voice had an ineffable sadness, "I likes to be homewhen he come."

"But you can be at home when he comes," Mary Louise explained with apatience which she far from felt. "You can get off directly dishes aredone—seven o'clock every evening, I'm sure."

"I know," responded Zenie, still doubting. "But Zeke, he gone atnight. Mos' eve' night. He home in de day, mos' de day."

It ended by Mary Louise's offering and Zenie's accepting ten dollars aweek, and with a promise of starting in on the following Monday. MaryLouise descended the cabin steps with the hollow pomp of one who hasbought his victory too dearly. Zenie, from the steps, called cheerily:"Mis' Ma'y Louise. You bring me some goods fuh a dress? Sometime whenyou come up ag'in?"

Mary Louise paused at the gate and speculated on the humble creatureon whom she had wreaked her will. "I guess I might, Zenie. What kinddo you want?"

Zenie beamed. "Oh, mos' any kin'. Whateveh you think is pritty. I payyou fo' it."

Mary Louise promised and departed. She walked home very thoughtfully.Ten dollars a week! Ten dollars just to get the cooking done! She hadhad her eyes fixed very clearly indeed on the coveted goal to brushaside such an expensive obstacle.

That afternoon, as she busied herself with little chores about thehouse—she was sweeping the side porch at the time—shechanced to look up and saw Joe Hooper driving by in a low-swungphaeton behind a sleepy old horse. Beside him sat Mr. Mosby, very primand very erect, and Joe's arm lay along the back of the seat behindhim. The street was rather shady and it was quite a distance fromwhere she was to where he was passing. But somehow it seemed to herthat there was a singularly cheerful, quite happy expression on hisface as he lolled back against the cushion. And he did not look in ashe passed.

CHAPTER VII

Twoweeks passed. Joe felt himself gradually slipping into an abyss ofresignation. Nearer and nearer came June. Less and less he seemed tocare. He took interest in nothing. He ate and slept and plodded. Heate and slept and plodded as though all that life consisted of waseating and sleeping and plodding. Most of us have seen in some quietfence corner, just behind the barn, under some old tree with gnarledtrunk and droopy branches, an old gray horse, with eyes closed, muzzleresting on the top rail, one hind leg slightly bent and propped by thetip of a cracked and drying hoof. Most of us have seen such a horse,seemingly on the gradual slip into oblivion, whose very tail-switchingwas so rhythmic and regular as to fit in, in absolute harmony, withthe swelling waves of sleep and measured breathing and all that sortof thing. And that very horse might well be on the brink of a day'sexhausting labour. And furthermore he might well know it. Certainlyhis experience might tell him—easily enough. Yet he stands thereswitching in a sort of self-imposed numbness. It is probably nature'sway of anaesthetizing him from the pain of unlimited drabness. It isthe only way a sensitive nature can face such a prospect without goingmad. Such was Joe.

He had slumped. He no longer cared. He no longer cared if skies wereblue and if breezes were lazy and outdoors was calling. He no longercared when the quitting whistle blew. He no longer cared that June wasonly two weeks off. He would not even have cared if June had been theend of it all. He had settled into his stupor.

And then one morning at about eleven o'clock he was summoned to thetelephone by the switchboard operator. It was a drowsy morning, fullof dronings and rustlings, and he was very heavy lidded as he steppedinto the booth reserved for such calls. He had been expecting amessage from Indianapolis about some shipment that had gone astray andfor which he was putting in a claim. He sank heavily down upon thehard, polished little stool. The air was stuffy and foul about him.

"This Mr. Hooper?" he heard a voice say.

He said it was.

"Well, this is——" He had not the slightest idea what thename was. But it made not the slightest difference. It might have beenthe president or it might have been the shipping clerk. All thatmattered was that it was a tiresome sack of castings giving him someextra trouble. And so he stretched a little and yawned a little andreplied: "Yes. All right."

And then the voice went on a little hurriedly—too hurriedly forhim to catch it all. And instead of "sack of castings," the voice kepton crazily alluding to "your uncle" and "all night"—and phrasesthat were jumbled as in a dream. He came to himself suddenly with astart and then the connection was broken off and there was nothing buta confused buzzing and rattling. He straightened up on the stool,waited a minute, and then jiggled the receiver. He felt very queer. Hefelt to blame for his stupidness. He felt someway as though he hadbeen caught up with. And he could not understand.

Directly the exchange called his name and he responded quite sharplyand briskly. Then her "Just a minute," and he was feeling suddenlytaut and tense. And then the voice was switched on again.

Like a dream it came. He could barely make out the syllables. Thevoice was broken—seemed very far-away—very weak. It wastelling him that his uncle—his uncle, Mr. Mosby—"Brrr!Brrr!"—and had not been seen since. There was a moment's pause.

And then—would he come?

Another pause and he had vague notions that that was all. And yet hehad not heard. Yes, he would come.

There was a click and then silence, and there he was, sitting just asthough he had dreamed it all. Then a voice called, "Did you getthem?" And he mechanically put up the receiver without a word.Something had happened—just what, he could only guess—makeout piecemeal. There was trouble—he could feel that. Uncle Buzzhad somehow stepped beyond the pale. He had heard the words "allnight" and "no trace of him." This was no ordinary trouble. This wasnot a matter of trial balance.

He opened the door and stepped out into the office. It was a changedplace. Over there was his long flat-topped desk with the opened ledgerupon it. A sheet of paper had blown to the floor and was sliding overtoward him, its edges curling lazily. These seemed live, vibrantfeatures. One of the clerks across the way had thought of somethinghumorous and was leaning forward to tell his vis-à-vis. It hadbeen so vital that he had laid his pen down to tell it. He was talkingwith half-shut lips, with eyes that shifted back and forth alert for aglance of disfavour. His rusty black derby sat on the back of hishead: his white piqué tie had slipped away from a bright brasscollar button....

Through the open door he could see Mr. Boner hunched up over his deskand as he watched, that gentleman suddenly plunged his head in aducking motion toward the cuspidor on the floor and just as quicklybent down again over the desk. Like fire-flashes of consciousness allthese things were. These were things going on outside of him. Therewas a world moving on outside of him, a world that took little countof the creatures in its path. All this—all this abouthim—was like a bit of stale, flat, slightly greenishbackwater—the big wheels churning away just beyond and paying itno attention, letting it grow staler and staler. Some day there wouldcome a change—as though the miller had opened up anothersluice—and a few vigorous splashings and all would be changedeven here. He viewed it speculatively, as one outside it all. Hesuddenly felt that for him it was all over. And he went into Mr.Boner's office.

Mr. Boner looked up sidewise.

"I've had a 'phone call from home."

Mr. Boner's eyes rolled slightly, showing the whites.

"There's some trouble there. I'll have to go."

A moment's pause. Mr. Boner cleared his throat. "All right," he said.And then he bent back over his work.

He went and got his hat. With his hand on the swinging door he pausedand looked back. Not a head was raised. In the air there hovered adroning, a rustling. It was like a vast, drowsy, slothful thing,ignorant, dull, hateful. He pulled open the door. And then he left it.

Three hours later he was standing in the "Golden Rule" at Bloomfield.Before him was a glass counter wherein were displayed knives andcleavers and scissors and other cutlery. Above the counter, peeringat him rather anxiously over steel-rimmed spectacles, were the headand shoulders of Mr. Burrus. Burrus! It had come to him on the train.That was the name he had not caught. Burrus! Who else?

"And you say that the last time you saw him was when he got into hisbuggy and drove away—last night? What makes you think he's goneaway?"

Mr. Burrus had been thoughtfully eyeing his stock of knives throughthe case and as Joe finished he cast a quick, sidewise glance up athim. Joe caught the flicker of it through the spectacles. "Well," hebegan, and hesitated a little, "it's what I woulda done—underthe circumstances." Mr. Burrus' manner, usually so brisk andbusiness-like, seemed suddenly to have changed. He scratched his headwith a long and bony finger and looked up again at Joe. What he sawseemed not to reassure him, for Joe had all of a sudden grown beyondBloomfield's conception of him. He towered above the cutlerycase—seemed to fill out his clothes. There was a set look abouthis mouth and a steadiness about his eyes. Mr. Burrus paused again.

"Circumstances?" said Joe. "Under what circumstances?"

Mr. Burrus gazed off into the clear blue of the sky patch outlined byhis front door. "Well," he began cautiously, "I weren't callatin' tosay anything about this to anybody, but—I had to let Bushrodgo." The little weazened body with its scrawny neck rising out of thegaping rubber collar, the shiny bald head with its fringe of grayinghair about the edge, the white shirt sleeves with the frayed cuffs andthe skinny brown hands—a most incongruous disguise for Nemesisto take in passing a pronunciamento.

"Why?" Joe repeated after him softly. "Wasn't he doing his work?"

Another flash-like glance up through the steel-rimmed spectacles. Mr.Burrus appeared to be weighing his words. "No," he considered, "itweren't that." He drummed with his fingers on the glass counter. "Hewas drunk," he snapped out, and stared sternly off into space. Andthen as if he felt it becoming of him, he frowned and his adam's-applemoved up and down with quick, spasmodic jerks. But he would not lookat Joe.

A moment's silence descended on the shop and the odours of the place,as though set free by that silence, came drifting to Joe's nostrils ashe stood there waiting—waiting for the story. There was ablending of the smells of coal oil and fresh cloth on bolts and theindefinable metallic smell of tinware, and behind it all an overtoneof odour, as it were, of sweet growing things—hay andgrain—and the fields—Someone dropped a pan in the rear ofthe shop and Mr. Burrus looked around fiercely. When he again facedJoe, the harassed look was gone.

Joe had been gradually making up his mind. "You'd seen him drunkbefore?—That wasn't the first time?"

Mr. Burrus looked up. "Well!" he began tartly. "So much the worse,isn't it?"

"No," said Joe, "it's not. If you'd fired him the first time there'dhave been some reason for it. It was because he wasn't the kind of manyou wanted in your office, wasn't it?"

"That was it, exactly," agreed Mr. Burrus.

"It was because he didn't see things as he should, didn't do things ashe should—in a general way—that he wasn't fit for the job,Mr. Burrus?" Joe went on.

"Exactly."

"And if he had—had been of a piece with yourself—so thatyou could have jiggled him around in your fingers like a hunk ofputty, it would have been all right. It was not his drinking—itwas his drinking in spite of your wanting him not to—that gothim in bad, wasn't it, Mr. Burrus?"

Mr. Burrus fidgeted and then turned sharply on Joe. "This ain't nothird degree."

"And you think he's gone away?" Joe continued as though not hearinghim.

"Of course he's gone away. What else was there for him to do?"

There was no obvious alternative.

Joe took his leave and went to see Mrs. Mosby. As he stood waiting inthe cool, high-ceilinged hall, he was struck by the quiet of theplace. It had an air of waiting. What for? There was a high walnuthat-rack with a mirror and a marble slab with a card tray on it, andtwo high-backed chairs, likewise black walnut and elaborately carvedand atrocious, and in the dim recesses of the stair a horsehair sofa,all just as they had been for years. They were mute but they seemedexpectant. What could they be waiting for? They were on the outsideedge of things—where life was passing. What could be in storefor them? And yet, as he stood in the hall, with the sound of hisbreathing so fine, so distinct in his ears, they seemed to be part ofanother presence waiting there with him, a mute presence as to sound,but in some way eloquent voiced, clamorous to be heard.

A faint rustling came to his ears and then steps, and looking up, hesaw his aunt Loraine coming down the stairs. Her bangles and hertrinkets gave out hushed little clickings and he could hear herbreathing as she came across the carpet to meet him.

"Joseph," she said, and he could see beneath her shell that she wasagitated. "Joseph! What do you suppose can have happened?" Hertoilette, like an ancient ritual observed in every sacred detail,included her manner and deportment. The voice, the inflection, thebearing—all went with the ruching and the bangles. Joe had oncewondered if she put them all in the same box when she went to bed.

"I don't know, Aunt Lorry, I'm sure." Catching a haggard look abouther eyes he added more gently: "But I wouldn't be too worried. He'sprobably gone to Louisville."

She shook her head, and in spite of herself her voice broke a little."He's never done that without telling me."

Joe stood for a moment in thought. "There was no business that wouldtake him anywhere—business about the farm?"

"No," she said. "Won't you come in and sit down in the parlour? I wasso upset——"

He looked at her kindly. It was perhaps the first time in hisexperience he had ever done so. Somehow the shell did not seem so tocover her. She was such a tight little body, a close-bound fagot ofreserves and inhibitions. She had never exuded the slightest humanity.And now the shell was cracking and little glints were showing through."No, Aunt Lorry," he said. "Not now. There's nothing to be gained bytalking—unless you have any ideas as to where—where hemight have gone."

Her eyes looked haggard but they remained stoically dry. She shook herhead.

He turned to go and took a few steps toward the door. And she came andlaid her hand on his arm. It was as light and feathery as a dead leaf,but he could feel the warmth through his sleeve.

"Don't," she said, "don't let anything get out if—if there'sanything should be kept quiet." She looked him earnestly in the eyes."I'll depend on you?"

He promised and ran lightly down the front steps. Behind him the frontdoor closed, ponderous and grave. And as he passed around the curve ofthe driveway to the gate he looked back and the shadows of the oldhouse were stretching out toward him on the grass.

He had had a sudden idea. There in the front hall it had occurred tohim that there was one person at least who might know something. Hehad recalled that last night spent in the upstairs ell bedroom, thevoices, the clatter of a car. Zeke was probably closer to his uncleBuzz than any other living soul. And just as suddenly he had decidedthat it would be time wasted to talk with his aunt Loraine—timethat could be well spent elsewhere. And so his departure had beenprecipitate. And now as he hurried along the plank walk, beneath thearching branches, with the world so fresh and green and hopeful abouthim, he felt how incongruous everything was. Over beyond the hedge theblackbirds were hopping about on the grass looking for worms, givingoccasional satisfied clucks. Across an intersecting road, on up ahead,an old buggy passed, drawn by a jogging horse with hanging head. Likethe Mosby turnout—very. And that very morning he had been at hisdesk, drugged, overwhelmed with the hopelessness of monotony.

He passed on to the other side of town, keeping to the back streets,for he did not wish to meet any one or talk to any one. It was nearingsix o'clock as he approached the gate of Zeke Thompson's cabin, andthere was that golden glow in the sky which so often follows a spellof dampness. It had rained the night before—the road looked darkand cool—and about the western sky the clouds were hovering asif undecided. But the sunlight streamed bravely through and all wasfresh and clean and cool.

The front door was open and as Joe passed through the gate he saw noone. Softly he climbed the steps and passed over the threshold. Theroom was empty, but an apron thrown carelessly over the back of arocking chair gave evidence of its having been vacated not long since.The door to the next room was standing ajar.

Joe stood and pondered. Just what should he ask Zeke? Should he tellhim what had happened? Zeke might probably have heard, if the news wasabout. Standing there, waiting, there came to his ears a peculiarsound, faint, high-pitched, and monotonous. He listened. Someone wassinging in the next room in a voice not much louder than a whisper.Curious, he walked softly over to the door and peered through.

There in a tiny rocking chair sat a little figure rocking to and fro.Its back was half turned toward him, but he could see a kinky headwhich was bent over something held in its arms, which it was mostevidently lulling to sleep. The room was darkening, with only a singlepatch of orange-coloured sunlight upon the bare floor. Back and forthwent the little body. He could see the bare feet with the stubby toes,escaping as by miracle the ever-threatening rocker. There was a smallsquare of blue-calico-covered back, two little pigtails of hairtightly tied with scraps of baby-blue ribbon, and—the voice. Itwas as fine and high as wind blowing across a hair and with a curious,lifting minor note. He listened.

First there would be a gentle hushing and then the refrain—themelody was unappreciable and elusive, though constant:—

With the word "nip" would come a crescendo, swelling to a sharp littlemonosyllabic quaver, and then the whole thing would die away mostmournfully.

Twice he heard it sung through to the faint accompaniment of the tinyscreaking rocker. It was a very solemn abjuration against thepromiscuous sitting about of casual creatures. And oddly enough itseemed to him in a way that something was speaking through thatfeeble, quavering voice to him; that this was of the same parcel withwhat had happened, was happening. He felt singularly tense—hadnot the slightest desire to laugh. And as he watched, the orange patchon the floor began to fade, until the room was bathed in shadow. Andthe song came suddenly to an end and he heard a gentle little "Hush,"and then a sigh, and then silence. Slowly he backed away on tiptoefrom the door.

He had barely gained the security of the front room—somehow hefelt it as security—when he heard the gate screak and, turningsuddenly, saw a man dart like a shadow around the side of the house.For a moment he stood in indecision; then he walked softly to the openfront door and stood waiting on the threshold. It would be easier toexplain his presence there. The sky had grown darker; curling billowsof cloud rolling in from the south had chased away the orange glow andtheir under surface was lit by a pale-green luminance as they came.Shifting wisps of vapour slid twisting and writhing on up ahead, likeoutriders on reconnaissance. It was singularly still.

Joe stood and waited. Directly he heard a sound, and then steps echoedon the walk around the side of the cabin, and then a man came hurryingaround the corner, took one step up on the cabin stair, and then fellback with a low cry: "Fo' de Lawd."

It was Zeke. The smoothness of his skin turned an ashen colour and thewhites of his eyes were rolling. He pushed back away from the doorwayand stared at Joe. Gradually the terror began to fade out of his faceand it was superseded by a sickly grin. Joe was watching him closely.

"You plum skeered me to deff," he finally managed to say, his breathcoming fast and thick. "Thought you wuz a ghos'." The grin was veryweak and it quickly subsided.

Zeke was a gaunt "darky" of that peculiar transparent blackness thatlooks as though it is put on only one layer deep, and yet is black,not brown. He was thin and shambling, with high and prominentcheekbones and eyes that showed a lot of white at all times. Acrossone cheek was a long, purplish scar reaching up to the corner of oneeye. It gave him a look of cunning from that quarter. But on the wholehe was an ineffectual, shiftless looking Negro, with hands that werealways dangling and feet that always dragged.

"Ain' seen you fo' a long time, Mist' Joe."

"No. I've been away—down in the city." He paused a moment,considering the best way to begin. "Where were you and Mr. Bushrodlast night?" he ventured on a bold stroke.

Zeke's eyes opened wide. "Why, we wusn' no place, Mist' Joe, Mist'Bushrod, he—I was to bring him—he and I wuz to have alittle bisnis ovah to de house, but I couldn' come." His face cloudedand took on an anxious look. "Dey ain' no trubbel, is dey, Mist' Joe?"

Joe made no reply and Zeke watched his thoughtful, serious face withgrowing anxiety. Here was one more avenue of possible solutionblocked. Since yesterday afternoon no one had apparently seenhim—Uncle Buzz. It was as though the world had swallowed him up.He would have to seek elsewhere. He was on the point of dismissing thematter, of going elsewhere, when a thought suddenly came to him.

"You and he were to have some business last night?" he said, lookingat Zeke intently.

Zeke grinned a sheepish grin. "Yessuh, we wuz—we had a littlebisnis."

"But you didn't meet him? Sure you didn't meet him?"

"Sho I neveh. I ain' able to git de—I was detain'." Zeke hadlearned from experience and considerable instinct to hedge hisutterances about with much generality. It was a good principle. Itmeant less to retract.

Joe thought another moment. "Take me," he said suddenly, "to the placewhere you get the business." There he might find a connecting link inhis chain, he felt growingly certain.

"Oveh to Mist' Bushrod's?" The inflection was perfectly naïve.

"No. Of course not—out where you get it. Over to Fillmore orwherever it is."

"Now, Mist' Joe," very reproachfully and with a quick, nervousflashing of the eyes.

Joe frowned. "You needn't put on anything with me, Zeke. I'm not goingto give you away. Let's go get your car." He stretched out his arm asthough to sweep Zeke into doing his bidding and started for the door.

"But I ain' eveh had no bisnis to Fillmo'," Zeke began in a lasteffort to stem the tide. "They ain' no bisnis theh."

"That's more like it. That may be the truth," said Joe pressing himon. And Zeke reluctantly passed out and descended the steps.

As Joe turned to close the front door behind him he caught a look backin the room. Framed in the doorway stood a very small pickaninny,barely reaching to the knob. She was barefoot, in a blue calico dress,with her hair done in two kinky braids that stood out in front likediminutive horns. In her arms she held tightly clutched an old cornshock wrapped in a red rag. One hand grasped the doorpost. And she waswatching him wide eyed and very gravely.

"That's good advice you gave me," Joe said to her, as he closed thedoor.

They made their way around a corner to a ramshackle shed, Joe urgingon the reluctant Zeke by the menace of an encroaching shoulder. Zekepaused at the entrance. He groped in his pocket and directly pulledforth a key on a very dirty, greasy string. Fumblingly he inserted itin the lock. Then he paused again and lifting his eyes, thoughtfullyinspected the sky.

"Look powahful lak rain," he reflected dubiously.

"Get the car out," said the inexorable Joe. "We can put the top up."

Zeke opened the door and went in. For several minutes there was themetallic slip and catch of the crank and Zeke's laboured breathing.Then there issued forth a reverberating roar as of a monster releasedin travail, and then slowly there emerged, back end first, a perfectscarecrow of an automobile, mud stained and rust streaked, with anarrangement on the back like a discarded chicken crate, with fendersthat were battered and twisted as though torn by some elementaltempest, and with a sagging and flopping top over the front seat thatlooked as though at any moment it might collapse from sheerdecrepitude. Slowly the thing backed out of the shed, in a curve tothe road, with much groaning and roaring, and then came to a stop. Thewhites of two eyes peered out of the shadow of the enveloping bonnetas Joe approached.

He took one more look at the sky before he climbed in. The racingforerunners of storm had in some inexplicable manner vanished andthere remained a lowering canopy of gray and black with here and therea patch of grayish green. Over in the west was a thin line of greeningyellow, and the shadows were darkening over the back lanes through thetrees.

"Let's go," said Joe, climbing in.

With much panting and sputtering and popping the car started slowlyforward and they were off. Neither spoke. They came to an intersectingstreet and Zeke slowed down the car.

"Which way, Mist' Joe?" he asked.

Joe was suddenly irritated. "To Fillmore. You know where I mean.Wherever you've been going for the stuff."

Zeke made a sudden turn to the left, narrowly escaping the projectingroots of a tree. Joe clung to the top brace for support. Down adarkening street they rolled, with the trees arching, sombre overhead,and on either side, back in the shadows, the darker shapes of houseswith here and there the passing glow of a lighted lamp. Nightdescended upon them as they left the town and a few splashes of rainappeared on the dirty glass of the wind-shield. Joe settled stoicallydown to wait. There was so much time to be passed until he could be offurther use and until then there was no need of making any effort. Thethought of the morning came back to him. It did not seem possible thatthe same day was passing. Singularly, the idea of Bromley's was thething that obsessed him rather than the business in hand. It was asthough he had been released on furlough. "Grind, grind, grind," saidthe car. "You will be back at it all to-morrow. This is not real. Thisis a dream you're having." He shook himself. He was getting sleepy,felt utterly fagged.

And then Mary Louise flashed across his mind. "Come on," she seemed tosay. "You're slipping. You're getting behind. They're all gettingahead of you. You're not keeping up. Let's get in a littlemore—little more—little more." He lurched against the topbrace, blinked, and straightened up. Beside him was the shadow bent alittle over the wheel. He could see the outline of the peak of the oldgolf cap and the dim tracing of Zeke's face, about it a faint gleam,and then the flash of an eye. He pondered. Here was Zeke doing hiswork—playing his part in the scheme of things. He was notbothered by any notions of obligation. He was not concerned withworking out his destiny. He played his cards as he got them."Sometime they roll seven—and sometime they roll two," heremembered the words of a philosopher of the rolling rubes a yearago—or was it a lifetime? Bromley's! The Golden Rule! MaryLouise! All alike. "Shape yourself to this pattern. Fill this niche.You've got to," said one. "Be like me. Do as I do. Or get out," saidanother. "It costs so much to live this way. And you have to. Or it'snot worth living," said the third. How about his way of looking at it?

He turned suddenly to the inscrutable face beside him.

"You don't let anybody cramp your style, do you, Zeke?" he said.

Zeke started. The sudden voice for a moment terrified him. "Nossuh, Idoesn'," he stammered, anxious to agree.

Joe's voice was kindly encouraging. "Well, don't you let them, ever."

"Nossuh, I won'." And singularly he spoke the truth.

They came to a stretch of sand and the car slowed down appreciably. Inaddition there was a grade. And then came a flash of lightning over inthe west, straight ahead of them, and another, fan-shaped, like theslow opening of a hand. In the momentary glare they saw the outlinesof a hill up before them, with the road clipping it in two. Atelephone pole on the crest stretched out spectral arms and leanedaway. And then darkness again.

Joe decided he had better tell Zeke the object of their mission. Itreally didn't matter much, but then he wanted to talk.

"Do you reckon Mr. Bushrod's in Fillmore, Zeke?" he began, trying tomake it as conversational as possible.

"I dunno. Mist' Joe. He might could." This offered no encouragement.

"He's been gone—ever since last night. Reckon he is inFillmore?" He caught the gleam of two eyes as Zeke partly turned tolook at him.

"I dunno, Mist' Joe. Wheh you reckon he gone?" As yet the import hadfailed to reach him.

For a short while they rolled along in silence, silence save for therattling labour of the car. The grade was growing steeper. On bothsides of the road the woods were encroaching and the only light wasthe feeble one cast by the single uncertain lamp of the car. It barelyseemed to puncture the black.

"Mist' Bushrod ain' been home?" came Zeke's voice. The idea wasbeginning to have effect.

"Not since yesterday morning."

For another interval, silence, and then: "Whuh Mist' Bushrod gone?Reckon he gone to Louisville?" Perhaps the faint stirrings of a cellof conscience. Who can say?

"Don't know, Zeke. Perhaps."

As though satisfied by this mutual exchange of confidence, Zeke lapsedagain into silence, and for a time nothing was heard save the voice ofthe car and occasional sighing bursts of wind high up in thetree-tops. Then there came a black line of shadow stretching acrosstheir way, on up ahead, and above it a yellowish, greenish streak oflight where the clouds were breaking. Faint wisps of vapour wentcurling slowly across the streak and there was a patch of blue, verydeep, and the momentary gleam of a star, and then they plunged intothe shadow.

The air grew cooler, almost cold. The woods had swept down upon theroad and engulfed it. Even the noise of the motor seemed quieter, andabove it could be heard whisperings and occasional crackings.Something started up from a thicket by the side of the road and theycould hear it scurrying through the underbrush. Zeke moved up thethrottle and they began to move faster. And on either side of themcame down the darkness, sweeping past them, pressing close, and beforethem wavered the faltering light, and the cool damp air came fingeringand touched their faces.

Zeke stopped the car. The rushing darkness stopped. The breeze wasstill.

"Heah's de place," he said, and his voice was lower; Joe could barelyhear him.

"I thought it was Fillmore. This isn't Fillmore."

"I know," said Zeke. "I doesn' go to Fillmo'. Dis is de place whuh Igets it. Up de paff a piece."

Joe was on the point of telling him to go on—on to Fillmore,where proper inquiry might be made, when a sense of curiosity promptedhim to stop. He would see where the illegal traffic was being carriedon. Zeke was trustingly letting him in on his business and he mightnot understand. After all, it was getting down in a way to the heartof the business—in a way getting closer to Uncle Buzz. He hadnever bothered much before. He climbed out of the car and Zeke shutoff the motor.

The silence, as he followed Zeke down the narrow path, was oppressive.There would come a vast sighing like a wave of sound, and a settling,a few crackings far off, and then silence. The ground was soft with amatting of fallen leaves, damp and mouldy, and once as Zeke turned hispocket flashlight from the path there came a gleam of water. Briarsflicked his face and scratched his hands, and once a low-hangingbranch struck him across the eyes and he stumbled from the path andstepped into slime. He kept close behind his guide, for the darknesswas intense and the path was tortuous. Directly Zeke stopped. Thepocket light made a small circle on the ground.

"Heah 'tis," Zeke whispered, and pointed with the light.

A thicket of blackberry bushes crowded into a corner of an oldsnake-rail fence and two old boards were all that was visible in thenarrow compass of the light—that, and a pool of dark water overto one side. Up above, there was a break in the trees and asuggestion, beyond, of open fields. He stood for a minute. Nothingelse was visible, nothing from the hand of man, as Zeke moved thelight back and forth in slow-sweeping arcs. It had been a waste oftime; there was nothing to see, nothing but the crude assignationplace of a troop of spectral whiskey jugs, and the seat of aprofitable industry. He turned to go, his mind shifting to otherthings. He heard Zeke fumbling in the bushes, saw the light switchinto the fence corner, then across the pool; and then he heard a cry,a low cry of terror, and caught a glimpse of something white—onthe ground, near a big tree. And then Zeke's voice, "Fo' Gawd!" andthe light switched off and someone came hurrying toward him in thedarkness.

"Come on, Mist' Joe. Le's git away fum heah!"

Zeke brushed past him in an agony of haste. He heard his footsteps onthe leaf carpet, saw the crazy flickerings of the light through thetrees, and had a sudden intense desire to follow. But he paused,curious, mastering his fear. And then the outline of the clearing cameslowly to his eyes, and looking up he saw that the clouds werebreaking and that the tip of the moon was showing through. Slowly theplace was bathed in a silvery flood. Back slipped the shadows. Shapesthat had been pressing, close at hand, receded and took the form oftrees, of bushes, lurking there on the edge of the darkness. He sawthe fence corner. He saw the two boards propped up against it, forminga cache. He saw the pool, a tiny little woodland pool. And then hecaught again that glimmer of white by the foot of a huge beech tree.Slowly he made his way toward it with beating heart. Slowly it tookshape, a huddled shadow, right on the edge of the light. He touched itwith his foot, careful lest he step beyond. He stooped. He touched itwith his hand. He turned it over. And the moonlight, slipping throughthe trees as though to help him, sent a feeble, flickering shaftdown—upon the upturned face of Uncle Buzz. For a moment itrested there, as if to reassure him, bringing out in misty detail allthat was necessary. The thing was hideously befouled, besmirched,lying there in that black swamp water, mute, helpless, utterly broken.But it was unmistakeable. He stretched out his arms and dragged itfrom the water, and the clouds, closing in again, obscured the moon,leaving all in darkness.

CHAPTER VIII

Twodays later they buried Mr. Mosby.

Joe had kept his promise. At least he had kept it as well as it waspossible to keep it. It was decided that Mr. Mosby had met his deathby drowning. That is what "One Half of Rome" believed. The "Other Halfof Rome" perhaps had various ideas. It could not be surmised from theset conventional expressions on the faces of those gathered togetherin the back parlour that hot Saturday afternoon just what theconsensus was. There had been at first a surreptitious buzz ofconversation and then deep silence as the Episcopal priest in his longwhite vestments came slowly in. Joe felt peculiarly outside of it all.He was in a sense neither spectator nor mourner. For Mrs. Mosbydepended on the palsied arm of her brother for support. And then therewere a few old ladies, friends of Mrs. Mosby's, and himself bringingup the rear—merely appended to the family, the last survivor ofthe discredited branch. He was conscious of a heavy scent of flowersbanked about the close, dark room, a scent in which the cloyingsweetness of jasmine prevailed. For a moment there was not a sound,and then the minister lifted his head and began the burial service.He, too, was feeling the heavy hand of time, and his voice, so longcharged with the burden of emotion, emotion that had had to besummoned on short notice, seemed on the point of breaking. He was oldand broken himself, wearied with futility, with his head raised,half-closed eyes lifted ceiling-ward, his fluttering draperies nowbillowy, now closely enwrapping his gaunt frame in the little breezethat came in from the hall. There was not much of comfort to begained, not much of hope. Looking out of the corner of his eyes, Joecould get a glimpse of a wall of white, blank, expressionless facesand the silent waving of countless palm-leaf fans. Directly in frontof him was the long, narrow back of Mr. Fawcette, and beside thelatter, Aunt Loraine, sitting very straight and very stiff, her newblack veil opaquely shielding from curious eyes the delicacy of hergrief. The ruching was there, but the bangles had been laid aside. Onwent that quavering, faltering voice:

"All flesh is not the same flesh: but there is one kind of flesh ofmen, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another ofbirds."

Of just what kind had been Uncle Buzz, he found himself wondering. Aweaker kind, or at least, a kind ill suited to the world it had beenthrown in.

"Now I say, brethren," the voice went on, "that flesh and blood cannotinherit the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inheritincorruption."

What, thought Joe, were the chances of all those white, fleshy facesstaring there, immovable? The crowd in the back parlour—asingle, silent, pasty-faced, fan-waving convention, over which thefat, pasty white hand of death was significantly hovering, and aboutwhich the odour of jasmine was pressing. He felt suddenly stifled,suffocated. He wanted to get up and run away, out of doors, anywhere.The only thing that seemed to escape the stifling was his Uncle Buzz,lying there quietly, in acceptance. And then he knew that another linkhad been broken, a link that held him to the past. There was a littleless friendliness, a little less cheer, a little lessunderstandableness—he was conscious of it—a little lessneed of him.

The service came to an end and a small fraction of the assembly filedout to the family burying ground on the hill behind the house. Herecame a repetition of what had been enacted in the back parlour, onlythere was the distraction of the wind which would be playful and of arobin, perched on a near-by fence post, who would not be depressed butsang away its liquid, throaty warble as though the whole ceremony hadbeen arranged for its own entertainment. It came quickly to an end.Mr. Mosby was sent on his way with all due convention and dispatchwith a little of sentimentality thrown in for good measure. A fewmoments of grace after the last clods of earth were tossed on andpatted down, and then everyone was hurrying away, back to hisrespective niche, cloaking haste with a thin layer of dignity. Mr.Burrus openly ran after a departing "Ford." It was Mr. Martin's, andthe handy reserve carry-all of the "Golden Rule," and Mr. Burruspreferred a moment's haste to a long, hot walk at greater leisure. Joeremembered his face, there in the third row at the end, in the backparlour. Inscrutable it had seemed—a weazened, yellowing blankmask, slowly souring in the heat. What had he been thinking on? On thewaste of some lost accounts, perhaps—or even on the amount ofcredit he might allow the widow. It might be that he contemplated theremote results of his own handiwork lying there in the blackcloth-covered box. But if this latter, his face showed no sign. And"Neither Half of Rome," though it point an accusing finger, wouldpause for a moment as it passed him by.

Joe did not go back to the house with the rest of the family. Instead,he struck out across the fields away from them. He climbed the backboundary fence and was soon walking up to his knees in grass andweeds. The air was hot and sticky and heavily charged with ashimmering white water vapour. There were a few sluggish clouds withsombre centres hanging about the valley to the southwest, and therewas a drone and zip of flying creatures in swarms above the dryingweeds and stubble. Coming to a large oak tree standing solitary inthat wasting field, he threw himself face downward on the ground inits shadow, careless that the grass was scant, and that his bed wasscratchy. For a moment he lay in utter relaxation, caring for andobserving nothing. And then, the sharp edge of his fatigue beingbroken, he slowly turned on his side and leaned his head on his palm,his elbow resting on the ground. It was a barren prospect thatstretched out before him: lazy, shiftless land clear over the brow ofthe hill that sloped away to the house. The Fawcette place had notbeen worked to capacity for years, and there it lay, the waste of Mr.Mosby's opportunity. Tiny creatures swarmed in the grass. Joe couldsee them scurrying up and down the withered and drying stalks. Alittle crowd of gnats was hovering about his head and occasionally onewould light upon his face and stick there dejectedly. Above the grass,against the blue of the sky beyond, he could see the shimmering waveshang tremulous like the air above a hot wood-stove in winter, andthere came to his ears the sudden whirring zip of a grasshopper inmid-flight. Directly there came another, and another, till the airseemed full of them. Summer had come. And about him lay the field inlistless idleness.

It was common talk that it should be worked, that it was a shame notto work it. But there had not been money enough. Money was needed foreverything, everything that man wanted to do, money and somethingelse. About him buzzed the gnats; all around him poured the sunshine;and in his ears was the drone of countless insects. This was Saturday.Another full day and would come Monday. Monday! He had not thought ofit until now. He suddenly felt the uselessness of his bonds. And yethe could feel the stretching of his tether. Was everybody fastened toa tether? Was there no such thing as freedom? Singularly enough, thisfield in all its idleness, with all its heat, with its droning andbuzzing, suggested freedom. In fact, the feel of the entire country,this country that he had known, about which his memories clusteredthick, suggested freedom. And yet it was not above reproach. Peoplespoke of it condescendingly. "Poor land—unproducing—acentury behind the times." What was it? The land? The people? Thetimes? There was Uncle Buzz, with his foothold on two hundred acres,and they had buried him in his one good suit. Buried beneath the forceof circumstances, he had never once lifted his head—had diedwith it in a shallow pool of water. And he was no better. He couldfeel the shackles close about him, binding him hand and foot. What wasone to do? His head dropped down upon the crook of his arm and he fellasleep.

An hour later he awoke. He felt hot and uncomfortable. He stretchedhimself and rolled over on his back. He gazed upward through thetangle of branches and tried to relax again. But the heat had becomeunbearable. He struggled to his feet and brushed the litter from hisclothes. Away in each direction stretched the field. It was dry anddusty and covered with a short, cutting stubble beneath the uppersurface of waving grass and weeds. It no longer held any allurementfor him and yet he did not want to go back to the house. He looked athis watch. It was five o'clock. Some of the old ladies would still bethere. They would be sitting about on the horsehair chairs makinglugubrious conversation. Back toward the left stretched the pike,white and dusty enough. But there were trees along the edge of it, andhe remembered the grass in the fence corners to be long and fresh andsucculent as a rule, even in midsummer. Slowly he started in thatdirection. When he reached the boundary fence he was dripping withperspiration and his shoes and trouser hems were covered with theyellow dust. He climbed the fence, and as he stepped out into the roadhe saw an automobile approaching in the distance, dipping down a hillto the creek that broke the stretch toward Guests. It was not oftenthat motors of any distinction saw fit to travel into Bloomfield; thepike was not good enough. But this approaching car seemed to be one ofsome distinction—was long and rather rakish, had a deep sound tothe exhaust as it started up the hill toward him. Idly he watched it.There were two passengers, a man and a woman, slouched well down inthe seats. What could they be doing in the heat of the afternoon withthe top down and in all that blazing sunlight? He stepped over to theside of the road and dragged his feet, first one and then the other,in the grass to wipe off some of the dust. He knew that he was hot anddirty and dishevelled, but he did not care much. On came the car. Asit came nearer it lost its interest to him and he sat down in thegrass and plucked a blade to chew, paying it no further attention.Suddenly, to his surprise, he realized it was stopping and then thewoman called to him.

At first he did not recognize her. Her face was quite red from the sunand she had on a fetching little close-fitting motor-bonnet withfluttering lavender strings. A long lemon-coloured duster envelopedthe rest of her. She was quite pretty, with the contrast of colour,with her hair all snugly tucked away. It did not look like MaryLouise, but it was. He felt very conscious of his dusty old suit andhis wilting collar and his flushed and perspiring face, as he came andstood by the car.

"This is Mr. Claybrook, Joe," she said, looking at him gravely.

He remembered then the big, confident man that had joined them thatunhappy night.

"I just heard, Joe. It was terrible. I was awfully distressed."

He looked into her eyes—she spoke so earnestly—andwondered if she were feeling all she might feel. Uncle Buzz had notreceived very charitable treatment at her hands. The picture of itall came before his mind and he said nothing.

"When is—when is the funeral?"

"It's all over," he replied shortly. "This afternoon."

"Oh."

She turned and had a word with her companion. And then he leaned over,partly across her, smiling quietly.

"We're going right back in an hour or so. Be glad to have you go withus. There's plenty of room." His voice was big and rather pleasant andhe had an air of careless assumption that everything would be allright.

"Yes, do, Joe," Mary Louise put in. "I had John drive me up thisafternoon. I wanted to get here in time for——Aunt Susiewanted some things."

It was quite natural the way she said, "I had John——"

"It will be better than going back on that morningtrain—to-morrow? And I suppose you'll have to be back at theoffice Monday?" He had never known her voice to be so solicitouslysweet.

"No," he said, and he surprised himself, "I'm not going back." He hadcome to no such decision. But the idea was suddenly so utterlydistasteful that it seemed impossible. And she having him,Claybrook, take him, Joe, back to work. The smart of it wasintolerable. "No," he repeated firmly, "I'm not going back." And thenhe gazed off across the hood of the motor into the vacant fieldbeyond.

"I see," she replied, rather softly, and he could feel that she waswatching him and that Claybrook was, in a way, standing by in acondescending attitude, ready to do her bidding.

He was anxious to be off, anxious to be alone. "Thank you very much,however," he said, and bowed to Claybrook. He avoided Mary Louise'seyes. He backed away from the car and lifted his hat. "Good-bye."

Turning away, he set off down the road, away from Bloomfield, andshortly he heard the motor start and the grind of wheels. He lookedback. He saw her lean over as though to speak to Claybrook. And thenhe saw Claybrook turn his face toward hers. They were probably talkingabout him.

He trudged on down the road, although he had no idea of where he wasgoing. There was a soreness deep down in his heart and it hurt all themore because he realized that he had been unreasonable. And he hadsaid he was not going back. He caught his breath slightly at thethought. Well, he wouldn't go back. There was no reason why heshould—absolutely no reason. With that he turned about andwalked briskly back up the hill toward home.

As he entered the front hall he could hear a low hum of conversationon the other side of the parlour doors. They were partly open, and hehurried past lest someone call for him to come in. He went upstairs,into the ell bedroom, and took off his coat. He looked at himself inthe glass of the bureau. His face was red and streaked withperspiration and dust. And they had looked quite fresh—"smart"was the word. He proceeded to clean himself up and he spent quite along time in the process.

When he came downstairs again it was growing dark. He no longer heardthe voices in the parlour. When he reached the foot, he paused for amoment in uncertainty. The walnut chairs were there, quite placid andcontent with themselves, and the hat-rack, and the old horsehair sofa.His aunt Loraine came out of another door, back in the passage. Shehad, of course, laid aside her veil and her face had been freshlypowdered; she looked quite the same. There was a certain prim set toher mouth, and her eyes, as she looked at him, were calculatinglycool. She did not touch him but stood with her arms hanging ratherstiffly by her sides.

"Joseph," she said, "we want you to stay, if you will—as long asyou feel you can."

The tiny spark that he had felt died away. "We," she had said. Hewondered who the "we" might be. Mr. Fawcette, perhaps; perhaps one ofthe old ladies. Aunt Lorry had evidently been looking ahead. There wasno need for him here.

"No," he said rather quietly. "Thank you very much, Aunt Lorry. Imust be getting back—first train to-morrow, I expect."

She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly. "Very well. Make yourself athome while you stay." And she glided off with her queer, noiselessstep, back into the shadow of the hall.

He walked to the front door and out on to the wide verandah. He lookeddown the winding driveway to the gate, all mellowing in the dyingsunlight. There was not a breath of air, not a sound. The gate wasstanding partly open; the last departing guest had neglected to shutit. On the driveway lay something white, somebody's handkerchief. Itlay without moving, inert. There was nothing to pick it up, not eventhe slightest breeze. He gazed across the open country that dippedaway to the west to the ridge of hills that was crowned with orangeand purple mists, with the white road climbing to its crest. And as hewatched, he could see a small blob of white dust moving, leaving afeathery tail behind it. And he turned quickly and went into thehouse.

PART II

MYRTLE

CHAPTER IX

Thesunlight was dazzling white. High winds during the night had chasedall clouds to remote quarters and had with the morning suddenly gone,leaving the city to the entire mercy of the sun. It was August andvery dry and in the corners of buildings huddled little heaps of dustand elusive trash, withered and powdery. On the pavements and wallsthe sunlight lay like white-hot gold and the shadows cast by theawnings of Bessire's department store were sharply chiselled as by astencil. Mary Louise paused for a moment in their shelter and drewbreath.

Sometimes work is a fattener. It is when, by virtue of its absorption,certain phases of the body are allowed to function naturally. It istrue in the case of meddling minds, also in more or less conscientiousnatures. Mary Louise's nerves had temporarily ceased to feed upon her.She was getting plump. The lace frill at the bottom of her elbowsleeve lay flat against a curve that was full and round. In fact, onewas conscious of a general well-roundedness about her. And her face,which was flushed, was likewise serene.

The tea room had been making money. With the arrival of the intenseheat had come generous patronage, especially for the noon meal. Andthe petty vexations had effaced themselves. For the past few weeks anatmosphere of expectancy had seemed to hover, such as is felt ontrains arriving after a long journey, or in the completion of a work.It was the sense of accomplishment. Mary Louise felt her problemundergoing solution, and nothing else mattered. She now laughed at thedismay she had felt at paying ten dollars for a cook in Bloomfield.There was no price to be set on her freedom. And the careless streakin Maida was something to be accepted with good nature and not to beallowed to irritate. Maida was at least on the job, eternally on thejob. Not much of a companion truly, nor for that matter a really goodbusiness partner. But she irradiated good nature and that wassomething.

A sizzling hot pavement is not much of a place for reflection even ifshaded by a striped awning. So Mary Louise passed on. The bundle offresh-printed menus was getting heavy under her arm—she had justcome from the printer's—and the soda fountain at the corner drugstore tempted her. She yielded.

She took a seat alongside a revolving electric fan and let the breezeplay on her heated cheek. She felt suddenly lazy and allowed herself adelicious relaxation. Behind the counter two boys in spotless capsand aprons were working with desperate haste to cool the dusty throatslined up before them. One of them looked like Joe Hooper, except thathe moved faster, was quicker with his hands. Poor Joe! How helplessand hopeless he had looked that afternoon. He was one of the kind thatcould not learn how. The other clerk stopped before her and asked herfor her order. This one looked very much like the new cook Maida andshe had just hired. So intent was she upon her observation that sheforgot he was speaking to her. That new cook—he was a smart,sharp-looking boy—just out of the army a few months. It hadseemed a bit incongruous having that type in the kitchen, butthen——She watched the face before her, hair sleek andparted in the middle with ears a little too prominent, features ratherregular. The eyes were set too close together. He slid in and outwithout friction, made up almost two drinks to the other one'sone—the one who looked like Joe. Probably made more money eventhan the real Joe.

A tall frosty tumbler was placed before her. She dipped into it with astraw. It was delightfully cool and refreshing, with a blend of fruitodour and flavour beneath the sprig of mint that floated on the top.Slowly she sipped it. And then for a moment she let her eyes wanderacross the faces lined up before the counter beside her. Next to herwas an old woman in a sleazy black dress with a turban-like hat allswathed with a long black veil hemmed with black. She had looped itback in anticipation of the drink she would soon get. The old face waswhite and limned with wrinkles, and one hand, as it rested timidly onthe edge of the counter, was heavily veined and thin and swollen aboutthe knuckles. There was a droop to the shoulders and a patient,haggard look about the eyes. Mary Louise wondered if the mourning werevery real; she seemed so very tired that even a poignant grief mightwell be spent. As she looked, the old woman caught her eye and turnedhurriedly away.

Beyond her two young girls were making merry with the cherries intheir glasses. At odd moments they would surreptitiously bid for thesoda-jerker's attention. They had finely plucked eyebrows and weremuch powdered about the nose. One of them sat with her back partlyturned to Mary Louise, who could catch the occasional lift of analluring eyelash from the glass's brim in the direction of the clerk.She had her legs crossed, and once when she shifted her position MaryLouise could see the gleam of a bare knee. It made her feel a bitolder somehow, but likewise complacent.

She finished her drink and arose to go. Just then the big, raw-bonedclerk, the one who looked a bit like Joe, dropped a glass on thecounter and immediately there was a widening stain of red and a pieceof glass rolled over the edge and fell to the floor. A woman sprangup and back from the counter in irritation. And a dull red flush creptinto the boy's face as he quickly produced a rag and began to mop upthe débris. As she walked to the door, the other clerk, the onewith the close-set eyes, was saying something to him in a sharp tone.

She paused a moment. Past her on the sidewalk pressed a steady streamin each direction. Hot, perspiring faces, flushed and lined withconcentration, worry, or fatigue—all hurrying. She feltcuriously complacent and aloof. Perhaps it was the momentary rest andcooling. Her thought returned again to Joe, being reminded perhaps bythe little incident at the counter. She recalled Claybrook. Sheremembered Claybrook's words that afternoon—that afternoon shehad gone to Bloomfield. It was just a few minutes after they had leftJoe Hooper on the road; they were passing the old Mosby place. She hadnoticed the interest with which Claybrook had inspected the place asthey rolled by. He had asked the name of the owner.

"Fine old trees," he had said. And later, "Walnuts," in answer to herquestion as to which ones he had meant.

Yes, they had been fine old trees. Something enduring about them. Theyadded to a place—trees. There was nothing artificial or upstartabout their beauty, but the venerableness of dignity. The Mosby placehad been noted for its walnuts.

"Tell 'em," Claybrook had said, "I'll give 'em a nickle a foot forthose trees right there on the ground. That is, if they are hard up,"he had added as if seeking to justify himself. She remembered theincident now with regret, a sort of complacent regret. Claybrook was abit crude at times, or at least he was not quite awake to some of thefiner sensibilities. But he was a kindly man and doing well. He wasthe sort you could depend on. Business was cruel. You had to overlookcertain things, for instance—Maida. But Joe! Well, it was toobad. He just didn't have the knack.

She crossed the street. The glare was terrific. Hugging the wall, tokeep as far in the shelter of its shade as possible, she proceedednorth. In spite of the heat the streets were crowded. She looked ather watch. It was eleven-thirty. She would have to be hurrying to gether menus back on time. She came to an alley and paused on the curb tolook in either direction for traffic. By the curb at the corner of thealley stood a bright, shiny, new car. Something about it attracted herattention. She looked more closely and was conscious of a peculiarlittle catch or start somewhere deep down inside her. In the frontseat, behind the steering wheel, sat Joe Hooper, with his arm flungnegligently along the polished patent leather of the top brace. Andsuch a Joe Hooper! He had on a new straw hat, and while Mary Louisecould not trust herself to a very long inspection, she noticed thefresh creases in his coat sleeve. He was wearing a "shepherd plaid"suit that looked "bran spanking" new, and in his collar was knotted apale lavender-hued tie. More than that, he seemed positively wellgroomed. Beside him sat a woman, back turned toward the curb. It was amost alluring back, in a soft, shimmering dark-blue dress with a lacecollar and above it a gentle curve of neck with little provoking wispsof hair curling softly about it. That was all she took in in thatflash of vision, except—as she looked, the creature raised adainty, tapering hand and filliped a tiny feather under Joe's nose. Hedrew back slightly and smiled—she saw the whole thing—aquite restrained and, if anything, a condescending kind of smile.

Mary Louise passed on inconspicuously across the alley, into thesheltering shade, of the shop awnings again. She wondered if he hadseen her. And then she was tempted to turn around and reassure herselfwith another look. But she did not.

A singular mixture of emotions surged through her. She felt as ifsomeone were secretly laughing at her. Joe Hooper, she had decided,had been one of those people who could never learn how to do things.And yet, unless her eyes had deceived her, here he had burstgorgeously from his chrysalis. She was not sure she was glad of it,either. Charity, especially of thought, is frequently more of a luxuryto the donor than to the recipient.

She hurried on. The street was becoming more crowded and the heat, ifanything, more intense. She began to feel just a bit angry withherself for exposing herself to it. Her face felt as if it wereburning up. It had not been at all necessary. She could just as wellhave sent someone else. And here she was plugging along, with herclothes all sticky, her hair coming down in wisps about her ears, andher face as red as a beet. Funny, what had come over Joe. She wascertain it had been he but it seemed improbable. And she had beensorry for him. He was the kind who could not "put anything across."

All her complacency was gone as she opened the tea-room door. She washot and tired and hurried. The little clock on the mantelshelf said aquarter to twelve as she closed the door behind her and then she sawthat there was a customer at a far table in the corner and realizedhow late she was. A short, fat little woman was sitting tensely on theedge of a chair, looking about her with quick, restless, stabbingglances. She had on an atrocity of a hat that looked as though someonehad plumped down on her head a flimsy crate of refuse blossoms andvegetables. It was a riot of colour and disorder. And her short,protuberant bosom rested on the table's edge while the face above itwas marked with stern lines of dissatisfaction. Little folds of fleshhung down below her jaws.

Giving Mary Louise a momentary appraising glance, us the latter camein with her bundle, she snapped out: "This place open, you suppose?"

Mary Louise hastily laid down the menus. "Yes," she said, "it is.Haven't you been waited on?"

"No," said the old lady, stirring in her chair and making as if torise, though wild horses could not have pulled her away from even theprospect of food. "I've been sitting here ten minutes by your clock."She turned away and stared gloomily into space with her mouth sharplyset in indignant endurance of such mistreatment.

Mary Louise hurried across the room. She pushed open the swinging doorinto the passage that led to the kitchen. Everything was quiet. Shewondered at it. As she stood there for an unappreciable instant, sheheard a slight sound to her right, seemingly from the little pantry orstorage room that was tucked in beneath the stairs. The door of itordinarily stood open.

She paused a moment then took one step forward and pushed open thedoor.

Full beneath the light of the pendent lamp, leaning against theserving table for support, stretched the billowy form of Maida Jones,half reclining in the arms of the sleek-haired cook who sat on thetable edge and faced the door. Her head was thrown back in completeabandonment and her hair was coming down about her shoulders. Theboy's close-set eyes peered up sharply as Mary Louise opened thedoor. Then there was an immediate scurry, the lamp was switched off,and directly Maida emerged flushed and sullen.

Mary Louise was stunned. Her ideas were chaotic and could take noform. But as they stood there facing each other, she was conscious ofa rising sense of the ludicrous mingled with disgust. The memory ofthat momentary scene lingered in her mind like a piece of burlesquestatuary. She stifled a desire to laugh.

Then the other culprit began to stir about among the pans. Maida wasstaring at her with lips partly open, her breath still coming shortand thick.

"Turn on the light," said Mary Louise.

And then as Maida made no move:

"Go fix yourself up. There's someone in the room waiting to beserved." Her voice was heavy with the scorn she felt.

Maida recovered. She bit her lip. Then she laughed a short, nervouslaugh. "Shocked to death, aren't you?"

"Not at all," replied Mary Louise pleasantly. "It's quite charming, Iassure you." She turned and entered the kitchen. The other cook and amaid were quietly attending to their work. She paid them no attentionbut went and stood by the back window over which was stretched a heavywire screen, and through the thick dust of which she could see a dim,dusty, narrow courtyard and a pile of discarded boxes.

For a long time she stood there, with her hands folded one upon theother and resting limply upon a table. The world had taken on agrotesque slant. It was a strange place in which it was easy to loseone's way. Her assurance, her satisfaction, her enthusiasm hadvanished. Nothing was well ordered; everything was haphazard. Peopledid the most unexpected things. And there was ugliness and deceitparading about in broad daylight. She suddenly felt herself utterlyincapable of passing judgment on anything.

And as she stood staring out through that dingy window, with thebustle and sounds of feet behind her, two fat round tears welled fromher eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.

CHAPTER X

Meantime,Joe had written his name at the top of a new sheet. He drew up to thecurb on Broadway just below Fourth and stopped the motor. He leanedback against the tufted arm and stretched himself. Then he idly viewedthe passing show before him. It was past mid-afternoon and dry anddusty. The keen edge of the sun had slightly dulled, but a Negro,seated high up on a pile of shabby furniture on a moving van, mopped ashining black face with the end of a very dirty undershirt sleeve. Aboy came wavering along on a bicycle, swerved in to the curbing acrossthe street, stopped, got off and went in to the Baptist Seminary,leaving the bicycle sprawling in the gutter. An old woman came out ofnowhere; he heard her uncertain steps before he saw her as sheapproached him; the wide pavement the moment before had been entirelydeserted. She walked as though she had no definite destination, notstraight ahead in a plumb line. She had an old-fashioned bonnet withdangles on her head and a straw basket over one arm. Somehow hethought of his aunt Lorry. She came peering up at him from under herlashes. She seemed drawn by the brightness of the car. And her dimeyes seemed searching in the shadow of the top for a definiteassurance. As she drew near, Joe smiled, a little absently; the rustysteel aigrette perched on top of the bonnet like the horn of a unicornwas nodding so gravely. The old thing caught the smile. Her facebrightened. Her mouth spread in a toothless grin. She reached out ahand and touched the car lightly with a withered finger on the fender.

"Such a pretty buggy," she said. The voice was tremulous andhigh-pitched and the articulation thick and indistinct.

Then she looked at Joe; her rheumy gaze passed over him from the tipsof his shiny new shoes to the crown of his hat. Admiration now spokefrom her with perhaps greater eloquence even though her lips werestill, parted a little. The pause had been but momentary.

Joe reached over and threw the door open.

"Climb in," he said. "I'll take you for a ride."

The old woman shrank back from the car, wide-eyed in alarm.

"Come on," he urged, quite gently, "I'm not a masher. I'll bring youright back here, all safe and right side up."

The old face wrinkled in a shrewd, crafty grin. She lingered on thepavement for a moment in indecision, then came slowly forward andpaused at the running board, peering upward into Joe's face.

"Take me for a ride?" she lisped, tremulously eager.

"Sure," said Joe. "I'm selling 'em." He held the door open invitingly."Maybe you'll buy one some day."

Again the swift flash of a smile passed over the slack mouth and therewas a gathering in the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Painfullyshe pulled herself up into the car and sank into the seat beside him.

He switched on the motor, threw out the clutch, engaged the startinggear, and paused with his hand on the lever.

"We'll go around this way. It's not so crowded and I think the air'sbetter."

She smiled at him confidently.

They started. At the corner he swung around in a wide sweep. He caughta glance at her and saw her sitting with eyes glued intently on thestreet before them, her hands gripping the edge of the seat. Then theblock ahead was straight and smooth and free of traffic.

He patted the chest of his coat.

"I've just put an order away in here," he said. "It's very easy.They're scrambling over each other to buy these cars."

She gave him a fleeting glance and returned to her desperate businessof watching the road.

For a moment he was silent. They rounded another corner.

"I'm not really expecting you to buy a car—merely speak a goodword for it with your friends. That is, if you like it. It is allright, isn't it?"

At his questioning tone she again ventured a look at him and smiledagain uncertainly, still gripping the edges of the seat.

One more corner and they were on the return trip. Directly they wererolling up toward the curb from whence they had started. They stoppedand Joe reached over and opened the door again. The old woman caughtthe import of the movement and clambered stiffly out, stooping lowwith her head to avoid the top brace. She stood on the curbing,bewildered and blinking, apparently lost.

Joe reached out and handed her a card.

"You're headed just the same way you were when I picked you up," hesaid. "And in the same spot." And as she made no move and apparentlydid not hear him, "Call on me if I can serve you. I can do otherthings besides sell motor cars.

"Good-bye," he said, tipping his hat and slamming the door shut. Thenhe moved away. He left her standing there, watching.

He turned in Fourth Street and slowed down to about six miles an hour.The lengthening shadows were bringing out the ephemeral creatures thatmight otherwise wither in the heat. The west pavement was alreadycrowded and there was a stream of motors idling along in a sluggishtide, southward. It was the time of day when the city, as it were,stretches itself after its siesta and takes long, lazy, satisfiedlooks at itself.

Joe slumped in the seat. This lazy panorama had not begun to pall onhim. He luxuriated in it. It was something of a holiday to him. Thechange that had come over his life was inexplicable; without effort hehad lifted himself. The selection of an occupation had been haphazard;he had merely taken the first thing that had offereditself—selling automobiles. And there had been no difficulty inselling them, none whatever. The very first month his commissions hadamounted to considerably more than twice the sum Bromley's had paidhim.

The motor was thrumming along slowly and regularly, giving out softlittle ticks like a clock. Everything about it was shining and new.Everything about Joe was shining and new. He felt sleek, lazy, andcomfortable. He made no effort to analyze the change that had comeover him, merely accepted it as a matter of course. At times wouldcome vague wonderings why he had been such a "chump" as to hang on inthat treadmill of an office as long as he had.

He thought about the old woman and her grenadier bonnet and herbewildered pleasure, and chuckled to himself. The old soul hadprobably never been in an automobile before. He had raised thestandard of her desires. She might not be satisfied again until shehad another ride, maybe many more. It might even stir her up. Thatwas what it was. Ignorance was what kept most people down. They didnot know what they were missing. And so they just plugged along takingthings as they came, most of them. That was what had been the matterwith him. Hard work never got a man anywhere, just hard work. He shuthis mind resolutely on the thought and turned again to the inspectionof the evening parade.

As he came in sight of the windows of Bessire's Department Store heremembered that there was something there that he needed. And therewas no need of his hurrying back to the office. He had done enough forthe day. So he turned the corner and squeezed into an opening on theside street. He stepped out on to the pavement and indulged in aluxurious stretch of the arms. The sudden glare of the sun on thepavement made him sneeze. It was delightful. He walked lazily throughthe revolving doors of the department store.

As he gained the interior a woman brushed past him so that he had tostop in his tracks. As she passed she looked into his eyes. Somethingin him stopped with a click like a notch on a reel.

He gazed after her, trying to remember. But all there was was a faintlingering scent that was difficult and alluring. There was somethingfamiliar about the curve of the neck, something about the tilt of thehat, he had seen before. It disturbed him. All he had caught was aflicker of her eyes, as though she had thought to recognize him andthen had changed her mind. She turned a corner into a distant aisleand was gone.

He had a momentary impulse to follow to the end of that aisle and seewhere it led to, but he checked it. He gathered himself together andlazily strolled along in search of the counter he wanted. Quiet haddescended upon the store. It was almost deserted of shoppers and theyellow light came streaming down the cross aisles heavy laden withdust particles. The little bundle girls leaned from their stallsbehind the counters and chatted. There was a pleasant buzz in the air.

He made his purchase and lingered for a moment at a counter ofnotions. Then he strolled back toward the door, steeped in the feelingof well being. A girl at a curved counter was tucking in a wisp ofhair and taking off her paper sleeve protectors. Over beyond, there bythe west entrance, they were already shutting the doors. He paused andwatched the day's closing pleasantly settle down. Then he reached outa hand to push open the door before him. Somebody jostled against him.A small collection of paper bundles spilled out on to the floor at hisfeet and he mechanically stooped to pick them up. They were manifestlyfeminine. There were four of them, all small; he gathered them all upin one hand.

Then he rose to his feet and turned to restore them to their owner.

He looked into a pair of limpid violet eyes.

They dropped and long lashes shaded them. A delicate colour rose andsplashed the softest of cheeks.

Joe stood, holding the bundles.

Directly she looked at him again. It was a very timid, gentle,apologetic look. She seemed to be gathering courage.

"Oh," she burst out in a sudden sweet abandonment to friendliness."I'm so sorry." She paused then, uncertain what next to do or say.

Joe held the door open for her, keeping tight hold of the packages. Hefelt a little warm behind the ears.

She preceded him to the pavement. He got a good look at her as shepassed through the door. Still the baffling resemblance!

Then she turned and faced him on the pavement. Again she looked at himshyly, and there were little dimples in her cheeks as she tried hardnot to smile.

"I knew I'd get into trouble when I loaded myself down with all thesebundles," she explained, reaching out for them.

Confidence was returning to him. He felt the old lazy relaxation ofbeing amused.

"Can't I help you out of your difficulty—see that you get safelyhome with them?" he asked quietly. "I've my car here."

She raised her eyebrows, looked startled a moment, and then flushedslightly. "Oh, don't bother. I can get a taxi."

She made no further resistance and directly he was slamming the doorbehind her. He had caught a glimpse of black-silk stocking above awhite buckskin pump that somehow disturbed his poise. As he walkedaround to the other side of the car he was wondering where it was hehad seen her before. He could not remember.

He climbed into his place behind the steering wheel and observed heragain. It was a setting that became her. Her shyness seemed to haveall vanished. She was powdering her nose as he climbed in; a silvervanity case lay open on her lap. He noticed it, saw a hairpin and twonickles and a card or two. She had said she might take a taxi.

Directly she was smiling into his eyes. It made him just a little bitgiddy in spite of himself. How old was she, he wondered? For a momenthe busied himself with the car. There was nothing made up about her;it was a clear case of good looks. And she knew how to wear herclothes.

"I think I'm terrible," she was saying.

"How?" he answered, hardly hearing her.

"Letting you take me up this way." She finished her renovation to herevident satisfaction and packed away the puff with a snap.

"You couldn't expect to manage those bundles any other way," heassured confidently and quietly. It was an amusing game.

She gazed off toward the corner and wetted her lips.

He started the car. They turned the corner into Fourth Street andmoved south. As if sensing the need of further explanation here on theesplanade, where all seemed acquainted, she began in a slightly moreanimated tone:

"Of course, it's not like we had never met."

He felt she was looking at him, but being busy with the car he wassilent.

"I really believe you've forgotten."

He caught a glance at her. She looked charmingly provoked. The factthat she was centring her attention on him was in itself flattering."Not at all," he assured her and wondered to what she referred.

"It was at the American Legion Ball," she reminded him.

And then he remembered. It all came back to him. It had been a dismalevening, way back in April. He had noticed her that evening. She hadworn a weird thing of silver and black. She had even sat beside him ona sofa by the door—she and her partner. But he had not met her;he was sure of that. He had remarked, he remembered now, how curiouslyalert her eyes were, how alive, taking everything in.

"You were in uniform," she continued.

"Yes," he replied. Nearly every man present had been.

For a few moments silence. Then reaching Broadway and less trafficthey rolled along a little more easily, with less tension.

"I'm Myrtle Macomber," she at length essayed. "In case you hadforgotten."

Joe grinned. Then he turned to her, "And my name's Hooper."

She gave him another one of her roguish glances through her lashes.

"I was trying to remember," she laughed.

Then he asked her the way home and she told him. After that shechatted more freely, made comments on some of the people they passed.The evening had turned out fine. Broad orange pennons streamed out ofthe west. The little fountain in the city park tinkled delightfully asthey passed.

"It's a pretty car," she said once; "so roomy and comfortable."

He made no reply and wondered if his silence were reprehensible.

Under her direction they turned into a quiet side street and stoppedbefore a grayish frame house with a fancy bulbous tower at one cornerand bilious green outside shutters. A woman was stooped over a flowerbed in the centre of the yard. She arose stiffly at their approach.

Miss Macomber turned to Joe, but he had already alighted from the carand gone around to help her out. As he held the door open for her sheseemed a bit distrait. Slowly they walked across the pavement to thegate. The woman in the yard came forward to meet them.

There was a moment's pause. And then: "This is Mr. Hooper, mama."

The woman gave him an appraising look, glanced at the car, then smiledand held out her hand. It was damp and flabby.

"Please excuse my appearance, Mr. Hooper," she smirked. "I was gettingsome flowers for the table, dearie," she added to the girl.

Joe wondered vaguely at the contrast. Here was another of nature'sparadoxes. Mrs. Macomber looked worn and quite untidy. She was fat;her figure looked as though it had been allowed to run wild. Her facewas heavily lined with wrinkles and was not too clean. And her eyeswere tired. The house dress that she wore open at the neck and heldtogether by a bleak-looking cameo pin might have been destined fordust rags in some families, and not extravagantly, either.

She gazed at her daughter with open admiration.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Hooper," said the latter, and as she spoke shebarred the entrance through the wooden gate with a dainty arm in along, white-silk glove. But she smiled at him archly. "Call me upsometime."

And then she turned and, gently pushing the drab creature before her,went up the walk and into the house.

Joe looked back over his shoulder at them as he drove away.

CHAPTER XI

Therest of that troublous day passed hazily for Mary Louise. She avoidedMaida, who in her turn seemed disposed to avoid her. She made a hastyescape after the tea-serving hour and hurried home.

The sun was setting as she entered her room; the tall spire of theFirst Church was all ruddy with the glow of it as she threw open thewindow, and as she paused for a moment with palms on the sill, shelooked down into the deepening shadows of back passages and alleys,nooks and recesses, where lurked ash and garbage cans and heaps ofrubbish. A black cat came slinking around the corner of an oldgray-brick stable, disappeared for a moment in a passage, and a momentlater she saw him spring to the top of a rotting board fence, pause,and then lightly let himself down into the shadow of the other side.And just a hundred feet to the left—she could barely see pastthe front cornice of the four-story dwelling below her—Broadwaywas thronged with its sleek, pleasure-loving, home-going crowd. Youcould never tell the back from the front.

She withdrew from the window, walked slowly across the room, and sankinto a chair. She felt curiously ill at ease and sat staring blanklybefore her at the wall.

For the difficulty, which in some ways was trivial enough, no solutionpresented itself. Maida Jones, her companion and business associate,had developed a side that had never been taken into account. Orperhaps she had merely presented it for the first time. So much theworse. If so, then her judgment had been all the more faulty.

She had thought she had known Maida, known her well enough to count onher. She had known she was lazy, known she was a bit slipshod andindifferent. To offset this she was good-natured and compliant. Shehad had the money, enough for her share in floating the venture. Therehad been no complexity in the problem at the start.

It was unfair for her to pan out so. Mary Louise felt in a way thatshe had been swindled. She had felt all along that she could dominatethe tone of the establishment, and in fact she had done so. Maida wasnot made of the stuff to furnish opposition. That had been one of theconsiderations of the partnership. And in all the months of theirassociation nothing positive had ever cropped out in her. Why, she didnot have the strength to say "no." That was why—Mary Louise'sthought checked itself sharply here and paused. For a while her mindwore itself out in short, futile meanderings of suppositions.Directly the dim headlines of the paper she had brought with herclaimed her attention, and then tiring of that she dropped the paperand stared emptily out of the window. Why, she decided suddenly out ofnowhere, she didn't even know the girl.

A swinging white finger of light came feeling across the sky in herwindow. She watched it grope for the brass ball on the peak of thespire, saw it slip off and fumble and come feeling again, settle witha determined grasp as if to say, "There, I've got you," and then gowandering off eastward across the sky. It was the searchlight from thenew Odeon theatre, she remembered. And it might be barely possiblethat it was entirely an honourable affair. They might really care foreach other, grotesque as it might seem. Mary Louise granted for themoment that she had been a detached, impersonal sort of companion andsuch a thing might well be possible without her knowledge. But if suchwere the case, Maida needs must be apprised at once of theproprieties. The tea room was a business proposition purely. She wouldwait a bit until the proper time and straighten out the kinks.

Somewhat relieved in mind, she leaned back in the chair and rockedslowly. She began to grow restless, and thought for a moment to switchon the light. But the room was a bare sort of thing, had nothing ofher in it, and the thought of its bleak primness was repellent. Shedecided that a walk was what she needed, to clear out the cobwebs.Slowly she arose to her feet and groping along the edge of the table,felt her way to the door. An hour's walk would be enough; she wouldnot need her coat. Slowly and thoughtfully she opened the door.

Just beyond the threshold in the dim-lit hall stood Maida, fumbling inher bag for her key. She looked up in alarm as Mary Louise opened thedoor. It was ludicrous, the expression on the flat face. Behind herstood the cook—the man from the army. He turned away as MaryLouise stepped out and pretended to look out the hall window.

Mary Louise had decided on a more moderate course. She had decided toforget the matter for the time being. But the sight of the boy, therein the hall, was disconcerting. Nevertheless, it was with a forcedcheeriness that she spoke:

"Don't need your key, after all. I was just going out for a littlewhile." It was trite enough civility.

Maida looked up at her dully, and Mary Louise stepped to the left andwas on the point of passing on down the hall. As she walked away, theboy moved to the door, fingering his hat, and took one step across thethreshold after Maida, who had preceded him, into the darkened room.

And then Mary Louise turned around. At her step he paused and lookedquickly up.

"There's a chair by the window," she said, indicating a group ofarmchairs clustered there and a tall fern in a glazed pot on apedestal. "You can wait there." She had spoken on the impulse, and hervoice sounded strangely vibrant and remote even to herself, like thevoice of a third person. She was trembling slightly.

The boy looked at her, flushed a little, seemed undecided.

The light switched on and Maida appeared at the door.

"Come on in, Tim," she said, looking strangely at Mary Louise.

An overpowering anger came swelling in the latter's veins. She walkedback to the door and stood before the placid bovine figure of herroom-mate. For a moment she could not trust herself to speak, she wastrembling so.

"I said for him to wait outside—there," she repeated withquavering emphasis.

Maida's face looked flat and large and sober. There was a great, vast,pasty blank of cheek from her sombre eyes to the downcast corner ofher mouth. "I heard you," she replied. "Come in, Tim."

Mary Louise felt impotent. She watched the face before her, stolid,immutable, expressionless. She felt suffocated for breath. She pluckedat her skirts with her fingers. Finally she gasped out:

"Not—not into my room. If he does, I'm through with it—andyou. You understand?"

Maida shrugged her shoulders, and a slight smile curled the corners ofher lips. She turned away.

"That's your lookout, not mine. You're making an awful fool ofyourself, McCallum."

And then she closed the door.

Mary Louise walked blindly down the hall. She stumbled into theelevator and did not answer when the elevator boy spoke to her. Whenshe gained the street the rush of the night air against her facesteadied her a bit. She turned off promptly north and struck out forthe down-town district.

By the time she had walked a block her faculties were returning. Ithad all been preposterous, crude. She had blindly lost her temper.Something kept crying out to her that she was an old maid. Perhaps sheshouldn't have minded. She was finicky and squeamish. A girl had tohave some privacy in the place she entertained her company. ButMaida—and the cook! The thought of that flat, pasty, sullen facestirred in her a sudden repulsion.

She crossed Broadway and turned west toward Fourth, walking rapidly.Maida! Maida! The girl she had known for eighteen months in the RedCross tea room! The girl who had sat through a year of war withoutever changing the vacuity of her smile! Sat—that was it,positively sat. A woman with a figure like that had no right to alover. And a cook! An ordinary cook, hired out by the week! His beady,close-set eyes and hair sleeked back. Like a rat! And she was mixeddirectly up in it, she—Mary Louise McCallum, the daughter ofAngus McCallum. She shuddered and hurried on.

As she passed Chestnut Street they were going into the "movie"theatre. There was a long queue stringing out on the pavement. She washardly aware of it but kept on walking straight north. More than onehead was turned to watch her as she plunged resolutely on. Herapparent fixity of purpose was incongruous for that time of theevening.

The preposterousness of the whole affair kept hammering at herthoughts. To think that she had tied herself up with such a creature.To think that she had been so blind to the coarseness, the commonnessthat must have been there all along. What would Aunt Susie think aboutit? What would they all think? And in her own room! The brazen,callous nerve of the creature! Like a big, fat, lumbering ox. Shetrembled all over with sensitiveness.

Before she knew it she had come to Main Street. Beyond her dipped thehill that led to the river. The lamps were dim, and sparsely lightedthe alleyways and loading platforms of the dark, forbiddingwarehouses. She realized suddenly that she must make some decision.She could not go back to the room. Slowly and thoughtfully she crossedthe street and retraced her steps on the other side. What was she todo? She could not go back. Not under any circumstances. The friendsshe had were mere casual acquaintances; she could not call on them.

She passed out into the more crowded district again. She began to be alittle perturbed, forgot her anger; at least it was dimmed. Coming toSpruce Street she saw the usual crowd of men hanging about the door ofthe Ardmore. They always stood there, clustered about on the steps,with their cigarettes and their half-burned cigars and their flashyclothes and their burnt-out eyes and their appraising looks. For amoment she contemplated crossing the street to avoid running thegauntlet of their inspection. Where would she go then? Farther southit was darker and more unfriendly, with great stretches of shade andsilence. She paused for a moment on the corner and watched the throngabout the steps across the street. People were hurrying in and out;motors were humming; trolley gongs were clanging. She felt a suddenfear of it, that familiar neighbourhood with the tea room less than ablock away. Hot, flushed, nervous, excited, she wanted to runsomewhere, slink down into a cool, quiet shelter as had the cat shehad seen from the window earlier in the evening. The world was a cruelplace. One had to know how to get along in it. Every scrap ofassurance seemed to have left her.

Suddenly she turned to the right and walked down Spruce Street. Shecame to the lobby of the Patterson and walked boldly in. With herpulses hammering she went up to the desk, took the pen, and signedher name to the register.

A level-eyed man with a very naked head came forward and consideredher. His face was as cryptic as the outline on a mummy case. It was aseasy to read his thoughts. He merely inclined his head and lookedslightly away, suggesting that his ear was hers if she so desired.

"Single room with bath," faltered Mary Louise.

The clerk resumed his upright position. He looked at her gravely asthough she had said, "What will you take for your hotel?" He lookedpast her into the vast stretches of the lobby and found there much forphilosophic speculation. Thus absorbed, he asked vacantly, "Anyluggage?"

"No," said Mary Louise. "I—it will be here in the morning."

He turned and stepped back into the sanctum of interwoven grilles andpartitions.

Mary Louise was desperately nervous. It seemed that a thousand eyeswere watching her; her back felt peppered with them. She shifted onefoot and leaned slightly against the desk. All about her men werepressing up for mail, keys, reservations, information. She dared notlook around. There were no women in the constricted circle of hervision except the telephone operator over to her left.

The clerk was taking a long time. She was getting even more anxious.Suddenly she heard her name called. It startled her even while itbrought a tremendous sense of relief. She turned and Claybrook wasstanding by her elbow.

"How's tricks?" he inquired.

For a moment she could not answer, only look at him gratefully.

"I've been out of town. Just got back. Was going to call you up thisevening, but I didn't have the chance," he went on.

She murmured something unintelligible.

"Waiting here for something?" At her nod of assent he came and stoodbeside her, leaning his elbow on the desk, his gaze idly andcomfortably sweeping the lobby. "Hot to-night," he said.

The inscrutable clerk returned. Mary Louise felt his inspection beforeshe actually saw him. She turned, expectant.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Can't do anything for you."

Mary Louise received the blow standing. "But," she faltered, "Lateron?—I'm not in a hurry. Are you really all filled up?"

The clerk gravely smiled and shook his head.

She stared at him in desolate appeal. Her thoughts went rocketing off.What was she going to do?

"How's this?" she heard Claybrook say. "Full up?" He had turned fromhis idle inspection of the lobby. "Not in two weeks. You can rent afloor in this hotel."

He looked at Mary Louise. "You want a room here?" He seemed a bitsurprised.

"Yes," she stammered. "For the night."

Claybrook turned to the clerk. "Tell McLean Miss McCallum wants a roomhere for the night," he said.

"But——" interrupted the clerk.

Claybrook cut him off short, tossing a card across the desk. "Takethat to McLean and tell him Miss McCallum wants a room. And give herthe best service you've got."

The clerk disappeared again. Mary Louise was hot and embarrassed anduncomfortable. She looked up and saw Claybrook regarding herquizzically but kindly. He seemed very big and she warmed to him. Heasked her no questions. She was about to speak when the clerk returnedagain and, calling a bell-boy, tossed out a key to him, bowed, andmurmured, "Six fourteen," indicating Mary Louise.

Before following the waiting boy, she held out her hand impulsively toClaybrook and looked into his eyes.

"Thank you so much," she said. "I don't know what I would have donewithout you. It's all so ridiculous. Tell you all about it sometime."

She left him standing there in front of the desk, with a puzzled lookupon his face, a big, reliant, kindly figure. He had not asked her asingle question. He had come to her assistance when she needed itsorely. His was a friendship worth having.

She waited until the bell-boy had left her in the room and then sheclosed the door and locked it. Then she threw herself face down uponthe bed and buried her flushed cheeks in the pillow. What adisgraceful, disreputable affair it all was. All on account of her ownblindness and folly. She felt like a little child helped out of ascrape. But all the mischief was not remedied. She at least could findother lodgings to-morrow. She would not wait another day. Thanks toClaybrook she was in off the street. Suppose she had had to spend thenight on a park bench? Once that had had a humorous sound to it.Claybrook was a masterful person. He had made that clerk steparound. How humiliating it had all been.

She got up and switched off the lights. Then she lay down again andwatched the twinkle of the lamps of an electric sign about a blockaway across the roofs. What was she going to do about Maida? What wasshe going to do about the tea room? Something would have to be done.It was impossible to go on with it any further.

She would have to buy Maida out. She could force her to sell, shesupposed. But where would she get the money? She was already in debtfor part of her share. Perhaps Maida would buy her out. What would shedo then? Go back to Bloomfield? Just when the venture was beginningto pan out nicely? Not without a struggle, she wouldn't. Back andforth she debated the question, her mind a welter of confuseddecisions.

After a while she fell asleep....

Two days later she met Claybrook again. Nothing had been decided.Maida had seemed utterly indifferent. "Perfectly satisfied with thingsas they are," she had said; there was a diabolical stubbornness in hermanner. She made capital of her own inertia. She was as cool as ifdealing with an entire stranger. Finally, after two days of backingand filling, of bickering and contesting, she had named her price."Fifteen hundred," she had said and there was nothing in the way shesaid it that gave the slightest hope that it would be any less. It wasa hold-up.

Mary Louise met Claybrook; she was passing through the lobby of thePatterson where she still had her expensive room. He saw the troublein her face and drew her to the lounge in the ladies' entrance.

"What's wrong?" he said shortly. "You've been hard to catchlately—something's on your mind."

"No, there isn't. Honestly," she protested. She saw that he was not tobe put off. Moreover, she was feeling entirely weak and helpless, nolonger the masterful and self-reliant female. And she told him thestory—most of it.

When she finished he smiled at her. He seemed genuinely amused. "It'squite a tragedy," he admitted.

"And what am I going to do?"

"That's just the point," he agreed. "Has the tea room been making youmoney? Does it look good to you?"

"Yes," she said. "Too good to let go of." And then she launched into adigressive and rather vague prospectus of its activities and profits.

"How much money would it take?" he asked at length.

She told him.

"Well, then, forget it," he concluded. "I told you that if you got ina jam, to call on me. Well, I was not talking just to hear myselftalk. I meant it." He paused and stared away at the opposite wall."Meet me here this afternoon at three and I'll have a check for you."

Mary Louise was for the moment incredulous. Then a great sense ofrelief flooded over her, and then a feeling of regret.

"But I couldn't," she faltered.

"Why couldn't you?" He rose to his feet and looked down at her.

"I couldn't take money from you. You don't know what I'd do with it,don't know what sort of business woman I am, or anything."

"I know enough to satisfy myself," Claybrook assured her soothingly."And I'm not giving you the money. You can write me out a note forit. Six per cent. is better than four," he added. And then he smiled.

Two days later Maida Jones moved out and Mary Louise saw her no more.

CHAPTER XII

Lonelinesswages a Fabian warfare. It is likewise a craven. At the slightestopposition it turns tail and flees, frequently to steal back furtivelyand lurk slinking in the vicinity, clouding it. Only on rare occasionsdoes it boldly come out and proclaim itself.

Another week had passed. Joe was finding leisure. And in leisure thereare echoes, as in all vast vaulted spaces, where slight sounds lingerreverberating and faint shadows stretch away to void. There was timeto see the drabness of his boarding place, so he changed it. Thechange cost him more money and left him more leisure. He took hismeals wherever he happened to be. The town was full of people, kindlyenough, but each with his own circle of interests. To some of these hesold motor cars. There would be a short period of contact, then thatwould pass and the customer would slip into the whirlpool of casualityand be swept away. None of the relationships seemed to last. Each oneleft him more alone than ever.

He ran across Mrs. LeMasters. Mrs. LeMasters was an ancient lady witha penchant for lavender. The day he called on her she was wearing aflowered dress with a sash, with bits of lace about the neck andcuffs. She put on a bonnet of lavender straw before the glass in herfront hall and bound it to her by yards of voluminous cream tulle,wrapped under her chin and about her neck with trembling fingers.

"Does it blow much in your car?" she called to him in a quavery voice.

He assured her that it was quite desirably calm.

"The Stokes car is most delightful," she said. "Just like sitting inmy own room. Not the sign of a bump—and I could not realize wehad been going twenty-five miles an hour."

He smiled politely. "We'll see what this one will do."

"I've been struggling to keep off this evil hour for, oh, so long,"she explained as she followed him timidly down the walk to the curb."It was a terrible thing when the world went mad for haste and now hasto be jerked around from place to place without ever drawing a sanebreath. I've two horses and three carriages, one a Victoria that Ibought in Paris. What am I going lo do with these if I buy your car,Mr. Hooper? Oh, what a pretty car!"

She narrowed her sharp little eyes—she was quite nearsighted—and stepped out into the street and around the rear ofthe automobile, caught sight of her image in the back panel, camearound and felt of the leather in the seat, rubbed the polishedsurface of the bow socket as though she had bought motors for years.Then she turned to Joe: "And the engine? Is it a good engine?"

"It is guaranteed to be the best." And then he went on quietly to tellher a few of the more spectacular things about it. He did not overdoit.

As he was speaking she was watching his face with a dreamy, vagueexpression on her wrinkled features. When he had finished, shebrightened and laid her hand on his arm. "And now let's go for a niceride." She was as enthusiastic as a girl. "I'm sure this is a nicecar."

They went out in the country a short distance, out on the Bloomfieldpike. She found he was from Bloomfield and trilled away in a high,shrill cackle that she loved every stick and stone in that adorablecountry. And when she found that he was the nephew of Mrs. Mosby, or,rather, Loraine Fawcette, that was, her ecstasy knew no bounds.

"Why, I took Tom LeMasters away from her," she giggled, and leanedover with her wrinkled and scented face close to his, grasping him bythe arm.

After that they were bosom friends. He told her about Bloomfield as itcame back to him, rhapsodized over its meadows and woods and "purlingstreams," and felt a rising desire to taste its joys again. And allthe while his voice would fall on deaf ears and her eyes would take ona misty look as though peering down dark, dusty corridors; andinterrupting him, she would recall the circumstances of some famousparty, summoning forth the creaking images of old men and women,yellow and withering, some of them long dead.

The afternoon passed swiftly away. They found themselves in a bit oflane that dipped down into a little grove of trees, just as the sunwas gathering his cohorts for departure. A breath of fragrant breeze,heavy laden with clover and sweet with the stretch of cool, moistshade through which it had passed, came sweeping across the road, andthe sounds of a farm hand whetting his scythe. Through a rift in thetrees appeared a patch of delicate blue sky and the edge of a rosycloud. Mrs. LeMasters came to the wistful end of an alluring and mustyreminiscence and gazed regretfully at the tawdry beauties of thepresent. Then she turned her eyes upon Joe, and with a sigh that wassodden with romance: "How could you ever bear to leave that adorablespot?"

Joe smiled in mellow acquiescence and almost agreed with her.

Of course, the Stokes car never had a chance. Before he took his leaveof her he had her signed order for a "Sedan" for immediate delivery.And she grasped his hand and held it, leaning coyly close. "We'regoing to have some wonderful times this fall. We'll drive toBloomfield, just you and I. And what am I going to do about achauffeur? What will I ever do with a strange creature who cares fornothing but speed? Why don't you stay with me and drive for me? We'lljust not stay home a minute."

He temporized, laughing, and finally tore himself away. And when hestepped from the car outside of Blake's Restaurant and was met by ablast of hot air, laden with the breath of fried onions, he felthimself very much alone. He ate his supper dreamily andretrospectively. The vacant chair across the little table added to theplaintiveness. He had liver and onions and a chocolate eclair and feltthat he needed a woman to look after him.

He got in the car and drove slowly south. When he came to Lytle Streethe turned off to the right. It was not quite dark and people passingon the pavement seemed to him to peer out at him. He feltself-conscious and slowed down the car still more till he barely creptalong, with headlights blazing two bright paths before him. MyrtleMacomber had told him he might come and he did not wish to seem to betoo eager. But as he sought his bearings, watching the unfamiliarfronts of houses and clumps of shade, he suffered little tremblings ofexpectancy in spite of his restraint.

Directly the house appeared; he had no difficulty in recognizing it.It stood out bleakly against the evening sky, with its pointed cupolathrust upward like a warning finger, with its wooden fence and gate.It bad no modest shrouding of trees and bushes in the shadow of whichone might veil one's entrance. For a moment he was afraid lest he betoo early, so he alighted, switched off the lamps, and proceededacross the pavement to the gate very slowly. Then from the shelter ofthe vines on the side porch he heard the hum of voices and a laugh.Grasping his dignity firmly like a walking stick, he stalked up thepavement to the house.

Myrtle came to meet him. The dim outline of her in her filmy dress andthe elusive scent of her presence stirred him again. Her voice wasgentle as she laughed a greeting and she gave his hand animperceptible squeeze as he came up the steps. His stiffness vanished,but the sound of voices from back in the shadow disturbed him. Anabsurd personality crowded to his lips as she led him forward, but herepressed it.

He was introduced. There was quite a crowd assembled and in the darkhe was conscious of only a blob of faces and the grip of one hand thatwas quite too hot. Even in the dark he felt embarrassed, as theconscious caller exposed nakedly to the world. What had she done thisfor? It was not too considerate of her. Perhaps it was purelyaccidental. He began to speculate on how soon the crowd might breakup, and found himself dangling uncomfortably on the porch railingclose beside the chair of a shadowy girl who was buried in its depths.He could look down into the place where he imagined her face mightbe. He was quite close to her and in the jabber of voices she wassilent. No one seemed to pay him the slightest attention, and hisinterest mounted in a growing intimacy of silence with this girl inthe chair. A door opened and he saw Myrtle's figure pass across theroom within and busy herself with something on the table. In the faintlight that now pervaded the porch he again peered down at the figurebeside him. Instantly the glamour vanished. The face he saw was thinand sharp, with hair slicked back from the forehead and narrow,slanting sharp eyes. He caught a glimpse of neck and shoulders above abrazen filmy waist, and in the splash of light and shadow there was nosoftness of contour, but cruel bones and hollows.

"Think you'll know me next time?" came a harsh voice and a laugh, andhe straightened up and murmured an apology. He felt very muchembarrassed and disturbed. His mellow complacence had fledprecipitately. In his ears sounded the rattle of personalities. It wasas harsh and as constant and as senseless as machine-gun fire. Atleast he could make an early "get-away."

Myrtle came and stood beside him from somewhere in the darkness. Thetip of her little finger barely touched his hand as she stood there,leaning against the railing and firing back some "chaff" into thedarkness. There came a lull in the chatter and Joe was feeling a bitmollified. Suddenly, before he realized it, the crowd was leaving,and one by one they filed past him, each bidding good-night. There wasthe thin girl in the chair, then two boys who were entirelynondescript, with noisy throats cut out of the same copper plate, asoft billowy shadow of a woman under a floppy hat and exuding aghastly sweet, cloying perfume. Her bare arm was as soft and flabby asjelly as she stretched it out to Myrtle. After her came another man,rather hesitantly, and keeping in the shadow. His voice was good,rather deep, rather strong. As he passed, he called Joe by name.Twisting around in the light, Joe saw that it was Hawkins, one of theowners of the "Kum-quik Tire Company," a rather taciturn, solemn sortof man to do business with. Joe was surprised.

In a moment they were all gone and the porch was dark and still. Theirpassage was as inexplicable as their presence had been. A dim band oflight lay across the floor of the porch and Myrtle stood before him,facing him. He could not see her face.

"Well?" she said, as though she had known him for years.

"Well?" he echoed uncertainly. Her tone had implied a question orperhaps it was a suggestion. She stood quite motionless; he could havereached out his hand and put it on her shoulder, "Suppose we go for aride," he suggested lamely, not feeling quite sure of himself, feelingthat perhaps it was not just the thing to propose on his first call.

For a moment she made no answer, but stood there looking at him. Hecould feel rather than see the fixity of her gaze. Suddenly shetripped away from him and ran into the house, calling back over hershoulder, "Have to get a wrap. Be back in a minute."

After they had started he regretted the suggestion. It had shut offthe prospect of a languorous evening. It was not in harmony with hismood; he had much rather loll back on a bench and steep himself inmusings.

Accordingly, he turned away from town, keeping on quiet back streets.He did not even ask her where she wanted to go. The night was soft anddark with a sky that hung low like black velvet in which was sprinkleda soft studding of stars. The air wrapped about them, lazy and warm;it was not like night air at all. There was a peculiar exotic feel toit which kept the senses in a state of semi-coma yet alive to theslightest change. Joe half closed his eyes and leaned back against thecushion like an old cat getting her back scratched. The soft perfumeof the girl's hair, the delicious mystery of the impenetrable skyabove them, the caress of the air, all seemed to have been providedfor his own especial enjoyment. He was suddenly exultant that he hadescaped the house, that he was out and beneath the sky, and above all,that he had someone with him. The feeling of unfulfillment that hadwracked him constantly was giving way. He imagined a sort ofproprietary right to the conditions about him. Luxury, ease, pleasure,all that rolling along underneath those stars with an exquisite,beautiful thing beside him was symbolical of, seemed justly to havefallen to his lot. The dull, unfathomable ache of suppressed desirehad vanished and he was complacent.

"Well," a voice startled him. "Aren't you ever coming back to earth?"

He was suddenly confused.

"I don't think it's a bit nice, carrying me off and then thinkingabout some other girl. Aren't you ever going to say a word?"

He recovered and found that they had travelled about two blocks. Thespell faded. He regained mastery of himself. "I've been waitin' forpermission to speak. Yon only said I might take you for a ride." Heturned and gave her a personal look.

"Where are you taking me then?" Her liveliness seemed to be returning."Do you have to have permission for everything you do?"

"I'm not sure," said Joe. "We're goin' to take a look at the river.That's my own idea."

"How'd you know I wanted to? Perhaps I had rather do something else."

He looked at her suddenly, but before he could speak, she leanedtoward him impulsively and laid her hand on his shoulder. "There, Iwas just kidding. There's nothing in the world I'd rather do. It's aheavenly night. And I like you for your silence. It takes a realperson to be still at the right time. Go ahead and dream all you want.It's heavenly."

She removed her hand, but in some way she seemed to remain nearer tohim than she had been. A little, delightful shudder of appreciationran through him. He no longer felt isolated. The proprietary sense wasgrowing stronger.

They wound in and out in a devious path, for the streets in theeastern part of the city were laid out in accordance with whim and notby plan. And the rows of cottages lining the streets had acquiredsomething of mystery from the canopy of night, and even the squalidsheds that appeared on the edge of the city's virility were wrapped ina shadow that loaned them charm. There came a short stretch ofhedge-encompassed road and a damp musty smell of water, beyond, in theblackness on both sides. Then they rolled out upon a clatteringbridge, turned a corner, and before them lay the river.

Joe slowed down the car. A tiny light flashed and then lay stretchingits rays in a yellow ripple out into a blue-black immensity. A shadow,beyond it and entirely detached, appeared drifting slowly, and passedthem, an empty "plop-plop" following vaguely in its wake. The roadturned again, a little to the left this time, and swishing branchesbrushed the car, and then almost at their feet stretched away to theleft a broad, black, moving shadow, matching the sky and studdedlikewise by tiny pin-pricks of light. Ahead, unwound the road, astraight ghostly ribbon fading away into a giant's mouth, and softlyswept down upon them the river wind, almost imperceptible in itsrustling and a little chill. Joe felt a quiver of happiness.

"You're the noisiest man I ever knew," interrupted Myrtle plaintively."Ooh! This place gives me the creeps."

He could feel the warmth of her and he laughed. "Swampy here a bitfrom the creek bottom. Up ahead it is higher and better. That crowdall come to see you? You shouldn't have run them away."

"Oh, it was time they were going. They knew I wanted to see you." Hecould almost feel her eyes and felt that she was making a play forhim. It was a new and pleasing experience.

"So you really did, did you? I'm flattered."

There was a coaxing, cloying note in her voice when she spokedirectly, that in some way coincided with the breath of the night andthe feel of that velvet sky. He got her to talk just to hear the soundof her voice and she chattered on for a while about airy nothings thatvibrated pleasantly in his ear: told him about a trip she had just hadup to the Indiana lakes, regretted the ruining of a summer frock on aboating party, asked him his opinion of the necessity of chaperoneson picnics. There was a suggestion of deference in her manner as wellas lightness, a quality that stirred him a little more pleasantly eventhan the other qualities. She was different from others he knew.

They mounted a slight rise in the road and then dipped into a coolhollow fringed about by the shadows of willows. She paused suddenly inher recital and gave a little ecstatic cry. Seizing his arm shepointed. Over beyond, through a gap in the willows, lay a stretch ofshadowy river meadow reaching back for a great distance to the secondrise and fringed about its edge by even blacker shadows. And above itdanced a million fire-flies weaving ceaselessly to and fro, wavingtheir soft lanterns. They hung, a cloud of twinkling radiance, upon asoft black curtain.

"Oh, stop the car," cried Myrtle. "The lovely things! Let's watch 'emfrom here."

For some moments neither spoke. They were drawn up to one side of theroad partly in the shelter of the willows that lined it and it wassnug and pleasant and warm. The light breeze could not reach them. Joefelt exalted. In this communion of spirit he was experiencingsomething entirely new. It was as though he had known her always. Hecould feel sure about her. She liked the things he liked. She wasalive and she was not aloof. There was a joy in living; she felt itand he felt it. And she was sitting very close. With an easystretching of cramped muscles he slid his arm along the back of theseat and let it slip carelessly about her shoulder. There was a momentof delicious freedom and relaxation, of kindliness and friendlinessand a thousand other little sensations, to say nothing of a spark of athrill—when she moved easily forward, contracting her shoulders.

"Let's go," she said dully.

Instantly the illusion vanished. Back into his self-belittling heslipped and was silent. Away fled the ease and complacency, and thewind came up from the river and chilled his ankles.

A moment later she asked him quite brightly, "What do you do?"

He had been thinking upon his sin and was startled at the casualnessof the question. He laughed, a bit nervous. "Why, didn't you know?What'd you imagine?"

"Of course I don't know. Run some sort of plant, I would guess."

"Nope," he replied, and his voice had not the low, ringing assurancehe might have wished, but was a little too loud, a little too high."Nothing but this car."

"I don't understand," she replied. "How do you mean?"

"I'm selling 'em. This is a demonstrator, and I am responsible forit."

"Oh, I see—well—isn't that nice!"

And somehow from that time on the evening grew chilly and lesspleasant and clouds came up and obscured the soft velvet sky. In avery few minutes they turned about and went home.

She bid him a casual good-night.

When he climbed the stairs to his room about thirty minutes later,they seemed endless. His breath was coming short as he gained the topand a vast, sudden, sickening weariness swooped down upon his body andconsumed it. As he passed the open window in the hall the night breezemade him shiver and he went chattering to bed. He pulled the covers upbeneath his chin and realized that he had made a fool of himself,which somehow didn't matter much; realized that he wasalone—just as much alone as ever—which mattered quite alot. All this and the chill shivering and the vast, aching weariness.He fell asleep and dreamed of desolate wastes and wanderings andparching heat.

CHAPTER XIII

Halfof August had joined the past. And with it was passing Joe'scomplacency. Each day brought a certain routine: customers to bedeveloped, doubtful and recalcitrant ones to be urged to thepurchasing point. One day's work was very like the next. But each daypassing brought a certain satisfaction, of being one day nearer to theday ahead.

The day that he had taken Myrtle Macomber up the river road had beenTuesday. On Wednesday he had risen, sluggish and weary, with an achein his bones. A half-hearted, spasmodic attempt at work had ended ateleven o'clock. He had called up Myrtle. They went that afternoon to aball-game. Thursday morning came, bright with promise, and aprofitable forenoon was spent in the old hammer-and-tongs manner. Bynoon he had two orders in his pocket and felt quite exhausted. Theheat drank up the very marrow from one's bones. He met Myrtle on thestreet. They had lunch together. All that afternoon they paddled aboutin the river and came home with hair wet and nerves sagging. Fridaypassed, a long dreary day. By the time five o'clock arrived Joe wouldwillingly have sunk down on the cement pavement in some shaded corner,just to take his mind from the grip of the traffic. There was nothingin the selling of motor cars to give his mind anything to bite on.What was it kept him going, he asked himself? The answer suggesteditself to him, but he shook it off and mused on. Summer was a drearytime. That night he dragged himself to Lytle Street. He found MissMacomber waiting for him on the porch. She was wearing a Nile greensports suit of soft flannel, with white facings, and white shoes andstockings and a stiff sailor hat of white straw. As he came up thewalk and approached the steps, he heard a scurrying and moving ofchairs, and as he gained the porch he caught a glimpse of a scuttlingback in a baggy shirt with suspenders, a stooped fat neck that wascollarless, and a frayed-out bald spot—just a glint ofit—on the head above. From humble soil is sometimes nurtured thechoicest of blooms. Joe had never met Mr. Macomber and the motheralways seemed to keep discreetly in the background.

They went that night to the amusement park on the river. Myrtle lookedlike a clipping from a style magazine; there was not a flaw in her.She drank up amusement like a thirsty sponge. They wandered aboutafter the show. They drank lemonade. They danced in the pavilion. Theywandered about some more, listened for a short time to the trillingsof a robustious prima donna come upon evil days. They soon tired ofthis so easily attained diversion and feverishly set out for more.They danced again. They ran into a crowd of Myrtle's friends. Theyjoined them in a series of mad dashes on the roller coaster. Myrtle'szest seemed fed from eternal springs. They danced a third time, orrather Myrtle did, with each clamouring swain, while the music bleatedand whined away in expiring ecstasies and Joe leaned back against thewindow sill and gazed hollow-eyed at the ceiling or answered thefatuous banalities of some of the less fortunate ladies who were notdancing at the moment for various reasons. And as they went home thatnight, after twelve, they talked of the vast still places of theworld, "where Nature leans a brooding ear" and "where one can bereposed and strong and silent and happy" and "just drink up theatmosphere in great gusty draughts, and steep oneself in calm. None ofthis terrible grind from day to day."

Saturday, Myrtle went up-state. Saturday was hot and long andinterminable. Sunday she motored, likewise up-state. It did not makethe city streets the cooler, thinking of her. Sunday night produced arain and a rising wind and a repetition of that chill, achingweariness for Joe when he dragged himself to bed. Just as relaxationslipped down between the covers upon his weary body the future cameand stood at the foot of his bed and stared at him like a flat, emptysheet of yellow foolscap, without a mark on it, and away it stretchedendless. It was a silly image; it stared so vacantly. But it rousedhim with a start and he tossed about restlessly on his bed and threwback the covers that had become oppressive and let the breeze from thewindow, a water-soaked breeze, blow in upon his bare chest. How longwould he be selling motor cars? He shelved that question. How muchwould he have to make this month still, to pay all his bills? Heshelved this one, too. What was the matter with him, that he felt soplayed out? Suddenly he shivered and was chilled to the marrow, and hepulled the sheet up under his chin and went to sleep in the absorbedcontemplation of each minute bodily misery.

Monday noon found them lunching together in the tea room. Joe spokevery distantly and formally to Mary Louise when once she came in,looked around at the tables, and then disappeared in the mysteriousregions behind. Tuesday night they went on a moonlight picnic on alarge river steamer and got back at half-past one. There had been ablissful hour of drifting black shadows, of gleaming ripples, and theheavy sonorous exhaust of benign boilers, spent on the topmost step ofthe pilot-house stairs, with a moon that dipped and swam in a turgidsea of drifting clouds. The rest had been rattle and bang of jazz andchatter, and bumping about on a hot, swaying floor into obstreperousshoulders, and the smell of sweetened popcorn and fresh paint andsickly perfume. Wednesday they went for a ride again and ended up atthe "Ferry" and danced and drank lemonade. And they passed a tablewhere sat old Mrs. LeMasters with a youngish boy with a very red,sunburned face, and she wagged her finger at Joe and looked long andcritically at Myrtle. Thursday night he stayed home and feltsolitarily virtuous.

On Friday a picnic had been arranged. Joe "knocked off" work at fouro'clock and went home and dressed by a window through which the sunstreamed broiling hot. Before putting on his shoes he yielded to thelure of the bed and flung himself upon it. It was all he could do todrag himself forth and put on the finishing touches. Somehow thenotion of the picnic did not thrill him. There would be the same crowdon hand, noisy, obstreperous, vulgar. They had no real "punch" tothem. They were like beating a tin pan: all of it was right on thesurface.

He arrived twenty minutes late and was scolded. They loaded a stack ofbaskets into his car; all about his feet were cumbersome bundles; andthey scratched the polished panel in the tonneau behind the frontseat. He could hear the grating of the straw basket across thebeautiful surface and he shrank from the sound. Into the seat besidehim clambered the soft, fattish girl. Her name was Penny, he hadlearned. She smirked at him as she adjusted her skirts. There was aline of tiny beady perspiration upon her upper lip and her whiteslippers gaped at the sides and were not too clean. Her pink georgettecrêpe waist clung to a flabby back with a suggestion of dampnessand she simpered at him:

"I hope Myrtle won't put poison in my ice-tea."

He confessed that that would distress him exceedingly.

Into the back seat clambered the two boys with the copper throats.Their names were Glotch and Trumpeter. They hailed Joe with acclaim,slapped Miss Penny on the bare neck, coyly, with little flips of thefingers, and when the slim, sour-faced girl—who was a MissArdle—with her slicked black hair, climbed in between them, theyfell on her neck in ecstasies of greeting and threatened to kiss herand were slapped roundly for their pains amid loud guffaws. It endedby Miss Ardle coming around and sitting in the front seat to therapturous discomfort of Miss Penny, whose fat leg was thereby squeezedagainst the gear-shifting lever where it was in Joe's way for theremainder of the trip.

Just before they started, Mrs. Macomber came out of the house carryinga small package which she brought round and entrusted to Joe's care.She was wearing a stiffly starched apron and her hair had beenplastered down and her face scrubbed so that the deep rings in theflabby flesh below her eyes were thereby accentuated. Very pointedlyshe looked at Joe and very definitely she spoke:

"You'll see that they get back at a decent hour? And don't let 'em goin the water." It might have been the tone with which she exhorted Mr.Macomber. At any rate, Miss Penny pursed her lips and looked at Joeand then significantly at Miss Ardle, and ever after that made highlycryptic remarks half aloud, to herself, to the general effect thatsome folks' families always were so good to them and how unhappy itwas to be an orphan.

They went to a hot, stuffy little grove by the side of a disconsolatestream where mosquitoes hummed and tiny gnat creatures were vulgarlyfamiliar. Joe carried the baskets down a steep and rocky path to thevery edge of the brook, scratching his face with stinging briars andtough, elastic little switches from ubiquitous bushes. The two youngmen in the back seat ostentatiously assisted the ladies in the descentwith much demonstration and much unnecessary pawing. Joe sat down andwaited for Myrtle, who was coming with Hawkins, a look of resignationon his face.

When at length she finally arrived she paid him no attention in spiteof the fact that he had not seen her for over a whole day. Later onshe gave him some directions in the arranging of the lunch and thebuilding of the fire, in a strictly impersonal tone, very much thesame as she had used with her mother. Joe was a bit puzzled, but hecomplied.

They went straight to the business of the lunch. Everything was spreadout on a white tablecloth, Mrs. Macomber's second best. There was abaffling variety of sandwiches, olive and peanut-butter, lettuce andcucumber—quite soggy and dangerous—devilled ham, thinbread and butter, and a small pile whose filling was made up chieflyof discarded chicken scraps. There was a highly indigestible chocolatecake sodden enough to serve as a boat's anchor, a great quantity ofjumbo pickles, and a dozen bottles of near beer. This last Mr. Glotchwelcomed with a stentorian shout ably echoed by Mr. Trumpeter, each ofwhom fell to and consumed a bottle with much assumption of inebriety.After dissembling complete disintegration and coma, Mr. Glotch raisedhis head from the ground and mourned, "Oh, boy! The guy that namedthis juice sure was a bum judge of distance." "You said it," echoedMr. Trumpeter, and they were rewarded by a series of titters from theladies which encouraged them into still further excesses.

Joe felt weary. He was fortunately deaf to much of what went on abouthim, being concerned in the baffling mystery of Myrtle's behaviour.Was she provoked at him? Surely not. Was Hawkins, perhaps an erstwhilerival, putting in a bid for first honours? She was paying no attentionto Hawkins whatever. Had he been talking too much with Miss Ardle orthe coy Miss Penny? Perhaps all she needed was waking up.

They had demolished the lunch and were sitting about the wreckage inmournful speculation of its vanished glories; Myrtle was seatedbetween the two comedians; Joe between the two ladies; Hawkins somedistance in the background, on a rock. With no warning whatever Joesprang to his feet, strode over to the lovely Myrtle in her filmywhite dress, and picked her bodily from the ground.

"Let's go swimming," he shouted before a single member of the crowdcould give utterance.

He carried her in a couple of strides to the edge of the little streamand there held her threateningly over the bank. The two young menshouted approval and Myrtle began to squirm. At first she demandedcoyly to be set down, and then with more sharpness in her tone. Joelooked into her eyes. They were unfathomable. Her peach-bloom cheekswere quite pink. But there were a few tiny wrinkles about her mouththat he had never seen before. Made her look older, somehow. Hesoftened, for the lovely burden was becoming delightfully heavy.

"Think I'd better not?" he addressed the crowd.

"Go on," urged Mr. Glotch.

"Oh, well," he decided, "perhaps we'll only go in wading." He reachedclumsily down to her foot for her slipper.

She squirmed and flushed deeper. "Don't!" she cried. "Don't, Joe!"

He disregarded her. Her foot dangled out in front, in full view; itwas difficult to reach it without letting her slip and with herstruggling. But he finally succeeded. He caught the French heel in asudden swipe and the slipper went scudding off into the bushes.Immediately she drew the foot in to her and cried out. But not contenthe reached for the other.

"If you take that off I'll never speak to you again," she cried. Shelooked bewitching, struggling there in his arms all flushed and red,with her hair coming down. He wanted to kiss her but he grabbed theremaining slipper instead and firmly disengaged it from its place. Andthen she began to cry. And as he held her, struggling no longer, withone foot dangling disconsolately below his arm, he saw the turn ofshapely ankle all sleek in its sheathing of white silk, the high archwith the delicate dip to the instep, and below it the gleam of twopink toes boldly peeping from a malignant hole.

Contrite, he set her down while the audience went hysterical. He sether down on a grassy mound and she threw him a red, angry look whilethe traces of tears were quickly drying. And he noticed that the otherstocking was in the same condition. When he returned her the slippersshe put them on without a word.

The rest of the evening she spent on the rock beside Hawkins whilethe two young swains made merry with the other girls and Miss Pennysimpered and Miss Ardle was correspondingly caustic. Joe sat back withhis head against a tree and a hard, tired smile about his mouth, and arestlessness in the pit of his stomach. He tried not to look at Myrtleand Hawkins. And once when the crowd surged in a moment'sboisterousness over to another part of the picnic grounds he stretchedhimself, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands to get the smartout of them, and muttered, "God, what a party!" all to himself.

Later on, when they were gathering up the remains of the lunch andfolding it up in the tablecloth and returning glasses and plates andcutlery to the basket, Joe found himself standing silently besideHawkins, watching the preparations for leaving. The moonlight wasstreaming down in a silvery flood through the trees and the bit ofgreen meadow glowed like a fairy ring. There were silvery ripples onthe water of the little stream that slipped off with a tinklingchatter into the deep gloom of the shadow. Somewhere near a wildhoneysuckle bloomed and the fragrance of its blooming came drifting tothem. Hawkins spoke. He stood with eyes fixed on the stooping figuresnear the tablecloth and his lips barely moved.

"How'd you get mixed up in this crowd?" he said. It was a curiousquestion.

Joe looked at him oddly; the fellow's manner was, always had been,peculiar. "How about yourself?" he replied.

Without answering, Hawkins lifted his shoulders and threw out hishands. Then they were both called to come and help.

Joe had the sole company of Miss Penny on the return trip. She wasinclined to be quiet and answered his polite attempts withmonosyllables. He wondered if by chance he might be being remiss inthe customs of such an occasion, but he did not care much. The threeon the back seat had lapsed into a strange silence that seemed out ofplace, like death in a boiler shop, and when they finally reached thecity limits and passed beneath the glare of the first corner light, hetook a look behind him and caught Miss Ardle kissing the imperiousGlotch. He turned and looked at Miss Penny. She sat with her hands inher lap, looking demurely at them.

He delivered them all to their respective destinations. And then,having the load of baskets and picnic utensils in the car, he returnedto Lytle Street to see that they were properly handed over. He passedHawkins' roadster as he turned the corner into Lytle Street andwondered if he were too late.

But as he staggered up the walk with the baskets, Myrtle came to meethim at the top of the steps and showed him where to put them. And ashe turned and would have gone, she stopped him with a soft word. Onthe top step she came and took hold of him by both elbows and lookedup into his face with eyes that were swimming with sweetness. Hegulped and was bitterly sorry for his folly. He started to speak, whenshe reached up with her hand and softly passed it across his forehead;the touch of it was as exquisite and as transient as a dream. He feltunmentionable depths.

"Hope you're feeling better," she murmured.

"Why?" he managed to ask. And then he remembered he had told her hehad been unwell Thursday which accounted for his absence. And then:"Oh, I do. Much. All right now." An errant moonbeam came straggling inbetween a break in the screen of vines and lighted up her face,looking up into his, flooding it with a sort of holy wistfulness.Softly she moved away, out of the light.

An hour later he clambered into his car and drove away.

CHAPTER XIV

Whata curious question, that of Hawkins, "How did you come to get mixed upin this crowd?" And the inane response he had made to the counter asthough it all were a mystery too vast for solution. Oh, well, Hawkinswas a queer bird, inexpressive and glum and commonplace. Could not beexpected to register much. His thoughts probably were too rusty andold by the time they formed in his head to issue forth in sparklingdeeds or words. Joe slipped a knot into his tie, gave his hair a finalswipe with the brush, caught a quick glance at himself in the glass,and then rushed to the door and rattled down the stairs whistling.

It was a fine morning, the kind that gave one lots of "pep," highcloudless sky, dazzling sun, hot and bracing. The morning paper had acolumn on the first page listing the names of those who had succumbedto the heat; but Joe had no eyes for such morbid news. A man neverfelt the heat when he had plenty of good work to do and was in goodshape, and things were going well with him. Funny, how much sufferingof any sort was due entirely to the state of mind. He whistled as heswung along on his way to the garage. And when he stepped into thedoor of the garage office he mopped his streaming face and shouted tothe night man who was just leaving, "'D you get those gaskets put intothe old boat, Harry?"

"Whadda you think this is?" growled the man, "a mad-house? This ain'tno flivver fact'ry—build you a car while you change yershirt—course I ain't changed them gaskets." Harry clumpedsullenly out of the door and down the street, keeping close to thewall, in the shade. Harry was an old married man and his feet wereleaden. Joe chuckled as he gazed after him speculatively. And then hepassed through the door back into the shop.

It was Saturday and only four hours till noon. There were nodemonstrations scheduled for the afternoon. There was not a flaw inthe sky. And yet the morning dragged. The streets were hot; greatwaves of heat came curling up from the asphalt, which was soft andgummy and showed the ruts of passing tires.

Toward twelve things began to quicken. Two or three insignificantdetails brazenly presented themselves and Joe fell upon them withfeverish irritation. For a time they threatened to encroach upon agolden afternoon. A lady had sent in an inquiry about a winter top;Mrs. LeMasters was having trouble with her doors squeaking. They couldjust as well have waited until Monday.

It was two o'clock when he finally quieted Mrs. LeMasters, using asmall oil can on the hinges and a few honeyed words upon her ruffledspirits. He drew a deep breath of exasperation and relief as heclambered into his car and drove away. He looked at his watch, pauseda moment in deep thought, stopping his car dead in the middle of thestreet and was almost run over from behind by a nervous, excitable"flivver." The driver waved at him wildly, shouting obscenities as heswerved past and went careening down the street.

He would not have time to eat lunch. There was so much to do.Inspired, he stopped at a corner drug store and gulped down a maltedmilk. Then with enforced calm, and with a glance at the clock, hebrushed down his clothes, looked at himself in the glass above thecounter, and walked with much careless aplomb out to the car. He hadtimed it to a nicety.

When he got out of the car in front of the Macomber dwelling he hadanother struggle to keep from appearing self-conscious. As heapproached the house a rosy little vision of the afternoon in prospectflitted into his mind. He glanced patronizingly at the sky. Never hadthere been serener blue. Descending a notch, he caught a surreptitiousglimpse at upstairs windows. The one above the front door was chastelyshrouded by inside shutters. But through a slight gap and beneath araised sash he saw a flutter of white and turned away his eyes. Itwas her room. He pulled the old bell knob and stood thoughtfullyhumming to himself on the steps.

No one came. Slightly jarred, he realized it and pulled the bellagain. He stopped humming. Quite a while he waited, in growingirritation. The bell was probably broken. After many minutes—itmay have been two—he stepped to the edge of the porch andspeculated on going around to the back, when the door flew suddenlyopen and Mrs. Macomber stood peering at him through the screen.

He jerked off his hat. "How do you do?" and gave her a radiant smile.

Mrs. Macomber scowled. She was an impregnable griffin even in stilllife. She had on an untidy apron and her hair was squeezed back fromher yellow, greasy face.

"Well?" she said.

"I've—er—Miss Myrtle?" sparkled Joe, conquering thevapours.

"Not in," said Mrs. Macomber shortly.

Joe fell back a step. The shadows swept down upon him. For a moment hewas at a loss for words. "But—Mrs. Macomber—we were goingto Stony Point this afternoon!" He was aghast, and he bared hisfeelings to the world before he sank in the engulfing sea of negation."Are you sure?"

Mrs. Macomber smiled grimly. "My eyes haven't gone back on meentirely, I reckon."

Joe stepped up to the level of the porch which stood inviting off tothe right. "Listen, Mrs. Macomber," he began, striving to berespectful. "What's wrong?" In the face of the threatening debacle hecould not calmly let matters drift. He felt himself rushing intoaction.

Mrs. Macomber considered and then apparently made up her mind. Sheopened the door and stepped out upon the vine-covered porch. For amoment she stood facing him as if taking in her ground. There wassomething deep and lurking and resentful in her narrow eyes.

"Well, I'll tell you," she began. "You've been taking up a mighty lotof Myrtle's time here, lately."

He sinkingly realized the truth of this statement as he felt thefixity of her gaze. He was silent. The front door opened over to hisleft, but he was too absorbed to notice. There was a sound of someonestirring in the vestibule.

Mrs. Macomber did not like his silence. She had decided on conflict."A man's got no right to take up a girl's time unless he means rightby her. Just because a girl's good lookin' 's no sign she's aplay-thing for any Tom, Dick, or Harry comes along."

Joe was stunned by the baldness of the statement.

"But, Mrs. Macomber," he managed to stammer, "I didn't know that's theway Myrtle—Miss Macomber felt about it. I'm awfullysorry——"

"Keeps other men away," she interrupted him ruthlessly, determined tohave her say. "Spoils everything for her. She's just a younggirl——"

"There, there, Ma," broke in a voice. Mr. Macomber joined the group, asheepish, kindly look upon his face, and raising a restraining hand.He came and took Joe by the shoulder. There was something familiar inhis round, stolid face. "Don't take on so. Gonna get a cigar. Wouldn'tyou like one?" he added casually to Joe, at the same time propellinghim to the steps.

Joe felt he was being manipulated. He turned again in a desperateeffort to regain some of the lost ground and his tone was veryrespectful, quite abject.

"Mrs. Macomber, please accept my humble apologies. Perhaps I shouldhave spoken to you." He struggled. A final shred of self-respectprevented him from laying bare the throbbings of his heart, or perhapsit was a tiny, rising suspicion of doubt. There were signs of dross inhis vision of pure gold. "I hope," he concluded, "that you will giveme a chance to square myself."

The old woman glared at him, blocking the doorway, like a faithfuldragon at the castle gates where sleeps the queen of beauty.

"Sure you will," insisted Mr. Macomber, still urging him forward. Heseemed distressed in a vague sort of way.

They sauntered out of the gate, prisoner and captive, to the cornerdrug store. Joe mechanically selected a cigar from a proffered box.Mr. Macomber did likewise and gravely and deliberately clipped the endin the mechanical clipper on the counter, lighted it, and took a fewruminative puffs, gazing at the ceiling. Then he and Joe walked slowlyto the street.

"Women fly off the handle," he ventured at length without looking atJoe. "You mustn't mind what the old lady says."

"She misunderstood," said Joe. "I suppose I was a bit too much on thejob." It was not easy to express himself and he laughed nervously."But I don't think you can blame me much." He looked at the old manfor encouragement and found none. "What I can't understand is, thatnothing was said to me before. It could have been prevented if it wasso objectionable. You don't think there is anything wrong, do you?"

Mr. Macomber shook his head and Joe proceeded to vent the vials of hisdismay. A taxi driver escaping from the drug store passed them as theywere absorbed in their conversation and stared at them in curiosity.The old man stood chewing his cigar, his eyes on the ground, thebreeze softly ruffing the nebulous hairs that fringed his bald head.

Joe concluded his oration. There was nothing more he could add. AndMr. Macomber, raising his eyes, looked at him frankly. "Seen youbefore, ain't I? Used to be at Bromley's?"

"Yes."

"I'm foreman there. Cultivator room."

And Joe remembered. It did not exactly add to his satisfaction. "Sureyou are," and he tried to make his voice heartily friendly.

They walked slowly back toward the house. At the gate they paused foran awkward moment, and then Mr. Macomber held out his hand.

"See you again," he said. "Don't worry about what the old lady said toyou. It's the heat. It's all right. It's all right." He turned to go.He had made no reference to Myrtle at all.

It was over. Joe stood on the curbing and watched the sturdy figure inits sagging vest and collarless shirt plod up the walk to the house.He could not help looking furtively for just a glance at that upstairswindow and caught a flash of white and then vacuity. And thencrestfallen and hot and sullen and ashamed, he sprang into the car anddrove away.

On his way down Broadway he had a puncture. Fortunately it occurredjust half a block away from the "Kum-quik Tire Company's" repair shop.He covered that half block on a flat tire and went in for help.

Hawkins came and stood silently beside him as a boy removed the tire.It was a solemn occasion. They stood there on the pavement,thoughtful, intently watching the operation. Hawkins was coatless; hehad pink elastics holding up his sleeves and his hair stood up in asolemn pompadour and his high stiff collar had a spot of grease on it.

"What was the idea of the question you asked me last night, Hawkins?"

There was a moment's silence. Then Hawkins looked up and smiledqueerly. "Oh, nothing particular."

Joe was not satisfied. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't be runnin'around in that crowd? What's the matter? Aren't they—isn'tshe—all right?"

There was a quick, sudden turning of the slim hatchet face and Hawkinslooked hard into his eyes. "It isn't that," he said brusquely. "I'mengaged to marry her."

"Oh, yes," replied Joe.

The boy wrenched loose the tire and was rolling it into the shop.Slowly they followed him. Hawkins proceeded to the desk and picked upa pad of repair forms and started to scribble something on the topsheet. Joe watched his narrow, bent shoulders under the sleazy shirt.There was something pathetic in the proud crest of hair above hisforehead and the pucker of lines in his brows.

"How long have you been the lucky man?"

Hawkins looked up from his paper. Faint surprise was written in hisface. "Oh, a little over three years. Want to wait for this tube orwill you come back for it? Man can put on your spare."

"I'll come hack for it Monday," said Joe.

A few moments later he drove away.

For an hour he drove without thought of where he was going. Detailafter detail of the affair presented itself to his mind in endlessrepetition. It had been a humiliating experience. The old woman'svulgarity; Macomber's stolid, iron hand clearing the air, likebrushing trash from his doorstep; the consciousness of prying eyes atthat upstairs window! "I've been a feeble cuckoo," he thought. "Mightasupposed two years in the army would have taught me better'n that.Played me for a good thing as long as it lasted and then the old ladycalled a showdown. Hawkins must stand in with the old lady. PoorHawkins!"

He discovered that he was rolling along on the Bloomfield pike abouttwo miles from town.

"Funny how these hard-workin' folks sink all their money in abutterfly like that. Bet she uses up the meat bill every month. Andlook what she gets out of it. Bet she's twenty-six if she's a day. Andall she got was Hawkins. I must have looked good to her for a day ortwo."

Bitterly he waited at the grade crossing while "Number Twenty-seven"went lumbering by. It shrieked a high, exasperating whistle as itpassed, exulting in its trembling, shaking twenty-five miles per hour.

On he drove. Hot blasts of air came crushing about him, with thesunlight shimmering white hot on the bare, dry pike. There was muchdust from countless automobiles hurrying by in both directions. He wasconstantly churned up in clouds of fine white particles thrown back athim by passing tires, hurrying on in a mad drive to get somewhere. Hewas suddenly unbearably hot. But he drove on blindly.

About five miles out he came to a shady lane. It ran like a cool browngash between arching trees, off from the pike to the right. Away inthe distance the fields dipped and rose to the skyline, a golden wastewith here and there a patch of withering green. The lane wasirresistible. He swung suddenly into it and was caught in a shifting,squirming quagmire of fine yellow sand. For a hundred yards hestruggled on, with the car careening back and forth across the roadand with much churning and slipping of tires. His shoulders began toache and he wearied of the effort. It was a useless waste of energy.Spying a huge tree standing on the fence line on up ahead, he drew upto it and stopped in its shade. There was barely room for any one topass on the other side of him.

For a moment he sat and dully stared out across the landscape. Then hegot out of the car, climbed over the fence and threw himself down onthe ground in the shade of the big tree.

A stupor seemed to have come over him. There was the splotchy edge ofshade just beyond his feet; there stretched a parched and dryingfurrow. Withered stubs of corn-stalks poked up forlorn heads atintervals in an endless row. Beyond them were more rows, and all abouthim lay the scarred and cracking earth in yellow heaps and clods, withthe wind twisting fine spirals of dust from its rest and spewing itbroadcast. In the air was a drone of drab creatures being happy intheir drabness, rejoicing in the waste, thoughtless of the future.That was it, the whole field, unkept, idle, lazying, was thoughtlessof the future. There stood the dead stubble, blackening and hopeless.Winter might come with its frost. Here was no worry over failingcrops. One year's work had done for two. And the grasshoppers and themidges and the gnats and the flies were likewise quite content.

He brushed the dust from a trouser leg. He looked at the trouser leg.The suit had cost him ninety dollars. And he was a creature ofBromley's rigged out like a butterfly and lying in the dust of arotten old cornfield. Barely two months had passed and great changeshad laid their hands upon him. Seemingly great changes. Three hundreddollars a month! Princely wages; but in what respect was he lifted? Hehad on a ninety-dollar suit, with dust from a cornfield fouling it. Hehad a few more bills in the haberdasher shops, an enamelled tub tobathe in, and more time to think about himself, to chase elusivelights and shadows. Otherwise, he was the same old Joe, the same tiredold Joe. He realized how tired he was. In spite of the heat his facefelt dry and parched, his lips were cracking, his bones ached, and hiseyes burned. Well, he had caught up with himself; he would have tosnap out of it. No use to lie around and gather dust on one's self andnot lay anything by, like the farmer who owned this field, and likethe gnats that buzzed around in the dust. He had no idea what he woulddo, but he would be careful—from now on.

He climbed back across the fence and into the car. The lane was sonarrow that he had to back clear to its juncture with the pike. It wasslow, tedious, grinding work. "Glad I didn't go down a couple ofmiles," he thought. And as he backed slowly away, the dry, hot windcame in rattling gusts and swept the dust in yellow eddies after him,bearing the voice of the grasshoppers, the monotone of futility.

When at six o'clock he passed through the cool, smelly garage entrancethat was wet and shiny with grease and blue with the breathings ofmany cars, he was met by the "boss." The latter looked critically atthe dust-bespattered panels and then at Joe.

"Seems to me you're spending a lot of time in the country. Don't needto take 'em all over the earth to show 'em what the car will do. Youmust be doing a lot of educating."

"I have been," said Joe. "Guess I'll have to slow up on it a bit. Haveto brush up my salesmanship."

The "boss" grunted.

CHAPTER XV

MaryLouise was seeing quite a lot of Claybrook. First there had been thebusiness of going over the books, although that had not taken muchtime. "Just to make sure how things stand," he had laughed and she hadbeen only too eager to acquiesce. Then there was the business ofmaking out the notes. Six months and one year they had been, ampletime enough on considering the progress of the business. Of course itcould have all been finished up in one session. But somehow it was aweek or more before everything was entirely settled. She had taken asmall apartment, in reality just a room and a bath, in a quiet familyhotel-apartment that Claybrook had recommended. He had, of course,come in to see how she was installed. It was a dim, cool, hushed sortof place, where guests spoke in sibilant whispers when they crossedthe parlour lobby. There was a faded blonde of doubtful age presidingover the tiny desk, who handed out mail and plugged in telephone callsin a small switchboard and kept the hotel porter in a constant stateof agitated unrest. No one ever sat around in the lobby. Every nowand then there would gather little groups of prim old ladies withshawls and magazines and embroidery frames, discussing whisperedpersonalities and the weather, as they waited for the elevator.Careful, curious looks they always had for Mary Louise whenever shecame upon them. An all-pervading atmosphere of stealth and secrecy andpropriety seemed to hover about the place. Before she had been aninmate three hours she felt it and when Claybrook called that firstevening, she had come rushing across the lobby to meet him, with aglad little cry of welcome. Immediately one of the little groups hadceased to function and had with one accord stared at her with graveeyes, and the blonde at the switchboard had lifted her head above theedge of the desk and peered over. And then in the lobby, over in a farcorner, they had sat uncomfortably for an hour on the faded plushdivan and discussed commonplaces in a low tone and felt irreparablyguilty.

But in spite of it all, Claybrook had come again; had come the nextevening and the next. Most of the time he took her out for drives inhis car. It began to be a regular thing, and she had come to lookforward to his coming. The idea of staying alone in that whisperyplace was not a pleasant idea. Moreover, now that Maida was gone, shehad double work to do in the tea room—which was running on asbriskly as ever—and in the evening she felt invariably jadedand in need of some sort of diversion. So she welcomed Claybrook. Andshe got used to him.

One evening—it was after two weeks of this sort ofthing—as she was sitting in her room, looking out of the windowat the tops of the trees in an adjacent yard, it struck her how muchshe had been seeing him. For a moment it made her uncomfortable. Whatwas it leading to? Such suppositions must almost invariably come to asingle woman. Ages of tradition have left their imprint upon the sexto the effect that single life is not an end in itself, and thatsomehow it needs must change. Of course, many a spinster has gone to asatisfied grave in complete contentment over a life of spinsterhood.But there is nothing to prevent the question from arising, especiallywhen there is an attentive male hanging about unattached.

Claybrook had given no indication of any serious intentions. Now thatshe had come to know him better, he seemed more like an overgrown boywith a healthy appetite for play. There was no cause for alarm. If hehad been the kind to moon around in dark corners, wanting to sit alonewith her in long interminable silences—but on the contrary healways wanted to go somewhere. She had met several of his friends andthey were always going somewhere, both men and women. And he alwayshad plenty to say, mostly about conditions in the mill, the increasein the cost of labour, the scarcity of good lumber, some littleanecdotes about the men, drummers' tales. More like a businessacquaintance he treated her, discussing gravely the problems of hertea room and that sort of thing. He had even begun to call her"Sister" in an odd little patronizing way. And she had seen him everynight now for the past two weeks. She thoughtfully ran her hand acrossher mouth. That was too much speed. She would have to slow down.

The graying light deepened and the chequered wavering of the boughsbeneath her was slowly swallowed up in shadow so that the depth seemedinterminable. A screen door slammed and there was the clatter of a panon a brick pavement and the drawl of a soft Negro voice somewherebelow. The help was going home. And then silence descending with onlythe quiet rustling of leaves and the distant clang and clatter of thecity. She felt suddenly very much alone; and she wondered what heraunt Susie might be doing at this instant. Sitting alone in the ellsitting room, knitting, perhaps, with old Landy pottering about in thekitchen or on the back steps, with some fishing tackle or an odd bitof harness. A bit of sentimentality touched her lightly. It would begood to put the old place on its feet again, free it entirely of debt,with a little surplus so that there would not be that constant feelingof strain, of anxiety. This was no life to be living in spite of theglamour of the city. Every living creature felt the need of home. Ifonly all she meant to do might not be accomplished too late.

The sharp burr of the telephone startled her and she rose to answerit, dabbing at her eyes furtively with her handkerchief as she rose.

She met Claybrook in the lobby.

"Hi, there!" he said. "Get your hat. The Thompsons want us to come andplay bridge with them." He squeezed her hand just a little as hesmiled good-naturedly at her with patronizing approval.

"To-night?" she echoed. "In August?"

"Sure," he said. "Why not? It's plenty cool. They've a room on the topfloor of the Ardmore and they keep all the windows open. Never seenthe Thompsons' apartment, have you?"

She shook her head.

"Pretty swell dump. Like to know how much Tommy pays for it. Keeps itall the year too. They go to Florida for January and February. Wantyou to see it. Maybe when the business grows enough you'll be wantingone like it."

She smiled wanly and pictured herself spending the balance of her daysin a hotel.

"Hurry up. Get your hat and powder your nose and pretty yourself up.Want you to feel at home. Mrs. Tom is some doll."

She hastened back to the room. He was like a kind older brotherwanting to show her a good time, wanting her to show to the bestadvantage. She smiled at him when she again joined him in the lobby."That better?"

He peered at her closely. "Much," he grunted and followed her throughthe swinging door.

They played bridge with the Thompsons.

Through the open windows the noise of the city came swelling updistractingly. The cards kept blowing from the table so that the menwere busy gathering them up from the floor. Mrs. Thompson wore a lacygown of lilac organdie cut quite low in the neck and her hair wasarranged in an elaborate and immaculate coiffure that stuck out behindin huge, smooth, artificial-looking puffs. Her colour was high and notall her own. Her husband was of the type commonly called a "roughdiamond," showing evident signs of hours spent in the barber's chair,with a sort of rawness about a blue-black chin, traces of talcumpowder, and a lurking odour of toilet water. He was too big for hisclothes, which were just a bit flashy, and he looked as though hemight like to doff his coat.

Mary Louise and Claybrook arrived at eight-thirty. At eightthirty-five Thompson produced a flask from a desk drawer and mixed upa couple of high balls with an air of grave deliberation. The glasseswere placed on the folding bridge table and remained there throughoutthe evening, Mrs. Thompson stooping over and taking delicate sipsfrom her husband's glass every now and then.

The game languished. Mary Louise did not know much about it and themen would lapse into rather boisterous spells of conversation duringwhich time the cards would lie on the table forgotten, and Mrs.Thompson would gaze at her husband with deep absorption andoccasionally at Claybrook and sometimes at Mary Louise in a far-off,absent-minded way. And then they would ask each other whose deal itwas and "How were the honours?" and then they would be at it again.Claybrook laughed at the slightest provocation, and seemed to pay alittle too obsequious attention to whatever Thompson had to say, andafter a while the conversation narrowed down entirely to the two men,with Mrs. Thompson contracting a glassy look in her pale-blue eyesbeneath their fine-plucked brows. And at ten o'clock she stifled ayawn behind her handkerchief, threw down her cards, got up and wentover to the corner where stood an expensive "Victrola."

"Let's have a little jazz," she said brightly. The men were busydiscussing the income tax and the ways of avoiding it and did not seemto mind at all. And Mary Louise welcomed the suggestion with relief.

For another hour they sat back in deep chairs, relaxed, relieved ofresponsibility. And then Claybrook, straightening in his chair, said:"Think I'll have to get a new car. The old wagon's been losingcompression. Hasn't any get-away at all these days." Then turningabruptly to Mary Louise who, sunk back in her chair, was absentlydreaming, "What kind shall I get? You're the one to be pleased." Thecrow's-feet at the corners of his eyes gathered in tight littleclusters and there was an odd pucker about his lips.

In spite of herself she flushed fiery red. There was in the tone asuggestion of proprietary claim that jangled on her. Almost withoutthinking she replied, "Joe Hooper's selling the Marlowe. It's the bestmake, isn't it?"

Three pairs of eyes were regarding her, Claybrook's with a slightfrown. He continued gazing at her for a moment, in consideration, andthen, the topic changing to Florida in the winter, he apparentlyforgot her.

At eleven o'clock they rose to go. Mrs. Thompson showed signs ofrelief, and there was more warmth in the farewells than in anyprevious interchange of amenities. Mr. Thompson laid his handaffectionately on Mary Louise's shoulder as they stood in the doorwayinto the hall. His manner was bluff and friendly:

"John tells me you're running the tea room over on Spruce Street.Guess I'll have to drop in and see how you're doing."

She murmured her gratitude.

"Won't mind, will you, if I bring in anything on my hip? Tea's mightyweak for a growing boy."

They all laughed, and as she and Claybrook made their way to theelevator, the Thompsons stood in the hall calling gibes and partinginjunctions after them.

"Great old scout," commented Claybrook as they descended to the groundfloor. "Sure been a good friend to me."

Mary Louise felt her taut nerves slowly relaxing.

"What does he do?" she responded wearily.

"Contractor. Biggest in town." And then when they reached the streetand were climbing into the car, "Whadda you say to meeting me at fiveo'clock to-morrow afternoon? Look at that Marlowe car you say youlike."

He was looking into her eyes with an odd sort of questioningdirectness. She started to refuse, remembering her resolve to see himless often. But then the thought of Joe Hooper presented itself. Sheowed Joe a kindness or two. Perhaps if she delayed, Claybrook wouldchange his mind. She hesitated a moment.

"All right," she assented.

Claybrook laughed shortly. "You don't sound so keen, somehow. Don'tknow if I can afford a Marlowe or not. You've a pretty extravaganttaste in automobiles. Only one of 'em higher priced than theMarlowe."

"Oh, is it? I didn't know." And then, "But I don't see what my tastehas got to do with it. It's your affair, you know. I knew Joe Hooper,that's all."

He was silent, but as he took leave of her at the doorway of herapartment, he again brought up the subject in a quiet tone. "Meet meat live to-morrow?"

"Surely," she agreed, and then went thoughtfully upstairs to bed.

As she slowly undressed she thought of Joe Hooper in his new "shepherdplaid" suit and wondered if he were getting along. And she thought ofthe Thompsons living in their bleak finery on the top floor of theArdmore, just sixty feet removed from the hideous clatter of thetraffic. And she speculated on the appearance of Mrs. Thompson withall the hairs in her eyebrows that nature meant them to have. And thenshe thought upon Claybrook's boyishness in wanting her to help him gopick out a new toy. He was without guile, entirely without guile.Suddenly she laughed aloud and then she switched off the light andwent smiling to bed.

CHAPTER XVI

Theymet at the Marlowe garage. When Mary Louise saw Claybrook and JoeHooper standing together in absorbed conversation, leaning each withone foot propped on the running board of a big shiny new car in thedisplay room, she suddenly knew she had no business there. She sawthem through the big plate-glass window as she came along. It would behard to make her arrival seem casual. And when Joe Hooper raised hishead as she entered the doorway—he was wearing that gaudysuit—she was confused.

But he did not seem to notice and greeted her cordially. He waslooking a bit thin, with a high colour and a restless snap in hiseyes. There was an alertness about him that was new to her and asomething in his manner that was quite different. She stole a look athim while he and Claybrook were discussing lubrication and wondered inwhat way he had changed. A sureness? A steadiness? A bit of reservethat sat well upon him? All of these, surely. She had never seen himshow to better advantage. Once he turned to her and asked her opinionabout the leather. There was an air of quiet deference in the way heput the question. It was a trivial question and she was thinking ofthe impersonal note in his tone, just as though she might have been atotal stranger to whom he owed courtesy, and she was wishing he hadasked her something about herself. Her uneasiness about theunconventionality of her being there vanished, so completely were thetwo men absorbed in technical discussion. She noted the contrast:Claybrook rather beefy and a bit too red of face; Joe, on the otherhand, quite slim and taut. His new clothes fitted him better; he hadlost that raw-boned look.

Joe asked her if she would not like to go for a ride.

She looked up into his eyes from the chair which he had got for herand felt a childish pleasure, just as though he had shown her apersonal attention.

"I'd love to," she said.

They waited at the curb for the demonstrating car to be brought aroundand she had a chance to ask him how things were at home.

"I haven't been back this summer," he replied, and looked away.

Once, when she and Claybrook were standing a little apart, she caughtJoe looking at them, she imagined, under lowered brows, and she had animpulse to go to him and tell him that she was bringing him thisbusiness, putting in a word for him. She did not hear what Claybrookwas saying to her at all. And then the car came rolling up andstopped, and her chance was gone.

She and Claybrook sat down in the back seat together, while Joe tookthe wheel. In about thirty minutes they were climbing a steep hillthat lead out of Fenimore Park to one of the back lanes.

"Takes the grade all right," commented Claybrook to her, and shewished that he would not continue to include her in the discussion.She strove to counteract the impression that might be formed bycalling attention to the clouds that were gathering in the southwest.Dark and sombre they came rolling, like great billows of smoke,although the green of the park meadows was flooded with goldensunlight. At the crest of the hill Joe partly turned in his seat andwith one arm thrown along the back of it pointed to the outline of amassive stone bridge that was being built across the creek far belowthem. The greenish brown blended subtly with the golden-green shadowsof the trees and the dark pools of water beneath.

"New bridge," he said. "Man that's buildin' it knows a thing or twoabout colour tones."

Mary Louise bent eagerly forward to look. It seemed as though he werespeaking directly to her. Claybrook remained leaning back in thecorner. They turned a curve and the bridge passed out of view below.

They gained the macadam of the lane that led out from the park gateinto the country. Claybrook turned and asked her how she liked thecar. His low, direct tone and intent gaze made her uncomfortable, madeher nerves ruffle up in a most irritating manner. But she controlledherself and answered lightly, "Oh, ever so much."

He looked as though he might say something more, but changed his mindand sank back against the cushions. For a time they rode on insilence. Claybrook had been strangely quiet ever since they had leftthe garage. She could feel him watching her and she tried not tonotice it. So absorbed was she in trying to appear unconcerned thatshe did not see the approach of the storm; in fact, there was asupercharge of restraint on all three of them, and it startlinglybroke upon them in a clap of thunder that sounded as if it had smasheda tree not fifty feet away.

Joe stopped the car and scrambled back into the tonneau to adjust theside curtains. He murmured an apology as he brushed againsther—just like a stranger. Quite sharply she felt the change thathad come over their relations. When everything had been adjusted heresumed his seat and called over his shoulder, "Guess we had better goback, hadn't we? I'm sorry this rain had to come and spoil things."

They turned slowly around in the narrow road and when they againfaced the west, the rain came beating furiously down against thewind-shield so that the road ahead was barely visible. Never had sheseen such blinding sheets of water. It tore at the roof, it whippedabout the curtains, it threatened to engulf them all in a torrentialflood. The car was moving slowly forward—she could see Joe'soutline bent slightly over the wheel—and in spite of his carethe rear wheels would slew gently from side to side. As she peeredahead she could see a yellow flood of water rushing down the roadbefore them so that it did not look like a road at all but like anangry, muddy stream upon which they were floating. Once Claybrookleaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He had been as silent as a mummy.

"Got any chains?" he asked suddenly.

"Think I have," replied Joe. "Under the seat."

"Better put 'em on, don't you think?"

Mary Louise started. "Oh, John! In this rain?"

"Guess I had at that," interposed Joe quickly.

He stopped the car and lifted the cushion on which he was sitting.Directly he pulled forth a long, tangled confusion of links, openedthe door, and stepped forth. As he thrust out his head Mary Louisecalled:

"Haven't you any coat?" and his answer came back cheerily from theoutside, "Never mind me. It'll all come out in the wash."

She looked at Claybrook reproachfully. He sat stolidly in the cornerbut there was a look of discomfort in his face.

"Don't want us to slide off one of these hills into the creek, doyou?"

And she felt there was nothing more she could say.

They sat in awkward silence, listening to the downpour and the wind.The thunder crashed incessantly and the air was alive with thelightning playing about them in livid flares. They could feel one sideof the car lift slightly as Joe adjusted the chain, and then the otherside; could dimly hear him struggling with the wheel jack. It seemedcriminal to be exposed to such a rain. A wave of cold resentmentagainst Claybrook came over her and she sat staring straight in frontof her, lips tightly compressed, waiting.

It seemed an interminable time; in reality, in about ten minutes Joe'shead appeared at the door of the car and he climbed stiffly in.Drenched he was from top to toe. The water streaked down his checks inlittle streams; his clothes flapped and clung to him as though he hadbeen flung into the river; his cap was a sodden, pulpy mass. But hechuckled as he slid over in behind the wheel.

"Guess I'll remember to bring my coat along next time."

She wanted to put her hand on his shoulder but she sat in stonysilence. And she noticed that he no longer drove with the same care asbefore. She saw that he was giving little involuntary shivers,watched the water drip with silent monotony from his cap on to theback of the seat, making a slick, shiny spot there.

And then Claybrook broke the silence. "How will you split commissionwith me if I take one of these cars?" He spoke heartily, as though hewished to be friendly and cheerful.

Joe made no reply for a moment and when he did, his voice trembledjust a little. "We're not allowed to make that kind of a deal."

"Oh, I know that, and all that sort of thing. But they all do, justthe same." He reached over and gave Mary Louise a little shove on theelbow, from which she recoiled.

Joe made no further reply; they waited for what he might say. Anddirectly Claybrook tried again:

"And how about my old car? Take that in, I suppose?"

"We'll take it and do the best we can to sell it for you," said Joe,without looking back. The water still dripped from his cap on to thecushion.

"Hum," muttered Claybrook, "Independent." And louder: "Two or threeother concerns will allow me good money on my car."

Joe made no reply.

When they arrived at the garage again, the rain had about stopped andthey drove in at the main entrance back into the general storage room.Joe stood holding the tonneau door open for them, a ludicrous objectin his bedraggled clothes. He made no effort to assist Mary Louise butstood there holding the door with an abstracted look on his face. Allthe dash, all the sleekness was out of him. They both thanked him andthen Claybrook led the way to his own car which someone had brought inout of the rain.

He turned to Joe once more—"I'll see you later"—thankedhim again, and started his motor.

Mary Louise satisfied herself with waving her hand to him as theystarted. His aloofness forbade her to do anything more, though shewould have liked to go to him and tell him how sorry she was and to besure and hurry and put on some dry clothes. But she didn't and she sawhim standing in the centre of the passage, a forlorn figure. It struckher as they rolled out on to the street that he had made no effortwhatever to sell the car.

"Cold-blooded crowd," broke out Claybrook at length as they hurriedon.

"I do hope he won't be sick," she replied.

He grunted. "In the army, wasn't he? Guess he can stand a littlewater. Used to worse than that."

And after apparently waiting for her to break the silence, he againventured,

"I like the car. Think I'll have to see if I can't make some sort ofdeal with them. They'll probably come down a little off their perch."His tone seemed to invite her opinion, but she offered none.

They came into the stiff little parlour lobby of Mary Louise'sapartment. It was quite dark as they got out of the automobile, andthe stuffy room was dimly lit by a few feeble incandescent lamps inloose-jointed and rather forlorn gilt wall brackets. They made theirway over to the elevator. The lobby was empty; even the blonde wasabsent from her post.

As they passed the faded plush divan Claybrook laid a detaining handon her arm: "Sit down here a minute. I want to talk to you." His voicesounded rather gentle and subdued.

She turned and looked at him, wondering, and then obeyed.

"Listen," he began, and laid his hand quietly on hers. "Don't get soreat me because I was the cause of your friend's getting wet. It won'thurt him—just a little clothes-pressing bill—and I'd muchrather he had that than for that car to slide off thecliff—especially when you were in it."

She felt somewhat mollified. "Was that what you wanted to say to me?"She looked at his face and saw there an odd expression—a sort ofdogged shamefacedness.

"No. I was just getting to it." He was silent a moment, staring at hisfoot. Suddenly he looked up at her—she had withdrawn her hand."When," he began, "when are we going to call this thing a game?"

"I don't understand what you mean."

He halted. "Well," he said. "How—when are you going to marryme?" He was looking into her face with that same queer, stubbornexpression.

Her heart stopped momentarily. "Why," she faltered, "I hadn't thoughtof it."

They sat there in the hushed lobby as remote from the world as thoughshipwrecked on a desert island. It was Mary Louise who now looked atthe floor. She could feel Claybrook's eyes upon her. He was waitingfor her to speak, but she could not collect her thoughts. It had comeupon her baldly, without preparation. She scarcely realized the importof his words.

"Well," he was saying, "think of it now."

Another pause.

She raised her eyes and looked at him squarely in spite of thetrembling in her limbs. His face loomed big and blank before her,though his voice was very kind.

"I don't know," she heard herself saying. "You—I—it's comeon me rather quickly."

For a moment he made no reply. A street car thundered past and madethe windows rattle.

"Well, you're going to, aren't you? When?"

She could not trust herself to look at him. Again he waited on herwords. She could feel him edging a hit nearer.

"I don't know." The words choked in her throat. She felt cornered,hemmed in. She could not clear the tumult in her brain. A short timebefore she had felt tremendously irritated at him. Now she did notknow how she felt. He was hammering at her with his insistence.

"That can't be," he broke in on her confusion. "I'm not a stranger,you know. You've known me for over a year and, I think, seen enough ofme to know what sort I am. We are not a couple of kids just out ofschool." His voice broke in a ridiculous quaver that somehow temptedher to laugh hysterically, but he mastered it and went on: "When shallit be? Next month? I'll buy that big car and we'll drive toCalifornia."

He was groping for her hand.

"I don't know," she said again. "I can't think. Can't we let thingsrun on as they are?" She ventured a look at him, appealingly.

He drew away just a little and she could see a grim little linegathering about his mouth and a frown about his eyes.

"I don't see any use in waiting to make up your mind. That's not theway I do business. What is it?" He went on quietly and firmly, "Yesor no?" and then more gently, "I think you can see I am willing to dothings for you. It hasn't been one-sided, has it?"

His words crystallized the turbulence in her mind. She was suddenlysure of herself. She looked up quickly. She could see the little foldsof flesh about his collar, the fine little purplish lines in hischeeks, could hear his thick breathing, and yet his eyes were lookingsteadily and gravely into hers.

"You're right," she said. "There's no use waiting. I'm sorry. Ican't."

Something faded from his face. He looked at her fixedly for a momentand then rose to his feet. "I wonder if you've fooled yourself asthoroughly as you have me," he said.

She made no reply, though she cringed slightly at the inference, andsat there watching him.

He lifted his shoulders and let them sink heavily, and then he cast alook about the deserted lobby. Then he turned to her again andimperceptibly inclined his head. He did not offer his hand.

"Good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye," she echoed, her lips barely moving.

She watched his broad, stolid back move slowly across the room, sawhim pause for a moment at the door and then plunge resolutely throughit, and then she was alone. Not a sound came to her ears. The desk bythe switchboard was deserted. A bracket lamp on the wall opposite wascrooked; one of the crystal pendants beneath it was broken short off.Someone had dropped a burnt match on the floor in front of the deskand it lay there in mute sacrilege. All at once the silence seemedfraught with a tumult of hateful suggestions, and, without ringing forthe elevator, she sprang to her feet, rushed for the steps, and fledup to her room.

She switched on the light and stood for a moment by the tablefingering an ivory paper cutter. Then she went to the window andpeered out. Not a sound came to her, not a single, friendly sound.Below her the leafy branches stretched out, inert, indifferent; andbelow them, darkness.

"And this is the man," she thought, "from whom I have borrowed allthat money."

PART III

BLOOMFIELD

CHAPTER XVII

Fatesmiled. An itinerant Swiss became interested in the tea room. Therewere a few days of sharp bargaining and on October the fourteenth itwas sold to him. The price just barely covered the indebtedness. MaryLouise made haste to send Claybrook a check for the fifteen hundreddollars plus the interest. Two days later she got the notes throughthe mail with no comment and she tremblingly tore them into bits andscattered the bits from her window. Then she went to the bank and tookup the note for the six hundred dollars she had originally borrowed.It left her nothing, but she was free. She had lived the summer andwas where she had started. A little wan, feeling a little empty, shecaught the train for Bloomfield. All during the trip she gazed fromthe window, dizzily conscious of the shifting landscape, dimly awareof her retreat....

Miss Susan McCallum looked up from her rocking chair as Mary Louiseentered the sitting room. There was no surprise in her greeting, andshe suffered her cheek to be kissed in silence. Old Landy stuck hisgrizzled head in at the door at the unusual commotion and MaryLouise, unaccountably and suddenly touched by something subtlyfamiliar and friendly, trilled:

"I've come to look after you, Aunt Susie. Just couldn't stay away anylonger. The countryside was perfectly beautiful as I came up thismorning in the train. It's the loveliest October I've ever seen. Thinkof being cooped up in the city this time of year."

Landy grinned and came shambling in with a greeting. Miss Susie'seyebrows went up and there was a suspicion of moisture on the lashes."Well, you needn't have done it. Landy and I have been managing verywell. But you look a little peaked." She turned and laid herknitting on the table by her side.

"Little Missy's a sight fo' so' eyes," interjected Landy and thenwithdrew. Directly they could hear him authoritatively orderingsomeone about.

Miss Susie sighed and looked at Mary Louise. The latter was taking offher hat but she caught a hidden appeal in the pinched, weazened facethat she had never before noticed. It made a sharp little tug at herheart, and throwing her hat on the table, she came over and sat on thestool at the older woman's feet.

"How long will you be with us this time?"

She reached up and took the hand and was startled at finding how hotit was. "Why—for all the time. Didn't you understand? I'm notgoing back at all."

A strange expression came over Miss Susie's face. It was as though sheall of a sudden let down. She stared into Mary Louise's eyes and thelatter waited for some characteristic outburst. But none came.Directly the old lady reached over for her knitting again and busiedherself with it, bending her head over it. Mary Louise, watching her,saw her throat contract, saw her moisten her lips softly with the tipof her tongue.

Without, looking up, "What about your business? You're not leaving itfor someone else to look after for you?" The tone was very low and thevoice so husky that she finished the sentence with a little clearingof the throat.

"I've given it up—given it up entirely. Not a thing in the worldto keep me," replied Mary Louise.

For a few moments complete silence settled down upon the room, withonly the ticking of the clock on the mantel. It was dark and cool andsweet-smelling, a sort of "goodsy" smell. A blue-bottle fly began tobuzz and bump against the glass of the window and now and then hewould circle about the room, filling its silence with his droning. Thesunlight came creeping slowly across the rag carpet, a widening orangepool, as the sun slipped around to the westward. Mary Louise could seethe edge of it without turning her head. She felt suddenly guilty, asthough she were in some way parading in false colours. There was animpenetrableness in the reserve.

"I just couldn't stand it any longer," she burst out. "I want to bewith my people and stay with my people, and look after you and live mylife as it was intended." Somehow it was not exactly what she wantedto say, not the whole truth, but as if in explanation she began tostroke her aunt's knee very softly.

"What do you plan to do?" Miss Susie looked up again and there was thesame old look of withered sharpness. "There's nothing in Bloomfield,you know."

"Oh, I know. Nothing, if you mean opportunity. But everything in theway of living. We'll just rock along. I'll find something to do.Something to keep me out of mischief," she laughed. "Mr. Orpell oughtto have somebody in his drug store. His soft-drink counter isatrocious. Then I can make preserves and sell 'em. I know where I cansell a lot—in the city. I just don't want to think—justrest a bit and let this blessed peace get a good hold of me again."Her voice rose sharp and eager and Miss Susie smiled a quizzical smileand the old order was again restored. A door slammed and Landy's voicecame to them, this time in a wailing gospel hymn, and Mary Louisesprang to her feet. "I'll have to go get Zeke Thompson and have himfetch my trunk. There was nobody to bring it over from Guests and Ididn't want to wait to hunt for someone."

She skipped over to the table and picked up her hat again. Already shefelt better—warmed and comforted. She paused for a moment,standing in front of Miss Susie, looking down at her as she sat thereknitting placidly away with the fine firm lines about her mouth. "Youwon't mind if I go with him, will you? There's an excess baggagecharge that I can't trust Zeke with, and I'll not be long."

"No, of course not. Since when have I been that I couldn't be leftalone?" But she smiled and Mary Louise, rushing to her, kissed heragain, rapturously upon the cheek, turned and whirled toward the doorwhere she paused for a wave of the hand before plunging forth on hererrand.

The sound of the door closing behind her sobered her for a moment.Here she was, gone again. Would she never be content to settle down?But the wine of the autumnal weather came mounting to her head and asshe opened the front gate and struck out up the street she raised herface, drinking it in.

The rows of maples had been touched by the frost and were flamingscarlet and crimson. Over beyond, across the street, between thehouses where a pasture land stretched down to the creek, the beecheswere golden and rustling and shimmering in the mellow sunlight. Therewas a delicious tang in the air one moment and a soft mellow touch ofindolent fruition the next. An automobile went scuttling across MainStreet at the intersection, seeking its way westward, leaving a cloudof dust that hung lazily golden ere it settled. Even the dust wasfragrant. The old tavern was quite deserted; the same green shutterhung by one hinge, and as she passed the town hall or meeting houseshe could hear the click of a typewriter through an open window, anincongruous touch of modernity in an otherwise immaculate antiquesetting. The sun was warm and came filtering through the shade tosplotch the uneven brick pavement, bringing out its homely roughnessin minute detail. She felt as if she recognized each upturned brick,and the worn patch of yellow earth where a grass plot was meant to be,up to the edge of the gnarled root of the oak stump that had beenstruck by lightning, was just as it had always been. She and JoeHooper had played marbles there until he had grown too big to beplaying marbles with girls. Queer little ecstatic sensations theywere.

She crossed the square. A solitary man was walking on the other sideof the street, away from her. He was carrying three long poles overhis shoulder and he walked stiffly and with a slight limp. He wore asuit of dusty blue "unionalls" and a battered felt hat. Curious thatshe should notice such things. A "Ford" backed away from the curbing,wheeled and went rattling around the corner down the road towardGuests. And then the street and the square and the whole town werequiet again, as deserted as a street or a town on canvas.

She walked swiftly, but not too swiftly to catch up every sign ofhome. Her mind was aflood with impressions. What a narrow escape shehad had. An exultant thought like a song arose in her. She hadventured forth, had had her taste, and it had cost her nothing. Thecity had not caught her even though it had reached forth strong,prehensile fingers. She knew now what she wanted, had the strength,the zest. And it was October and fair, and smiling.

Suddenly she ran almost headlong into Mrs. Mosby. That good lady cameprecipitately out of Orpell's Drug Store, and she was wearing herwhite ruching and her bangles and a trim little widow's bonnet with asemi-circle of black veil hanging down behind and accentuating theprim whiteness of her face.

Mrs. Mosby's was not a face to betray emotion; it was a well-behaved,studiously composed face. And her voice was level as she took MaryLouise by both hands.

"Well, my dear," she said. "What brings you here? I've heard you're anawfully busy woman. Hope there's nothing wrong at home."

"No," replied Mary Louise. Somehow she could never get it out of herhead whenever she spoke to Mrs. Mosby that it was not still as alittle girl to a personage—a personage to whom restraint anddeference were due. "I'm not so busy as all that."

"Oh, but you are. I've heard all about you. We're very proud of you,my dear. Very. You've been doing so well—oh, I'veheard—and your striking out into business quite alone was aboutthe most courageous thing I know of. Why, the mere thought of such athing takes my breath away."

"But I'm not doing it any more. And there's nothing courageous inthat," smiled Mary Louise.

Mrs. Mosby looked puzzled.

"It's a fact. I've given it all up. Just got home to-day. And I'mgoing to settle down again with you all and be just folks."

The mask again slipped over Mrs. Mosby's countenance. "Quite ascourageous a thing to do as the other," she went on evenly. "Just togive up your splendid opportunity to come back and accept your dutieshere—well, I think it highly commendable." She was not to berobbed of her chance to be agreeable. "Your aunt Susan is, I trust,not unwell?"

"Oh, about the same, thank you, Mrs. Mosby." She wanted to ask aboutJoe, something in the rapprochement giving rise to thoughts of him,but she realized that Mrs. Mosby was doubtless entirely out of touchwith her graceless nephew and would invent some mere plausibility. Soshe inquired instead after Mr. Fawcette.

"Brother is not so well. Poor soul, he suffers terribly with hisrheumatism." Mrs. Mosby lapsed into thoughtfulness and Mary Louisemurmured her sympathy.

A moment of this and Mrs. Mosby recovered herself and held out herhand again.

"You must come and see me now—real often. I'm so much alone.Such a lot you must have to tell me and I want to hear it all." Shetook her prim, precise departure conscious of her graciousness.

On her way, in the opposite direction, Mary Louise suffered anotherqualm, a feeling of insincerity. She was gathering credit that reallywas undeserved. Her return would doubtless be labelled in Bloomfieldas a bit of pretty sacrifice. And the place was a very refuge. The sundipped as she walked along, so that the tip of it reddened the ridgepoles of the houses and the sky was as blue as indigo. She passed anopen lot where weeds abounded and in the weeds the blackbirds werechattering noisily. At her approach they flew up in a black swarm torefuge in an old apple tree in the rear of the lot. On the ground nearthe sidewalk was an old wagon bed that had been there foryears—she tried to remember how long. There were decidedcompensations in coming home.

She found Zeke sitting on his doorstep, his chin on his hands, busilystrengthening his restful philosophy. She quickly bargained with himand he hurried away to get out his old carry-all. When he found thatshe followed him, and found in addition that she intended accompanyinghim, his pleasure was quite evident.

"Wait, Mis' Ma'y, ontil I gits a rag and wipes off de seat," he saidat the door of the shed.

She could not help feeling a bit self-conscious as she sat by Zeke'sside and went rattling along the street, down into the square, intothe very centre of Bloomfield life. But she held her head jauntilyaloft and wondered if she were being noticed and being talked about.They met no one. They took the open road and the afternoon settleddown upon her like a blessing. On either side of the road greatpatches of red and yellow streaked the hills, and the fields weretaking on a soft golden brown, and soft purple mists gathered in thevalleys blending in subtle fashion with the foreground. In spite ofthe riot of colour, the land was wrapped in a calm dignity. It woreits glories well. In the bits of woodland, through which the roadoccasionally digressed, there was a strong odour of beech and buckeyeand there was a fragrant dampness rising.

The thought of Claybrook came into her mind. She could not quite makeup her mind about Claybrook. She felt momentarily sorry for him,regretted that their friendship had come to its abrupt close. And yetthere was no reason why she should feel sorry for him, he had so muchof everything. But he and his world were woven out of differentfabric from this world about her. She could not keep one and stillhave the other. Anyway, she had made up her mind. She had escaped; herfeeling was one of definite escape. She banished the thought of him.

She got her trunk and Zeke loaded it upon the car where it threatenedto crush its way through bottom, springs, frame, and all. She observedit skeptically but Zeke was quite brisk and cheerful about it. Shebought a "Courier" from the station agent and with it in her handclimbed back into her seat and felt content, now that she had hergoods about her and was about to go home again.

Zeke started to crank the car when he took one reassuring look aboutto see if everything was all right. Not being quite satisfied with theway the trunk was riding, he departed to look for a bit of rope withwhich to lash it into place. While she waited, she opened up the paperin her lap and looked idly at the first page.

Instantly something caught her eye; she started and then felt suddenlyweak. She read on for a moment and then closed the paper and let itfall into her lap and stared off at the blue hills that rimmed thehorizon. The station at Guests was about a half mile from the town andthe road was quite deserted, with only the sound of someone moving atrunk around in the baggage room behind her. A flock of birds wentwinging across the sky and dipped down into a patch of red-and-goldwoodland. She picked up the paper again and read some more.

The "Courier" made no specialty of scare headlines or red type. Itsmost sensational news rarely ever rated more than single-column type,or at most two columns. The article that caught her attention was theusual one concerning misappropriation of public funds, malfeasance ofoffice, bribery, and the like—a drab sort of story. The publichad been "bilked" again. It sounded quite matter of fact. Involvedwere the city engineer and one J. K. Thompson, Contractor, and J. F.Claybrook, lumber man and dealer, all in collusion. All this was inthe headlines—in neat, modest type. Below came the bald factsstating the amounts of money involved which somehow she did not noticeand a somewhat cynically weary paragraph at the end remarking that thepeople were having quite too much of this sort of thing and that thecourts should recognize their full duty.

So that was where the new car and the trip to California was to comefrom. Perhaps that was where the fifteen hundred dollars had comefrom, too. But she had paid it back. She had just barely shaken thebird-catcher's lime from her wings. She shivered and closed the paperagain.

When Zeke returned with the rope she smiled at him.

"Let's hurry back," she said.

On the way back to Bloomfield she had no eyes for the beauties of thefast-falling October evening. But in a little while she began to feelwarmer inside. At least she had shaken the dust of the city from herfeet, the city where everyone wore a mask—of honesty andsobriety and right living—and lived otherwise. No wonder theycalled it a melting pot. She would be content from henceforth to livewhere the air and the living were cleaner and purer.

So absorbed was she that she did not realize that Zeke had takenanother route home. When she noticed, she remarked on it.

"Hit's a shoht cut," explained Zeke. "You said you wanted to get homequick."

She smiled at his responsiveness.

They came suddenly around a bend in the road upon a gang of men, roadmending. There was a huge concrete mixer and she wondered at the sightof it, a new sign of progress for Bloomfield. There was a stretch ofloose rock and a wooden bar blocking the road. Zeke muttered hisdismay but did not stop. They rolled right up to the barrier. A man inkhaki breeches and flannel shirt and high lace boots came and wavedthem back.

"You'll have to turn around," he called out cheerily, and she saw thatit was Joe Hooper. As though in answer to the obvious question headded, as he in turn recognized her, "Like a bad penny—I'mturning up again."

She looked at him and stared. His face was very red and somehow helooked quite natural, more so than in his city clothes.

"What in the world?" she said.

He had come quite close and she could see he was smiling. Thatbaffling, uncertain look had left his face and there was somethingopen about it.

"Got a man's job again," he said, still smiling.

"And you're going to be in this part of the country?"

"Till the job's finished," he replied. "And there's quite a lot of it,too. County's got a prosperous streak on. Means to have some realroads. It's about time."

Zeke was slowly backing the car preparatory to turning around.

"I'm back home now, myself," she called and reddened at once at herunnecessary confidence. What did he care where she was? But as theyturned slowly in the narrow road she added, "Come and see me," andwaved to him and wondered if he would.

It was growing dusk as they came again to Bloomfield and a chill wassettling down. The lights in the windows glowed cheerily against thepurple twilight and in one kitchen someone was frying potato cakes.The odour was symbolical of hot suppers, and summer's passing, andhome, and warmth, and cheer.

She tipped Zeke a quarter even before he lugged her trunk through thekitchen door, and then she went briskly in.

"Supper ready, Zenie?" she called.

Zenie turned slowly around and looked at her from the biscuit board.She smiled wearily. "No'm. Not jes' yet it ain'. Terectly."

Mary Louise looked at her watch. It was a quarter past six. She cameto a sudden decision.

"Zenie," she said.

Zenie looked up hopefully.

"I guess we'll not be needing you any more after this week."

A slow, incredulous look met her. "Yas'm?"

"You can go back and look after that husband of yours."

"Yas'm? He gettin' erlong all right."

"I don't know, Zenie. You never can tell," Mary Louise went on,maliciously enjoying the havoc she was spreading. "I'll pay you forthe week. You can leave whenever you want to. But let's have supperright away." And she walked resolutely through the kitchen into adarkened house, burning her bridges behind her.

CHAPTER XVIII

Itwas seven o'clock on Main Street. A very faint glow still lingeredin the western sky and above it cool points of stars pricked agray-blue curtain. Over to the left the moon was peeping above agambrel roof and the near side was steely blue up to the shadow of thepurple chimney. Joe walked along shuffling with his feet in the littlehollows of dry leaves. They crunched cheerily, sending up a faint, dryfragrance. Up ahead was a dying fire with only here and there a tinyflame tongue; the rest, a black and smoking crust underlaid with dullembers. The smoke that curled upward from the fire was pale blue-grayand mixed with tiny dust particles, and it hung in thin motionlessstrata or came curling in feathery wisps almost invisible in theshadow but heavy laden with magic scent. Up slid the moon, till MainStreet was a phantom cloister, the maple boles huge columns castingpurple shadows on a milky floor. Fairy lights winked in hooded windowslike deep-set eyes, and a soft warm haze lapped round him dreamily,lulling his senses.

Joe had left the road-camp and tramped three miles into town. In thedusk he had come upon it unawares; it seemed quite deserted. Veryquietly he had come through the back lanes, and now it lay before him,its heart open in a sort of whispered confidence. Crude, inert,makeshift sort of place it might betray itself to be in daylight, itnow lay snug and warm and breathing in its cluster of trees. It hadgathered its brood to it, its warm lights blinking red, and above,clear liquid moonlight. Joe walked along slowly, an outsider, and yetfeeling himself slipping somehow into the warmth and protection of thestreet. The odour of the burning leaves was heady, a superdistillateof memories. October and moonlight and burning leaves! It meant nutsand wine-sap apples, lingering in the dusk, watching the bull-batsrise. It meant hot supper and a ravenous appetite and a slow roastingbefore an open fire. Sharp little pictures flashed before his eyes ashe walked along, and he fancied he could hear the soft crunch of buggywheels in the dried leaves and the pad-pad of hoofs. It all seemedwrapped up in the same parcel with his childhood, stored awaysomewhere in musty archives. You couldn't pull out one withoutstirring up all the others. He half closed his eyes and peered throughhis lashes down a sharp black line of roofs like a knife edge againsta liquid, shimmering sky, down a broad ghostly band of silver whitethat was the road, all flecked and mottled with leaf shadows thatmoved slowly to and fro. He paused a moment. He scarcely dared breathelest the whole thing vanish. A fairy touch on his arm, light asthistle-down, a subtle sense of warmth and a dim, intangiblefragrance, and he started, blinking, and then walked on. Something wasdry and dusty in his throat. "Golly, the old place sorta gets next toyou on a night like this," he thought. "Guess I'd better get in.They'll think I'm nuts, mooning around on the street all night."

He came to a long stretch of wooden picket fence, beyond it a silverplaque of moon-splashed grass, the house all hollow-eyed and gaunt,like a thing watching. As he approached the gate a man came hurryingout, his head hunched forward on his shoulders. Joe stood aside to lethim pass. The man peered sharply at him from under his hat brim,grunted, and then passed on. It was Mr. Burrus. Joe had a sense ofbeing too late. Over the house hung the stillness of death, and athing like Burrus leaving! It was an ugly thought. He walked up to theporch and knocked softly on the door.

A moment's silence and then it slowly opened. Someone stood in thedoorway. A voice said, "Well?" in a low vibrant tone. There wasblended in it the soft mistiness of the night, something of regret,something of purple shadows, something of stirring memories. Hemoistened his lips with his tongue.

"Is it you?" the voice went on, and then Mary Louise came out.

"I just heard to-day that Miss Susie had had another spell," heexplained.

She stood beside him on the porch and looked up into his face. Hecould see she was shivering a little.

"Not to amount to anything," she said. "Aunt Susie has 'emperiodically. She'll be all right in a day or two."

Joe stood in indecision. There had come a high-pitched, nervoustension into her tone, an eagerness that he did not like. The otherthing had vanished.

"Won't you sit down?" said Mary Louise. "I'd ask you in, but AuntSusie's asleep and the sound of our voices might disturb her. Shehasn't had much sleep the last few nights."

Joe fingered his hat.

"Aren't you going to stay and tell me about yourself?" she urged."It's been ages since we had a talk. Let's go down to thesummerhouse."

He felt doubtful. Already a chill was gathering in the air, and hefancied she spoke through set teeth. The charm was melting away andthe moon, rising above the tops of the maples, seemed cheerless andcold. But he could not be unfriendly; she had had a lot to upset her.He had read about Claybrook in the paper and while the news had causedhim no discomfort—if anything quite the contrary—still,it was different now. She was alone in that bleak, staring house,alone with a sick woman. So he followed her awkwardly across the grassthat was already gathering dew.

They sat facing each other in the summerhouse, sat on the edges of thechairs, bending slightly forward. Mary Louise was softly chafing herhands.

"So you've really come back," she began.

"Well, three miles from 'back,'" he replied. She was making a prettybrave show; her voice sounded bright and cheery. If only she wouldstop rubbing her hands together—be still for a moment.

"I expect we're meant for this place, Joe."

"Yes? How do you mean?"

"Oh, if you bend a twig young enough, the tree will grow that way."She laughed softly and he gave her a quick look.

For a few moments they sat in silence.

"How did you happen to make another change, Joe?" she asked at length,very quietly.

He paused before replying. "Well," he began, "you see I've never hadany real preparation for anything I was doin'. I never could have gotanywhere. Those jobs I had in town—I just drifted into 'em.Anybody could have filled 'em. I—what was the use of 'em?" Hepaused and was silent.

She nodded slowly. "I think you said something like that once before.I begin to see where you were right."

He made no reply. Why did she want to talk about such things? He hopedshe wouldn't bring in Claybrook and her relations with him. He did notfeel in the mood for raking over ashes.

"Has Miss Susie been in bed?" He carefully headed on another tack.

"Oh, up and down. She's always that way. You cannot imagine howsurprised I was to see you with that road gang. I was riding alongwith Zeke, all wrapped up in my thoughts, and suddenly I looked up andsaw you there——" She trailed off and sat thinking.

Again he was uneasy. Apparently the uncomfortable topic was notentirely buried yet. It might rise up exhumed, in its shroud, anymoment.

"Yes," he said. "I'm used to that sort of thing—managin'niggers. Had 'em doin' most every sort of rough work in my time,diggin' ditches, mendin' roads, cuttin' fence posts—all thatsort of thing. Guess it's about all I'm fit for." The effort diedlugubriously and he sat, waiting. He hated personal confidences andthere hung a most particularly uncomfortable one in the offing.

The silence was like a living thing. It crushed down upon thesummerhouse with huge, downy black wings. A very faint rustlingstarted up in the dry leaves of the creeper on the roof and clammylittle draughts of air came twisting through the cracks. All thelanguorous glamour of the night had passed. It was merely autumnmoonlight, and too late in the year to be sitting out in a summerhousemouthing inconsequentialities—two people who were old enough toknow better. Joe stirred restlessly. Surely she must be convinced thathe meant to be friendly. He leaned back and looked up at the sky.

"What do you mean to do, Joe?" Mary Louise began again.

"Huh?" He recovered with a start. "Oh, I don't know. Think sometimes Iwill come back and try my hand at farmin'. Think maybe I'll be more ofa real person doing that than anything else I know. But this roadbusiness is a necessary thing. Bloomfield needs a good road—allthe way into the city. Something to put her on the map. Maybe with agood road we can get somewhere." Speaking out the idea seemed tocrystallize it. He began to enthuse a little over it inwardly."Mightn't be so bad. Might buy back the old place even, some day.Jenkins is not makin' too much speed with it, I hear."

Mary Louise leaned forward toward him.

"Oh, Joe, I wish you would," she said. "I've been thinking a lot herelately and it seems to me it's just as essential for real men tosettle and live in places like Bloomfield as anywhere else. Big peopleshould spread their influence. Why should they all cluster in littleknots and bunches like the cities? I think there's a better chance togrow—here. I really do." She turned away and sat with her chinon her hands, her face averted.

Joe, carried momentarily away with the thought, did not notice heragitation; moreover, it was quite dark in the summerhouse, with onlyodds and ends of moonlight slipping through the roof. And he did notanswer her, but sat thinking.

"I'm going to," she continued after a bit, her voice sounding somewhatbroken and muffled against her open hand.

"Goin' to what?"

"Going to stay here and see what I can make out of it."

She was groping for his friendship and he did not know it. A new lineof thought had been stimulated and it brought up very pleasingpictures. After all, what could be better than a respectable life on afarm producing things, seeing the direct results of the work of hisown hands, establishing his very own identity? By contrast, how muchbetter than working for someone else, furnishing the effort whilesomeone else worked out the plans, losing his identity completely inan economic machine? He could start modestly, pay off as he went, outof the profits. And meantime, he could be living—real life. Onlyfirst he must get a little money to make a start on.

He realized Mary Louise had spoken, paused in his thought and thenremembered. "Oh—yeah. Don't know but what it's about the bestthing to do. Might try it myself—soon's I can get enough moneytogether."

She made no reply and he watched her dim profile. Her head droopedquite dejectedly. There was a little splash of moonlight on her cheek;tendrils of her hair curled about the line of her neck. "She's had apretty heavy bump," he thought.

He briskly rose to his feet. "Must be on my way," he said and stoodlooking down at the shadow of her. "It's three miles or more out tothe camp. We get up at six."

For a moment she did not move, and then heavily she stood up. She madeno protest and he could not see her face. If only he might get away,now that he had started, she might not be tempted to make anyallusions to her affair. He shunned it instinctively as a dark closetcontaining a few unburied bones of his own skeleton.

Accordingly he walked slowly out upon the lawn and headed for thefront gate. He could feel the dew lapping about his ankles through hissocks and his shadow was clear cut and black on the grass, Mary Louisecame and walked the short distance by his side, neither saying a word.They came to the gate and stood there in silence. Not a sound could beheard, the street stretching along before them a broad white ribbon,with splotches of mottled shade along the edges, the dark line ofhouses across the street like mysterious creatures crouching in theshadow.

As they stood there, each occupied with his own thoughts, there came adistant sound, low and yet distinct, like the sound of one metalstriking upon another. It was clear and somewhat musical, lingering inthe air with a dying cadence. As the waves of sound died slowly awaythere came silence and then the soft rustle of the leaves overhead.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"Don't know. Sounded like the closin' of a door."

Both stood listening intently, but the sound was not repeated.

"Well, good-bye," he said, holding out his hand. "See you againsometime."

She took the hand and held it for a moment. "Joe," she began, "let'sbe friends." She was forcing herself to talk. "I've made some mistakesbut—I want everybody to like me here—especially you. Youunderstand things, and you will overlook some of the things that havehappened?" Spectres of uncharitableness were disturbing her and shesought to be shriven.

He thought she was alluding to Claybrook and moved uneasily so thatshe dropped his hand.

"Surely. Surely I will. Good-night," he said again. Then he turned andwalked briskly away.

He had got but ten yards or so when out of the stillness came thesound again. He paused there on the sidewalk and listened. A faint,musical, metallic clang came surging toward him in clear beatingwaves. It sounded as if it were miles away, and the echo lingeredpulsing on the silence. Slowly it died away to a whisper and then heheard distant shouts and footsteps echoing hollow. Men were runningtoward him down the brick sidewalk, their voices sounding nearer. Atthe corner they turned and went, westward, the sound of them growingfainter and fainter. He looked back, and at the gate he could see ashadow standing there waiting. There was a faint nimbus about the headand the face, turned toward him, was in the darkness.

He paused a moment in indecision and then turned and walked rapidlydown the street westward, toward the camp.

CHAPTER XIX

MaryLouise walked back to the house. At the side porch she paused andlooked behind her. High overhead sailed the moon, a day or two pastthe first half. There was a tremulous movement in the leaves of themaples along the sidewalk, producing an indistinct, vibratory shimmerand shadow. By contrast the patches of darkness were jet black; theoverhanging portico of the house was as yawning as a cavern. Shelistened, stood, her head bent slightly forward, listening. Not asound could be heard. The sharp, crisp clack of Joe's footsteps hadbeen swallowed up by the distance. She could hear the sound of her ownbreathing. An uneasiness came gradually upon her, a vague sort ofdread of being left alone, entirely alone. How aloof he had seemed;how aloof everything seemed, and unreal! Those sinister trees wavingthere without a breath of wind; the lowering shadows of thesummerhouse and the barn; that greasy moonlight that came slipping upto the very edge of the porch and lay there fearful andcold—were they all remembering her scorn and coming back to mockher loneliness?

Softly she opened the door and went inside. Something scurried offinto a corner and she fancied it turned about there and watched her inthe darkness. The room seemed hot and close and there was a rhythmicrise and fall like the rising and falling of some vast invisiblebosom, oppressed. She tiptoed over to the far door and stoodlistening. Not a sound could she hear. Old Landy was most probablyasleep in his bed in the room up over the stable. She balanced on herfeet and stood waiting, in indecision. She could not go back, so sheopened the door softly and peered in.

A glaring white patch caught her eye. The moonlight through the windowlay cold and bright upon the counterpane. Just above the patch was ajumble of shadows, from which protruded, bare and yellow and weazened,an arm. She caught her breath and fought down the sudden rising of herheart. It was nothing—only lying there so detached in themoonlight, thrust up out of the shadow out of nowhere, it did lookgruesome, like something dead, something completely and irrevocablydead. It lay without a sign of movement, with the fingers slightlycurled up under the palm and clutching at the coverlet. Gradually, hercalm returning, she listened with her head thrust around the corner ofthe door, and directly she caught the very faint sound of breathing, afar-away, fine-drawn, eerie whisper. Slowly she backed away and closedthe door.

She groped over to a chair in the sitting room and sat down. Throughthe squares of the window panes she could see the milky white patchesof moonlight flooding the world outside, and the silence came creepingup all around until it seemed to squeeze the very walls inward.

"I wonder what's going on?" she thought. Because of its verysoundlessness, the universe about her seemed to be teeming with vaguesuggestions. That distant clamour, the hurry of footsteps, and thenJoe, slipping away from her into the shadow. And now the deathlikestillness.

She began to rock slowly to and fro. With an effort of the will sheforced herself to think of cheerful things, housework and cooking, andsunlight and people. Suddenly she realized that there was no reasonfor her sitting up. She might just as well go to bed. She started toher feet, but something held her, something forced her back into herchair. There had been footsteps fading off into the darkness. She mustwait until they came back again—out of the darkness. Somethingin the idea strangely excited her, left her tense. In all this silenceshe knew she could not sleep; she would be lying there waiting,waiting for something, she knew not what. So she settled back androcked and waited, staring with wide-open eyes at the steel-blue patchthat was the door. And the night settled down and drew close to herwith its uncertainties.

Time passed.

Suddenly she was aware of sound. So gradually it had come that sherealized she had been hearing it for some time. It was coming back.She riveted her gaze upon the door, watched it unblinking, waiting forit to open upon her with its secret any moment.

Slowly she rocked to and fro. Gradually nearer and nearer came thesound. Rolling upward, gathering round and round into a ball, it tookthe shape of footsteps and a confused murmur of voices. On it swept.They were passing the house, would pass it, away into the darkness andsilence again. Whither?

She rose to her feet and hurried to the door. She groped for the knoband stumbled blindly out upon the porch. The sudden glare of themoonlight dazzled her and she could only make out dimly a little knotof black shadows moving along the pavement past the gate. There was aconfused murmur of voices as of several persons trying to makethemselves heard at once, and yet be quiet about it. As she watched,tried to get her eyes to focus, the little group passed on and wasgone.

She walked slowly to the gate and stood there looking into thedarkness after it. Gradually she was recovering her sight; soundssprang up, little normal sounds, and she began to feel cold. Sheturned and was about to go back to the house when the echo offootsteps again caught her ear, and she waited.

It was a single person, apparently in a great hurry. She could hearhim shuffling and stumbling along. She peered down the street into thedarkness and directly could distinguish the shadow of a man hurryingtoward her. On he came. He passed the fence corner—now he hadreached the tree with the big fork—he was passing the gate. Shesaw it was Zeke.

"What's going on?" she called to him.

He started, stopped, and then came over to the gate.

"Mist' Burrus's bahn done cave in," he said, the whites of his eyesgleaming at her in the darkness.

The sound of his voice cheered her greatly. She felt suddenly sorelieved that it was with difficulty that she kept herself fromlaughing out loud. "How do you mean? It didn't fall down of itself?"

"Yas'm, hit did. Hit's de waehouse. Folks say he done load hit up toofull and hit plum' give out." His voice sounded excited.

"Anybody hurt?" She was beginning to enjoy it all, feeling exhilaratedover the drama of it.

"Mist' Joe—Mist' Joe Hoopah. He done fell offen de bridge intode ditch. Speck he done broke his laig."

She caught her breath.

"Dey done sen' me to git my cah. Said dey would lemme ketch up wid'em. But Lawsy, de cah won' run."

"Was that him they were carrying past the house?" she managed to ask.

"Yas'm, I reckon. Dey aim to take him to Mis' Mosby's. Reckon I betterhurry on."

She reached over and seized him by the coat. "Was he much hurt? Did heseem much hurt?"

"Well, yas'm. No'm. Leasewise, he say he ain'. But he cain't stan' up.Hit's his laig. Dey done pull him outen de ditch, wid it dubble unnerhim."

She let him go and listened to his retreating footsteps down thestreet into the darkness. She felt suddenly faint and weak. She walkedback to the house, entered the sitting room, and lit a candle. Thenshe went to Miss Susie's door and opened it.

Miss Susie's eyes were looking calmly at her from the bed as sheentered. "What's the matter?" said Miss Susie's voice.

"He was here just an hour ago. I saw him go down the street. And nowthey're bringing him back, broken. Just an hour! God knows whathappened to him."

"Who do you mean, child?" Miss Susie moved forward and raised up alittle on her elbow.

"It just seems as if the hand of Fate was stretching out over thisplace, reaching down over us. It makes no difference what wedo—we're helpless—all of us." She seemed to steadyherself. She came over to the bedside and laid her hand on MissSusie's forehead.

"Don't you want me to bring you a drink of water?" she asked.

CHAPTER XX

Directlyafter breakfast she went to the Mosby place. The sunlight was makingglaring white patches on the pavement, of which she was but dimlyconscious as she walked along. The house looked very peaceful, withthe mellowness of respectable old age, that fresh October morning. Sheclimbed the steps to the front door, feeling a little self-consciousas she stood and waited. It was possible that she was borrowingtrouble; the accident might not prove to have been a serious one atall and she might seem too solicitous.

The door opened and a very old Negro woman in a stiff, white, starchedapron stood and peered forth at her.

"Mrs. Mosby in?" she asked.

The old woman ducked her head and held open the door. "I see." Andthen she waddled off. Half-way down the dim hallway she turned, pauseda moment, and then came back. She went to a tall door, on the leftside of the hall, and pushed it open, casting up a furtive eye at MaryLouise as she did so. A wave of clammy air rushed forth and there wasa faint crackling as of dried leaves back in the darkness. "Won' youset down?" said the old woman.

Mary Louise realized how early she had come; she had quite disturbedthe usual order of things. "No, thank you," she said. "I'll just waithere in the hall."

The woman waddled away again and disappeared through a back door whichwheezed shut with a sort of sucking noise, and the hall was left inhushed silence. Mary Louise gazed up at the ceiling, then at thestairway reaching far back and into the depths of upstairs hall. Evenin the soft light the place looked like a barn. It seemed to bewatching her sullenly as a small child watches an intruder. Odd littlecrackings sounded in far corners, and a whispering, starting somewherein that upstairs hall, came slinking down the wainscoting, across thehall carpet, and out beneath the front door. She wondered what mightbe going on back in those silent, unexplored depths.

Then the door opened again and Mrs. Mosby came swishing forth, like anecho of the whisper that had preceded her. She was wearing the sameruching, the same bangles, the same everything—minus the bonnetwith the veil—that she had worn that previous afternoon. Therewas an opaque flatness in her eyes.

Mary Louise rose to her feet. She was embarrassed as she met the olderwoman's quiet gaze, but she quickly threw off the feeling.

"I just heard some indefinite but disturbing news about an accidentlast night," she said anxiously.

Mrs. Mosby smiled a ghostly little smile and inclined her head. "Wehad quite a time," she admitted. "Won't you sit down? Or won't youcome in the parlour?"

"No. I've not long to stay. I—I felt so worried. I wanted tocome first thing and find out, see if there was anything I could do."They sat down at opposite ends of the horsehair sofa, eachreflectively watching the other.

Mrs. Mosby shook her head. "He's getting on as nicely as could beexpected. Fortunately, Dr. Withers was got hold of right away, lastnight." She was gazing dreamily at Mary Louise as though the latterwere a creature of another world come vaguely intruding.

There was a curious atmosphere of restraint. Mary Louise sat waitingfor the other woman to speak, her hands in her lap, her fingers slowlyweaving in and out. After a momentary silence she asked in a politelycasual tone, "What really did happen, Mrs. Mosby? Was he much hurt?"

Mrs. Mosby continued staring for an instant before she replied: "Itreally was the strangest thing. You know I did not even know thatJoseph was in this part of the country. And at ten o'clock last nightthey came carrying him in. Of course, I was terribly excited andupset, and I did not find out the particulars exactly." She pausedand took a delicate little shuddering breath. "You see, Mr. Burrus'warehouse—the one down by the creek, you know? Well, somethinghappened—the bank on which it stood caved in, in some way, andthe rear wall collapsed, and from all I can understand there was quitea wreck, quite a lot of damage, for he had it crammed full of wintergoods." She paused and looked intently at Mary Louise with eyes thatwere visualizing the events of the night before. "Well, to continue.It seems that someone with a lantern, investigating the place aroundthe back, ran across poor Joseph lying in the creek in the water, withone leg doubled up under him. He told the man he had fallen off thebridge. That was all he said. Just what he could have been doing thereat such a time I cannot imagine. It seems that he had been workingwith a road-construction company about three miles out on the road toGuests. I found that out from a perfect stranger." She paused againand the line of her mouth took on a grimmer straightness. "One of themen, who brought him in—a great rough boor he was—had theaudacity to suggest that Joseph was around there seeing what he couldpick up. I silenced him quickly enough. But can you imagine whatbrought him to such a place at such a time?"

Mary Louise drew herself together in an odd little shiver. "Somestrange things can happen by coincidence, Mrs. Mosby. Was he badlyhurt?"

"Fractured his left leg just below the knee, Dr. Witherssays—poor Joseph! He's been an ambitious boy. So anxious to getahead, and so self-sufficient. I feel right guilty about Joseph." Sheshook her head dolorously.

"But there's no real danger, is there?" broke in Mary Louise, herheart momentarily sinking.

"No. I suppose not. He is terribly run down. Like a ghost he lookedwhen they carried him in last night, his eyes staring out before himall dumb and suffering. He must have been in that ice-cold wateralmost an hour before they found him. I might have been doing thingsfor him all this time—looking after him—but you know howthings have been in this house."

The cold wall of her reserve seemed to be gradually letting down.Never before had she ever so much as alluded to the break in herfamily's fortunes. Mary Louise felt an odd, lifting feeling ofhope—tremulous but dawning hope.

"Mrs. Mosby," she said. "Excuse me for speaking about something thatis not my affair, but"—she hesitated and gazed at the polishedmarble slab of the hall tree—"it's only because I've known Joeso well, for such a long time"—the polished slab was gleamingfaintly from an errant ray of sunshine that came through a dim,high-set hall window—"that I perhaps know a little more abouthim." She paused after this introduction, and having thus committedherself, plunged in. "Why don't you give Joe the chance he reallywants? You have a lot of land here that is not being developed at all.Give Joe the chance to work it out—some of it, at least, onshares." She paused, breathless, and looked up timidly to see how herpresumption fared.

A slow, fatuous smile spread over Mrs. Mosby's face. Mary Louisewatched it break—watched it play for a moment about her lipslike a shaft of winter sunshine. Then she spoke, shaking her head inreminiscence:

"I'd thought of that, myself. In fact, I'd spoken of it to Joseph. Buthe had other ideas. Many's the time I would have welcomed havingsomeone who really cared, on whom I could depend. It's been adifficult time for me, my dear. Brother's so feeble. I couldn't callon him. No. Joseph doesn't care for farming. You're mistaken there.He's got an errant streak in him, like his father, I'm afraid." Shesighed, and the sibilance of it echoed with a strange lingering notebetween those high gray walls. "Besides—though I've not let itbe generally known—I've sold the place—to a Mr. Walcott ofNew York. He's very wealthy, I believe. He's taking it over the firstof the year. I'm just not strong enough to hold on any longer."

Mary Louise did not look up. The sunlight on the marble slab of thehall tree faded slowly away.

"Don't you want to go up and see him, my dear?" Mrs. Mosby said atlength.

She started. "No," she replied. "I must be getting on. I've so manythings to do. Some other time, may I? Perhaps this afternoon." Sherose to her feet and walked slowly to the door. She opened it andwalked through, out on to the wide front porch, her thoughts in aturmoil. Rising above everything was an inexplicable conviction thatJoe was closely akin to herself; in all the confusion of the world'sways, a kindred creature.

She turned. Mrs. Mosby was standing in the open doorway watching her,on her face a set, wistful smile, that was as hard as stone. Theyexchanged good-byes and then the door slowly closed with its softsucking noise and she found herself in the graying light of agathering storm....

It was not until late the following afternoon that she found timeagain to visit the Mosby home.

The same old Negro woman admitted her and she stepped into the halland stood waiting. Back in the shadow, in an open doorway, Mrs. Mosbyand a stout, thickset man with stubbly black hair were talking in lowtones. The Negro woman hurried past them back into the passage, andthey moved aside a little as she passed. The last words of theconversation came faintly to Mary Louise's ears; the stout man wastalking:

"Must build him up," he was saying. "Keep the windows open, give himplenty to eat, all he wants." Then Mrs. Mosby's sibilant but inaudiblereply. And then again, "He's used himself up. No reserve. Not preparedfor an emergency like this."

She sat dumbly wondering; it was most probably Dr. Withers, the newdoctor. The monotonous hum of their voices suddenly ceased and he waswalking past her toward the door, pursing his lips in an odd sort ofway. He looked at her as he passed, and reached for his hat. She didnot hear the door close after him. Mrs. Mosby was speaking to her witha slight frown on her face.

"Just go on up, my dear. Ell bedroom, on the left. I'll be updirectly."

She climbed the stairs in a maze. The silence was the most noticeablething about the place unless it was the clinging, indescribable odour.

She found the door without difficulty and softly pushed it open. Adraught of chill air greeted her, and there was a dim glow on thecarpet from an open-grate fire in the wall opposite. Behind the doorstood the bed, with its head against the wall, and in the bed lay Joe.

For a moment she could not realize it was he, the light was so dim,the figure so indistinct, so swathed in its covers. He turned his headat the sound of her footsteps and looked at her.

"Hullo," he said weakly.

All her reserves collapsed within her and she came and sat on theedge of the bed. She looked down into his face and could not speak; achange which she could not begin to detail had come over him. Hesmiled, "Was wondering about you to-day," he said.

She reached out and took his hand. It was very hot. Two bright spotsburned in his cheeks and his eyes had that peculiar, hollow, sunkenlook she had seen once or twice before. Two days had passed. Therealization that it was but two days shocked her.

"Funny," he was saying. "That night—you remember—I met oldBurrus coming out of your house. I wondered then what he could bedoing. Well—he was just on my trail. Fact."

"Yes," she said. "He brought Aunt Susie a hot-water bottle. But youmustn't talk too much, Joe." She squeezed his hand very softly.

"Well," he went on, as though intensely interested in the idea, "youknow what he was for Uncle Buzz? Well, next he must put his jinx onme." He chuckled softly. "His kind always have it in for—mykind. It is funny. As I went down the road, after leaving your house,you remember?"

She nodded.

"Well, I soon saw from the road that something had happened. I wentdown across the field up to the fence. Things were scattered all overthe ground, and some of 'em floating down the creek—I could seein the moonlight. 'Serves you right, you old skinflint,' I said tomyself. 'But it's none of your business.' So I turned about and wentback to the road. Couldn't help feeling kinda glad about it." Hepaused and drew a deep, painful breath. "I guess it's all justretribution. Shouldn't have enjoyed a man's misfortune. I missed theedge of the road, slipped, and fell across the big eight by eight thatties the bridge to the bank, and that's all I remember. Old Burruspulled me out of the creek himself."

He withdrew his hand and moved slightly in the bed, as if easinghimself somewhere. "It was funny, wasn't it?"

She gazed into his face. Something was stirring within her over whichshe seemed to have no control—a tenderness, a motheringinstinct, a vast hurt deep within herself. She suddenly realized thatshe could have had him, although he had not offered himself. Nor hadhe ever asked for anything, probably never would. The realizationsingularly made him seem all the more her own. "You mustn't workyourself up, Joe. Be quiet. I want you to get well." Just howfervently she wished it, and with what anxiety, she suddenly knew. Thesight of his peaked, upturned face, staring at the ceiling, with thebright red spots on his cheeks, was more than she could bear, and sherose to her feet and walked over to the open window.

The sun was just sinking behind a broken bank of heavy, blue-grayclouds. On the inner surfaces through which streamed its last rayspatches of blood-red lining showed. A lurid glow was thinly suffusedover the stretch of land between, against which were outlined the graytop branches of trees, moving fitfully to and fro. She stood for a fewmoments, waiting, listening for Mrs. Mosby. The shadows deepened andlengthened; they came creeping over the grass toward her, in their vanthe fading glow. All at once, as it were out of the twilight, thesunlight settled momentarily on the field at the bottom of the hillbefore her. Stark upright and in serried rows stretched the waste oflast year's cornfield, the withered stalks touched with a passingglory, standing quite proudly erect and then—blue-gray darkness.A mellow waste delivering a valedictory! Next year it would doubtlessbe ploughed up—prepared for a crop. Over beyond the crest ofhills clouds were gathering like a smoke pall. She wondered if thefactory chimneys were sending their beacons that far. There were fortymiles between the two worlds.

A voice spoke behind her, a strange, unknown voice. She turned andwent back to the bedside. Joe lay staring straight before him and hislips were moving stiffly. The words came muffled and indistinct: "Tellyou—got to have more money 'n that, Mr. Heston. 'Tisn't aquestion of just gettin' by. A man's got to get ahead." And thenthere was an unintelligible muttering. And then suddenly the voicerose, clear, querulous, and high-pitched: "Well you can go to hellwith it. Needn't think you're doin' us a favour—payin' us aliving—just because you've got it all. No, sir! I can go backhome. Can live there without havin' to thank you!" The voice diedaway.

She hung on the echo, shaken to the depths of her. Like a disembodiedvoice it had come out of the great silence. What was it all about? Whowas Mr. Heston?

Then in a flash it all came clear to her. The mists arose from thepast and before her stood envisioned all in the proper relationship:herself, Claybrook, and Joe; Bloomfield, the city, all of mankind.

Life was, after all, but one shrewd bargain; success a process ofgetting more than one gave; the survivors, shrewd bargainers,shouldering, edging, metamorphosed by a modern Circe, their forefeetand muzzles thrust eager and deep into the magic swill of her trough;and the others—creatures like Joe—untouched by thesorcery, going without and suffering discredit. Militant, her spiritrose in revolt. Was there no escape from the dilemma? She felt driedup, parched, athirst for something; her throat contracted in a burningache.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and took his hand. She sat insilence with a great pain in her heart. Over beyond the window sillthe glow was dying, and the gathering pall was rising and comingnearer. Like a blanket the relentless world the cog-world of personalinterests, regulations, and restrictions—was coming, gatheringup its wastage into its blue-gray depths.

Joe was speaking again. His voice was suddenly clearer.

"I wonder," he was saying, "if you'd mind goin' for Zeke Thompson andsendin' him up to me? I want him to go somewhere for me. And willyou—will you call up Mr. Clausen of the Pulvia Company and tellhim I'll get back on the job soon's I can? To-morrow'll do to call himup."

"Surely I will, Joe," she replied.

The door opened softly from the hall and Mrs. Mosby appeared, shadinga lamp with her hand. "Keep your seat." she exclaimed as Mary Louiserose to her feet. "I'm just getting ready to bring him his supper."Then she went back out again.

Mary Louise bent over the bed. The lamp was directly behind her andshe could not see for blurring.

"Do take care of yourself, Joe," she whispered. "I'll come back againto-morrow," and then she slipped noiselessly from the room.

Directly Mrs. Mosby returned with a steaming tray which she set on thelittle table by the bedside. "Has she gone?" she asked.

Joe turned and looked with indifference at the tray, with its whitenapkins and egg-shell china. "Don't believe I want anything much, AuntLorry," he said.

"Come now, Joseph. You must. I've a soft-boiled egg and some milktoast and cocoa. Dr. Withers says you must keep up your strength."

He turned languidly away. "And Aunt Lorry," he added.

"Yes?"

"I don't need anything—specially this sympathy stuff." He pausedand frowned at the ceiling. "I don't—I don't want to have anycompany. Reckon I can get along all right."

Ten minutes later she carried away the tray with the food on it butscarcely touched. And he lay in the gathering darkness, watching theceiling, with the wavering circles from the open fire and the softwhisper of the wind in the withered leaves outside the window. Therecame a gentle patter of rain on the roof and night slipped down uponBloomfield. He sighed gently, turned his head, and fell asleep....

Some four blocks away a girl was walking—swiftly,her hands clenched so that the knuckles werewhite. Bright spots burned in her cheeks and hereyes were deep and starry with bright vision. Aman, passing close, turned and watched her curiously,saw her enter a wooden gate. A few feetfrom a darkened porch she seemed to spring forwardin her haste. He saw her run up the steps and disappearinto the house....

There was the sound of water being poured from one vessel intoanother, in the downstairs back-hall, and then the shuffling ofretiring feet. Mrs. Mosby stood outlined in the high doorway, alighted candle in her hand, her eyes straining into the darkness.

"Come, brother Rob," she called and waited.

There was a muffled reply.

"It will certainly be good," she went on, half to herself andpleasantly musing, "to have a real bathroom with hot water from aspigot. The city's pleasant in winter. I'm sorry we're waiting untilJanuary first. Come, brother Rob. The water's getting cold."

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STUBBLE***

******* This file should be named 25158-h.txt or 25158-h.zip *******

This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/1/5/25158

Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed.

Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules,set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply tocopying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works toprotect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. ProjectGutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if youcharge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If youdo not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with therules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purposesuch as creation of derivative works, reports, performances andresearch. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may dopractically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution issubject to the trademark license, especially commercialredistribution.

*** START: FULL LICENSE ***THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSEPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORKTo protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the freedistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "ProjectGutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full ProjectGutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online athttp://www.gutenberg.org/license).Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic works1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree toand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by allthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroyall copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by theterms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person orentity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only beused on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people whoagree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a fewthings that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic workseven without complying with the full terms of this agreement. Seeparagraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreementand help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronicworks. See paragraph 1.E below.1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in thecollection are in the public domain in the United States. If anindividual work is in the public domain in the United States and you arelocated in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you fromcopying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivativeworks based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenbergare removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the ProjectGutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works byfreely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms ofthis agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated withthe work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement bykeeping this work in the same format with its attached full ProjectGutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also governwhat you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are ina constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, checkthe laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreementbefore downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing orcreating derivative works based on this work or any other ProjectGutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerningthe copyright status of any work in any country outside the UnitedStates.1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediateaccess to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominentlywhenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which thephrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "ProjectGutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,copied or distributed:This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derivedfrom the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it isposted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copiedand distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any feesor charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a workwith the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on thework, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and theProject Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or1.E.9.1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is postedwith the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distributionmust comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additionalterms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linkedto the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with thepermission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tmLicense terms from this work, or any files containing a part of thiswork or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute thiselectronic work, or any part of this electronic work, withoutprominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 withactive links or immediate access to the full terms of the ProjectGutenberg-tm License.1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including anyword processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to ordistribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official versionposted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide acopy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy uponrequest, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or otherform. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tmLicense as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm worksunless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providingaccess to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works providedthat- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm works.- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tmelectronic work or group of works on different terms than are setforth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing fromboth the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and MichaelHart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact theFoundation as set forth in Section 3 below.1.F.1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerableeffort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofreadpublic domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tmcollection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronicworks, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate orcorrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectualproperty infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, acomputer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read byyour equipment.1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Rightof Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the ProjectGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the ProjectGutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim allliability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legalfees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICTLIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSEPROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THETRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BELIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE ORINCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCHDAMAGE.1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover adefect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you canreceive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending awritten explanation to the person you received the work from. If youreceived the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium withyour written explanation. The person or entity that provided you withthe defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of arefund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entityproviding it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity toreceive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copyis also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without furtheropportunities to fix the problem.1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forthin paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS,' WITH NO OTHERWARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TOWARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain impliedwarranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates thelaw of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall beinterpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted bythe applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of anyprovision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, thetrademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyoneproviding copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordancewith this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you door cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tmwork, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to anyProject Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tmProject Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution ofelectronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computersincluding obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It existsbecause of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations frompeople in all walks of life.Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with theassistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm'sgoals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection willremain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the ProjectGutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secureand permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundationand how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4and the Foundation web page at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary ArchiveFoundationThe Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of thestate of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the InternalRevenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identificationnumber is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project GutenbergLiterary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extentpermitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scatteredthroughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, emailbusiness@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contactinformation can be found at the Foundation's web site and officialpage at http://www.gutenberg.org/about/contactFor additional contact information: Dr. Gregory B. Newby Chief Executive and Director gbnewby@pglaf.orgSection 4. Information about Donations to the Project GutenbergLiterary Archive FoundationProject Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission ofincreasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can befreely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widestarray of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exemptstatus with the IRS.The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulatingcharities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the UnitedStates. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes aconsiderable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep upwith these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locationswhere we have not received written confirmation of compliance. ToSEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for anyparticular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglafWhile we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where wehave not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibitionagainst accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states whoapproach us with offers to donate.International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot makeany statements concerning tax treatment of donations received fromoutside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donationmethods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of otherways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.To donate, please visit: http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donateSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronicworks.Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tmconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely sharedwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed ProjectGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printededitions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarilykeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook'seBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII,compressed (zipped), HTML and others.Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks replace the old file and take overthe old filename and etext number. The replaced older file is renamed.VERSIONS based on separate sources are treated as new eBooks receivingnew filenames and etext numbers.Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:http://www.gutenberg.orgThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg LiteraryArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how tosubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.EBooks posted prior to November 2003, with eBook numbers BELOW #10000,are filed in directories based on their release date. If you want todownload any of these eBooks directly, rather than using the regularsearch system you may utilize the following addresses and justdownload by the etext year.http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext06/ (Or /etext 05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90)EBooks posted since November 2003, with etext numbers OVER #10000, arefiled in a different way. The year of a release date is no longer partof the directory path. The path is based on the etext number (which isidentical to the filename). The path to the file is made up of singledigits corresponding to all but the last digit in the filename. Forexample an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at:http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/2/3/10234or filename 24689 would be found at:http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/6/8/24689An alternative method of locating eBooks:http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL*** END: FULL LICENSE ***