and even at times shattered, by this unmanageable husband, who paid not the slightest heed to all her little axioms as to what was right" and "not right," what was usual" (Lanse was never usual) and "not usual," but strode through and over them as though they did not exist. His course, indeed, made it almost impossible for her to preserve unbroken that serenity of temper which was her highest aspiration, for she was exactly the woman to have an ideal of that sort, and to endeavor determinedly to live up to it. It was not at all improbable that she offered her prayers to that effect every night.

All this was a very harsh estimate. But Winthrop's beliefs on these subjects were rooted in the deepest convictions he possessed. Such a character as the one he attributed to Margaret Harold was to him insufferable. He could endure very easily a narrow mind, if with it there was a warm heart and unselfish disposition; but a narrow mind combined with a cold, unmoved nature and impregnable self-conceit-this seemed to him a combination that made a woman (it was always a woman) simply odious.

The

These things all passed through his mind again as he rode over the barrens. He recalled Lanse's handsome face as he used to see it in childhood. Lanse was five years older than the little Evert, tall, strong, full of life, a hero to the lad from New England, who was brave enough in his way, but who had not been encour aged in boldness, nor praised when he had been lawless and daring. Mrs. Rutherford had a phrase about Lanse-that he was "just like all the Harolds." Harolds, in truth, were a handsome race. They all resembled each other, though some of them were not so handsome as the rest. A good many of them had married their cousins. They were tall and broadshouldered, well made, but inclined to portliness toward middle age. They had good features, the kind of very well cut outline, with short upper lip and full lower one, whose fault, if it has a fault, is a tendency to blankness of expression after youth is past. Their hair was very dark, almost black, and they had thick brown beards of rather a lighter hue-beards which they kept short. Their eyes were beautiful dark brown, animated, with yellow lights in them. Their complexions had a rich darkness, with strong ivory tints beneath. They had an appearance

of looking over the heads of everybody else, which, among many noticeable things about them, was the most noticeable-it was so entirely natural. Because it was so natural nobody had tried to analyze it, to find out of what it consisted. The Harolds were tall; but it was not their height. They were broad-shouldered; but there were men of the same mould everywhere. It was not that they expanded their chests and threw their heads back, so that their eyes, when cast down, rested upon a projecting expanse of shirt front, with the watch chain far in advance; the Harolds had no such airs of inflated frog. stood straight on their feet, but nothing more; their well-moulded chins were rather drawn in than thrust out; they never posed; there was never any trace of attitude. Yet, in any large assemblage, if there were any of them present, they were sure to have this appearance of looking over other people's heads. panted by a careless, good-humored, unpretending ease, which was almost benevolent, and which was strikingly different from the self-assertive importance of more nervous (and smaller) men.

They

It was accom

As a family the Harolds had not been loved; they were too self-willed for that. But they were witty. They could be agreeable. In houses where it pleased them to be witty and agreeable, they were the most welcome of guests. The small things of life, what they called the “details," the tiresome little cares and responsibilities, annoyances, engagements, and complications, these they shed from themselves as a shaggy dog sheds water from his coatthey shook them off. People who did not love them (and these were many) remarked that this was all very pretty, but that it was also very selfish. The Harolds, if their attention had been called to it, would have considered the adjective as another of the "details," and would have shaken that off also.

Mrs. Rutherford in her youth never could help admiring the Harolds (there were a good many of them, almost all men; there was but seldom a daughter); when, therefore, her sister Hilda married Lansing of the name, she had an odd sort of pride in it, although everybody said that Hilda would not be happy: the Harolds seldom made good husbands. It was not that they were harassing or brutal; they were simply supremely inattentive. In this case, however, there had been lit

tle opportunity to verify or prove false the expectation, as both Lansing Harold and his wife had died within two years after their marriage, the wife last, leaving (as her sister, Mrs. Winthrop, did later) a son but a few days old. The small Lansing was adopted by his aunt. Through childhood he was a noble-looking little fellow, never governed or taught to govern himself. He grew rapidly into a large, manly lad, active and strong, fond of out-of-door sports, and excelling in them, having the quick wit of his family, which, however (like them), he was not inclined to bestow upon all comers for their entertainment; he preferred to keep it for his own.

Evert remembered with a smile the immense admiration he had felt for his big cousin, the excited anticipation with which he had looked forward to meeting him when he went,twice a year, to see his aunt. The splendid physical strength of the elder boy, his liberty, his dogs and his gun, his horse and boat—all these filled the sparingly indulged little New England child with the greatest wonder and delight. Most of all did he admire the calm absolutism of Lanse's will, combined as it was with good-nature, manliness, and even to a certain degree, or rather in a certain way, with generosity -generosity as he had thought it then, careless liberality as he knew it now. When Evert was ten and Lanse fifteen, Lanse had decided that his cousin must learn to shoot, that he was quite old enough for that accomplishment. Evert recalled the mixture of fear and pride which had filled his small heart to suffocation when Lanse put the gun into his hands in the remote field behind Mrs. Rutherford's country house which he had selected for the important lesson. His fear was not occasioned so much by the gun as by the keen realization that if his father should question him, upon his return home, he should certainly feel himself obliged to tell of his new knowledge, and the revelation might put an end to these happy visits. Fortunately his father did not question him; he seldom spoke to the boy of anything that had happened during these absences, which he seemed to consider necessary evils-so much waste time. On this occasion how kind Lanse had been, how he had encouraged and helped him-yes, and scolded him a little too; and how he had comforted him when the force of the discharge had knocked the little sportsman over on

the ground rather heavily! A strong affection for Lanse had grown up with the younger boy; and it remained with him still, though now not so blind a liking: he knew Lanse better. They had been widely separated, and for a long time; they had led such different lives! Evert had worked steadily for ten long, secluded years; later he had worked still harder, but in another way, being now his own master, and engaged in guiding the enterprises he had undertaken through many obstacles and hazards toward success. These years of unbroken toil for Evert had been spent by Lanse in his own amusement, though one could not say spent in idleness exactly, as he was one of the most active of men. He had a great capacity for enjoyment, and his enjoyments were in a large measure those found in the open air. He had been much of the time in Europe. But he came home for brief visits now and then, when his aunt besought him. adored him she had always adored him. She was never tired of admiring his proportions, what seemed to her his good-nature, his Harold wit, his poise of head; she was never so happy as when she had him staying with her in her own house. True, he had his own way of living; but it was such a simple way! He was not in the least a gourmandnone of the Harolds were that; he liked only the simplest dishes, and always demanded them. He wanted the windows open at all seasons when the snow was not actually on the ground. He could not endure questioning; in fact, he never answered questions.

She

Returning for one of these visits at home, he had found with his aunt a young girl, Margaret Cruger, a niece of her husband's. Evert smiled now as he recalled certain expressions of the letter which his aunt had written to him announcing Lanse's engagement; in the light of retrospect they had rather a sarcastic sound. Mrs. Rutherford had written that Margaret was very young, to be sure—not quite eighteen-but that she was very gentle and sweet. That it was time Lanse should marry; he was thirty-two. Though, in her opinion, that was exactly the right age, for a man knew then what he really wanted, and was not apt to make a mistake; that she hoped the girl would make him the sort of wife he needed. For one thing, she was so young she would not set up her opinion in opposi

tion to his, probably, and with Lanse that would be important. Mrs. Rutherford furthermore thought that the girl in a certain way understood him, at least the necessity (and the better taste too, she being so young) of keeping herself subordinate. She (Mrs. Rutherford) had had the greatest fear of Lanse's falling into the hands of some woman who wouldn't have the capacity to appreciate him, some woman who would try to change him: one of those dreadful Pharisaic women, for instance, who were always trying to "improve" their husbands. There was nothing easier than to get on with Lanse, and even to lead him a little, as she herself (Mrs. Rutherford) had always done; one had only to take him on the right side-his good warm heart. Margaret was almost too simple, too yielding. But Lanse had wit and will enough for two. There was another reason why this marriage would be a good thing for Lanse: he had run through almost all his money (he had never had a very great deal, as Evert would remember), and Margaret had quite a handsome fortune, which would come in now very well. She was rather pretty-Margaret-in a delicate sort of way. Mrs. Rutherford hoped she appreciated her good luck; if she didn't now, she would soon, when she had seen a little more of the world. And here one of his aunt's sentences came, word for word, into Winthrop's memory: "But it's curious, after all, isn't it, Evert? that such a young, inexperienced, unknown child as she is, a girl who has been brought up in such complete seclusion, should begin life by marrying Lansing Harold. For you know as well as I do how he has been sought after, what his career has been." This was true. Allowance, of course, had to be made for Mrs. Rutherford's partiality; still, Evert knew that even with allowance there was enough to verify her words, at least in part. Lansing Harold had never been in the least what is called popular. He was not a man who was liked by many persons; he took pains not to be-it was too much trouble. He preferred to please only a few. Whether or not there had been women among those he tried to please, it was at least well known that women had tried to please him, had shown an unusual interest in him. More than one had followed him about, with due regard, of course, for the proprieties (it is not necessary to include

those who also existed-who had violated them), finding themselves, for instance, in Venice, when he happened to be there, or choosing his times for visiting Rome. Now Lanse had had a way of declaring that June was the best month for Rome. It had been interesting to observe, for a long period, that each year there was some new person who had made the same discovery.

"We were home before you," said Mrs. Rutherford, when Winthrop, having brought his reflections to a close, and enjoyed another gallop, returned to the eyrie, and ascended to its improvised drawing-room. "Mrs. Thorne has been here," she added. "She had come up from East Angels after Garda, and took the opportunity-she generally does take the opportunity, I notice to pay me a visit. She never stopped talking in that clear little voice of hers, with that precise pronunciation, you know, one single minute. I believe that's what makes her so tired all the time; I know I should be tired if I had to hiss all my s's as she does. She had ever so many things to say, as she always has. One was that when her life was sad and painful she was able to rise out of her body-out of the flesh, as she called it (there isn't much to rise from), and float unclothed in pure ether, pure spiritual motive, I think she said. And when I asked her if it wasn't rather unpleasant-for I assure you it struck me so-she wasn't at all pleased, not at all. She is the most indefatigable creaturesuch an observer of nature! I suppose that's because she has always lived where there was nothing but nature to observe. Well, I do believe she had seen an allegorical meaning in every single tree on the bank as she came up the river!"

"I rather think she saw her allegorical meanings more than her trees," said Winthrop. "I venture to say she couldn't have told you whether they were cypresses or myrtles, palmettoes or gums; such people never can. Tired? Of course she's tired; her imagination travels leagues in a minute, and her poor little body can't keep up with it."

"It's so foolish," commented Mrs. Rutherford, tranquilly-Mrs. Rutherford, who had never imagined anything in her life. "And do you know she admires Margaret beyond words-if she's ever beyond them! Isn't it odd? She says Margaret answers one so delightfully. And when I remark

ed, 'Why, we think Margaret rather silent,' she said, 'That is what I mean: it is her silence that is so sympathetic; she answers you with it far more effectually than many persons do with their talkative

ness.

"I'm afraid you talked, Aunt Katrina," said Winthrop, laughing.

"I never do," replied Mrs. Rutherford, with dignity. And she confided to me, also," she went on, resuming her leisurely gossip, in her calm, handsomely dressed manner (for even Mrs. Rutherford's manner seemed clothed in rich attire), "that that young De Torrez had asked her permission to address Garda, as she expressed it."

"To address Garda? Confound his impertinence! what does he mean?" said Winthrop, in a disgusted tone. "Garda's a child."

"Oh, well," replied Mrs. Rutherford, "she's half Spanish, and that makes a difference; they're so much older. But I don't think the mother favors the Cuban's suit. She prefers something more Saxon'; she said so. And, by-the-way, she asked me if you were not 'more recently

What do

66

English' than the rest of us. you suppose she could have meant? I never quite know what she is driving at." Winthrop burst into a laugh. 'More recently English! Poor little woman! she has a range. She is a Thorne now, and so she has swallowed and assimilated the British Isles. You don't think the Cuban has a chance, then ?"

"Oh, I don't know," replied Mrs. Rutherford, comfortably; it doesn't concern us, does it? It will depend upon what Garda thinks; and Garda will think what she pleases; she isn't a girl to be guided."

"She hasn't been difficult to guide so far, I fancy," said Winthrop, after a moment's pause.

"She will be, then," responded his aunt, nodding her head with an assured air.

That night Winthrop, smoking a last cigarette before going to bed, was sitting with his elbows on the parapet of the Seminole's long veranda, gazing seaward in the soft darkness. He finished his cigarette. And then a second. "It will depend," he said to himself, answering mentally Mrs. Rutherford's statement-"it will depend, I think, upon who guides her."

I

HAVE never told the story till now. No one ever knew it all, except Max and me, and Max is dead. She is gone too, poor child; so no one can be troubled by the tale, and I should like to tell the whole truth before I too go away. I need not go farther back than the day she first came to us; the story really begins there. Of Max's life before that day, and of mine, no one will care to hear, and I do not care to speak. Max was a doctor, and a good one, I think, having many patients, who loved and trusted him well. He was not yet thirty, but he seemed older, being grave and quiet-made so by things which had happened in that past of which I am not going to speak--and I was his sister, ten years older, a plain, shy, silent woman, but the only one he had ever loved, for he did not remember his mother. We lived together in Sudbury, a little New England village, and there we were quietly happy in our small but cozy house.

I am an old woman now, but I remember as if it were yesterday just how

everything looked on that day-the day my story begins. The village street ran east and west; our house, with its little yard in front, stood on that street, and faced the south. It was early in June, but the season was backward; my roses were as yet only green buds, but I had been at work among them, fastening a spray here, picking off there a dead leaf, and brushing the dust away. The sun was low; it was late afternoon; I walked to the gate and looked down the street, for it was time to expect Max. I can see that street now just as it looked then. heavy farm wagon was lumbering along, raising clouds of dust-there had been little rain that spring-and as I looked toward the west, the sun, so low down then, shone through that dusty cloud, and made it like yellow gold in the air, and through that misty brightness she was coming to me. From the west, down the village street, I saw a figure walking toward me. It was a young girl, slight and rather tall. I could not see her face plain

A

ly against the brightness, and I waited for her. I knew all the young folk of the village, and they had ever a pleasant word or smile for the doctor's old-maid sister. But as I stood at the open gate looking to ward her, I saw that she was a stranger; I had never seen that slight young form, the pretty head, with the bright loose hair about the forehead, seeming part of the sunset's misty glow, those soft brown eyes, that wistful mouth. Yes, she was certainly a stranger; but, as I thought this, a smile, which was surely a recognizing one, broke over the face, and the light steps were quickened. I had seen that she wore a simple print gown of blue and white, and that her straw hat with its blue ribbon was swinging by its looped strings upon one arm. With a half-impatient, weary air she shook back her light loose hair, and stretching out toward me her small, pretty hands, she said: "You are waiting for me. Oh, I am so glad to be at home!"

People nowadays are taught to take to pieces and examine their feelings, and afterward explain them to others. I never learned this, and I can not tell you, after all these years, just how I felt when this strange young thing, whom I had never before seen, looked at and spoke to me thus, but I knew I was greatly amazed. For an instant I felt a bodily dizziness, as when I had suddenly risen from stooping over my flower beds; my head swam, and before I could speak, the sweet childish voice began again: Am I late? I have taken such a long walk, and it grew so warm! You are not vexed with me?" And the two small, pretty hands clasped my arm, while the brown, soft eyes looked into mine.

What I should have said I do not know. There is no use in trying to guess that, for at that very instant I saw Max coming. He was at the gate almost before I knew it, and looking curiously at us two. Then I found my voice, and gasped out, "Oh, Max!" That was all. But at the words the child turned toward him with a bright look of welcome, but no surprise, and with a faint, soft blush, said, in her low, sweet voice, "Dear Max!"

When I try to remember the look that came upon my brother's face at these words, I find that I am looking at it in the light of what came afterward; and it seems as if even then there was no start of wonder, no amaze: only gladness and answering

love in that look as he bent it on her. But I know that I turned quickly toward him, and tried to convey by a look the thought which had just come to me, the feeling that the child's mind was astray, and we must aid her. That he read my meaning at once was owing to no skill of mine, but to his own quickness-Max was so clever always. Taking the little hand she had laid upon his arm, he said, in a quiet, natural voice,

"Let us go into the house now and have our tea."

And we all went in. As we entered the little sitting-room, the girl, walking with no uncertain tread, but as if she knew the place, took her hand from Max's arm and stepped lightly toward the looking-glass which hung between the windows.

"Oh, how my hair is blown about!" she said, with a laugh in her voice. "Shall I run upstairs and smooth it?"

"No, dear. Just come into my room now, you are so tired." And I led the way into my little bedroom on the first floor, and left her there. Then in hurried words I told Max all I knew. "There is something wrong with the brain," he said, "and she has wandered away from her friends. Do not excite or startle her; let her rest quietly to-night, and we will decide what course to take."

Then she came back to us, and we had our tea. She was quiet, seeming tired, but there was no flush of fever on her face, no wild, unsettled look in the soft brown eyes. Max talked, told of his patients, spoke of the village news, and sometimes the girl would say something of her walk, of the sunset, of the flowers on the table; always in that strangely sweet childish voice, which seemed then, as ever afterward, the best music I had ever heard. Then, later, she went, quite of her own accord, to the piano, and ran her fingers over the keys, playing little bits, some new and strange to us, some old and familiar. Then her voice sounded faint but sweet as she sang softly to herself. Suddenly the strain grew louder, and we knew the air and words, and looked quickly at each other.

The dear old song heard so long ago, in our very childhood, and never since till now.

"The old days, the dear days, where are they?" So it rang out, as from that far-away past, and we forgot the present, forgot the